Authors: Louise Voss
I hoped perhaps his sweet words might thaw me out, but nothing changed. In fact, as I looked into his face, I realised all the things about him that I’d found a turn-on at first were now adding to my disquiet. His lips, which I thought so curved and sensual, seemed miserable, and his little eyes darted unhappily around the room in a way I interpreted—correctly, as it turned out—as sinister. Suddenly I didn’t want him to think me beautiful at all.
‘I was so pleased to know that you were single.’
This seemed an odd thing to say. ‘Well, I’d hardly have come on a date with you if I was still with Richard, would I?’
I didn’t mean to sound aggressive, but it sort of came out
that way.
‘No. No, of course not. I just meant . . . Oh, I don’t know. I’m just happy to be with you.’
He took my hand across the table, and it was all I could do not to snatch it away immediately. Instead I gave his fingers a little squeeze, then released myself and picked up my glass instead. I was livid with myself. Why, oh why couldn’t I just have another relationship? Richard managed it. Sean’s managed it. Here was this lovely—well, I used to think he was lovely—man, who really wanted me, and I had successfully talked myself out of it for no good reason other than a large ornamental deer.
At least now I can congratulate myself on the knowledge that it wasn’t the plastic Bambi; it was my instincts being correct, for once. Claudio was the problem, not me.
If I ever get out of here, I will make sure I remember that.
We ordered and ate the usual Greek fare—warm floury pita, the rubbery saltiness of halloumi (which reminds me of Richard—he used to grill it for me. His halloumi was much better than that restaurant’s), the slightly distasteful richness of taramasalata and garlicky hummus. We were having kebabs for our main course, but I wasn’t sure I could sit through those too. I started planning my escape—perhaps if I went to the loo and texted Donna, she’d ring me back and concoct an emergency I’d have to leave to attend to— but what? He knew that Megan had gone on holiday with Richard that day, so I couldn’t use her as an excuse.
But, fatally for me, I did thaw out a little after a glass of retsina (just the one, as I knew then that I would be driving home later after all—or at least, I thought I would be). I felt sorry for Claudio. He was talking so gratefully about how wonderful it was to have found someone he liked as much as he liked me. I wanted to let him down gently, but the more he talked, the harder I realised it would be—but the more I was determined to do it. He appeared to have built up quite a picture of us in his mind, and what’s more, the picture had clearly been taking shape for many years, brushstrokes painstakingly filling in any blank corners of the canvas with whatever information he could glean. At that stage I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or slightly disturbed.
‘I’ve been following you on Twitter for years, but you don’t tweet very often, do you?’
‘No. My friend Steph said I ought to join so I did, but really, I reckon life’s too short. If I was constantly checking Twitter and Facebook and Instagram and watching videos of kittens on
YouTube
, I’d never get anything done.’
‘That reminds me! You never responded to my messages to you on Facebook. I sent you a friend request about five years ago. And I’ve sent you several emails since. They will have gone into your Other folder since I’m not yet your friend on there.’
‘I didn’t know I had an Other folder . . . sorry. And I don’t know what happened to the friend request. I don’t remember getting it. But then I’m not very active on Facebook either.’
I didn’t tell him that if I had received a friend request from him five years ago, I’d almost certainly have ignored or deleted it.
Then we talked for a while about swimming—I’d forgotten that he used to be a member of the Brockhurst swimming club at the same time as I was, and he remembered Doug the sleazy trainer and some of the other characters. After the glass of retsina, I got very slightly carried away and found myself suggesting that he, Megan and I all go swimming together some time. Then I immediately felt guilty.
I mean, proposing a swimming trip didn’t exactly make me a pricktease or anything—and perhaps we still could have gone, as friends—but I probably shouldn’t have said it. I remember
wondering
if the retsina might help me change my mind about fancying him, but by the end of the evening it still didn’t seem to have done.
I felt confused by this antipathy. What was wrong with me, that I could have liked him so much the last time I saw him, and then not at all? He hadn’t changed. I couldn’t decide whether I had been looking at him through rose-coloured specs on our first two dates, or whether I was just being a commitmentphobe. But, I suppose, it was nothing new. It was just my habitual third-date crisis.
