‘Estate agent?’
‘Do you want me to throw you out of this pod?’
I laugh. ‘Traffic warden?’
He nudges me saying, ‘Or drown you in the Thames?’
I’m still laughing, enjoying his touch. ‘I give up.’
‘Fine. I’m a journalist.’
‘Close. I thought it was something in the media.’
‘You said an estate agent.’
‘Hoping to rule it out.’
‘I’m not a proper journalist, not yet, more like an apprentice, but I will be.’
I discover he had wanted to be a sports reporter since the age of ten; his dream was to presentMatch of the Day. ‘Deep down I’m a real nerd, Jan. At school I was a major swot. During the summer holidays, when my friends were hanging out in the town, I found work experience at one of the local newspapers, which basically meant I became a qualified tea and coffee maker, but I’m glad I did it because I made contacts.’ Dan tells me he went on to read English at Reading University where he ran the student union paper. After Reading he became an undergraduate trainee at one of the nationals, which is where he is now. He’s twenty-two, a year younger than me. ‘I’ve been doing the rounds of different desks, you know: lifestyle, health, politics. It’s tough and I hate my boss. He always axes my ideas and puts me down. I’ve applied for a place on this course, unlikely I’ll get it, but…’
‘You might. Someone has to.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I keep on telling myself. So many guys want to be sports journalists and jetset around the world watching football and golf and be paid for it. Thing is, it’s much more than just watching a game.’
‘In what way?’
‘A good reporter goes into why someone won. I’ve always been interested in why some of us have that killer instinct and others don’t. What makes someone good at his or her game and what makes another a champion. You can relate that to anything too, not just sport,’ he says, trying to keep my interest. ‘It’s about what goes on up here.’ He points to his forehead. ‘It’s about human emotion, the drive to be number one, to survive.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it like that.’
‘Do you like racing driving?’
‘Men in fast cars going round and round in circles?’
‘Fine, but come on, surely what makes it interesting is why these men risk their lives? What makes them want to be so close to death each time they get into that car? Is it just for the thrill and the speed? Is it that basic?’
‘Probably.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ He laughs. ‘Us men, we are pretty basic. What about you? Do you like sport?’
‘I was always the girl who was picked last for the team. Me and sport, we never got on.’ I jump up and stand in front of him. ‘This is how I catch a ball, right.’ I hold my arms out wide and pretend a ball is flying my way; I act as if it has dropped to the ground and now I dance around it in a state of panic. Lacrosse was the worst game. I once came home with a black eye and Granny was convinced the bullying had started again.
‘Catch,’ Dan says, tossing his wallet over and to my amazement it’s now in my hands.
I shrug. ‘I can catch credit cards.’
He laughs, warmth in his eyes. I sit back down next to him. ‘Thanks for this. It’s the perfect date.’
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I wasn’t sure if it was a bit of a cliché.’
‘It’s perfect,’ I assure him, hopping up again, telling Dan I enjoy being near to the water, to the Thames with its barges. I gaze at the handsome Houses of Parliament and the Ministry of Defence building with its green roofs. There’s Buckingham Palace in the distance, along with so many buildings and towers I can’t put a name to, but I love all their different colours, textures and shapes. ‘Big Ben doesn’t look quite so big next to the London Eye, does he?’ I say, shivering when I feel an arm wrapping itself round my waist. He rests his chin on my shoulder. ‘When I come here, I understand why I live in London,’ he says. ‘There’s so much to see and do. I want to have an office on the top floor of one of those skyscrapers, sit in a leather padded seat, drink scotch and have people running around after me.’
‘You want to rule the world.’
‘Yeah, or maybe just a tiny part of it.’ He turns me round to face him.
‘You don’t ask for a lot,’ I say.
