Spending the rest of my life waiting for Patrick to slip up while lying to my best friend about her husband’s infidelity is not an attractive proposition. I need to do something to take my mind off it.
Since my encounter with Owen I’ve been a bit scared to log back on to Other Half. What if he’s added a comment by my name? ‘Guaranteed shag within the first hour and a half or your money back.’ I consider signing up with another agency but it all feels like too much effort. And for what? A few glasses of wine and some forced chit chat before either you or he makes an excuse about needing an early night.
I flip through my contacts on my phone, looking for friends I haven’t caught up with for a while. Annie, my roommate from college, is five months pregnant with her third child and threatening to make me be godmother so she’s best avoided for a while; Billie (real name’s Wilhelmina) won’t go anywhere without her crashing bore of a husband so she’s out; Carrie won’t go anywhere full stop because she doesn’t trust anyone to look after her kids; Caz is always so happy to have an excuse to dump her two on her husband that she insists on staying out till four in the morning and drinking her body weight in vodka. Something I have no interest in doing these days.
I go through the list on and on with more of the same. Eventually I hit on Mary, an old mate from my pre-Castle TV days. She’s easy company, funny, straightforward, unencumbered. She’s getting married! she tells me when I call to see if she would like to meet up for a drink. And then she proceeds to describe every aspect of the impending celebration in minute detail, right down to the colour of the petals that the bridesmaids will shower her with when the happy couple leave the church, and the font she’s chosen for the menus.
‘April fourth,’ she says chirpily ‘Save the date.’
‘Gosh. Yes … thanks. I’ll put it in my next year’s diary …’ Shit.
I wonder whether it’s still worth suggesting we meet up. Maybe she’s just been dying to fill me in on everything and now she has she could go back to being her normal non-bridezilla self. But then she says, ‘Actually I should go through the seating plan with you, see if you spot any screaming gaffs!’ and I make an excuse that I’m in a hurry and I’ll call her again soon and end the call before she can object.
I chuck my mobile down on the sofa. Back to Other Half it is then.
I arrange to meet ‘Paul, forty-two, divorced, two kids’ for a meal at China Tang in the Dorchester. It’s his suggestion. He looks pretty good in his photo – dark-haired and dark-eyed. He’s pitched it just right, too. Smiling but with a closed mouth so it’s not too cheesy. No collar up or comedy tie to show off what a laugh he can be. He sounds confident and friendly in the brief conversation we have on the phone. As usual, I hold out little hope, though. But at least I’ll get to eat nice food.
The restaurant is dimly lit and tasteful. Paul is already at the table, I’m told when I arrive. They lead me over and a man I recognize from his picture greets me with a smile. I actually do a double take. He’s even better looking than in his photo, something that is almost unheard of in the online dating world. OK, so he’s definitely passed the first test. I can’t imagine why he feels he has to go on the internet to meet women. Which, of course, means that I think I’m a loser along with the rest of Other Half’s clientele.
‘Tamsin,’ he says, standing up. I’m relieved he doesn’t try to come round and pull my chair out for me. That would be overkill.
‘Lovely to meet you. Gorgeous dress. Vivienne Westwood?’
‘It is,’ I say, surprised.
‘I only know because my ex-wife was a big fan of hers.’
Oh God, he’s brought up the ex-wife already. This is clearly going to be his ‘issue’.
‘Now I sound like one of those divorced men who bang on about their exes all the time. I’m not. Just so you know we divorced seven years ago. It was awful for everyone concerned at the time but it’s fine now. Civilized.’
‘How old are your kids?’ I ask. I might as well find out now if I’d be expected to play mummy every other weekend if we hit it off.
‘Twenty and eighteen. Both at uni. I’m not looking for a nanny. Or a stepmum.’
I laugh, relieved. ‘You should put that on your profile.’
‘I seriously considered it. Didn’t you find writing your profile excruciating?’
‘Torture.’
We talk about work – he’s an A and R man at a record company I have actually heard of – and he doesn’t hog the conversation or big himself up. I find myself relaxing. I think I might like Paul.
It seems he might like me, too, because towards the end of the meal – which was delicious by the way, tiny dim sum parcels of gorgeousness and subtle spicy dishes of prawns and scallops – he mentions an exhibition at the V and A of rock god stage clothes from the 1980s that sounds amazing, and drops in that maybe we should see it together.
‘That’d be lovely,’ I say, and I find myself gazing for just a moment too long into his near-black eyes and coming over a bit lustful. Too much wine. I look away, reminding myself that I do not want a repeat of the Owen experience, or to get a reputation as the Other Half bike. I can’t imagine why Paul has been single for so long.
He accepts my offer to pay my share, which I’m grateful for. I hate it when a man comes over all patriarchal and starts to insist he’d be insulted if a woman paid for her own dinner. He walks me outside, to where the taxis are waiting.
‘Shall we talk in the next few days and make a plan?’ he says and I say yes, let’s.
I can feel a kiss on the horizon. It’s as if we both know it’s out there and we’re trying to edge towards it without being too obvious. It’s brighter out here than it was in the restaurant, and I notice that Paul’s eyes have a flicker of orange amber in amongst the brown.
He’s looking at me intently. I feel a bit ridiculous with the doormen hovering around and a black cab driver looking at us expectantly. I want it to happen, though. I actually think I’ve met someone I’m attracted to.
Paul smiles a lazy smile. I almost go wobbly at the knees, and then something jolts me back into the real world.
His teeth.
It’s not that they’re crooked. I like crooked teeth so long as they’re clean. Paul’s are … green. Well, dark yellow anyway, and sort of furry. I think about how long you would have to go out with someone before it would be OK to suggest they visit the dentist. And how many times you would have to kiss them in that period. I feel myself gag.
He’s leaning in towards me. I make a decision, swerve to avoid his lips and give him a peck on the cheek. Hopefully he just thinks I have strict morals. I catch a whiff of the not-so-pleasant tang of his breath.
‘Thanks for a lovely evening. I had a great time.’
‘Me, too. Shall I ring you tomorrow?’
‘Lovely,’ I say, jumping into the back of the taxi before he gets any more ideas.
Great. Now I’ll have to avoid his calls or make up excuses about why I can’t see him again. I suppose I could just tell him. People today are always advocating the ‘say it to their face’ approach. Meanness dressed up as honesty. But he’s a lovely bloke. He doesn’t deserve to be insulted. He just has personal hygiene issues.
Does this make me shallow? Maybe. Answer me that question when you’ve been presented with a rancid germy pond and asked to put your tongue into it.