Page 7 of Love at First Sight

The week passes in the usual routine of Henry, gym, setting up coffee dates with Dad only for him to cancel, and continued encouragement from India to put up wanted posters for Whole Foods man, which I insist she forgets about because I am flip-flopping on the hour, every hour, about what it all means.

Sometimes, the more I think about it, the more I really do think mystery man was simply a push from the universe to set up Stray Kids.

I’ve pulled up the planning documents on my laptop a few times this past week, looking through all the notes I’ve made over the years, editing them into something more cohesive, all because he made it seem possible with his enthusiasm for it.

And then other times, like now, as I walk to the butcher’s, I pass men on the street mentally scanning their faces into ‘Cal’ and ‘Not Cal’ categories, feeling a wave of disappointment that they are all ‘Not Cal’.

It’s so frustrating, and makes me feel pathetic.

But it also makes me feel like I have to fight for what I want and not give up.

I don’t know. Like I said: it’s confusing.

‘Look what the cat dragged in!’

This is how I am greeted by Leo, my butcher.

He stands behind the shop counter, chef’s whites and blue-striped apron smeared with meat juice, and offers me a smile that makes me blush from how genuine it feels.

He’s a flirt, Leo, all short sandy-blond hair and greeny-blue eyes that remind me of a puppy’s.

He always – but always – leaves me in better shape than he finds me.

I like to keep my banter skills sharp with him, with the added bonus of getting a little special extra slipped into my bag.

It doesn’t mean anything. He’s a good time, a ray of sunshine.

And very good at his job too – behind him a row of trophies and medals gleam, reminding us all that his meat is award-winning.

So to speak. Anyway. He flirts with everyone, even my dad.

‘How do,’ I say, slipping in behind the bloke Leo is finishing serving.

‘Thirty pounds and eighty pence,’ Leo tells him, handing him a bag. ‘In fact, let’s just call it a straight forty, shall we?’ He looks over at me and winks before returning his attention to his customer. ‘Just kidding. A level thirty is golden.’

When we’re alone Leo asks: ‘Right then, gorgeous. You here for me, or my wares?’ He spreads his arms out, whether to show off himself or the meat counter I’m not sure.

I sigh with a smile. ‘Bit of both?’ I say. ‘I don’t really know what I want, to be honest.’

I put my forearms on the counter to lean against it, and Leo cocks his head sympathetically.

‘That bad?’ he asks.

‘Not bad,’ I say. ‘Just …’

‘Not good.’

I nod. ‘Great company today, aren’t I?’

‘With a face like yours, darlin’, you don’t have to be any kind of company.’

I laugh. ‘How many times have you used that line?’

Leo gives me his cheeky-chappy face. ‘Enough times to be a very satisfied man,’ he shoots back, and this is exactly why I wandered in here today. Leo is just … Leo. Easy. Fun. Uncomplicated.

‘What you up to this weekend?’ he asks.

‘Me?’ I say. ‘A quiet one. Cooking for one. Bit of TV. Reading. Maybe I’ll meditate. All very rock ’n’ roll.’

Leo pulls a face, and I know what that face means: I need to get a life.

‘I’m prescribing you a fillet steak,’ he tells me, grabbing something and moving to slice it.

‘If a beautiful woman like you is having her Saturday-night tea alone, you should have the very best Stoke Newington has to offer.’ He fusses about, grabbing this and that.

‘You know the drill by now, but just so we’re clear … ’

I know exactly what he’s going to say. ‘Oil the grill,’ I say.

‘Not the steak. Season after, not before. Wrap it in foil to settle for five to seven minutes after cooking. Use the juice in my salad dressing. Serve it with chips from the Co-op, because nowhere else does them right even though the packaging looks the same.’

‘So you do listen to your old pal! Good girl!’

‘You’ve never steered me wrong yet,’ I tell him. ‘In fact, I’ve been meaning to say, those Cumberland sausages you gave me a few weeks ago? Truly phenomenal. Thick, juicy, flavoursome …’

‘Is that the punchline?’ Leo winks.

‘Ha ha. A sex joke from Leo Thornton. Who’d have thought?’

