Another big hearty laugh. ‘You’re welcome.’
I don’t tell him I had a good time because I reckon Gretel is the sort of person who doesn’t dole out compliments easily. You have to earn them from her; you have to draw her attention away from whatever incredible adventure she’s on, or whimsical thought she is having. I can sense the cringey hug/back-pat goodbye of previous dates, so I lean in, kiss him gently on the cheek, and say, ‘You get home safe now.’ Then I turn and go. Down into the gullet of the London Underground, not once looking back.
I get out my card to let me through the barriers, and smile at the busker as I float down the escalators past posters for West End musicals I’m never able to afford because I live in London. I slump onto a germ-ridden seat with an oomph and the Tube snakes through the darkness and back home. I love riding the Tube at this time of night. When everyone is heady from alcohol and either going home happy after a few too many, or off out to make the evening into a bigger one. Giddy anticipation drips from the ceiling, and it’s that sort of atmosphere where, if someone was to start singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, everyone around would just join in. I change onto the District line, grinning as I skirt around a gang of tourists, blearily following someone holding up an umbrella as a guide. I plop onto my second train and get the pang I sometimes get. The I’m-so-lucky-to-live-in-London pang, when I think about how those tourists saved up to come here and goggle at what I mindlessly walk past every day. I open my planner and jot down some notes for tomorrow’s meeting. I work out what time I need to set my alarm and set it on my phone. Then I plan what to have for breakfast, running through the ingredients I know to be in the fridge. If I get up ten minutes earlier, I can scramble eggs. I smile at the thought of this as I walk home. Already wanting it to be morning so I can eat breakfast.
It’s only when I reach the end of my road, that I realise it.
I’ve gone the whole journey home without thinking about my date with Joshua.
He left my thought process the moment I walked away without looking back. I didn’t even wonder if he watched me as I walked away, and I normally always wonder that.
I have not analysed my behaviour for anything I did or said wrong, and then tortured myself with all the nuggets of non-perfect-humaning I’m quickly able dredge up. I have not pored over every single thing he said, sifting it for evidence of commitment issues, personality disorders, a desire to have children, and/or ex-girlfriends he may still be in love with. I’ve not obsessed over the moment he took my hands, and how he almost kissed me, or berated myself for not letting him kiss me, because it may have put him off, even though I didn’t particularly want to be kissed anyway. I’ve not checked my phone the instant I’m above ground to see if he’s messaged, and let the outcome of that dictate how I feel about myself and my life. I’ve not rung Megan immediately to debrief her on all the above and to get her take on it because I do not trust my own instincts because, well, have you seen my track record?
This has never happened before.
I actually stop on the pavement and say ‘huh’ out loud.
Then, of course, my phone buzzes and comes up with his name.
Joshua: Hey Gretel, I had a really lovely time tonight. It would be great to do it again soon. X
The perfect post-date message. The message we all hope for. Straight away. ‘I liked our time together.’ Bish bash bosh. No game-playing. Saying they want to see you again. Oh, you’ve clearly hit it out of the ballpark. One kiss at the end. Already. Just the one. But one is good. Any other number of kisses at this point would be weird. All in all, as I said, the perfect message. It says, ‘I like you, and I’m not going to be a dick about saying as much or play games, but I’m still a normal human who isn’t going to pin all my hopes on you.’
Way to go, Josh, I think. I don’t deliberate about how to reply. Or squeal with happiness. I just think, I hope Megan hasn’t eaten my bloody eggs, and then speed-walk home to check.
• Easy Breezy Lemon Squeezy – Gretel’s Guide to Messaging Between Dates
* * *
The most important thing to remember about messaging between dates is that none of them mean anything. They’re just fun, ok? Their only real purpose is a) to sort out admin details, and b) to flirt and entertain.
Certainly no woman worth any worth is going to read anything into them, obsess over their content and their own replies, and jump into the air like a startled cat whenever they receive a new message. Like, who does that? Not Gretel, that’s who.
Definitely do not reply straight away regularly. That’s an instant way for him to lose his hard-on. The minimum reply time is an hour. Not because you’ve set an hour timer on your phone, but because you’re literally just too busy being amazing and fabulous and Gretel to have time to reply sooner.
Make sure every message you send will make him smile in some way. Cheer up his day. Cheer up his life! Not too often though. Don’t want to freak him out with all your availability. You need to strike the perfect balance of reassuring him you’re thinking about him, while also reassuring him that you’re not constantly thinking about him. Keep in mind that he’s probably messaging other girls too. That’s cool. You’re cool. That’s so totally fine, ISN’T IT? I mean, you are totally messaging other guys too. And by ‘messaging’ you mean receiving unsolicited photographs of pubey, flaccid penises; constant requests for bra sizes; hate mail from that psychopath you dated three months ago calling you a ‘slut’ for not sleeping with him and considerately telling him you didn’t want to see him anymore; countless messages from people who literally cannot spell; countless messages that just say ‘hey’ at you, over and over again, followed again by good ol’ ‘slut’ when you don’t reply. And you regularly look at your phone in complete despair and wonder how anyone meets anyone when it’s so obvious all men are broken and you can’t believe you’ve managed to find one, just one, you’ve vaguely clicked with so you’re pouring all your remaining hope into him and cannot fucking believe it’s been two hours now and he’s not replied and you have no idea if he’s going to ask you out again and you may cry if he doesn’t … yeah, he doesn’t need to know all this. All he needs to know is, like, you’re totally playing the field too. This over-ploughed, scorched mess of a field scattered with the decaying corpses of all your past hopes … So, yeah, a really good message to send is a frothy cool one to let him know how busy and fun and spontaneous you are. One like: ‘I’m out in so-and-so playing badger-themed, glow in the dark, minigolf – you should totally join!’ or ‘OMFG did you know you can currently buy mint choc chip Viennetta for a pound?’
* * *
Gretel: Did you know you can currently buy a mint choc chip Viennetta, a whole one, for only a pound?
Joshua: No way? I love those things! Where?! Other than in my dreams?
Gretel: Iceland. Yes, I’m a classy broad.
Joshua: Can’t talk. On my way to Iceland.
Joshua: *Sends photo of a mint choc Viennetta*
Gretel: I can’t believe you actually got one!