A few months ago I sent a hello message to a man who lives along the river from me, suggesting that we might meet. It was in a phase in which I was attempting to be straightforward. Hi, I said. Do you fancy a cup of coffee sometime? Roger said that’d be lovely, and left it at that. At the time, I thought this was either ineptitude or a sort of rudeness and, either way, I wasn’t going to be the one to say more. Recently, though, I saw him on another dating site, and thought I might try again. He was lugubrious-looking in the photograph, long-faced and hooded-eyed, his smile tentative, like he’d just said something he’d hoped was funny.
Roger was pictured in his kitchen, and there was stuff behind him from all over the world – an Australian painting, Asian kitchenalia, African bowls, French plates. His profile was absolutely rubbish – he hadn’t the faintest idea how to present himself, but I found that perversely attractive. So I tried more definitely. “Roger,” I wrote. “Remember me? How about that drink? I suggest this Friday, 8pm. Let me know soonest.”
“That’d be lovely,” he said. I waited. Nothing was forthcoming. So I messaged again with the name of a dining pub. “Shall we meet at 7pm, have something simple to eat?” I asked him.
“I’d like that,” he said. The enthusiasm levels were not infectious.
So, that Friday we met at 7pm at a nice dark, nook-and-cranny old pub that offers light meals. I was 10 minutes late, because I’d had an attack of what we should euphemistically call a bad tummy (there had been a suspect prawn at lunch). I’d taken tummy-settling meds, and seemed fine.
Roger was standing outside the building, looking arrestingly handsome – his picture was as rubbish as his profile. He was wearing a good hat, and a good jacket, and had a white shirt on and Levi’s. There was something TV-historian-meets-Indiana-Jones about him. “Golly,” I said to the car interior as we approached each other. I was wearing my favourite, flattering navy frock. “Don’t you look nice,” he said, as I turned from paying the driver. He kissed me on the cheek and took his hat off. “Shall we go in? I took the precaution of booking a table.”
As we walked towards the bar, I felt a distinct burble coming from my stomach. “I’m just popping to the ladies,” I said, walking and then running to the back stairs. Ten minutes later, I was back. Roger was ensconced, looking at the menu, completely unperturbed. “Ah, there you are,” he said.
We ordered, and drank the wine he’d already requested while he asked me a series of questions about myself, the kind a stranger at a wedding would ask over the baked salmon. It was all terribly polite and English. I asked him about himself, and he said, with predictable diffidence, that there wasn’t a lot to tell. He was self-employed now, a consultant, but he’d been in the forces and had travelled a good deal. Did I like to travel? He was recently amicably divorced, had two sons, was perfectly happy with his life, but felt the lack of someone to share it with.
As he was saying this, I felt another terrible and urgent call to the bathroom. I leapt up, almost knocking my glass over, said I’d be back in a minute, and darted away. This bout, I’m afraid to say, went on and on. There’s no way of glossing over it. When I got back, apologising, he asked me if I was all right, his brow furrowing. He had waited almost 20 minutes with two once-hot starters. I noticed, as he picked up his cutlery, that he had nice hands, long fingers. I asked more about the places he’d been to. The conversation flowed, even after eating, but by now he was looking at his watch.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to go soon,” he said. “My son arrives from gap-year backpacking at 10.30pm and has no key.” We paid the bill 50-50, said goodnight, kissed on the cheek, and he strode off. “I hope you feel better soon,” he said, half turning, grinning. When eventually my cab arrived, my phone beeped receipt of a text. “That was fun,” it said. “Sorry I had to dash.”
“Let’s do it again soon,” I replied. “Let’s meet on Sunday, if you’re free.”
Stella Grey is a pseudonym
