Page 8 of Love at First Sight

This is what I’m thinking as I turn the corner out of the shop and see Simone up ahead, sat outside one of Church Street’s many cafés, talking to the person opposite her as she chugs an Aperol Spritz.

Her tight brunette curls bounce around her round face as she gesticulates wildly, the beaded shawl around her back slipping off one bony shoulder.

I can see her massive turquoise earrings shimmying either side of her head; matching turquoise rings on every finger.

Before I can think to duck into a shop and pretend I’ve not seen her, she looks up and catches my eye.

Dammit. This is the thing about Stoke Newington – I bump into people I know all the time.

It’s a small place! And Dad only lives around the corner.

I realise the man she’s with is my bloody father, and he must sense she’s spotted somebody because he turns around, and that’s it, I’ve been caught.

I now have to go and talk to my dad and his twenty-three-years-younger-than-him child bride when they are in the middle of a romantic Saturday afternoon aperitivo for two and I’m shopping for my sad and loveless night in.

‘Hi!’ I say, securing my nomination for best actress by summoning up a sense of delight at seeing them. ‘What a nice surprise!’

As ever, Simone remains seated as Dad gets up to hug me.

He’s in green chinos with a matching green shirt, his rounded tummy straining the buttons.

He’s bald, the sun bouncing off his bright head, but it suits him, with his sunglasses and big smile.

He looks his age, and happy with it. Simone’s dark eyes stare at me blankly, and she flicks a lock of hair over her shoulder dismissively.

‘I can’t stay long,’ I say, before we can get into it. I hold up my bags. ‘I’ve got a friend coming over and I’m doing a Béarnaise from scratch!’

If in doubt, give detail to your lie. Right?

‘Oh, lovely,’ Dad says. ‘We were just talking about what to have for tea, weren’t we, Simone?

We might try that Vietnamese place in Newington Green, the one you can’t book in advance.

Then get ice cream on the way home, like the Italians do.

Best thing to ever come to Stokey, that gelateria. It’s changed my life!’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t change your waistline,’ Simone says, and if it’s supposed to be a joke it isn’t funny.

The man is sixty years old! Let him have his pistachio ice cream and wee paunch, you money-grabbing harlot!

Because, let’s be very clear, we all know Simone loves my father’s money.

Not that he has an awful lot of it, but what he does have she’s good at commandeering.

Clothes, meals out, all of it gets paid for by my dad – she calls it ‘gentlemanly’.

Honestly, why else would somebody her age be with somebody my dad’s?

‘Dreamy,’ I say, thinking that if I had a partner, we could do that. My dad has a better dating life than I do. Everyone has a better dating life than I do. India is out on a date tonight, and I’ll bet Ali is with Vinnie. I’m the last single woman in the world.

Except.

I could go to Leo’s gig. If I don’t like it, I don’t have to stay.

‘Okay, got to go,’ I say to Dad. ‘Let me know how the Vietnamese is.’

I don’t address Simone.

Right. The plan: a fancy dinner for one, and then a jaunt out to flirt with Leo. Why not.

Four hours later, I’m on the bus to Leo’s gig in an Islington pub, because I’m in heels and am too tight to pay for a cab.

It’s taken me ages to decide what to wear.

I wanted my vibe to be just stopped by and oh, I happen to always look this fabulous but also yes, my boobs do look rather good, don’t they .

I try not to overthink, not to ‘borrow worry’ from the future.

But as I cooked and ate and got ready, the background noise in my head was telling me that if hanging out alone on a Saturday night feels this crappy to me, then I need to do something about it.

I might not be able to help my relationship status, but I have a million friends who I can organise stuff with – the trick is actually organising it.

Everyone says they’re up for stuff, but few people actually sort it out, do they?

Well. Let love and life find me having a fantastic time.

Whilst I’m on the bus I google London theatre events, websites that advertise free tickets for those ITV game shows, foodie stuff, live music, goings-on at the local yoga studio …

you name it, I find it. Then I fire off the links to everyone I can think of – the Lunchtime Lot, India, Ali, even my dad, though I’m deliberate in my word choice to him, asking if he fancies a handstand workshop at Yogahome as a dad-and-daughter date. Read: no Simone allowed.

Ali texts back to my invitation to a food festival on the South Bank and says, Vinnie loves to cook! Why don’t we make the food festival a double date?

Gah! That’s the point! I don’t have a date! But explaining that to Ali is redundant because she wouldn’t understand the concept of not having a date.

