13 dates, p.1
13 Dates, page 1
ALSO BY MATT DUNN
Best Man
The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook
From Here to Paternity
Ex-Girlfriends United
The Good Bride Guide
The Accidental Proposal
A Day at the Office
What Might Have Been
Home
A Christmas Day at the Office
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Matt Dunn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781612185798
ISBN-10: 1612185797
Cover design by Lisa Horton
For Tina. Forever.
CONTENTS
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1.
I fall in love with Angel the moment I see her.
Though when I think about this later, I realise it’s before I see her – more accurately, when I hear her, in Starbucks (and even more accurately, at 12.46 p.m. on Saturday, 6 May, 2017). She’s standing in front of me in the queue, and unlike the people before her, who all seem to have ordered their coffee just the way they want it in terms of type, strength, size, temperature, and almost what the cow that provided the milk’s been eating, like their lives depend on getting it right, when it comes to her turn, Angel just stares up at the menu board as if she’s only just spotted it.
‘Next,’ says the barista impatiently. He looks like he’s been put together in the Starbucks factory – slightly too-bushy beard, shiny, pomaded, slicked-into-a-huge-quiff hair, shirtsleeves rolled up just enough to expose the tattoos on his forearms – and his brusque enquiry makes Angel jump.
‘Are you sure? Only I can’t see any racks of clothes, and it says “Starbucks” on your apron . . .’ She fixes him with what I imagine (because I haven’t seen her face yet) is a smile, even though it isn’t returned very sincerely, and there and then I’m struck by just how attractive, how sexy, how . . . mesmerising, a GSOH can be. ‘What’s good here?’
‘The coffee.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll have one of those.’
The barista sighs. ‘Which one of those?’
Angel peers up at the board again (not the done thing in Starbucks, apparently, given the tutting coming from the queue behind me), folds her arms, then simply says, ‘Flat white?’ like she’s guessing the final answer on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and actually has no idea what a flat white is. Though in her defence, she possibly hasn’t, because this is Richmond (West London, not Yorkshire), a town that gentrified when Shoreditch was still in short trousers (metaphorically, as opposed to ones that show a bit of mankle), and nowadays is more hip replacement than hipster.
In truth, I don’t really notice her until she speaks, not because she doesn’t look good from behind – she’s tall, slim, with a ton of bright-red hair piled messily on top of her head, and wearing a pair of workout pants and a figure-hugging neon T-shirt; and I’m that simplest of Pavlovian life forms, the single human male, after all, so of course she’s registered. But even though I’m sure it’s possible to fall in love with someone from behind, the ‘love’ thing doesn’t happen to me until I hear her voice, and mainly because her tone is just so . . . upbeat, I guess. Playful, even when doing something as mundane as ordering a coffee. The kind of voice that if she was a judge kicking your act off Britain’s Got Talent or a doctor giving you some bad news, you probably wouldn’t feel too upset about it.
‘How do you want it?’ says the barista impatiently, perhaps a bit irked at having to spend what must be no more than a second or two longer than usual taking her order.
‘I’m guessing you’d suggest ‘to go’?’
He gives her a look. ‘Extra hot?’
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ says Angel, diffusing his bad mood in an instant, and making me wish desperately that I was someone who someone like Angel would say something like that to. Which is possibly why, when the barista does what I’m suddenly desperate to do, and asks her what her name is, and she says ‘Angel’, I can’t help myself, so I say ‘Angel’ too, just to get the feel of it.
Trouble is, I’ve said it just as the noise from the coffee machine behind the counter stops, so she turns around, and it’s even worse, because she’s gorgeous, in a ‘describe your ideal woman’ kind of way (even though she’s probably not at all what I’d have described before I first saw her), and I suddenly lose all sense of, well, everything.
She smiles at me, her expression a mixture of interest and amusement, her mouth turned up at the sides but her forehead slightly wrinkled, as if she thinks she’s heard something but she’s not sure what, and that’s the moment that seals the deal. But because I’ve just fallen in love – something that’s happened to me, let me think, never in all my thirty-five years – all I can do is stare back at her, and after a second or two she evidently starts to find this a little disconcerting, so she gives an almost-imperceptible shrug as if she’s imagined the whole thing, then turns back towards the counter.
Sensing this is a window of opportunity that might never open again, I mentally kick myself up the backside and take a deep breath. ‘Angel?’
‘Do we know each other?’ she says, glancing over her shoulder at me.
Ever the smooth operator, my mumbled ‘Um, no’ puts us in danger of being over almost before we’ve even begun, though I just about keep the window cracked open with my hastily tacked-on ‘That’s really your name?’
