‘Right, well for the sake of science, text him,’ Reg concludes. ‘Ask him out. Take control of your life.’
And fuck if he hasn’t figured out exactly which button to press. Sense of self. Taking control of my life. Doing what I want to do. We’re all ready to start yet another shift, so we lock our lockers and walk out, passing the other team members rushing in two minutes before shift start. (Stewart has clearly been day-drinking, if the smell is any indication.)
Reg turns and walks backwards, facing me. ‘And do it tomorrow if you can so we have something to discuss at drinks on Friday.’
Hey, so totally fine if you’re busy, no stress, but if you’re free would you maybe want to have some dinner tomorrow? Everyone needs to eat dinner, right?
I text like a teenage girl from a bad movie. I objectively know this, and yet this is my output. I type it out at the endof my break, with the intention of locking away my phone and not spending bulk time panicking about his response (or even worse, a lack of one). However, on sending, the three dots appear immediately.
Is this a double?
It is impossible to read his tone. The man needs to use more emojis. And exclamation points. I should put him onto Nicole.
Just us.
I’m in.
Want me to make a reservation?
He’s back to the double texting, so I take this as a good sign.
No, I think you’ve planned enough of our outings.
Let me plan this one.
I’ll text you later with details.
He taps back a thumbs-up.
It only occurs to me later that I haven’t made it clear that this is a date. In my defence, I’ve never asked anyone on a date, though I suddenly have much more respect for those people who do it. When I text back with details for a hip new Asian fusion restaurant in St Kilda, I consider adding something likeIt’s a date!to make it clear. But it just feels so trite I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’ll just have to be super obviously flirty on the date so that it’s crystal clear.
Before that I’ll have to figure out how to be flirty at all.
I take a painstaking amount of care getting ready for dinner on Thursday. Probably longer than the actual dinner will last. I paint my finger and toenails, using a light pinkcolour to mask the mistakes of my shaky work. Within about ten minutes I smudge the thumb, but he probably won’t be looking that closely at my hands, and I’ll have to take it off before my next shift anyway. I hope he appreciates what an effort this is.
Before I shower, I duck into Bee’s mostly abandoned room and liberate a sheet mask and those little under-eye gels. Then I spy these little shower aromatherapy pods she has, and I nick one of those too. And it’s like showering at a fancy spa—entirely worth it.
I try to follow a beauty guru tutorial for my makeup, but I don’t have half the products or tools she’s using, and the liquid eyeshadow dried a bit funny on my eyelid, and I couldn’t even it out properly, so I guess my regular face will have to do. He knows what I look like.
I’m standing, made up but in my bra and undies, considering my underwhelming wardrobe, when I hear the front door open.
‘Bee?’ I call. God, I hope it’s her; I don’t want to die in my undies.
She appears in my doorway, carrying a large overnight bag. I assume it’s filled with dirty clothes needing to be changed over. ‘Hey!’
‘You home for long?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘Just grabbing some stuff then heading out to dinner with William. What are you doing?’ Her nose crinkles in confusion, and I get it. This is usually the other way around.
‘Just a last-minute work shift,’ I say. The lie comes easily.I’ll tell her about it after…if there’s anything to tell. Bee nods vacantly and leaves me to it.
Within fifteen minutes, she has come and gone, leaving a pile of dirty clothes sitting on the kitchen floor by the washing machine (who is washing those, Bee?) and doesn’t notice that I’m not dressed in work clothes. I settle on wide-leg jeans and a nice top because that worked well when I was sixteen and going to that first Very Important Party.
I’ve ended up completely ready to go with about forty-five minutes to spare but a five-minute commute. I stare at my face in the mirror, daring my makeup to move an inch or crack in that time. I put on a load of Bee’s washing. I straighten up and fluff the pillows in the living room. I hang up all the clothes lying on my floor. Thirty-eight minutes to go. I hand wash our sharp knives and put them away. I rearrange the spices on the spice rack. I dust the skirting boards. Twenty-six minutes.
Ahh, fuck it. I’m just going to be early.
