Page 62 of The Notecard
Mum left the pub after Laura, heading out into the rain.
It all started that afternoon. We were staying at a Spa retreat in the Cotswolds. It was gorgeous. A country manor with immaculate grounds and a delicious restaurant. We were out in Cheltenham for the night. It was the big night out. Dinner, drinks, then onto a club to get Laura drunk. Her last night of freedom. Unfortunately, despite the planning and the wonderful surroundings of the hotel and Cheltenham, Simon’s sister, Emma was in attendance and she was quite the bitch. It was your classic hen weekend bitch-off. Emma was also quite a lightweight, and after a few glasses of Prosecco was drunk and not shy about airing her opinions. Full disclosure, Emma and Laura have never got on. Laura thinks Emma is a spoiled bitch, and Emma thinks Laura isn’t good enough for Simon. And a massive bitch too. It all came to a head in the pub. Drunk Emma said something to drunk Laura like.
‘Meeting you was the worst day of Simon’s life. Bitch.’
Then Laura said something like.
‘The worst day of Simon’s life was the day you were born. Bitch.’
Emma cried. Laura cried. Emma slapped Laura. Laura tried to slap Emma, Emma ducked, and Laura slapped Simon’s mum, Pauline. I jumped in to stop anyone else getting slapped and then Pauline lashed out and she slapped me. Mum, annoyed that her daughters were being slapped, slapped Pauline. This is when Laura had the full meltdown and said.
‘This is the worst fucking day of my fucking life!’
Inflatable cock on her head.
Cheer up love, it might never happen.
The entire weekend went downhill after that, and we came home early. This was last weekend. The week since has been full of drama, recriminations, tense phone calls, dramatic text messages, and teary FaceTimes. At one point the wedding was in jeopardy. Basically, it’s been a dream for Laura because she loves a crisis. She would have been great during the war. I can see her now handing out the rations, fastidiously making sure no-one got more than they were allowed and forming committees like they were going out of fashion.
I’m standing in front of my bedroom mirror. I’m wearing new underwear. It’s white. I don’t know why I went with white. Virgin? Not likely. I just thought it was time to get something nice. Nice and also comfortable. I’ve gone down the nice and uncomfortable route before. I’m not doing that again. An entire dinner spent trying to stop fabric going up my bum and a bra that felt like a medieval torture device. I’ve never understood the whole sexy lingerie thing because in my experience, it costs a fortune, it’s always horrible to wear, I look terrible, and it’s always the first thing that comes off before sex. It’s essentially five minutes of pleasure (for him), and a huge hit on the credit card and an evening of feeling uncomfortable (for me). Hence why I’ve gone with sexy but comfortable. It was also on clearance so I could still afford a coffee and lunch at Itsu afterwards without it feeling like I was getting a mortgage.
I’m having dinner with Nick tonight at his flat. A date. I’m nervous. I don’t know how it’s come to this, but it has. He’s leaving for Nottingham in a month. I’m leaving for my trip around the world in a month. Timing wise, it couldn’t be any worse. Why did I kiss him? Because I just had to know what it felt like. I couldn’t go on without knowing. And it was magical. It was one of the great kisses. It had everything. The problem with the kiss was that it was so good, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and neither could he. And so, after much messaging backwards and forwards, we arrived at this idea. One night together. One crazy, wonderful, potentially life defining night together. Then we go our separate ways. No expectations.
The problem is that we can’t work. Long term, we have zero potential. Like all relationships, it might not work if all the ingredients were there. If we had plans to stay in the same city for longer than a month. If we were both looking for and were ready for a relationship. We have none of the things you need to start a relationship going for us. But we have chemistry. We have that. So we’re going to spend one night together and that’s it. One night to eat, drink, talk, and have sex. Well, maybe have sex. We haven’t discussed it, but it’s on the menu. It’s at the bottom after dessert, maybe after coffee. But it's definitely there. Sex with Nick.
I look at myself in the mirror. I look alright. It could be better, obviously, but it could be worse. No tits, but that’s not going to change unless I get a boob job. Fairly slim. Nothing is bulging. At least not yet. I haven’t had kids, and I think smoking helps keep the weight off. I’m terrified to quit in case I get a McDonalds habit to make up for the lack of nicotine and gain two stone in McWeight, none of which will go on my boobs and all of which will go on my stomach and bum. But at the moment, I’m okay. I also finally went to the waxing place and had everything done. You know it’s bad when you lie down and the woman says, ‘Oh, I see it’s been a while’. They usually just talk about what’s happening on Eastenders. I have a dress to wear. It’s simple, black, and I look good in it. There, I said it. It’s not arrogance because I could show you twenty other dresses that make me look like a child actor in a badly produced school play whose mum has made them a costume at the last minute. But I look good in this dress. I put it on and stand in front of the mirror. I’m ready. Well, not actually ready. I still need to do my hair, make up, and walk through a cloud of perfume, get my shoes on, and walk across the hall to Nick’s flat. One night.
I have a bottle of wine. I spent ages picking it out. I have no idea why I spent so long because 1. I literally know nothing about wine 2. I don’t know what sort of wine Nick likes 3. I always buy wine based on the label 4. I always end up buying the same bottle anyway. I spent thirty minutes browsing the wine selection at our local off-licence, reading labels, researching the difference between a Syrah and a Merlot (not much), and then I bought the same wine I always buy. It has a funky yellow label. I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be. One night.
