really, haha …’
‘Um, Caitlin?’
I swing round. It’s Darren, an extremely cute and appealing prospect compared with Guy’s entourage. Cute and appealing, period. Perky smile, fudgy-brown eyes, hint of stubble around the jaw.
‘Hi, Darren.’ I smile, and he kisses my cheek.
‘Sorry I’m late – a few problems at work …’
‘That’s OK. Nice to meet you all,’ I say, managing the fakest of grins as I steer Darren away from the comedians.
‘We can have a drink with your friends if you like,’ he says.
‘They’re not my friends. And no, I don’t like.’
We both laugh, and I glance over my shoulder. Creosote makes a poking motion with his index finger, like someone turning on a TV.
The night can only get better.
And it does, with Darren’s banter offering a delightful contrast to Guy’s entourage.
‘So this woman came in to pick up her video,’ he tells me, ‘blaming me for the fact that it was stuffed with money. As if I’d put it there – two or three hundred quid’s worth of coins, which was why, of course, it was broken—’
‘Travis does that,’ I cut in. ‘He has the posting fetish, this desire to push things into little slots.’ I clamp my mouth shut. Children are supposed to be off the agenda tonight.
‘She says, “I don’t know how that got in there,”’ Darren continues, ‘and I say, “I assume you have kids …” And she goes, “Yes, but little Sweetiebums would never do that …”’
I laugh, trying to blot out the spectre of Guy and Creosote from the periphery of my vision.
‘So,’ Darren says, ‘how come a nice girl like you ended up single?’
‘How did you know I’m single?’ I ask, twirling the stem of my glass. ‘I mean, what made you phone me?’
He smiles. ‘I kind of took a gamble.’
‘Don’t believe you.’ I smirk.
‘OK … I realised I’d seen you before, in that posh deli by the museum …’
He’d noticed me? I always assume I’m invisible when out and about. ‘You were buying lemons,’ Darren continues, ‘and talking about pancakes, and your little girl was saying, “Do I have to go to Daddy’s this weekend?”’
‘Right,’ I say, a little startled.
‘That sounds a bit stalkerish. Sorry.’ He grins ruefully, and his eyes hold mine.
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘And after you’d been in the shop with your old telly, I kept looking at your number and thought, Well, she can only say no.’
I don’t know how to respond. I’m not used to this. It’s not like riding a bike or swimming: you really do forget how to behave in this kind of situation.
‘Well,’ I tell him, ‘I’m glad you did.’
Dear Pike, I muse, as we stroll past Guy’s gang, who are guffawing drunkenly by the cigarette machine, what would you recommend as proper etiquette at the end of a first date?
We’re on our way to dinner now – a cheap Italian. I was too harassed and nervy to eat with the kids before I came out and now I’m ravenous.
Darren’s hand folds around mine as he chats about his East London family and the business his dad passed on to him. He mentions stuff he gets up to at weekends: like clubbing (yikes). Bit of DJing (double yikes). It feels slightly odd, holding hands with someone over the age of seven, but I try to relax and do the breathing thing again, although more subtly this time. Don’t want Darren thinking I’m having a seizure, being old and everything.
Who cares that I was probably in secondary school when he was in nappies? I haven’t asked his age. Haven’t dared to. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It feels like both of us are keen for the evening to go on and on. But what happens at the end? I feel too long in the tooth for snogging down some dark alley, much as I’d like to, as Darren has the most delicious-looking mouth. In fact, I’d be up for kissing him, absolutely. I wouldn’t even worry about Holly detecting a just-snogged look about my lips. Heck, I think my libido’s woken up.
My mobile starts
‘Um, Caitlin?’
I swing round. It’s Darren, an extremely cute and appealing prospect compared with Guy’s entourage. Cute and appealing, period. Perky smile, fudgy-brown eyes, hint of stubble around the jaw.
‘Hi, Darren.’ I smile, and he kisses my cheek.
‘Sorry I’m late – a few problems at work …’
‘That’s OK. Nice to meet you all,’ I say, managing the fakest of grins as I steer Darren away from the comedians.
‘We can have a drink with your friends if you like,’ he says.
‘They’re not my friends. And no, I don’t like.’
We both laugh, and I glance over my shoulder. Creosote makes a poking motion with his index finger, like someone turning on a TV.
The night can only get better.
And it does, with Darren’s banter offering a delightful contrast to Guy’s entourage.
‘So this woman came in to pick up her video,’ he tells me, ‘blaming me for the fact that it was stuffed with money. As if I’d put it there – two or three hundred quid’s worth of coins, which was why, of course, it was broken—’
‘Travis does that,’ I cut in. ‘He has the posting fetish, this desire to push things into little slots.’ I clamp my mouth shut. Children are supposed to be off the agenda tonight.
‘She says, “I don’t know how that got in there,”’ Darren continues, ‘and I say, “I assume you have kids …” And she goes, “Yes, but little Sweetiebums would never do that …”’
I laugh, trying to blot out the spectre of Guy and Creosote from the periphery of my vision.
‘So,’ Darren says, ‘how come a nice girl like you ended up single?’
‘How did you know I’m single?’ I ask, twirling the stem of my glass. ‘I mean, what made you phone me?’
He smiles. ‘I kind of took a gamble.’
‘Don’t believe you.’ I smirk.
‘OK … I realised I’d seen you before, in that posh deli by the museum …’
He’d noticed me? I always assume I’m invisible when out and about. ‘You were buying lemons,’ Darren continues, ‘and talking about pancakes, and your little girl was saying, “Do I have to go to Daddy’s this weekend?”’
‘Right,’ I say, a little startled.
‘That sounds a bit stalkerish. Sorry.’ He grins ruefully, and his eyes hold mine.
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘And after you’d been in the shop with your old telly, I kept looking at your number and thought, Well, she can only say no.’
I don’t know how to respond. I’m not used to this. It’s not like riding a bike or swimming: you really do forget how to behave in this kind of situation.
‘Well,’ I tell him, ‘I’m glad you did.’
Dear Pike, I muse, as we stroll past Guy’s gang, who are guffawing drunkenly by the cigarette machine, what would you recommend as proper etiquette at the end of a first date?
We’re on our way to dinner now – a cheap Italian. I was too harassed and nervy to eat with the kids before I came out and now I’m ravenous.
Darren’s hand folds around mine as he chats about his East London family and the business his dad passed on to him. He mentions stuff he gets up to at weekends: like clubbing (yikes). Bit of DJing (double yikes). It feels slightly odd, holding hands with someone over the age of seven, but I try to relax and do the breathing thing again, although more subtly this time. Don’t want Darren thinking I’m having a seizure, being old and everything.
Who cares that I was probably in secondary school when he was in nappies? I haven’t asked his age. Haven’t dared to. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It feels like both of us are keen for the evening to go on and on. But what happens at the end? I feel too long in the tooth for snogging down some dark alley, much as I’d like to, as Darren has the most delicious-looking mouth. In fact, I’d be up for kissing him, absolutely. I wouldn’t even worry about Holly detecting a just-snogged look about my lips. Heck, I think my libido’s woken up.
My mobile starts
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