Page 7 of I Know How This Ends

By the time the bill arrives, he has ticked almost every single box on my List of Dating Criteria. More importantly, he hasn’t

gone anywhere near the Red Flags list, and yet somehow I haven’t freaked out again.

Possibly because the air around us is charged with electricity.

Every time we accidentally touch—reaching for garlic bread at the same time, filling a water glass—a white-hot line of heat runs across the back of my neck, sparking in showers like a Catherine wheel.

For the first time in four months of dating, I actually want a Second Date.

What happens now, I have no idea. From now on, it’s freewheeling: a concept I’m not thrilled by.

“Let me get this,” Henry smiles, reaching for the receipt. “My treat.”

I flush with pleasure. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, but I want to.”

“Honestly.” I laugh and reach for my purse. “This place was my idea, I asked you out first. It’s only fair. Equality and so

forth. Start as we mean to go on.”

Something strange flashes across Henry’s face and my feet go abruptly cold.

“No.” He smiles a little too widely. “I would prefer to do this, Margot. It’s the way it should be.”

And I should leave it, but something inside me twists tight.

Red Flag.

“By ‘the way it should be’ ...” I study him carefully. There’s something in his eyes I hadn’t spotted before, under the

warmth—something cold and empty—and my stomach knots a little more. “What do you mean, specifically?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” His jaw tightens and he leans forward with narrow eyes. “Stop embarrassing me.”

The electricity in the air between us shivers, falters, dies: a broken light bulb.

My mouth drops open. “I don’t think I’m—”

“Look.” Henry’s eyes are flinty. “This is just how it is with me. I’m a romantic, traditional kind of guy. One of the good ones. A lion doesn’t need to tell everyone he’s a lion. He shows everyone he’s a lion, just by being king of the jungle.”

I sit back in my chair and evaluate Henry again, excitement now completely gone. There’s a faint noise to my right, and I glance up to see the waiter trying not to laugh: he lifts his eyebrows at me, and I lift mine back.

“Henry,” I say calmly. “There aren’t any lions in the jungle. They live in the grasslands and savannahs. You’re thinking of

tigers.”

“Ohhhh.” Henry rolls his eyes. “Great. Another lesson from Little Miss Too Big for My Boots.” He leans forward and almost

hisses: “You’re way too old to be an Insta chick. Get over yourself. And I make a good wage. A solid wage. I can pay. You’re

not better than me.”

Red Flag, Red Flag, Red Flag—

There’s a sudden sense of vertigo, as if I had been taking a nice stroll along a sunlit path and abruptly plummeted straight

off a cliff. At some point in the last hour, he must have online stalked me while I was glibly reapplying lip gloss in the

bathroom, hoping to encourage him to kiss me.

“I have never said I’m—”

“But noooooo.” Henry straightens his T-shirt and puffs up like a pigeon. “You’ve got to humiliate me instead, in front of

everyone.” He gestures around the almost empty restaurant. “Nice one, Margot. Really sensitive. Really feminist . No wonder you’re still single at nearly forty years old.”

As if he’s not thirty-nine and on the same dating app as me.

This time, there’s no satisfaction at all. I did not see this coming. I guess I can now add Not Emasculated by My Job to my ever-growing criteria.

“You’d better not make a video about this,” he adds fiercely, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not going to be fodder for your pathological narcissism .”

Red Flag , but who the hell cares at this point: the whole room is on fire.

Ironically, for a fireman.

“I talk about the weather,” I say calmly.

“Exclusively. Not dickheads. There really isn’t enough space on the World Wide Web for that.

” Then I reach forward and rip the bill out of his hand.

“This has been quite the education.” I stand up, feeling as if I’ve just been popped.

That’ll teach me to hope . “Thank you so much for your time, Henry. I’ll pay for myself and leave now. ”

“Bloody women ,” I hear him hiss behind me as I walk toward the waiter. “All you women on dating apps, you’re all exactly the same. Stuck-up, entitled cows, the lot of you.”

I turn briefly. “I thought this was your first online date?”

“That’s what I tell you all.” Henry laughs nastily. “Makes you feel special and you’re all too stupid to work it out.”

RED FUCKING FLAG.

And that’s it: the experiment is now over. I’ve done the research, studied the data and have decided that I’d rather be eaten

by otters.

“I’d like this broken down,” I tell the waiter firmly. “In detail. Please.”

“Of course,” the waiter says solemnly as I make my way down the receipt with a pen. “I’m assuming you don’t want your date

to pay the lion’s share, then.”

