“Sports massage, yeah.” He nods and orders us a round of cocktails.
“Man of many talents.”
He orders the same drink for both of us. He didn’t ask what I wanted, and in a way I like his assertive confidence. But I didn’t actually want a Negroni. I really wanted a piña colada. I know that’s terribly unsophisticated, but I want to go on holiday and everyone knows coconut cocktails ooze holiday vibes.
We get talking about vacations, and I suggest Thailand as my next point of call. We sit together looking at prices to Thailand on his phone. Actually, this Negroni isn’t bad. He sounds quite up for a holiday and I think to myself: If George and I just stay friends, instead of doing something silly and sleeping with each other…we could actually go away together. We’ve known each other awhile and he’s nice, easy to get on with. All my uni friends have either already booked their summer jaunts with their husbands and boyfriends or are saving to buy their own flats and can’t afford a holiday. But is it a strange thing to suggest? It probably is, but I like the idea. I ask George how he feels about a holiday together, as friends—in case there is any doubt—and he nods along.
“Yeah…why not? I’m self-employed and can take some time away for a proper break.”
“Great,” I say with genuine enthusiasm. Although I’ve known George for a few months, I feel like I’ve properly made two new male friends this week, and it’s all platonic and easy. Who says sex gets in the way of friendship between men and women?
We agree we might just do this trip. It’s not as reckless as it sounds. I went backpacking with a colleague I’d only known a fortnight, when we were sent to a work conference together and decided to cram in a quick trip the week before it. George and I plan to get away in February. George is actually incredibly easygoing in the gym, and right now on this date/non-date, so I hope he’ll be easygoing on a long-haul break too. He’s courteous and, hurrah, actually asks me questions about myself. Believe me, I’ve dated enough men who don’t. But this isn’t a date really. At least I don’t think it is. It’s a friend-date. We have genuine conversations about life and food. We order more cocktails and then some picky bits from behind the bar. He orders us some handmade Scotch eggs and black-pudding bites as well as some triple-cooked chips, throwing out the idea that he might be vegan.
“Are you going to have to self-flagellate later about all of this?” I say, gesturing to the snacks.
“Yeah,” he grins. “Why do you think I’m in the gym all day long?” The question is rhetorical, but he leans in a bit closer and continues: “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I used to be fat. Like…really fat.”
I stare at this incredibly good-looking man, who I am determined will remain only a friend, and immediately don’t believe him. I’ve seen the tight shirts he wears in the gym. “Really?”
“Truly. I love food. Food doesn’t love me.”
“Interesting,” I say, popping a black-pudding bite into my mouth.
He grins and puts one in his own mouth. I decide I really like George. This could be the start of a wonderful friendship.
—
At 11P.M.I’m walking home from the bus stop. George didn’t offer to walk me home after we said goodbye. And I take this as quite a positive sign. Often men only walk me home so they get invited in and, unless they’re British Airways pilots in full kit, that won’t be happening. Anymore. Assuming that George didn’t want to be invited in makes me quite happy—more invested in our friendship. We kissed on the cheek as we said goodbye, and that was enough. I’m glowing, despite the cold, because I had a great evening. I pull my coat around me, tightening my scarf, and look inside sitting-room windows where curtains have been left open. It means I see various Christmas trees with their fairy lights still glowing brightly, although some are already switched off for the night. I breathe deeply, the cold air entering my lungs. This time of year is glorious.
My phone rings and it’s a WhatsApp call from Davey. I still haven’t saved his number in my phone. It felt premature, but now I realize I should, probably. This is so weird, but good weird.
“Hi,” I say and watch the warm air smoke and swirl from my breath as I walk through the night.
“Hi,” he replies. “Still OK to talk?”
His voice is warm and comforting. “Definitely. I’m just walking home from my date.”
“Are you still with him—do you want to talk some other time?”
“No, now’s good. I’m alone.”
He’s silent and then, “How was it?”
“It was fun, actually. I’ve known him a little while. He’s a personal trainer. We had cocktails and planned to go on holiday together.” Now I say it out loud, it sounds like the most bonkers thing ever. I clarify, “I mean, it was a friend-date more thananything. It’s not going to turn into anything, and we both fancy a trip to Thailand. It’s a bit random really, now that I think about it,” I say, laughing.
Davey laughs along with me. “It is, yeah. But it’s good to make plans.”
“It is,” I agree. “So how are you getting on with your life-admin and sorting out moving here?” I fumble in my bag for my keys. I’m approaching my flat. The lights are on in Joan’s house next door, and I remember I need to catch up with her on how her date went. I want all the sordid details. I’m going to have to live vicariously, through her, for a while.
“Good. Getting the ball rolling on leaving. Flight booked.”
“That can’t be it?” I say.
“Well, no. But I have a British passport.”
“Really? How?”
“My family left England when I was five months old. I’ve never known anything but Texas, but my family’s from Cornwall. So it’s easier for me to move.”
