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Poppy strong-armed me into ‘jeans and a red lip’ for tonight’s date and would not listen when I told her, repeatedly, that I did not want to do it. That’s the problem with Poppy. She’s hell-bent on finding me a man even though I have made it crystal clear that as a thirty-three-year-old divorcee, I am perfectly happy with my life without one.
But the thing is, my little sister is always there for us. She babysits, helps out with pick-ups and comes to my rescue for every Lila emergency. She was my absolute rock through the hardest time of my life. She was living in London when I got pregnant and moved to Bristol, but she’d visit loads and was even my labour partner when Lila showed up. I love that she’s in Bristol now, marginally less so when she’s interfering, but she has the best relationship with my daughter.
And the truth is, begrudgingly going on a few dates to save from arguing feels like a small price to pay. Besides, Mum thinks that since Poppy jacked in her big career in the city, it’s understandable for her to want to find a sense of achievement through other outlets, and I get that.
So I let her bundle me into a cab and spend the journey thinking of all the better ways I could be spending this evening. For example, the online shop. Lila is currently averaging a jar of pesto a week and we’re running dangerously low, plus those broken washing-up gloves aren’t going to replace themselves.
After a busy day of Duplo at Dawn, emergency drop-offs, business in Bath and a frankly odd pick-up, I could do with a lie-down. Instead I’m now taking a seat at a swanky restaurant awaiting another blind date, telling myself that I’m not only a morning person but also an evening person. I can do this! Maybe some adult conversation will be just the tonic after a weird school pick-up, I think charitably.
Let’s just hope my date is not the man walking towards me with jeans so tight I can see the outline of his penis. What is with the spray-on denim obsession? It’s so … revealing. I turn my attention back to the menu and my stomach rumbles. On the bright side, I’ll get to enjoy some food I didn’t have to cook myself.
‘Sophie?’
Spray-on jeans is flashing his bright white teeth at me. His denim-encased penis is at eye level. My heart plummets.
‘Paul?’
Say it ain’t so.
Alas, he’s now leaning down for a kiss on the cheek and suffocating me with obnoxious aftershave.
I notice that he’s wearing shoes with no socks, but I force myself to switch into polite first-date patter. ‘Hello. How are you?’
‘Yeah mate,’ he sits down opposite, ‘just parked up outside, did you see?’
I must look confused.
‘Always causes a bit of a stir, the Lambo.’ Paul puffs out his chest and points to the bright orange sports car parked opposite. ‘It’s double yellows out there, mate, but do you know what? Fuck it HA HA HA.’
‘Not worried about a parking ticket, then?’
‘When you earn as much as I do, mate, a couple of fines here and there are no bother.’
Mate. Ick. Bragging about income. Double ick.
I’m afraid to report that the assault on my nostrils, the visible display of appendage and the bolshy attitude are not the worst of it. In lieu of conversation, Paul spends the next ten minutes playing me a photo slideshow on his phone, comprising ‘progress’ pictures of gym work set to a tinny disco beat. In one picture, he is splayed across the bonnet of his car in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks, an image I would forever like to erase from my memory.
‘That was the day I got my black belt,’ Paul interjects at one point, literally flexing one of his biceps at me.
By the time the slideshow ting tings to an end I have decided that Poppy is dead to me. How could she think this guy would make me a good match? Offended, I order the cod, a side of fries and a very large glass of wine because only carbs and booze can save me now.
Paul tells me he’s ‘pumped’. Something to do with the apparent thrill of ‘legs day’ tomorrow. ‘So I’m doing steak tonight, you know?’ he adds.
WHY AM I HERE?!
‘So, Soph.’ He leans back, arms behind head. Only my family call me Soph. ‘Poppy tells me you’ve got a kid. I’m cool with that. I’m one of the good guys.’
I suspect the opposite.
‘Yes, Lila, she’s four.’
‘To be honest I’ve probably got a couple of kids knocking around, do you know what I mean? HA HA HA.’ When he finishes laughing, Paul winks at me and I try not to vomit.
‘You’re thirty-three, right? Nice. I’ve been getting hacked off with the twentysomethings. All they seem to want is nice holidays and designer bags.’
So now I’m horrified on behalf of all women. Honestly, is this really what we have to put up with? Abysmal.
‘I’m broadening my horizons with older birds now.’ Paul’s still talking. Temptation to stick my fork directly into his eye: high. ‘And you’re quite fit still. Have you ever thought about getting your teeth done?’
