‘Didn’t think so . . . Anyhow, must dash!’
‘Yes, you must be struggling out here in the daylight, Anne Rice!’ he retorts, looking pleased with himself.
‘You do know she just writes about vampires. She isn’t actually one herself.’
He doesn’t answer, just carries on pulling weeds, but I can tell he’ll be kicking himself when I leave.
‘Always a pleasure, Peter. Anyway, I have a date to get ready for. Text me when you’re bringing Grace back tomorrow.’
*
I get to the restaurant at eight on the dot, wearing my white dress because Kerry isn’t the boss of me; Grace is.
The overly animated hostess greets me and takes my coat, telling me that ‘the other party’ hasn’t arrived yet and ‘Would I like to have a drink at the bar while I wait?’
‘Hell, yes,’ I tell her, quite seriously, and grab the cocktail menu with both hands while she points me in the direction of the booze. I’m still a tad thrown after last night’s escapades. I know it’s unlikely that I’ll ever see Dylan again, but it doesn’t stop me thinking about him naked . . . Jesus, I’m about to have a date with wholesome, handsome Tom and I’ve brought along the sarcastic naked man with an enormous penis who now lives in my head. I need that drink.
I scan the cocktail menu, impressed with just how many ways there are for a person to get completely fucking legless. I’m pretty sure getting pissed before your date arrives is frowned upon by Guy Wright, but given the circumstances, I really couldn’t give two hoots what the book says about that. The ‘Porn-Star Martini’ looks good, but no way am I asking for that – I’m not on a fucking hen night.
‘Pear and Apple Martini, please.’
The barman nods and begins the laborious task of carefully mixing something that will be thrown in one go down my throat, hardly touching the sides.
I lift my fancy glass and sink into a soft leather couch, watching the door for Tom’s arrival like a nervous Labrador. Thankfully I’m not the only person waiting alone so I don’t feel the need to whip out my phone and pretend to text someone just yet. I take a long drink of my martini and begin to calm down and remember why I’m here. The rules of engagement are back on. I got side-tracked but this is my opportunity to redeem myself. All I have to do is pretend last night never happened, remember my rules and play it cool.
Ten minutes later the door opens and Tom walks in. He gives his name to the hostess and then waves over, smiling. A group of women standing at the bar are unashamedly staring at him as I saunter over to greet him with a walk that says ‘WINNER’.
‘Sorry, am I late?’ he asks, kissing my cheek. He smells of Armani.
‘Not at all,’ I reply, even though he is. ‘Great to see you.’
Perfect start. Not too eager and just friendly enough. Bonus points for not straddling him.
The hostess leads us into the main restaurant, where a nervous young waitress named Lorna seats us beside the window. Outside there’s a drunken man in a black suit, trying to light his cigarette at the wrong end.
‘Our special tonight is pan-fried sea bass,’ recites Lorna, handing us two large white menus. ‘Can I bring you some drinks?’
I’m about to ask for a gin and tonic when Tom cuts in –
‘We’ll decide what we’re eating before we choose wine. Just some water for the table at the moment.’
Lorna nods and goes to fetch some while I debate whether grabbing Tom by his shirt collar and yelling, ‘LET’S NOT DO THAT EVER AGAIN, SHALL WE?’ into his face is appropriate first-date etiquette. I’m sure such a thing would be frowned upon by Guy Wright – but seriously? Is this the 1950s? I decide to bite my tongue.
Tom smiles at me, like a man who likes to decide things on behalf of women.
‘You look very nice, Cat.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply courteously. ‘You too.’ It’s true.
‘Your dress is pretty. Very simple.’
Simple? This cost £99 in Monsoon. It’s a fucking work of art. I just smile, but he realizes what he’s implied.
‘Sorry, I meant classy – not simple. I’m just nervous; I think I’ve forgotten how to do this. Forgive me?’
Unbutton your shirt and I’ll think about it.
‘Of course, don’t worry!’ I reassure him. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’
