Lights, camera, action. I am at The Bucks Head, ready to deliver the performance of a lifetime. I know what you’re thinking: that double dates aren’t a good idea even in normal circumstances, but in my situation, I think it’s going to work.
Maybe I am clutching at straws here, but I am taking that little pang of jealousy Nick showed me this morning and I am running with it. This is my chance to show him that I am not his gross, undesirable flatmate who leaves hair in the plug hole, still licks her plate when she is finished eating and frequently speaks like Lumpy Space Princess from Adventure Time for hours at a time. Nick just needs to see me in context, out of the flat, in the real world, on an actual date with an adult human man who actually (for some strange reason – probably because he doesn’t know the aforementioned gross and annoying facts to be one hundred per cent true) wants to shag me.
The Bucks Head is not my kind of place at all, in fact, I’m instantly regretting letting Deano pick the restaurant. I had kind of hoped he’d pick somewhere nice, like where we had our first date. I figured with him being a pro sportsman, restaurants like Vici would be standard procedure, but now I’m thinking that’s just his A-game for sealing the deal. Well, not with this chick. He blew his chance getting in my pants when he implied I shouldn’t eat dessert because it was bad for me. I’m still trying to work out whether or not he meant “dessert is bad for you” or “dessert is bad for you specifically, Ruby, you fat bitch” – I’m trying not to lose any sleep over it. The Bucks Head is a sort of pub-cum-restaurant, but it isn’t exactly nailing either. Their first crime was not having a cocktail menu. No big deal, I guess, I just ordered a vodka and orange and the waiter who brought it to me had his finger in my glass so I suppose that’s the third ingredient that makes it technically a cocktail, so what do I have to complain about really? Other than potentially catching something gross that is going to result in a trip to a clinic where I’ll have some difficult questions to answer. The décor, I can only describe as, if the place were repeatedly closed down and reopened by new people who always kept one thing that their predecessor left behind. Nothing matches. Or looks at all good in any way. And everything looks like it needs a “good clean” – as opposed to a bad clean, obviously, which everything seems to have had already.
Everyone who knows me knows that I am always late for everything, so tonight I decided to make sure I was on time and, amazingly, I got here ten minutes before our booking, but it’s five past the hour now, and I’m still the only one here. Wow, this must be what it feels like for everyone when I’m late to meet them – I suddenly feel like a spectacular bastard. I’d love to say that this will make me more careful with my time in the future, but all it’s made me realise is that it’s better to be the person who is late than the person stuck sitting all alone at the table like a Billy-no-mates, just waiting for someone to show up.
‘Hello, sorry we’re late,’ Heather says, taking me by surprise – not only because she snuck up behind me, but because for some strange reason she’s greeting me with a hug. ‘So do they have a vegan menu here?’
Cutting to the chase, I see. Honestly, I swear she takes more enjoyment from people “persecuting” her for being a vegan than she does from those who embrace it.
‘Erm, they don’t even have loo roll in the lavs – they’re not going to have a vegan menu,’ I tell her.
‘Are you saying those two things are similar?’ she snaps.
‘Ladies, are you fighting already?’ Nick asks, finally joining us.
In the spirit of playing nice, he gives my shoulder a squeeze as he greets me.
I exhale deeply as I let Heather’s hysteria wash over me, glancing up in Nick’s direction.
‘Hey kid,’ he says.
‘Hey you…’ I reply, my voice trailing off as I catch a glimpse of him in date mode. I’ve spent so much time worrying about him seeing me “in context” that I totally forgot I’m going to have to watch him on a date with Heather.
Normally I see Nick when he’s on his way to or from work, or when he’s just knocking around the flat with Heather, cooking whatever no-meat, no-dairy, no-fun crap she wants before watching A Day in the Life of the Earthworm on Netflix. Tonight, however, I’m getting the dressed-up, relaxed, charming Nick, and it takes every fibre of my being not to bite my lip and let out a little sigh at the sight of him.
He’s smart, but not too smart. Too smart for here, sure, but he’s made just the right amount of effort to look good, but still come across as kind of aloof, like he doesn’t care if he looks good or not, even though I can tell he’s made an effort because he’s got product in his hair and his delicious aftershave on. I often see Nick dressed “smart” for work, but something about his attire tonight is driving me crazy, causing my mind to stray from vegan menus and what that red stuff crusted to my fork is, to thinking about his “bedside manner” if you know what I mean. He’s wearing a tight-fitting black shirt – not that I think it’s intended to be tight-fitting, but his arms, knotted with muscle, underneath look ready to Hulk their way out of the confines of his sleeves, and I for one will cheer with delight when they do. His hair is the kind of effortless mess that takes a lot of product and a generous twenty minutes in front of the mirror to achieve, and he’s even carrying his leather jacket – an item from his wardrobe he rarely wears because he once told me he felt intimidated by how cool it was, which probably explains why he’s carrying it and not wearing it.
‘So, where’s Deano?’ he asks as they take their seats at the table.