She nods. ‘Angel by name, Angel by nature . . . Actually, scratch that second part.’ She flashes me a smile. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘No, no, it absolutely should be,’ I say, then worry that sounds cheesier than it was meant to. ‘In the sense that you can, of course, choose to call yourself exactly what you wish, and not that you are an angel. Though I’m sure you’re very—’
‘It’s short for “Angela”,’ says Angel, counting out her two pounds sixty and handing it over to the barista.
‘Right.’ My heart’s pounding, and for some reason I can’t seem to formulate my thoughts to concentrate on anything but Angel’s absolute loveliness, because it takes me an uncomfortably long time to come up with: ‘Not really short, then.’
‘Shorter.’
‘True.’ I think for a moment, aware that I have to be nimble on my feet. But like the uncoordinated old weatherman who’s always the first to be booted off Strictly, the best follow-up I can manage is: ‘Well, I think it’s a beautiful name. “Angel”, I mean. Not that there’s anything wrong with “Angela” . . .’
‘Thank you. I’ll be sure to pass that on to my parents,’ she says, stepping around to the side of the counter. ‘Seeing as they’re the ones who chose it.’
‘Right. Um, thanks. So . . .’
There’s more tutting from behind me, which I assume is a criticism of my chat-up technique, until I realise Angel’s sidestep has put me at the front of the queue – for ordering a coffee, at least. Hurriedly, I move into the space Angel’s just vacated, and seeing as I’ve never been in here before, I order the first thing that comes into my head.
‘I’ll have what she’s having.’
‘Name?’ says the barista.
‘Angel,’ I say, assuming he wants to know who ‘she’ is.
‘Your name.’
‘Noah,’ I say, loudly enough for Angel to hear, even though I suspect the window of opportunity has already slammed shut – on my fingers. And while I’m grateful that Angel now knows my name, I’m a little mystified as to why they should be asking. ‘Um, why?’
‘For the coffee,’ says the barista, as if explaining something to an unruly toddler, then nods towards where a different man with an identical hair-and-beard-and-tattoos combination (which I’m beginning to suspect is part of the uniform) is fussing over a machine that wouldn’t look out of place in NASA Mission Control. And while I’m confused about why the coffee needs to know my name, perhaps this is some new ethical approach, like carbon offsetting: I know what I’m drinking, so it’s only fair that what I’m drinking knows me. ‘So . . .’
‘So?’ I say, at the precise moment I realise he’s indicating the display on the till.
I manage to find the exact change, but instead o
I’m now faced with the dilemma that I don’t have a clue what to do: whether I’m supposed to go and sit down and someone will bring my coffee to me, or go and stand where Angel is waiting (which I don’t dare do, because then I might have to talk to her). But Angel seems to sense my discomfort, because she does that nodding thing while widening her eyes, which I take as an invitation to step out of the queue and join her.
‘Thanks.’
‘Your first time?’
I’m not sure whether she means being here in Starbucks or ordering a flat white, but thinking about it, the answer’s the same to both of those questions.
‘Is it that obvious?’
Angel makes a face that’s part sympathy, part pity.
‘I don’t normally like these places, but I’m on my way to a’ – I stop talking for a moment, worried that admitting to Angel that I’m on my way to a blind date might not be the best approach – ‘meeting, and I needed the toilet’ – I hesitate again, because Angel’s making the ‘too much information’ face, then decide I’m already in too far – ‘and some, you know, meetings, are already stressful enough without the extra pressure of a full bladder, and I don’t like to have to go to the toilet in the first half hour of meeting – I mean, a meeting – partly because then I think the person I’m, well . . .’
‘Meeting?’ suggests Angel, so I nod enthusiastically, mainly because I’m relieved she’s still paying attention.
‘. . . will think I’m doing that because I’m nervous, and even though I am nervous, I don’t want them to know that, or use the time that I’m in the toilet as an opportunity to form a negative opinion about me, or even leave . . .’ I take a quick breath, sensing now would be a good time for a sprint finish to the end of my story. ‘Anyway, I was only in the queue because I felt guilty about coming in to Starbucks and using their toilet without actually buying anything, so I decided I should get a coffee.’
Angel waits until she’s sure I’ve finished, then she narrows her eyes. ‘Even though that’s a bit counterproductive?’
‘How so?’
‘Firstly, you’re replacing the liquid you’ve just gotten rid of.’
I shrug at her, insofar as you can shrug at someone. ‘Circle of life, and all that.’
Angel makes the ‘that was deep’ face. ‘And secondly, caffeine’s a diuretic. So you’re actually going to end up needing the toilet more.’
‘Ah.’
‘Though you probably shouldn’t feel guilty about using a Starbucks toilet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Given their alleged non-payment of corporation tax.’
She says that rather loudly, but the staff behind the counter don’t seem to notice. Or care.
