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.
There he is. Joshua. Strong name. Sitting in the corner. Strong choice of table. Not playing on his phone to compensate for sitting alone. Strong character. He sees me. Well, Gretel. Must recognise me from the photo. He stands, and we both, within milliseconds, make ten gazillion micro-decisions about the other based on nothing but body language and scent and the filter of our past experiences. And hope. On his side, maybe, there’s a filter of hope. He’s on a first date after all, he must not have given up just yet.
‘Hi, Gretel, nice to meet you.’ He strides over and we awkwardly kiss on the cheek.
‘Nice to meet you too.’ It’s insane that he’s just called me Gretel. What am I doing? What the actual fuck am I doing? I have totally lost all my marbles. My voice is a bit too shrill and I try to drop an octave. ‘Sorry I’m a little bit late. I couldn’t find the place.’
He guides me to the table, bumping into another bloke on the walk over.