2016
Exactly 365 days after my last date, I'm celebrating by . . . Going on a date.
Given my last date resulted in me being unceremoniously dumped by my boyfriend of six months, it's probably understandable why I've left it so long to give it another try.
Some people like going on dates. Those people blow my mind. Because I hate dating. All these dating sites and apps and single events like speed-dating? For me, they seem so contrived. Perhaps it's because I came of age in the nineties, before everyone had the Internet and mobile phones and social media. Most of the couples I knew growing up had met at school, or at an underage club night, or - the ultimate meet cute - while getting drunk in the park on a Friday night. Classic.
My hope when I was younger, I guess, was that I'd either be struck by a severe case of love-at-first-sight - which sadly is still yet to happen - or I'd have some sort of slow-burning friends-into-lovers trope that would eventually blow me away with its ferocity.
Once upon a time, I actually thought there was potential in the latter option.But I no longer believe in fairy tales.
Love doesn't just "happen" these days. Romantic comedies feed us bullshit. Life isn't like the movies. Instead, we have to puff ourselves up, put on our best selves . . . and try to convince other people to swipe right on us when half the time we barely feel like swiping right on ourselves.
Cynical? Me? Yep.
I, Iona Stewart, am a fully paid-up member of the Society of Cynics. I could probably actually be chairwoman, but just being cynical already takes up too much of my time. I couldn't be bothered dealing with any additional red tape.
I used to be the most hopeless of all the romantics. I swallowed up romcoms, devoured Sweet Dreams romance novels, and dreamed of my own happy ending. I even had a real-life hero in mind that I hoped to achieve that goal with.
Turned out he didn't return my feelings, and I don't think I've ever been quite the same since.
But hey, I'm probably being over-dramatic. I'm in my thirties now, I'm mostly over some petty teenage heartbreak.
Anyway, I was talking to you about my date, wasn't I? (Sorry, I go off on a tangent at times - I may as well tell you that upfront.) I don't really want to go on this date and normally I probably wouldn't, but a few factors have changed for me recently.
For one thing, I was made redundant. Which was a bit of a pain as I actually did like my job. It was just an admin job but I enjoyed the people and the camaraderie, and I didn't spend all of my Sunday worrying about Monday morning, so that can only be a good thing in my view.
The redundancy also forced me to make the decision to move back in with my mum and dad, at least on a temporary basis. I needed to save some money while I was trying to find a new job, and it seemed like a wise decision at the time . . . But God, it's so weird living with them again in the house I left at 18 without a backwards glance.
They leave me in peace most of the time, don't get me wrong. Allowing me to just rattle around, come and go as I please. It's not like my social life is at its peak right now though - if I'm not at a temp job, I'm either at the gym, or reading in my childhood bedroom and wondering why my life has never went to plan.
I've never felt lonelier.
So am I going on this date with the hope that it will actually come to anything? That it'll be the start of a beautiful relationship?
No.
Quite simply, I'm going so I can speak to someone other than my parents or random temp colleagues. So I can go out for an actual meal for the first time in weeks.
Plus, my friend Lily said that John, the guy she's set me up on the date with, is hot. If I'm going to have to sit across from a stranger at dinner and try and make conversation, it's probably easier if I have something pretty to look at. And sure, I had a little stalk of his Facebook, and he is definitely a good-looking guy. I did get the vibe from the photos that he knows it, but is that necessarily a bad thing?
A memory slips, unwanted, back into my mind of another guy, one who was completely unaware of how beautiful he was. I blink repeatedly as if doing so will reset my brain and rid myself of those thoughts. Of course, given I'm in the middle of trying to apply mascara at this point, I end up with a clump of it in my right eye. Ouch.
Why is it that every time I think I'm going to actually pull off the perfect make-up look for a change, I fall at the final hurdle? Highlighter en pointe. Flawless contouring. Eyebrows are almost looking symmetrical for a change. Eyeshadow blended beautifully. Bloodshot, weeping right eye. Fabulous.
Thankfully, by the time I sort out my mop of dark blonde curls and wriggle into my trusty little black dress (yep, it's a cliché but sometimes it's a cliché for a good reason), my eye has calmed down with only a hint that it's been running uncontrollably for the best part of 20 minutes. I check my reflection, coming to the conclusion that I've done a pretty decent job making myself presentable.
Hopefully, John will think so, too. Although I still find myself not really caring that much.
I'd make a great cat lady if it wasn't for the fact that I'm severely allergic to most cats. Which is a shame because catch felines, not feelings would have such a good ring to it as my new life motto.
John is actually better looking in person than his photos would attest to. Which is admittedly unusual in this day and age with so many filters on offer.
Sometimes I think longingly of the days where we took photos of ourselves on a disposable camera with no idea what we'd even look like until we finally remembered to finish the film and got the pictures developed three months later.
