Читать книгу William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story - Matt Rudd - Страница 29

Met Isabel four years ago today. Seems like much, much longer. Not in a bad way.

Dinner at Andrew Edmunds (note for next time, refuse downstairs table if upstairs full and go somewhere else instead because left smelling like lamb chops), then a tour of all the bars we’d got drunk in back when we were all excited and unfamiliar with each other. Isabel gets super-nostalgic: ‘We sat on this sofa, you ordered those drinks, you tripped on that step and ruined the dress of a girl sitting at that table. And you were wearing that horrible off-centre skintight jumper.’

I explain, as I did at the time, that it was bias-cut, very fashionable, chosen by a fashion PR who’d felt sorry for me. She explains, as she did at the time, that I will never be fashionable with my sticky-out ears and my sticky-out nose and my pointy little head. And I remember why I fell in love with her. And how we met on a speed-dating evening neither of us had planned to go to.

What if she hadn’t gone along to support her recently dumped friend? What if my mate Tom hadn’t forced me to go along with him because he wasn’t going to turn up on his own ‘like some creepy pervert’?