On a bad date

What happens when you don't leave early

The pub is pitch black, and having left the blinding afternoon light shining on Clerkenwell green, I lose complete sight for a moment. 

Then, approaching the back room, I regain the joy of sight, or that is, the as-of-yet undetermined joy of staring at Callum.

Callum has short blonde hair and wears a yellow Polo shirt, buttoned all the way up to his neck, the last button inducing a crease of his pale skin, and I can’t help but fixate on that crease. 

I reach out my hand and grab his, which acts like a warm, sticky precursor of bad things to come. The structure of his face doesn’t suggest any muscle spasm in favour of amusement. I strain my eyeballs in a leap of optimism. No, not a single trace of humour. We exchange greetings. I attempt a reassuring smile. His eyes are cold, calculating, appraising. A heavy, undefinable log sinks in my stomach. 

My mind flashes to a dentist standing in an empty surgery, announcing that he will not be using anesthetics for my procedure but that he will be hitting on a nerve. 

Shhhhh. I order my mind to silence. This is the start of a date, and only a minute has passed. Anything could happen, I tell myself. It’s too early to tell who this man is, really. 

I check if he’s a dentist. He’s not. Then I do what I always do. I ask questions. 

How does Callum know our mutual comedy acquaintance, Rich? 

After 30 minutes of putting down Rich, his career choices and his apparent sexual preferences in a menacing voice whilst moving his pint glass in a clockwise, repetitive motion, Callum announces that he might just be saying all these things because he’s jealous of Rich’s commercial success. 

I smile with understanding as if it’s hard for me to imagine what it must be like not to be a commercial success. 

Why does Callum like living in London?

Because there is so much going on every night of the week, and Callum sleeps better knowing that someone else, someone out there, is having fun! 

I force myself to unwrinkle my nose, unpurse my lips and tell myself that I can’t afford to express contempt at every man. Time is no longer on my side.  

We move on to more interesting topics, such as self-sabotage and Callum’s ex-girlfriend. Callum explains that he went back to her, even though he knew it wouldn’t work out, because she stopped making an effort in bed. I can sense the tying of several knots in my stomach. My right nostril blocks up and shuts down. I have to resort to breathing with my left nostril.  

So, what drove Callum to get back with his ex after he already knew that it wouldn’t work out? 

To punish himself because, after the break-up, he had too much sex with Swedish women. 

I think about the £1.80 spent on the train getting here. What a waste.  

Still, today, I am an optimist. I’m a woman convinced that there is more to the man sitting in front of me despite all the proof points to the contrary. In fact, I become obsessively determined to uncover the real Callum. 

I press on. Why did Callum move into a one bedroom flat with his girlfriend after he already knew the relationship wouldn’t work out? 

Apparently, Callum can’t stand shared bathrooms in flatshares. 

I stare at the crease of skin trapped behind his polo shirt, and imagine myself there, tucked away in the fold, suffocating, screaming. 

I administer a mental slap to my face and think about how I rarely like anyone on the first date. I force myself to think about meadows because meadows relax me. Meadows, meadows, meadows. 

I remember that Callum was writing a book. There must be more to a man who is writing a book, surely. I learn that the book is about men’s mental health.  

So then. Why is Callum writing a book about 3 different men in his old school who killed themselves? Is it because he’s passionate about topics such as mental health and the high suicide rate amongst men? 

A flicker of hope ignites inside my chest, and I lean in.  

Not exactly. Callum does, however, think there’s a market for stories about men who kill themselves and that telling this story will increase his chance of getting published.

I think about the train ticket again. £1.80 one way, £3.60 for the return, actually £4.60 due to peak hours. 

‘No one gives a damn about these men…’, Callum says in a business like monotone voice, which suggests that he himself would be the last one to give a damn. 

He spends the next 20 minutes discussing a few female writers, claiming their books are mostly rubbish, and women are incapable of writing male characters. I suddenly notice my left nostril shutting down. I have officially lost all airways via nasal passages and start sounding like an electrical fan.

Callum excuses himself to the bathroom, and I take out my notebook and scribble a few notes about Callum, mostly about his neck. 

