My phone buzzes, and I put down the copy of Eugene Onegin I bought in my lunchbreak. A message from Chris.
Guess what? I had a date and I managed not to bring up a single fact! Second date already booked in!
I smile.
Awesome, I type back. Who’s the lucky lady?
I watch him typing on screen before a message pings back.
A girl from work actually. She just started a few weeks ago. And guess what? She’s into crafts and painting ceramics too so she didn’t mind me talking about battle games!
She sounds like a keeper! So, what have you got planned for date two? I type back.
I wait a moment for him to reply, before I’m distracted by the sound of Kate’s keys jangling in the front door.
‘Hey,’ she says as she comes into the flat and closes the door behind her.
‘Hey.’ I place my phone down on the arm rest and turn my attention to her as she hangs her coat up. She’s fully made up, with bold red lipstick, lashings of mascara, black skin-tight jeans and a figure-hugging white top. Her hair is wound into a ballerina-style bun, made slightly damp by the drizzle outside.
‘So, I went to the audition for The Mousetrap,’ Kate tells me, as she comes over and flops down onto the sofa.
‘Oh! How was it?’
‘It went pretty well! Think I overdid it at first – bit tinny but once I warmed up, it was fine. Think I won them over in the end.’ She grins.
‘The director said I looked the part. He actually said I look exactly how he’s always imagined Mollie Ralston! I don’t want to get my hopes up but I reckon it’s in the bag!’
‘That’s so cool!’
‘I know!’ Kate gushes, clapping her hands together.
‘It’s a bit scary, leaving the comfort of the Globe but I think it’s time. I haven’t felt this excited since…’ She pauses for thought. ‘God knows!’
Her enthusiasm is so infectious that I can’t help grinning back at her. ‘Did you meet the rest of the cast?’
‘Yeah. I met a couple of other people auditioning. They seemed alright I guess but you know what it’s like.’ Kate rolls her eyes. ‘Everyone sizing each other up.’
‘Yeah,’ I tut. I don’t really know what it’s like but I’ve heard enough stories about bitchy auditions to have a fairly good idea.
‘What are you doing anyway? What are you reading?’
‘Oh, Eugene Onegin,’ I tell her casually. ‘You know, that opera I went to see with Daniel the other day.’
Kate laughs. ‘Wow. You really do have it bad.’
‘I don’t!’ I insist. ‘I’m just… bettering myself. Furthering my knowledge of nineteenth-century Russian literature. Becoming a more cultured, well-rounded individual.’
‘Right.’ Kate snorts. ‘So, when are you seeing him next?’
‘Friday night. Going to his place!’
‘You’re going to his?’ She raises an eyebrow.
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit hasty? You don’t really know this guy. You know what’s going to happen if you go to his.’
‘Well, I hope so. I could do with a bit of Netflix and chill,’ I retort with a dirty laugh. ‘But don’t jinx it!’
Kate rolls her eyes as I touch the wooden part of the arm rest.
Touching wood,’ she scoffs. ‘Honestly, I haven’t had sex for nearly a year now!’ I shudder as I think back to the last time, a half-hearted hump with a horny 22-year-old I met on Tinder who kept calling me ‘mama’.
‘It’s alright for you. You get laid every weekend.’
‘Not every weekend,’ Kate points out. ‘Look, I just want you to be careful. Two dates and you’re going to his, I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ Kate says as she pulls the hairband from her bun.
I sigh. Why can’t anyone just believe in Daniel? I deleted my profile on Dream Dates when I got home after our date last night. I don’t want to let any more random trolls on the internet plant seeds of doubt in my mind about him. There’s a chance I’ve finally got lucky. There’s a chance I’ve finally met a decent guy after enduring seventy-one mind-bendingly terrible dates and I’m sure as hell not going to sour things. Even if it does turn out that I’ve been a naïve fool.
‘Look, Kate,’ I say, a little sternly. ‘I know it might seem a bit fast but I feel like I’ve known him for way longer. It’s weird.’
