Chapter One
He’s late. He’s half an hour late.
I nervously tuck my hair behind my ears and continue scrolling on my smartphone. That’s all right, I tell myself; people are late all the time. Maybe they’re not HALF AN HOUR LATE on a first date, but he’s obviously been held up. Could be a number of reasons – he could be stuck in a traffic jam . . . had a car crash . . . he could have fallen down a sinkhole; these things happen. I’ll just continue scrolling through the BBC News website, pretending that everything’s fine. The people in this bar don’t know I’m waiting for someone. As far as they know, I’m just a woman, sitting in front of a table, asking it to bear the weight of her large glass of red wine. Yup, nothing to see here.
But by the time I order my second glass, he still hasn’t arrived and I’m fuming. He clearly isn’t coming and I’ve wasted a Friday evening that could have been spent cuddling up to my eight-year-old daughter, Grace, in her fluffy pyjamas, being ignored by my equally fluffy cat Heisenberg. My sister Helen is babysitting for me, no doubt feeling pleased with herself for being the person responsible for getting her unmarried sister on her first proper date in weeks –
‘Just meet up with him, Catriona. Have a drink. Colin’s really nice . . . arty type. Goes to the theatre quite a bit.’
‘How do you know him?’ I’d asked suspiciously. My sister generally only knows two types of men: those who are married and those she wants to set me up with.
‘He works with Adam. He thought Colin would be perfect for you.’
‘So you haven’t actually met him? All you have to go on is your husband’s word? The same husband who set me up with already-engaged Kevin?’
‘To be fair, no one knew he was engaged.’
‘Well, I’m guessing HIS FIANCÉE did! I walked past the church as they were having their wedding photographs taken. He told me he was in Chester looking after his sick mother.’
‘Yes, that was shameless. His mother died years ago. Anyway, we’re no longer friends with him. But Colin is definitely single.’
I look at the clock behind the bar again, shaking my head. Why did I listen to her? Take a chance, she’d said. You deserve some fun! And now here I am, drinking alone, with a terrifying red wine smile and three per cent battery life. Fuck it. I drain the rest of my drink, pull my coat on and throw my phone in my bag. I have better things to do than wait around for a man who –
‘Catriona?’
I turn around and I’m suddenly chest to face with a short, rain-soaked, gold-cravat-wearing stranger. The sinking feeling in my stomach that follows makes it clear to me that this bizarre man is Colin.
‘Sorry I’m late, m’lady,’ he apologizes. ‘Work ran over and then I couldn’t get a taxi from the West End. Can I get you a drink?’
(M’lady? I hate you, Helen.)
‘Sure,’ I reply, staring at the tiny drop of rain hanging from the end of his nose. ‘I’ll have a small glass of Merlot.’
He nods approvingly, strolls over to the bar and I sit back down, placing my bag under the table and clasping my hands in front of me, mentally preparing myself for the forthcoming awkwardness. He returns carrying two glasses of red and clumsily puts them down before removing his sodden tweed jacket, which looks like it weighs a good 200 pounds.
‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’
I stare at him blankly. ‘Pardon?’
‘Shakespeare! I was quoting Willie Shakespeare.’ He smiles weakly, running a bony hand through his small mop of thinning brown hair. ‘This bar isn’t the kind of place I’d normally frequent. These people . . . lots of bad grammar and tattoos, I imagine.’
I look around and see a bar full of completely normal people: two women in their twenties deep in discussion, perhaps about the fact they’ve both come out wearing matching tops and boots; a couple in their thirties sharing nachos; and a group of middle-aged men doing rows of brightly coloured shots, ensuring that they’ll be throwing up on their own shoes by midnight. It’s a normal Friday night, with normal people. That’s it – one drink and I’m out of here.
‘Shakespeare, eh?’ I reply, adding, ‘A HORSE, A HORSE, MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE!’
I expect him to be at least moderately impressed by the only line I know from Richard III, but he remains expressionless, no doubt wondering just how much I’ve had to drink. And he’s still dripping. Jesus, this man has no ability to self-dry. Silence ensues and I take an overly long gulp of wine.
Why does this sort of thing always happen to me? Am I cursed? It gives me comfort knowing that once I finish my drink I can make my excuses, but until that happy, happy moment, I’ll have to continue making conversation.
‘So. Colin. Helen tells me you enjoy the theatre?’
‘I do indeed, but nothing too flashy. I enjoy the classics – none of this We Will Rock You or Mamma Mia! musical-theatre nonsense.’
‘I love musicals,’ I reply, secretly pleased that we have nothing in common. ‘I know every word of Evita. And Rocky Horror.’
‘I see.’ He sniffs, looking horribly disinterested. ‘Well, each to their own. And what is it you do for a living, Catriona? Or should I call you Cat?’
Only people I like call me Cat. ‘No, Catriona is fine. I’m a journalist. Features mainly – I write for the Lowdown.’
