‘Sure?’ He quirks an eyebrow. ‘I mean, it isn’t tennis.’
‘I’ll try really hard to deal with it,’ I tell him.
It’s surprisingly tense. Most of the people in the pub are rooting for England, and theydeserveto win if they’ve been playing like this the whole time, because they’ve definitely had way more possession than the other side.
When a man with a very curly blond mullet sneaks a goal in for England just past the post ninety seconds before the final whistle, and the pub erupts, I’m yelling just as much as everyone else. We basically carry on cheering until the game’s fully over. It’s hard to remember that it was just a friendly.
‘Myword,’ Tom says when we’ve all quietened down (I think most people must have quite sore throats by now), ‘I’ve had a good effect on you. You wereenjoyingthat.’
‘I accept that I did, in the moment, enjoy it. But ten minutes is not ninety minutes. And it was an international. And there was a good atmosphere around us.’
‘Have you been to an actual match in person?’
I shake my head.
‘You’re going to have to come to one with me. If you want to dislike football, fair enough, but you’ve got to have something to base your hatred on. So far, from where I’m standing, you never watch it, and on the rare occasions that youdo, you like it.’
‘Hmm.’ I take the last two sips of my wine. ‘Maybe. In the right weather.’
‘I’ll do my best. Another one?’
I look at both our empty glasses and then at my watch. ‘I’m tempted, but it’s nearly ten thirty and it’s a work night. And you soundreallybusy with work so I feel like we should go home.’
‘You must be busy too?’ Tom asks as we stand up.
‘Well, yes and no. As an accountant, I have a lot of stuff to do but nobody’s going to die or fail their GCSEs if I oversleep one morning.’
‘Firstly, just in case you mean that seriously, all jobs make the world go round and I cannot describe how much of my job involves pointless admin now. And secondly, er, wouldn’t Mean Michael gomadif you were late?’
‘The key is to have a loyal friend tell him you’re extremely ill but nonetheless working from home because you’re so devoted to the job.’
Tom nods, like he’s impressed. ‘Nice.’
As we amble in the direction of the station, I say, ‘Thank you again for earlier. It wassocool when you met Sammy.’
‘I know. This plus-one thing is actually very low maintenance: high net return for minimal outlay. I’ve been thinking: I just have to show up to your work things every so often for literally half an hour at a time, still doing the “taking it slowly” thing, and everyone will be convinced. It could go on for years. Definitely for the whole of your dating detox.’
‘Yes. It’s perfect.And, because it isn’t real, we can just stop when we like.’
Tom nods. ‘What you’re trying to say is that I’m a genius.’
‘You actually are,’ I agree. ‘When we were with Marisa at the drinks, I was trying to work out whether I felt guilty. Like, I probably should have done, because she’s a very good friend, but also, sometimes you just really, really want people to stop trying to interfere in your love life. Or lack of. And maybe shewouldbe upset if she knew, but hopefully she’d just understand that I have beenoverSammy and his snideness this week, and also that I don’t want to hurt her feelings by telling her that I really want her to stop trying to find dates for me, but I do.’
‘Precisely.’ Tom grabs my elbow and jay-walks us across the road (which makes me squeak; I always very anally wait for the green man). ‘I don’t want to hurt my family but they’ll never find out. And it isn’t really a lie. Lots of people take friends as plus-ones to events. People are just assuming there’s something between us because we’ve only just met and we’re of different genders.’
‘You’re so right.’ I beam at him. ‘We aren’t doing a bad thing at all.’
We get on the same train again, and bicker amicably again about what sports we do and don’t enjoy watching until Tom gets off at Clapham Junction after extracting a promise from me that I’ll text him when I get home so he doesn’t worry about me.
Once he’s gone, I check my phone for messages and, yes, there areloads.
They’re mainly from Marisa saying that she really liked Tom and how pleased she is for me and hownicehe was and how maybe we can double date now (she’s going out with this absolute dick called Jeremy and no we cannot obviously – Tom’s going to have to be fictitiously very busy), but there are several others from work girlfriends and Sammy (how did he even get my number?) saying that Tom’shotand I ampunching(thank you, Sammy). And another one pops in from Marisa saying that she’s sorry, sorry, sorry about giving Sammy my number in a moment of weakness because he kept shoving Hugo spritzes at her and she kept drinking them, and I am certainly not punching, it’sTomwho is punching.
I think about Tom and decide that he definitely is what a lot of people would call a catch but thereisthe football downside to him. And his love of pies. And the fact that he would walk straight on by that lovely-looking Italian restaurant in favour of the pub. And his taste in films.
Definitely not my type in real life, however nice, funny and good-looking he might be.
In fake-plus-one life, though, he’sexactlymy type. Everyone at work completely bought the me-and-Tom thing. It’s perfect.
