‘I’m starving!’ I blurt out. ‘Shall we order?’
‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘Sorry if I’m going on and on. It’s just been a hellish week.’
Oh God, I’ve turned into one of those high-maintenance women who doesn’t give a fuck about anything except her lunch. I need to redeem myself and quickly. I place my hand on his. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘I’m happy to listen, I’m just aware you have to get back to work soon.’
He’s looking at my hand on his and he’s smiling. I might have saved this one, but I still have the rest of the date to get through.
I refrain from asking inappropriate questions while I tuck into my club sandwich, despite the fact I really want to know if he’s ever screwed on his dentist chair, if he still harbours feeling for his ex-wife and how much perfect veneers like his would cost? Instead we chat about the weather, life in London, life here, and generally avoid anything salacious that might go against Dylan’s bloody rules of engagement. This means I also avoid mentioning marriage, the future, unborn children, bumholes, bridesmaids, Pot Noodles or areolas. For my own sake I take care to skirt around questions regarding my job, making sure he’s unlikely to ever read the magazine, and pretend that Peter and I are jolly old friends who share a deep understanding and respect for each other.
Throughout lunch I’m like a perfectly trained conversation maestro and it’s working; he even touches my hand again when he excuses himself to go to the toilet.
I watch him walk away and I reckon I have three minutes tops to text Kerry and let her know that he made actual physical contact with my hand skin of his own free will.
On date with Tom. We touched hands. I feel about 15. Like Molly R in Pretty in Pink but without the shitty home-made prom dress that everyone hated.
By the time I’ve typed this, I can see him coming back and I panic, quickly pressing Send, then throwing my phone into my bag like it’s covered in spiders. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.
‘Sorry, Cat, I need to get back to the surgery,’ he apologizes, ‘but it’s been really great. Again.’
I take out my purse and offer to pay, but as Dylan predicted, he refuses. ‘I said last time that this was on me, and it’s only some sandwiches and coffee. Please, let me.’
This time I don’t protest. Part of me wants to tell Dylan right away that it all went to plan, but I think I’ll let him dwell on it for a few more hours.
I walk Tom to his car, refusing a lift on the grounds that I live within walking distance, and also that I really need to fart. I omit this second bit for Tom, but it doesn’t make it any less true.
‘I’d love to keep seeing you, Cat. Shall we do this again?’
My stomach high-fives my heart and I immediately agree. He then takes my hands and continues, ‘I think you’re very special, Cat. Dignified. But I want to know more. Who is Cat? Who is this woman I see before me?’
My stomach reconsiders and this time boots my gag reflex in the balls. He didn’t just say that, did he? Please tell me he didn’t just cheese the fuck out of me. Where did this crap come from? My ears are offended.
With my hands still in his, I look down at my feet, afraid I’ll laugh in his face. Maybe he’s just nervous, and if this type of misguided sentiment is his only fault, I’m sure I can nip it in the bud later when –
‘Rule 8 – Accept us for who we are.’
Oh, shut the fuck up, Dylan.
‘I’m looking forward to getting to know you too, Tom,’ I reply in the most diplomatic way I know how. ‘Let me see when I can get a sitter next.’
He leans in and kisses me. It’s pretty good. It’s the type of kiss that you know won’t cause explosions or even erections, but his lips are soft and he doesn’t try and tongue my face into oblivion.
‘Until next time then, cutie.’
He gets into his BMW and starts the engine. I fart and curse him at the same time. All while smiling and waving him off like a navy wife on shore. As soon as he’s out of sight, I call Kerry at her office.
‘Hey, Ringwald, how did it go?’
‘Cutie. He called me fucking cutie.’
I hear Kerry laughing and it starts me off too. ‘He called me cutie and asked me, “Who is Cat?” Honestly, I wanted to scream.’
‘Wait, what? That’s hilarious. Is he still alive?’
‘Yes, I pardoned him. But he’ll need to knock that shit off. How can I allow myself to commit to someone who talks like that?’
‘Fuck, I could advise you better if I knew what he looked like. He might not be handsome at all; you might be wrong.’
‘Google Southbank Dental. Tom Ward. His photo is on their website.’