‘He’s running late,’ I tell them. ‘Training – they’ve got a big game coming up.’
Lie, lie, lie. I don’t know that he’s running late, I’m only guessing that he’s had training and don’t pro sportsmen always have a big game coming up?
I let a few seconds go by before I grab my phone to text him, to see where he is, but I don’t get a reply.
After twenty minutes of awkward small talk – largely dominated by Heather telling me exactly what a cow has to go through so that “selfish people” like me can eat a burger – Deano appears.
‘You’re late,’ I say through gritted teeth, which I am trying to disguise with a big, moronic grin.
‘I am,’ he tells us. ‘Training.’
We all give him understanding gestures – a smile, a shrug of the shoulders, a bat of the hand. It happens. He’s got a job to do. He’s only twenty-five minutes late, right?
‘We finished on time,’ he starts. I will him to shut up before he says another word because I know that he’s going to say something that will piss me off and make himself look bad, and that’s not the aim of the game tonight. ‘But then we had this wrestling tournament in the changing rooms. And now I could kill for some fucking meat.’
‘Hello,’ Heather says brightly to Deano.
That’s weird. She should be annoyed that he’s late, disgusted by his changing room story, and ready to defenestrate him for that meat remark. Instead, she seems quite charmed.
I make the necessary introductions, cautiously.
‘Heather, this is Deano. Deano, this is Heather – Nick’s girlfriend.’
I feel the words catch in my throat.
‘Ruby, move up a seat,’ Heather insists. The four of us are sitting at a round table, and currently I am next to Heather, Nick is to her right and then there’s a space for Deano between Nick and me.
‘You want me to move up to Nick?’ I ask, confused.
‘Yeah, I just think it will make for a better environment if we’re sat boy-girl,’ she explains.
‘Ever the school teacher,’ I laugh, although I do move up, because I do really want to sit next to Nick.
A waiter is straight over to take our order now that everyone is here, clearly annoyed at us for holding up proceedings.
After ordering our drinks (their strongest white wine in the biggest glass they can find for me) a waiter comes by to give us our menus.
I cast an eye over the sticky pages, but nothing jumps out at me. It’s your usual pub food, nothing special, and I don’t imagine any of it is going to knock my socks off.
‘Chicken salad, easy,’ Deano announces, slapping his menu closed before sitting back in his chair.
‘I’m a vegan,’ Heather starts, to which I roll my eyes. Five minutes before she mentioned it, that’s got to be some kind of record. ‘But I appreciate that you need meat, given that you’re a professional athlete.’
Nick and I exchange a surprised glance, because that’s not like Heather at all.
‘And I suppose you’ll be having a steak,’ Nick says to me quietly, as Heather and Deano chat. And while that would be my first choice usually, in the interest of making Nick jealous, I’m going to take a stand of healthy solidarity with my man.
‘Actually, I think I’m going to have a salad too,’ I inform him. ‘We like to eat healthy, don’t we, babe?’ I say in Deano’s direction, but he’s too busy talking about himself and Heather is too busy giggling.
Nick takes a second to acknowledge Heather’s bizarre behaviour, pulling a face before turning back to me.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks me.
‘What do you mean?’ I reply.
‘You love steak. And you love upsetting Heather. So why are you ordering a salad? You’ve always told me that salad was grazing for your rare steak if it got hungry,’ Nick reminds me. ‘So what gives?’
I shrug my shoulders.
‘Mate, you’re always telling me to make better choices and to be healthier. So what’s the problem?’
‘You’ve always ignored me,’ he says, speaking softly enough so that only I can hear him. ‘You don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not to impress anyone – especially not this clown.’
We both glance over at Deano, who is downing his pint in one go as Heather watches on, impressed.
‘You’re not jealous are you, Nick?’ I can’t help but ask as the corners of my mouth pull into a slight smile.
‘No,’ he replies quickly, defensively even. ‘I just…’ his voice softens again. ‘…I see you do this time and time again, tailor your personality to suit whichever guy you’re dating, and you don’t need to. You just need to be you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Just don’t put all your eggs in this guy’s basket.’
I smile a huge, genuine grin.
‘Well, thank you,’ I tell him. ‘But I know what I’m doing.’
We place our orders and make small talk – well, it’s mostly Heather telling us about her students. As dull as this is to listen to, it’s stopping Deano saying stupid stuff, and it’s disguising the fact that Nick is just sitting there, silent, with a face like thunder.
‘I had to cover this Key Stage 2 science class today,’ she starts. ‘So I handed out the books and wrote the questions about the universe on the board as instructed. When you cover lessons you just do what you’re asked and then sit back and make sure the kids don’t harm themselves or each other, but this inquisitive-looking eleven-year-old got up from his desk, walked up to me and asked: “Miss, do you believe in aliens?”’
‘What did you tell him?’ Deano asks, curiously.