A woman with her toddler slinks into the shop then, and Leo says to me: ‘Stay here.’ He switches on a blinder of a smile and serves the woman, jabbering on, talking easily and happily, making jokes with the little kid too.

I watch him work with something not unlike fondness.

I’ve known Leo what? Three years? Four? Bumped into him in the pub a few times too, at first to say hello to and then recently a more lingering conversation before we peeled off back to the people we came with.

I always enjoy seeing him, talking to him about anything and everything.

Fine. Flirting with him. He’s cute and funny, and his eyes remind me of the greeny-blue waters of foreign holidays.

He has just enough stubble to make you wonder if he slept in his own bed last night.

So what he says next, once the woman has taken her order and left the shop, doesn’t really surprise me.

‘You’re gonna have to ask me out one of these days, you know. Put yourself out there and that.’

God, he’s brazen. It makes me laugh.

‘Am I now?’ I say, smiling, because the lack of seriousness with Leo means I don’t feel nervous or embarrassed. I mean, I have no idea how to respond, but more because there must be a funny retort, I just can’t find it in my mental filing cabinet.

He holds eye contact, refusing to let me wriggle out of the moment. He’s enjoying it, being upfront and watching me struggle to find what to say. I suspect he knows that his brash confidence is part of his charm. Who doesn’t want to be flirted with? We look at each other, and I arch an eyebrow.

‘I’m just pushing your buttons,’ he says, waving a hand and laughing. ‘It’s not that serious, Jessie!’

I pull a face. Was he joking, or has he just backtracked because he mistook my hesitancy for lack of interest?

Am I interested? I mean, it’s not like Whole Foods guy has turned up, but I ‘did it for the story’, went out with him that day, and it was great.

Maybe I should ask Leo out for the story, too.

He’s hot, and we get on. Hmmm. Would going out with Leo send the wrong message to the universe, i.e.

I am not bothered about Cal after all , or the right message to the universe, i.e.

I am open to any and all things . Let a man find you busy, et cetera.

Not that I would use Leo in that way. But he’s right: life shouldn’t be as serious as I make it half the time. I should be out having fun!

‘My band is playing tonight,’ he says when I don’t come up with a response.

‘If you decide being home alone is a waste of your good looks and outstanding sense of humour, you should come see us play. Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in.

It’s about time you had it, anyway. Text me, and I’ll send you the details. ’

None of what he’s saying is a question, so I do as instructed. When he hands me back my phone I text him a waving-hand emoji, and hear his phone beep at its receipt.

‘Diamond,’ he says. ‘Maybe I’ll see you later, then.’

I take my steak and wait for the card machine to tell me how much I owe.

‘It’s on the house,’ he says. ‘Buy me a drink later and we’ll call it even.’

I bite down on my bottom lip and shake my head.

‘Bye, Leo,’ I say, because anything else feels far too loaded. I am flattered by his attention all the way down to my bones, but I’m cautious, too.

He laughs.

‘I drink Peroni!’ he shouts after me.

Leo sends me the details as soon as I’ve left the shop – he’s performing at 10 p.m., not far from my flat.

I could go, in theory, but Jesus Christ: being a single girl, alone, dressed up, hoping to spend time with the drummer of a band …

I don’t know. I like to do things for the story, but something tells me this story would be a tragedy.

Leo has a different girl on the go every time I bump into him in the pub.

He’s a player! But then, that makes me feel less bad about hanging out with him when it’s Cal I’ve got on my mind.

It’s not that serious, Jessie.

I stop at the bakery on the way home, for my favourite double-chocolate fudge cake (four layers, so rich you need a lie-down afterwards), and for good measure call in at Whole Foods for some double cream and a bottle of organic wine.

Of course I don’t see Cal, though I can’t help but look for him.

As I wander through the aisles, I’m thinking: should I go tonight?

Can I really say I want love, and then turn down the chance to be out and about to brush up against it?

I’m hardly going to find romance in my bedsit, unless I want the love of my life to be a Rampant Rabbit and the last of a tube of KY Jelly.

If only I’d asked for Cal’s number earlier in the afternoon, at the restaurant maybe, I wouldn’t be in this position!