It’s only later, as I’m working out what to wear for our “date,” that I remember it’s a Sunday. Tomorrow is a “school day.” Every day’s a school day for George. I think he’s in that gym seven days a week.
I spend the rest of the day in town, doing the food shop and feeling righteous that I worked out while in the midst of acrashing hangover. I’ll pay for that later, I’m sure. I respond to Joan and find out that she did indeed spend the night with Geoff. My heart does a little leap for her. She’s still there in the afternoon when she replies to me. They’re going out for tapas in the evening.
I thought we didn’t sleep with people on the first date. Anymore,I tease her.
You might notwas her simple response, which made me laugh out loud in the supermarket.
I look at the time and realize Davey will definitely be awake now and well into his day. He’s six hours behind. I look at the weather app to see what temperature it is there. It’s thirty-five degrees here. Thirty-five—that’s ridiculous. It’s sixty-two degrees in Austin. I’m instantly picturing this man I don’t know in sunglasses. If only his WhatsApp profile picture wasn’t the standard gray icon. What kind of person doesn’t update that? I think I will ask him for a photo.
I’m in the bread aisle, trying to be holier than I was this morning, and am looking at the whole-grain options and at loaves covered in seeds. But I pause and finally respond to Davey.
Hello, long-distance friend,I type, choosing the word “friend” very carefully.
He’s not online, and it’s only when I make it into the wine aisle that my phone dings and I see he’s replied.
Hey, yourself,he writes, and I watch as he types.Good weekend?
Very,I reply.Dinner and a LOT of drinks with friends, which is why I didn’t reply yesterday. Sorry. Gym today. And…I pause before finishing my sentence, but I’ve got nothing to hide by telling him, so I carry on typing,I’m going on a date tonight, which is a bit unexpected actually.
Why unexpected?
I didn’t realize he liked me. How’s your weekend?I ask.
Good. Admin mainly. Prepping to leave for the UK.
His response makes me smile, thinking of him working out travel plans.What date do you arrive?I ask.
January 10.
When you’re settled, shall we meet?I dare, and hope the platonic nature of my message is obvious.
That’s a given,he says and then puts a smiley face, which does what it was intended to do and makes me smile.At some point, if you don’t mind, I’d love to ask you about the best areas in London to stay, and where to rent and that kinda thing. I don’t know anyone else there to ask. That OK?
Of course,I type.
Great. I’ve got lots of things to get through, but can I call you later?he continues.
I stop as I approach the wine I usually buy. I stare at the phone. An actual phone call? No. Who does that? Text only, surely. Isn’t that how we all communicate now? I can’t actuallysayno to him, though, can I?
Sure,I type while I think. I reckon I’ll finish with George after about three hours. Even sooner, if it goes badly.11P.M.my time?I suggest. Then I add,Which in your time is—
But he replies before I can hit send.5P.M.my time. Sounds good.
OK. It’s a date,I reply.
—
George and I are sitting incredibly close to each other at the bar. He’s not in gym gear—of course he’s not. I don’t know why I expected him to be in gym gear: a bit like that time I dated a British Airways pilot and he actually turned up in his first officer’s uniform. He said it was because he’d just flown in, but I had serious doubts. And yes, he was the one I slept with on the first date. It was inevitable.
I’m wearing a pink leopard-print dress and ballet flats, with my hair scooped up into a messy bun. I thought lipstick might be a bit too much, so I’ve opted not to overdo it on the makeup. I’m still not entirely sure why I’m doing this. I’m not sure this is goingto go anywhere. But then you need to take a chance every now and again, don’t you? So I’m here, feeling quite flattered actually. George is in suit trousers and an open-necked shirt and he does look good, I’ll give him that. Heads have turned to stare at him. Even the men.
“You know all the guys here are looking at you,” George surprises me by saying.
I spin my head around to check, as I was sure they were staring at him, and my neck clicks audibly.
“You need a neck massage,” he laughs. “I’ll do it later for you, if you like?”
“Are you a masseur as well as a personal trainer?” I ask.
