It’s stopped raining by the time we leave and I’m not sure we say more than ten words to each other as we walk down the street to the restaurant. He walks quickly, and I find myself working to keep up. A little voice is whispering that it feels as if he’s trying to get away from me, but I shoo that away and tell myself not to be so silly. Either way, this is not going the way I wanted at all. I don’t think anyone needs to be worried about an afternoon of unbridled passion.
Inside, he shrugs off his jacket and studies the menu.
‘Did you say the pad Thai was good here?’ he asks finally.
‘It’s amazing,’ I confirm.
‘I think I’m going to have the massaman curry,’ he says. ‘With sticky rice.’
‘Well, I’ll get the pad Thai so you’re very welcome to share.’
And back to silence until the waitress comes for our drinks order. We both go for bottles of beer and she brings a bowl of prawn crackers with them. I can feel her watching us and this whole situation is making me feel a bit awkward and I can’t figure out why we’re suddenly so mismatched.
‘You ready to order?’ I ask after what feels like a life sentence served on a silent retreat. No one else here seems to be struggling and it’s becoming very apparent Tim and I are not a good advert for a date. I catch the waitress’ eye in what I hope is a pleading come-rescue-me sort of way, and when she returns for our food order we comically keep adding more and more until there’s definitely too much and neither my pad Thai or his massaman curry will be necessary. Hopefully the sheer amount of food will make up for the lack of conversation. Maybe, subconsciously, both our plans are to stuff ourselves so much that we can’t even speak, and then barrel on to our respective homes.
‘Think we ordered enough?’ he asks, with a crinkly-eyed smile. It seems to have thawed us, if only a little, and for that I’m grateful.
‘I’d say just the right amount.’
‘Well, cheers to it.’ He picks up his beer bottle and we clink. ‘So how’s life in the world of viral content creation?’
‘All good, thanks.’
Tim nods, and we both nibble on prawn crackers. ‘What’s Jeff like to work with?’
‘He’s alright. To be honest we’re not particularly close, and I haven’t been there long, but their party was nice. I wasn’t planning on staying as long as I did, but then when he sort of held me hostage in the kitchen and then you walked in and they scarpered…’
‘Oh god.’ I’m cringing. I have second-hand embarrassment for him. ‘They were not subtle.’
‘I know! That’s why I asked if you thought there was an agenda. Because… well, it was suddenly very obvious.’
‘Yeah, they were driving the whole thing. I’d just finished with my boyfriend, and I’d mentioned it to Lydia earlier that evening. Anyway, I think they saw an opportunity and ran with it.’
‘Sounds like it,’ Tim says, and fiddles with the bucket of condiments on the table. He straightens it so that the bucket aligns perfectly with the edge of the table and silence befalls us again. The conversation has dwindled. We catch eyes occasionally and do that awkward smile people do when they don’t know what to say. Our chat is like sparklers on Guy Fawkes Night. Sparky and bright for brief moments before being snuffed out in a bucket.
The waitress is coming over again, this time with a tray laden with tapas; crab cakes and satay and prawn toast and tempura, and the curry with a little dome of sticky rice, and my heap of noodles. We share it all and it’s as delicious as it always is. The food is making it easier, somehow, to talk, but shared experiences will do that. Neither of us have room for pudding.
‘I should have worn my Christmas skirt,’ I joke, leaning back and rubbing my stomach.
‘But, it’s February,’ Tim says. Fucking hell.
‘Elasticated waist,’ I explain. ‘You know, because you eat a lot at Christmas.’
‘Right.’
The bill comes, and we split it, grab our coats and head back outside. It’s no longer raining, and now the sunlight refracts off raindrops, making them glisten and sparkle where they’ve landed, like diamonds encrusted on bike racks and benches.
‘So, I’ve actually got to go to Cambridge now,’ he says, and it comes out of nowhere. Like it’s something he’s only just remembered.
‘Oh? You didn’t say. We could totally have done this another time if you were busy.’
Bit random. Isn’t that the sort of thing you’d mention? And why arrange a date that was quite so time-boxed?
‘Ah, no, it was nice to have lunch. But I’m going to visit my sister. So it does mean I’m going to have to shoot off.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I say, momentarily confused. Had he mentioned it and I’d just forgotten? I’m hyper aware of details like that since Lucas gaslit me over his Christmas party. No, I’m certain he didn’t tell me and that, I think, is slightly odd behaviour. I pull my hair out of the back of my jacket. It feels frizzy but at least it’s no longer damp. Our slightly awkward silence is back during the walk back up the high street, but I’ve given up trying to rectify it and look into shop windows instead.
He’s not unpleasant, but perhaps we don’t have as much in common as we thought. Maybe he’s just a little bit embarrassed about the things we texted each other because it’s one thing talking about putting your cock inside someone and coming on their tits, but it’s quite another when you meet that person again and you just don’t fancy any of it, thanks.
Maybe he knows the feeling’s mutual.
In any case, this has confirmed it to me that a warm glow that could have been due to an increased heart rate after running down the street is not the one. And neither is Tim. At the station, we hug, say goodbye, and part ways between platforms with nothing more than an air-kiss on the cheek, and no mention of doing it again.