Although.

If things go well with Leo tonight … or if Cal texts after the posters go up …

‘Excuse me, can I sit here?’

I look up, into the eyes of a man who actually, for a split second, renders me mute and void.

He is tall, broad-shouldered, and sports a sprinkle of salt-and-pepper stubble on his jawline – basically, if you had me draw a picture of my ideal man, this is what I’d produce.

I move my bag off the seat next to me and mumble an approximation of ‘Yes, of course’.

I press myself up against the window as he settles in the seat and says, ‘Beautiful night, isn’t it? I love summer.’

‘Yeah,’ I reply, and since we’re sat so close side-by-side it’s awkward to look at him.

But I manage to steal a glance, right as he is wrangling a look at me, and we both turn away, flustered.

Maybe my light is on. Whole Foods guy, Leo, and now eye sex with this bus random? Okay, universe! I see you!

‘You’re really pretty,’ he says, like complimenting women out of the blue that way is totally normal.

I mean, Cal called me beautiful but that’s beside the point.

Cal and I were already in a ‘moment’. ‘If that’s an okay thing to say,’ he adds.

‘Sorry. I know I should let you enjoy your bus ride in peace. It’s just, when did talking to strangers become such a terrible thing, you know? ’

I nod. I like a chat with whoever as much as the next girl, but I do think unsolicited compliments is where the line is. Something in the recess of my mind waves a red flag. My body recognises it before my brain clocks on.

‘I can tell you you’re really pretty, can’t I?’ he presses, and he leans in just enough to make my internal creep alarm go off. I don’t like this. Something’s not right. This is nothing like Cal’s compliment. This feels … dangerous.

‘Pretty girl like you, bet you like the cock, don’t you?

’ he says, and it’s so outrageous that it doesn’t compute that I should get out of there as fast as possible.

I’m frozen to the seat, which is so not how I thought I’d respond to something like this.

I’m a badass, stronger than most men, and yet in the face of this one I am visibly cowering.

And what’s more, he likes it.

He likes that I’m terrified.

‘What about that, eh?’ he says, looking down, and yup. There it is. His erect penis is exposed through the gap left by the open zip of his shorts.

‘Oh my god!’ I squeal, standing up but still hemmed in by the window.

‘Yeah,’ he says, proud of himself, and I push past him, as hard as I can, legging it down the stairs of the bus, and falling down the last three steps because of my heels. I land on my arse at the bottom, a big gash down the front of my shin.

‘You all right, love?’ somebody says, but I’m too busy yelling, ‘Stop the bus please! STOP THE BUS!’

The driver angrily roars, ‘I can’t stop until a designated spot!’

‘Stop the bus, please!’ I shout, and my voice quivers pathetically. He might follow me , I think, looking back to the stairs to see if the freak is there. He’s not.

The bus lumbers to a stop at a red light, and I seize my chance.

I press the button above the door, the fire exit one you’re not supposed to ever touch, and I narrowly miss getting mowed down by a cyclist as I leap from bus to pavement, where I go over on my ankle again.

I grip a lamp post in agony, and the light turns green so the bus pulls away.

I watch it go. I can’t see the guy, up there on the top deck. He’s gone. It’s over.

‘Ouch,’ I say to nobody, hobbling over to a bench to inspect my ankle.

When a well-dressed man in a suit and tie approaches me to ask if I’m okay, I shout at him.

‘Fuck off!’ I say, terrified he might be about to get his dick out, too.

‘All right, all right,’ he says, holding up his hands. ‘Jesus, I was just trying to be kind.’

The people at the nearest bus stop all look over, and I must come across as drunk and combative, stumbling and yelling and crying.

Yup. Tears stream down my face. I just wanted a night out, an adventure.

But no. It shouldn’t be this hard, should it?

It shouldn’t be this difficult to be a woman, out in the world, having a nice time and maybe even finding somebody special?

I’m trying my best, I really am. Why do so many other people get to be happy with their person and for me it’s totally elusive.

I think of Cal, how magical that was out of nowhere. It was unexpected, and I need to see him again. I can’t not try to find him. I can’t sit on my butt and wish for things to be different. I must take action!

I’ve been lying to myself. I don’t want Leo, or anyone else. I want Cal. I just do . Last Sunday was perfect, and I want to believe I deserve perfection. I want to find him.

I send a text to India: Let’s do the Whole Foods posters.

She replies immediately: Yesssssssssss!!!!! You won’t regret this!