Page 9 of The Good Part
‘I’m doing a master’s in machine learning.’
‘Ooh what does that involve? Teaching robots how to take over the world?’
He laughs again.Maybe he laughs too easily. Maybe he laughs like this with everyone. ‘Ha, no. More like computer programming.’
‘I’m terrible with technology,’ I tell him.
Dale pulls out his phone and now I wonder if I’m boring him.
‘I have some questions about your profile,’ he says, putting on a voice, as though this is a serious interview. ‘You have some interesting things on your “likes” list.’
‘Do I? I can’t remember what I wrote.’
‘You say here you like badgers. Why badgers?’
I shrug. ‘They’re feisty and I like their monochrome vibe.’
‘Fair enough. You’ve also put Poirot here under “likes”. Isn’t that old lady TV?’
‘Sacrilege, no!’ I say, giving him my best indignant face. ‘I used to watch it with my parents growing up. I find the theme tune immensely comforting.’ Dale waits for me to say more. ‘It’s the original cosy crime, isn’t it? Poirot always catches the bad guy, everything gets explained in a satisfactory way. In the world of Agatha Christie there is balance and order and resolution.’
‘Unlike real life, you mean?’ Dale asks.
‘I guess so. I think that’s why I love TV in general. When the world outside doesn’t make sense, TV usually will.’ I pause, catching his eye, worried I’m coming across too earnest now. ‘I’m probably overthinking it. Most likely I was just a lonely only child who was allowed to watch way too much television.’ I reach out to take Dale’s phone. ‘Anyway, enough about me, let’s look at your profile. You like pizza? That’s like saying you like breathing, Dale.’
Dale laughs and I begin to relax again. ‘I think you’ll find I wrote sourdough pizza. Which is entirely different and very niche.’
We share stories, and more gin, and our bodies move closer on the couch. The more we talk, the more I’m starting to like Dale. He’s self-effacing and he asks questions. You wouldn’t believe the number of dates I’ve been on where a guy doesn’t ask you a single question before, ‘So do you want to come back to mine?’ Though come to think of it, that was in fact the first thing Dale asked me. I don’t know how much time has passed before he leans in to kiss me, and then, it all goes wrong.
The kiss is not good.
He sucks my tongue. I’m not just talking about a kiss with traction, I mean he genuinely sucks my entire tongue into his mouth, like a Dementor inHarry Potteror the face hugger inAlien.
When the suction relaxes enough for me to free myself, I try to catch my breath and then excuse myself to go to the loo. He gives an awkward laugh and says, ‘Good idea.’
Good idea?What does that mean? It’s my bladder, Dale, I’m the one to decide if peeing is a good idea or not. Sitting on the loo, the familiar curtain of disappointment falls. There’s alwayssomething. Dale seemed normal, Dale listened and he liked my joke about being plankton. So why does kissing him have to feel like being inhaled? Before I leave the loo, I roll up a wodge of toilet roll and stuff it into my bra just in case there’s still none in the flat when I get home. Hello, new low.
Bracing myself for the awkward goodbye and making of excuses, I come back into the living room to find Dale standing in the middle of the room, naked.
‘Oh Jesus, Dale, I don’t think I’m ready to see that,’ I say, my voice calmer than I feel.
‘I like you. You like me. Our time on the planet is short. Let’s not overthink this.’ He laughs again. Okay, hedefinitelylaughs too much.
‘Goodbye, Dale,’ I say, retrieving my phone and my bag.
‘Can you at least suck me off before you go?’
And once again, my desire to date has been tempered by the depressing reality that is ninety-nine per cent of men.
Chapter 4
Back in the street I kick myself for being so stupid.Clearly,Dale29 was going to be a weirdo. Every man I’ve dated since uni has been a weirdo, or a misogynist, or harbouring some secret fetish for eating crisps off my thighs. (I went with it, but could never get the vinegar smell out of my sheets.) Where were all the normal men? As I cross the road, rolling my poor bruised tongue around my mouth, the sky cracks wide open – releasing a sudden downpour. The sole of one ballet pump gives way, the cheap glue dissolving at the first sign of water. When I woke up this morning, I wasn’t aware of how long my tether was, but now, I realise I’m at the end of it. I allow myself one melodramatic groan, two foot stomps, and one fist shake at the sky.
How am I going to get home? Maybe I should call Zoya, apologise, beg her to come and meet me with a pair of trainers. But my phone is dead – after all that, it didn’t even charge. So, I start running, hoping to see somewhere familiar. Soon, I’m out of breath and my feet are too sore to go on. Turning right down Baskin Place, past an old red telephone box, I notice a twenty-four-hour newsagent’s a few doors down and race towards it, hoping I can wait out the worst of the rain. It’s a small, tired-looking shop with a blue and white awning and shelves full of dusty cans. The elderly lady behind the counter smiles at me. She’s wearing a tartan beret with a matching waistcoat and playing a game of solitaire on the counter with a faded pack of playing cards.
‘Can I help you, duckie?’ she asks in a broad Scottish accent, putting down the four of diamonds. ‘Looking for anything in particular?’
‘A new life,’ I say, smiling so she thinks I’m joking, though at this point, I’m not. My tongue aches, and I decide then and there I am deleting all the dating apps from my phone. I’ll have to find love the old-fashioned way – drunk at a bar. As I’m wondering how long I can lurk in this tiny shop without buying anything, leaving wet footprints across the lino, I come across a curious machine tucked away at the back of the store. It looks completely out of place. It’s the size of a large ATM and across the top, in faded gold writing, are the words, ‘Wishing Machine’.