‘Right,’ I say, giving her a conspiratorial wink, even though I don’t actually know what she’s talking about – and which, when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the counter, possibly looks a bit creepy. And creepy’s the last thing I want Angel to think I am, mainly because – and the revelation almost makes me go weak at the knees – something’s telling me she’s the one. And when you’ve never met ‘the one’, when you’ve had enough trouble simply trying to meet ‘the next one’, when you’ve always assumed the process would be like going on a long drive and eventually realising you’d arrived at your destination, rather than a head-on collision before you’ve even got out of first gear, and suddenly you find yourself standing right in front of the person you know you could fall in love with, if you haven’t already . . .
I start to panic, worried that at any moment Angel’s coffee’s going to be ready, while mine will still be in production, and unless I can come up with some wonderfully charming line, she’s going to be out of my life faster than you can say ‘White Chocolate Mocha Light Frappuccino’ (whatever that is). But thankfully, in an economy-of-scale kind of way, and no doubt attempting to maximise the profits that – according to Angel – Starbucks allegedly doesn’t declare, the barista has made our coffees simultaneously.
‘Two flat whites,’ he tells us, placing our drinks side by side on the counter as if they, at least, are a couple.
‘Oh, we’re not together,’ says Angel, and although my ‘unfortunately’ gets a smile, I’m so convinced I’ve blown it that it’s all I can do to grab the nearest one and make a run for it. But I’ve only managed to get a yard or so when Angel taps me on the shoulder.
‘You’ve got my coffee.’
‘What?’
‘My coffee.’ I follow Angel’s gaze towards my cup, which I only now notice has ‘Angel’ written in black pen on the side.
I know it’s futile, but I go through the motions of checking hers, then act surprised to find my name – or at least, ‘NOEL’ – scrawled on it.
‘They’re the same, though?’
‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’
‘Well, both, I suppose.’ I hold my coffee next to hers for a moment so she can compare the two. ‘They’re both flat whites.’
‘But that one’s mine. Or at least, it was meant to be.’
As was us meeting, I want to say, though in its place, the best I can come up with is: ‘Don’t you just want to drink mine instead?’
‘It wouldn’t feel right.’
‘Even though they’re exactly the same?’
Angel peers at her cup suspiciously. ‘But this one’s got your name on it.’
‘That’s not actually my name.’
‘Why would you give them a false name?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, then . . .’ Angel is giving me a look which seems to suggest she’s enjoying toying with me. Or that I’m a little bit crazy. And right now, I can’t argue with her on the second point.
‘No, they made a mistake.’
‘As did you,’ says Angel.
I don’t quite know how to take that, so I concede defeat and hand her my (or rather, her) coffee, and Angel lets out a satisfied sigh.
‘I’ve seen complex hostage swaps that were easier,’ she says, which makes me burst out laughing.
‘Okay. Well . . .’ And then, because I can’t think of anything else to say, I say ‘Cheers’, and ‘clink’ my cup against hers (a little too enthusiastically, perhaps, because the ‘clinking’ action spills a little bit of my coffee through the hole in the lid, which nearly lands on Angel’s feet), then look around for somewhere to sit. There’s a table in the corner with a couple of chairs, or a single uncomfortable-looking stool by the wooden ledge thing in the window, so I do the decent thing and aim for the window seat, but just as I’m about to sit down, a large guy in a leather jacket muscles past me and nabs the stool from under my nose.
I’m thinking about remonstrating with him, even though he’s twice my size, when I’m aware of someone standing behind me, and when I turn around, it’s Angel.
‘There’s a table there,’ she says, nodding towards the corner of the café.
‘You take it.’
‘No, that’s fine.’
‘I insist.’
‘Please.’
‘No, honestly, I’ll stand . . .’ I’m aware this is getting ridiculous, and chances are, two more men in leather jackets are going to come along and nab it, but as Marlon – my number two at work, and the person the inventor of Tinder probably had in mind when they were designing their app – always says, where women are concerned, ‘if you snooze, you lose’ (and if that’s the case, then compared to him, I’m currently the Rip Van Winkle of dating).
‘Suit yourself,’ says Angel. ‘But there are two chairs.’
It takes me a second or two too long to cotton on to her meaning – something I know she can tell, given her ‘Duh!’ response to my awkward ‘Are you suggesting we sit . . . together?’ Then, as she starts towards the table, I sigh loudly, as if I’m doing her a huge favour, and quickly follow her. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I won’t bother you.’
As Angel’s eye-rolling tells me that ship has already sailed, I hang back to let her choose the chair she prefers, then move the other one to a sort of no-man’s-land position, not too far away from the table that I have to stretch to reach my coffee, just close enough that the couple at the next table won’t feel I’m trying to eavesdrop on them, and sit down.