‘Have a safe trip,’ I say.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ he nods. There’s a rumble coming from down the tunnel ‘That’s my train!’ And then he’s gone.
I don’t know what it is about the way he bailed that doesn’t sit quite right but I can’t stop thinking about it on the way home. It niggles at me as I change tube lines. Why wouldn’t he mention it? It grates on me as I walk through Stratford, and that unease stays with me when I get a text from Lydia, eagerly asking how things went, and I don’t know how to reply. If I tell her the truth, that we were oddly stilted and I didn’t feel much of anything, then she’ll almost certainly accuse me of jumping ship too soon. But I’m not one to lie to my friends, so I keep it as vague as possible.
He got the right restaurant. Great food, as always, and we had a nice time. He was heading off to visit his sister in Cambridge, though, which he only mentioned right at the end. Felt a bit odd x
I get a thumbs-up emoji in response.
But it’s later on that it occurs to me that Tim didn’t have a bag with him, and that’s what was bizarre. If he was hopping on the train, surely he’d have stuff with him, but there’d been nothing. Not a backpack, not a record bag, nothing. His wallet had been in his jacket pocket along with his phone and keys. It was after three when we settled up and left, and the journey time is over an hour, so it wouldn’t be feasible to get to Cambridge and back again by the end of the day, would it? What would be the point?
I’m intrigued now, and my spidey senses are tingling, so I get ready for bed and sit with my laptop and a cup of chamomile tea whilst I channel my inner Sherlock and dig for bullshit, and it doesn’t take long to uncover some. I almost hate that I’m so good at online research and internet stalking but people make it so easy. It’s almost like they want to be found. Tim and I aren’t friends on Facebook but I found him via Jeff after the party and click through again now. No updates today but he autoshares links from his Twitter account, and it takes only two more clicks to uncover that Tim isn’t good at hiding his location. Fifteen minutes ago he was in a pub in Angel and not sixty miles up the M11 in Cambridge.
Disappointment overwhelms me and I moment
arily wallow in how shit it’s made me feel. I don’t want to admit that he lied to me. I want to believe that on the way to King’s Cross his plans changed, so he just went home instead and met some mates down the pub. But my gut is telling me it was a ruse, and a visit to his sister was something he knew I’d take at face value, because he assumed it’s unverifiable, and anyway, who lies about that? I screenshot the tweet, and then text it to Lydia.
Tell Jeff his boy’s a lying little shit.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lydia
No! That can’t be true.
Fran
Pretty sure it’s true as the day is long actually Lyds.
Lydia
Perhaps his plans changed?
Fran
Perhaps they didn’t and he lied?
Lydia
I think we need to not read anything too much into this. Hang fire, and I’ll ask Jeff to find out about it on Monday.
Fran
No thanks. Don’t bother. He’s not going to admit he scarpered is he?
Lydia
No, but maybe we can get his version of events.
Fran
Fine. I bet I’ll never hear from him again, but go for your life.
Lydia
Just try not to jump to conclusions x
Fran
Moi? Never! x
* * *
Suze arrived home early on Sunday morning but her door’s been closed and she’s been sleeping. She emerges in the evening, with treats from abroad which we scoff in front of the TV. She makes us hot chocolate and I update her on the Tim thing, present all my evidence, admit that it hadn’t been the most free-flowing and comfortable of dates, but did that really warrant him legging it on to the train just to get away from me?
‘Forget him,’ she demands. ‘Usually I’d think it was fine, given you clearly weren’t all that into each other, but there’s no benefit of the doubt to be given here, he’s definitely full of shit.’
Suze is one of the most sensible people I know, and she suffers no fools. Guess that’s what managing all those people up in the air will do to you.
‘I know,’ I concede. ‘But it’s a little trickier on account of him being Jeff’s colleague. Not sure how easily Lyds will let it go.’
‘No. He’s a slimy solicitor and you’re better off out of it,’ Suze sniffs. ‘They’ll get over it. Why did they feel the need to get involved in the first place?’
‘Ah, Lydia was trying to help. Best intentions and all that, and I think she had dreams of double dates and dinners at hers with wine paring. Anyway, it was just such a contrast from that party. I don’t really know what happened. We got on well and then when we met up again it was just quite flat. Genuinely think it might have been the sexting. Probably won’t get carried away like that again.’
‘Well, yeah, best not. He’d have been on his best behaviour in front of Lydia and Jeff,’ she says, and shrugs. ‘You both would have been, even subconsciously.’
She doesn’t need to say it, I already know; the truth is, without the excitement of a set-up, we just weren’t that into each other.
‘Did you think about the sexting whilst you were there?’
‘Nooo,’ I say, quickly, and sort of shudder. I wish with all my heart that I hadn’t sent him the boob pic. He probably feels the same about the wanking video.
‘Well, there you have it then.’
‘How long are you off for?’ I ask.
‘Two more days,’ she yawns. ‘Then I’m off to New York on Wednesday.’