‘How can you know him so well? You’ve met him twice and every time he’s been flashing the cash at you, trying to win you over with his money.’ Kate runs her fingers through her hair, shaking it out.
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing!’
Kate tuts. ‘What are you like?!’
‘Yes, Daniel’s a bit flash, but he’s a nice guy and anyway, don’t forget, you slept with Max the first night you met him,’ I remind her.
‘Yeah, but that was different,’ Kate insists.
‘How?!’
‘Well, I knew him through other people.’
‘But did you?’
Kate has a tendency to see every actor in London as though they’re connected through some giant network and are all part of one big family.
‘Well, I knew of him. I knew he was normal,’ she says.
‘Daniel’s normal too.’
Kate raises an eyebrow. ‘You found him online a week ago. I’m not trying to be a killjoy here but you don’t really know him, Sophia’.
‘Week? Month? Potato, patato. Anyway, what does it matter?’ I shrug. ‘Why are you so anti-Daniel? You were the one who suggested I join Dream Dates. Without you, none of this would have ever happened.’
Kate shudders a little. ‘So, it’s going to be on my shoulders when you get chopped up into tiny little pieces?’
‘Yep!’
‘Great,’ Kate groans as she gets up off the sofa. ‘I’m starving. Do you want pasta?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
Kate wanders off to the kitchen and starts rummaging around for a pan. I check my phone but Chris hasn’t replied so I pick up my book instead. I’m trying to get into Pushkin’s iambic tetrameter, but my thoughts keep wandering to Daniel. The way he blushed when he told me about Fluffy Bear. His hand on my knee during the opera, his forefinger tracing tiny circles on my inner thigh. The woody smell of his skin. The wistful look in his eyes when I told him about my family holidays in Dorset.
The butterflies I felt after our first date have morphed into something deeper; it’s more than just lust now. I want to talk to him. I want to learn more about him, find out about his past, his hopes and his dreams. I want to see the operas he’s seen, read the books he’s read. I want to familiarise myself with the landscape of his mind. I haven’t felt this way about anyone for such a long time. And the amazing thing is that Daniel seems to feel exactly the same way about me. He messaged me a few days ago to tell me that he missed me.
‘What are you doing?’
I told him I was at work, editing a paper. I may have left out the fact that it was about intestinal tract micro-bacteria.
I want to see your office. Take a photo. I want to see what you see.
I took a photo of my desk with my crappy old PC, scattered papers and my wrinkly malnourished pot plant. For the first time, I actually regretted not decorating my desk. Sandra has a matching stripy stationery holder and picture frame (although it does display a photo of Betsy).
I think your cactus might be thirsty :P
I told him I wanted to see what he could see and he sent me a photo of giant mound of golden curtain tassels at the trade show in Milan.
Now it’s become our thing. I take photos of little things that I find charming or interesting throughout the day: the doorknob in the shape of a stag’s head that I noticed on the way to the work this morning; the reflection of a street lamp on a puddle; a jam jar filled with wilted chrysanthemums next to a cup of steaming coffee in a café. Daniel’s photos have been of planes taking off at Heathrow; a light-filled swanky hotel lobby; rolls of expensive fabric spread across a measuring table. I feel like my eyes have been opened as I look out for things to photograph for him. I even took a picture of Sandra’s multi-coloured ball of wool, spiked with needles like a hedgehog. Things I’d ordinarily overlook suddenly feel worth noticing.
I point the phone’s camera at my feet, but there’s nothing particularly interesting about my socks or the sofa. Kate clatters about in the kitchen. I wish she could be more excited for me about Daniel but I know where she’s coming from, there are plenty of weird men online. Men who look like they truly would quite like to chop you up into tiny pieces, and if the tables were turned, I’d probably be freaking out too, but she hasn’t met Daniel. She doesn’t know him. If she met him, she’d understand.
‘Pesto?’ she calls from the kitchen.
‘Yeah, sure,’ I call back.