Page 11 of Wish You Were Here
‘Why, because she lives ten thousand miles away?’
‘It’s not like she’s at the other end of the Northern Line, mate. She’s in Australia. She might as well live on the moon.’
‘Well, that isn’t scientifically possible, and anyway, it wouldn’t put me off.’
‘You’re sitting on our sofa, in an old dressing gown, with no plans on a Saturday night other than to Uber Eats a takeaway, and yet Australia ‘wouldn’t put you off?’’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Fine, but despite the distance, it's not like that. We’re just friends.’
‘Riiight,’ says Flatmate Simon, looking at me with what I can only describe as a suggestive smile, and what he is suggesting is that my motives for emailing with Saskia are far from friendly. This is absolute nonsense because obviously nothing can happen between us because we live at opposite ends of the world, we’ve never met, and also because I need to meet someone in London I can actually see myself with. I’m ready to meet my soulmate, not have romantic daydreams about some impossible girl who, despite being gorgeous, funny and someone I could see myself dating, lives ten thousand miles away. I wasted enough time on Saffy, I don’t have more time to waste on frivolous pipedreams, and who knows, maybe Cressida Reed will beThe One.
I walk into The Ship pub in Wandsworth, where I am meeting Cressida, and it is five minutes to eight. We are meeting at eight. I get a text on my phone, and when I look down, it’s from Cressida.
Almost there. Sorry.
She’s texting, and she isn't even late. This is a good sign. Nothing is worse than late people who don’t consider being late an imposition. I am perpetually early to everything because I have this fear of being late that my parents drilled into me. When weleft for the airport for family holidays, it was always two hours earlier than we needed to ‘just in case’. Our family motto was: Better to be early and wait, than late. Catchy and practical. I reply.
No worries. Just arrived. Drink?
A reply immediately comes back.
White wine, please!
I walk towards the bar, which is two people deep, and I wait. Dating is a strange business because the chances are that I won’t meet my future wife tonight, or even a long or short-term girlfriend, but then again, maybe I will. Perhaps Cressida Reed will become Cressida Armstrong or Cressida Reed-Armstrong – if she is double-barrelled curious – and tonight is the night that will change my life forever. I have no idea which way it will go, but as I step up to the bar and order a pint of London Original for me and a white wine for Cressida, I feel a real sense of optimism. Admittedly, this isn’t the meet cute I would have chosen for my big romantic love story, but I suppose the real test is in our chemistry and whether Abigail has actually hand-picked the perfect girl for me.
I am beginning to think that I need my work hat on for the challenge of finding love where I am calculated and methodical, rather than my romantic hat, where I want a plotline straight from the pen of a Hollywood scriptwriter. It seems to me that so far following my heart has got me nowhere nearer to finding love, so perhaps it is time I started using my head instead. Maybe spreadsheets are better equipped to help us find love than fate.
As it turns out, Cressida is absolutely lovely. When she walks in, wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, a white shirt and a softgreen cardigan under a thick, grey winter coat, her chestnut hair cut into a neat bob, carrying a bright yellow umbrella, I am excited for the night ahead. She has a beautiful face, pretty with delicate features over which she has applied the lightest make-up and a splattering of jewellery. Cressida is clearly a class act, and Abigail has done a brilliant job setting us up. We fetch our drinks and find a table. If it had been a lovely warm summer evening, it would have been perfect for sitting outside and watching the Thames flow past, but as it is October and raining, we’re inside staying warm and cosy.
‘So, Cressida—’
‘Please call me Cress.’
‘Cress. Abigail tells me you do something with props or design. Sorry, she wasn’t very clear about it.’
Cress smiles at me. She has a lovely smile and a set of immaculately straight, white teeth. She definitely had braces growing up or just some good dental genes. She also speaks with a posh accent, so I assume some sort of private school, and then, I imagine, a decent university.
‘I work with and source props for adverts, print and television. If they’re shooting a magazine shoot in a country house for, I don’t know, a perfume brand, and they want a certain aesthetic, I make sure we have the right props.’
‘That’s funny. I obviously know we have all these adverts. I’ve just never thought about all the people they need to make it happen.’
‘Gosh, even for a small shoot, it takes an absolute village,’ says Cress, and there is a pause and we both take sips of our drinks before she says, ‘Abigail says that you’re an asset manager, which is I imagine—’
‘Exactly what it says on the tin.’
‘Although very stressful, I’m sure,’ says Cress. I notice her lips. She has on red lipstick, but it isn’t too red, sort of soft,although I realise I’m staring at her lips and she might think I’m weird and so I look back into her lovely pale blue eyes.
‘It can be. When you’re dealing with millions of pounds worth of property, you can’t afford to make mistakes. One extra zero on a contract and someone has lost or gained an awful lot of money.’
‘That sounds utterly terrifying.’
‘I suppose it is. Although I could never imagine doing what you do either, so you know, different horses for different courses.’
Cress looks outside for a moment. The rain is lashing against the windows of the pub, while all around us, people sit in groups talking, laughing, eating, and the world feels so alive, despite the awful English weather. I think about emailing Saskia and telling her about this date and describing the weather. She would no doubt find the whole thing hilarious because I imagine her dates are on sunny beaches, and everyone is in bikinis and shorts, sipping on cocktails like they’re on holiday in Ibiza.
We spend the next thirty minutes in interview mode, going through the list of questions we had built up in our heads prior to the date: Where did you grow up? What school did you go to? Which university did you go to? What do you like to do in your spare time? Favourite food? Have you travelled much? Favourite band, genre of film and television shows? Eventually, after another round of drinks and the talk of perhaps getting a nibble of something to eat, the conversation moves towards our dating history, and this is when Cress looks at me before she says with a slightly more restrained tone.
