Page 6 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘Don’t be long,’ Nigel said, trotting off in the locum’s wake.
‘Gore,’ Harry said. ‘Sounds fun.’
‘It’s what we do,’ I told him. ‘No gore – no job. Anyway, I think you’re free to go. Keep it clean. Change the dressing if it gets wet or dirty. You can take the clip off in forty-eight hours. It just pulls off like a plaster. Oh, and go to your GP if there’s any sign of infection. But I basically think you’ll survive.’
‘Can I have it?’ he asked. ‘Your number? I promise I’m not a psycho.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ I said, as I pulled a sterile wrap from the trolley and scribbled my number on the packaging. ‘That’sexactlywhat the psychos say.’ I glanced around as I handed it to him. ‘I’m not supposed to do this… most unprofessional…’
‘I won’t tell a soul,’ Harry said, slipping it into his pocket.
Does it soundeasy, that I gave him my number? I expect it probably does. And if I tell you that I was already dating someone – a guy called Martin from my course – it will no doubt sound even worse.
But Martin had never been right for me and that wassomething I’d always known. Actually, I’m sure Martin knew it, too. It’s one of those weird things really where, looking back, I’m not even sure why we bothered. But I’d been fed up with being single for a while, I suppose, and Martin had bought me dinner in a French restaurant and stroked my hair after sex. For a bit, that seemed like enough. After a series of let-downs I’d maybe set my expectations too low, or perhaps it was just that between my nursing degree and part-time job I didn’t have enough time to care.
But now here was someone new and shiny to think about and it took mere seconds for me to make the switch. Because Harry, with his curly hair and wonky nose, with his lopsided grin and piercing green eyes, was the photofit of my ideal man. He had a studious geeky cuteness about him that made him seem substantial, combined with a desire to amuse that promised future happiness. He was like a Kentish version of Hugh Grant in a way – all that bumbling charm without the irritating posh accent.
So yes, I gave Harry my number there and then. And even as he was walking away I was wondering how to end it with Martin.
My first ever date with Harry was in Pizza Hut. Some might say (in fact a nurse friend did say at the time) that it wasn’t a particularly romantic place to take me for a first date. But Pizza Hut suited me fine.
I’d come off a twelve-hour shift and was starving, plus Martin – who I’d broken up with twenty-four hours after meeting Harry – had, of course, taken me to a posh French restaurant forourfirst date six months prior. So the contrast between Montmartre Gastronomie and Pizza Hut reassured me. It was proof that Harry was not Martin, and when you’re young and you change partners that’s always the main qualityyou’re looking for: that the new flame is nothing like the previous one.
By the way, Martin – in case you’re wondering – didn’t seem too upset. ‘Oh, OK,’ he said when I told him. ‘As long as you’re sure that’s what you want.’ Based on his reaction I feltverysure and I told him so.
Anyway, Harry made me laugh from the outset. It’s not that he was ridiculously funny – I mean, he wasn’t a stand-up comedian or anything – but he did have excellent delivery and a way of using his body to emphasise the point that really got me going. So he’d say something averagely amusing but wiggle his eyebrows and wobble a hand from side to side in a way that made me giggle. So there’s a tip, any hopeless single men out there: forget the candlelit dinner. Just make the girl laugh!
Afterwards we walked together to the crossroads where our paths diverged. It was raining that special kind of English drizzle that makes an umbrella seem absurd but leaves you soaked through without one.
‘So,’ Harry said, smiling lopsidedly and shrugging.
‘So,’ I repeated.
‘The question is, um…’ Harry continued hesitantly. He pushed away a wet curl that had fallen over one eye.
‘My place or yours?’ I offered, cheekily completing his phrase.
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Christ! You nurses… I would never have dared ask that. From a guy that would count as sexual harassment or something. At the very least unbridled misogyny.’
‘Oops,’ I said. ‘Go on, then. Feel free to finish the far more boring thing you were about to ask.’
‘I was only going to… um, ask…’ He had a confused expression. ‘God, I feel like I’m being a bit stupid here… sort of asking for beer when I’ve just been offered Champagne.’
‘Just say what you were going to say,’ I told him. ‘Really. I’m winding you up.’
‘I was going to ask if I could see you again, but it appears that maybe I can.’
‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Anytime you want.’
‘Oh,’ Harry said. ‘Wow. And that includes the option of, um, right now, does it?’
‘It does. So, the question then is…’ I said, nodding at the crossroads.
‘Your place or mine?’ Harry said.
‘God, that’s so misogynistic!’ I exclaimed. ‘How dare you!’
‘Some chicks like that stuff,’ Harry said, with a weird snarl that made me laugh.
