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Authors: Rosie Blake
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table,’ he said, indicating a small, candlelit table on the left-hand side of the room.
‘Great!’ I smiled, as a skinny waiter appeared and took my coat. ‘Thanks!’
Okay. Phew. This is all going to be fine .
I unrolled the napkin and placed it carefully on my lap. Andrew sat down, handed me a menu and we both scanned it, wondering who was going to get the conversation going. Andrew did the honours with a polite, ‘This looks good.’
I nodded my head and agreed with a hearty, ‘Doesn’t it?’
Then we lapsed into silence once more.
Fortunately, the waiter appeared and after a vague pretence at perusing the wine list, Andrew ordered the House White.
‘Very good, Sir.’ I just knew the he wanted to roll his eyes.
When the waiter departed, Andrew turned his attention to me. ‘So, Nicola, this is a little strange but I’m glad we’re both here.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m not exactly a serial dater.’
‘Me neither,’ I said, pleased that he’d broken the ice.
We chatted fairly amiably for the next few minutes and sank easily into a few of our favourite Caroline-related anecdotes. The story about her family’s week in France camping in torrential rain, ha ha ha, a friend’s wedding in Manchester where Caroline had fallen into a fountain taking their photo, ha ha ha. This wasn’t too difficult. It was actually going well!
Andrew seemed to find my stories interesting. He wasn’t checking his fingernails, looking over my shoulder, examining his reflection in a spoon – so I couldn’t be doing too dreadfully. I started to relax into it.
We moved into fresh conversational terrain: where we both lived, where we were brought up, our hobbies, and what we would do with a million pounds (I’d panicked and plumped for establishing a turtle sanctuary). Andrew worked as a teacher at a local secondary school that I’d heard of, and I even managed to comment on some maths genius that had left there with ten A*’s last August and had appeared in The Telegraph .
‘So, what made you become a teacher?’ I asked, resting my elbows on the table.
‘Oh, I had a horrible passion for my subject – I teach Geography. I was always nose-deep in an encyclopaedia when I was younger – obsessed with volcanoes and earthquakes. I suppose teaching seemed the natural course for me.’
‘Why not a PHD or, I don’t know, a lecturer?’
‘That’s a great question, Nicola,’ Andrew said, sipping his wine. I smiled to myself, imagining just what he was like in the classroom. ‘I was pretty unsure about becoming a school teacher initially – I’m not particularly confident – but I knew I wanted a good excuse to talk about all the things that had fascinated me as a child, and a teacher seemed the obvious choice. I figured the pupils would be sweet little smaller versions of me.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do it,’ I said shaking my head at him. ‘I’d hate having to stand up and talk to a whole class of teenagers about, well, anything.’
The waiter appeared before Andrew could reply. He placed a mushroom risotto in front of me and my mouth watered at the smell. I could get used to dating in nice restaurants . Andrew had ordered chicken with a cheese sauce and a creamy-looking mashed potato. He ordered some more wine, and after my first bite of delicious risotto, I picked up our conversation.
‘I remember being horrible to some of my teachers,’ I said, which was kind of a little white lie. The other, way cooler, kids in my class had been horrible to the teachers. I’d actually been the one at the front paying attention, making notes, keeping my head down and my grades up.
‘Yeah, usual kid’s stuff I suspect,’ Andrew chortled at me, cutting into his chicken. ‘The kids always know how to wind us up.’
‘What are the pupils like then? Any hideous beasts?’ I asked, realising I’d started to enjoy myself.
‘A few in year ten,’ he nodded, laughing a little at my question.
‘Year
‘Great!’ I smiled, as a skinny waiter appeared and took my coat. ‘Thanks!’
Okay. Phew. This is all going to be fine .
I unrolled the napkin and placed it carefully on my lap. Andrew sat down, handed me a menu and we both scanned it, wondering who was going to get the conversation going. Andrew did the honours with a polite, ‘This looks good.’
I nodded my head and agreed with a hearty, ‘Doesn’t it?’
Then we lapsed into silence once more.
Fortunately, the waiter appeared and after a vague pretence at perusing the wine list, Andrew ordered the House White.
‘Very good, Sir.’ I just knew the he wanted to roll his eyes.
When the waiter departed, Andrew turned his attention to me. ‘So, Nicola, this is a little strange but I’m glad we’re both here.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m not exactly a serial dater.’
‘Me neither,’ I said, pleased that he’d broken the ice.
We chatted fairly amiably for the next few minutes and sank easily into a few of our favourite Caroline-related anecdotes. The story about her family’s week in France camping in torrential rain, ha ha ha, a friend’s wedding in Manchester where Caroline had fallen into a fountain taking their photo, ha ha ha. This wasn’t too difficult. It was actually going well!
Andrew seemed to find my stories interesting. He wasn’t checking his fingernails, looking over my shoulder, examining his reflection in a spoon – so I couldn’t be doing too dreadfully. I started to relax into it.
We moved into fresh conversational terrain: where we both lived, where we were brought up, our hobbies, and what we would do with a million pounds (I’d panicked and plumped for establishing a turtle sanctuary). Andrew worked as a teacher at a local secondary school that I’d heard of, and I even managed to comment on some maths genius that had left there with ten A*’s last August and had appeared in The Telegraph .
‘So, what made you become a teacher?’ I asked, resting my elbows on the table.
‘Oh, I had a horrible passion for my subject – I teach Geography. I was always nose-deep in an encyclopaedia when I was younger – obsessed with volcanoes and earthquakes. I suppose teaching seemed the natural course for me.’
‘Why not a PHD or, I don’t know, a lecturer?’
‘That’s a great question, Nicola,’ Andrew said, sipping his wine. I smiled to myself, imagining just what he was like in the classroom. ‘I was pretty unsure about becoming a school teacher initially – I’m not particularly confident – but I knew I wanted a good excuse to talk about all the things that had fascinated me as a child, and a teacher seemed the obvious choice. I figured the pupils would be sweet little smaller versions of me.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do it,’ I said shaking my head at him. ‘I’d hate having to stand up and talk to a whole class of teenagers about, well, anything.’
The waiter appeared before Andrew could reply. He placed a mushroom risotto in front of me and my mouth watered at the smell. I could get used to dating in nice restaurants . Andrew had ordered chicken with a cheese sauce and a creamy-looking mashed potato. He ordered some more wine, and after my first bite of delicious risotto, I picked up our conversation.
‘I remember being horrible to some of my teachers,’ I said, which was kind of a little white lie. The other, way cooler, kids in my class had been horrible to the teachers. I’d actually been the one at the front paying attention, making notes, keeping my head down and my grades up.
‘Yeah, usual kid’s stuff I suspect,’ Andrew chortled at me, cutting into his chicken. ‘The kids always know how to wind us up.’
‘What are the pupils like then? Any hideous beasts?’ I asked, realising I’d started to enjoy myself.
‘A few in year ten,’ he nodded, laughing a little at my question.
‘Year
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