Pretending, page 10
There’s a banging at the door just as I’m wiggling a mascara brush through my eyelashes. “Are you dead?” Mike calls. “It would be a terrible shame if you were, especially as I really need the loo.”
I smirk. “Sorry, I’ll be right out.” I scoop up the contents of my makeup bag and stuff it all back in. I’ve got on “only” primer, light-reflecting foundation, eyelid brightener, mascara, a tiny smudge of eyeliner, blusher, highlighter, and a red lip stain to achieve Gretel’s natural beauty. I pull my jeans down, kicking off my Converse so I can yank them off over my feet. Then I shake off my blouse and bra, sniff my armpits to see how they’re holding up, and step into a strappy maxi dress. I lean on the door, because you can only unlock it if you get the angle completely right, and stumble out into the raised eyebrows of Mike.
“You look nice,” he comments, but not in a pervy way. He’s one of those extraordinary men who manage to exude absolutely no weird sex vibes whatsoever. We were all surprised to learn he was, a) heterosexual, and b) married with children.
“Thanks. How late you working?”
He pinches the top of his nose, while letting out a small sigh of exhaustion. “Hopefully not much longer. Though I’ve missed putting the children to bed. Again. Anyway, have a good night, I really do need to pee.”
I make my way back to my desk to collect my things. Still no nerves. I stuff what I can into my bag, and leave the bulk of my crap under my desk to take home tomorrow. I doubt Gretel’s the sort of girl who drags along an overflowing bag. Every man I’ve ever dated seems to take it as a personal insult that I need to carry things around with me. “Why is this so heavy? Do you really need all that stuff? It’s OK to leave the house without the whole kitchen sink, you know?” And then, hilariously, it is mostly them who end up rummaging in my bag to retrieve all the useful items you’ve stored there. “Can I have some of your water? Do you have any paracetamol? Are those mints? Can I have one? And, oh, can I put my wallet in your bag?”
The office is empty as I leave it, Mike still in the toilet doing whatever gross things men do in the toilet which is the same as women but somehow grosser.
The heat still lingers, the air lethargic with humidity.
Josh: Hi, I’m here a little early. I’ve got a table in the corner. See you soon.
Then another message just as I’m about to hop on the Tube.
Josh: Unless you’ve stood me up. In which case, I hope this makes you feel really guilty.
I smile as I read the second one. Josh seems a smidgen different in that he’s not scared to turn up early. Simon made me wait twenty minutes on our first date, claiming he got held up at work. He was very apologetic but still late. Letting me know, from the off, that his time was more important than mine—that he was comfortable with the idea of me waiting for him. I’ve timed it so I’m exactly ten minutes late for Josh. Only ten minutes because men are less forgiving of late women than women are of late men. Enough to keep him on his toes, while also not enough for him to fuss over.
Gretel: We had a date tonight?... Kidding. On my way. Running a few mins behind.
The Tube has calmed down enough from rush hour that I’m not moist with sweat and the contagion of other people’s bad moods by the time I reach London Bridge. I emerge up the stairs into the brightness and use my phone to figure out where the cocktail bar is. Still not nervous. A bit worried I’m a total psychopath for lying about my name, but not nervous about meeting Josh. I just feel slightly sorry for him.
I find the entrance on this tucked-away little street where a sign hangs discreetly in front of a black door. I’ve walked past this a thousand times without knowing it was a bar. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to knock the big brass knocker, or if I can push my way in. I’m not even that late, after all that. I’d planned to leave a little bit of extra time in my lateness strategy so that I wouldn’t be too late, and that’s worked out with me being only five minutes behind. I stand for a moment, feeling more anxious about this dilemma than I should. Gretel is temporarily lost, and me, April, and my general inability to human sometimes, forces herself to the forefront and stands paralyzed with indecision. Luckily I’m saved when the door swings open and a group of giddy smokers emerge with cigarettes clutched in their hands. They smile and hold the door open for me. I take another deep breath, find my inner Gretel again, and stride in to meet Joshua.
