Page 27 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
Neil Bradshaw
Sorry our date got cut short on Sunday. Can I take you out for dinner next week? Nx.
Oh no, now I’ll have to think of an excuse. I could say work’s too busy, invent some long-term ailment or fish allergy? In the end I go with:
Anna Appleby
Hi Neil, thanks again for Sunday, I think on reflection I am not quite ready to date. So sorry again about the accident. Has your cheek recovered?
The only good thing about divorce is you can use it as a get-out-of-jail-free card.
He replies immediately.
Neil Bradshaw
The wound got slightly infected. I’m on antibiotics, no biggie. Let me know if you ever change your mind. N.
Right, new rule: no dating any parents from school, it’s just too awkward. My phone pings again; this time it’s a message from an unknown number.
Unknown Number
Hey Anna. Want to go to a house party tonight? Caleb.
Tonight, as in now?It’s already eight o’clock. My first thought is, obviously, no. I’m in my pajamas, I don’t have childcare. But as I’m about to politely decline, Lottie calls and I end up telling her about the charismatic young waiter I gave my number to.
“You have to go! You’ll only stay up late watching TV and googling who celebrities are married to.” She pauses. I can’t deny it. I have a problem. “I’ll come and sleep at yours, you can stay out as late as you like,” she offers, and now I’ve run out of excuses.
Half an hour later, my sister is sitting on my bed helping me find a “house party”–appropriate outfit. I settle on a short silver skirt that I bought at a vintage market and have never had the opportunity to wear, paired with a fitted, black cashmere jumper and flat black boots. Caleb sends me the address for the house party and suggests we meet there at ten.Ten!?
“All the young people go out late,” Lottie reassures me. “Ten is early.”
“Not for me,” I say with a groan.
Lottie looks at me in the mirror, a fond expression on her face. “I love this, but maybe not these boots.”
“What’s wrong with the boots?” I ask, offended.
“They’re a bit…sensible,” Lottie says, kneeling down to riffle through my shoe rack.
“Well, I’m going to have to walk, so it makes sense to be comfortable. I’m hardly going to wear—” Lottie is holding up a pair of gold high heels I don’t remember buying. “No, absolutely not.”
“Fine,” Lottie says, relenting, “wear the sensible shoes tonight, but one day, you have to wear these, they’re fabulous.” Then she gets to her feet and rubs my back. “I love this. How many times have you helped me get ready for a date? I don’t think I’ve ever helped you. Do you remember when I was fifteen, I had a cinema date with Fergus Gibson from the year above? You let me wear your brand-new designer jeans.” She lets out a happy sigh. “I’ve never loved you more.”
“Something tells me you’re more excited about this date than I am,” I say, giving her a teasing look.
“Getting ready is the best part! All that anticipation of what might happen. I miss that,” she says wistfully.
As I watch Lottie riffle through my wardrobe, I feel a tightening knot in my stomach.
Is there something wrong with me? Why can’t I feel excited?The main emotions this dating column has elicited in me are fear and anxiety.
“You’ve dated so much more than I have,” I tell Lottie. “When relationships ended, you were so good at picking yourself up and getting back out there; I always admired that about you. You always seemed so certain that true love was just around the corner.”
“And it was,” she says with a lovesick grin. “It just took me a little longer to find it.” She pauses. “You’re going to find it again. I know you will.” She reaches out to stroke my cheek. “Now, have you shaved your legs?”
“Lottie, please. What do you think is going to happen here?”
“Isn’t it best to be prepared for all eventualities?” she asks, watching me in the reflection of the mirror.
