Page 16 of Wish You Were Here

Ben

I’m standing outside a restaurant in Chelsea, about to go on a date with one of Hugh’s friends.

The restaurant is bright, modern, upmarket, but we’re in Chelsea, it’s to be expected, and Annabelle, according to Hugh, is also bright, modern and upmarket.

I did ask him if she was recently out of a relationship because after my last date with Cressida, I couldn’t risk it being another evening where the girl starts crying and vanishes without a trace.

Hugh confirmed that Annabelle hadn’t been in a serious relationship, as far as he knew, for at least a year or two, and she seemed, to him at least, emotionally stable.

It was good to hear, although slightly concerning, that Hugh felt the need to qualify every statement about Annabelle with either ‘as far as I know’ or ‘to me at least’.

He was definitely covering his back if the whole date went tits up.

Anyway, good or bad, it’s time to meet Annabelle to see if she is The One , because according to my research into statistical probability, there are only eight women left in London that I can date.

I take a deep breath and then walk into the restaurant.

The problem with this date, and indeed any date, is that as I was getting ready all I could think about was Saskia.

Our first FaceTime went so well, there was definitely a romantic spark, and I can’t wait to speak to her again.

I was thinking about her the whole time I was getting ready for tonight, and so of course, Annabelle will get compared to Saskia, which is quite unfair.

What am I doing? There is absolutely no chance Saskia and I can date, and yet she’s squeezing herself into every new romantic situation I am having in London.

It feels like I am sabotaging myself. Every date, no matter how good, is being tarnished because there is this other girl, who is perfect for me, but lives on the other side of the world.

I’m desperately trying, as I walk towards a table where Annabelle is already waiting for me, to put Saskia out of my mind.

‘Hi, hello, I’m Ben,’ I say when I reach the table. Annabelle is standing up waiting for me with a lovely smile, and Hugh was definitely right when he said she was attractive.

Annabelle is about medium height, perhaps five-five, with shoulder-length chocolate brown hair, the prettiest face with hazel eyes, a smile that could easily render me hopeless, and she’s wearing a figure hugging black dress and what it is hugging is extremely pleasant.

Plus, as I go in for a polite kiss on the cheek, she smells incredible.

Whatever perfume she is wearing is definitely doing it for me.

It’s citrusy, floral with undertones of something musky and a little sweet – vanilla?

At this moment, I am wondering whether tonight could actually be something of a triumph.

Maybe Hugh has pulled a rabbit out of the hat, and the rabbit is called Annabelle!

I sit opposite her, and we have the usual introductions before the conversation becomes a little more practical.

‘So, Ben,’ says Annabell. ‘Hugh says you work in asset management.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what sort of assets do you manage?’

‘Whatever I am told, but at the moment it’s mostly property.’

‘Oh, right, fantastic, my father works in property.’

‘Oh, what does he—’

‘He started a property search company back in the early noughties for high-end investors, mainly from abroad, the Middle East, China, the US, and has his own portfolio of properties across London.’

‘Right, that’s—’

‘I think he does very well, although property isn’t really my cup of tea.’

‘What is it you do?’

‘Journalism. Fashion journalism, to be more precise,’ she says, and it makes sense, given her stunning outfit and the jewellery pieces that match it perfectly. ‘I started off at a newspaper, then magazines, but now I mostly freelance.’

‘Oh, gosh, that must be—’

‘It’s a little scary Ben, but the freedom it gives me is incredible, and I love what I do,’ says Annabelle, as a waiter appears, we order drinks and Annabelle suggests getting a starter to share because it is absolutely divine and then we get back to our conversation.

It is clear that Annabelle likes to talk. I can barely get a word in edgeways.

‘So, Annabelle,’ I say quickly while she’s taking a sip of her drink. ‘I’m not sure what Hugh told you about me, but I’m just out of a terrible relationship, and I’m really looking for something meaningful, and—’

‘Hugh mentioned the awful ex, Saffy something. I think it’s great you’re looking for something meaningful, Ben, because so many men I date are just after one thing, and I’m tired of it. The London dating scene is exhausting.’

