Читать книгу Truth Or Date - Portia MacIntosh - Страница 13

Chapter 3

Getting ready for a first date requires as much mental preparation as it does physical prep work. Sure, it’s important to look and feel your best, and for that you’ve got to wash, shave, wax, pluck, dry and moisturise every last inch of your body before caking yourself in make-up, dousing yourself in perfume and slipping on something skimpy. Said skimpy outfit will be carefully selected, and you can guarantee it will be the first outfit you pick out – which would be great if you didn’t put it on, take it off, and then proceed to pull out everything else you own, trying various combinations of different outfits on before deciding you actually had it right with the first one. By which point, of course, you’ll be running late. So the whole time you’re whizzing around your room doing all of the above like a sparkly Tasmanian devil, you’ll be alternating talking yourself out of going with persuading yourself you absolutely should go, because you’re single and you have to give men a chance, lest you die alone – isn’t dating fun?!

The mental preparation is possibly even trickier than trying to wing your eyeliner without winding up looking like Amy Winehouse or searching for an outfit that makes your bum half the size it is – and mine is pretty big, so that’s quite the task. First of all, you need to constantly talk yourself into it. It will be at the forefront of your mind to cancel because you are gross, and boys don’t like you, and you’re incapable of sustaining a relationship with anyone other than your mobile network provider and the platonic ones you have with barmen all over town to get service quickly. You know none of these things are true (except the last one) but it’s easy to convince yourself that you can put it off today and meet the love of your life the next day week month…

It’s nice to know as much as possible about who you’re dealing with, and Facebook is great for that, but I’m yet to friend the guy I’m meeting tonight and he’s got his privacy settings spot on, which sucks for me stalking him. I did have a quick flick through his profile pictures, careful not to knock ‘like’ on any from six years ago like I did with someone once before – nothing says cray-cray like ‘liking’ an old photo. After flicking through this guy’s photos, I’ve got to say, he’s so far out of my league, we’re playing different sports. There’s only one thing for it: control tights. The illusion of a flat stomach might level the playing field, at least a little.

I lie back on my bed and begin gently rolling the tights up my legs one at a time, careful not to ladder them because this is my only pair. It’s a new pair, and as such, the tights are super tight. I sometimes struggle to keep them up high enough at the back, causing them to roll down and give me this weird back podge that I could have an anxiety attack about if I thought too much about it…no, I don’t have a fat back, it’s just the way control tights kind of round everything up, and God forbid my date puts his hand on my back and figures out where my control tights are hiding my stomach. The solution to this problem that many people probably weren’t even aware was even a thing, is to tuck my tights into my bra, but that’s really difficult to do on your own. Luckily, I have a solution to this problem too.

‘Nick,’ I call out at the top of my voice.

‘What, what’s wrong?’ he asks, bursting through my bedroom door. He’s wearing an apron, causing me to giggle at him. Then again, I probably don’t look so cool right now either.

‘Shit, Ruby, I thought maybe one of your online dating weirdos was hacking you up in here.’

‘You wish,’ I reply.

‘You want me to pull your tights up again, don’t you?’

‘What are roommates for?’ I say with a sweet smile.

Nick shakes his head as he walks over to me, knowing that sometimes the easiest option is to just humour me.

‘You know, I struggle to recall a single thing you’ve ever done for me,’ he starts as he yanks up my tights, wrestling them under my bra at the back.

‘Erm, I helped you glue that vase Heather made you back together,’ I remind him.

‘Yeah, because you smashed it having sex on the sofa.’

‘I wasn’t having sex – foreplay, if that.’

‘Too much information.’

The process of pulling my tights up isn’t pretty for anyone involved, so I think the fact that Nick and I dislike each other makes him perfect for the job – I don’t care about how unsexy I look in front of him.

‘So, where is Heather tonight?’ I ask – not that I care.

‘She’s on her way over, so can you hold your breath or something to speed this up? I don’t want her to see us like this, she might get the wrong idea.’

I roll my eyes, even though Nick can’t see my face.

‘Dude, you’re literally wrestling me into my clothes. That’s as unsuspicious as you can get.’

‘Whatever, Ruby. Look, I don’t even know why you wear these things, you’re not fat.’

‘I ain’t thin, doll,’ I reply in a very matter-of-fact manner.

‘If you’re not happy with how you look, go on a diet, go to the gym – anything that means I don’t have to do this.’

Nick goes to the gym at least once a day, he eats clean and he is in excellent shape. My cardio involves running for trains, the only lifting I do is food to my mouth, and as such I am a comfortable size twelve…occasionally a ten, if I don’t eat salt for a few days, or a fourteen if we’ve just had a major holiday like Christmas or Valentine’s Day, the latter of which is best enjoyed alone, eating chocolate and watching films starring Hugh Grant.

