I’m helping, I say over and over to myself, and let the thought seep in, spread out, and calm me down again.
Matt again. Looking over my monitor. ‘Just read through your answer,’ he says. ‘You got the tone spot on.’
I sigh and hang my head back, staring up at a loose ceiling-tile. ‘Cheers buddy.’
‘Just say when, re the ice cream. The rest of the inbox is pretty standard. You’ve got a 23-year-old virgin to look forward to, and someone who wants to know if you can get pregnant from a toilet seat.’
I smile up at him. ‘I can’t talk about my job on my date tonight, can I?’ I ask. Simon is back in my thoughts now that I’ve pushed through the trigger. Hope blossoms through my bloodstream. ‘Not sure if sperm on toilet seats is appropriate date-conversation fodder, is it?’
‘Google it,’ Matt smiles back.
I start to type.
‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘You’re actually googling it, aren’t you?’
Here are the ways that I think Simon is different and why I might therefore fall in love with him: he always messages back. He seems pleased to see me. His parents aren’t divorced. He has not declared I am the love of his life yet, which is appropriate, yet he seems to like me the more he sees me, which is also appropriate. He has a steady job and isn’t a failed musician or a failed novelist or a failed actor and only doing the steady job because he failed and is bitter and weird and depressed because of it. He volunteered for the homeless shelter that one time, which is where I met him, so he is not dead inside. He has a sister, which we all know helps things along. He is attractive, but not in a way that means he gets hit on all the time and is therefore too big-headed and likely to cheat. He makes me laugh, and I make him laugh. He is a really good kisser. When I stalked his ex-girlfriend online, she was roughly equally as pretty as I am, if not slightly uglier and, from what I can make out by the date-stamps of the photos, they’ve been broken up for one year and two months which is a good amount of time for him to emotionally recover. He seems really into me … so far.
I spot him before he spots me, so I get to enjoy that giddy thrill of watching a man wait for you. Oh Simon, I really do want to fall in love with you if I can possibly help it. He looks handsome in his work stuff – the sleeves of his blue shirt rolled up to show off his tanned arms. He’s already ordered a bottle of red – remembering I prefer red from last time. He’s managed to score us a tiny barrel table and two stools outside. He’s on his phone, scrolling with his thumb, oblivious to the loud weekend braying of everyone drinking around him. Then, sensing me, he glances up. His eyes crinkle as he smiles, which, according to the relationship expert Roald Dahl, means the smile is really genuine. I wave bashfully and smile back, also a Roald Dahl one. This is it, you know. This could really be it. A man doesn’t smile like that unless this could be something. I walk over, highly aware of myself, wishing I hadn’t had that second glass of wine at after-work drinks. I hadn’t meant to, but London’s been boasting a most unusual heatwave, and, determined not to waste a moment of it, we’d carted some wine to Regent’s Park around the corner. I wanted to soothe the lingering aftertaste of my shift. Plus, after googling it, I had the dawning realisation that maybe Simon would want to have sex tonight and promptly freaked the hell out. Wine has now diminished the fear that it won’t work or it will happen again. I just feel floaty and convinced it will all be fine, even though I’ve not used my vaginal trainers in ages.
We don’t quite know how to greet one another yet. The last time I saw him, we were pinned against some wall by the Tube station, kissing so hard it’s a miracle we weren’t arrested. I’m sure that’s in both of our minds now, yet we’re back to formal courtship.
‘Hello you.’ He kisses me on the cheek, while I sort of turn it into a hug.