'I had vegetable soup and a chicken salad at lunch,' I protest, leaning over to flick his ear with my index finger as I leave the kitchen. 'Anyway I cooked for Peter for years. I'm officially exempt from cooking until, well, until I feel like it again. What are you up to tonight?'
'Not sure yet,' he shrugs. 'I could do with some sleep. Lady Caroline was exhausting last night.'
'So I heard,' I call, as I head out the front door.
It's much easier to make dates for a bit later in the evening, as you can call it quits after an hour at 10 pm and no one's feelings are hurt, I reflect, as my cab pulls in to Great Marlborough Street. Jon told me he'd be outside 22 Below, and made some slightly lame joke about wearing a carnation.
I text Sophie quickly.
He'd better not have a ponytail or you're dead.
I pay for the cab and get out, and see a tall, skinny guy. He's in a slightly crumpled suit and satchel, with a nervous expression on his face. Cute, with hair in a sticky-looking quiff.
For a second, nerves overtake me, as they always do, and my heart puckers in apprehension. I'm about to make conversation with a virtual stranger? Easy, Abigail, breathe. It's just a couple of hours. Cool and detached. Elusive and alluring. Bastardette.
Jon walks forward and smiles. 'Uh . . . Abigail?'
'Jon!' I reply, and we both half-giggle at the awkwardness of the whole blind-date situation. He has a very nice smile.
'Thank God it was you, you're the third girl I've asked and the other two thought I was nuts. Shall we get a drink and get this thing started?' he says.
'Sounds like a plan,' I nod. Nice voice, soft Welsh accent.
We walk down to the basement bar, which is small, sexy and very, very red. 'Cool bar,' says Jon. 'It's like being in a blood clot,' I agree.
Jon barks with surprised laughter and, showing a decisiveness missing in his texts, grabs a menu. 'You choose. I'll order.'
I choose quickly. 'Uh, a Russian Rocket, please.' Our eyes meet and he nods, a little grin on his face. He fancies me, I think suddenly. I can tell, I don't know how the glint in his eye? but I can. That makes things easier.
'Cocktail aficionado?' he says.
'You can't go wrong with anything with vodka and lemon,' I reply.
'Do you want to-' he gestures towards the bar. Go with him? Why would I want to do that?
'I'm good here,' I smile calmly.
Once seated, I check my phone, more as a look-busy mechanism than anything else. There's a text from Robert.
Remember, he could be your soulmate!
Ha. I laugh out loud, and quickly reply.
Mummy is busy. Be a good boy and hush.
Jon comes back with our drinks, and we start by talking about the only thing we have in common, i.e. my sister working with his brother. This segues easily into his job, which is in media sales (yep, I have no idea what that is either), and then my job, which I dismiss quickly with, 'If you ever have trouble sleeping, call me and I'll tell you all about my day'. We talk about Battlestar Galactica, which both of us loved (Peter insisted on watching it, and I discovered I loved sci-fi); and pork belly, which we agree should always be ordered if it's on the menu, if only to encourage the restaurant to keep offering it; and Playstation and Nintendo Wii, which I have never played (and have no desire to) and which he adores. It's a pretty easy, seamless date, in other words.
'So, is this something you do often? Set-ups?' asks Jon at one point.
'Yes, it's a hobby,' I say airily. 'More of a lifestyle than a hobby, actually.'
Jon laughs. He finds me a lot funnier than I find myself.
'Right, I'm going to the bar,' I say eventually, when our glasses have been empty for several minutes.
'No, no,' he replies quickly. 'It's mine.'
Here are my thoughts: Jon's fine. He's good-looking, and polite, and quite funny, and well, there's nothing wrong with him. But I'm pretty sure I can't be bothered to see him again. He's failed a few tests: he hasn't made me laugh much, I feel like I'm carrying the conversation too much, and he didn't suggest the second drink. There's just something a bit passive about him, something that doesn't quite click . . . The big test, of course, is coming. Later.
He returns with the drinks, and I ask him where he's from, and we get into a long conversation about Bristol, where he went to university.
'When I was little, I thought Blame It On The Boogie went "I spent the night in Bristol, at every kind of disco",' I say. Jon grins. 'There are two kinds of nightclubs in Bristol. The ones that are awful, and the ones that are closed.'
I laugh at this. Perhaps he is funny after all.
'So, what's a nice girl like you doing on a blind date?' he says. 'You must have guys falling over, um-' his confidence stalls halfway through the sentence.
'I thought it might be fun, I guess,' I say. 'I'm not looking for a relationship. I just broke up with someone. So this is all new to me . . .'
'And is it fun?' he says hopefully.
I can't answer honestly (I'd say 'meh'). So I smile instead. 'It is.'
I get us the next drink, and as we finish, I notice that it's 10.45 pm. I think I'll call it a night. I don't want to ignore my self-imposed midnight date curfew.
'I have to get up at 6 am,' I say apologetically. 'I must take my leave.'
'Oh, that's a shame,' says Jon, looking slightly crestfallen. 'I've had a, er-'
'Best night of your life?' I suggest, standing up to put my jacket on. He stands up to help me, a second too late. 'I thought so. You lucky man.'
He grins again. My cocky-little-madam act works a charm on dates, I think to myself. Men have no idea what to do with it.
'Will you escort me to a cab?' I ask. 'I may need your protection on the dark streets of Soho.'
