I open the taxi door and clamber inside. ‘Arlington Avenue, please. You still there, Kerry?’
‘Hang on, are you in a taxi? Why are you in a . . .? You’re not still meeting Tom, are you?’
‘Yep.’
‘Are you insane?! But you’re not sure about Tom! You just told Dylan you liked him!!’
‘I do, I guess, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like Tom too. At least he seems genuine. That kiss with Dylan was . . . a momentary lapse in judgement. I was frustrated. You know how I get when I’m frustrated.’
‘Aroused?’
‘No. Emotional. Now I’m just confused.’
‘Maybe you should call Dylan or—’
‘Call him? HE PASSIONATELY KISSES ME AND THEN BOLTS FROM MY FLAT. I DO STILL HAVE A SMALL SHRED OF DIGNITY LEFT!’ I see the driver’s eyes staring at me in the mirror so I lower my voice. ‘I feel so stupid. I want nothing more to do with that man.’
‘OK, understandable, but are you sure seeing Tom is a good idea? I could come over instead?’
‘I didn’t put on my best underwear to spend the evening in with you, Kerry. I’m going to have a nice dinner, with a nice man, who hopefully has enough booze and sexual prowess to make me forget I ever met Dylan fucking Morrison.’
‘OK, Cat,’ she replies, clearly aware that my mind has been made up. ‘Call me if you need me.’
I hang up, check my make-up in my little gold compact and tell myself that everything will be fine. I focus on ignoring the aftershock of Dylan’s kiss, which is still coursing through my body.
Arlington Avenue is about as middle-class suburban as you can get. Thirty white houses all sitting merrily in a row, each one slightly hidden by a large, perfectly pruned hedge. Tom rents number eighteen, which is the last bungalow at the top of the cul-de-sac. Through the rain-splattered window, I spot his BMW and ask the taxi driver to stop. I pay, take a deep breath and dart quickly to his front door.
He greets me wearing jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt that hugs his chest.
‘Come in, Cat. It’s lovely to see you. Weather’s been awful, eh?’ He takes my coat and I see his eyes scanning my little black dress. Half of me wants him to just slam the door shut, throw me on the hall floor and shag Dylan clean out of my system, but the other half is really fucking famished.
He leads me down a short hallway and into his cream-accented living room, which is dimly lit and welcoming. There’s a real flame electric fire mounted on the wall and champagne in an ice bucket on the table with two glasses. At the back of the living room I spot French windows leading out into a conservatory. I knew it! I’m totally having a proper snoop later.
‘Make yourself at home, Cat. I’ve ordered Chinese; it should be here in half an hour. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Please. Your home is beautiful, Tom. Good find.’
‘Yeah, I like it here. I prefer living a bit outside the city these days. Must be my age. Not sure how long I’ll rent, but I’m happy for now.’
He pops the champagne cork without flinching – a skill I’ve always admired in a man – and we toast to a ‘lovely evening’, which of course is code for ‘please let the sex be good’.
Even though this is our fifth date, it still feels like we’re mostly communicating via small talk. By my fifth date with Peter, I knew that he’d been bullied at school, had a moon-shaped birthmark on his hip, took two sugars in his tea and could do a really funny impersonation of Alan Rickman. Conversely, I feel like Tom and I are still floating on the surface – neither of us attempting to dive a bit deeper. I have my obvious reasons for doing this, but either he’s also holding back or that’s just the way he is.
I hear my phone beeping in my bag, but I don’t check it until Tom leaves the room to answer the door to the delivery driver. Even though I’ve just fervently kissed another man in my hallway, I do have a modicum of dating etiquette left. It’s a text from Peter:
Grace had some dry skin on her shins but we’ve dealt with it.
‘We’ve dealt with it.’ I picture him and Emma both dressed in hospital scrubs, smearing Vaseline on to a small patch of dry skin, commending each other on their quick, incisive action.
Excellent news, Peter. Glad you were able to save the leg. Teamwork for the win!
I slip my phone back in my bag and take a huge gulp of champagne. Tom closes the front door and I hear the rustle of carrier bags. ‘I’ll just get the table ready,’ he calls. ‘Won’t be long.’ I have a brief mental image of Dylan letting Grace stir the Bolognese in my kitchen.
What am I doing? Here I am, in a beautiful house, with a super-hot man, drinking champagne and allowing myself to be infuriated by the memory of a fucking mediocre writer who has no idea how to treat women. Fuck him and fuck his book. It’s game over.
I mosey around Tom’s living room while I wait for dinner, spotting a large pile of neatly stacked magazines beside the television. Hoping I haven’t stumbled on his porn collection, I have a peek and wish that were actually the case. Tom appears to have subscriptions to both the Classic Car Club and Golf Monthly, and he hasn’t had the good sense to hide them under his mattress.
‘I see you’ve found my weakness.’
