The image of you, p.3
The Image of You, page 3
‘Even jeans. Do you?’ He raised his eyebrow playfully, to show his surprise. Just one—channelling James Bond.
‘Yes, even though getting a decent fit with denim is the very devil,’ she said, grinning.
‘Indeed.’
‘You have to try on dozens and dozens of pairs before you find the right one. I’m always returning stuff. I’m on first-name terms with the man at the Post Office counter. Maybe I should date him.’
He laughed at her joke, the correct amount, not too heartily, that would have been offensive.
She carried on, ‘I suppose if I can get jeans that fit, via online, then...’
‘Why not a man?’ He finished off her sentence, helpfully.
‘Exactly.’
‘You get a wider choice of everything online; why would I leave something as important as finding love to chance?’ she asked.
He should probably run a mile. The ‘L’ word twice in five minutes. They wanted different things. She was clearly husband hunting, and he wasn’t ready to settle down. But if he was, he supposed he might look for a sweet girl, who blushed and charmed. Someone who made his stomach flip when she straightened her back and jutted her chin. He sat firm.
Shyly, she looked at him from under her eyelashes. He smiled back, warm, hazy. To be fair, he had to admit, she wasn’t out to trick anyone.
‘What about you, Gus?’
‘Me?’ Gus? Yes, him obviously.
‘What made you try online dating?’
Nick hesitated as he tried to think of something more impressive than the truth. The waiter arrived with their first course, which bought him a moment.
‘Oh, the usual, my friends thought it was a good idea,’ he replied, evasively.
‘Worried about you, are they?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Are you—’ She stopped herself. ‘Oh, it’s none of my business.’ She waved her hand, as if trying to bat away the half-articulated thought, yet it sat between them alongside the bread basket.
‘Go on. You can ask me anything.’ Because he didn’t have to answer her.
She cocked her head to one side again. She somehow reminded him of the King Charles spaniel he’d had when he was a boy. Coco, such a sweet little dog. Not that Anna’s tongue was hanging out. Her lips were moist, inviting, sensual. On someone else Nick might have identified them as blow job lips, but this woman emitted a particular freshness that negated any such thought. She smelt of fabric conditioner and (he was probably imagining this) butter icing.
‘I just wondered whether you’ve recently been in a relationship.’ Her face collapsed, mortified. ‘Sorry. Crazy thing to bring up. I just thought, with your friends being concerned, that maybe you’d just had your heart broken.’
He had pressed ‘wink’ on Anna’s profile because she had big brown eyes that smouldered and big round boobs that beckoned;there was more to her than that. He could tell as much already. She was sincere and hopeful.
It was a bit off-putting.
Well, not off-putting exactly. Overwhelming.
Actually, shame-inducing.
After all, he hadn’t even used his real name online, whereas she was an open book. She was clearly searching for someone to trust. He felt a bit sorry for her, internet dating sites weren’t the place for that. He also felt a touch protective of her, suddenly irritated by all the lying cheats out there who fictionalized their profiles in order to seduce. Including himself. He felt shoddy.
‘I don’t know about broken.’ He picked up the bottled water, glad they’d bought Evian rather than requesting tap; she was a mineral water sort of girl, worth that extra bit of effort. ‘Bruised.’ It wasn’t true but it was what she wanted to hear. If he said that his heart was numb, not through pain or disappointment, but due to boredom, he doubted she’d react well.
‘I see.’
She nodded and it amazed him, how such a slight movement, just a commonplace everyday gesture meant that he had a need to swallow, to run his tongue around his teeth. His mouth was as dry as a desert.
‘Don’t be embarrassed, Gus, I’m twenty-nine, you’re thirty, it would be impossible to reach this age and not have experienced some level of disappointment in the arena of love.’
Really? The arena of love? He wanted to laugh. Not at her, though. With her. She was obviously nervous, and that was sweet.
She picked up her napkin and buried her face in it. ‘What is wrong with me? Who in the history of humankind has ever used that expression without irony? Or at all?’ she sputtered. He gently tugged at the napkin; laughing, she relinquished it, then quickly reached for her wine glass, took a sip and added, ‘I’ve experienced some level of exquisite happiness too—of course.’
Briefly, intermittently? He was suddenly curious. Who had made her happy? How? Her beam widened a fraction further, he hadn’t thought it feasible. He couldn’t in that moment imagine any man ever hurting her, bruising or breaking her heart, cheating on her. Why would they? Reading his mind, she filled in the blanks on her romantic history.
‘Sadly, it’s been my experience that men just can’t keep it in their trousers.’
He nearly choked on his drink.
‘Not that I’m suggesting they shouldn’t get it out of their trousers ever. I mean if they’re in a relationship, then they most certainly should. I’m not celibate or anything,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s just that I’m looking for a one-woman guy and—you know what?—I’m pretty fearful that they are as rare as unicorns.’
