‘Well, I’m off to meet Lou,’ he says, and looks at his watch. ‘And we’re up to Wales for a long weekend, so I’ll see you next week.’
‘Sure will,’ I say, and there’s a tiny change in me, too, and I wonder if he notices it when we hug.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Louis, my fifth suitor, tops up my wine glass and nods encouragingly at me, his eyes set just a little lower than my face. He’s shamelessly looking at my breasts. I shift a little, moving them out of his line of sight, and style it out by picking up the glass and taking a sip.
‘This is a great restaurant,’ I say. ‘Lovely wine.’
‘Yes, I had to persuade them to give me a table,’ he says, and sort of half closes his eyes, like a blink in slow motion. ‘But they caved in the end. And you’re worth it.’ He winks at me. Actually winks, the smarmy bastard. ‘I think.’
You think? Boy, no! Something is becoming abundantly clear. Louis is not The One. He reminds me of Lucas. Pretty sure my vagina just dried up.
I choke out a nervous giggle and he sits back in his chair and surveys me again, as if I’m some sort of show pony. How is it that someone who seemed so down to earth on Tinder and over text is actually anything but? I feel thoroughly duped.
‘Tell me what you do again?’ I ask.
‘Hedge fund mergers and acquisitions.’
‘Oh yes, you did say. Interesting?’
‘Very high pressured. You know. Long hours, lots of stress. But I can handle it.’
Well done you, I think. ‘I’ll bet you can,’ I say. ‘Banter?’
‘What?’
‘Banter. As in, is there any? In your office?’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ He puffs up his chest like some sort of broody pigeon. I suspect Louis thinks he’s the Banter King. ‘It’s a thing. If you can’t cope with it, you’re probably not suited to a career in hedge funds, you know?’
‘I thought as much,’ I say, nodding.
‘And you?’
‘I work at Viral Hive.’
His face contorts. Eyebrows raise. Lips purse. Just a fraction, and then he’s rearranged it again. But all these dates I’ve been on this year have turned me into an expert in reading facial expressions, and Louis isn’t subtle. I might as well have told him I mug old ladies or take sweets off kids for kicks.
‘Sounds… interesting,’ he lies. Louis doesn’t give a shit about my job. He doesn’t even care enough to ask out of politeness what it entails. A sense of déjà vu creeps over me, and it’s coupled with the horrible realisation that I might have A Type, and that type might well be Bellend. Still, admission is the first step towards recovery. I probably won’t see him again.
Thankfully, the awkward silence that follows is broken by our waiter delivering our mains, and we tuck in. I’m grateful for it, truth be told. For the next few minutes, at least, I won’t need to talk to him. I twirl linguini, slick with salty, creamy sauce, around my fork and stab at a juicy prawn.
‘Parmigiano?’
Our waiter is back again, proffering a slab of crumbly cheese and one of those nifty little graters.
‘Mmm, yes please,’ I say, covering my mouth and attempting to chew discreetly. Cheese confettis down on to my plate and Louis watches with interest when I don’t stop the waiter. I can feel him judging me as a little hill of cheese forms over my pasta.
‘You know,’ he says. ‘Real Italians don’t eat cheese with seafood.’
‘Fortunate that I’m not Italian then, real or pretend,’ I say, stirring it in. I try hard to curtail the edge in my voice, really, I do, but this dude is beginning to grind my gears, and what I really want to do is tell him to piss right off and allow me to eat cheese on my pasta without his unwanted commentary. ‘How’s your steak?’ I say, with as much grace as I can muster.
‘Mmm, yah, good. Tender. Soft.’ And I watch as his eyes drift down to my blouse again. Oh, Christ.
‘Will you excuse me for just a second?’ I say, and I grab my purse and push my chair back before he can answer. In the ladies’, I text Suze.
This guy I’m out with! He won’t stop staring at my tits, he chastised me for having cheese on my pasta and he was massively disdainful of my job. And he’s a fucking hedge fund person. The only reason I’m staying at this point is because I’ve seen the dessert trolley and there’s a chocolate mousse cake I’ve got my eye on.
