Page 51 of The One That I Want

A longer silence descends – then we swap awkward smiles before speaking at the same time.

‘So, you were say?—’

‘What are you up to?—’

‘You go ahead,’ I say.

‘I was just going to ask if you’re free tomorrow night.’

‘Oh,’ I reply. I hadn’t expected that.

‘A friend of mine owns an art gallery over in Soho and there’s a new exhibit opening. I thought we could grab a bite after work, then head over.’

‘That sounds lovely,’ I say.

It truly does, but Poppy has scheduled my second date-with-a-dud tomorrow night. Unfortunately, I’ve led with the wrong part of my reply and Ewan perks up.

‘Except that I already have plans. I’m so sorry,’ I add quickly.

‘Interviewing another subject for your article?’ he asks, his disappointment clear.

‘Er, yes, actually,’ I reply, sticking as close to the truth as I feel comfortable with.

He nods, his lips disappearing between his teeth. ‘Well,’ he says, donning a joyless smile, ‘another time then. I should, er…’ He hooks a thumb over his shoulder as he stands. ‘See you next time,’ he says.

Then he’s gone and I’m left feeling rubbish with a mostly uneaten cronut.

I endured exactly thirty-eight minutes of my date with Aman before I dredged up the excuse Marcus used on me last week, and rushed off to take my non-existent sister to the airport.

It wasn’t that, at fifty, he’s considerably older than me, nor that he clearly doesn’t care one iota about his appearance (or hygiene), nor that he’s an IT specialist, who considers arts and humanities a waste of a university degree. It also wasn’t that he doesn’t read fiction because it’s ‘indulging in frivolity’, nor thathe would have voted for a certain tangerine-tinged ex-President were he an American.

Based on any of those traits alone –orcombined, for that matter – I would have stayed longer, purely to get some juicy fodder for my article.

But Aman lives with his mother.

And not as in ‘I live with Mum because her health is in decline and I’m there to take care of her’. Aman lives with his mother soshecan take care ofhim. He even bragged about how she does all his washing and cooks for him every night. Or any night he’s not on a date.

Once he dropped that into the conversation, I gaped at him open-mouthed for a good ten seconds, then trotted out the fake sister and got the hell out of there.

Where did Poppy evenfindhim? He clearly has no intention of leaving his mother’s house. Is he really looking for a partner or is he a sadist who enjoys torturing women with bad hygiene, questionable values, and insults?

As I head home (not to Gatwick with my fake sister), I think about Ewan’s invitation to the gallery opening. I wish Ihadrescheduled the date with Aman and gone with him instead. It’s probably not too late to show up, but I don’t know where it is other than somewhere in Soho. And I can’t ask Ewan because (stupidly) we haven’t exchanged phone numbers yet.

I also need to crack on with my assignment. Anjali cornered me today, asking how I’m progressing. I gave her a vague response, but I could tell she’s getting restless. And Anjali is not one to be fobbed off. She’ll keep asking until I send her my first article, so tomorrow, I’m getting to work. And proper writing – not just scribbling down notes and half-baked ideas. Because the sooner I get through kissing the frogs, the sooner I get to meet my prince.

Blimey, if I keep on like this, I’ll get a call from Disney asking for the rights to my life story for their next animated feature.The Thirty-something Princess and the Frogs of Londoncoming to a cinema near you.

‘Oh, Greta, you doughnut – or rather,cronut,’ I say to myself with a chuckle.

14

GRETA

‘Wait,’ says Tiggy, her hand on my arm. We’re standing on the doorstep of my family home about to have Sunday lunch with Mum, Dad, and Ru.

‘What?’

‘How much have you told them?’

---