It had been a long day—I was off the back of parents’ evening and knew I was staring down the gun at thirty English tests. Jacob’s attempt to rearrange “is pen pig the in my” into a sentence was on top of the pile; “My penis in the pig” was beautifully written, but not quite what I was looking for. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Just come for one drink,” Maria had pleaded, and for a moment I had been sorely tempted to go for three. Would a class of seven-year-olds really worry if I didn’t correct their grammar and just gave them a big red tick and gold star instead? But then I remembered Mrs. Pullman, who had expressed concern that little Bertie’s answer to What could you do better at? had gone unchecked. How was I to know he’d write spillings?
“No, I’d better get off,” I’d said. “I’m definitely up for Friday though. My treat, so name your poison.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Maria had laughed as she pulled her coat on, and I smiled ruefully. I was still thinking I should have gone when I was in my car driving down the A23, my hands twitching on the steering wheel, waiting to see if the good fairy or bad fairy would win out.
Just one, said the dark, forbidding figure on my right shoulder.
Go home and do your marking, piped up the pure, angelic voice on my left shoulder, just that little bit louder.
I was pleased I’d listened to her, because as soon as I was indoors, and changed my tartan skirt and polo neck for a dressing gown and slippers, I was happy to be there, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t have to leave my snug haven until the next morning.
I didn’t promise I wasn’t going to have a drink though, and poured myself a generous glass of red wine as I psyched myself up to tackle Jacob’s vocabulary conundrum. One final look at my phone and then I’d hide it under a cushion and pretend that I’m controlling it, rather than it controlling me.
As soon as I saw the notification from Better Together, a dating website I’d signed up to, I was intrigued. Enough to make me want to read the message in its entirety, enough to put me off marking for just another few minutes.
Hi—just read your profile and you sound like you’re up for some fun.
Was I? Is that how Maria had presented me to the online dating population? A girl who was looking for some fun?
She’d been in hysterics as she set me up on the site, as had I, but we were two bottles of wine in by then, and everything had seemed funny. She’d agreed to change the wording from “sex-maniac” to “liberated woman who knows what she wants” to “looking for a good time, life’s too short to be serious.” I couldn’t even remember if that was the final profile we’d settled on, but I guessed it might have been if this guy thought I might be up for “some fun.” I didn’t know whether I should be proud or horrified. I supposed that all the time I was behind a screen, I could be anything I wanted to be.
What did you have in mind? I typed, though as soon as I sent it, I held a cushion up to my face and squirmed. If I allowed myself to imagine I was in a bar having this conversation, I saw myself sitting there, my body giving off all the right language, yet my mind in turmoil at what my mother would think. You can never stray too far from a Roman Catholic upbringing.
I’m not looking for anything serious either. Fancy meeting up? he replied.
I wasn’t sure he’d understood the sentiment in my words. When I said life was too short to be serious, I didn’t mean I didn’t want a serious relationship. I was just trying to get across the devil-may-care attitude I pretended to have. I was twenty-eight, with ovaries fit to burst, and a mother who had attended church every Sunday for the past ten years, so that Father Michael would see his way to marrying her only child when the time came. Of course I wanted a serious relationship, if only to appease those who demanded it!
I’d convinced myself that maybe Mr. “Up for some fun” was best avoided, but that was until I saw his photo.
“Blimey,” I said, out loud, making Tyson jump. He looked at me with his chocolate-drop eyes, staring out between his daft floppy ears, waiting for his equally sappy owner to elaborate. “Well, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed on a cold night,” I said, as Tyson cocked his head inquisitively to one side.
Here was a man who knew what he was about. His confident stance, sense of style, those “take me to bed” eyes, and that smile. “Oh, that smile,” I said to Tyson as he laid his head down on my feet. “Does it really matter if he’s not looking for anything serious?”
When? I replied, brazenly.
Tonight?
I almost choked on my wine. If we met up on the strength of this conversation it’d beat even Marcus, the blind date that Mel, another teacher at school, had set me up with. At least we’d enjoyed a twenty-four-hour virtual courtship before meeting in the flesh. At this rate, I could see myself waking up in this dreamboat’s bed tomorrow morning.
I looked down at my dressing gown and the stain that Tyson had caused when he jumped up at me a week ago, making me spill the cup of tea I was holding. And my slippers, one of them chewed through at the toes by my ever-faithful, if sometimes infuriating, furry friend. I didn’t look in the least bit glamorous, but it wouldn’t take long to get myself back round the right way. Then I remembered I had winter legs, and no smile, not even George Clooney’s, would have warranted me shaving them.
Tomorrow? I replied, pleased with myself for playing hard to get.
Sure. Westbury Hotel in town, just off Bond Street? Polo Bar 7:30 p.m.?
I was momentarily stumped by his authoritativeness, unused to being told what to do, but there was a little part of me that quite liked it.
See you there, I said, already working out what the hell I was going to wear. He’d made it sound posh without even trying.
“So, you’re just going to turn up there and … what?” said Maria the next morning, open-mouthed. She gives off the impression that if she was single she’d be out on the prowl every night, but she’s only that brave because she’s happily married and living the single life vicariously through me. The reality of dating sends her into a head spin, as if I needed another over-protective mother figure.
“Yes,” I said simply, because there was nothing more to add, though I knew she’d have a dozen more questions.
“But what if … I mean, what happens when…?” None of her sentences were finished.
“This was your idea,” I said, laughing. “You’re the one who forced me onto a dating site.”
“But I wanted you to meet a lovely man to marry, not to have sex with a stranger in some anonymous hotel.” Her expression was pinched and disapproving.
“Er, excuse me,” I said in mock outrage. “Less of the anonymous hotel. I’ll have you know that the Westbury is a very well-respected establishment.”
She laughed and threw a packet of crisps across the staff room at me. “You know what I’m saying,” she said. “Just be careful.”
I jest, but despite shaving my legs, I really wasn’t intending to sleep with him that night. Not until I saw him. Not until I saw that smile, and then all bets were off.