‘You’ve got ten seconds to charm me,’ I tell him.
‘Okay, so…’ he begins, a quickness to his voice, like he’s certain he can give it a go. ‘When you told me you had a date earlier, I don’t know, there was something in your eyes, or your voice – something that told me you weren’t that into it, or you weren’t being honest – I don’t know. Also – although I’ve just seen in my emails that it turns out I am sticking around for a few days – I couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing you, so, you know me, a voice in my head told me to come here, and I was right to.’
‘That was more than ten seconds,’ I tell him, keeping my expression blank. ‘And I’m not sure if I’m supposed to find this romantic or weird – I suppose you saw my date get carried out almost unconscious?’
I don’t know if it’s more or less sad at this point to make clear that he wasn’t actually a date but I don’t suppose it matters all that much either.
‘I did,’ he says. ‘And, honestly, it’s super fucking romantic. Okay, so I was watching you, a bit, and maybe that’s weird. But if I hadn’t been watching then I wouldn’t have noticed that dirtbag slipping something in your drink.’
‘What?’ I blurt.
‘That guy put something in your drink,’ he tells me. ‘I saw him, as he was mixing them. Well, I was like 80 per cent sure. Seventy-five, maybe…’
‘Are you serious?’ I blurt.
‘I know, I shouldn’t have turned up, but if there is one thing that pisses me off, it’s men who let the side down, who don’t treat women with respect,’ he tells me. ‘So, I admit it, I saw red, and I could have just kicked off, but you might have thought I was doing it out of jealousy, and he could have just covered his tracks, and I could have been wrong, so…’
‘So…?’
‘So, I switched the drinks,’ he tells me, smiling slightly. ‘If he hadn’t done anything then no big deal, right, but if he had, I would rather he drank it than you.’
Holy shit. So that’s what’s wrong with him. I don’t know what I feel the strongest, upset, terrified, or really fucking angry. I think the last one is winning right now.
‘Oh my God, I thought he was just on drugs or something,’ I say.
‘I guess he was, technically,’ Ethan points out.
‘Yeah, except there’s doing a line of coke, and then there’s date-raping yourself,’ I point out.
‘Well, he really has fucked himself,’ Ethan adds. Then his expression quickly gets more serious. ‘Look, I can’t even imagine how much it must fucking suck, to be in a position where people try to take advantage of you. I’ve been fighting against guys like that my whole adult life – I can’t even imagine having to contendwith them. Don’t let one arsehole rattle you, he got what he deserved. Let me walk you wherever you’re going next.’
I puff air from my cheeks.
‘Thanks,’ I say simply.
I know, nothing happened, but without people around me, looking out for me, then it could have. Now, more than ever, I appreciate what we’re trying to do at work with Redflags, and while I’m not going to use it any more (in the way I’ve been using it, anyway) I am going to go on and update Pat’s entry. He might be the biggest walking red flag I’ve seen so far.
We head out into the street, the cool air soothing my warm face, taking the edge off the tension headache I’ve managed to cook up over the last few minutes.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ I say as we stroll up the street. ‘I can’t believe he – anyone – would do something like that.’
‘Did he… did he have an incredibly detailed vagina tattooed on his neck?’ Ethan says.
‘I think it was technically a vulva,’ I joke, feeling a bit better with every step we take away from 24bar.
‘What’s the difference?’ Ethan asks. ‘And why would anyone have that there?’
‘I mean, if you don’t know the difference, the diagram might come in handy,’ I joke. ‘And your neck is useful, for a quick check in the mirror – if he was smart, he would have had it done backwards.’
‘He’s fucking backwards,’ Ethan adds.
‘Yeah, it’s always the ones you least expect, eh?’ I reply.
Almost everyone has tattoos now, and they’re not that deep, they don’t tell you anything about the sort of person you’re dealing with. But, in hindsight, perhaps each case should be judged individually. The man had the word labia on his neck, for crying out loud.
We stop outside the Corn Exchange. I love the way it looks at night, all lit up. I don’t know how to describe it, other than it feels safe here. The city feels so built up these days, with far more packed in than there was when I was younger, and I used to spend my teens aimlessly walking around the shops. Here, outside the Corn Exchange, there’s room to think. Wide-open space, bars and restaurants nearby, but not right outside. It’s peaceful, but not lonely.
I sit myself down on one of the cold stone steps – even if it’s only while I figure out what to do next. Ethan sits down next to me.
