Chapter Twenty-Nine
I’ve got to try and move on. I’ve got to try and move on. Sasha repeated it like a mantra.
Could it really be over a year since Kirk walked out the door that final time? Was it really that long? How could she have stuck so vehemently in the past, when he had so effortlessly moved on? She had to catch up with him. She had to procure someone to be her ‘other half’ and dangle him on her arm like a proud trophy. Where was this Mr Right that everyone proclaimed was waiting around the corner, like some sad weirdo in a deserted alleyway, ready to pounce on her? Where was he?
Sasha began to lose hope that he even existed at all. After all, she was now forty-one. If he hadn’t presented himself by now, it looked like he wasn’t going to bother, was he?
Trust me to get stuck with a lazy bastard, she thought. One who doesn’t show up for years.
It didn’t seem fair, in her humble opinion. How come some girls met their childhood sweetheart at the tender age of seventeen, married him and lived happily ever after? How come their Mr Right showed up so early, while hers took forever?
Trying to brush away her self-pitying thoughts, she turned her attention to her online profile. If Mr Right wasn’t going to show up on her doorstep, she’d better go looking for him.
To her part-horror and part-amusement, she noticed a guy called Chris on there. Like Will, Chris had messaged her ten years ago. In fact, he was still using the same picture from all those years ago too.
Okay, that’s the first red flag, she thought. He clearly looks miles older in real life by now, but is using his ‘best’ pic – even if it is years out of date.
Instantly Sasha chided herself. Realistically, she took stock of her own photos. Were they not four or five years old? Had she not put on a stone (at least) since that profile picture? So she could talk.
But the truth is, that picture garnered her lots more clicks than any of her others. She was wearing a tight red top in it for starters. Probably a push-up bra underneath, if memory served her.
The bright red colour was eye-catching amidst a sea of other profile pictures. Then, in the picture, she was wearing black shorts with patterned black tights. She’d been doing a lot of walking at the time so the pins were looking pretty toned. The fact that she mostly worked from home now and never walked the length of herself was irrelevant in her opinion.
If she ever changed the photo to a more recent one – a close-up of her (with wrinkles in some places), she received very few clicks – so it was a no-brainer in her opinion. Did that make her one of those deceptive weirdos off the internet who posted old photos of herself? She would have to admit that she was guilty as charged. Therefore, she couldn’t really judge Chris.
As the messages flowed back and forth between them, he seemed quite promising. He was easy to talk to. He asked open questions. He seemed to have a modicum of intelligence. And he was pretty okay looking.
Sasha mused with interest that if she and this Chris character clicked in real life, the irony would not escape her. What if her Mr Right had messaged her ten years ago and she was only getting around to meeting him now? She could forgive the Universe its delay, if it was her fault for not pulling her finger out.
Chris suggested he phone her one night. This was another tick in his favour. A phone-call prior to a coffee date was always a great idea. If he was able to string a few sentences together on the phone, chances were the date would be bearable. If, however, he sounded shy, uncomfortable and hard to talk to, the coffee date was inevitably going to be too much like hard work. Did she really want to take time out of her weekend to get all dolled up and make her way into town to meet a total stranger, only to discover that talking to him was like trying to draw blood from a stone? Hardly.
However, he phoned her. He was chatty. He could string a sentence together. The conversation flowed just fine. He had definite potential. Setting aside that his photo was out of date, he seemed okay! So, when he suggested a coffee on Saturday, it was all systems go.
Sasha ignored the tiny, nagging voice that whined, I don’t have the energy for this any more. I can’t do the endless fishing, the throwing the rod in, the casting about, the discovery that the fish doesn’t suit, the throwing the fish back in again. I’m tired of it all. Where is he?
But there was no point in listening to that self-pitying whine. That whine was not going to get her anywhere.
If she was going to stick to her Year of No Rules plan, she had to follow the pointers one by one and not get side-tracked.
So she made the best effort she could. She wore a dress that flattered her and made her look slimmer. She booked in for a quick wash and blow-dry prior to the date. And she turned up with her best smile and her most positive attitude.
She could see him standing at the doorway waiting for her. She recognised him immediately. At first, she noticed his grey hair.
Oh God. He’s grey. He’s old, she heard her negative voice saying. How could I be going on a first date with an old man? How is this possible?
But she quickly chided herself for being negative, put on her best smile and prepared to make a good effort.
“Hi,” she smiled.
“Hi,” he returned her smile, then gave her an awkward half-hug, half-kiss on the cheek.
First impressions – he’s not bad, actually. Good build. Not fat. Clearly works out. Well dressed. Nice jeans. Smells nice. This is promising!
All the awkward arranging things happened after that. He asked her what she wanted. She offered to get them a seat. And before long, she was sitting upstairs on a two-seater sofa waiting for him.
When he arrived, she had the chance to do a double-take on his build. Really quite nice, actually.
The thought that he had messaged her years before this date danced in the back of her mind like an ironic joke.
Ha ha. I messaged you years ago and you’re only getting around to seeing me now. Some girls have no idea how to spot their Mr Right!
They chatted easily. The conversation flowed.
The only problem was his body language. He folded one leg in the opposite direction from her and he seemed a bit uncomfortable at the two-seater sofa set-up – but apart from that, all was grand.
So when Sasha said her goodbyes and he gave her another awkward half hug/half-kiss on the cheek, she was sure he’d follow up with a text shortly after.
The text would say what a nice time he’d had and he’d love to see her again – maybe this time for dinner? She would agree and they would go on a second date. He would be the perfect gentleman and pay for everything. They’d have several dates like that – dinner, or cinema, or theatre; he would be the perfect gentleman again and never once expect to go back to hers afterwards for a kiss and cuddle or a shag.
On and on they’d date; him treating her like a queen and it all turning out hunky-dory.
However, no text appeared.
An hour passed, no text.
The evening passed, no text.
The ‘three day rule’ passed; no text.
Sasha was puzzled. She was sure they’d got on fine. What on earth could be the problem?
Perhaps he had noticed her one-stone weight gain from her photo and had dumped her into the ‘sad loser who posts old photos’ bin. If that was the case, Sasha reasoned, he was shallow and superficial.
Perhaps he was being a gentleman and expecting her to text him with some ‘thank you very much, it was lovely to meet you’ encouragement. But she refused to do that. That would be chasing him and she had vowed, years ago, never to chase a man. Besides, if he wasn’t alpha male enough to take the bull by the horns, and chase after her, then she wasn’t interested.
No, she clearly had to concede that he just wasn’t keen. That yet again, another one had bitten the dust. And she was one step forwards, one step back.