‘Right? I’m so glad you feel—’

‘I have actually created a list of questions that let me cut straight to the chase, so we’re not wasting our time. Once the main courses arrive, I’ll get into it.’

Annabelle stops talking, and I am quite taken aback that she has a list of pre-prepared dating questions, and apparently as soon as our mains arrive, I’m going to be put under the microscope.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. As we eat the starter – arancini with bolognaise and black truffle – I am already thinking that despite how lovely she looks, I’m not feeling much of a connection with Annabelle.

My mind has already started drifting off and thinking about Saskia.

I have to keep telling myself to stop it.

I need to give Annabelle a chance, and perhaps her list of dating questions might actually be helpful.

Our main courses, along with fresh drinks, arrive, and the interrogation gets underway.

I ordered a mushroom risotto while Annabelle went with a tuna steak and a small side-salad.

Once the waiter is gone, we both say the usual thing of ‘yours looks nice’ and I wonder if Annabelle is the sort of person who shares her food or if she’s very much a ‘this is mine, that’s yours, and that’s it,’ sort of date.

Before I can test the waters, she looks at me and begins the ‘pre-written questions’ portion of the evening.

‘Before we begin, Ben, I don’t want you to think that you’re on trial. I just don’t want to waste my time if we have nothing in common, and I’m sure you don’t want to waste yours either. This is just a fun way of speeding things along.’

‘No, it’s fine, Annabelle, honestly,’ I say, although I’m not entirely sure it is, but it feels like whether I want to do this or not, it is happening – like playing charades at Christmas.

I take a bite of my risotto, and it’s creamy, cheesy and quite delicious.

Outside it’s dark, and the weather is quite drab, but in the restaurant it's light, warm and they are playing Italian music that gives the whole place quite a romantic ambience.

If I close my eyes, take a bite of my risotto, I could almost be in Italy.

At least until Annabelle says quite sharply.

‘Question number one! Where do you see yourself in five years?’

Clearly, this isn’t going to be easy. I was expecting something more mundane like favourite flavour of ice-cream, and she comes straight in with a hard-hitting life question. It feels more like a job interview than a date.

‘Gosh, five years. That’s quite a long time, isn’t it?’

‘Not really, Ben. Time moves so fast and I feel like if you don’t have clearly defined life goals, you’re just going to find yourself in the same situation as you are now, bobbing about on the sea of fate, hoping something works out and we can’t have that, can we?’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, trying my best to think of a perfect five-year plan.

I have often pondered this myself – I am not completely devoid of forward-thinking – because if I asked my twenty-five-year-old self what I’d be doing at thirty, I’m fairly sure it wouldn’t be what I am doing now.

Basically, in the last five years, nothing has changed except a slightly flabbier stomach, an ever diminishing ability to deal with alcohol and a relationship with Saffy, which dented my belief in the possibility of love.

Have I essentially wasted the last five years of my life?

Where have I travelled? What adventures have I been on?

Didn’t I want to learn a language? Before I answer for myself, I decide to turn the wheels on Annabelle.

‘What about you? Where do you see yourself in five years?’

Annabelle has clearly spent time thinking about this because when I ask her, she sits up straighter, composes her face, and gives her clearly well-rehearsed answer.

‘In five years, I’ll have a flourishing online fashion blog.

I want to grow my social media presence, and I have been dabbling with the idea of a podcast. So perhaps that’s a new creative landscape I’d like to explore.

I want to be married or at the least engaged, and we’ll buy a house somewhere in South London.

Victorian. Hopefully, a project so we can really put our own stamp on it.

I’m not sure about children yet, but it’s definitely a conversation. ’

‘Blimey! You’ve really got everything figured out.’

‘I think you have to, Ben. So, what about you?’ says Annabelle, taking a bite of her tuna.

