‘Tom’s in the living room,’ she whispers. ‘He’s been here for ten minutes. Get in there and introduce yourself!’
Here we go. I pause for a second, then say to Helen, ‘I do believe that would be considered too forward. Overly keen. If he wants to know who I am, he’ll ask.’
It takes her a second to understand me. Then she remembers. She frowns, and her whisper turns into a low growl. ‘Cat, you are NOT following these rules tonight. I know you’ll just take the piss to annoy me, and you could end up ruining something very special!’ We’re still standing in the hallway, whispering furiously at each other.
‘I told you not to set me up again, Helen. Besides, this is my job. I have no choice.’
She wants to throttle me, I can tell. If this had happened twenty-five years ago, I’d have a dead arm by now.
‘Don’t you ruin my dinner! I’ve spent ages preparing everything,’ she warns me as we march down her recently mopped hallway. ‘Tom is—’
‘A cat’s name?’
‘STOP IT. Tom is charming. When you see him, you’ll forget all about this column nonsense. Trust me.’
She pushes open the living room door and trills, ‘She’s here everyone! Catriona, this is my dentist Tom Ward. Adam, can you help me with something in the kitchen?’
‘Smooth, Helen,’ I mutter under my breath, then follow it up with a generic ‘Hello!’ which applies to everyone and definitely not specifically to the man who’s sitting beside Adam. The man who has just made my face flush spontaneously. Holy fucking fuck, he’s handsome. Shit. No one looks like that in real life. I wasn’t prepared for this.
The dentist stands up, smiles and shakes my hand, which gives me approximately four seconds to take in as much as possible before he finds me creepy (and I break the rules); dark blond hair with a hint of red, brown eyes, wide smile and, of course, perfect teeth. Oh my. Hello, Tom.
‘So, Catriona, you live across the hall?’ he asks, as I sit down on the couch opposite him.
‘I do!’ I reply, delighted that he initiated conversation and that therefore we don’t have to participate in a staring competition until one of us caves. He has a lovely voice, but I find his accent hard to place. South London, perhaps?
‘Helen says it’s just you and your daughter?’
I wonder what other information Helen has been divulging from the dentist’s chair. Income? Bra size? Did she tell him that the meaning of my name is ‘pure’ or ‘chaste’, which at the moment is pretty fucking accurate?
‘Yes, just the two of us . . . oh, and our cat, Heisenberg.’
Behind my smile, I’m singing Just the Two of Us by Bill Withers. Maybe someday this will be Tom and me. The man clearly has no idea who he’s dealing with.
‘Heisenberg? Really. After the physicist?’ He crosses his legs and I find myself briefly mesmerized by his left knee.
‘Ha, uh yeah, that’s what I tell my kid anyway. Better than saying her cat is named after a fictional meth dealer.’
He smiles, but he isn’t laughing.
Whoops. Don’t try to be funny. That’s his job. Oh Christ, not only am I not supposed to make jokes, he has no idea what I’m talking about. I have been set up with the only person on Earth who hasn’t seen Breaking Bad. What fresh hell is this? I momentarily forget myself and stare at him hard, then decide I’ll forgive him this one time. Fortunately at this moment Helen saves us both by telling us dinner is ready.
The layout of my flat is identical to Helen’s, but unlike me, she has used her floor space wisely. In front of her living-room window she has a dining table, whereas I have a long white horizontal bookcase, which blocks out the light and is crammed full of books I’ll either never get round to reading or just can’t bear to throw away.
I sit opposite Tom, a large roast chicken stuffed with haggis between us. Helen pours me a small chardonnay, which I elegantly sip, allowing everyone else to make small talk around me. We haven’t even started dinner before Adam is on my case:
‘Jesus, Cat, are you feeling all right? I don’t think you’ve ever stayed quiet this long. Saying that, you’re staring at the stuffed neck of a chicken. Quite unnerving.’
‘Oh, I’m fine, Adam, and the chicken looks great. Good job, Helen.’
Tom agrees. ‘It looks wonderful. I’ve never had haggis. Are you a fan, Catriona?’
If he wants to know something, he’ll ask. OK, Guy Wright – one point to you.
‘Aye,’ I reply casually. ‘It’s gorgeous with some whisky sauce.’
Fucking hell, could I sound any more Scottish? Maybe later I’ll cross swords and pas-de-basque myself towards the nearest unicorn.
Helen serves Tom first as Adam quizzes him about his job. Personally I want to quiz Adam about his own choice of horrible striped T-shirt, but I’m sure Helen will have beaten me to it.
