‘Cheers, babe.’
I bite my tongue from asking him if he’s seen the movie and if he saw any of himself in it. But I don’t. I can suffer his company until I can exit without any fuss. Roll on dying Auntie Nelly.
So we talk, or rather he does. And he talks. And he talks and he talks and he talks. And guess what? I don’t suffer from any kind of anxiety because I don’t have to take part. Actually, I can’t. Mainly because he’s too fond of his own bloody voice!
I find out he does like dogs. Sort of. And he likes country parks.
Actually, no. I got that wrong because he likes dogging. Yes, dogging. You know that quaint British pastime of taking ones BMW to local parks or woodlands and having sex, either in the back seat or against the hood, in view of others who are there for the same thing? As for foreign cinema, I’m sure you can guess that he likes hardcore European porn. And his eighty-year-old granny? He pops around to her Chelsea house every couple of days to make sure she hasn’tsnuffed it.Apparently, he’s waiting for his inheritance.
He talks about his ex-girlfriend who, technically, he stalks.
He talks about his job and the rich old dears just asking to be defrauded. ‘Strictlyentre nous,’ he says tapping his (clearly no longer sore) nose.
He talks about his recreational drug habit—quelle surprise.
On the plus side, he compliments me on my appearance, though he isn’t interested in anything I have to say. And he interrupts me when I do manage to get a word in edgeways.
In short, this date is the stuff of nightmares and I’m not sure if time has slowed or if the girls are teaching me a lesson by allowing fictitious Auntie Nelly to rally from deaths door, but what I do know is Vivi. Hasn’t. Called.
‘So, fancy coming around to mine to fuck after this?’
‘Hold that thought,’ I mutter, pushing back my chair as I slide my hand over toward my phone, realising its nearer his side of the table than mine.Strange.‘I just have to pop to the ladies’ room.’ I loop my purse from the back of my chair feeling slightly uncomfortable that he seems to be looking mightily superior over there. Why? When I’m clearly making all the moves to escape? Sparing my duff date another thought, I make my way to the ladies as part of my rouse, but also to call Vee.
You know, just in case I need her to summon the cavalry.
But... my phone is flat!
It charged it earlier today, and while it isn’t a brand-new model, the battery is still pretty good. However, there’s no confusing the lifeless screen.
Holy fucksticks, what in the world is going on?
I’m tapping my phone to my chin and my foot to the tiled bathroom floor, contemplating hiding out here until someone with a phone wanders in, when I notice the sign next to the hand dryer. Actually, I notice the condom machine on the other side of the dryer first. A McCondom machine selling two whisky flavoured condoms for a £1.50. That’s a whole new take on whisky dick.
But back to the sign which reads:
ARE YOU ON A DATE THAT’S GOING A LITTLE BIT PANTS?
WORRY NOT IF YOUR TINDER DATE OR PLENTY OF FISH HOTTIE TURNS OUT NOT TO BE A CATCH
OR IF THEY AREN’T WHO THEY SAID THEY WERE ON THEIR PROFILE.
ARE YOUR SPIDEY SENSES TINGLING OR DO YOU FEEL A LITTLE WEIRDED OUT?
THEN JUST ASK OUR BAR STAFF FORA HOMEGIRL
NEAT:OUR BURLY BARMAN WILL ESCORT YOU TO YOUR VEHICLE
WITH ICE:WE’LL CALL YOU A CAB
A DOUBLE:WE’LL CALL THE POLICE
And we’ll do this discreetly and with the minimum of fuss.
You can count on us, homegirl!
Halleluiah. It looks like I’m going home with the minimum of fuss.
I tug on the bathroom door, and step out into the pub to find my date watching the door like a hawk waiting for a field mouse to pop out and say hello. I force myself to smile and raise my hand in a small wave which quickly becomes the universal sign fordo you want another drink.
