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Authors: Rosie Blake
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Davies – Think he lives in Liverpool. (Consider long-distance relationships at later date?)
Edward Gough – One kiss circa 1995, possibly his parent’s address (double check this).
Paul Kleiner – German, so would need to rely a lot on mime, but might have better grasp of English language by now?
Clive Reegan – Had long-term girlfriend, but once laughed at a joke I made in a seminar, a good guy.
Steve Thompson – Played in jazz band of old firm. Hot. Wore a Swatch.
Jake Young – Old university flatmate. Have seen him use sink as toilet, not sure can move on from that.
By the end of the list I reckoned Jon Allen was not a bad bet at all, but I was encouraged to see a couple of other possibilities there too. Step One, tick.
Chapter Ten
Tuesday in the office was unbearable. In the morning Caroline spent hours staring at me, denying she was staring at me, or staring at me from behind other objects. In the afternoon when I finally told her to PLEASE STOP STARING AT ME, she asked me numerous questions: what was I going to wear for the date that night? Was I nervous? Wasn’t I glad I was getting out there ? The last phrase was delivered with a very gung-ho voice and when we left the office at the end of the day she gave me a hearty slap on the back, as if she were sending me to the front line.
I scuttled out into the cold, wet night and headed to the coffee shop opposite our office until it was time for the date. I was meeting Andrew in the Café Rouge at the top of Park Street. It would only take me two minutes to walk there, so I had plenty of time to compose myself beforehand. Most of the shops were shut for the night, though the glow of their window displays were a warming contrast to the darkness outside. I pushed open the coffee shop door, headed straight to the counter and ordered an espresso, before taking a seat in the corner.
I was particularly dreading the start of the date; did we hug, kiss or shake hands? Then how long would we have to spend lumbering through the inevitable small talk and coping with lengthy awkward pauses? How early on would I be forced to comment on the décor of the restaurant, him on the general ambience? And what was the right food for the occasion? I’d been on one date at university and ordered the spaghetti bolognese – student budget – and had spent the entire evening unwittingly talking through a little moustache of tomato sauce. I started to panic. Dinner was quite a commitment. What if we decided we didn’t like the look of each other on sight? What if, over the starter, we discovered we had conflicting world views and there was simply no hope of compatibility? Did we then throw down our soup spoons, split the bill and wander off into the night?
I spent five minutes in the loo of the coffee shop, which earned me a raised eyebrow from the owner. I wondered if they had CCTV … I hoped not; I must have looked ridiculous, doing those five minutes of deep-breathing exercises while intently staring at my own reflection in the mirror. I checked my make-up, straightened my crisp pale-pink shirt, paid the bill and headed to Café Rouge. My stomach plunged as I saw Andrew already sitting at a table in the window of the restaurant. Well, I assumed it was Andrew, simply due to the fact that he was the only lone man waiting in there. He was studying a newspaper with a slight frown on his face. I couldn’t get a good look at him. He glanced up as I pushed open the door, cast aside the paper and stood up to greet me – I noticed he was a tad on the short side, but at least he was punctual. I liked that.
Stooping a fraction, I held out my hand. ‘Andrew?’
‘Nicola,’ he said, shaking it. ‘You look just like your photo. Actually better.’ Then he smiled. I felt relief sweep through me. He seemed relatively normal, his handshake was an appropriate pressure, he’d demonstrated an ability to make eye contact and pronounce my name: all positives. ‘I reserved us a
Edward Gough – One kiss circa 1995, possibly his parent’s address (double check this).
Paul Kleiner – German, so would need to rely a lot on mime, but might have better grasp of English language by now?
Clive Reegan – Had long-term girlfriend, but once laughed at a joke I made in a seminar, a good guy.
Steve Thompson – Played in jazz band of old firm. Hot. Wore a Swatch.
Jake Young – Old university flatmate. Have seen him use sink as toilet, not sure can move on from that.
By the end of the list I reckoned Jon Allen was not a bad bet at all, but I was encouraged to see a couple of other possibilities there too. Step One, tick.
Chapter Ten
Tuesday in the office was unbearable. In the morning Caroline spent hours staring at me, denying she was staring at me, or staring at me from behind other objects. In the afternoon when I finally told her to PLEASE STOP STARING AT ME, she asked me numerous questions: what was I going to wear for the date that night? Was I nervous? Wasn’t I glad I was getting out there ? The last phrase was delivered with a very gung-ho voice and when we left the office at the end of the day she gave me a hearty slap on the back, as if she were sending me to the front line.
I scuttled out into the cold, wet night and headed to the coffee shop opposite our office until it was time for the date. I was meeting Andrew in the Café Rouge at the top of Park Street. It would only take me two minutes to walk there, so I had plenty of time to compose myself beforehand. Most of the shops were shut for the night, though the glow of their window displays were a warming contrast to the darkness outside. I pushed open the coffee shop door, headed straight to the counter and ordered an espresso, before taking a seat in the corner.
I was particularly dreading the start of the date; did we hug, kiss or shake hands? Then how long would we have to spend lumbering through the inevitable small talk and coping with lengthy awkward pauses? How early on would I be forced to comment on the décor of the restaurant, him on the general ambience? And what was the right food for the occasion? I’d been on one date at university and ordered the spaghetti bolognese – student budget – and had spent the entire evening unwittingly talking through a little moustache of tomato sauce. I started to panic. Dinner was quite a commitment. What if we decided we didn’t like the look of each other on sight? What if, over the starter, we discovered we had conflicting world views and there was simply no hope of compatibility? Did we then throw down our soup spoons, split the bill and wander off into the night?
I spent five minutes in the loo of the coffee shop, which earned me a raised eyebrow from the owner. I wondered if they had CCTV … I hoped not; I must have looked ridiculous, doing those five minutes of deep-breathing exercises while intently staring at my own reflection in the mirror. I checked my make-up, straightened my crisp pale-pink shirt, paid the bill and headed to Café Rouge. My stomach plunged as I saw Andrew already sitting at a table in the window of the restaurant. Well, I assumed it was Andrew, simply due to the fact that he was the only lone man waiting in there. He was studying a newspaper with a slight frown on his face. I couldn’t get a good look at him. He glanced up as I pushed open the door, cast aside the paper and stood up to greet me – I noticed he was a tad on the short side, but at least he was punctual. I liked that.
Stooping a fraction, I held out my hand. ‘Andrew?’
‘Nicola,’ he said, shaking it. ‘You look just like your photo. Actually better.’ Then he smiled. I felt relief sweep through me. He seemed relatively normal, his handshake was an appropriate pressure, he’d demonstrated an ability to make eye contact and pronounce my name: all positives. ‘I reserved us a
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