‘Jetsetter,’ I say. ‘I’ll try not to wake you tomorrow morning.’
* * *
Lydia calls during dinner on Monday which can only mean one thing. There have been talks.
‘I wanted to see how you’re doing,’ she says, but her voice is a little brusque and she’s cutting straight to the chase. ‘Jeff had a chat with Tim today.’
I knew it.
‘Right.’
‘If you weren’t into him, Fran,’ she sighs, ‘why did you agree to go out with him?’
I’m gobsmacked, really. I carry my plate of pizza into my room and shut the door. We sent dirty text messages! I showed him a picture of my boobs! And not just cleavage or me sporting a pretty bra, but actual naked nipple. I typed out messages which included the words ‘wet’ and ‘pussy’. I was totally into it. I can’t tell her any of this, though.
‘Pardon?’
‘If you weren’t into him, why did you go out with him?’ Lydia repeats, more slowly this time, in the same sort of voice you might use to speak to a small child. ‘You could have just said if you didn’t want to see him again.’ She sounds affronted. ‘You weren’t forced into this.’
‘Huh? I never once said that. You don’t think that, do you? Things went quiet on his side, then he told me he lost his phone in South America, and when we started talking again – after, I assume, it was replaced – I asked him if we were ever going to have that date. If that isn’t being into it, then I don’t know what is.’
‘What do you mean, in South America?’ she says, as if she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, and it’s confusing. Because surely a colleague’s holiday is something Jeff, and ergo Lydia, would have known about, and we’d talked about it at the bar before we went to eat. I don’t want to think our afternoon was littered with lies he felt he had to tell, but I am beginning to strongly suspect it might have been.
‘How was the date really?’ she asks, and I know she’s trying a different approach as a method of fishing for information, to see if our stories align. I was, after all, pretty vague in my assessment.
‘It was okay, I thought,’ I say. ‘A bit stagnant here and there, but it wasn’t horrid by any means.’
‘Tim told Jeff you were distracted the entire time. He said you were flustered. Said the conversation was jumpy and none of it really developed and there were long periods of silence. He didn’t think you were interested at all.’
Well, fuck you, Tim, my dude. Fuck you very much, you tactless, lying arse.
‘I mean, I guess there were a few times when conversation slipped a bit, but, whatever. Look, it’s not a bloody job interview, Lydia, why does it matter? And it was raining, so, yeah, possibly I was a bit flustered when I arrived, because I was damp, and I ran all the way from the station to the bar. It takes a lot out of you, dodging all those puddles.’
‘Hmm. Are you going to write about this?’
‘I might. It’s sounding more and more like a good story.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ she snaps. ‘Call out your Tinder randoms, fine, but I want you to leave Tim out of this.’
‘Nah, he scarpered with a crap excuse about going to visit his sister, and then slagged me off to Jeff, plus I think he lied about his holiday. Why are you outraged at me for not being an ego-massaging sycophant but not at him for lying about why he was leaving?’
‘I am cross with him about that, and I mentioned it to Jeff, but obviously it’s difficult exposing someone in a lie like that, especially when you work with them.’
‘They’re lawyers, Lydia,’ I say, dryly. ‘Don’t they spend all day exposing people in lies?’
Lydia sighs. ‘They’re actually solicitors, not criminal barristers. There’s a big difference.’
‘Look, whatever. I don’t care. I don’t know what this is but I’m sort of uncomfortable with the way this conversation is going. Tim and I didn’t work out. It’s fine. Shit happens. No big deal. There are other people in the world. This isn’t, to my knowledge, some sort of planetary dystopia where the human race can only be saved by me and Tim copping off with one another.’
‘You do this all the time, Fran. You write people off for the smallest reasons—’
‘Not true, and I don’t know where you get this from. I hadn’t written him off completely until I found out he was at the pub down the road and not where he’d said he’d had to dash off to. That was cowardly and rude. He could have let it come to a natur
al end without lying. Obviously we both got the picture.’
‘We don’t know for sure he was lying. Sometimes plans change.’
‘That’s rot, Lydia, and you know it. You just said you were cross with him about it. He didn’t have a bag with him; he was never going to Cambridge. He lied, it’s as simple as that.’
She starts to interrupt but I cut her off. ‘Look, I don’t want to argue with you about this. If you want to believe he’s an all-round nice guy and I spurned his attempts at getting to know me, then fine.’
‘Okay, well, answer me this, if he was prepared to see you again, would you go for it?’
‘No!’ I howl, exasperated now. ‘Especially not after this. You’re being so weird and inappropriate and I am amazed you think this is in your remit. You know, I feel like this means more to you and Jeff than it does to either me or Tim. Why are you so invested in this?’
I pick up my slice of pizza and chew on the crust.
‘I’m sorry for wanting you to be happy,’ she says, sulky now.
‘What makes you think I’m not?’
‘Because if you were truly happy then you’d seem a bit more content with your own company, and you wouldn’t plaster your love life over the internet like some thirsty clickbait publishing narcissist. I think you have this idea of someone in your head but he doesn’t exist, Fran. At some point you’ll need to accept this.’
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