‘The gym sounds awesome, but have you ever thought about punching yourself in the face?’ I ask, straight-faced. ‘That sounds much more fun.’

‘Hey, I’m not saying you need to go, I’m just all for whatever gets me out of being the person who has to pull your tights up. Just out of interest, how do you cope when you need the bathroom?’

‘I drink light and thank God for my excellent bladder control,’ I reply.

‘Wish I hadn’t asked,’ he replies as he heads for the door. He hovers in the doorway for a second. ‘Date tonight?’

‘How did you guess?’ I ask, fully expecting him to give me a lecture on how I go on too many dates.

‘The scary tights, Beyoncé playing – it’s like you’re simultaneously making yourself feel sexy enough to pull someone, whilst reminding yourself that you don’t need a man at the same time.’ I think for a second, considering whether or not this is possibly a compliment, until he adds: ‘You know, in case he scarpers like the rest.’

‘You can leave now,’ I tell him. ‘Your girlfriend will be here soon. We don’t want her catching you in my room, while I’m in my lingerie.’

‘You were right before,’ he calls back. ‘No one would suspect a bloke of sleeping with a girl in those things – at least you don’t have to worry about date rapists, they’d never get into those.’

I look in the mirror, examining my slightly smaller looking, tights-clad body and sigh. Dating is horrible, isn’t it? Just a ridiculous nightmare that’s absolutely impossible, with all these rules of what you’re supposed to do, what you’re not supposed to do, how you’re expected to behave – and most people stick to them. And even though we have bad ones, we suck it up, we have our grumpy flatmate pull us into our tight-tights and we get right back on the horse, ready to give someone else a chance. Does my optimism for finding someone deplete every time I go on a bad date? Maybe, just a little, but it also hardens me to it. I don’t take it personally anymore. I don’t wonder what’s wrong with me if someone tries to cover me in love bites, I wonder what’s wrong with people, and while that may be a depressing thought, it doesn’t hurt or damage my self-esteem, and I don’t feel bad about myself in the slightest. In my control tights, I am untouchable – literally, apparently.

With every first date there is always this thought at the back of your mind that if you just get it right this time, it might be your last ever first date, and wouldn’t that be wonderful?

I grab a dress from the top of Mount Clothesmore. It’s a short black number with a mesh panel down the front. With a little bit of extra weight comes a great pair of boobs, so I may as well work them to my advantage. The truth is that I probably could stand to lose a few pounds. If I went on a diet, my nearest and dearest wouldn’t be hurrying me off to The Priory to talk to someone, you know? I’m just normal, I guess. Not skinny, not fat – but most importantly, not bothered. I’m happy in my skin. I know how to dress to make the most of what I’ve got and I love eating and drinking way too much to become the girl who only orders a salad in restaurants. I certainly have no intention of ordering a salad tonight. I imagine I should, according to the rules of the dating game. Even if I don’t plan on keeping it up forever, I could order a salad the first few times we go out to make him think that I’m this dainty little thing who doesn’t stuff her face and then, once he’s suitably charmed by me – boom – that’s when I reveal my secret appetite for red meat and dessert.

Hair – check. Make-up – check. Tights – check. Dress – check. Heels – check. That’s me ready to go. I grab my handbag to make sure I have the necessities: purse, extra make-up, rape alarm – all the things you need for a successful date with a man you’ve never met before.

I make my way into the living room, grabbing my keys from the bowl on the coffee table where Nick insists we keep the keys, ready to make a dash for it before his girlfriend arrives, because if there’s one person I like even less than Nick, it’s Heather, Nick’s current bird.

‘How do I look?’ I ask Nick, who is stirring something over the cooker.

‘Not like you’ve got terrifying tights on, kid,’ he tells me, which I think is a compliment.

Nick has called me kid since pretty much the day we met. At first I thought it was just one of your typical terms of endearment used by Yorkshire folk, but then as we realised we were never going to get along, and he started comparing me to an immature child, I realised that he probably called me kid because he thinks I am one. I call him much worse, so it’s fine.

‘How does the food smell?’ he asks.

I walk over and peer into the pan, but its contents are not recognisable to me, not by sight or smell.

‘Erm, what is it?’ I ask.

‘It’s vegan stew. Will you taste it for me?’

‘That’s a thing? I’d rather close the fridge door on my head,’ I reply.

I watch as Nick takes a spoon from the drawer, scooping a little out of the pan and tasting it. As he does, a little drops down and it lands on his apron, which he promptly begins cleaning. It’s only now that I’m looking at his apron that I notice the slogan: meat is murder.

‘Taste good?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah, I mean, it’s not the same as meat, but as long as Heather likes it.’

‘Boy, she’s got you whipped.’

Nick pulls a face.

‘No she doesn’t.’