It never occurred to me that he was a psycho who had decided that he didn’t ever want to let me go. He must have been thinking about it, plotting, in every one of our many conversational hiatuses. Whenever his eyes glazed over, he had probably been planning power tools, bolts and locks, packing a suitcase for his little holiday in my flat. The bottle containing the Rohypnol must already have been nestling in his jeans pocket.
By the end of the meal I had decided not to tell him yet. I would be a coward, and email him during the week. But I resolved not to snog him that night, or suggest any future dates, so hopefully he would get the message and not contact me again. I was OK to drive home; I hadn’t had that much to drink.
Anyway, how upset could he be? We’d only had three dates, for heaven’s sake. You couldn’t even begin to pretend that that constituted a relationship, or anything whose loss would be felt keenly for more than five minutes. He didn’t even know me. He didn’t know me when we were sixteen-year-olds, and he didn’t know me now, however much he seemed to think he did.
Claudio was quiet that night too. He must have divined that all was not going well, even though now he says otherwise. I wonder if the Rohypnol had been an insurance policy, to be used only if it looked as though I was backing away. Which I’m sure it did—I’m not good at preventing my feelings showing. I might not have planned to tell him until after that night, but it had clearly been written all over my face.
There was an awkward lull in the conversation as we waited for our rice-strewn plates to be cleared away. I had managed to finish most of my kebab, but felt uncomfortably full. Ten years ago, I’d have excused myself and gone to the Ladies to vomit it all up. I did consider it then, as I always did after every meal, but I gritted my teeth and vowed to resist the temptation. However grim things had been, I took consolation in the fact that I hadn’t let the bulimia
win again.
We ordered coffees and I went to the Ladies, but just for a pee before the drive home—not knowing that I wouldn’t be driving anywhere. That must have been when he slipped the Rohypnol into my espresso.
‘So, do you ever hear from your ex-fiancée?’ I blurted hopefully, when I got back. Tactless, perhaps, but I found I didn’t care. As I well knew, the pull of an ex could change everything, ruin everything. Perhaps it would be less hurtful to him if, when I did the deed, I pretended that Sean and I were getting back together? It would be better for his ego, anyhow. Three dates couldn’t compete with a year-long relationship. I entertained a brief daydream about this becoming a reality: Sean turning up on my doorstep, penitent and passionate, wrapping me in his arms and then carrying me up to bed.
Claudio gazed intently as I stirred sugar into my coffee. ‘Of course not. I hate her. She is dead to me.’
His expression got darker and darker, and I began to regret asking after all.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No,’ he said, with such vehemence that I jumped, and the waiter’s head turned as he was carrying a steaming moussaka past our table. Blimey. Damaged goods, I thought (Claudio, I meant, not the moussaka. The moussaka looked nice). Then I worried that Claudio might cry.
‘OK. Um. Well, perhaps I should be making tracks soon . . .’ I started rummaging around in my handbag for my purse. I wanted to split the bill, so I couldn’t be accused of freeloading.
‘You sure you don’t want dessert as well as coffee? The baklava here is excellent.’
‘Oh . . . I do love baklava, but it’s horrendously fattening. I’d better not.’
There was a sense of the evening slipping away that I thought then, in my unawareness of the date-rape drug that I’d already ingested, we both felt; that we were two people whose paths had just tangentially crossed, and wouldn’t cross again. I remembered what Dirk said (he of the hookers and the large poo) in a phone message after I dumped him: ‘This is why I hate dating.’ And I suppose it is a risk, emotionally, especially internet dating—you’re laying yourself open in a way that doesn’t happen when you meet under ‘normal’ circumstances: in the gym, at a bar or a party. Knowing my luck, I thought, I’d eventually meet someone I really, really liked—and they’d say ‘Sorry, but I just don’t fancy you.’
‘So when can we next meet?’ Claudio asked, having seemingly regained his composure. His eyes were pleading, like Megan’s when she wants to watch TV but I’m telling her to do her homework. The waiter brought over our bill on a little silver dish, with two After Eight mints, and I put down my credit card. I was already starting to feel a little unwell.
‘Let’s go fifty-fifty, shall we?’ I said briskly, pretending I hadn’t heard his question.
