by James Bailey
He wasn’t that intelligent, then.
“It turns out that they’d been seeing each other behind my back.”
What kind of person would lie to her?
“The most annoying thing about the whole incident is that we had just bought a house together, so I’m now living there on my own.”
Buying a house? I can’t afford a full-priced meal.
Before she starts talking about other grown-up things like credit cards, pensions, and babies, she asks me to recite my own tale of woe. It is like playing top trumps with breakups, and I feel thankful I haven’t lost my best friend too. To give him credit, Jake has actually done well here, setting me up with Olivia.
Just don’t fuck this up, Josh.
Given the lack of other customers, our food is quick to arrive. The waitress has put a candle in the pizza, and starts singing “Happy Birthday” to me. For the first time this evening, I’m glad that no one else is in the restaurant. I couldn’t have coped with a packed restaurant joining in. I sit there awkwardly until the rendition concludes, and Olivia starts clapping.
Knowing I wouldn’t have Mum here to carry the conversation this time around, I looked up some good dating conversation topics, but I don’t need them, as we pleasantly traipse through the standard questions about family, hobbies, and holidays. Olivia twirls her hair around her fingers, and her spaghetti around her fork. My margherita tastes better in the knowledge that I’m only paying half the price. I worry that I am morphing into Dad.
The couple next to us, who have spent more time eating each other’s faces than their food, settle up and leave. This finally prompts someone to turn the stereo system on, but they appear to have picked a love songs playlist, which makes everything even more awkward, as we sit now in a completely empty restaurant to a soundtrack of Whitney Houston.
“Can I get you any desserts?” the waitress asks as she clears away our plates.
“I think we’re good, thank you. Can we just get the bill, please?” I say regretfully, wishing I had enough money to pay for a second course so we could carry on chatting.
Olivia looks equally disappointed that I cut our dinner short.
I pretend to go to the toilet so I can stop at the till to check the bill is right. £31.85. That seems expensive. After buying the flowers, I’ve only got £14 in my account.
Has the waitress busted me?
“Sorry, I don’t think you’ve taken off the birthday discount,” I say, nervously.
“Ah, sorry about that, I will change that now. There you go. That should be right now.”
£16.90. Still too much.
I scan down the bill, sure that I added everything up correctly. As I reach the bottom, I notice the discretionary service charge.
I gulp.
“Sorry, is the service charge optional? Can I get it removed, please?” I say, wishing the world would swallow me up. The waitress looks shell-shocked, as if she has spent ages genuinely taking an interest in my birthday all evening.
“And what is this extra £1.50 charge?”
“That is a charity donation. We’re supporting Fight for Life, a children’s cancer charity, this month.” She starts printing off a new bill.
I can’t.
“Um, can I get that taken off too, please?”
“Really? It’s for charity.”
“Sorry, yes, please would you mind removing it?” I look at the floor.
“OK. I’ll bring the bill to you, sir,” she says passive-aggressively.
She has certainly stopped any pleasantries as she follows me back to the table and slams the bill down.
She’s just annoyed she didn’t catch me out.
“Are you sure you’re happy to get this? I’m happy to pay for mine,” Olivia says, as I take the bill, relieved that the meal has only come to £13.70.
“Of course I am, I’ve really enjoyed my evening,” I say chivalrously as the waitress rolls her eyes.
She’s certainly not getting a tip now.
I pull out my wallet from my pocket and go to take my debit card out, and then I panic. It’s not there.
Oh fuck.
I mean to say this to myself, but I say it aloud, as both Olivia and the waitress stare at me.
I frantically frisk myself, checking if I put it back in another pocket. No. Nowhere. I take out all the other cards from my wallet—rail card, provisional driving licence, and a bunch of store cards I’ve accumulated—in case it’s hiding behind them and scatter them all on the table. It’s definitely not there.
She’s going to think I’ve done this deliberately.
“Are you OK?” Olivia asks, as I start sweating again. The waitress is tapping her foot impatiently.
“I know this is incredibly awkward, but I think I’ve actually left my card somewhere. Is there any chance you would mind paying? I’m so sorry. I can transfer you the money straightaway.” I empty the rest of the contents of my pockets onto the table—the coin, my mobile, my keys, and a tissue—to prove that my card isn’t there.
The waitress looks at Olivia sympathetically, thinking that she deserves much better.
“OK, sure, that is no problem.” She looks a bit confused as she reaches for her purse again. “How much do we owe?” She has a look at the bill. “That seems very reasonable. Do you get to keep the tips, or do they just go to the restaurant?” Olivia asks as she hands over her credit card.
“There is normally a discretionary service charge added to the bill, but I was asked to remove that.” The waitress looks at me unimpressed. “Tips on a card go to the restaurant first, but cash tips come directly to us.”
“We’ll leave you a cash tip, then. Thanks very much for making it such a lovely evening.” The waitress smiles back at Olivia, before blanking me as she walks away.
“I’m very sorry about this. I must have left it in the shop when I bought you the flowers . . . I had to put my card into the machine . . . and I’m so used to just using contactless now . . . so I guess I left it there,” I try to explain.
