Page 4 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

The sender’s main photo showed a dark-haired man. Serious-looking but attractive nonetheless. Jo skimmed his profile: six-foot, graduate, wants children. And based here in Manchester.

She hesitated. What about Dan?

She clicked on Dan’s photo. Stared into his brown eyes. Then she noticed the little green dot in the corner. He was online.

Too busy to meet her tonight, yet here he was. Online. Right now. Using the app.

We aren’t exclusive yet, she reminded herself. But perhaps Gemma was right. Perhaps it was time to face the fact that Dan wasn’t that interested and date someone new.

She could get the train home and curl up with a favourite episode of ER – she was particularly partial to season five of the popular medical drama when George Clooney aka Dr Ross was starting to get a little hint of silver in his beautiful dark hair – or she could join the ranks of People Who Had Somewhere To Go and meet an actual human being for a face-to-face conversation.

She would go on the date, she decided.

2

Jo looked at herself in the mirror of the ladies’ toilets where, a couple of hours earlier, her colleagues had got ready for their Friday night out. Without her. It would be nice to get ready with someone. To say, ‘Can I borrow your lippy?’ or ‘How does this look?’

Passable, she decided. She looked passable.

Looks wise, Jo had always considered herself average. Si had said she was gorgeous, when they’d first met, but over the years they were together, his constant criticism of her weight and her clothes and her hairstyle had made her feel anything but. Gemma, loyal as always, was always telling her she was beautiful. ‘You’ve a lovely open face and curves in all the right places.’

Jo had remembered this when she’d written her dating profile, describing herself as ‘curvy’. Pleasingly curvy, she tried to tell herself, though officially she nudged into the overweight category on that BMI chart at the doctor’s.

Her eyes weren’t bad, she thought now, looking in the mirror. A striking shade of green: the colour of peridot. She always attributed them to her Irish granny, along with her pale skin. And her hair was okay. Long and thick and a gorgeous shade of red. Not naturally red – thanks, Nice ‘n’ Easy – but still lovely, according to Gemma. And maybe it was better that she hadn’t been born with red hair; she’d come in for enough teasing at school as it was.

She lived too far away to go home and change so would have to go on the date in the clothes she’d been wearing all day: M&S jeans with added stretch, a plain T-shirt and her favourite (only) cashmere cardigan. Was a cardigan too frumpy for a Friday night out in Manchester? Probably. But it would have to do.

In any case, she had no aptitude for choosing clothes – as Si often used to remind her – and always stuck to jeans. They suited all but the most formal of events. Until recently, she hadn’t possessed a single dress.

She applied a hint of mascara, praying that this new man would be so wonderful that he’d make her forget all about Dan cancelling on her. Or at the very least, that this would be a good date, i.e. one where he at least vaguely resembled his photo, was easy to talk to and didn’t have half of his dinner down his shirt, in his beard or stuck between his teeth.

*

The bar was easy to find, with its migraine-inducing lights illuminating the whole street. Jo crossed over, pulling her earbuds out; she’d been listening to Etta James’s ‘At Last’ as she always did on the way to dates to put herself in the right mood. Flirting didn’t come naturally to Jo – she couldn’t pull off coquettish looks or witty remarks – but Etta helped her feel she could bat her lashes or make eye contact for longer than one second, or whatever it was you were supposed to do to capture his heart. Or at least cause a little stirring in his groin area. She always dreamed that if she ever did manage to meet the right man, they’d choose ‘At Last’ for the first dance at their wedding. Though knowing her luck, he’d be more into Black Sabbath or the Grateful Dead.

She peered through the window, hoping to spot him. There was nothing worse than arriving in a crowded venue, not being able to spot your date and standing there on your own looking conspicuous. It took her right back to those early school playground days, hanging around with no-one to play with. It made her vulnerable somehow, as if she half-expected the other people in the bar to pick on her the way the kids at school had, to torment her for being alone. She couldn’t see him, but took a deep breath and opened the door anyway, before pushing her way through city types in tailored suits and blond people in designer jeans.

To her relief, she spotted him quickly. He was sitting at a table, watching the door. He looked not unlike his profile picture; that was one good thing at least. He’d taken off his jacket and was wearing a loose-fitting, striped shirt. He stood up when he saw Jo, but didn’t smile. Perhaps she didn’t meet his expectations. Must be the cardigan.

‘Hi, I’m Neil,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘Jo. Nice to meet you.’ She shook his hand, his skin dry and cold against hers. Dan’s hands were always warm.

‘What would you like? A cocktail? Wine?’

‘Pinot grigio, please.’

He went up to the bar to order and Jo sat down on an ultra-modern Perspex chair. Perspex. Now there was a good word – 18 points without bonuses but you’d be lucky to pick up two Ps at once. Anyway, she thought, it was a proper noun so wouldn’t be allowed in Scrabble.

She glanced around the bar. Generally speaking, she preferred bars with softer seats, softer lighting and softer music so you could actually hear the conversation. Bars where you could buy a round without taking out a mortgage.

Neil returned, placing a glass of wine in front of her. He had some kind of beer in a fancy bottle. That shirt really was loose. Untucked too, so it hung over the top of his jeans. He smiled – finally – revealing white, straight teeth, and Jo suddenly realised how much she wanted him to like her. Then she saw him cast a glance at one of the blondes at a neighbouring table.

‘I love that we’re meeting on the spur of the moment,’ she said, trying to regain his attention and hoping this showed she was spontaneous rather than someone who didn’t have enough friends and therefore had nothing planned on a Friday night.

‘Glad you were free.’ He was peering at the blonde woman’s impossibly high shoes.

Jo took a large gulp of wine. ‘Have you been on Buzzz long?’