Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (6 page)

Things are not going well.

‘What would you like to drink?’ the bored waitress asks.

Well, if pretending to be confident has backfired, maybe coming across as a cosmopolitan kind of guy will do a better job.

…and what better way to show how cool, relaxed and open to interesting new things I am than ordering an exciting flavour of coffee?

‘A latte and a…’ I peer over at the chalk board above the counter. There’s about ten different varieties on offer, none of which I’ve ever ordered. I decide to combine several in desperation: ‘…a skinny mocha cappuccino with a twist of lime, mint and vanilla please.’

The waitress looks at me like I’ve just shit in her hand. ‘What?’

‘Er… a skinny… er, what did I say? Um… a mocha cappuccino with vanilla, lime and some mint. Add another shot of espresso as well. And some more mint.’

She writes this down and offers me one last look of disgust before wending her way back to the counter to give the barista the strangest order he’s ever taken.

I turn back to Annika, breaking her horrified examination of my ear hole.

‘That’s an interesting choice,’ she says.

I lean back in my chair, waving a hand in a gesture of indifference that I think makes me look cool, but everybody else thinks makes me look like a screaming homosexual. ‘Well, I like to try new things, Annika. Life gets really boring otherwise, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so.’

Silence descends.

Think of something to say, idiot.

‘Do you like coffee?’

Brilliant
.

Here we are sat in a coffee shop and she’s just ordered a latte. The chances of her liking coffee are probably quite high, all things considered.

To Annika’s credit, she answers this massively redundant question. ‘Yes. I drink it all the time.’

‘Really? Instant or ground?’

Bugger me. Is this really the best conversation I can come up with?

‘Er… instant, I suppose.’

‘Excellent.
Caff
or
decaff
?’

Why not just ask her if she enjoys watching paint dry and be done with it?

‘Caffeinated mostly, though I swap to
decaff
after
8pm
.’

‘Me too!’

At last! We have something in common!

‘Oh. That’s… that’s nice.’

We lapse back into silence.

The part of my brain that creates small talk has shut down for the day - citing unsuitable working conditions - and has bunked off for a smoke. What’s left is apparently unable to do anything other than stare at Annika’s breasts.

I don’t want to stare at Annika’s breasts, but my sub-conscious has now dropped into some kind of default setting as a way of protecting itself from this awful date – and boob watching is the way it intends to cope with the situation.

There follows a very uncomfortable three seconds where I know that she knows that I’m staring at her tits. A further two seconds pass as she realises that I know that she knows that I’m staring at her tits.

It takes a Herculean effort to snap out of this enforced default mode and look her in the eyes again.

For God’s sake, say something. It doesn’t matter what!

I pick up the ratty copy of GQ I was flicking through before Annika’s arrival.

‘I read GQ,’ I tell her and waggle the magazine at her for added emphasis. ‘Do you read GQ?’

Yes… yes of course she does. Her being the perfect audience for a men’s lifestyle magazine, you cretin.

‘No. I never have.’

‘I do. It’s great.’

‘Okay…’

‘There’s a particularly interesting article in this edition all about…’ I flick through the
mag
trying to find a feature.
 
‘…men addicted to excessive masturbation.’

Oh crap.

I stop the words ‘
have you ever been addicted to excessive masturbation, Annika
?’ from escaping my traitorous mouth and put the magazine back down.

Another period of silence, pregnant with awkwardness, descends.

It’s mercifully broken by the waitress, who brings over a latte for Annika, and something resembling nasal discharge for me.

‘Here you go,’ she says, offering me a smile. It’s a speculative smile, as if her and the barista have made a bet on how much I’m going to drink.

Annika picks up her cup. Even she is watching me carefully to see what happens.

With trepidation, I grasp the warm mug and put it to my lips. I take a sip… and immediately wish my taste buds didn’t work.

It’s like someone’s blended a packet of
Polos
into a jar of Nescafe and topped it off with washing up liquid.

My face crumples like a bulldog chewing a thistle.