Nick shifted in his chair. He liked to think of himself as a faithful sort of guy but he was not absolutely so. No, not really. The fairest way to explain it was that, occasionally, there had been a blurring of the time frames around the beginning of one relationship and the end of another. And sometimes, a bit of a misunderstanding when it came to the exclusivity clause whilst casually dating. Look, he didn’t demand it; so why should he offer it? He didn’t think he was the worst guy in the global history of sexual relations. Men did tend to cheat. He thought there was probably something in the theory that it was a genetic thing. Men were supposed to sow their seed widely and all that, it was for the good of the human race. Monogamy was unrealistic. Why would the internet have been invented if men were supposed to be monogamous? However, looking at Anna’s huge puppy-dog eyes across the table he didn’t know if that was true. Or at least fair. It felt a bit sordid. Daft.
For a moment or two they both concentrated on their food, making small approving noises and chewing carefully.
‘And how has it been working out for you? Have you been on many dates?’ he asked. It wasn’t just politeness that drove him to inquire.
‘A few.’
Clearly none of them had been an earth-shattering success. She was here with him, wasn’t she? She hadn’t found Prince Charming yet.
‘Any especially notable ones?’ He was fishing.
‘Not really. I’m very familiar with the menu in Starbucks.’
He pulled a face, showing his disappointment with the lack of originality of a date in a coffee-shop chain.
‘I’ve also met one guy for a wander around the National Portrait Gallery, I played mini-golf with another, and I’ve been on the London Eye.’ She shrugged and smiled at the same time; he believed the shrug the most. ‘I’m seeing a bit of London.’
‘What was wrong with those guys?’
‘Nothing was wrong exactly. It was more a case that they were just not right enough.’
‘Score?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Out of ten.’
‘Oh, I see. I thought you meant, did I—’ She didn’t finish the sentence.
He smiled to himself, glad that her mind was wandering in that direction.
‘Most of them would score a five or a six out of ten.’
He pulled his face into an exaggerated grimace. It earned him a giggle.
‘No chemistry?’
‘Exactly. And you?’
He’d had dozens of dates on the back of Tinder and the other sites. Lost count. Most of the time he scored. Literally. Obviously, sex at the end of a date meant the metaphorical score was at least seven out of ten, because sex was sex; some of the women had been so hot and willing he would have to rate them nine. Naturally, he couldn’t say so.
‘Same thing, really,’ he mumbled. ‘Have you had any disasters?’
‘No axe-wielding psychopaths as yet. I’m pretty choosy about who I decide to meet up with. From their profiles and the pre-texts it’s relatively easy to rule out the weirdos and jerks. Of which there are very many.’
‘There are?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Tell me about those,’ he encouraged, mischievously. Recalling disastrous dates had to have the effect of throwing a flattering light his way.
‘There was one guy who said he had a thing about feet and couldn’t wait to smell mine.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. Then there was the one who wanted to comb my hair with the brush that once belonged to his mother.’
‘Weird.’
‘She was dead.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Quite. Then there was the guy who asked if he could bring his mother along to meet me.’
Nick started to chuckle. He couldn’t tell if she was teasing him. She seemed in earnest.
‘One bloke told me that he was wearing women’s knickers as he texted me because it made him feel empathetic towards me.’
Nick couldn’t help but laugh out loud now.
‘Another sang the whole of George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” the first time we spoke on the phone. Hardly subtle. Tuneless to boot.’
An enormous, genuine guffaw. She was playing with him. Surely. She took a sip of wine, batted her eyelashes and beamed right back at him, neither confirming nor denying.
‘You know, I have something I need to tell you straight away. A confession.’
‘Oh.’ She looked instantly wary.
‘My name isn’t Gus.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not called Gus.’
‘You’re Angus? It’s short for Angus?’
‘Well, yes, Gus is short for Angus. And it is my middle name. I’m actually called Nicholas. Nick, really, to my friends. Nicholas Angus Hudson.’
‘Your friends call you Nick?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why did your profile say Gus?’ She paused, fork halfway to her luscious lips. She looked sad. Disappointed.
He shrugged, ashamed. ‘I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want people I know knowing I was looking online.’
‘People you know? Like a wife you mean?’
‘God no!’ He said it loudly, other people in the restaurant turned to stare. He moved his head closer to hers, locked eyes and tried his very best to look sincere. Suddenly it was important to him that she believed him. Even if he was telling a lie. ‘I mean the guys I work with, clients, my boss. Those sort of people.’
‘Your boss is on AllThat dating site?’ She arched her eyebrows.
He allowed himself a smile. ‘Maybe, you never can tell.’
‘There’s no shame in it.’
‘No, I see that now. But you said yourself that you’ve met more weirdos and jerks than normal guys. I didn’t want people judging me.’ He’d actually always gone under the name Gus because it was harder for women to track him down afterwards if they were so inclined. However, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Anna looked him up afterwards. In fact, he rather hoped she did want to stay in touch. He couldn’t explain it.
She stared at him, weighing him up. Eventually she murmured, ‘You’re neither weird nor a jerk. But then, you’re not normal either.’ He looked perplexed, then relieved when she admitted, ‘I think you might be quite special, Nicholas Angus Hudson. I do.’
Three
Anna
He didn’t try for sex?’ Zoe sounded astonished.