‘OK.’ He glanced at the amount and then put three ten-pound notes onto the tray. Then he tried again: ‘When are you next free?’
Aargh. What should I do? Why couldn’t he have been a little less specific and just said, ‘We must do this again soon,’ so I could have nodded and smiled and then let him down gently later?
I realised that I had to bite the bullet. After all, it had driven me completely insane when Sean wouldn’t tell me why he didn’t want us to be together any more; he just kept saying, ‘I can’t do this,’ but not explaining why. Claudio and I had only had three dates, but he deserved more than being fobbed off with excuses and promises, the way Sean fobbed me off.
I took a deep breath, suddenly feeling boiling hot. The room had started to spin a tiny bit. ‘Claudio . . .’
But he stood up and helped me into my jacket, solicitously, as if I was his mother, which made me sweat even more. ‘Let’s go outside.’ He suddenly hugged me effusively. ‘I like you so much, Jo,’ he whispered into my hair.
Damn, damn, damn. I could tell he wasn’t going to make this easy for me. I felt sick.
We walked awkwardly back towards his flat. His hand was twitching at his side, as if he wanted to reach out and grab mine but didn’t dare. He’d lost the air of assurance and sophistication that had so impressed me at our first two meetings, and he seemed dejected, a little boy lost. His shoulders were sloping, and his shoes were scuffed. I hadn’t noticed that before. He was once more the teenager I didn’t like.
I wished Megan wasn’t on holiday with Richard. I wanted to go home, give her a cuddle as she slept, then curl up with Lester in my own bed. I felt almost beyond despondency and into resignation, and my stomach was churning. I was feeling more and more dizzy, but even as we got to the barrier of his apartment block’s car park, I still assumed it was stress at what I was about to do.
Here. I have to do it here, I thought. Why was it so hard? I barely even knew the man.
‘Well!’ I began, as brightly as I could.
He looked at me, mute with expectation. Then he said, ‘I’m free next week. Do you fancy going to see some stand-up comedy, or maybe a concert? I could get
Time Out
and—’
‘Claudio,’ I said desperately. ‘You’re a great guy, but—’
He wheeled about, so his back was to me. ‘No!’
‘Pardon?’
‘No. You’re going to say you don’t want to see me again.’
The emotion in his voice brought me up short. ‘Um. Well, it’s just that I think that perhaps we—’
‘I think you’re wrong.’ He turned back towards me, looming over me. I couldn’t help shrinking back against the car park barrier. Everything was whirling. I must have eaten something really dodgy in that meal, I thought.
‘You don’t know what I’m going to say!’ I felt slightly defensive. It was all very well being told I was wrong, if I was—but in this case, I was getting surer by the minute that I wasn’t. And surer by the minute that I was imminently going to puke.
‘You are going to say that I am very nice company but that you don’t fancy me.’ His bottom lip was actually jutting out like a six-year-old’s. This couldn’t be normal.
‘Well. I wouldn’t say that I don’t
fancy
you, as such, because you’re very fanciable—I suppose that it’s more . . . um . . . my heart doesn’t skip a beat. I’m sorry.’
Oh, why was I having to do this? I remember thinking. I missed Richard. I missed the stability. I miss the comfort, the nice meals, the shared companionship. When I left him, people kept saying, ‘You’ve done the right thing. You’re too young to settle for a sexless relationship. You need someone who’ll be there for you.’ But right then I didn’t care if I never had sex again as long as I lived. I just wanted Richard. And, anyway, we
could
have had a sexual relationship, I know we could, if we’d both wanted one. All we’d needed to do was to get some sex therapy. Where there’s a willy, there a way . . .
I want my husband back. And I wanted it before I ended up as Claudio’s prisoner.
I have to force myself to remember back to the date again, because the pain that sweeps over me at this realisation makes me truly believe I could die from grief.
‘Very well,’ said Claudio huffily. ‘You’ve made it perfectly clear. I don’t understand, though—we kissed! You seemed to enjoy that. And what about the swimming? We were going to go swimming with your daughter. What about
that
?’ This last was said almost triumphantly.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated miserably. It was suddenly really difficult to formulate words. ‘Listen, I’d better be going. It’s quite a long drive home and to be honest I’m feeling really sick. Do I just press this button to raise the barrier again?’