We both take a few minutes to look at the menu before Lorna returns.
‘I’m going to have the sirloin. Medium rare,’ Tom announces. ‘Have you decided, Cat?’
What I really want is a big fuck-off burger with hand-cut chips and onion rings, but The Rules of Engagement states I must ‘maintain my air of refinement’, which is hard to do with relish running down my chin. I order a rump steak, well done, and a side salad, and plan to get chips on my way home.
‘Can we have a bottle of Merlot too? Oh, wait, how rude of me. Do you like Merlot, Cat?’
‘Yes, that’s fine with me.’ I thank Lorna as she takes the menus away and feel a little silly for judging Tom so quickly. For all I know, his ex-wife liked him to take charge over dinner. I wonder if she liked him to take charge in the bedroom too . . . Dylan was pretty confident . . .
‘Cat?’
Tom’s voice jolts me back to reality.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. What did you say?’
He laughs. ‘You were miles away there. I asked if you had a good day?’
If it wasn’t for my strict guidelines, I’d tell him how Grace and I went to Hamleys and had a light-sabre battle which Grace won, but caused the untimely deaths of Peppa Pig and a giant panda who were caught in the crossfire. Then I would share how Grace and I sat on green beanbags in Waterstones and read about Vikings, before she went to see her dad, who was dressed like a nineties boy-band member. But I’m wary of talking overly much and breaking the rules, so instead I reply:
‘I did. Spent it with my daughter – you know, usual stuff. And you?’
Tom tells me all about his day in detail: the gym, catching up on paperwork, looking online for a new sofa . . . because he’s allowed to talk about himself and he does it very well, coming across as an actual person and not a vacant stuffed dummy with no personality or interests.
Dinner is actually rather pleasant, as is the conversation. Tom grew up in Sussex, he met his ex-wife Kathryn at university and they married at twenty-two. No kids, no pets and one older brother, Stephen, who lives in Germany. I tell him about my life in minimal detail – he already knows I have a daughter, a cat and a meddlesome sister who lives across the hall. He thinks this is intriguing.
‘How did that happen?’ he asks. ‘I mean, I get on with my brother, but I don’t think I’d like him living so close.’
‘The previous tenant went into a nursing home,’ I respond dutifully. ‘Helen found out before it went on the rental market and it seemed like a good idea at the time . . . I mean, she can be intrusive at times, but she’s a huge help with Grace.’
Despite my tedious demeanour, he doesn’t appear to be bored in the slightest, even declaring over the wine that, ‘It’s so nice to meet someone who doesn’t feel the need to talk just for the sake of it.’ Bah, it’s starting to feel like Guy Wright might be on to something here.
As our empty coffee cups are taken away, Tom asks Lorna for the bill, which she promptly brings over. I reach into my bag and pull out my purse, plus an old tissue, which I quickly stuff back inside. Tom sees this and motions me to stop.
‘Put that away.’
‘The tissue?’
‘No, silly, your purse. I’ll get this.’
Ugh, here we go. I’m not supposed to let him pay on the first date.
‘No, let’s go halves. Please? I’d feel better if we did.’
No, I fucking wouldn’t. I’d rather spend my fifty pounds on something new and sparkly, but that’s not allowed.
‘Well, on one condition,’ he replies. ‘You let me pay next time.’
THIRD-DATE ALERT. I hadn’t even considered this. I was too busy trying to both follow the rules AND not think about Dylan. But Tom is a lovely man – he’s kind and gentle and handsome as hell. PLUS dating Tom can help me rectify last night’s unfortunate ‘situation’. Dylan was just a mistake. A well-endowed, charming, infuriating mistake.
‘That would be great!’ I reply warmly. ‘It’s a deal.’ I know that I’m grinning stupidly, but I can’t help it. I’m now one step closer to being felt up by a dentist.
Tom and I both hand over our cards to Lorna who splits the total between the two and hands us our receipts. Tom leaves her a ten-pound tip and she’s so grateful she thanks him twice. I retrieve my coat on the way out, which Tom helps me slip into, and seconds later we’re outside on Bothwell Street, awkwardly wondering what to do next. I decide to call it a night before I recommend we both get pissed and blow my cover.
‘Give me a call during the week,’ I say casually. ‘We can arrange something then.’
‘You don’t want to grab a nightcap somewhere?’ He looks surprised that I’m leaving so soon. I’m more surprised that he’s used the word nightcap after 1970, but still, it seems my ‘whatever’ attitude is working.
‘No, sorry. I have to get Grace early,’ I lie. ‘But maybe next time?’ I spy a taxi approaching with its light on and raise my hand. ‘Do you want to share a cab?’
