Do You Want to Know a Secret? (18 page)

‘Furthermore,’ she goes on, ‘can I just point out that you were absolutely delighted with Eager Eddie, up until a billionaire swanned into your office and threw a Snickers bar at you.’

‘It wasn’t a Snickers bar, as a matter of fact, it was a . . .’

‘Vicky, we’ve discussed this, and as your project manager I’m telling you the guy is bad news. The Daniel Bests of this world just always are. Trust me.’

I should explain. Needless to say, I told Barbara everything that happened yesterday and her thoughts on the subject of Daniel can be summarized thus.

And deep down, she’s right, I know she is.

His movie night just sounds like a million miles more fun than a coupley dinner with Eager Eddie, that’s all.

‘Right then, are you ready for your list of instructions for tonight?’ she says, as we both grab our coats and get ready to go, me in absolutely no rush whatsoever.

‘Fire away.’

‘First of all, don’t forget to ask loads of questions. Like
you’re
interviewing him. Think of yourself as Larry King. Guys love that.’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘You know, like where do you see yourself in five years’ time? That’s always a good ice breaker.’

‘And if his answer is “in prison” then am I allowed go home?’

‘Listen to you, Vicky. If you expect the worst, then that’s what the universe will deliver.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, smirking a bit at the way Barbara now freely refers to ‘the universe’.

A few short weeks ago, she’d rather have choked.

‘Oh yeah,’ she says as I slam the hall door shut and we walk to my car, ‘and don’t forget to fake interest in all his answers even if you’re bored. But whatever you do, don’t come on too strong and turn it into an interrogation, guys hate that. Remember, keep it light, act like you’re a Manhattan minx, not an NYPD homicide cop. Oh, and if you are bored, just make a mental list of all his pros and cons.’

‘To help me attract what I want in a relationship?’

‘No, it’ll just pass the time quicker.’

I’m dropping Barbara off at a bar in town, where she’s meeting Nathaniel, the barman from the other night, for as she puts it, a margarita, a pizza and another night of passion.

‘Two dates with the same guy in less than a week?’ I
say
in disbelief. ‘Isn’t this, like, going steady for you?’

‘Either you can shut up, or I can poke my finger in your eye, your choice.’ She smiles sweetly at me. ‘He’s my f**k buddy and that’s all there is to it. Suits both of us down to the ground. Now can we please change the subject? Hey, did you read Laura’s short story? Wasn’t it fab?’

We chat on about said story, which really is good, needs very little tweaking, and we both agree, our lovely Laura really has something . . . very different. Her story is just so witty and sharp, just like the lady herself, and as Barbara says, even her telling the story of how Emily got the neighbour’s cat drunk would have you doubled over.

‘And it’ll be your turn next, you wait and see,’ I say, pulling the car over to drop her off. ‘Fame and fortune await.’

‘One thing at a time,’ she says, hopping out. ‘Now just remember, you’re any man’s fantasy come true, and he’s
lucky
to be spending a Saturday night with you. And keep in constant text contact with me all night. If things get really dire, just run to the Ladies and text me from there, he’ll never know. Oh, and, worst-case scenario, even if he bores the arse off you and you run screaming out of the place, remember at least you’re getting a free dinner out of it.’

‘Where would I be without you, my cynical touchstone?’

By the time I park and get to the restaurant, Eager . . . sorry, I’ll really have to start calling him just Eddie, is already at the bar waiting for me.

Right then. Just like Barbara is training me to do, my mind splits down the middle, like a computer screen.

Pro.

Just the mere sight of a guy standing waiting at a bar for me on a Saturday night is so heart-meltingly
amazing
, it almost brings a lump to my throat. Here I am, yes, me, Vicky Harper, dating on a Saturday night, like single people are supposed to, instead of sitting home alone, debating whether to watch
Tubridy Tonight
or
The X Factor
. And there he is, actually waiting for me.

Certainly makes a welcome change from the one particular guy I dated, who’d think nothing of leaving me sitting alone in a pub like Johnny no-mates for up to three-quarters of an hour before he turned up, plastered drunk because he’d been at a match and totally forgot he was even supposed to be meeting me. Then, and I really wish I were joking here, before we even ordered, he slagged off the menu (it was all French cuisine) at the top of his voice and, with the whole restaurant looking at us, suggested we leave and go and get a kebab instead, which was really all he wanted.

