David pulls out my chair and waits for me to sit before tucking me in under the table. He texted me three times after we went our separate ways that first night – and, after two weeks of messaging back and forth, we’re finally on a proper date.
The waiter comes across and David says something in Italian to him. Or I assume it is Italian – it’s not as if I understand. The waiter takes my coat and then disappears off without a word to me.
‘What did you say?’ I ask.
‘I was asking about wine. I’ve heard they’ve got a good cellar here.’
‘Oh…’
‘Are you a wine drinker?’
‘I’m not much of a drinker at all, really.’
He nods knowingly: ‘Of course. I should’ve realised, what with your job and everything.’
David reaches for the table water and pours some into my empty glass. He’s in jeans and a sports jacket, which, for most people, would look like some sort of middle-aged cry for help. For him, it works. There’s a sophistication about him. As I thought when I first saw him, he is almost exactly a decade older than me. That sort of age difference has never done anything for me before – but I figured there was no harm in going out to dinner together. It’s not as if I’m getting any younger – and, besides, there are so many dickheads out there that it’s rare to stumble across someone I actually like.
I don’t bother correcting him about the fact that I’ve never really been able to handle my alcohol. If he wants to think it’s because of my job, then fair enough.
The Italian place he chose for us to eat is one that I’ve walked past for years without ever really noticing it. I checked the prices once and decided it wasn’t for me. I’m not saying Domino’s is the pinnacle of culinary excellence – but I am saying a pizza shouldn’t cost £20. The inside is all faux Mediterranean, with the walls covered with prints of olive groves and sprawling, sun-drenched shores. If that doesn’t set enough of a mood, there are plastic grapes hanging from fake trees in the entranceway, plus glass jars filled with pasta lining the walls.
I’m still eyeing the menu when I sense David watching me around the large card that serves as a menu.
‘Did you go to university?’ he asks.
I suddenly feel self-conscious, wondering if this is something that might matter to him.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘It’s all a bit overrated anyway,’ he replies. ‘Some of the best people I know are self-taught and self-made.’
‘I’m trying to get into personal training,’ I say. ‘I’ve done the courses and am running a few classes at some of the local gyms.’
I don’t mention that my main gym is closing.
‘What’s your end goal?’ he asks.
‘My own studio.’
He nods approvingly: ‘I like people who dream big. Have you always worked in fitness?’
‘I’ve done a few things – waitressing, a bit of secretarial stuff. Nothing that took…’
David nods along, but I wonder if he’s thinking what I am: that it’s embarrassing to be almost thirty and have so little to show for it. Whenever meeting a new person, the first questions are always about name and occupation. It’s how we all judge one another. How we judge ourselves, I suppose.
‘I’ve been doing this for about four years,’ I add quickly. ‘I had to get a few qualifications and I was covering maternity at a gym in Kingbridge. It’s spiralled from there.’
I’m not sure why, but I care what David thinks. I want him to approve. Jane has been pushing me for a long time to get what she would see as a ‘proper’ job. I don’t think she’d still be with Ben if it wasn’t for the fact that he worked in a bank. Things like that matter to her.
‘It’s very impressive,’ he says. ‘I admire people who branch out to take control of their lives.’
He stares at me with such earnestness that I have to hoist the menu higher and hide behind it. I’m not used to this sort of praise.
The waiter relieves the embarrassment by appearing back at the side of the table and asking if we’re ready. We each order and then David asks if I’d mind him choosing wine for us to share. I say it’s fine and then he opts for something he says he’s certain I’ll like. I’m not sure how or why he’s come to this conclusion but am fine to go with it.
When the waiter heads off, he takes our menus with him, leaving me nothing to hide behind.
‘What about you?’ I ask, trying to get the conversation away from me. ‘What do you do?’
‘I trade collectibles.’
‘I’m not sure I know what that means.’
He presses back and puffs out his chest. There’s pride in talking about something he enjoys explaining. ‘It’s a family thing. My dad used to do it and I picked it up from him. I buy items like vinyl, books, comics, prints – that sort of thing – and then sell them to buyers around the continent, or in the US.’
Things are starting to click into place. I’d wondered why he was away for work since I met him at Jane’s party but didn’t want to ask.
‘That sounds fun,’ I say.
‘It can be.’
‘Do you travel a lot?’
