Oh, if you’re going somewhere to eat, make sure you don’t order salad. Men don’t want to spend the rest of their lives with someone who orders fucking salad. Order whatever you like because you’re strong and independent and don’t care what anyone thinks, just don’t order salad; even if you’re in the mood for salad and that’s genuinely what you feel like eating, don’t eat it, OK?
When the bill comes, make sure you offer to split it because this is modern life. But, also, if he wants to pay it, then let him so he’s not emasculated. You can pay on the next date – but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. This is still only the first date here. You’re not on the second yet, are you, you fucked-up mess reading advice about first dates?
If the date has gone well, and there’s sexual chemistry and an emotional connection and you’ve not ruined all that by revealing any unattractive human traits, then the big question is, do you kiss? Clearly sex is a no-no, you slut. Kissing is OK though. Sort of. As long as you follow some simple tips, sorry, I meant rules: Let him kiss you. Do not kiss him first. Even if it’s clear he wants to kiss you, don’t lean in. Ideally don’t kiss until dates two or three anyway. Let there be build-up. Oh, and afterwards, wait for them to contact you. Don’t do it first, because: men. Anyway, you’re too busy being awesome and high-value and not needing them very much to even be worrying about messaging him, right?
It only works if you know there are plenty of men out there that you can spark with and you never worry about dying alone. You can’t go out dating with the fear that you may die alone. I mean, that’s essentially the sole reason of dating – to meet someone so you don’t die alone – but you’re not allowed to think that. You have to accidentally find love on the date you’re going on to try and find the love of your life. Otherwise you’re just desperate and I can smell that from here – jeez.
* * *
I’m weirdly calm as I get ready in the cramped office bathroom. No matter how many first dates I’ve been on in my life (clue: a lot), they’ve never lost their nerve-wrackingness. I’ve never been able to overcome the sheer weirdness of sitting with a stranger, both of you trying to figure out if you’re capable of falling in love with one another. The instant judgements you both make, telling the same stories that you know go down well, but clearly not too well otherwise you wouldn’t still be going on dates. I’m not wearing my usual first-date outfit but instead what Gretel would wear to a first date.
He would want Gretel to look effortlessly amazing, which, of course, takes a shit load of effort. If Gretel was real, she’d just tumble into the date straight from work, her face glowing, and hair piled up – looking just as extraordinarily beautiful as she does when she wakes up next to you in the morning, probably with a blowjob or something. In man world, Gretel takes no longer than five minutes getting ready to look so pretty. But Gretel isn’t real. I am just playing her part. I’m pretty enough. I’ve been told by a few men, without asking, that objectively I’m beautiful (I refer to these compliments as ‘unforced errors’). But I’m not a model, and so it takes quite a lot of make-upping to achieve the desired Gretel look.
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 make-up bag and stuff it all back in. I’ve ‘only’ got on 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 paralysed 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.