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‘Why not?’ I’m not entirely sure why this comes out as a whine. Or why I’m so desperate for him to go on this date. I brush loose hair away from my face and wait for him to explain.
‘Don’t want to,’ he says simply. He reaches towards me, but at the last second closes his fist and pulls back, murmuring, ‘You have coffee grounds on your cheek.’
I guess my brain must’ve prepared itself for the touch of his fingertips against my skin, because I feel a little like I just missed astep. I rub the back of my hand across my face and steel myself to ask, ‘But why not? You’ve already got enough women on the cards?’
His hand flexes on the counter, and for the briefest moment, something like frustration passes across his face, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. ‘Sure. Something like that.’ And then he exhales and looks askance between the bin and the dirty paper. ‘Why was the paper in the bin?’
‘Oh,’ I say, scooping ice into a cup. ‘I dropped it in there. By accident. Not intentionally.’
‘Right. Well, I appreciate the effort. Thanks for diving through coffee grounds for me.’ He quirks an eyebrow. ‘I probably could’ve just asked Samantha for the number the next time I saw her, though.’
I hope he feels the fire emanating from my eyes. ‘To make up for plunging into the bin for you, you should go out with her.’
He blinks slowly. ‘Have you always been this pushy?’
‘Have you only just noticed?’
The cogs turn in his brain, and then one half of his mouth pulls up. ‘I’ll go out with Alex-the-twenty-five-year-old-equestrian-who-lives-in-Maida-Vale on one condition.’ I narrow my eyes and he continues, ‘You agree to go out with someone of my choosing.’
My instinct is to say no, maybe this is all it’ll take to make me feel normal again, to quieten the weird emotions that have been swirling around my chest cavity. Maybe it’ll take my mind off the what-ifs. ‘Deal.’
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ Henry says to me as we cross the threshold of the restaurant. He’s the lanky blonde from the officeFinn set me up with, and while blonde men are decidedly hit or miss for me, at least he’s cute. Perhaps dating apps are where I’ve been going wrong and this whole time I should’ve been set up with mutual acquaintances. I’m hoping the evening ends the way I want it to, in large part so I can rub it in Finn’s face.
The clatter of cutlery against plates and the low hum of chatter greets us just before the Maître d’ does. ‘Table for two?’
I’d initially set this restaurant aside for a bucket list item, but when Henry proposed we meet in Covent Garden after work, I panicked and suggested it. It’s already rammed in here, as I expected it would be, but I’m holding out for a miracle. ‘Please. Are there any window booths available?’
A wall of windows stretches to the left, with comfy booths perfect for people-watching, warm lightbulbs swinging over every table. To our right is a line of small tables and rickety chairs against the wall, so close together I’m concerned they defy fire safety regulations.
Her face twists in apology. ‘I’m sorry, we’re really busy tonight. We have one table free over there, otherwise it’ll be at least an hour’s wait for a booth, likely closer to two.’
She points to the single free table closest to the door and I say weakly, ‘That table will be great.’
There’s a tint on the windows, so the restaurant is darker than it should be, and we cast an eye over the menu by the light of our table’s single tea light. At least it’s romantic, I guess. Might get us in the mood.
Romance aside, I give up squinting and use my phone’s torch to see properly. By the time I turn the flashlight off I look up to find Henry staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read. It’s either confusion or lust. I lean into the latter; that’s what I’m here for, after all.
‘What are you thinking?’ I ask, nodding towards the menu and shifting onto one elbow, chin in my hand. The move doesn’tnotemphasise my chest.
‘Not sure yet.’ He licks his lips but avoids dropping his gaze. ‘I just know I need to save room for dessert.’
‘See anything you like?’ I still can’t tell what’s going on in his head. I lower my voice, ‘Something that isn’t on the menu?’
Cornier lines have worked on men in the past, so I don’t even have it in me to cringe. I’d argue a lot of men are boring enough that theyenjoythese lines.
He purses his lips and gestures to the leather booklet open on the table. ‘The main menu looks pretty good, to be honest.’ He points at something on the page and his eyes light up. ‘There’s baklava.’
I soon realise Henry and I are not compatible, and just as quickly begin to wonder if Finn set us up as some kind of joke. And yet, I’m determined to stick it out, out of spite.
‘And it was funny because of the reputation he has for being a player,’ Henry says with a chuckle, graciously explaining the punchline of my own funny story back to me.
Someone leaves the restaurant and, for the millionth time this evening, the door sticks, noise and air from outside flooding in. Neither Henry nor I are quite close enough to shut it without getting up, so it invariably stays wedged open for longer than necessary.
I flag the waiter down for another drink, hoping it’ll make me less irritable, but just as they walk away, I hear a noise that sends me reeling even further. A laugh I know all too well.
My head whips around to find the source, and then I spot him. Sprawled across the window booth in the corner is Finn O’Callaghan, wearing the same blue shirt he wore the night we went to Tamesis Dock. When the woman he’s with leans forward as she laughs, hand slapping the table, I see it’s Alex the equestrian. For some inexplicable reason, rage bubbles underneath my skin.
And after hearing his laugh once, I can’t unhear it. He and Alex are having a wonderful time apparently, while I’m stuck with Henry, who’s taken to explaining the merits of stone masonry over brick walls for the second time this evening. Every time I think we’ve found common ground, he says something else I either don’t understand or have no interest in. But I’d be able to pay much better attention if I weren’t hearing that fuckingnoiseevery ten seconds.