“No.” I snort lightly, glancing behind me to where Henry is still glowering, looking hilariously huge now behind the little

table, knees bunched up slightly. It’s strange how someone beautiful can become so ugly so quickly. His blond hair is sticking

to his forehead, and his bottom lip is literally sticking out slightly, as if he’s six years old and has just dropped his

ice cream.

“Actually,” I say, abruptly grinning. Frankly, I’ve dated worse. Hell, I nearly married one of them. “I’m going to pay the

entire bill. Plus tip. Add on a pudding at the end and please include a note that says I’d like a divorce now, please .”

Because screw him and his geographically relocated lions.

“Done.” The waiter starts to prod the screen in front of him. “So, is it Date Seventeen next week, then?”

Blinking, I look up. “Sorry?”

“Date Seventeen.” He continues to calculate the bill without looking at me. His voice is low, with a lovely northern lilt.

“That was Date Sixteen, wasn’t it? Unless I missed one, but I’ve worked every Monday for the last four months.”

I study the waiter more carefully. He’s absolutely right: he’s been my waiter for every one of my disastrous dates so far. I just didn’t really register it properly because it didn’t seem key data to input. Shame suddenly whips the back of my neck. And I claim to be good at noticing details.

“Shit,” I say quickly, heat rushing to my face. “I’m not as bad as I seem. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m even worse. And my

language is atrocious.”

“Don’t panic.” He laughs. “You’ve been the highlight of my Monday shifts.”

The waiter is clearly flirting with me now, so I study his face. His eyes are dark brown and close together, like a wolf’s;

his nose is large and his eyebrows bushy, pointing down slightly at the inner corners. His hair is black, streaked with silver,

like a badger, and he’s slightly rectangular and (considerably) shorter than me. It’s a face I’d swipe left on, not because

it’s bad but because it doesn’t make my heart hop.

“You’re flirting with me,” I point out in surprise.

“I am.” The waiter looks up and meets my eyes. “Is it working?”

“No.” I frown. “Not at all.”

“That’s a shame.” He calmly takes my bank card out of my hands. “I was going to suggest I take Date Seventeen so you can pull

my entire character to shreds too. I’m becoming far too big for my boots.”

I laugh, surprised, and evaluate him again.

Too short. How old is he? Old enough to have silver hair. He works evening shifts and I work all day, which would create tension

and emotional distance. As we’ve just discovered, the disparity between our incomes might result in resentment. I’d have to

stop wearing heels; he’d notice and feel embarrassed, then start to hate me for it. One failed date and I’d have to find another

restaurant to eat at and that’s a hassle I don’t need. It wouldn’t work. There’s no possible future—he doesn’t fit my criteria—and

I don’t have time to waste.

Also, there’s absolutely zero chemistry. None. Brutal, but there it is.

“No, thank you.” I try to be as polite as I can. “That’s a very nice offer, but I’m not sure we’re very compatible.”

“Fair enough,” he says lightly, holding out my bank card. “All done.”

I reach forward and as our fingers touch, I see the letters LR drawn in dark blue ink on the back of his hand; the glint of my emerald ring; a flash of orange from my bank card. His fingers

are large and tanned and familiar; a bolt of heat shoots straight through me.

“ Fuck ,” I say, pulling back and dropping my card.

“Everything OK?”

I bend down and take a few seconds on the floor to compose myself again while I pretend to pick up my card. What the hell was that?

“Um. Yes.” I stand slowly back up again and stare at his hand. “Sorry, I just... How long has that been there?”

“From birth, I think.” The waiter glances at his hand with an amused expression. “I don’t want to brag, but I’ve got another

very similar one if you want to see it.”

My nostrils flare slightly, even in my confusion. “Not the hand. The writing.”

“Oh!” He lifts one bushy eyebrow. “Since this morning. It stands for Loo Roll. I ran out and need to pick some up on the way

home.”

Except he must have forgotten: it was obviously there two days ago—the last time I was here—or at some other point over the

last few months. He must run out of toilet roll a lot and doesn’t know how to write a proper shopping list. It’s a memory,

that’s all, but one that appears to have stuck.

Except something in me has shifted slightly, and I’m not sure why.

“OK,” I say impulsively, before I even know I’m going to. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“To the date you offered. You can be Date Seventeen. But I’ll be wearing my highest heels. Just so you know.”

“Please do.” He grins, his eyes crinkle and faint lines shoot like sunrays through his face. “Who knew that running out of loo roll could be so magnetic. Date Seventeen it is, Margot.”

He already knows my name, and I know nothing about him.

“And you are?”

“Oh.” The waiter looks over with amusement at my date, still sulking at our table with his big arms crossed. “I’m Henry too.”