‘Sometimes. It depends on circumstances. I can go months without having to leave home and then need to be on the road for weeks at a time. There are all sorts of conventions. If you know what you’re looking for, you can make a good living.’
My mind wanders, knowing that Jane won’t approve of David’s job.
‘How did you end up in Kingbridge?’ I ask.
‘I came for university. I’m from near Margate, but Dad died while I was on my course, so I never really left.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
He waves it away in the way people do when they don’t want to talk about something.
I’m not ready to let him turn the conversation back to me, so quickly add: ‘You told me you knew Ben through football at uni – but you’re a bit, um…?’
David smiles and interrupts before I can finish the thought: ‘You can say older.’
‘Sorry…’
‘You’re right. I went to university a bit later in life than most. One of the ways I tried to fit in was to get involved with the football team. I used to be a bit nippy in my time. Not a bad winger. I once scored four in a cup final when I was still at school.’
‘You must’ve been good.’
He shrugs humbly, although, if he was that modest, he wouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.
‘I was scouted by the county,’ he says. ‘Had trials with Gillingham and Brighton, but things didn’t work out. Even with university, I was always putting off going into the same business as Dad. I think I was always destined to do this.’
The waiter returns with a bottle of wine and there’s the cartoon routine of him pouring a bit, David tasting and giving a barely-there nod, and then the waiter pouring it into both of our glasses. They exchange another word or ten in Italian and then we’re alone once more.
David raises his glass: ‘To entrepreneurs,’ he says. ‘We’re both doing our own thing.’
I’m not sure that’s true, but we clink glasses anyway and I have a sip. I half expect David to ask me what I can taste. People bang on about peat and floral aftertastes, but wine tastes of wine to me. It’s not complicated. Luckily, David says nothing of the sort.
It’s not long before the food arrives. David tells me how he once came across an early Superman Action Comics issue that he bought for a pound and sold for ‘six-figures’. Then there was some early Ferrari memorabilia that he picked up from a flea market in Italy that he sold for ‘the cost of a car itself’.
We spend most of the time talking about David, which is fine as it takes the focus away from me. Conversation comes easily and, though there’s more than a hint of the grandiose about his boasts, it’s not the worst trait. If I’d bought something for a pound and sold it for six-figures, I’d be telling people, too. His last name is ‘Persephone’, which he insists does not rhyme with ‘telephone’. He brings it up without prompting, but says the name with pride, as if it’s Windsor, or something like that. A moniker of which to be honoured. Perhaps it’s why he says it, like it’s a tactic or something, but I find myself running the name Morgan Persephone through my mind. I can already hear people mispronouncing it and having to correct them.
In a blink, the evening passes. We share a tiramisu and then I realise the restaurant is largely empty. The staff are hanging around with little to do. It doesn’t take a psychic to realise that they’re ready to go home.
The waiter brings the bill unprompted, presenting it in a smart leather booklet as if it’s a treasured first edition. The type of thing David might buy cheaply and sell on.
David reaches for the bill, but I’m not the sort to give too much ground and passively allow him to pay. Our fingers brush and it feels like that jolt of knowing the correct answer to a question.
There is a brief moment in which we both freeze and I know he feels it, too. It’s only a second, perhaps not even that, and then he slides the bill away.
‘I’ve got this,’ he says.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘It’s fine.’
He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and then checks the other side. His brow creases and then he tries the two outer pockets on his jacket, before he stands and checks his jeans.
‘I can’t find my wallet,’ he says. ‘I had it when I left the house.’
He pats all his pockets once more and then takes off the jacket and tries again.
‘All my cards were in there,’ he adds. ‘I’m so sorry about this.’
I assure him it’s fine, though the waiter has noticed there’s a problem and comes across to ask what’s wrong. David asks if anyone’s handed in a wallet, though there is no such luck.
‘I’ll pay,’ I say, digging out my purse from my bag.
David starts to argue, but it’s not as if we have much choice. ‘There was that thing about pickpockets in the news the other day…’ he adds.
He’s still patting his pockets, not concealing that spark of panic when something valuable is lost.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ David says.
I tap my PIN into the card machine and wait for it to process. ‘You can pay next time,’ I reply.
There’s a momentary gap and then he gets it: ‘There’ll be a next time…?’
The machine starts to spit out a receipt as I remove my card with a smile: ‘I have to get my money’s worth somehow.’