‘The one with the knackered glasses.’
‘You mean the glasses with the tape?’ I said, his image suddenly clicking into view as I perched on the edge of thearmchair looking up at Emily. The metal frames had been held together with silver insulating tape.
‘Yes, him,’ she said vehemently, striding over to the magazine-laden coffee table. ‘He emailed me this morning. He sounds like an absolute stalker!’
‘What?’
Typical Emily, she was prone to exaggeration.
Read this. She shoved her phone under my nose.
----Original Message-----
From: Peter Cooper [mailto:[email protected]]
To: ‘Emily’
Subject: Dinner
Dear Emily
I knew when your email address was passed on to me that you must have felt that special connection between us. I was surprised at first. I have to admit your hair is not quite what I envisioned in my perfect mate. I normally prefer girls with shorter styles, but as you appear to have character enough to recognise my worth, I can overlook something that can, after all, be changed.
Let’s meet for dinner. Email me back with your preferred dates this week and a suggested venue. If it’s appropriate I will book a table for two. I look forward to hearing from you.
Peter
‘Blimey.’ I handed the phone back to her.
‘I’d just ignore it.’
‘Olivia, you’re not listening to me. I didn’t tick his box. He’s labouring under a delusion. Cheek, he doesn’t like my hair.’ She tossed her head. ‘I didn’t like anything about him. I was only humouring him.’
‘What on earth did you talk to him about that night?’ I called from the kitchen back to the lounge. ‘Something must have struck a chord.’
Emily’s feet padded down the hall. ‘Knitting,’ she said, spitting the word out with disgust as she came into the room.
‘Right,’ I said, before asking with a puzzled frown, ‘Why?’
She rolled her eyes as if it was obvious. ‘His home-knitted tank top was so vile, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say... then I had a brainwave. Last month’sMarie Clairehad an article about knitting being back in vogue.’
‘Do you want a glass?’ I interrupted, waving a bottle of wine at her.
‘Do you need to ask?’ She carried on, ‘I just regurgitated everything the article said about Fair Isle patterns. He lapped it up. I was taking the piss. Surely he didn’t believe me. I told him he was dead trendy and retro.’
‘You didn’t?’ I exclaimed, turning to face her.
‘For God’s sake, Olivia, he was awful. He was never hand-picked by your cousin. As if any of us would look twice at him.’
‘Emily,’ I remonstrated, pulling the cork out with a satisfying plop.
She was right but at least I’d tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Those three minutes were hard work. When my penguin buzzed, all I knew was that he worked with computers.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She wouldn’t have felt a grain of remorse.
‘So what shall I do?’
