It took a while for us to admit it, because it’s hard and scary to take the leap of faith. But we’d grown up and grown apart – matured into two individuals with different expectations and desires. His evolving man-buns (cool), tantric sex in a tepee (from the photos I could see on his Facebook page after he’d set off on his travels, but OMG what if people were listening?), green tea (yuk) and mung beans (not tried them, not going to try them), and looking after the planet.
I’m all for looking after the planet but I want a house of my own (with proper walls and curtains) to have sex in, lots of coffee with the odd smoothie, and Deliveroo at my fingertips. Oh, and Netflix.
See? Totally incompatible. How did we never see that happening, and go our separate ways earlier?
Even though it was right that it was over, it was still sad. Like scooping out a section of my heart and watching it dissolve, leaving a small hollow that ached with nothingness. Like closing the door on a part of my growing up that I’d loved. The carefree, happy, hopeful anything-can-happen part.
I had lost a part of my naïve optimism. A part of my joy.
It had made me doubt that happy-ever-afters actually exist.
Up until now I’d ignored some of the shitty love experiences that my nearest and dearest had had to deal with; I had told myself that they were the exceptions and what I had – happiness – was totally possible if you went about it in the right way. I thought I was special, we were special. Admitting to myself that Robbie leaving was the right thing shot that theory totally in the foot.
There was a gaping hole in my soul (and the flat) after he reappeared briefly, all tanned, tousle-haired and sheepish, and packed the rest of his stuff into two very large rucksacks and a couple of bags for life.
That was the moment the sticking plaster was ripped off with stinging finality.
Saying goodbye was admitting we’d changed, that we weren’t those optimistic kids anymore. That we had grown up and had learned tough love.
Yuk.
But once I’d wallowed briefly in self-pity, and eaten a lot of carbs, I agreed with Bea that I had womanly needs and that I needed to ‘get out there’. I was going to date.
Easy eh? Not, it would seem!
So, anyway – taking a deep breath and pulling my big-girl pants up – I have now been single for eight months and nine days, and the closest I’ve come to scoring was when D. B. Tricket hesitated at the till after paying for his book. He comes into the bookshop very regularly. So regularly that I know the name on his payment card. He’s quite shy and has a, shall I say, unusual taste in reading. He hesitated so long this time I was about to jokingly say ‘move along’ when he coughed twice and then a load of words came out in a rush. He had a couple of tickets for a gig, and did I fancy it? It was a well-cool local band, and I couldn’t believe my luck! I told him to drop the tickets off any time cos I was sure Bea, my mate, would be interested.
D. B. turned bright red, stuttered that he would and crashed out of the shop forgetting to take the book he’d just bought with him.
I mean, why? Why did I say that? Why did that bit of my brain responsible for dating not click in and realise he was asking me out?
He has not been in the shop since, and he was actually our best customer by a long way.
Bea thought it was hilarious, then sobered up and said if I didn’t get myself sorted soon and learn to read the signals, she’d take me out for a proper night on the pull. She’s not a euphemism type of person – she’s pretty direct and blunt, even when it comes to dates. Which is why she goes on lots, and I don’t get any. But we are so different. The idea of a manhunt with her is bloody scary, so I knew I had to prove I was at least trying to find my inner date detector.
I don’t want to hook up with somebody for a one-night stand because we’re both pissed and our standards, morals and possibly good-judgement have gone AWOL for the evening. I also don’t want to date ‘my best mate’s friend’s brother’s mate who never seems to get a second date and can’t stop talking about his crush on the girl he saw at the bus stop’ (that entire sentence explains it all). I don’t want a pity shag. Or a blind date with somebody who shares my interest in finding the perfect beef jerky (yes, I did meet him at a party), but absolutely nothing else. Or newly divorced Dennis who comes in every Thursday to check out our sci-fi books and has declared he’s open to dating anybody providing their boobs are bigger than their stomach and they’re up for a curry and beer night. To be honest I think his best bet is to date his buddy Steve; they make the perfect couple.
Anyway, even if they don’t, I don’t want him.
So, there are a lot of don’ts, and I am normally more of a do person. But I just want a date with a normal guy.
My big problem is I don’t know: a. where to find him, or b. what to say if I do, or c. how to tell if he’s interested (as D. B. Tricket will confirm).
So, finding a date online had seemed like a good idea. I thought I would have some control, and also wouldn’t have to rely on my dodgy ability to read body language. Normally I don’t have an issue with this. I can tell if somebody wants me to piss off, sit down, leave them alone or help – which is why I love working in a shop so much. But my wires just seem to get crossed, or totally fused together, in a potential-attraction situation. Or, well, any one-on-one with a man in a social situation. I get flustered, I panic, I lose my ability to string together sentences, I cannot act like a normal human being.
It is beginning to annoy me.
Using an app, though, I thought I could check for compatibility at least, get the basic niceties out of the way, and we’d both turn up for our first date because we wanted to be there.
Seems I was wrong.
I am now even more annoyed.
***
This bar is a bit like a hotel, with a steady trickle of customers coming and going – but not staying for long. Which leaves me feeling even worse. It isn’t the type of place I’d normally come on my own (to be honest I don’t do bars on my own), it isn’t even the type of bar I’d come to with Robbie, or Bea. It’s a bit brash, loud, trying a bit too hard to impress.
Trendy shiny stools and uncomfortable seats that don’t let you slump, carefully dimmed lights that are supposed to create ambience but just feel false. Not me at all. I’m more a chilled, take me as you find me type of person.
My prosecco, like me, has lost its bubbles. I knock back what is left, and stare at Gabe’s profile and have to admit it feels a bit like I’ve been kicked in the gut. He’s not shown up for our date. Our first date.
Second date I might have been able to stomach (unless I’d really been into him), but first date? Really? He hasn’t even given me a chance.
Bastard.
It’s that feeling you get when you’re six years old and can’t see your mum in the audience at the school Nativity.
He has ruined my master plan. He has let me down, just when I thought I was about to make some progress and come out of what Bea calls my ‘hermit shell home’. I’ve been trying, I really have, and I thought this was it.
Gabe Stevenson. Blue eyes, dark hair. Age 32 and ¾ (I’d thought that was cute; who doesn’t like a guy with a sense of humour?).
Not famous, a film star or millionaire, but play the guitar (badly), sing in the shower (not quite as badly), cook a mean curry. Like dogs, kids, chocolate and cake. Scrub up okay.