‘So, was that your friend’s little boy at the ice rink?’ she asks, diving into the breadbasket. ‘He was cute.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, that was Alfie, Sarah’s kid. He’s great.’
She smiles. ‘Do you have any kids?’
I dip my bread into some herby-looking oil. ‘Not that I know of! You?’
‘Me! God no,’ she replies, wide-eyed, like I’ve just asked her if she supports Trump. ‘Heaven forbid. I mean, I like them. . . I teach them. . . my sister has them. . . but I have no intention of making them. I think I’m too selfish, you know.’
‘Right. . . yeah, it’s not for every. . .’ My words trail off as I watch her lift her knife and check her teeth for food. That’s a new one.
‘Life’s just complicated enough, you know what I mean,’ she continues, holding her knife at a better angle to see her incisors. ‘I still have so much I want to do.’
Maybe my first date etiquette is a little rusty but I’m almost certain this is a conversation better placed for date three or four. . . Christ, after we have eaten, at least. She sees the look of uncertainty on my face.
‘God, here I go again,’ she says, wincing. ‘My friend Clodagh advised me to reel it in a little on dates. She’s all, “Jules, I love you, but you need to lighten the fuck up! It’s not a fact-finding expedition, it’s just dinner”,and here I am asking about kids right off the bat.’
I laugh. ‘Sometimes it’s good to lay your cards on the table. I mean, some things are just deal-breakers, right?’
She smiles. ‘Like what? What’s a big no-no for you?’
As the waiter places our food on the table, I consider my reply. Do I have any deal-breakers? There must be something. . .
‘I dunno. . . the usual: racism, bigotry, not having a starter. . .’
She laughs. ‘Dammit.’
‘I’m willing to forgive a lot for the right person. Well, except the racism part, obviously.’
She stabs her fork into her gnocchi. ‘You seem far easier going than I am. This is probably why I’m single.’
I smirk. ‘Is this your way of telling me how high-maintenance you are? OK – go on. What’s non-negotiable for you?’
By the end of our first and only course, I learn thatnot onlydoes Juliette not want kids, she also doesn’t want: marriage, Brexit, a traditional funeral, a shared bathroom, a postman who delivers her mail after 9 am or black pepper on her gnocchi. I think she also mentioned something about dry fasting, but the crunching sounds from my breadstick inadvertently drowned her out.
‘I admire your honesty,’ I tell her. ‘I have to admit, if I’m being serious, the marriage and kids part – I think that’s my deal-breaker. . .’
Until recently I hadn’t really given it a huge amount of thought; I think I just assumed it would happen further down the line. But now my friends all seem to be settling down: Greta is getting married, Harriet is pregnant, and seeing Matt with Sarah and Alfie at the ice rink, it’s hard not to want that for myself. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.
She nods. ‘See. Better to get it out of the way. Now we can just have sex and not worry about where this is going.’
I cough into my beer and she laughs.
‘I’m kidding. Just trying to lighten the mood.’
‘Shame,’ I reply. ‘Mutual promiscuity is definitely not a deal breaker for me.’
Briefly, as she smiles at me, I wonder if maybe marriage and kids isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be.
‘Dessert?’
‘I thought you weren’t that hungry,’ I respond, our eyes now firmly fixed on each other.
‘I’m not. . .’
I signal to the waiter for the bill.
After a mini pub crawl featuring three of the many bars between the tube station and home, I do my best to sneak Juliette into the flat as quietly as possible. This isn’t the time for small talk; I don’t want to risk Matt thinking one of his terrible dad jokes will make this more fun for everyone. The first night I brought Angela home, he threw open the living room door, yelling ‘WHAT TIME DO YOU CALL THIS?’ and almost gave her a heart attack.
