When it comes to men, it takes a lot to impress me. Muscles don’t do much for me – I learned that being with Alan. And expensive clothes don’t mean much to me, because a lot of money doesn’t always equal a lot of style. It’s very rare that a man’s job impresses me either, unless it’s something he has worked hard for, that makes a huge difference to society … but that’s not exactly something that is gender specific, is it? That’s just a good quality for a person to have anyway, male or female.
I’m sitting here, in the passenger’s seat of Tom’s flashy car, waiting to set off on our quick trip to McDonald’s so that we can enjoy the rest of the day without our stomachs rumbling. But before we set off, Tom reaches for a button in between us, and as he holds it down I watch the roof of his car start to disappear. Does he honestly think showing me his convertible will impress me? Because – I hate to admit it – he’s absolutely right. When I first saw his car, I couldn’t believe what a tosser he was, but now that I’m in it, watching the roof disappear inside the car, feeling the warm sun on my head, and eventually the cool breeze as we get moving, I can’t deny it, I love it.
I glance at the speedometer, to see if we’re going fast, or whether it just feels like it on these quiet country roads. It’s such an adrenaline rush, driving fast, feeling the change in sensation that you get with a convertible. It’s the breeze, it’s the sun, it’s the fleeting shade of the trees. I’ve got goose bumps.
‘So, what do you think?’ Tom asks, quickly glancing at me to gauge my reaction before turning his attention back to the road.
‘Meh,’ I say casually, with a shrug of my shoulders.
‘Meh?’ he echoes. ‘I even put you a power ballads playlist on.’
I did notice that the (also impressive) sound system was pumping out some vintage Whitesnake, but does he really think I’m that easy?
‘Sure, you look cool … but do you even care what you’re doing to the environment in this thing? Like, oh, girls think you’re so dreamy because you have a flashy car, but do you really need a car this powerful? Unless you’re overcompensating for something …’
Tom snorts with laughter.
‘Three things, Luca,’ he starts, pausing for a second to laugh again. ‘First of all, this is an electric car – so the environment is safe. Second of all, I don’t own this car. I couldn’t afford a car like this, it’s a prototype that I’m driving for work, so that I can write a review. That’s why I was stretching its legs last night, because I thought the road would be quiet. And finally, you got pretty up close and personal with me that time we slow danced, so you know I’m not overcompensating for anything.’
‘Oh,’ is about all I can manage to say. I feel every drop of blood in my body rush to my cheeks. I look out of the window to hide my red face.
I remember that night, back at uni, when we danced together. It was the night I thought we were finally going to get our relationship back on track. Spoiler alert: it didn’t happen.
‘Not that I drive an old banger, I do have a cool car – not a red Polo with a dinosaur decal on the back,’ he adds quickly. ‘And it’s a hybrid, so you and your newfound passion for the environment don’t need to worry …’
I ignore his blatant swipe at my car. I don’t care what he says, I love my red Polo. And I bought it used, so it came with the dinosaur sticker on the back. I removed one of his claws, to test the waters, but it’s been on there so long the paint has discoloured underneath. So that’s that, the dinosaur is staying.
‘I have always cared about the environment,’ I remind him.
‘Oh yeah, I remember the six days you were a vegetarian at uni.’ He laughs.
‘Erm, it was nine days, actually, and it was your fault I failed. It was the day before we all went home for Christmas, when you took me to McDonald’s for chicken nuggets.’
‘And here we are again,’ he points out. ‘On the way to McDonald’s, for chicken nuggets.’
‘Yep, my life is one, long, cruel Groundhog Day.’
‘And here we are again,’ he jokes, chuckling to himself. ‘On the way to McDonald’s, for chicken nuggets.’
‘Hilarious,’ I reply.
‘So, I had a chat with Fi, and the plan is to nip through the drive-thru and then head straight back to the hotel before anyone realises we’re missing,’ he says, changing the subject. ‘Although if Matt keeps drinking at the rate he is, I’m not sure he’ll be able to see straight enough to realise we’re not there anyway.’
‘Yeah, or maybe if he gets another eye infection,’ I reply, ‘he won’t realise we’re not there because he won’t be able to see. Or you can say you have an eye infection, and that’s why you wandered off in the wrong direction.’
I hate myself as soon as the words leave my lips. I hate saying and doing anything that makes me seem like I care about him, or about what he does. If he wants to plan a debauched stag party where everyone goes to sex shows and comes home with conjunctivitis, then that’s his jam. It is nothing to do with me.
‘Weird,’ he replies.
‘Erm, yeah, it is weird,’ I say.
Tom frowns.
‘I feel like I’m missing something …’
‘I heard about the stag do,’ I admit.
‘So …’ he replies.
‘So … I suppose I thought more of you.’
‘I couldn’t really help it, could I?’
‘What?’
‘It’s not like I did it on purpose.’
‘How do you wind up going to an “audience participation” strip club by accident?’ I ask, confused.
‘Luca, what on earth are you talking about?’ he asks.
‘The stag do,’ I say slowly, starting to get annoyed.
‘Yeah, I didn’t go, I had to work,’ he says.
‘Ohh,’ I reply. ‘I thought you organised it.’
‘You thought I organised “audience participation” for a man who was about to get married?’ he asks, a combination of amused and offended. ‘You don’t think much of me, do you?’
‘I try not to,’ I reply.
Tom laughs.
‘Well, I would say I’m sorry I missed it, but it sounds like it was weird.’
‘It was,’ I reply, completely mortified.
We make the last minute of the journey to the drive-thru in silence.
‘Right, what can I get you?’ he asks.
‘Some chicken nuggets would be great,’ I reply.
‘Wow, it really is just like old times,’ Tom replies. ‘Maybe this time I won’t bottle it when it comes to kissing you.’ He laughs, to let me know that he’s joking.
‘You wish,’ I snort.
Five minutes later we’re parked up outside McDonald’s, wolfing down our food so that we can hurry back.
‘I kind of do,’ he says.
‘You kind of do what?’ I reply as I suck ketchup off my fingers in a rather unladylike way.
‘Wish I’d kissed you,’ he says.
‘Tom, don’t,’ I say. ‘Don’t start.’
‘Luca …’
‘Come on, it was years ago. Let’s not talk about it.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Tom,’ I say, cutting him off. ‘Stop it. We were kids, it was years ago, we’ve both moved on.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘So you are seeing someone?’
‘I am,’ I lie, although I don’t know why. I think just the thought of him getting back with Cleo has rubbed me up the wrong way again, and with that in mind, for him to be sat here, saying he wishes he’d kissed me … that’s despicable really, I’d be gutted if I were her.
We both reach for the same chicken nugget at the same time and awkwardly bump hands. Our hands stay touching for a few seconds more than is normal before I quickly pull my hand away.
‘If you hadn’t just told me what you told me, I might’ve tried to kiss you,’ he says.
And the worst thing is that, if I hadn’t just told him what I told him, there’s a chance I might’ve let him.