‘No. He just kissed me on the cheek and said goodnight.’ It was a warm, soft kiss. He had good lips. Not too sloppy or wet, or dry, or nippy. Just right.
‘And he was outside your flat?’
‘Yes, I told you, we shared a cab but he didn’t get out of the cab, he took it on.’
‘Did you ask him to come up for coffee?’
‘Oh, come on, Zoe. You know that’s not my style. That question cannot be delivered innocently, at least not after a date. I might as well have said the crop, mask and condoms are upstairs.’
‘Are they?!’ Zoe sounded excited, almost impressed.
‘No, of course not. I’m joking,’ mumbled Anna, a tiny bit sulkily. ‘Not unless there are any stashed away after your last visit.’
Zoe sighed and then pronounced, ‘I don’t think he can be that into you.’
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’
‘Well then, is he gay?’
‘No.’
‘You seem confident. Was he a bad dresser?’
‘No, actually very stylish. Smart.’
‘Smart!’ Zoe repeated the word with so much disgust Anna wondered whether she had just inadvertently said ‘herpes’. ‘Just a bit of a drip then? Did he have a limp handshake? Sweaty palms?’
‘No. A firm, dry handshake.’
‘Well, what other explanation can there be?’
Anna sighed. ‘I think he’s a gentleman.’
‘They don’t exist, at least not outside Doris Day movies. How can you still believe in all that crap?’
But Anna did believe. She believed in gentlemen, knights in shining armour, The One, love at first sight and everlasting love. The whole hog. Admittedly, of late, her belief had been tested to the limits. It was difficult to stay eternally optimistic in the face of such mounting evidence to the contrary, although last night, meeting Nick, well, it had given her renewed hope.
It had been a perfect evening. Ten out of ten. She wasn’t an especially vain woman, far from it, but she thought that Zoe was wrong, he was into her. She was almost confident enough to be certain. They’d really hit it off. They hadn’t stopped talking all evening and they’d had three courses plus coffee. He wasn’t one of those who just talked about himself either; they talked about her a lot too. He wanted to know what she did for a living. Usually, when she told someone that she worked for a drop-in day centre for the vulnerable and homeless, she was greeted with one of two reactions. Most people said she must be a saint, they gushed that it was wonderful that there were places for ‘those type of people to go, so reassuring’, but then they commented that they could never do it personally and, following that, they always seemed embarrassed to admit to their own line of work, especially if they worked in anything fun or frivolous. Ironically, her job—which her parents thought of as a poor reflection of her education level and intellect—intimidated people. The other common reaction was that people remarked that it couldn’t possibly pay well and that anyway, really, there was no need for homelessness, ‘Not down here in the south, at least. I see signs in shop windows all the time advertising jobs. Work, pay your bills, look after yourself. Simple.’ She knew it was hopeless and pointless trying to explain the complexities of mental health, the pressures of susceptibility and the overwhelming feelings of helplessness to this sort of character—the sort who thought that everyone ought to be able to tough out the bad times—and yet she never could quite stop herself from trying. Again, ever the unequivocal optimist. Not that her arguments on social deprivation, trauma, domestic violence or lack of opportunities ever made a difference. Quite often, announcing what she did for a living stopped the conversation altogether; people assumed she was a holier-than-thou, vegan, tree-hugging crunchy.
He’d shown the exact right amount of interest. ‘What goes on there then? On a day-to-day basis, I mean. Talk me through your average day.’
‘Well, we offer practical support including subsidized meals, access to healthcare and laundry and showers. Basic yet essential stuff that the rest of us take for granted. Not that there’s anything wrong in taking it for granted,’ she’d added hurriedly. ‘That’s actually my dream, that one day we get to a point where everyone can take this stuff for granted.’
He’d nodded, understanding and encouraging her to go on.
‘A big part of it is offering housing and benefits advice too. We have our own welfare officer who comes in to do that and to assist with court appeals. That sort of thing.’ She wondered whether it was all sounding a bit heavy. ‘There’s also a bike club offering affordable bicycles and maintenance that’s staffed by a volunteer.’
‘What’s your role?’
‘I’m the administration manager, sort of front of house. When I’m not dealing with admissions, volunteers or staff issues I help out wherever I can. In the kitchen, cleaning, lending an ear, making calls and writing letters. Whatever is needed.’ A lot was needed;she could only do her bit. She was learning to accept that. She couldn’t fix everyone and everything. Although she wanted it all to be better. ‘The centre is a much-needed base for many of the homeless in the local community and the local oldies who live alone. It’s shocking to think when there’s all this,’ she’d paused and gestured around the restaurant full of stuffed suits, ‘just a few miles down the road, there are people without food and basic shelter.’
‘Sobering thought.’ He’d taken a sip of his wine and she could tell he was thinking about the issues but he wasn’t cowed by them.
It could be overwhelming if you allowed it to be. The trick was not to allow that. You were no help to anyone if you became despondent or emotional.
She smiled again. ‘It’s very rewarding. It’s called Drop In. Our guests are always making jokes about it being a drop-in for drop-outs. You have to have a sense of humour, right? What about you?’
