Chapter Twenty-Six
Sasha had another date lined up the very next day. This guy, according to his profile, was tall, slim and only twenty-eight years old. Twenty-eight! She did allow a brief flicker of doubt to flash through her mind at the huge age difference. Thirteen years of age difference. But if she was honest, she did want to glow in a momentary glimmer of flattery. A man thirteen years younger than her, what an achievement. Surely she was allowed a minor ego boost after the hell that had been Kirk?
So, armed with her handbag, her umbrella, and a heavy dose of hope, she set off to meet this twenty-eight year old.
His profile stated that he was six foot two; he liked running, boxing and weight lifting. He was certainly into his fitness. He was also a postman – which meant that he was on his feet every day walking. Surely this would mean he had the body of an Adonis? Facially, he looked okay – depending on the lighting.
Arriving at the café, Sasha was early. Sasha liked being early. She knew it wasn’t cool but Sasha’s OCD did not do cool. Sasha liked to be there early to get the seat she wanted, get comfortable, top up her make-up and wait patiently with an air of gathered togetherness. There was nothing worse than arriving late and looking flustered. His first impressions of her would be: frizzy hair, panic stricken face and a glisten of sweat across her forehead. She would then have to sit on a high stool picked by him, plumped in the middle of the café with everyone brushing past them every two seconds. She wouldn’t have time to comb her hair, check that her teeth were devoid of lipstick and pat a tissue against her slightly balmy armpits.
No, it was better to sit and wait with poised grace and perfection. She could pick a nice corner comfy seat, she could re-apply her lipstick. She could compose herself with confidence.
So she sat and waited. And waited. And waited.
Oh God. Was it possible that he was going to stand her up?
A brief moment of irritation and frustration flashed through her mind. How very dare he? Why bother arranging to meet up with someone and then just not bother turn up? My God, those dating sites are full of the biggest time-wasters on earth!
But then she reasoned with herself. Okay, if he doesn’t turn up, it doesn’t matter. I’m out of the house. I’ve gone for a walk. I can stroll around the shops. It’s not the end of the world.
Out of interest, she logged online to his profile. He was currently online! Did this mean that he was sitting at home casually scratching his balls in his boxers and checking out other women – or was he about to message her to tell her he was running late?
Throwing caution to the wind, she decided to message him.
“I’m here, where are you? x.”
She knew he’d reply with some pitiful excuse about how he’d forgotten, or how he had a sudden last minute appointment to take his frail father to the hospital. But she was feeling brave and reckless and she didn’t really care.
To her surprise, he replied with “I’m here! Where are you?”
All of a sudden, her bitter resentment of him lying around in his lazy-ass boxers disappeared and she felt a glow of considerate warmth for him. There he was, sitting in some other Caffé Nero across town, looking online wondering where she was.
Then ensued a minefield of lost and confused messages that went like this:
Him: I’m in the Caffè Nero next to Boots. Which one are you in?
Her: I’m in the Caffé Nero in Lombard Street where I told you I’d be. LOL.
Him: Where’s Lombard Street?
Her: Thinking – er – Google it? You’re a postman aren’t you? Surely finding directions is your forte? Erm… I can come to yours instead?
Him: No, no. Hold on. I’ll find it.
Sasha sat back, satisfied. Good. He had a bit of get up and go. He was willing to go on an adventure and find stuff himself.
Later, still no sign of him. She checked her messages again.
Him: I’m here. I’m sitting outside.
Her: Erm… I can’t see you. I’m sitting outside too. Which Nero are you at?
Him: The one next to City Hall?
Her: No. I’m at Lombard Street. (Like I told you the first and second time, she thought).
Just as her patience was wearing thin and she was about to give up and go home, she scolded herself. C’mon Sasha, you know which Caffé Nero he’s in. Just go round and say hi. So she plastered on her brightest mood and replied.
Her: I know where you are. I’ll come to you.
When she did arrive, she expected him to be apologetic, to make a joke about how crap it was that a postman couldn’t find his way to his destination, but to her horror, he was grumpy. He had a face ‘like a lurgan spade,’ as her mum would say. He looked exasperated, worn out and, what’s more, accusatory. As though it was her fault for picking an obscure street.
Luckily, Sasha was in a good mood and was willing to let his childishness wash over her. She was, however, disappointed to see that he was really rather unattractive. There was no other word for it. He had scabs down his nose and over his cheeks which looked like he’d been picking at them. And, well, he just wasn’t attractive. Tall, yes. Slim, yes. But attractive, no.
Inwardly she sighed, but chided herself that she was here now, she might as well say hello.
“Shall we take a walk around City Hall?” she suggested breezily.
He agreed and off they walked, finding a bench to sit on beside the lawns.
The conversation went a bit like this:
Her: It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?
Him: Yeah, great.
Her: So you work as a postman then?
Him: Yeah.
Her: Do you like it?
Him: It’s okay I guess.
Her: I suppose it’s a hard job when it’s raining?
Him: God, yeah. When it’s pouring, it’s like… oh God. But if it’s a nice day, it’s great.
Her: (Nods head politely).
Silence.
Him: (cosies up to her on the bench, body language a bit too full on, has the smug smile of someone who has the authority to cosy up to her just because they’re sharing the same bench). You’re very attractive. I don’t mind the age difference, do you?
Her: (stands up abruptly) I’m just going to put this in the bin (she points to her half empty bottle of juice. She returns, bristling with the ‘age’ comment and way he’d invaded her space).
Bit presumptuous isn’t it? You’ve no problem with the age difference? That would presume I fancy you, and want to be with you, when in reality you haven’t even passed the first date yet, which, let’s be honest, is like an interview.
“Shall we walk?” she suggested, ignoring his question and just glad to get away from his encroaching body language. In a way, she wished this date had stopped at the ‘stood up’ stage. Then she wouldn’t have had to endure this. She was already wondering how she could wrap the meeting up and get away.
But that was when he mentioned that he lived in Magherafelt and that he didn’t drive – which meant that he had had to get a train up, which would have taken him forty-five minutes. No wonder he had no idea where Lombard Street was. Added to that, he confessed that, at twenty-eight, he still lived at home with his parents and yes, his mum did all the cooking and cleaning for him.
Sasha thought that perhaps there wasn’t a barge pole big enough to get away from this bloke.
“Well, that’s me,” she said, suddenly, abruptly and not caring how obvious she looked. “I’m going this way.”
His face looked crestfallen. “Is that it, then?” he asked. Meaning: I guess I won’t see you again. I guess this is the date over?
“Yes,” she replied. Confidently, assuredly, no beating around the bush. She was not going to waste another precious moment of her day off by pussy-footing around someone.
“Oh, okay then,” he replied.
And off she went. She pleaded with her mind not to drift down into a cess-pit of self-pity. Not to reminisce about Kirk and remember the good times. Not to compare the good dates with Kirk with bad first dates.
Remember the shit times, she told herself. Remember the shit times. Remember the shit times.
And unfortunately there were far too many of those to recall.