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‘I’m just going to look under the bar stool,’ I said, when we’d ordered.
‘But your knees!’
‘Stoppit.’
We both ended up crawling about under the stools. A pair of very young girls, who were sitting where we had been, were very snotty about it. Suddenly felt myself dying with embarrassment at being on a date with a toy boy and forcing him to look under young girls’ legs for my reading glasses.
‘There aren’t any glasses, OK?’ said one of the girls, staring at me rudely. Roxster rolled his eyes then dived under her knees again, saying, ‘Just while I’m down here . . .’ and began groping around on the floor. The girls were unamused. Roxster reared up triumphantly, brandishing the glasses.
‘Found them,’ he said and put them on my nose. ‘There you are, darling.’
He kissed me pointedly on the lips, gave the girls a look, and led me back to the table while I tried to recover my composure, hoping he couldn’t taste the sick.
Conversation seemed to flow quite effortlessly. His real name is Roxby McDuff and he does work for the eco-charity, met Talitha on the show, and jumped across from Talitha’s Twitter to my Twitter. ‘So you just, like, follow cougars?’
‘I don’t like that expression,’ he said.
‘It implies the hunter, rather than . . . the hunted.’
My discombobulation must have been obvious, because he added softly, ‘I like older women. They know what they’re doing a bit more. Have a bit more to say for themselves. How about you? What are you doing out with a younger man off Twitter?’
‘I’m just trying to widen my circle,’ I said airily.
Roxster looked straight at me, without blinking. ‘I can certainly help you with that.’
JOY MIXED WITH SICK
Tuesday 22 January 2013 (continued)
When it was time to go, we stood awkwardly in the street.
‘How are you going to get back?’ he said, which instantly made me feel a bit sad, because obviously he wasn’t planning to come back with me, even though obviously I wouldn’t have asked him to. Obviously.
‘Taxi?’ I said. He looked surprised. Realized I only ever come out into Soho with Talitha, Tom and Jude and we always share a taxi but that that must seem helplessly extravagant to a young person. There were, however, no taxis to be found.
‘Do you want me to summon a helicopter, or should we get the tube? Do you know how to get the tube?’
‘Of course I do!’ I said. But to be honest, it was all unfamiliar, being in the crowds of Soho late at night without the friends. It was quite exciting, though, as Roxster took my arm and led me to Tottenham Court Road tube.
‘I’ll see you down,’ he said. When we got to the barriers I realized I didn’t have my Oyster card. I tried to pay at the machines, but it was all impossible.
‘Come here,’ he said, taking out a spare card, swiping me through the barriers and leading me to the right platform. The train was approaching.
‘Quick, give me your mobile number,’ he said. ‘I now haven’t murdered you.’
I gave it to him really quickly and he typed it in. The doors were opening, people were pouring out.
Then quite suddenly, as if from nowhere, Roxster kissed me on the lips. ‘Mmm, sick,’ he said.
‘Oh, no! But I brushed my teeth.’
‘You brought a toothbrush? Are you always sick on your dates?’
Then seeing my horrified expression he laughed and said, ‘You don’t taste of sick.’ People were crushing themselves into the train. He kissed me again, gently, looking at me with his merry hazel eyes, then again this time with the mouth a little open, then delicately finding my tongue with his. This was MUCH better than stupid Leatherjacketman with his sex-crazed—
‘Quick, the doors are closing!’ He pushed me towards the train and I squeezed in. The doors closed and I watched him as the train pulled out, just standing there, smiling to himself: gorgeous, gorgeous toy boy.
Came up from the tube into Chalk Farm, euphoric and completely over-aroused. There was a ping on text. It was from Roxster.