But then I remember the lovely filter my phone camera has that adoringly smoothes out my fine lines and find myself grateful for technology.
Anyway, back to the date. Sorry! It doesn't really get off to the best start when the waiter arrives to take our drinks order and, without consulting me, John orders a bottle of cab sav. He sends the waiter on his way before I can even protest.
I detest red wine. I was looking forward to a fruity cocktail or a crisp refreshing glass of dry white. But he didn't even give me a chance; he didn't even ask me what I wanted. I chalk up an imaginary bad mark on his dateability chart.
"What are you going to have to eat?" he asks me, pale blue eyes meeting mine over the menu.
I don't know about you, but I always check the menu online before I go out to eat, in massive detail, so I've known what I'm having for a week, since the date was first decided. I still make the pretence of looking at the menu first, though, as if I'm still considering my options. "I was thinking the mozzarella in carrozza followed by the spaghetti carbonara," I reply. I've been dreaming about the starter in particular for seven long days.
He draws in a sharp breath at my words. "What?" I ask him.
John shakes his head. "Nothing. It's just . . . Do you have any idea how much fat is in those dishes?" He looks me up and down as he says this. My dress, my LBD that has never let me down, suddenly feels too small and tight, and I'm angry that he's making me feel this way. And furious at myself for letting him.
"I've got a vague idea," I say dryly. "I'm okay with that."
I'm already wondering if I should downgrade to just a main so I can get out of here as quickly as possible. But I'm too riled up now.
"Well, I hadn't been planning on getting a starter, but if you are..." He says begrudgingly, turning the pages of the menu. I roll my eyes. It isn't like I'm expecting him to pay for both of us, if that's what he's worried about.
He orders a Caesar salad to start followed by a fish dish and visibly winces when I state what I want. "Anything else?" The waiter asks. "Garlic bread for the table? French fries?"
Before John can open his mouth, I say "Both please." Oh, and because he's already wound me up . . . "Also, could I please have a large glass of Pinot grigio?" I glance pointedly at John. "Unfortunately, I don't like red wine."
"You should have said," he hisses at me as the waiter nods and walks away.
"You didn't give me a chance," I retort. To his credit, he does look a little embarrassed at that.
"Sorry," he mutters. Then he smiles. It's dazzlingly white, and I can tell this is his secret weapon, the thing he uses to get his own way. Unfortunately, it holds no truck with me. "Let's start over. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself? How long have you and Lily known each other?"
We manage to salvage the night somewhat, but the conversation is a bit stilted. It's probably because we have pretty much nothing in common.
Yes, we both go to the gym. But I mostly go because I also like to eat high calorie food like mozzarella in carozza and spaghetti carbonara. And I don't have much else to do at the moment. He goes because he's obsessed with maintaining his six-pack and, to be perfectly honest, "going to the gym" seems to be pretty much his whole shtick.
Actually, though, it turns out we do have one more thing in common. My friend Lily. It becomes increasingly clear, as her name comes up repeatedly in conversation, that John has a thing for my happily married friend. I can't help but wonder if she was aware of this little crush and hoping to distract him.
She probably should have found someone more suited to him to distract him with. Although I suspect she would need to clone herself.
I won't be seeing him again anyway.
After we pay - him itemising every item on the bill to be sure we paid for our own food and drink, of course - he actually still has the bare-faced cheek to ask if I fancy a "nightcap" at his. And, yes, he even uses the air quotes.
I politely decline. Although I do laugh and make a face first, before I recover myself. I don't think he's too pleased about that. I probably put the tiniest of chips in his massive ego.
Ultimately I'm glad he didn't have any personality traits I was actually attracted to, I think as I sit in the taxi back to my childhood home.
He could be the otherwise most perfect guy in the world, but I just couldn't be in a relationship with a bloke who watched me distastefully as I ate deep-fried cheese, almost- but not quite - ruining my enjoyment of it. I'm sure he was one step away from saying "a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips". I have to admit I briefly considered ordering dessert, just to test this theory.
My lips curl in a smirk, though, as I remember deliberately letting that last slice of cheesy garlic bread linger on the plate between us. I watched John look longingly at it. He thought he was being subtle but he was practically eye-fucking it. "Would you like it?" I asked him. I could see the temptation flicker across his face; he was about to open his mouth and agree.
I cut in before he could. "Oh sorry, of course you don't! It's way too unhealthy for you," I said, smiling as I picked it up and popped it in my mouth.
The gutted expression on his face, I reflect, was probably the highlight of my night.
What did you think of Iona's date? Not the best, right? The food sounded delicious though - I love mozzarella! Was it mean of Iona to taunt John with the garlic bread, or was it deserved?
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