And miles cheaper, as he pointed out.

Absolutely the last time I let my brothers match me
up
with one of their boozing buddies. They’re all arseholes and the smartest thing I can do is avoid, avoid, avoid.

Another Pro.

OK, so Eag . . . sorry, I mean Eddie, might have gone a bit heavy on the aftershave, but he’s ditched the cardigan, is wearing quite a sharp suit, and all in all I have to give him ten out of ten for making an effort. Meaner people than me might say he was middle-aged with a serious spare tyre going on, but I’m going with the ‘life begins at forty’ option.

Hand on heart, he does look really well.

Con.

That is, in the same way that Philip Seymour Hoffmann looked really quite well when he was in
Capote
. Or
The Talented Mr Ripley
. Nice, non-threatening and cuddly, but kind of reminds me of my dad, in a funny way.

Pro.

As we’re shown to our table and we both order, the conversation flows easily, no awkward silences, and so far I haven’t once had the temptation to run to the loo and text Barbara out of either boredom or despair.

Con.

OK, now we’re about an hour in and I’ve just realized the reason
why
conversation is flowing. It’s because he hasn’t once shut up about himself. Honestly. It’s almost like he’s presenting me with his CV, everything, he’s
laying
it all out, going right back to early childhood. Why his family moved back here from Scotland, where he went to school, why he thinks that particular school would be terrific for when he has a son and if he has a daughter, why he wouldn’t go near the school his sister went to, that there’s another convent school that his friend’s little girl goes to which he feels is far more suitable.

Pro.

I give myself a sharp mental kick in the bum. Come on, this is good. Don’t I want a man who plans for the future? And who actually wants children and isn’t afraid to say so? Course I do. Anyway, he’s just doing most of the talking because he’s nervous, most likely, and I should give him the benefit of the doubt.

Con.

Oh, dear God, I don’t believe this. He has his kids’ names picked out, he just said it. Lily after his mother for a girl and Ed Junior after him for a boy. All he needs is an identikit wife to step in and complete the picture. The irony is that if a woman came out with something like that on a first date, any normal guy I know would run screaming.

Any normal guy
anyone
knows.

Another Con.

Right. Another hour’s passed and he hasn’t asked me one single thing about myself, not what my favourite
movies/music/TV
shows are, not even whether I preferred red or white wine (correct answer: neither, I’m more of a margarita gal), and yet he already seems to have me earmarked as his ‘girlfriend’. Honestly, it’s as if that’s what’s happening, in his head, whether I like it or not. We’re on coffee now, and there’s nothing I couldn’t tell you about his life to date, right down to the view he looks out at from his office window and which football team he supports. And please don’t think I feel guilty about sitting here making a mental list of the guy’s pros and cons; I’m quite sure that he’s doing exactly the same thing about me. And probably thinking that I’m about as interesting, witty and stimulating as a bottle of Heinz ketchup, given that I’ve barely opened my mouth all night.

No, for once I have to be practical and realistic. Nothing against the guy, I’m sure there’s plenty of women out there who’d only love to have their whole lives mapped out for them, right down to what schools their kids will go to and what their names will be, but . . . not for me. Achingly lonely as my life has been, I prefer it to being with a guy who just doesn’t melt the old butter. In fact, I think that’s probably all that he and I have in common really: we’re just two lonely souls prepared to try each other on for size, and it’s a misfit, and now, whether I like it or not, it’s back to the drawing board.

* * *

After what seems like one of the longest nights since the Normandy landings, eventually the bill arrives. I insist on splitting it fifty-fifty, remembering something Barbara said ages ago about how this is the fairest thing to do if you know you really,
really
don’t want to see the guy again. Otherwise, he’ll only think there’ll be a second date, and it’s just mean. He agrees and I think great, we understand each other, message received loud and clear. Then he insists on walking me to my car, which is parked miles away. Now it’s late Saturday night by now, the city centre is hopping, people falling over drunk, throwing up, weeing in doorways and to be perfectly, selfishly honest, I’m kind of glad not to be walking through town this late at night and alone.

And then the alarm bells begin to ring.

It goes something along these lines.