‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ he begins, and I know I am definitely going to mind. ‘In your profile picture you had red hair.’
‘And now it’s not,’ I agree. ‘I stopped dyeing it a while back, when I realised I was covering up something I wasn’t actually ashamed of.’ I make sure to direct my eyes to his greying stubble so he knows not to push it.
‘Right,’ he says, not at all impressed with my stance on ageing without shame. I look at my phone on my lap. Ages till Lucy’s get-out call.
Slade fade out on the jukebox and something much more my style comes on: ‘Wuthering Heights’.
‘Do you like music?’ I try, pointing a finger into the air in case he somehow doesn’t know what music is. What is wrong with me?
‘Hmm.’ He nods, lowering his pint like I’ve actually managed to interest him. ‘Tamla Motown, mainly. Northern Soul, bit of blues,’ he says.
‘Nice!’ I over-enthuse. ‘I love a bit of Stevie Wonder.’ Then, out of nowhere, I sing a bit of ‘Superstition’ before I force myself to stop. ‘Sorry, bit nervous,’ I tell him, but he’s clamped his lips closed and I realise I’m more annoyed than nervous now. ‘I love a bit of Kate Bush,’ I attempt in desperation, and he seems confused, so, unbelievably, I point into the air yet again. ‘This is one of my favourites.’
He grunts as if to say,It takes all sorts, I suppose.
‘We’re the same age, actually. Me and Kate.’ This elicits no response either, so I add, ‘You know, my niece Lucy has only just discovered her?’
He plumps a lip like he’s not following.
‘You know? Because ofStranger Things? They’re all into it.’
‘Nope, you’ve lost me,’ says Kenneth, and we both take a long drink in the awful silence that cannot be filled even by the magnificence of Kate Bush and the clamour of the busy bar room beyond and the audible smooching of the couple in the corner.
‘Should we order some food?’ I say because nothing else comes to mind. I could get mine to go.
‘Big lunch,’ he says, patting his belly.
That’s when my phone chirps into life, only it’s not Lucy with my escape call; it’s a text from Patrick.
‘Sorry,’ I say, lifting my phone, but Kenneth’s looking round at the way he came in like he’s readying himself to stride back through it.
Sorry I didn’t reply to your messages. Crazy busy with school then heading straight to Dunham at night. Not getting home till way past twelve. Hope the gingerbreads are coming together OK, Patrick
I smile for the first time tonight.
‘You know, Kenneth,’ I say, suddenly inspired to just be myself. ‘I reckon romance isn’t on the cards for us… and, you know, maybe we could just be friends?’
That’s when Kenneth’s phone rings and he stands up to answer it, putting on his coat from the back of his chair before he’s even spoken.
‘Really? Oh no,’ he’s saying.
No!This can’t be!He’sfaking the emergency call?He’sflaking out on our date? Kenneth, 69, who doesn’t like my hair?
‘Sorry.’ He shrugs. ‘Something’s come up… at work?’ He doesn’t even try to sound convincing.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I grumble, waving him away. ‘Off you trot.’ And I watch him leave.
‘Oh,’ a waitress with tinsel round her head says as their paths cross. ‘Is the gent coming back?’ she asks me. ‘Didn’t you want to order?’
I think of the pie and peas and the Stubborn Greys back at The Salutation. It’s enough to get me on my feet too.
I apologise to the woman, but at that moment our eyes are drawn to the couple in the corner who’ve got extremely caught up in ‘Wuthering Heights’ and are fervently clawing fingers through one another’s hair as they kiss.
The waitress looks back at me with a sorry nod – she gets it – and, wordlessly, we leave them to it.
I’m already ringing for a cab as I let the pub doors shut behind me, leaving the disaster that was my first attempt at online dating behind.
There’s a space for feedback on the app. As if we all ought to be rating our dates out of five like they’re a takeaway pizza, as if that’s a reasonable thing to do.
