CHAPTER SIX
Date Two: Pie with The IT Guy
Arnie is wearing tennis socks pulled up to his ankles. Yes that’s right. Arnie is one hundred per cent hipster. Which is fine, I tell myself, repeating Mila’s ‘no pressure’ mantra in my head. I do admire the self-assured air of a hipster. But can I date one? My usual dates turn up from work in a white shirt and suit trousers. Or if it’s the weekend, a slightly less smart version of the same. Maybe I should have worn those sequined jeans after all. I’m busy dithering as we order drinks and I think Arnie can sense that my mind is in turmoil, so he starts chatting.
Opening gambit: ‘Do you polish turds for a living?’
That’s it. Iknewhe was a crazy. Why didn’t I just trust my gut? I’m desperately trying to remember my safe word when our server comes over with a chalkboard menu and. . .
‘Pie!’ I cheer, rubbing my hands together. We put in our orders while Arnie asks me more about my job, reminding me that when we met I told him I spent the day polishing a turd. I’d tried to block the Violet / unicorn / shoot of doom day from my mind but I’m alsoseriously impressed that he’s remembered some facts from our conversation, which is not a date trait I’m used to.
Soon enough we’re chatting away like old friends, Arnie trying to explain more about his job (computing / apps / something creative and techie which I can’t quite wrap my brain around) and why he doesn’t have an employer, just a bunch of people who ‘collaborate’. I’d roll my eyes but his enthusiasm is utterly endearing. He’s spent the last five minutes giving me his potted history and I’m warming to his self-deprecating sense of humour. He even asked me what wine I like and we’re now sharing a bottle of Malbec together, whereas my usual type would just order a round of shots and have done with it. This feels very civilised in comparison. Except for the bit where I shot wine out of my nose after he told me he’s learning to whittle wood in his spare time.
As Arnie talks, he tucks a strand of fiery red hair behind his ear. It is perfectly undone, like the hair of a Nordic god, and means that I can finally get a good look at his face. He has clear, grey eyes and pale, freckled skin. Arnie’s handsome in a hipster-barber kind of way, though he also has pie in his beard. I usually date a man with poise and categorically no foodstuffs on his face, because in my relationships I’m the one who spills shit down myself at the most inopportune moments. You can’t date someone who does exactly the same, can you?
Still, I’m definitely having fun tonight and there’s been none of the standard, boring date chat. I haven’t even had to pretend that I’m up to date with current affairs, because we’ve been too busy playing match the celebrity to the drink (eg Paris Hilton / can of Stella). I’ve told him all about my job with Violet and how things went at Cannes, only just stopping myself in time when I was on the cusp of blurting out about our matching heart shaped bikini waxes.
‘Heartshaped. . . HENNA TATTOOES,’ I end up saying. I’m not sure which is worse, the truth about my current bikini situation or the fact that I just told a hipster that I got a henna tattoo on holiday.
Arnie’s trying not to laugh. ‘Did you always want to be a photographer?’ he asks, eyes alight.
‘My dad gave me a camera for my birthday one year and we’d spend days together, just the two of us, poring over photography books and trying to take good pictures.’ I pause, fork full of buttery mash suspended half way between my plate and my mouth. As a rule I don’t talk about my dad, like, ever. It’s written in the Jasmine Handbook under the sub-section Things Not to Talk About. Dad is number one on the list. There’s a whole host of other wrong’uns on there too. . . Holly, avocadoes (barf) and the final episode ofFriends. So why am I bringing him up now?
‘He must be proud of you,’ Arnie is saying.
Hmm. This is the problem when my mouth gets to work while my brain is preoccupied with pie. This is I should bloody well stick to my list of Things Not to Talk About.
‘Are you okay?’
I nod, shovelling a pile of mash into my mouth. Only I miss and end up shovelling a pile of mash onto my right shoulder instead. I am so smooth at dates.
‘It’s just that you look a bit. . . constipated?’
‘Seriously? Are you seriously bringing up toilet troubles as viable first date conversation?’
We look each other in the eye and I can see that Arnie is about to laugh again. I must stay strong. I’m arranging my features into what I hope is a stern look when Arnie adds, ‘Sorry, it’s just that you screwed your face up and it did look a bit like you were constipated.’
‘Stop!’
‘Stoplooking like you’re constipated then!’ Arnie bellows.
‘STOP SAYING CONSTIPATED. WE ARE ON A FIRST DATE!’ The diners next to us inch their table further away. Can’t blame them. I’m laughing so much that I’ve got stitch. Arnie’s whole face has transformed into the crying-with-laughter emoji. Our waiter can smell the hysteria and does a little side-step as he decides against coming to check that our meal’s okay.
‘I need to get my shit together,’ I say as the waves of laughter turn into more manageable ripples.
‘I thought we were avoiding toilet talk from now on?’ Arnie says, his russet-coloured beard bristling around a wide smile.
‘Stop that immediately.’
It’s getting late by the time we leave the bar we found close to the pie and mash shop. I was game for a second pie but Arnie seemed to be concerned about me having a heart attack – spoilsport – so we settled on a nightcap instead. An Aperol spritz for both of us because apparently we are the same person.
We’ve been talking all night and only after Arnie has brought me up to speed on the best place to buy vintage rucksacks we realise the time, standing up to make our goodbyes.
‘That was fun,’ Arnie says from about ten miles above my head. Now that we’re side by side I feel a bit like Hermione Granger staring up at Hagrid. He’s bloody massive! And almost as beardy.
‘Itwasfun,’ I agree. ‘I’m actually quite surprised.’
‘You are?’
