This is only kind of true. Fact is, I’ve been living like this since I left home. Helen’s house is for grown-ups; everything is white and wood and it all matches. Mine is a bit chaotic, but fairy lights, mood cubes and colourful walls make me happy. I need colour in my life.
Spaghetti finally submerged, I taste the sauce – it’s warm, and just as delicious as when Dylan first made it. I lower the heat and get the serving bowls down from the cupboard while Tom tells me about the workmen who are currently invading his house.
‘I swear, none of them can whistle, yet they all seem insistent on doing it.’
‘Are they seven tiny men?’ I ask, giggling at my own joke. Tom laughs, but the look on his face tells me he doesn’t quite get it.
The timer goes off and I look down at my spaghetti. I read somewhere that you’re supposed to throw a piece against the wall to check it’s cooked, so I carefully fish out a short strand and fling it against the splashback. It sticks! I am now entirely proficient in the art of pasta cooking and flinging. I want to point at the wall and shout, ‘LOOK AT THAT BAD BOY!’ but even I know that would be weird.
Despite the fact that I’m still struggling to hide my crazy, dinner is perfect. Tom compliments me profusely on my sauce, and because I have no idea what is actually in it, I tell him it’s my great-grandmother’s recipe and I’ve been sworn to secrecy. It’s officially the lamest secret anyone has ever pretended to keep, but he doesn’t question it. For dessert I offer Tom some Häagen-Dazs ice cream, and I’m glad when he refuses because I had planned on eating it by myself at some point later. Instead we have cheese and crackers before taking our coffee through to the living room, where the George Ezra album has finished. Tom sits on the couch and I join him.
Normally I’d be getting nervous around now because, with dinner out of the way, it’d be time for more wine, flirting, and then desperate kissing followed by clumsy sex. But I feel fine – actually, I feel in control. Unbeknownst to Tom, sex isn’t on the cards this evening, so the flirting will be minimal and I know exactly how this is going to end; him in a taxi and me seductively spooning Häagen-Dazs into my mouth. There are no butterflies, no buckling anticipation, just me and a handsome guy, sitting an appropriate distance from each other on a couch. However, I really need to pee.
On the other hand, it seems that Tom is fully in the moment.
‘I find you extremely attractive, Catriona,’ he purrs, moving in closer to me. ‘You’re exactly my kind of woman. I think we really have a connection.’
Oh, please stop being so bloody corny! It’s distracting me from your perfect face.
He strokes my hair. ‘I’m going to kiss you now.’
I close my eyes and feel his lips touch mine. One of his hands is resting lightly on my knee and the other on the side of my face. It’s very sweet, and I can feel his kissing becoming more urgent, but I’m distracted and the only urgency I feel is coming from my bladder. If I don’t pee soon, I’m going to wet myself. I wrench my mouth away from his and open my eyes.
‘Everything OK?’
‘I need the loo. Back in a sec.’
I hastily make my way to the bathroom, praying that I don’t dribble on to the expensive knickers I’ve worn especially for this evening. I lock the door and make it to the toilet without incident, loudly breathing a sigh of relief which echoes over the tiles. The flat is silent. Bollocks, I should have put some more music on. Oh God, the house is too quiet and Tom is going to hear me pee. We’ve only been on three dates – he doesn’t need to hear my bodily functions this early in the game.
I reach across and turn on the taps in the hope that the sound of running water will drown out the sound of me pissing like a gin-drinking racehorse. I hear him call from the living room:
‘What’s taking so long? Are you freshening up?’
Perfect, he thinks I’m in here flannelling my foof, and I’m still peeing. No normal person takes this long to use the toilet . . . unless it’s a number two. ARGH, this is getting worse. I finish, flush, turn off the taps and throw open the bathroom door dramatically. The sight of Tom standing there makes me yelp in surprise.
‘My turn.’
Oh God, he’s totally going to wash his bits now because he thinks I have. He brushes past me and closes the door while I return to the living room, totally ashamed of my unforeseen neurosis. I have turned into a clandestine urinator and I’m not happy.
After a much shorter amount of time, Tom strides confidently back into the living room and sinks back on to the couch beside me. This time he kisses me without announcing it first.
‘Let’s take this to the bedroom, Cat.’ He starts kissing my neck.
Oh God, here we go. Time to pretend I’m not in the mood to find out if his body is as toned as I suspect it is. I could claim I have my period, but the book states I must not mention any kind of bodily function, so instead I tell the truth. Well, kind of.
‘I want to, Tom, I really do, but I have a personal rule: no sex until the fifth date.’
He moves his lips away from my neck. ‘Really? Five?’
‘Yes,’ I insist, ‘but I do like you, Tom.’
‘Five?’ he repeats, seemingly stunned by my revelation.
I place my hand on his. ‘I just need to be sure of someone before I sleep with them. Like, really sure.’
He looks deep into my eyes. ‘I respect that, Cat. You’re not driven by emotion or lust. That’s admirable.’
Well, maybe it would be if I actually felt that way.