‘I told him that they certainly do exist, as there is no way we can possibly know everything about outside our own universe, so why wouldn’t there be life elsewhere?’
In the interest of trying to befriend Heather, I don’t say what I would like to say, which is: good work, Heather, telling a bunch of kids during a biology lesson that aliens definitely exist – they’ll probably write that in an exam. I keep my mouth shut.
‘And do you know what he told me?’ she asks us.
We all shake our heads.
‘He told me that he thinks aliens do exist, and that some live amongst us. That they’re here to film a reality TV shows about our species. He thinks that they’re using special technology to make themselves invisible to us and then filming what they do to us. And do you know what he thinks they do for this reality TV?’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘He thinks that when we can’t find things, like our phones where we left them, that the aliens have moved them just to toy with us. Or that when we fall over seemingly nothing, it’s the aliens tripping us up. He thinks their technology is so advanced, that all we’re good for is making fun of for laughs. He’s eleven years old.’
Her eyes widen as she reminds us of this fact.
‘Wow,’ I can’t help but say. ‘That’s…wow.’
Deano just laughs.
‘Well, I find it hard to believe there’s anyone out there smarter than us,’ he claims.
‘Really?’ Nick pipes up. ‘You find it hard to believe there is anyone smarter? You?’
‘What do you mean?’ Deano asks.
Oh, for God’s sake.
‘Food is here,’ I say brightly, eyeballing the waiter on his way over to us. He places our dishes in front of us, so we all tuck in and silence falls upon the table. Well, almost silence. The sound of Deano chomping on his chicken salad is so loud – probably because noises are echoing around his open mouth as he chews. We all take it in turns to glance up and smile awkwardly as we eat, but the conversation just isn’t flowing. This is kind of a disaster. I’m supposed to be showing Nick what an awesome date I am, and how much fun I have with Deano, but the only person who is jealous at this table is me, of other people’s food, because I fucking hate salad.
The waiter clears our plates away so I take that as my cue to try and get the conversation going again, and to try and actually achieve something, anything, that I set out to do tonight.
‘So, Deano has a big game coming up,’ I tell them as I squeeze his hand with faux-pride. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘Some French team, we’ll crush them.’
I give his hand another squeeze, but it’s like holding hands with a mannequin. He’s just not giving me anything back, nothing at all I can work with, and nothing at all that’s going to make Nick jealous. Deano, seemingly unaware of the physical affection I’m trying to give him, pulls his hand out from under mine, causing my wrist to hit the table. I watch anger fill Nick’s eyes, so I think fast to distract him.
‘Nick is a bit of sportsman, aren’t you?’ I say.
‘Cricket,’ Nick replies. ‘Played a bit at uni, don’t get much time these days.’
‘That’s your fault, pal,’ Deano tells him, shrugging his big, strong shoulders casually. ‘I always make time for rugby.’
‘It’s your job,’ Nick reminds him. ‘My job is being a doctor. We might not be “crushing” any teams, but we give plenty of diseases and illnesses a run for their money.’
‘More exciting than cricket then,’ he laughs. ‘Hardly what you’d call a sport.’
‘No,’ Nick replies. ‘I should be playing rugby, getting my head kicked in so that I can be an absolute moron.’
‘What do you mean?’ Deano asks.
‘Oh my God,’ Nick laughs. ‘You’re so dumb, you don’t even know when people are telling you that you’re dumb.’
‘OK, calm down,’ Heather insists, placing a hand on Nick’s bicep.
Deano might be dumb, but not so much that he doesn’t realise Nick just offended him.
‘Come on then, doc, let’s take this outside,’ he shouts, pushing his chair out suddenly, standing up, beating a fist on his own chest like a gorilla.
‘Because that’s how civilised adults behave,’ Nick replies sarcastically.
‘That’s how I show you who is the dumb one,’ Deano shouts back.
That doesn’t even make any sense, my God, he really is so dumb.
I look over at Heather, to exchange a glance with her, to ask her with my eyes what we’re supposed to do, but she’s too busy watching Deano getting angry, gazing up at him in what seems like adoration, biting her lip. I don’t think she’ll be happy when he punches her boyfriend’s face in, which seems very likely at this particular moment.
‘Heather,’ I say, but it falls on deaf ears. ‘Heather,’ I try again a little louder. She looks at me. ‘We can take care of the bill, just take Nick home to bed before this escalates. I’ll calm Deano down, don’t worry.’
‘OK,’ she replies, grabbing her things. ‘Come on, babe.’
Nick reluctantly stands up and tucks his chair under the table, all the while maintaining eye contact with Deano, who looks so ready for a fight he’s done everything but smash a bottle on the table, ready to glass him.
Once the two of them have left, and the audience we seem to have attracted go back to their meals, Deano sits back down. He looks at me, expectantly. I’m not sure if he’s expecting an apology or a thank you or what, but he isn’t getting anything of the sort.
‘Just so you know,’ I tell him, grabbing a menu from a passing waiter. ‘I’m definitely having dessert.’