I redo my mascara and head back to our table. Louis is on his phone, and I’m absolutely certain, from the way he’s trying, and failing to be discreet, coupled with the tell-tale swipe of his finger, that he’s on Tinder. Unbelievable. He’s topped my glass up again; it’s full almost to the brim, and being a shit sommelier is yet another mark against his name.
‘Better?’ he asks, as if he’s addressing a small child. ‘I took the liberty.’ He nods at my glass.
‘So you did,’ I beam, overly brightly. A thought has occurred. If he was swiping whilst on a date, then he knows how mismatched we are, and he won’t ask me to meet again. Hopefully we can finish dinner, part ways at the station with a polite peck on the cheek, or a nice firm handshake, and never shall our paths cross again. We’ll silently unmatch, and that will be the end of that. The thought floods me with relief, and we finish our main course over polite but distant chit-chat. Dessert’s the same, and I snaffle down my slice of chocolate mousse cake, and even agree to a coffee. The end’s in sight now, and I don’t even mind when he talks more about hedge funds and tolerate his eyes lingering on my boobs again. Finally, the bill arrives and I reach down for my purse.
‘No, no, please. This is on me,’ he says.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘I’m happy to split the bill.’
‘I insist,’ he says, and domes his hands over mine. They’re warm, a bit sweaty, and he looks very sincere. So I go along with it because it’s the most gentlemanly he’s been all evening, and really, I just want him to take his too-warm hands off me.
‘Let me at least leave the tip,’ I say and he rolls his eyes. I take it back about him being a gentleman. He’s clearly never worked in hospitality.
‘This is their job, Frances,’ he admonishes. ‘Would you tip your dentist? Your GP? The box office clerk at the cinema?’
‘The person at the cinema just prints my tickets,’ I say. ‘And I reckon my dentist earns substantially more than most of the staff here. It’s not really a fair comparison.’
Louis looks at me like I’m a naive, unworldly idiot, but says no more, and on the way out, I leave a couple of notes on the table when he isn’t looking.
Outside, the air is warm and the sky’s fading into a sepia sunset.
‘Sooo, thanks for dinner,’ I say, loitering by the entrance and fiddling with my jacket.
‘Where shall we go for a nightcap?’ Louis asks, simultaneously.
Wait, what? No. Never gonna happen.
‘Hmm. I really shouldn’t. I have to get back. Early meeting tomorrow.’
‘You work at Viral Hive,’ he says, blankly.
‘Yes, and we still have meetings.’
‘But don’t you start work at about midday?’
‘Not generally,’ I say. ‘And certainly not tomorrow. So, I probably should get home.’
‘Just a quick one, then? I know a cosy little bar not far from here.’
‘Louis, thank you, but not tonight,’ I say, more firmly.
‘Fine,’ he says, and it’s stroppy. He might as well have stamped his foot. ‘When do you feel like going out again? I could come over. You could cook me dinner.’
‘Look, Louis.’ I take a deep breath. ‘No offence, but I just can’t see this happening.’
‘Oh?’ He seems genuinely shocked. How can he possibly be genuinely shocked? Does he think the date has gone well? ‘Why’s that?’
‘Ah, we’re from different worlds. I create viral content for a living and live in a shared flat in Stratford. And I didn’t even get the en suite. You work in hedge funds and felt like it was okay to question my love of ch
eese on seafood linguine. Louis, I have to be honest, I don’t know what a hedge fund is. But I suspect it doesn’t grow on the side of country lanes. You get me?’
His face morphs into a sneer.
‘I bought you dinner,’ he mutters. ‘I had to pull some strings for that table.’
‘And very nice it was, too,’ I say, calmly. ‘And I did offer to split the bill. I didn’t want you to feel obliged.’
‘I passed on an evening with the boys for this.’ He throws up his arms in protest, as if it was my intention to string him along and take advantage of his generosity.
‘Look, buddy, you chose the day. As I recall, I told you I was free all week. I had no other plans. We could have done this any other evening.’
I shove my hands in my pocket. Curl my fingers around my keys. I don’t think he’s going to get unpleasant, but you never can tell.
‘You’re a bit of a slut,’ he hisses.
I roll my eyes. I’m not even shocked. He’s such a cliché.