Nick
It’s amazing how many recipes you can look at online before you decide on the right one. At first, I thought I’d try something fancy. Show off a little bit. I thought about sea bass. Every time I watch a cooking show someone is cooking sea bass. Pan seared Chilean sea bass. I don’t even know what sea bass is. I google sea bass. It’s a Japanese sea perch. Everyone loves sea bass apparently, but it’s a risk. It’s fish. Not everyone likes fish, and despite being a fairly decent cook, I’ve never cooked sea bass before. I think sea bass goes one of two ways. 1. Meg loves sea bass, has had it before, probably in a nice restaurant, and therefore my sea bass won’t be as good. 2. She’s never had sea bass before, doesn’t know it’s a Japanese sea perch, and is disappointed we’re having sea bass. There is a third option, but I’m too invested in the first two options, I can’t even think about it. There’s also the chance I’m over thinking the sea bass.
I go through various pasta recipes, but decide pasta isn’t a good idea for a date. It’s potentially messy. Nothing worse than spots of tomato sauce on a clean white shirt. I ponder steak, but that involves cooking it while she’s here so it’s perfectly medium rare, and then doing something like chips or a salad. It’s too fussy. And what if she’s a vegetarian? I should have checked if she has any food allergies. What if I kill her with gluten? In the end, I go with something fun. We’re going to make our own pizzas. Everyone likes pizza and I can make the dough. It’s something I learnt at medical school. I lived with a guy who loved making pizza. He taught me everything. Italian Gavin. He wasn’t Italian. He was from Ipswich.
I’ve made the dough, I have toppings galore, and I bought a bag of salad from Waitrose. I also have wine, a cheesecake for dessert and coffee to end the evening. I’ve spent a long time thinking this through. The menu is ready to go. I have candles for the table, and I’m thinking about music. You can’t go too cheesy on a date night. You can’t go for soul or R&B, it’s too cliché. It sends out a certain vibe, and I’m not sure I can pull that vibe off. I’m more James Blunt than John Legend. I decide to go with Jack Johnson. It’s relaxing and cool. I think I can just about pull it off.
Clothes are much easier. Apart from work clothes, I really only have jeans with either a long-sleeved shirt, a short-sleeve shirt, or a polo shirt. It’s a warm evening, and so I go with a polo shirt. So it’s dark blue jeans and a blue polo shirt. The flat has been cleaned to within an inch of its life. I’m just waiting for Meg to show up.
One night. It’s what we agreed on. It was Meg’s idea. After the kiss, we talked and texted, and the thing that quickly became apparent was the timing wasn’t right. They never talk about timing in romantic comedies, do they? It’s always, love conquers everything. Nothing gets in the way of true love. It’s written in the stars. Well, I don’t want to be Mr Grumpy, but there’s a reality to love, and our reality is that she’s going travelling for six months and I’m moving to Nottingham. We’ll be apart for six months, and then when she gets back, she'll be in London and I’ll be in the East Midlands. That is no basis, no foundation for starting a relationship. So as much as we like each other, agree that there is definitely a chemistry between us, there’s no way we can start a relationship. It’s impossible. Timing. The next great romantic comedy. The one where the couple fall madly in love, but then realise that one of them has committed to twelve months working on a cruise ship. I suppose in that scenario, it would be possible for the other one to visit them onboard the cruise ship. That might work. But the point is, for Meg and me, the timing isn’t right. We have one night. A whole relationship distilled into a few hours.
Mum and Michael are in Ibiza. They left a few days ago. Mum was so excited. She popped over to show me the four swimsuits she bought in Marks and Spencer. I could have lived without her trying each one on to get my opinion, but I’m happy for her. We FaceTimed yesterday, and Michael’s place is amazing. It has three bedrooms, is right on the beach, and has its own pool. Michael has said I can use his house whenever I want. It’s something to think about. One day.
I’m ready. The food is prepped, and the oven is preheating to its highest temperature. I can’t do anything else. She’s due any moment. I’m so nervous. It’s not really a date, and yet it is. It’s the start of something, but also the end. I’m so confused. I want tonight to be the best night of my life, and yet, I have this niggling doubt, this awful dread that it’s going to make everything more complicated. I was thinking about it earlier while I was cleaning the flat. What if I made a big gesture? What if I did the romantic comedy thing? If tonight is incredible, maybe I will do something big like tell her that I’m not going to Nottingham and instead I’m coming travelling with her? That would be pretty big. But then I thought, in reality, perhaps she needs to go away by herself. Maybe it would be a disaster, and to be honest, as difficult as my job is, I love it and I couldn’t just take six months off. It’s a nice idea, but I fear the reality wouldn’t be as romantic. Then I thought, ask her to come to Nottingham instead. We could start a new life together in the East Midlands. But then I thought of the pressure of that. I can’t ask her not to go away. And what if she hates Nottingham? Her life's in London. Timing. It just isn’t there.
There’s a knock at the door. She’s here. There’s nothing else I can do. I’m ready, but not ready at all. I walk over to the door and open it. There she is. She looks stunning in a black dress.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hi,’ says Meg, and we smile at each other. One night.
Meg
‘Hi,’ says Nick.
We smile at each other. I’m so nervous. It’s ridiculous.
‘Hi.’