‘So I suppose you’ve made yourself a meat version, then…’

‘Look, I don’t expect you to understand, but this is what you do when you’re in a relationship, you make sacrifices. If Heather doesn’t want me to eat meat in front of her, I won’t. She’s happy for me to do it when she’s not around.’

‘Bullshit kind of vegan she is then,’ I reason. ‘That’s like a policeman who is OK with murdering people, so long as you don’t do it in front of him.’

‘So you acknowledge it is murder,’ I hear Heather say victoriously from behind me.

I jump out of my skin, I’d no idea she was here.

‘How did you get in?’ I ask, accusingly.

‘Nick left the door open for me.’ She gets back to the subject at hand. ‘So you acknowledge that they’re both murder?’

‘That is not the comparison I was drawing and you know it,’ I tell her.

Heather shrugs, walking over to Nick and kissing him lightly on the lips.

‘Looks delicious,’ she tells him.

‘I know I do,’ I laugh. ‘Shame about the food though.’

Neither of them laugh.

As I head for the door, a notification comes through on my phone. It’s from my date, asking if we can meet an hour later because he’s run over at work.

‘Ah, crap,’ I say out loud, to no one in particular.

‘Language,’ Heather scolds me, before backtracking. ‘Sorry, teacher reflex. Although you probably shouldn’t swear, it’s not very becoming of a lady. You’ll do better on dates if you’re more ladylike.’

I plonk myself down on the sofa. No point leaving yet, I’ll be far too early.

‘Thank you, Cilla Black, I forgot you were the expert – remind me how you two met again?’

‘Nick was my sister’s obstetrician,’ she tells me, giving me the refresher I didn’t actually need.

‘Oh yeah, how romantic,’ I say sarcastically. ‘That means he saw your sister naked before he saw you naked – and they say romance is dead.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re not going,’ Nick interrupts before Heather has a chance to reply. ‘We’ve planned a night that doesn’t involve you.’

‘Mate, as much as I’d love to stick around for a Friday night of cardboard stew and the missionary position, I’m still going, I’ll just be too early if I leave now. But you know what that means.’ I adopt a faux enthusiastic tone to my voice. ‘I get to make small talk with you guys for even longer.’

‘Oh joy,’ Heather says, with an equal amount of sarcasm.

Heather Johnson is exactly the kind of girl I would have expected Nick to wind up with, in fact, she’s perfect for him. They both have sensible jobs (Heather is a primary school teacher), they both watch what they eat and, most importantly, they’re both so, so incredibly boring.

Heather takes a seat on the sofa next to me. Nick, whose crap stew clearly doesn’t require any attention at the moment, wanders over and sits in the chair next to us.

‘So you’re going out like that?’ Heather asks me.

‘I am,’ I reply, all smiles. Heather likes me about as much as I like her, which is not at all. She never really gave me a chance, I think she just dislikes me because Nick dislikes me – she’s also a monumental bitch, which also has an effect on her people skills. Still, if she thinks she can upset me, she’s wrong. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘I can see your bra,’ she tells me.

‘Good,’ I reply. ‘It was expensive.’

We sit quietly for a moment before I decide on a silence-breaker.

‘I actually heard a vegan joke the other day, would you like to hear it?’ I ask her.

‘Oh, go on then,’ Heather replies, scooting to the edge of her seat, ready to laugh.

‘How do know if someone is vegan?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know, how?’

‘They tell you,’ I reply, slapping my thigh. ‘Funny, right?’

‘So what you meant is that you heard a joke about vegans, not a vegan joke,’ she corrects me.

‘Same diff., right, miss? I can’t imagine vegan-friendly jokes are a thing – vegan-friendly food is barely a thing. And vegans aren’t known for their sense of humour, are they?’

‘Well, I won’t be telling that one at Vegan Club,’ she says with a frown.

‘Holy shit, Vegan Club is a thing?’

‘Of course it is,’ she replies. ‘We meet every Sunday at Baa Bar Blacks. All welcome.’

‘Wow. So I’m going to guess the first rule of Vegan Club is the opposite of the first rule of Fight Club,’ I joke.

I’m not sure if Heather doesn’t get the reference or just doesn’t find me funny, but she ignores me, turning to Nick.

‘Darling, what do vegan zombies eat?’

‘What?’ he asks, without much enthusiasm. I can tell he’s just enduring the seconds until I leave, so they can get on with their boring night.

‘Graaaaaains,’ she replies, laughing her head off. ‘And you said vegans didn’t have a sense of humour, Ruby.’

‘I did say that, didn’t?’ I reply, pulling myself to my feet. ‘But it was still nice to have you confirm it to be true. I’m going to get going, enjoy your night, you crazy kids.’

Neither of them say goodbye to me, but as I head out through the door, in the seconds before I close it I overhear a snippet of their conversation.

‘How long do you think this bloke will stick around?’ Heather asks Nick.

‘Not long,’ he replies. ‘They never stick around for long.’