There he is. Joshua. Strong name. Sitting in the corner. Strong choice of table. Not playing on his phone to compensate for sitting alone. Strong character. He sees me. Well, Gretel. Must recognize me from the photo. He stands, and we both, within milliseconds, make ten gazillion microdecisions about the other based on nothing but body language and scent and the filter of our past experiences. And hope. On his side, maybe, there’s a filter of hope. He’s on a first date after all, he must not have given up just yet.
“Hi, Gretel, nice to meet you.” He strides over and we awkwardly kiss on the cheek.
“Nice to meet you too.” It’s insane that he’s just called me Gretel. What am I doing? What the actual fuck am I doing? I have totally lost all my marbles. My voice is a bit too shrill and I try to drop an octave. “Sorry I’m a little bit late. I couldn’t find the place.”
He guides me to the table, bumping into another bloke on the walk over.
“Watch it, mate.”
“Whoops, whoa, sorry,” Joshua says, before swearing under his breath once we pass. I catch a whiff of his nervousness. Normally I’m so consumed by my own nerves that my date could be bleeding from the eyeballs and I wouldn’t notice, but, tonight, I can sense his anxiety bubbling. A jolt of power crackles through me. Again, a totally novel experience on a first date. “Sit, sit.” He gestures to a chair. “I didn’t order you a drink because I had no idea what you’d like. But I can make eye contact with the waitress for you.”
“Umm, shouldn’t it be me you’re making eye contact with on a first date?” I settle myself in my chair, enjoying the way his gaze subtly registers my appearance. “I don’t want to be competing with the waitress.” We both laugh at the same time, though I can see the joke has thrown him off-kilter. So I lean in and look up at him through my eyelashes. “A bottle of beer would be great to start with, thanks,” I say. “And I’m rubbish at getting attention from waiting staff, so please do the honors.”
His ego soothed, Joshua’s shoulders loosen. He takes pride in beckoning the lady over and ordering me a Corona and lime even though April doesn’t really like beer.
My drink arrives, just as Joshua and I finish filling each other in on the thrilling details of our journeys here.
“Oh, yes, the Jubilee line really is weirdly exciting and grown-up, isn’t it?”
“Oh, so you can walk from Blackfriars? That’s useful.”
“One Corona.” The waitress bends and places it on the table between us.
“Cheers.” I pick it up and take a swig, trying not to pull a face. “Sorry, it’s terribly undignified to order beer on a first date, isn’t it?” I place the bottle back down. “It’s just so hot today. I promise I’ll be sophisticated and order red wine later.”
Josh laughs again. “Are you one of those people who understand wine?”
Always make them feel at ease, Gretel’s voice whispers to me, so they associate feeling at ease with being around you.
I shake my head. “No. Are you?”
He shakes his head too.
But don’t hand yourself over on a plate; make him feel mildly uncomfortable so he knows he doesn’t certainly have you.
“Good,” I say. “Because if you are one of those people who actually knows what to do in a restaurant when they make you try the wine, then I don’t think it’s going to work between us.”
Another hearty laugh. I’ve never made a man laugh this much so quickly on a first date.
Ask them lots of open-ended questions about themselves.
I gulp down another mouthful of beer. “So, Mount Kilimanjaro then?”
That’s all I need to say. I don’t even have to explain why I’m bringing it up, or remind him he put it as a picture on his app. His face lights up with the opportunity to talk about it. “Yes, it was completely amazing. I’m still buzzing, I swear, even though it was over six months ago...so we camped in this beautiful place called...most challenging thing I’ve ever done, you learn so much about yourself...got the bug now, planning the next one...the important thing is that you have to train, you can’t skimp on the training...altitude sickness is the worst of course.”
I prompt his monologue with the occasional “wow” and “why?” so we have a deep emotional connection, but mostly use the time to take in Joshua’s appearance. He is neither good-looking nor bad-looking, I decide. He is neutral-looking, like Switzerland. He just looks like “a bloke.” Definitely one of those faces that you need a slight emotional connection with before you want to rip his clothes off. Then, once all those problematic bonding hormones flood in, I can imagine the mole by his lip would be magical, and his eyes, green, well that’s unusual enough to find riveting once your unmet childhood needs make him an attachment figure to glue yourself to.
