tipsily, as we pull apart. ‘We’d have totally genetically healthy children.’
I die inside for exactly two seconds until he snorts with laughter and my stomach relaxes again. He laughs widely, showing off at least three fillings which is still sexy to me because I’m off my tits on oxytocin.
He leans in and sniffs my neck. ‘Mmm, you smell like you came from a diverse gene pool.’
‘Our children won’t even need to get vaccinated.’
Then we’re kissing in a way I’m normally against people doing in public, mimicking the finale of our last date. Wiping away the polite greeting. The wine’s temporarily abandoned, the surrounding rah-rahing crowds of Friday drinkers fade into a Vaseline smear, and I’m tasting Simon’s mouth and really feeling quite certain this must be love.
I break off. ‘Please don’t sniff my butt like a dog though,’ I say.
He showcases his sexy oxytocin fillings again. ‘But that’s my best move.’
We settle into our bottle of red and the euphoric fizzing of connecting with another person you really fancy.
It’s all been worth it, I decide, as he picks up the bottle and drains the last of it into my glass. All of the heartache and the break-ups and the terrible dates, and the ringing various female friends, saying I’m exhausted and can’t do this any more, and the constant worrying of ‘will this ever happen to me’, and the crying until I choked, and that year after Ryan where all I did in my empty hours was google ways to kill myself that wouldn’t damage my mum too much when she found my body … it’s all been worth it because of now. Simon. This. The way we are slotting in together.
‘I’m not like the other guys who work in finance,’ he’s saying, sloshing his wine around his glass so it’s licking the rim but never quite splashing. ‘They’re all just in it for the money but I’m not. I’m an ombudsman; I’m just there to make sure they behave. You say you work in finance and everyone just assumes you’re a banker wanker, but someone’s got to keep them in line.’
I nod my head heavily, looking like I’m trying to understand some of the number nitty-gritty he’s now explaining to me when, really, I’m having the very terrible thought that he works in finance, and this means he earns good money, even if he’s not a banker, and that’s quite useful you know, because I work for a charity so I’m always broke. Maybe he has enough savings to buy a house? Then I can live in it? And then, if we get married, it will sort of be my house too? I mean, I like Simon for Simon – not for his money. But the money is useful. Hang on, what the hell is he talking about now? I blink away our three-bed Victorian conversion in Greenwich. ‘What was that?’ I ask.
He reaches over the barrel table to take my fingers again. ‘I was just asking about your job. You’re always quite quiet about it.’
‘Well, yes, that’s because I’m an advisor for a sex and relationships charity. I can’t really talk about it on dates. It’s all very uncouth.’
He squeezes my hand harder. ‘We’re on our sixth date, April, I think things can get a bit uncouth.’
Then he does that thing men do with their eyes, when they’re making it super clear they really want to have sex with you. Oh God, here it comes. It will be OK, it will be OK. If he’s The One, it will be OK.
‘So, your job?’ he prompts, leaning back and returning his eyes to normal. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, do you like it there?’
‘I love it there.’ I brandish my wine glass with excitable abandon and let the joy of my job cancel out my unfurling anxiety. ‘I mean we’re constantly running out of money; we couldn’t even afford a Christmas party last year. But the work is rewarding and my colleagues are great. My job is split,’ I explain. ‘I spend half my time on organisational stuff – sorting out our volunteers, our safeguarding policies etc. Basically I’m in charge of recruiting volunteers, training them, keeping them, and ensuring they know what the hell they’re supposed to be doing. Then I spend the other half of my time doing shifts on our front-line services.’
‘And they are?’ He looks only half interested now, but maybe I’ve just imagined him glancing at his phone?