‘So why did you decide to work up here, Tom? Surely the money’s better down south?’
Tom nods. ‘It can be, but there’s more to life. After the divorce, I didn’t see the point in hanging around. Besides, commuting four hours every day was taking its toll on my sanity.’ He shrugs, a playful smile on his perfect face. ‘A former colleague of mine, Ameera, runs a practice and needed a partner –’
We’re all staring at him. His ability to hold court is quite impressive – I can tell that even Adam is considering shagging him.
‘– and here I am.’ Tom laughs and continues eating, seemingly oblivious to the fact we’re all completely infatuated with him. He examines the haggis on his fork carefully before taking the plunge.
‘What do you do for work, Catriona?’ he asks.
More questions. This is a good sign.
‘I’m a journalist. You like the haggis?’ Am I allowed to ask questions? Oh well, too late.
‘I do. Who do you write for? Newspapers? Magazines?’
Oh God, stop asking me about my job. I might have to write about you.
‘Magazines,’ answers Helen. ‘She’s very talented. She writes—’
‘– whatever they want me to!’ I quickly interrupt. ‘Just a newspaper supplement, nothing exciting.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it is,’ Tom reassures me. ‘Though to be honest, I only read the Independent, if I read newspapers at all. I watch Fox News on cable, and occasionally BBC News.’
Oh fuck, he thinks I’m a serious news journalist. I’m not even sure who the Prime Minister is. On the bright side, this means he won’t see what I’ve written about him in this week’s column. I’ll call him Mr X, just in case.
‘Oh, well, I mainly cover features, reviews . . . that kind of thing. No major world events, I’m afraid.’ I’m trying to play down my role at the Tribune. This is very unlike me. Sort of disconcerting, but bloody hell, I’m actually starting to like this guy AND I promised myself I wouldn’t cheat on the rules this evening.
The rest of the meal goes well; profiteroles for dessert and a massive cheeseboard. I’m conscious of keeping my side of the conversation to a minimum. I’m reserved – ‘No more wine for me, Helen.’ Charming – ‘Did anyone see that documentary on the creator of Elmo from Sesame Street? It was delightful!’ And a liar – ‘Why, yes, I do enjoy the opera.’ (Must listen to some opera.) Maybe I’m not my usual, funny, giggly self but, amazingly, it seems to be working. At least I hope it is . . . I suppose it’s very possible that Tom just finds me endearing. As in, I’m sure the sheep that ended up as our haggis was endearing too – doesn’t mean he wants to date it.
I help Adam clear away the dishes while Tom and Helen head over to the couch for coffee. The kitchen is a disgrace.
‘Bloody hell, Adam. Did Helen accidently cook a grenade? If Gordon Ramsay was here, he’d be shutting this place down.’
Adam carefully sets down three expensive dinner plates and throws some napkins in the bin, which is already overflowing.
‘Now you decide to pipe up? Honestly, Cat, what the hell was with you tonight? That poor guy was doing everything to get your attention and you didn’t even seem to care.’
‘What?’ I ask, wondering if we were at the same dinner party. ‘He was not! He was just making conversation. Besides, you know I’m following these stupid rules. It’s like playing hard to get for the insane.’
Adam fills the glass cafetière and places it on a gold tray beside some square-cut shortbread. He’s using the expensive coffee and it smells divine. ‘Cat. He’s into you, you know. I’m a guy, I can tell these things.’ And with that he winks at me and carries the tray through to the living room.
Jesus, do all men consider themselves dating experts? I remain in the kitchen and take a moment to collect my thoughts, which are along the lines of, Oh, I hope he’s interested . . . But wait, if he is interested then he’s interested in a haggis-loving mute who lives across the hall from her sister, whose hobbies include nodding and smiling and apparently opera . . . but, but . . . he’s so attractive! I bet he won’t even think we’re compatible. Maybe we aren’t. I mean, I know that when I return home, I’ll be dancing around to the White Stripes in my underwear, while he’s definitely the type to be watching Newsnight fully clothed . . .
Before people begin to wonder where I am, I return to the living room and see that Helen and Adam are sitting together on one couch, leaving me to sit next to Tom on the other. I catch the conversation halfway through – Tom is talking about his ‘good friend Kathryn’ –
‘It was an amicable split. Kathryn and I had been together fifteen years, just time to move on. We’re still very close.’
‘Not like you and Peter, eh, Cat?’ Adam smirks and sticks some shortbread in his big fat mouth.
When you first start dating, don’t mention your past relationships. It might make you seem bitter or, worse, infatuated.
‘Perhaps not at first,’ I reply, trying hard to be diplomatic. If anyone else had been sitting beside me, I’d have been shouting, ‘THAT PRICK? NO CHANCE!’ but tonight I must act like a grown-up. ‘It’s a work in progress. We’ll get there.’ Translated this means, Eventually one of us will die.
Helen has had the same grin plastered to her face since dinner, and I can tell that behind those bright blue eyes she’s still scheming and secretly wondering what style of hat she’ll buy for our wedding. The conversation lags a little and, though it’s painful to drag myself away from the handsome dentist, this is a sign that it’s time for me to go.
‘Well, it’s been a wonderful evening, but I have a pile of work to be getting on with.’ I place my cup on the table and smile at Tom. ‘Really lovely to meet you, Tom.’ I say this because it was lovely to meet him. It would have been even lovelier if he’d taken his shirt off . . . then his trousers . . . but fuck it, this will have to do.
He shakes my outstretched hand. ‘And you, Cat. I should be leaving too actually. I have a patient coming in at eight a.m. for oral surgery.’
