Page 9 of Christmas Romance Galore!
I nodded and she got the attention of a nearby waiter.
So, Sienna looked like her profile picture — tick. After all the scary stories I’d heard about online dating, I half-expected one of my dates to turn up and be a man. However, Sienna was very much a woman, her low-cut top providing an invitation to her breasts — double tick. She had short, black hair and was dressed casually in trousers and a red top. She was promising.
“So sorry about my time-keeping again. Our American office decided they wanted to chat just as I was walking out the door.” She threw me an apologetic smile as she shifted in her seat to get comfortable.
“American office? Sounds like you’re in banking and not the charity sector.”
She shook her head. “A lot of people think that — but the charity sector is a big, global business these days. We’re always on the lookout for donations and ways to spend the money best. Nobody sleeps, believe me.”
Mention of sleep deprivation made me open my eyes wider. I wanted to appear as alert as possible, even though I was this close to slumping on the table.
The wine arrived a few minutes later and we ordered our food, then settled back to get to know each other. It turned out that Sienna was born and raised in London and her parents still lived within a ten-minute walk of her front door.
“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who didn’t move to London. I can’t imagine being raised here.” I shook my head. “That means you’ve been riding the Tube your whole life.”
Sienna laughed. “I have. I used to take the Tube into town with my mates at the weekend and cause havoc. Still do, but I’m an adult now, so it’s overlooked.”
I grinned at her. “Funny how that works, isn’t it?”
“How about you? I can’t detect an accent.”
I shook my head. “Oxford, no accent required. My mum’s a professor there.”
“Does that mean you’re posh?” Sienna poured wine into my glass with a reassuring glug.
“People tend to think so, but no, it doesn’t just rub off like gold dust. Besides, being a professor is a grand title with poor pay. At least, that’s what my mum always tells me when I try to tap her up for a loan.”
We chatted for another half an hour with no sign of food. With another glass of wine in my empty stomach, I kept having to shake my head to snap myself awake. Falling asleep at the table was definitely bad manners, but I desperately needed some food to sustain me.
A few minutes later, I excused myself to go to the loo — all the liquid had taken its toll. I sat down, sighing with tiredness, closed my eyes and leaned my head on the cool, white tiles of the toilet stall. Against my hot, red cheek they were wonderfully soothing.
Date number three wasn’t going so bad. First, she’d ordered a bottle of wine which meant she had no intention of running away any time soon. Second, she hadn’t tried to convert me to Jesus yet. What’s more, she was attractive and seemed on my wavelength. This could be the start of something, so perhaps Sienna would be my Christmas girlfriend? Plus, Sienna was a beautiful name — I could well get used to going out with a Sienna.
I let my mind drift off as I rested my head heavier against the reassuring toilet wall. Perhaps we’d kiss outside the restaurant later, then go on to a bar and sit closer than necessary to each other. Then perhaps we’d brush each other’s hands under the table. Kiss at the bus stop on the way home and send each other soppy messages tomorrow as we made plans for our second date and beyond. Perhaps...
However, when I woke up 35 minutes later, those were not the thoughts I was thinking. On opening my eyes, I squinted into the bright light of the cubicle, clutched the toilet seat and steadied myself. I peeled my head off the wall, wincing as my neck screeched at me for leaving it at such an awkward angle for over half an hour.
Where the hell was I? I rolled my shoulder and tried to loosen my upper body, which was stiff from lack of movement. I winced at the pain, while wiping up dribble from my chin and my shoulder with some toilet tissue.
I clung on to the toilet roll dispenser while my brain tried to make sense of the situation. Why was I asleep on a toilet? A toilet that wasn’t even mine? And since when did I fall asleep on toilets?
And then it came to me.
I was on a date. I was on a ruddy date.
But instead of sitting opposite my date, being charming and laughing at all of her jokes, I was dribbling on a toilet with my trousers around my ankles.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. I was the world’s worst date, in widescreen technicolour. With a cherry on the top.
And it had all been going so well.
The last thing I wanted to do right now was get up off the toilet and face my mistake. But it was the one thing I had to do, especially if I wanted the kissing, drinking and soppy text messages to take place. All of which had seemed a pretty sure bet 40 minutes ago. But now? Not so much.
I rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes to wake myself up, then swore lightly under my breath as I remembered too late I’d applied extra mascara before the date. I was now pretty sure that extra mascara was smeared down my cheeks. I wiped dribble from my mouth again and got myself upright, pulling up my trousers and crashing into the toilet wall as I did. I stopped and steadied myself again, breathing deeply through a blurred haze. My head was foggy, like I was shipwrecked.
I hurled myself out of the stall, staggering left, then right. I slowed my movements, allowing my body a chance to wake up — it was clearly still asleep and who could blame it? I clutched the sink in front of me, and sure enough, when I surveyed my face, I looked like a drunk, mascara-obsessed panda. Triffic.
I splashed some water on my face and frantically tried to use some tissue to clean it up, but I only managed to smear the mascara over a wider area. I shook my head and laughed at my reflection, mild hysteria swelling inside. If Sienna hadn’t already left, she was certain to run like the wind when she saw the horror story walking towards her.
