Page 52 of The Happiness Project

‘Cosy,’ I tell him. ‘Now, the wine we like is this Rioja.’ I point at the one that Patty and I usually choose. ‘Unless you prefer white?’

‘No, I like red but I’m not fond of Rioja — do they serve Montepulciano d’Abruzzo?’ he asks.

‘I’d have thought you’d be annoyed if they did,’ I say. ‘After all, it is a Spanish restaurant.’

‘I have Chenin Blanc with fish and chips,’ he replies, making a valid point. I myself prefer prosecco with my takeaway, but that’s not made in England either.

‘True,’ I say. ‘It just feels quite rude not to be choosing Spanish while we’re here.’

‘But there is an Italian wine on the menu, so it must compliment the food.’

As the waiter has arrived and is ready to take our drinks order, I don’t put up any more objections but let David order what he enjoys.

I’m horrified when he orders us a small-sized glass each.

‘As it’s only Wednesday and we’re both up early tomorrow for work,’ he says, probably noticing my mouth hanging open in shock.

It’s only seven o’clock and we’ll probably be home by ten, when I would usually ensure I drank several glasses of water and be perfectly okay in the morning. I say none of this but realise I have some serious behavioural training to do on this man. He’ll never be able to come out on a night with my friends if I can’t loosen him up a bit. That’s my challenge for the next few weeks.

‘What would you like to eat?’ he asks.

Patty and I usually share some tapas or the charcuterie board, but I don’t suggest this as I imagine David has already selected what he wants.

‘I’m going for the lamb skewer,’ he adds, confirming my thoughts. ‘Not keen on too many spices and that looks quite simple.’

I shouldn’t be disappointed because this isn’t like a Patty and me night out — after all, he’s not her, and just because my best friend has found her man doesn’t mean that I can go out and replace her with one of my own. I need to accept David for who he is and respect the fact that he is his own man. I order the monkfish.

‘Good choice,’ says David, clinking his glass against mine. ‘I almost chose that myself.’

Why do I feel as if I’ve passed an exam?

As we eat I can’t help contemplating all of the couples I know, most of whom have come together in the past year. Peter and Charlie seem smitten, Josie and Matt share a wicked sense of humour, Zoe and James are workaholics who like to relax at home, while Patty and Jack just sound as if they fancy the pants off each other. They aren’t identikit by any means; they just seem to share something. And I have to find the one thing we have in common — after all, many couples have different tastes in music.

‘We have the Vienna trip coming up soon,’ I say, fishing for that interest we might share. ‘You probably would have enjoyed that, waltzing to Strauss in the city where he was born.’

‘I probably would,’ he replies and I inwardly sigh with relief. ‘I’d love to see an orchestra play some of his music there; I think somehow musicians perform with greater emotional depth in their home city, if you know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ I say. ‘I always wanted to see A-ha in Oslo — I thought that would be great fun, but it never happened. Maybe I should look out for a reunion.’

David smiles at me and says it would be a long way to go to hear their one hit song.

‘So you do know your eighties hits,’ I leap to reply. ‘I knew you were hiding a misspent youth behind that sensible golfing exterior.’

‘Guilty,’ he says, holding his palms up.

I really hope that’s true so turn the conversation to our childhoods and teenage years. I tell him about backcombing my hair and nearly choking on the amount of hairspray I had to use to make my locks as huge as possible.

‘I remember girls doing that. Did you have the lacy gloves and big shoulder pads?’

‘Of course,’ I reply proudly. ‘Wouldn’t be seen dead without either. What about you? Were you a cuffed jeans and bomber jacket à la Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or rolled-up sleeves and Ray-Bans like Don Johnson in Miami Vice? I’m guessing the latter.’

‘Definitely more Don Johnson. I was always into my sport, so I think my wardrobe was mainly polo shirts in all sorts of colours with the obligatory sweater draped over my shoulders.’

‘Such a Sloane!’ I exclaim, laughing. ‘And did you have the bouffant hair?’

‘Oh yes. With the sunglasses pushed up on my head whether it was sunny or not.’

He tells me about realising that he was no good at either football or rugby from an early age and wanting to belong somewhere. He tried golf and finally found the sport that suited his temperament.

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