“Yeah, so three peaks next...as an amuse-bouche...hahahahaha...” He’s made enough of an effort with his appearance. The gray of his shirt suits him and brings out his eyes. I imagine a past girlfriend told him that information and he’s clung to it ever since. The shirt settles well around his normal body, toned enough by the mountain-hiking side of him, but he definitely isn’t a gym goer—he would’ve mentioned protein by now if that was the case. He maintains an acceptable level of hygiene. My guess is two serious relationships, the last one hurting enough to plough his grief into climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Maybe the girl who told him he suits gray is the one who made him need to climb the mountain to get over her? All in all, if I wasn’t using him as a social experiment, he seems a good bet. Especially at my age. Aren’t I lucky to be on a date with someone like Joshua? Better not fuck it up by being myself...
“So, yeah, Everest is the dream, but it’s like thirty fucking grand. Whoops, I just swore. Sorry, you don’t mind swearing, do you?”
I shake my head and smile. Gretel doesn’t mind anything, that’s the point of her.
“Phew!” He mock-wipes his brow like he’s a comedian from the eighties making a joke about his mother-in-law. I giggle. He remembers himself, recognizes how much he’s been speaking. He picks up his drink, and gestures out to me. The way he gulps it reveals he’s still nervous. And, despite myself, I feel a pang of sorrow for him. God, the things we put ourselves through, on the quest to find someone. “Anyway, how about you? You like the odd adventure?”
I nod because I know that you have to pretend you want adventures. God forbid if my idea of branching out is ordering a slightly different type of coffee one day and then regretting it instantly. “Oh yeah,” I say, forcing myself to take another swig of beer. “Of course I love an adventure. Who doesn’t?” Me me me me me me me. “I’m thinking of going to Africa, actually.”
The line has the desired effect. He looks impressed. “Wow.”
“I just think it would be so amazing, you know?”
“Oh yeah, of course. I’d love to go back at some point. I didn’t see enough of it, for sure, when I was there. Whereabouts in Africa?”
“Oh, all over. I want to see it all, you know? It’s such a fascinating place.” I realize, much like saying you’re writing a novel, or running a marathon, just saying you are planning to go to Africa instantly gives you so much social gravitas, you never have to really bother following through with it. “So, what is it you do?” I ask, chasing it with more “why?”
And Joshua, whether it’s nerves, or his personality, or just that men really do think the best thing that can be happening at any given moment is a woman listening to him talk, happily fills the silence until we’ve finished our drinks and decided on sharing a bottle of red. “Oh, I work in computers. Why? I’ve just always loved them. I got into code before people even knew it was a thing. Why? Well there’s a real beauty to it, it’s its own language. Coding is so much more creative than anyone thinks. It’s problem solving, it’s building worlds out of nothing... Oh, yes, the company I work for is great. It’s a start-up offering office perks. Really chilled atmosphere. We all get to finish at four thirty on a Friday. I know, great, right? Especially in the summer...”
I listen and listen and listen and listen. I nod and nod and agree and agree. I occasionally make small witticisms, to show that I’m not completely bland, just totally interested in what he’s saying. It’s so relaxing not being me. I sip my red wine and listen some more. “That’s great about the Friday finish,” I say. “Wow, I don’t know much about coding. How interesting.”
By the time the bottle of wine’s been finished, and the bar’s more crowded, I would estimate that it’s been roughly eighty percent Joshua talking compared to twenty percent me talking. And, by the way he’s blearily looking at me, with hope in his slightly drunken eyes, it looks like, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve found the golden ratio.
“You’re pretty,” he states. Throwing it out there with the confidence of alcohol. “I like your eyes.”
I accept the compliment because that shows good levels of self-esteem. “Thanks,” I say. “I grew them myself.”