When he returns, we talk about gut feelings, and Callum thinks that I have a fairly big subconscious, as in the last pub, I changed seats on three separate occasions based on the directions of the air conditioning unit. I can tell by the blank stare on Callum’s face that we have exited the world of harmless chit chat and entered the world of character assassination. 

Once we arrive at the new pub, Callum orders a Polish beer, and I order half a pint of Cider. I take my time fetching my card out of the bag, and he taps on the card machine in the meantime. 

‘I can pay for my own Cider!’ I interject. 

‘Yeah….but she charged me for both without asking.’ 

His tone is, matter of fact, clearly perturbed. The waitress glances over at us. He takes a sharp inhale then expels air from a circle-shaped mouth in excessive slow motion. My jaw tightens. Who on earth does this guy think he is? To distract myself from anger, I count his exhale. I get to 7 seconds. 

‘Are you aware that most women still prefer for the man to pick up the bill?’, he asks.

I notice that his nostrils have extended to twice their size, and his face is now a Pomodoro red which makes his yellow Polo shirt stand out even more. One big blob of red and yellow, held together by a dentist’s haircut. He looks like a cartoon character. 

My mouth starts twitching as I wrestle with the very imminent outbreak of mirth. 

It was strange. I had spent the entire evening trying to uncover the real Callum via the medium of an interview but coincidence had got in before me. Indeed, here he was. 

A man infuriated about spending £2.50 on a half pint of Cider for a woman he did not fancy. This is what broke him. 

It occurs to me that we’ve both suffered on this date, and yet neither of us has left for the past 3 hours. This was the inevitable endpoint. The familiar tension of an unhappy couple, each with their own resentments. 

I was furious about spending £1.80 on the train getting here, and he was furious about spending £2.50 on my Cider. 

It was rare to meet someone who shared my anger-fueled relationship with money, and yet, here he was. If it wasn’t for the whole problem of his personality, we could’ve been soulmates.

I respond to his question with feigned ignorance then ask him about his ex-girlfriend again, to pass the time. 

He explains that she refused to be adventurous in bed, and looks up at me with curiosity. 

‘What about you? Are you adventurous?’

‘No, not really.’, I answer coldly. ‘Although, there’s nothing quite as relaxing as the missionary position - sets me straight to sleep.’ 

He stares at me, and I stare at him, and this goes on for a while. 

I consider taking my notebook out so he can help me write the male character assassination of himself. 

‘What do you prefer? Pomodoro red or falcon red? What’s more manly?’.

Obviously, I don’t say this just as I hadn’t said anything all night. And why? Because it was easier not to, of course. Because a man capable of enlarging his nostrils, might be capable of overturning a table, spilling Cider all over my dress. I suddenly realise there’s a lot to this. 

Was I really concerned about his reaction? I was worried about an overturned table, or a nasty remark or even more of the tense silences? A flurry of nauseous self-contempt grips at my throat. I’ve been hiding from Callum. We both knew who he was, but who was I? A woman, apparently, not taking issue with anything he said, and posing as a polite, curious interviewer. And what on earth for? Who on earth for? 

Before I know what I’m doing, I take my notebook out of my bag and clunk it onto the table. There, take that trump card. 

As soon as I see my mustard notebook, exposed pointlessly in the middle of the table, I regret it, but it’s too late. He looks at me with an empty expression so I tap on it with my fingers. 

‘So much good stuff in here.’, I say. 

I actually sound like a villain. 

‘You’re a writer?’, he asks, and seeing the expression on his face when I answer in the affirmative, well, what can I say, it’s the best thing that's happened all night. 

I wonder if he’s going to ask me what I write but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes out his phone and mumbles something about the next train. We reached the end, finally. 

I take a sip of my Cider, watching him, and consider that it really is true. Drinks taste so much better when you haven’t paid for them. 

……………………………………………..

Comments 

To be honest, I much rather you comment whatever the hell you like but there is a trend to encourage comments at this point so in an attempt to be community-like (and if you like), here's a few questions to address my own selfish curiosity: 

• Am I being unfair to Callum?

• Do you find it hard leaving a date early, even if it's bad? Am I the only one?