This is, obviously, a lie, but he says 'Of course!' and escorts me upstairs. I stand back for a second, so Jon can hail an oncoming black cab for me, the way Toby and Robert and other take-charge types always do, but he doesn't move. So I hail it myself. The cab pulls up just as Jon reaches out and takes my hand. I pretend not to notice, and lean in the front window to ask the driver if Primrose Hill is OK. (For some reason we do this in London, as though the driver might say 'Hmm, I don't fancy that direction' and we'd say 'Oh, of course, so sorry to bother you, silly me'.) The driver nods, and I turn to Jon. His hand is very warm and ever so slightly sticky. I hope that's from cocktail dribble, rather than from not washing it the last time he went to the bathroom.
He clearly wants to kiss me, but his nerve is failing. I smile up at him expectantly. Seconds pass. Nope, nothing. Come on, man, I think to myself. Grow a pair.
'I think you should kiss me now,' I say finally.
Jon grins, his face lighting up with relief, and leans forward. It's a pretty nice kiss, as kisses go. It lasts somewhere between 10 and 12 seconds. He has soft lips and he smells of one of those watery aftershaves.
But there's no spark. No frisson in my body, no racing heart, no excited feeling. And that's the ultimate test.
I lean back and smile at him.
'I'll text you,' he says.
'Look forward to it,' I reply.
I get in and close the door, and take out my phone and call Sophie.
'Negatory,' I say, instead of hello.
'Already? You've decided already?'
'He's too passive,' I say. 'And he loves Nintendo Wii more than anything in the world.'
There's silence on the other end of the phone, and then Sophie starts laughing. 'You really have turned into a bastardette,' she says.
'I know!' I say happily.
'I'm not sure it's a good thing.'
'Don't hate the player,' I say, quoting something Robert said the other day. 'Hate the game.'
'Do you think he wants to see you again?'
'Probably,' I say. 'But I told him I wasn't looking for a relationship.'
'Oh God, are you crazy? That's like catnip to men,' Sophie says, laughing.
'Not my problem.'
'Instead of looking for reasons not to see him again, why not look for reasons you should?'
'Why waste my time?'
'The Nintendo Wii stuff doesn't matter,' she says. 'What matters is that spark. You need to take a risk sometimes . . .'
'But I am looking for the spark!' I protest. 'That's why I always kiss them. And there was no chemistry. I could have been shaking his hand, it was so unexciting.'
'That's not what the spark is,' says Sophie. 'The spark is the feeling that you'd rather be talking to him than any other person in the world.' She pauses. 'The kiss is important too. But you could have that kiss chemistry with someone who is totally wrong for you. Remember Brian? Worst boyfriend ever, but his kisses were . . . God, they were awesome.'
'Well, there was no spark or chemistry of any kind,' I say. 'Good to have the blind date experience out of the way though. Cheers for that.'
'You're going to run out of men soon,' she says.
'I bet you a tenner I kiss someone with whom I have a real spark by the end of the year.'
'Deal.'
We hang up. I've just received a text from Robert.
I'm in the pub. Last orders. Chop chop.
I grin, and lean forward to redirect the driver.
Chapter Sixteen.
Tonight I'm going to wipe my date slate clean and find some fresh men to play with.
I'm going speed dating.
'Why don't you come?' I say to Robert over breakfast. 'Speed dating! Don't you want to try it? It's run by a workfriend of Plum's. Lots of posh PR girls . . .'
'I did try it,' says Robert. 'More coffee . . . Years ago. When everyone else was trying it. It sucks arse.'
'Well, bully for you,' I say, taking my mug. 'I can't imagine why you're still single, with that attitude.'
'Not single, baby,' he says, smiling lasciviously and stirring honey into his porridge. 'Multiple.'
'You are beastly,' I say sniffily.
'Why are you talking like the lost Mitford sister?' asks Robert.
'I'm rereading The Pursuit of Love,' I say, thrilled that he noticed. 'It's utter bliss.'
'Are these chopped almonds on my porridge?'
'Yes,' I say. 'Full of happy fat and very good for you.'
'My digestive tract has been delighted ever since I stopped having a ham and cheese croissant for breakfast,' admits Robert.
'What a shock,' I say, hopping down from my chair. 'Right. Ready to go? I'm just going to clean my teeth again.'
'Cleaning your teeth both before and after breakfast is a little weird, you know,' he shouts after me as I head up the stairs.
'So is having four ladyfriends on the go at once,' I shout back. 'But no one is judging you. Except God.'
Last night's blind date with Jon is long forgotten. It's a crisp November morning, the sun is just coming up as we get on the moped, and London is so new and fresh that I feel like singing. For all that everyone always goes on about summer, and heat, and parks, and ice-cream, London can be a real armpit in August. Dawn in autumn, on the other hand, feels clean, and when the sky is clear and the sun is promising to do its very best to shine, the whole city sparkles.
My I-love-London attitude is helped by the fact that I always get a lift to work with Robert on his moped, rather than taking the tube. (In winter, the London underground becomes a warm, pungent hug of humanity-infused air.) I love the moped, and I've even purchased my very own helmet. It's black. I am thinking about adding little glow-in-the-dark stars. Unless that's childish. In which case I won't. I'm 28 in January, after all.
'You're going to need proper protective weather gear soon,' says Robert, as I zip up my warmest coat.
'You're protective weather gear,' I say with a dazzling smile.
Robert grins to himself and gets on. I prop myself on the back, and off we go. It's chilly, but such a smashing way to get around London. The hours I used to spend waiting for buses and trains! What a waste of time.