Where do I see myself in five years? What’s the big plan?

‘Obviously progressing in my career, and I hope I’ve met, you know, The One , and we are happily married. I definitely want children, and we’ve probably moved out of Clapham because house prices are ridiculous. I just want the usual, I suppose.’

‘Okaaay,’ says a straight-faced Annabelle. Clearly, she isn’t impressed with my answer. I feel like if she had a clipboard and a pen, she’d be making notes. ‘Worst personality trait in a potential partner?’

‘Jealousy?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think trust is so important, and if my partner doesn’t trust me then I think we’re probably doomed, don’t you?’

‘Favourite sexual position?’ says Annabelle suddenly, and I have just put a forkful of risotto in my mouth and I almost spit it out. She can obviously see the look of surprise on my face, and she laughs. ‘I love this question because you boys are always so shocked!’

‘I’m not shocked, just, you know, reasonably surprised.’

‘It’s an important question and one that, I think, elicits quite a lot of pertinent information about a prospective boyfriend. So, Ben, favourite sexual position?’

I really don’t know how to answer this question.

Do I have a favourite sexual position? I think they all have their own pros and cons.

I enjoy the good old-fashioned missionary because you can kiss and keep eye contact.

Doggy style is fun, feels great, and makes me feel like I’m in control, but feels less intimate.

I love it with the woman on top, and the reverse cowgirl is different, but quite a turn-on.

I’m sure there are a few more, and some that feel nice but I don’t know the technical term for.

The problem is, Annabelle is clearly looking for an answer that lines up with the sort of boyfriend she is after.

This answer might be more important than my five-year plan.

After a minute of thinking, a sip of my drink and a nibble of risotto, I answer.

‘I think it depends on my partner. I like to just see how it goes. Go with the energy in the room!’ I say, and Annabelle looks at me, and I don’t know if it’s because we’re discussing sex, but there is definitely a little spark of something between us. That is until Annabelle says.

‘Where do you stand on religion, Ben? I think it’s important to be open about these things.’

‘Agnostic, I suppose.’

‘Right, okay, and what about political affiliation?’

‘Is that relevant?’

‘I think so.’

‘I’m not really much of a voter, if I’m honest.’

‘Riiight,’ says Annabelle with a ‘well, that’s quite concerning’ expression on her face. ‘Before dessert, I like to do a quick-fire round. Are you ready?’

I’m looking at her, and I can’t quite believe this.

I was expecting a date, the possibility of romance, and instead I’m a contestant on a game show.

Before agreeing to her quick-fire round, I make my excuses and head to the loo.

I head into a cubicle, sit down and get out my phone.

I go to WhatsApp and bring up my message thread with Saskia.

It’s almost nine o’clock here, so nearly six o’clock in the morning there.

She might not be awake yet, but I start typing anyway.

I’m on a date with a woman who asks questions like it’s a job interview! It’s awful. What’s my five-year plan? Worst personality trait in a partner? Favourite sexual position? I made an excuse, and I’m hiding in the loo. When I go back in, she has a quick-fire round! Please help!

Saskia doesn’t reply, so I assume she is still asleep.

After a few minutes, I know that I need to head back into the restaurant and face Annabelle’s quick-fire questions.

I could say no thank you and leave, but there is something inside of me, something deep-down in the depths of my subconscious that won’t let me.

It’s the same well-hidden characteristic that won’t let me complain at a restaurant when the food is terrible and forces me to apologise when someone bumps into me.

I skulk back to the table, sit down and get ready to face Annabelle’s questions.

She looks at me, smiles and then she says.

‘You don’t have to look so nervous, Ben. The quick-fire round is more light-hearted.’

‘Okay, right.’

‘Ready?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, hoping for something jovial and fun to kick things off.

‘Would you call yourself a feminist?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Feminism, Ben. Discuss. You have thirty seconds. Go!’

Then she starts the stopwatch on her iPhone.