We field all the many questions that we’re asked (they’re all on similar themes: where did we meet; how did we meet; exactly how long ago), agree that it’s lovely to see me at the drinks, agree also that we put even less effort into the cartoon theme than everyone else did, and then, thankfully, the music is turned up high and no-one can hear anyone else speak and we’re able to slide out of the door.
‘Well,’ says Nadia when our ears have stopped ringing. ‘Thank you. That wasverygood. No-one’s going to nag me about dating for ages. This fake-plus-one thing is genius.’
She’s right. It is.
7
NADIA
‘What’s your favourite food?’ I ask as we wander along the South Bank away from the drinks.
‘You’re sounding like Marisa.’
‘That is true. But I’m not actually interrogating you; I want to buy you dinner to thank you for this evening.’
‘You’re going to do me a big return favour on Sunday, plus even without that what are friends for, and therefore I cannot allow you to pay for me, but dinner would be great if you have time.’
He has a point, I realise. If we carry on with this, it’ll get silly if whoever gets helped out plus-one-wise buys the other dinner each time. ‘Okay. Fair point. We’ll go halves. But you have to choose where we go. That’s only fair.’
‘Only if you have a right of veto.’
‘I will accept that right of veto,’ I say generously, ‘because there are one or two things that Ihate.’
‘I didn’t have you pegged as a fussy easter.’ Tom sounds slightly disapproving, like people should just notbefussy.
‘Not fussy. Just discerning. Mainly, I just really don’t like peas.’
‘Oh, okay, well, all good, because I don’t know any pea restaurants.’
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, we’re seated in a pub that Tom says he’s been to a few times before. It’s next door to a very nice-looking but reasonably priced Italian restaurant with someone playing the piano in the corner that I would havelovedto go to.
To be fair, the pub has a wooden floor, velvet chairs that are both comfortable and clean, and lots of traditional features, and it’s busy but not rammed, so everyone has a seat, and there’s a hum of conversation but you can totally hear yourself speak. So it’s very nice.
However. High on the wall to the right of the very attractive olde-worlde fireplace is an enormous TV screen with a football match showing on it and a large proportion of the pub’s clientele are not speaking, their attention fixed on the match.
Tom bears all the marks of a man who’d really like to be focusing his entire attention on the match too and might if he’s honest have chosen this pubbecauseof the match. Which, obviously, is understandable if watching it is what he’d been planning to do this evening rather than go to my work drinks. But being with someone who’s more interested in a TV screen than you does make for limited conversation. Which is why, after a few disastrous sports-watching-related dates, I now always swipe on by when confronted with anyone who describes themselves straight off as a football or rugby fan.
I wonder for a moment how Tom would describe himself. I think he’d go a bit sarcastic, do one of those descriptions where he pulls out three very random and niche facts about himself and makes you laugh. So you could get sucked unsuspectingly into spending an evening with him only to discover he’s blatantly a huge football fan. (I’m not thinking atallabout the time I was on a second date with someone who was so fixated on Formula One – I am so not into watching cars go round in circles and people possibly die in terrible crashes – that it took him fifty-seven minutes after I had told him I was leaving and walked out to message me to ask if I was okay and where I was.)
It’s fine, though, because Tom and I are notactuallydating and he’s just done me a massive favour, so his football fannery does not matter to me.
‘Sorry.’ He shifts his chair infinitesimally away from the direction of the screen. ‘Just wanted to keep an eye on what’s going on. It’s a friendly but it’s interesting to see England’s form before the Euros start.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say politely.
‘You aren’t a football fan?’ He’s clearly trying to pretend that he doesn’t have an eye on the screen, but he really does.
‘No, not really. Well, not at all actually.’ It’s so refreshing not to have to pretend when talking to a man I don’t know that well. On a date, I’d be (pathetically, I now realise) saying that Iquiteliked it and then I’d be up a conversational creek when asked what team I support or expected to have knowledge about the intricacies of the offside rule. ‘I don’t know anything about it at all and it’s never appealed.’Sorefreshing.
Tom laughs and says, ‘Whoops. This pub was quite a selfish choice then, sorry. Although. What?Howcan football not appeal? It’s an amazing game. What sportdoyou like? What’s your favourite sport? Oh.’ He mock-panic eye-swivels and says, ‘I just heard myself and that soundedwaytoo hypocritically interrogatory following our conversations earlier.’
I laugh and say, ‘I’m going to allow it unless you go full Marisa and veer towards questions about porn-watching.’
He laughs. ‘Noted. I will try really, really hard not to ask anything of that nature.’ He pulls his eyes away from the screen again and says, ‘So whatisyour favourite sport?’
‘Tennis,’ I say firmly. ‘Which is genuinely an amazing game.’ A lot of football fans have zero interest in tennis, I’ve noticed. ‘Wimbledon final or a football match?’