‘You shouldn’t prick tease, it’s unfair.’
A couple walk past and stop.
‘You alright?’ the man asks.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just seeing off this arsehole. Thank you, though.’ I turn to Louis. ‘I think we’re done here. Sorry if you weren’t aware that buying someone dinner doesn’t automatically entitle you to a shag.’
The couple don’t walk away, and I’m grateful. Louis pulls out his phone and frantically jabs at the screen.
‘You’re going to reimburse me for your half of the dinner.’
‘Oh, is that so?’ I say. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’m paying him back for dinner. Not after this tirade.
‘Yes,’ he smirks as my phone beeps inside my bag. ‘My bank details.’ The woman half of the couple snorts and the look on her face makes me laugh, too. Louis is standing opposite me, Rumpelstiltskin-esque. Apoplectic that his tantrum isn’t being taken seriously. But how could anybody take him seriously? The skin on his neck is pinking up. There’s white foamy spit collecting in the corners of his mouth. His eyes are slightly bulged. If I didn’t know better I’d be concerned he might have rabies. Turns out entitlement has the same symptoms.
‘Okay then. Bye Louis. This has been… an experience. I think it’s best we unmatch.’
‘Go and fuck yourself. Up your loose vagina. With a… a big dildo. Because you’ll never get this.’ He slaps the sides of his hands down onto his thighs, and then slicks back his hair, and it finishes me off. It finishes the couple off as well, and the three of us stand on the pavement in the dusky half light of Covent Garden on a mid May evening and howl. Louis looks as if he might spontaneously combust. It’s a funny turn of events. As if he knows anything about my vagina. As if he ever will.
He turns and marches off up the street, presumably to meet the boys. There’s probably still time for a swift half if he hurries.
‘He seemed nice,’ the lady says, when he’s out of earshot. She clutches her boyfriend’s arm and we all head off in the same direction, making for the tube station.
‘Yeah, a real prince,’ I say.
‘Are you going to pay him back?’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so.’
At the station I text Suze again.
Well that was a bust. He got cross when I said I didn’t want to see him again and demanded I pay him back for dinner. Called me a slut and told me I have a baggy fanny. Getting on the tube now, Covent Garden. See you shortly.
Chapter Thirty
The next day I catch Ollie in the queue in Starbucks on the way to work and I rap on the window until he looks around and beckons me in.
‘How funny, I was just buying you a pastry,’ he says.
‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ I say, and the barista smiles as Ollie taps his card on the reader. We lean against the counter as we wait for his drink and he rips the paper casing off a straw. I want to tell him about my evening with Angry Louis, but he’ll tell me, again, that all my dates are terrible, and I’ll know he’s right, and there’ll be that slight awkward feeling between us which will extend to the almond croissant currently sitting, sugar-dusted and delicious, in a brown paper bag on the counter. So I stay quiet, because everybody knows almond croissants are one of life’s best things and should be enjoyed free of any negativity whatsoever. And I can’t make my friend, who bought it for me simply because he knows I love them, feel anything other than good.
The barista deposits an iced latte on the side and calls out his name, even though we’re the only two people waiting, and she took his order. He leans back on the door to push it open and we stroll up the road in the sunshine to work.
‘Sooo,’ he says. ‘Busy day ahead?’
‘Yeah, a bit of blog stuff to do whilst it’s all still fresh.’
‘Hmm,’ he says, but that’s it. No further questions or extrapolation at all. He’s developed a habit of doing this. Shuts the conversation down quickly as soon as my blog is mentioned. He’s stopped throwing curveballs, too. Stopped asking things out of the blue. Stopped joking about my internet search history. It happened so gradually that I didn’t notice for ages but I do know it’s tapered off since I’ve been dating.
The truth is, I sort of miss it. I miss the mock outrage. I miss the assumption that if he’s asking about my habits, then I must somehow feature, probably secretly, in his.
We’re at work now, and he pushes open the door and says hello to Mindy on the way through to the office.
Carlina, for once, is in before me. She spins around on her chair and I throw my jacket over the back of mine.
‘So how was the date?’
‘It was… an experience.’
