I park the car, because I plan to drink mineral water, and enter the pub, keeping a wary eye out for a ‘tall man wearing a navy cashmere sweater and with blond hair.’
That’s Tom’s personal description and it fits with the profile picture. If he is everything he says he is, he sounds lovely. A lawyer, divorced, with two daughters and heavily involved in his local sports club. What’s not to like.
But there is no sign of a tall man in navy cashmere. I stand, like a flamingo, on one leg because when I’m nervous, I tend to do this. The lounge part of the pub is small. Unless there is another bit, Tom is hiding. Everyone is in groups or couples, apart from one guy...
‘Bea! I knew it was you. You’re beautiful!’
A distinctly short man stands on tippytoes to kiss my cheek and I think that someone with a legal background must know that it’s illegal to pass oneself off as something else. But then, probably not on dating websites.
I’m five eight, tall for a woman, and there is no way Tom is over five foot six. Which is fine. But he’s lied.
He grabs my hand and leads me over to a table, where he’s clearly already downed one pint and a packet of peanuts, and ishalf-way into another one.
‘I’m nervous, so I got here early,’ he says and smiles. Truthfully, he has a sweet smile but there’s a bit of peanut stuck in his teeth and the hair – the blond hair that looked outwardly tousled in his profile picture – is almost definitely a wig.
He’s also older than he said he was. Tomfifty-four is more like Tomsixty-three or older.
‘You’re even more beautiful than your picture,’ he gabbles on.
‘Thank you,’ I say because I don’t know what else to say.
Am I so shallow that I can’t allow myself to like a shorter, older man with a wig? Who knows what sort of wonderful person Tom is?
Except, I think, as he energetically waves at the barman for drinks, he lied. My profile told the truth, even though Shazz says this is the kiss of death.
I order my mineral water and sit back against the banquette. I soon realise that sitting beside Tom is a mistake. He’s very close to me, saying he’s been looking forward to this ever since I messaged him back and that he doesn’t mind that I’m a widow.
‘No competition, eh?’ he says jovially.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I say, bristling.
‘My girls are thrilled I’m seeing someone else,’ he goes on. ‘The ex has found herself some bit on the side. “Dad,” they said to me, “you need someone to love, someone to enjoy the rest of your life with”.’
‘How old are your girls?’ I ask politely.
Next second, his phone is out and he’s scrolling through pictures, showing me two women who are either very late twenties or early thirties.
‘You must have married young,’ I say, thinking that maybe I’m wrong and he’s younger than he looks, that divorce must have shattered him so much he’s aged.
‘No, had Lara when we were just thirty. Right little chip off the old block. Got into law first try. Doesn’t work in my firm, though.’
And he’s off, showing me old pictures on his phone that he must have transferred from actual hard copies. Tom is a doting dad, for sure. But the sight of him and a woman with a very 1970s haircut and their two small children clarify the fact that he’s lied about his age.
He manages to drink his second pint too and is soon ordering another one. He’s chatting garrulously about his life, not asking me anything about mine, and I can see that for Tom, this date is going swimmingly. I feel as if I am floating above myself - witnessing it all with the mild disinterest of a television camera person.
‘Have a real drink, love,’ he says. ‘It’ll loosen you up. You’re stiff as a board,’ he adds, running one finger down my back against the silky top and pinging my bra strap as he does so.
I jerk away.
‘Tom, we have only just met and that was entirely inappropriate,’ I say, trying not to sound harsh. But real anger has sprung up in me.
‘Oh honey, look at you – you came here all dressed up and you can’t just drink bottled water and expect a man to just look. This is one helluva sexy outfit.’
His other hand touches my tight skirt and begins to slide it up my thigh.
The last bit of calm snaps inside me. Tom is lucky I keep the snapping internal or else he’d have broken fingers. I am stronger than I look.
I grab my handbag and push myself out of the banquette.
