Page 43 of Fake It 'til You Make It

I’ve made my way down to the foyer and I wiggle my fingers in greeting at the concierge as I leave the building.

‘Never mind that. The second and most important reason I called is to make a bit of a strange request. Are there any jobs going on the set of your new series?’

‘Do you want to start acting now?’ The shock in Dee’s voice feels far from a vote of confidence.

‘Not exactly.’ I hail a cab and watch it swerve to the sidewalkto collect me. I do normally call an Uber but this is a short distance and I only need a cab because these new shoes are so awfully excruciating that just the thought of walking even two kilometers is painful.

‘You know how bad of a liar I am, and if I’m going to be going on Tinder dates and having to make out like I’m an actress – thanks to you and Shernette for that, by the way – I just think I need to have at least a clue about what happens on the set of a production. Then I won’t be lying, technically.’

I pause our conversation to tell the driver where I’m headed.

‘We always need extras,’ Dee says. ‘Or there’s a chance we’ll need an extra runner, especially if you’re willing to be cheap.’

‘Less of the cheap, I’m already wearing a belt in place of a miniskirt.’

‘I’m sure I can get you something. Leave it with me.’

Shortly after we end the call, I step out of the cab at the cocktail bar and see a guy who I think is Adam sitting at a table for two, outside on the sidewalk. He most certainly is not the six feet and four inches tall that he felt the need to share on his profile. Which makes me question whether he really does speak five languages, is an art professor, a self-confessed coffee snob, and a gym bunny.

Of course, I am an actress if you believe Tinder, so Adam could in fact be anyone.

He holds up one hand. Despite the peculiar outfit I’m wearing, he seems to recognize me, which is a good start. I enter the restaurant through the front door because there’s a fence around the tables outside. It gives me an extra second to calm my nerves.

I shouldn’t be this nervous. It’s ridiculous. Shernette does this kind of thing all the time, but it’s my first date. Admittedly, it’s not like I’m losing my virginity, but surely it is a rite of passage, an occasion in a person’s romantic life?

The maître d’ tells me that my friend is waiting outside. Hearing the wordfriend, I feel my nose scrunch like a bunny rabbit’s. This all feels a little bit weird. I don’t even know this guy.

Adam is looking my way as I head outside toward our table. His profile pictures certainly displayed him as more angular than he is IRL. He’s wearing dark jeans and a white shirt. Appropriate first-date attire, I think, particularly by comparison to my outfit.

He stands when I reach the table and we have an uncomfortable greeting, whereby I think he leans in for a kiss that I don’t want. Reflexively, I pull back a little too vehemently and he ends up stroking my arm, as I pat him on the shoulder like a dog.

I’m not entirely sure what to do or say next, until he asks, ‘Shall we sit?’

There’s a tone of,Are you for real?about his words. Hopefully that’s in my mind.

‘I took the liberty of ordering us a bottle of wine, is that okay?’ He sounds like he might genuinely be an art professor. A little… snooty?

I might have preferred a cocktail in a cocktail bar but I suppose it’s a sweet gesture, if not a tad gaslighty (a term I learned from readingOnline Dating for Dummies). ‘That’s great, thanks.’

We take a seat and I mess around with my purse, not knowing whether I should put it on the table or behind me on the seat. This wouldn’t even be a thing if I were out with Dee or Shernette.

Glancing across the sidewalk, I see other people going about their Saturday night food and drinks in the surrounding bars and restaurants. This is a normal thing to be doing on a Saturday evening and as awkward as it is, this is a short-term solution to Andrew turning up to a party with a date and making me look like even more of a fool than I already feel.

‘You’re a professor of art,’ I say, smiling at my date and thinking:if you weren’t wearing shades, I might be able to better judge your character.‘Do you have a specialism?’

‘Dante,’ he says.

Internally, I roll my eyes and he begins a cliché monologue about Dante and the passion of his love for Beatrice.

I don’t have a drink yet and I already know I would prefer to clean Mike’s apartment than be on this date. It’sthatbad.

Our bottle of wine arrives and a waiter pours two glasses. I swear he also gives me a look that says,I know what you two are going to do later. But there are two things I know resolutely from having been in this bar for less than ten minutes. The first, I will not put out on a first date. The second, I will never put out to the Dante specialist.

‘You’re an actress,’ Adam says. ‘Are you famous?’

Oh boy.How quickly can I drink two glasses of wine and leave?

The conversation continues in the same painstaking manner. Snippets of information, both lies and truth, drip like a broken tap between us. I can almost hear the rhythmicdink, dink, dinkin my mind.

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