“Honestly, it’s fine, don’t worry. You should probably cancel your card, though,” she says, helping me collect all my other cards from the table.
She picks up my provisional driver’s license, which I still carry around as ID.
“Oh God, look at you here, this photo is hilarious . . . you look much more handsome now.” She smiles.
Despite my faux pax, remarkably she doesn’t seem put off.
“Why does it say your birthday is in September?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What do I say?
I can’t lie anymore.
“This is slightly embarrassing, but I actually don’t have much money right now, so I may have pretended it was my birthday so we could get fifty percent off.”
“Oh, OK.” She pauses. “I’m not quite sure whether I should be offended or impressed with your savviness. . . . Although, as it’s not your birthday, there won’t be any present for you today.” She smiles, more half-heartedly this time. Honestly, I can’t believe she’s not walked out yet.
I start putting everything back in my pockets, embarrassed.
“I think the least you can do, though, is leave a tip. You can put that fifty-pence coin in, and I’ll see what other loose change I have.” Olivia points at the coin lying on the table.
Fuck.
“Actually . . . Sorry, I . . . I can’t.”
Oh Josh. You idiot.
12
I can’t make out what Jake is carrying until he gets closer to the bus station.
“Apparently we missed your big day,” he says, unable to hide his big grin as he joins me in the queue for the coach to London.
It’s a miniature birthday cake.
Hilarious.
Olivia obviously told him everything.
“Why would you want another birthday—aren’t you old enough already? How old are you now?”
“You ask me every week how old I am.
I’m only one year older than you!”
“I thought I told you to be a gentleman, not to be a complete cheapskate. That’s the last time I set you up with a friend,” he says, shaking his head jokingly. “Apparently she also thought your coin-tossing was a bit weird. Didn’t I say not to mention that?”
“Well, I had no choice. I had to explain, as she wanted me to give the coin for a tip and she was getting upset thinking I was too tightfisted to leave fifty pence.”
“Well, that does sound like you. Are you sure you just didn’t want to leave a tip?”
“Shut up!”
“Well, anyway, I think you blew this one, but it’s been a good learning curve for you. Next time, remember to bring your card, listen to my advice, and don’t ever mention your coin-tossing to another girl again, as it does make you seem slightly mental. OK?”
“Don’t worry, there won’t be a next time. I’m done,” I reply.
IT IS MY first time back in London since New Year’s Eve. I’m pleased that I’m not going alone, even if Jake is the most annoying person to share a two-and-a-half-hour coach journey with. Not only has he packed a compendium of trivia so we can practice our general knowledge ahead of our TV appearance, but he fidgets nonstop. We’ve only been on the road for twenty minutes when he clambers back over me, less than gracefully, retaking his window seat.
“How are you meant to use coach toilets?” he asks rhetorically. I am trying to listen to music but have to keep removing my headphones every two minutes to hear what he is saying.
“First, you have to somehow bend backward to even get in, as they’re only built for people under five feet, and then you have to somehow try and balance while the floor is moving all over the place.” He demonstrates, shaking and waving his arms wildly, elbowing me as he does so.
As soon as I think his charade is over and I put my headphones back on, he starts talking again.
“Also, why is it either absolutely freezing or completely boiling on coaches? Can they not just have it at a normal temperature?”
He starts to undress, elbowing me again as he removes his jumper. I look around, hoping there’s a spare seat somewhere.
“I bet Jessie would still be cold.”
“Do you think she will like it?” He points to the jumper that is now on his lap. We made ourselves unicorn jumpers, complete with “Run, Jessie, Run” written across in permanent marker. We also both have unicorn headbands with protruding horns, and a poster that looks more like something her Year 2 class has made rather than two so-called adults.
What the hell are we going to look like?
“Yes, I think she’ll love them,” I say, as I check my watch. “She will be heading for Greenwich right about now. I wonder how she’s feeling. Have you messaged her?”
Today is the day all of Jessie’s training has been building up to: 26.2 miles of absolute agony. With the help of Ruby the unicorn, she has managed to smash her fundraising target and followed her training plan to the letter. While she’s raised thousands of pounds for charity, I’ve had to negotiate an overdraft with my bank just to be able to afford to come and watch. I was sure I’d have found a job by now, yet most companies don’t even acknowledge my application, let alone invite me for an interview. My aspirations are sinking by the day, and I’m now applying for anything and everything. What was the point in getting a degree if all it gives me is a mountain of student debt?
After almost three hours we arrive at Victoria Coach Station. It then takes us another hour to cross London to get to our first viewing point by the Cutty Sark. The city is swamped with family, friends, and well-wishers trying to find a spot to cheer on the runners. Our unicorn horns keep prodding into people, and I spend most of the time apologizing. By the time we arrive we’ve already missed the competitive runners, and the first lot of amateurs are breezing past us, making marathon-running look easy.
“Have you got the sign ready?” Jake asks as we try our best to ignore the smell of sweat and human waste from the Portaloos nearby.
“Yes, here you go, but we are not going to see when she’s coming from back here.” I pass the sign to Jake.
