‘You’re not French, and you’re not taking this seriously, are you?’
‘Non.’
‘Fuck this. Fine, I’ll tell you exactly what to do.’
He draws up a cunning third-date plan for me. Third-date lunch should be more casual than second-date dinner, but under no circumstances should I act like I would with my friends. I must not morph from being polite and reserved to the annoying woman who takes selfies with her starter and swears profusely, like I apparently do. I can offer to pay on this one to show I’m not a gold-digger, but he should decline to let me – if he doesn’t it means he thinks he doesn’t have to impress me any longer, in which case he should be dumped immediately. Under no circumstances should I be my sarcastic, sceptical self.
‘Got all that, Cat?’
‘I don’t take selfies with my starter,’ I mutter. ‘Main course, maybe. And yes, I’ve got all that.’ I stand up and sigh. ‘This just seems like a lot of hard work on my part.’
He looks puzzled. ‘Who the hell said you wouldn’t have to put in any work? I mean, I’m assuming this guy is worth it?’
‘Of course he’s worth it,’ I snap. ‘He’s extremely handsome and successful and he likes me, so he’s obviously very, very smart. Now, unless there’s anything else, I must be going.’ I pick up my handbag and rise from the couch.
‘Now? You don’t have to rush off.’
‘I’ve been here for an hour and it’s past my bedtime. Can I take this book as a spare?’
‘Sure. Did I mention that top looks great on you?’
‘I know, but I didn’t wear it for you. I wore it for Tom earlier.’
‘Then it’s no wonder he asked you out again. Damn.’
‘Stop trying to flirt, and STOP staring at my tits.’
Dylan’s eyes move north and he escorts me to the door. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. Pleasure as always, Cat. Let me know how it goes and we can discuss the next course of action. Oh, and one more thing . . .’
I turn back and he moves in closer to me, making me step back against the door. The faint smell of his aftershave makes my tummy flip. Leaning in, he whispers, ‘Play nice in your column this week.’
He doesn’t move his mouth away from my ear straight away, instead choosing to linger there, his body touching mine, and in that moment I feel, pressed into my hip, exactly what he’s thinking about. This entire power-game scenario he’s created is turning him on, but I intend to leave Dylan and his erection alone in the hall. He doesn’t get to fuck me twice, regardless of how good he smells. I sidestep left and grab the door handle.
He looks a little surprised that I’m not tearing his clothes off and mounting him in the hallway, but doesn’t try to stand in my way.
‘Control yourself. I’m into Tom. That’s what all this about. Remember?’
He laughs. ‘Sure you are . . . That’s why you’ve hardly mentioned him all night, right? Have a nice evening, Cat.’
ARGH! He’s so fucking arrogant! As he’s closing the door, I yell from the stairwell ‘NICE SHOWER CAP!’ The text from him two minutes later reads: ‘Fucking snoop.’
*
Tom texts to tell me he’s taking me for lunch at the Waverly Tearooms, which suits me as it’s close to home, and if I do end up paying, it won’t cost me a bloody fortune. I’m excited as I stroll down Shawlands Cross towards the restaurant. The sun is shining, the natives are friendly and I have on my new purple wedge shoes, shoes that I’m so in love with I would one day like to knock them up and marry them. As I prance round the corner I see Tom waiting outside and I’m tempted to run at him in the hope he’ll be equally excited, lift me in his hands and spin me around, but I reconsider. Wedges really aren’t made for grand running gestures anyway. However, his face lights up when he sees me and that’s good enough.
‘Wow, you look great. Very pretty.’
I graciously thank him. He also looks very nice in his grey shirt – which he does – but he’s nowhere near as fancy as me. I win.
‘Cat, I’m really sorry about last week. I had to visit my dad. He had emergency heart surgery.’
I can gauge from his expression that shouting, ‘YES! I FUCKING KNEW IT WAS SOMETHING SERIOUS!’ wouldn’t be the smartest move I’ve ever made, so instead I frown and say ‘I hope he’s doing OK’, which of course I do; I’m just also happy to know it had nothing to do with me being a rules-following borebag.
‘Thanks,’ he replies. ‘He’ll be fine. My ex, Kathryn, was a big help – she still has a lot of time for my family.’
Kathryn? Oh, that’s just perfect.
He pulls out my chair and we sit outside for lunch. I peer at the menu while he continues to describe what a fucking superstar his ex-wife is and how she’s a selfless angel – an angel who appears to be ruining my third date from several hundred miles away. I need to distract him.
