Two Years Earlier
I flicked through Tinder, marvelling at the random faces popping up on my screen, none of whom did anything for me whatsoever. Seriously, was this what it had come to? Swiping left or right based on the static, often filtered images someone had chosen to share? They were clearly showing themselves in the best light, weren’t they? What about the other stuff, the stuff they didn’t announce/brag about? Exactly how bad was it?
‘He’s nice!’ said Lou, fake enthusiastically, pointing at a man wearing a too-small suit, who described his favourite pastime as playing board games.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ I said, swiping madly, left, left, left. This all felt very desperate and I wholeheartedly doubted I was going to meet the man of my dreams sitting on my sofa in my scraggiest leggings and sweatshirt combo looking at photos that said absolutely nothing about what the person was really like. I was only doing this to stop Lou going on and also as a distraction from thinking about the inevitable (the absent Aidan).
There had been nothing since his original text and it had been two weeks now. I was proud of myself for having managed to not text him for the last six days. I was going to have to accept, wasn’t I, that for whatever reason, he didn’twant to see me anymore. And it hurt. Badly. Which didn’t make that much sense given the amount of time we’d known each other. Which was why I was prepared to try anything –anything– to make myself feel better. Like go on a stupid Tinder date.
‘Can’t we stop now and just enjoy the show?’ I begged Lou.
We were watchingMarried At First Sight Australiaand the couples were having to do a cruel honesty box task, resulting in them asking each other questions they’d always wanted to know the answers to and then instantly regretting it when the answer was even worse than they’d imagined. There were tears galore.
‘You haven’t even given it a chance,’ said Lou. ‘Look, what about him?’ She thrust a picture of a smiley, blonde-haired guy in my face. ‘Nick, his name is. He’s a little bit older – in his late thirties – a divorcee, head of marketing at Sky and most importantly he doesn’t look like a serial killer.’
‘Is that really the most important thing, though?’ I said, tutting. ‘Am I really setting the bar that low?’
I didn’t think my dream man would have been recently divorced. Who knew how messy it had been? But I wasn’t looking for a dream man, I was looking for a quick fix for my heartbreak, plus maybe Lou was right and a date with someone else was exactly what I needed. He looked like the best of a bad bunch.
Two days later, I walked into a very nice but shockingly overpriced Japanese restaurant in Fitzrovia, one I’d never been to before and was never likely to again. Nick was waiting at a table – I recognised him immediately, which was a good sign. At least he looked like his photo. I took a deep breath and walked over.
‘Hi,’ I said, unsure what the etiquette was. Should I be shaking hands? Kissing him on the cheek? None of the above? ‘I’m Maddie.’
Nick pushed back his chair, standing up. Great – he wasn’t a foot shorter than he’d said he was.
He took the lead, pumping my hand as though we were business associates at a meeting. ‘Maddie! So lovely to meet you. Take a seat, I’ll get us some drinks. What do you like? Wine? Champagne?’
‘Um, white wine would be great. Thanks.’
There was definitely something nice about him. OK, I didn’t have that instant raw attraction I’d had with Aidan (the image of him hopping about in his skin-tight wetsuit was permanently etched on my mind), but Nick had kind eyes and he dressed nicely and he smelled lovely. He was quite posh and clearly privately educated, but I didn’t think that mattered. Clearly this wasn’t my future husband, and that wasn’t what I was looking for. This would be a chance to lift my spirits and to prove to myself that I wasn’t completely un-dateable.
‘So, you work in TV, too, is that right?’ said Nick, taking a large sip of water.
I wondered whether he was nervous. I wasn’t, funnily enough, probably because it didn’t feel as though there was anything at stake.
‘Yes, for a holiday shopping channel called – very cleverly – Holiday Shop!’
Nick laughed. ‘Sounds fun. You love travelling then, I presume?’
‘Well, it’s not exactly a prerequisite for the job. We don’t go much further than Tenerife at a push, but yes, I love travelling. It’s probably my main passion, if I’m honest. Ihave pictures on my walls of all the places I want to go in the world. What about you?’
Nick winced. ‘I’m terrified of flying, so that kind of puts a dampener on things. And I like my home comforts too much!’
‘Good for you,’ I said, relieved that I was not looking for a life partner here. I mean, he’d need to want to travel.
‘I do like a nice hotel, though,’ he added.
‘Boutique or luxury chain?’ I quizzed him.
‘Oooh, you’ve got me there,’ he replied, mulling it over. ‘I do like a gym and a pool, so I think I’d have to say luxury chain.’
‘Interesting …’
‘You’re a boutique person, aren’t you?’ he said.
I smiled. ‘Maybe.’
I looked around the restaurant, which was full of the trendy media types who populated this part of London. The centre point of the restaurant was a dramatic open kitchen with polished brass and roaring flames and chefs in whites concentrating hard on creating the beautiful plates of food I’d seen being delivered to neighbouring tables.