Dale talked about his dog, Bucky, a Labradoodle, who mostly lived with his ex-wife and their two kids. But he didn’t seem at all bitter about the divorce.
‘We married really young. Had kids really young and by the time that both of us had figured out who we were, we also realised that we weren’t in love with the people that either of us used to be,’ he said, and though the line sounded rehearsed, Margot didn’t mind.
When you were dating, seriously dating, you got used to repackaging some of the most awful and defining moments of your life into neat sound bites.
The two kids were twenty-one and nineteen, both at university, but because it was only the first date, Margot couldn’t ask Dale how he would feel about having a second batch of children when he was barely done raising the first.
Still, as they thawed out with coffee at Kenwood House, she was pleased when Dale asked if she’d be up for another date.
‘But somewhere warmer,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘Maybe for dinner if you don’t mind leaving Blossom at home.’
Margot hadn’t explained about the dog sharing. It was too complicated. Also, she didn’t want to think about Will while she was on a date.
‘Next week, then,’ she said with a smile, because Dale had pushed down his scarf so he could drink his coffee and he did have a kind face, though she still wasn’t sure what the hair situation was like. Margot wasn’t shallow enough that a little male pattern baldness would put her off. Unless Dale had hair plugs. Hair plugs were a definite deal-breaker.
It turned out, a week later, when they met at the last little Italian trattoria left in Soho which hadn’t been flattened to make way for the Crossrail, that Dale was one of those men who had realised his hair was trying to say goodbye and had shaved the whole lot off.
Dale also looked relieved when Margot took off her coat to reveal one of her trusty midi dresses – this one in a black-and-white check – and her hat to reveal that she did have a full head of hair.
Because they’d already had one date, it was much easier to pick up the threads after they’d ordered warming bowls of pasta and a bottle of red wine.
Dale was a TV script editor and had several amusing anecdotes about egotistical actors and even more egotistical directors. He wouldn’t name names, he wasn’t a bragger, and he didn’t only talk about himself, which a lot of men still did, even though they must have all received the memo by now stating very clearly that that sort of thing just wasn’t acceptable.
He listened attentively as Margot told him about having to shoot winter fashion in the middle of a heatwave. As dates went, this one was perfectly OK, but all Margot could think about was getting the Tube home.
In an ideal world, Blossom would be waiting for her, to hover impatiently around her feet while Margot made a cup of tea, then when Margot sat down on the sofa, Blossom would tuck in tight next to her and Margot would put her chunky wool throw around them both.
But Blossom was tucked in tight with Will and it was time for Margot to get down to business.
‘This has been lovely,’ she said after their plates had been cleared and they’d asked for a brief respite before they thought about pudding.
‘It has been lovely. Best two dates I’ve had,’ Dale said, smiling with his kind face. ‘Though I feel like a but is coming. Is it?’
Margot spread her hands out on the table, took one calming breath, then made sure to look Dale in the eye. ‘I’m looking for a long-term serious relationship,’ she said. ‘I want children.’
Dale swallowed hard. ‘It has only been two dates. I’d really love to see where this goes.’
It had been two good dates, but Margot also knew that she’d have no regrets if there wasn’t a third date. Like, when she’d watched two episodes of something on Netflix and decided that she’d much rather watch Schitt’s Creek again. There just wasn’t that spark. That connection.
Not that she could tell Dale that. ‘I’m thirty-six. I don’t have time to see where this is going to go,’ she explained softly, because that was also the truth and a lot more palatable to Dale than, sorry, but I’m just not that into you.
They decided not to have coffee but split the bill and said their hurried goodbyes in the restaurant doorway.
Margot watched Dale, and what could have been her uncertain future, hurry away, then adjusted her scarf and mentally prepared herself for the frostbitten walk to the Tube station. On the plus side, it wasn’t even eight thirty and within an hour, she’d be home, toasty warm . . .
‘Hey! Hi, Margs! I thought it was you,’ came a piercing cry from the other side of the tiny street and Margot looked up to see Sage standing there holding two buckets.
Weird. Random. But mostly weird.
‘What are you doing here?’ Margot asked, crossing the deserted street. ‘Why are you holding two buckets?’
‘I’ve just shown a bunch of influencers how to artfully arrange some seasonal flowers into photogenic posies at a PR event,’ Sage explained. She shivered, probably because she wasn’t wearing a coat and her fashionable high-waisted jeans finished some way above her ankles. ‘Give me two minutes to load up and I’ll give you a lift home.’
Sage had done the workshop with two friends who had promptly abandoned her once she’d paid them. It took fifteen minutes for Sage and Margot to clear up the flower debris then load Sage’s unused supplies into the Blooms’ van. Still, it beat bussing and Tubing it home.
‘Are you missing Blossom?’ Sage wanted to know as she navigated through the narrow Soho streets.
‘Always,’ Margot said. ‘I love snuggling her on a cold night. What did you think of the snowflake onesie I made her?’
‘We need a new word to describe how fucking adorable she looks in it because none of the current ones will do,’ Sage decreed. ‘OK, I need to shut up and focus on my driving until we’re out of Soho.’
Margot obligingly shut up until they were stuck behind a bus on Tottenham Court Road. It was that fallow period when all the Christmas decorations had been taken down and it was cold and wet and felt like nothing nice would ever happen again. Then the Valentine’s Day displays would go up and Margot would feel resentful and bitter because there was no one to buy her a bunch of red roses with the price jacked up.
Sage overtook a bus and just managed to slide through the lights before they turned amber. She sighed in a self-satisfied sort of way.
‘You’re a very good driver,’ Margot noted, which made Sage preen. ‘I can’t drive, never even had a lesson, and yet here you are, bossing it through Central London like an old pro.’
‘I only passed my test a few months ago,’ Sage explained. ‘When Will came back from the States, he’d take me to practise in the big Tesco car park when it was really quiet, to build up my confidence before we went out on the roads.’
‘Will did?’ All evening, Margot had been pushing thoughts of Will away. Now she gave in to the inevitable and thought about him. How, even though it was awkward, and it was frequently awkward, she missed spending time with him.
‘Yeah. Have you any idea how expensive driving lessons are?’ Sage let out a long, low whistle. ‘I’d already gone through three driving instructors and even Dad, Captain Calm, said I was a menace on the roads. So, thank God for Will. It’s funny, ’cause although he’s my brother, my whole life he’d been living somewhere else and always seemed kind of distant. So those evenings we spent driving around empty supermarket car parks were when we really got to know each other. Nothing like having a meltdown over reversing to really bond two people.’