‘A good experience? A shag-up-a-dark-alley sort of experience?’
Ollie tuts. Carlina stares at him. ‘What?’ she asks. ‘Sorry, am I suddenly not allowed to ask this?’ He shakes his head and slopes off to his own seat. ‘What’s his problem?’ she asks.
‘No idea,’ I say. I don’t mention his reactions to Carlina. It’s hard enough convincing her we’re not secretly in love. If she knew he shut down that topic of conversation to the point where I can’t even mention my dating to him, she’d start that rumour mill turning.
‘Oh well, never mind. Anyway, you were saying?’
‘It was a terrible experience. He was, to be frank, an absolute bastard.’
‘Oh what? But he seemed so nice.’
‘Yeah, well, sadly none of that translated at all.’
‘Did you go to that restaurant?’
‘Yes, and I was informed, more than once, that it was hard to get a reservation. So didn’t I feel special? Except not really, and the promise of a chocolate mousse cake was the only thing that kept me there after he chastised me for what I ate and sneered at my job. Oh, and I caught him swiping through fucking Tinder whilst I was in the loo.’
‘Sugar my titties!’ Carlina stops spinning on her chair. Surely she must be dizzy. She grabs hold of the edge of her desk and pulls herself towards it. ‘He did not swipe on the date!’
‘Ah Carlina, if only that was the worst of it.’
‘No. Surely it can’t get worse than that?’
‘It does. But I need to put my lunch in the fridge before I can even think about divulging. Kitchen?’
‘Okay.’ She jumps up and takes my arm and we amble through the office, stopping to wish people good morning as we go. And it’s funny, because most of them, almost all of them in fact, ask me about last night. But I only told Carlina and Ollie, and Ollie isn’t the gossiping sort.
‘Carlina,’ I say, when we are safely in the kitchen. ‘How does everyone know about my date?’
‘Beats me,’ she shrugs, but she won’t meet my eye. She looks at her platform-trainered feet, then she fiddles with her Paisley print satin bomber jacket, and finally, she musses her micro fringe and pouts her black cherry lips in the reflection of the chrome kettle. Hmmm. By the time I’ve unpacked my salad and Carlina’s made herse
lf a fruit tea Sinjin and Mickey have arrived, and our little team of four is complete.
‘Hoorah. Everyone’s here,’ I say. Sinjin’s computer boots into life.
‘Hoorah,’ he echoes, deadpan.
‘I thought it might be a good idea for us to have a little catch-up,’ I say. ‘I booked a meeting room.’
Sinjin looks up and flexes his fingers. ‘Should I be worried?’
‘Not at all. It’s just a quick one so we all know what we’re delivering at the moment. You can bring your breakfast, I am.’
It’s quiet in the meeting room. Outside, in the office, people are bustling, gesticulating and laughing and chatting, but it’s muted, like we’re hearing it with fingers in our ears. Someone is setting up the test kitchen for a shoot. Lexi is sitting in one of the egg chairs. She waves at Ben across the office. Maxine traipses through the room and up the steps to her office. Almost a year on, sitting in one of these meeting rooms still puts me in mind of being in a fish bowl. We take our seats on the couch and Mickey grabs a bottle of apple juice from the drinks fridge and picks at a cereal bar.
‘So,’ I start, looking down at my notebook. ‘Ollie and I are filming a couple of shorts tomorrow. And I had an email from the LA team. There’s a video coming about things they think are weird about the UK. One of the items is, obviously, Marmite. Who doesn’t like Marmite?’
Mickey raises her hand.
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Even on white toast with loads of butter?’
‘Fran. No. Just no,’ she says.
‘Well I love it,’ Sinjin announces.
‘Good taste, my man,’ I say. ‘They want a rebuttal, and I thought you might like to organise this? It’s similar to the food vids we made last year. See if you can talk to Ollie about it. Might be another Lily–Lexi combo. Might mean a trip to the American sweet shop.’
Sinjin nods and scribbles something down on a pad. He’s come out of his shell since he’s been assisting on videos. Still sarcastic though. Some things never change.
‘You can get these snack subscription boxes for different countries, so shall I see if they’d like to sponsor?’
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