But I can’t spit the bastard out, can I? I’m the one who ordered this concoction to appear daring and cosmopolitan, so I’m going to have to drink it.

I force a smile.
‘Mmmm. Lovely stuff.’
I keep my lips closed because there’s every chance my teeth have been irrevocably stained green by the
minty
coffee.

‘Is it nice?’ Annika asks, in much the same way someone would ask the Elephant Man if it was painful.

‘Yes,’ I say from between pursed lips. I take another gulp to prove how nice it is.

It’ll be another four hours before my bowels extensively disagree with me.

With a final grimace, I put the cup down and try to think of something else to talk about.

‘So… how are you finding the
UK
?’ I ask, hoping to salvage the conversation and move us away from coffee appreciation.

 
‘Oh, it’s very nice,’ she replies with sincerity.

‘That’s great. Missing
Sweden
at all, are you?’

This animates her even more. ‘Yes. A lot. Especially my family. Other things too, though.’

‘What like? Never been there myself.’ This is better! Now I’m starting to sound like a proper adult.

She looks up. ‘Oh, lot’s of things… the clean air… the friendly people… the scenery…’

‘The porn?’ I interject.

‘Excuse me?’

Oh shit.

I laugh nervously. ‘You know. The er… the
porn
?
Sweden
’s famous for it, isn’t it?’
Shut up Jamie. Shut your big, stupid mouth.
‘My mate gave me about ten DVDs full of it last year… the girls all looked like you.’

Annika is on her feet before the last syllable of that particularly stupid sentence is out of my mouth.

‘I think I should be going,’ she says, putting on her jacket.

‘But… but you haven’t had your drink yet!’ I point out, as if the idea of losing half a latte is enough to keep her in the company of what is apparently a sex-crazed, arrogant maniac who drinks
minty
coffee.

‘That’s okay,’ she replies. ‘You can have it. I’m sure they’ll put some lime in it for you if you ask. Goodbye.’

Annika turns to leave and without a backward glance she rushes out of the coffee house - and out of my life.

…her arse is majestic.

I look round to see the Goths trying their hardest not to giggle.

My friendly waitress has disappeared under the counter. I can hear snorts of laughter drifting up from it.

I sit at the table, leafing through GQ for a further five minutes. I feel this is an appropriate amount of time.

I even take a final sip of
minty
lime coffee before getting to my feet, dropping eight quid in change onto the table (apparently a skinny mocha cappuccino with lime, mint and vanilla is bloody expensive as well as disgusting) and hasten my way out of the coffee house, vowing never to return.

Sean texted me later that evening. All the message said was:

You cock.

I couldn’t really argue with that.

Laura’s Diary

Sunday, March 20th

Dear Mum,

I have the fashion sense of a demented chimpanzee.

I am completely unable to put together a decent outfit that makes me look like anything other than a mad fishwife.

My entire wardrobe is a sad collection of clothes from seasons past, none of which go together in an attractive ensemble.

I’m in this state because I have a date tonight with a guy called Graham, set up for me by my hairdresser Stephanie.

…yes, that’s how bad things are. I’m relying on the woman who hides my roots to sort out my love life.

There’s nothing for it, I’m just going to wear black.

Black jeans, black cardigan, black high heels.

I’ll throw on a white t-shirt as well, so I don’t look like a cross-dressing ninja.

Wish me luck Mum… I’m going to bloody need it.

I’ll report back on my return.

…

Three hours of Laura McIntyre’s life that she’ll never get back later…

Luck wasn’t needed in the end.

The outfit I wore wasn’t a problem.

To tell the truth, I could have turned up dressed up as a giant chicken and it wouldn’t have mattered.

I knew things weren’t going to go well when my date for the evening walks into Café
Leon
wearing cycle shorts… the really tight kind that show off a man’s junk like prize plums in a greengrocer’s window.

They were shiny silver (the shorts, not his plums) – mixed with what I can only describe as nuclear orange.

…so was the matching skin tight t-shirt.

…and the helmet.