There are so many spectators that we are five people deep on the pavement, and it’s difficult to see any of the action with everyone holding up their own signs: “Pain is just the French word for bread,” “If Britney Spears can survive 2007, you can survive 26.2 miles,” “Why do all the cute ones run away?”
“Do you guys want to squeeze on through?” one middle-aged man asks us. He is holding a sign saying “Go, Random Stranger!” “Who are you here to watch?”
“Just our friend Jessie. She should be coming past soon, according to the app.”
“We’ll all cheer for her when she comes past,” another woman declares.
“There’s Jessie!” One of our new fan-club members shouts out excitedly, prompting Jake to lift his sign aloft over his head.
“Oh no, that’s not our Jessie. Our one is dressed as a unicorn,” I reveal, as I spot the runner in question approaching us, her name emblazoned on her chest. There’s a deflated atmosphere as imposter Jessie runs past, probably wondering why no one is cheering for her.
“Here she comes!” It is impossible to miss her, given her outfit and luminescent running shoes.
This time, Jake panics and forgets to lift the sign up. She runs past, glancing over as we all go crazy. I’m not sure she even realizes it’s us.
“She was looking composed,” I say, trying to sound like I know what I am talking about.
“Yeah, and she’s not ditched the outfit yet.”
We thank our fellow supporters and decide to split up to see her at the next interval. We flip the coin to see who goes where. Both Jake and Jessie have become so used to the coin now that it’s part of our decision-making process without thinking. Maybe they’re not yet supportive, but at least they’re understanding. It decides that Jake will go to St. Paul’s, and I will head to the Strand. It takes me ages to get to the Tube station, as I’m penned in, and everything is operating on a one-way basis. As I make my way up out of Charing Cross Station, it seems crazy to think Jessie will be running this entire way. I catch sight of the National Gallery standing proudly across Trafalgar Square and I decide to pop in to use the free museum toilets before standing on the pavement for another hour.
As I approach the gallery, the queue is stretching around the front of the building. As with every London tourist attraction, there are now bag checks in operation, and the gallery seems to have a particularly overvigilant guard on duty today. I join the queue and bend down to tie my shoelaces, accidentally nudging the person in front with my unicorn headband.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that was just my horn,” I say, as I straighten up, and she turns around.
That doesn’t sound right.
I do a double take as I look up at her face, freezing awkwardly halfway between crouching down and standing up.
Wow.
When Jake asked me what is my type, this girl is my type.
I look completely gormless as a huge smile takes over my face.
She’s beautiful. Naturally beautiful, with minimal makeup, thick eyebrows, and gorgeous dark eyes. Her brown hair is tied up scruffily in a bun, and she’s wearing large, fashionable silver hoop earrings.
Stand up straight, Josh.
For a couple of seconds neither of us speak. I can’t help but stare, and she seems to be looking at me as deeply. We look into each other’s eyes as if we are transfixed. While we’ve definitely not met before, there is something so familiar about her.
“No worries. Nice top,” she says eventually, breaking the silence. “How’s Jessie getting on? Has she finished yet?” She reads the message across my chest.
I can feel my face going red, embarrassed about my outfit.
“Not yet, she’s still going. I’m just taking a break before I go back and watch . . . my friend.” I say vehemently, emphasizing the friend part so that she doesn’t think Jessie is a
nything more.
I might as well shout I’m single, and I fancy you.
I realize I have been staring at her without so much as blinking. I divert my gaze down and notice that she’s dressed in jeans, trainers, and a yellow jacket, carrying a paperback and a handbag. The queue edges forward. A minute ago, I wanted it to hurry up, but now I want the guard to inspect every single item in everyone’s bag so I have more time talking to her.
“Are you here to watch the marathon too?” I desperately try to keep the conversation going before she turns around again, not wanting this moment to end.
“No. Surprisingly, I’m going to see some art,” she says sarcastically, smiling. “I thought it might be quiet in the gallery while everyone else is watching the race but I’m not so sure now. Are you wanting to see any paintings in particular?”
She asks the question as we reach the front of the queue. The guard waves her in, not worrying about checking her little handbag, which is decorated with pin badges. She hovers in the foyer, waiting for me to join her and answer.
“Sorry, sir, can we have a look inside your bag, please?” The tall, strict guard is annoyed that I’m not prepared.
I’m sorry I didn’t have my bag ready. I’ve been talking to the most perfect girl.
“Everyone have your bags open to be checked, it will make it a lot quicker for you,” he shouts at the line of people behind me.
I’m not sure why I’m being picked on. I open my bag, and he takes a suspiciously long time to look, pulling out my bottle of water.
“Can you just step over there a minute, please, sir?”
As the girl looks back to check if I’m following, I smile and then roll my eyes at being held up. She rocks back and forth on her feet, unsure whether she should wait for me.
The guard mutters some code into his walkie-talkie device, and I’m left to stand in the corner while he allows everyone else into the gallery. I notice a sign tucked away that says “No Bag Checks Today.” Do they put that out on the days when the terrorists aren’t working? Another security guard, presumably more senior, comes over and mutters something to the original guard. They point at me.
Another wave of tourists scurries in, blocking my view of the girl as she completely vanishes into the crowds.