Page 4 of Not in a Million Years

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Two hours later, after spending too much time staring into my wardrobe assessing my clothes for Claude-date-worthiness and none sorting out my underwear (a highly short-sighted omission, given I couldn’t wait for Claude to see me in it), I eventually hit send on my message, and then waited in nervous anticipation for him to answer, which he did with surprising speed. A few rapid-fire back-and-forth exchanges followed, and by lunchtime, we’d arranged to meet that Saturday.

Saturday: excellent. A Saturday for a first date showed that he was taking this seriously.

Saturday at eight a.m.? Not so good. What was this, some kind of 1990s-style power breakfast?

Still, a date with a handsome man was a date with a handsome man, and a significant improvement on the big fat zero there had been in my diary until that morning.

Buoyed, I returned to my bedroom and stared into my wardrobe some more, this time pulling open the drawer where I kept my pants and wondering if any of them were of a high-enough quality for Claude to see. He’d be a white boxers man, I was willing to bet, allowing myself to imagine his naked torso rising from a pair of tight shorts, his hard-muscled buttocks and sculpted abs inviting my hands to caress them.

But that was enough. We’d arranged an early-morning first date, not a steamy session between the sheets. For all I knew, we’d discover that we had absolutely nothing to say to each other outside of work and the date would be a total disaster.

But I could never have imagined just how bad it would actually turn out to be.

My elation lasted into Friday night, which I spent painting my nails, putting a deep-moisturising mask on my face and giving my hair an industrial-strength blow-dry that used so much hairspray I half-expected Friends of the Earth to come knocking at my door, but which I hoped would buy me an extra half hour in bed in the morning. It had faded somewhat when my alarm clock went off at five, but I still jumped enthusiastically out of bed, dressed and headed to get the train to our appointed meeting place, a station in rural Surrey I’d never heard of, let alone visited. It rose again in a bubble of happy excitement when I saw Claude waiting for me, leaning against the door of his sleek midnight-blue Bugatti, and almost lifted me off my feet when he kissed me on both cheeks.

That soaring feeling should have been a warning of what was to come, but when I asked Claude what he’d planned for our morning, he only smiled mysteriously and said it was a surprise. So I climbed into the sumptuous leather passenger seat of his car and allowed myself to enjoy the anticipation as he drove quickly and skilfully through the countryside.

And then, with a sickening thud that I feared was very much a warning of what was to come, my excitement turned to horror.

‘And here we are.’ Claude expertly swung the car off the road and into a small parking area. Ahead of us was an open field, a line of trees at its end. Above us soared an infinite dome of blue sky. But I had no eyes for the glorious spring morning, or even for Claude himself as he swung out of the car and stood, hands on his hips, surveying the scene. In the field was a hot-air balloon, its canopy half-inflated, rainbow segments bright against the sky. I could hear the roar of the burner expanding it with hot air, terrifying as a dragon.

My only thought was, How the hell do I get through this without him finding out I’m terrified of heights?

By two o’clock that afternoon, I was home. My legs still felt like wet spaghetti as I stepped out of the lift and walked the short distance to the front door of my flat, and my hands were trembling as I fitted the key into the lock. But I’d made it. Never had my apartment felt so safe; never had I been so glad to pour a hefty gin and tonic from my own fridge and sit down on my own bed.

I was overcome by a wave of tiredness; the adrenaline that had coursed through my body was all depleted now, and I was limp with exhaustion.

But before I could have the long nap I so desperately needed, I knew I had to update my friends. Over the past four days, the Girlfriends’ Club WhatsApp had been abuzz with excitement about my forthcoming date, and I’d overshared liberally: everything from the trainers I was planning to wear to the Hollywood wax I’d endured as part of my preparations.

The news I had for my friends wouldn’t be what they were hoping for, but I’d have to tell them anyway.

Lying on my back on the blissfully solid bed, I tapped through to the group on my phone.

Abbie: So I wonder how Kate’s date is going? Any news?

Naomi: She’s probably shagging him as we speak, the lucky thing.

Rowan: Or having lunch in some swanky restaurant.