with blossom and the sky a clear blue day after day – not that I got to enjoy very much of it, because I spent all my days inside a pub. So I decided that Paul was on to something. An al fresco date would be fun. It would be different. And crucially, it would be cheap – my wages didn’t amount to much and Paul, who’d told me he was studying for a PhD in medieval literature, was probably even skinter.
When the day of our date came, I finished the prep for the Sunday roast at the Ginger Cat and the main rush of service, and escaped upstairs to my flat at three o’clock to get ready, leaving Robbie in charge. I showered and washed my hair, then stood in front of the mirror trying to gauge its mood. My hair, I often thought, was like a particularly troublesome child. I was like the little girl in the nursery rhyme, except instead of one curl I had about a million of them, and it wasn’t me who was very good when I was good, and horrid when I was bad, it was my stupid hair.
If I spent a fortune on sulphate-free shampoo, argan oil conditioner, mousses and serums, it often behaved itself, falling obligingly into ringlets that looked more copper than ginger. But if I compromised on products, if the weather was wet, if I’d been simmering stock in the kitchen, or sometimes just because it felt like it, it rebelled and transformed into something you’d scrub a burned pan with. If I resorted to straighteners, it threw an almighty strop and turned into a mass of broken strands and split ends.
Compared to my hair, Frazzle was totally undemanding.
Today, I carefully soaked the excess water off it with an old T-shirt, ran three different smoothing potions through it, and ever so gently allowed my hairdryer’s diffuser to breathe on it for a few minutes. There was a moment when I thought it would take exception to that and poof out into a frizzy mess, but I stopped just in time, added more serum and ran my fingers through it gently, then sighed with relief as it dropped into soft curls.
I pulled on a yellow cotton skirt I’d found in a charity shop, my trusty canvas trainers and a white T-shirt, hastily applied some make-up and headed out, stopping at the corner shop for a bottle of Californian rosé and a bag of cashew nuts. I was starving, and Paul hadn’t mentioned anything about food. Maybe, if it went well, we could grab a takeaway pizza later or go for a curry, but I wasn’t going to ruin the date before it even started by unleashing my hanger on poor, unsuspecting Paul.
As I hurried towards the park, I checked my phone. There was no message from Paul cancelling; just a screen grab of a map with a pin dropped in the centre of the park – where he wanted us to meet, I guessed, which was thoughtful. The Stargazer app reminded me again of the romantic nature, thoughtfulness and sensitivity of Piscean men – he certainly seemed to be living up to that so far.
The park, on this beautiful day, was full. There were kids playing on the swings, groups sitting at the wooden tables outside the café with coffee and (I noticed enviously) cake, a group of teenagers playing volleyball, and couples strolling hand in hand along the pathways. For a second, I allowed my mind to imagine that, soon, Paul and I might be among them, but then I pushed the idea aside. It was only my second date; there was no way I’d meet Mr Right – or even Mr Right for Now – so soon. And besides, if the app was to be believed, Pisces wasn’t even a good match for me. This wasn’t supposed to be love at first sight.
I made my way towards where the pin on the map had directed me, which I realised was the bandstand, perched high on the hill. The wine bottle was running with condensation by the time I reached the top, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I willed my hair not to frizz in the heat, and congratulated myself on my good sense in wearing trainers.
But, when I neared the bandstand, my steps slowed. There must be some mistake. There was something weird going on. There were two men waiting there together, both in