“So, the haircut worked!” she says.
I turn to look at her and ask, “How do you know about their haircut? Have you seen Steve this morning?”
“Haircut?” Ginny asks.
“The topknot is gone,” I reply.
“Shame,” Ginny says. “I rather liked it.”
“You did?” My reaction is akin to someone saying they like gnarly toes. Attraction is a strange beast. “They’re much better looking without it. Much more handsome. Manlier.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Ginny says. “You do realise they’re gender fluid.”
“Yes, of course.”
“But everything you’re saying is forcing them into heteronormativity. That’s not them. If you want that, date someone like…,” she casts around for an alpha male example in this well-spring of diversity and unconventionality, “… Anders. Heck, even Piotr, if you’re happy to be thrown aside like last week’s lottery ticket.”
I stare at Ginny. My own doubts about dating Steve spring from the imbalance in attraction. But Ginny is right. We aren’t on the same page. If I’m honest, I want someone a bit like my dad, but better looking. Interesting, caring, family friendly but ultimately masculine. And if I put Steve against Anders, Anders would win every time.
“Shit,” I say. “I should cancel this date.”
“Don’t you dare,” Nur glares at me. “They’ve cut their hair off for a chance of a date with you. You owe them that chance, no matter how slim. People can surprise you.”
“She owes them nothing. She didn’t ask them to cut their hair.” Ginny is unexpectedly forceful on the subject.
I rub my fingers across my forehead. Both of them are right. Steve deserves a fair chance, and I don’t owe Steve anything.
“I’m not suggesting she shag them senseless in a back alley. They’ve asked for, what? Coffee?” Nur says.
I nod.
“An hour in a coffee shop. Two tops. No kissing, no hand holding. Just chat. Far away from here. It should be obvious to both of you if it’s not going to work.”
She has a point. And what else am I going to do? Ironing? Steve’s good company. I’m unlikely to be bored. And hey, Mike might not even turn up.
“Fine,” I say. Ginny is obviously still in disagreement, a reversal of her earlier position but she says nothing. The subject is dropped.
I’m still not sure I’m doing the right thing when Sunday rolls around. Effie is waiting with me, trying so hard not to get her hopes up. I suggest watching cartoons, but she refuses to be distracted. She knows he’s due, and she’s sitting at the window with her bird-watching binoculars. The clock ticks around to the agreed time and keeps going. We wait. He’s never on time.
Then she leaps up, all smiles and cries, “Daddy!”
I hide my anger. Mike doesn’t deserve her love, but he gets it anyway. Effie deserves love and affection, and a father who is always there for her. Not this pathetic excuse for one. But he will always be her dad, and we just have to deal with it.
Mike doesn’t pay me any attention as he says, “Come on, my girl. I’m starving. How about a Maccie Ds?”
And Effie, who’s had her lunch and is increasingly refusing to eat cute animals, says, “Ooh, yes!”
I close the door behind them and wait ten minutes to be sure I don’t run into them as I leave. I use the time to swipe on some make-up before I give one final check in the mirror and head off for my date. I wish I could say I was nervous, but I’m not. I’m anxious and that isn’t the same thing at all.
I’m worried about Steve and, irritatingly, I’m worried about Anders. When Anders asked me his usual question about my weekend plans, I fudged my reply and failed to mention Steve. Which turned out not to be a great decision, as Steve swung by my desk on their way out to remind me of our arrangement.
“See you Sunday,” they said with a wave as they walked past. “Message if anything crops up.”
Only Anders was standing right beside me, and I refused to meet his eyes. I had every right to see Steve but somehow, I feel like I’m cheating on Anders. And even though I turned down his offer of marriage, and there has never been a romantic affair between us, I still feel a connection to him. Like we are separated but not done.
“What’s happening Sunday?” Anders's tone was mild, barely interested, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t.
“We’re getting coffee.” I said the words in as offhand a manner as I could manage.