“BAHAHAHAHA.” He laughs so hard he almost spits out his wine. “That’s funny,” he states. “HAHAHAHAHA. Wow, a girl has never made me laugh like that before.”
I raise my eyebrows and absorb the microaggression because Gretel is chill about things like that. It’s almost ten and I’m starting to wane. It’s exhausting constantly listening to somebody talk at you and arranging your face into a neutral listening pose. Also, Gretel has been a bit too easy up until now. It’s time for the power switch. Sensing it, Joshua leans over and taps the empty wine bottle. “Fancy another?” he asks. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
I smile with warmth and nothing threatening. “I’d love to,” I say. “But I probably shouldn’t. I’ve got a crazy early meeting tomorrow morning.” Joshua’s face dims, rejection rippling through him. So I lean over, put my hand on his hand, and start the never-ending routine of using up my energy soothing his ego. “But I’ve had a really good time.”
He looks at our touching skin. He feels what I feel. Because, annoyingly, despite everything, the skin-on-skin contact is sending zings up my arm. Stirrings of electricity yawn through my body. “Me too,” he says. “What’s the meeting about? It’s so cool that you work for a charity. That, like, makes you a proper good person.”
“Yep. Worked off three years of purgatory already...” Make sure you’re clever, but not too clever, don’t be intimidating. “It’s just a meeting about funding, but it will be all mathsy, so I need to have my wits about me.” I remove my hand. “So I should probably go.”
Joshua stands as I stand. “OK, I’ll walk you to the Tube.”
I pick up my bag. A group of aggy businessmen push past us to claim our table before I’ve even wiggled out. “Sorry, sorry,” they say, hands up, but not meaning it, because they’re doing it anyway. How many sorrys do I accept from men who are saying sorry but doing it anyway?
The sun’s yet to set as we emerge onto the lively streets. A trillion cyclists whirr past us, the pavements clogged with people spilling out of pubs. Heat from the cemented roads rises and mingles with the hissing exhausts of buses. The air smells like it has no oxygen in it. Joshua’s nerves have returned now we are out of the dimmed lights of the bar. We walk, side by side, but nowhere near touching. I act like the awkwardness isn’t bothering me at all, swinging my arms and humming under my breath. Silence has always been something I stumble into, desperate to fill. It’s where I give away so much of my power. But Gretel doesn’t ever feel awkward. She’s too busy planning out some tune to play on her ukulele when she gets home, or wondering if her new nose piercing is accidental cultural appropriation.
“Big day tomorrow?” I ask, when enough time has passed for him to think I’ve been comfortable with the conversational lag. “Are you going to code the shit out of some stuff?”
He giggles again. “Oh yeah,” he riffs off the energy I created. “Coding isn’t going to know what’s hit it. I’m going to code like there’s no tomorrow.”
“You’ll have to teach me sometime.”
Josh takes his cue. He stops us on the pavement and turns toward me.
“I’d like that,” he says. He reaches out and takes both of my hands and looks right into my eyes. I’m a bit thrown because I wasn’t expecting this. I’m still not completely sure if Gretel kisses on a first date or not, but there is definitely the hint of a kiss on this muggy, polluted horizon. I look up at this strange man, who is holding both of my hands. I think about how I rarely touch the people I know, how, normally, skin-on-skin contact is something that comes with time. How friends build up to the ability to hug one another. And, yet, in a dating context, you allow random individuals the privilege and intimacy of touching you after, what, a few messages sent back and forth and a bottle of red? Men no longer have to earn the right to touch women. And, even if they do, they often lean over the counter and help themselves anyway. I feel prickles itch their way across my skin.
I look into Joshua’s green eyes, and then down at our hands, and try not to let April’s rage seep into Gretel. But it must’ve leaked out because Joshua gives me a cheeky smile and then lets go of my hands. “Right, come on then. Let’s get you home, Miss Important Meeting Tomorrow.”
“So important,” I counter, walking a tiny bit closer to him so he knows Gretel is still into this. “I mean, sometimes, when I think about how important I am, it overwhelms me and I can’t get out of my office chair.”
