‘It’s too needy. You need to make him wonder where you are, what you’re up to. If you’re sending him smiley faces and pestering him, he’ll know you have nothing else going on in your life but him.’
‘See? That’s your problem! You tar all women with the same brush in this book. “Rule 8 – Accept us for who we are.” I mean, really?’
He opens another beer. ‘This stuff happens all the time though, Cat. You’d be surprised. You’re not happy with our job or our haircut, or our choice of footwear or the fact that we actually like wanking as much as we like shagging. Women aren’t perfect either, but men accept this much more easily. In fact, we expect it. A sure-fire way to put a man off is to tell him he isn’t good enough the way he is.’
He says this with such conviction that I become suspicious. Has this man been fucked over by someone who hated his haircut? He’s obviously been told off for wanking too much at some point. He can see me considering all of these things.
‘Let’s get to work,’ he deflects. ‘We’re getting nowhere and you’re on a time limit. So, when are you seeing Tom again?’
‘How did you know he got in touch?’ I ask. He raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. Fine – we’re having lunch on Thursday. And I know how to act – don’t speak too much, don’t skip the food and only order dessert, don’t suddenly announce I’d prefer a summer wedding – all that stuff.’
He turns around on the couch to face me properly. ‘Uh, it doesn’t say anything in the book about only ordering dessert.’ He starts to laugh. ‘I’d find that quite endearing actually. Even on a second date.’
I down some beer. ‘Well, if you count the initial blind-date set-up at my sister’s house, this’ll be number three . . . ooh, third-date rule!’
He takes the beer out of my hand. ‘Number one – calm down. And number two – that’s my beer.’
God, he’s a dick.
‘And, number three, there is no third-date rule,’ he continues. ‘It’s more like a fifth-date rule. A kiss on the third date is fine, but no groping, finger banging, oral or nakedness whatsoever, and especially not during lunch. Make him wait. If he already cares about you, when you eventually have sex he’ll be far more likely to see you again.’
‘You sound like my mum,’ I joke.
‘Well, your mum’s obviously very wise.’
‘She was,’ I reply.
Cue the awkward silence. I wish I hadn’t said that. He didn’t need to know that.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He looks sombre. ‘Can I ask what happened?’
‘Car accident, ten years ago. I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘No, of course.’ I can tell he doesn’t want to argue with me any more. Surely he isn’t developing a conscience? That’s no fun. I get up to use the loo. ‘I’ll be back in a second, and then we can return to this.’
His blue and grey bathroom is tastefully minimalist but somehow cosy. However, his toilet seat is freezing and I finish peeing in record time, then take a quick peek in the mirrored medicine cabinet while I’m washing my hands. Nothing out of the ordinary; some condoms (unsurprising), painkillers, a shower cap with bananas on it (twat) and a roll of plasters. He doesn’t have a bath, but instead has a wet room which looks like it cost a fortune and I imagine has seen a lot of soapy sex action over the years.
When I return to the living room, he’s stretched flat out on the couch, playing with his phone. When he sees me, he sits up and chucks it on the table.
‘Get a good snoop then?’ he asks.
‘I have no interest in snooping,’ I lie. ‘Shall we get back to this? I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.’
‘Take a seat and stop pretending this is so awful.’ He swivels his legs round. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, the next date. As I said, this time things can be more relaxed, but there are still subjects you should avoid completely.’
‘Such as?’
‘Marriage . . . kids . . . Well, you can talk a bit about your own, but don’t bore him.’
I tut. My kid is fucking fascinating.
‘Then there’s the future. Don’t talk about the future. It’ll make him think you’re already choosing a wedding dress and planning ahead.’
‘No future talk – got it. What about Back to the Future? Is that OK?’
He smiles. ‘Only the first one – the sequels weren’t great. Oh, and don’t mention diets or a dream you had or bodily functions—’
I laugh. ‘Bodily functions? You mean, like farting or poo or wee-wee? But what if I’m French?’
