Page 97 of The One That I Want

‘What? What does it say? And why are you grinning?’

‘I think I might have a date.’

‘Gimme.’ She wags her fingers at me, and I pass the phone to her like a civilised person, instead of lobbing it across my lounge room.

‘Seems pretty straightforward to me. He’s asked you out and you like him.’

Tiggy’s evaluation of my situation elicits a pressing question: isEwanthe reason I didn’t feel a spark with Harrison last night?

I conjure a mental picture of him: his blue eyes that twinkle when he’s making a joke… his wavy, brown hair with the slight cowlick in the front… his cheeky smile, which lights up his whole face… how he smelled when he kissed my cheek, allsexy.

And heissexy, I realise with a jolt – maybe not in an obvious way, like Harrison, which – ironically – had little effect on me when I actuallymethim. But definitely sexy. And clever and funny and thoughtful.

Most of all, I think of how I feel when I’m with him, how he makes me laugh, how much I look forward to seeing him at The Daily Grind, and how easily we can fill a whole evening just talking, eating, and laughing…

‘Oh my god, you’re right. I’m such an idiot.’

Tiggy gets up from the floor and heads into the kitchen. ‘You’re not an idiot, except for when you don’t realise that I’malwaysright. Can I open some wine?’ she asks rhetorically.

While Tiggy opens a bottle of red she took from the wine rack, I stare at the message. Tomorrow night might not be a good idea considering how tomorrow could play out atNouveau. There’s every chance I’ll want to head straight home, install myself on the sofa with the remote control, and watch repeats ofBritain’s Best Bakerswhile munching on a block of Monty Bojangles – or maybe even a box.

But Tuesday… Even if everything is still pandemonium at work, at least that gives me forty-eight hours to get my head straight about Ewan.

‘Hello?’ Tiggy’s standing beside me, holding out a glass of wine. She shoves it in my direction and the wine nearly sloshes over the rim.

I take it. ‘Thanks.’

‘Have you replied?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Penning the perfect response?’

‘I’m thinking.’

She adopts a higher-pitched voice. ‘Dear Coffee Shop Bloke?—’

‘Ewan,’ I say, mildly annoyed.

‘Dear Ewan the Coffee Shop Bloke,’ she continues, reminding me that I did call him ‘Mr Coffee Man’ –to his face– which looking back on makes me cringe. ‘It has only just occurred to me that?—’

‘Could you not?’

She immediately drops the persona. ‘Yeah, course.’

‘You don’t think I’m merely awarding myself a consolation prize, do you?’

‘You mean because it didn’t go as you hoped last night?’

I nod.

She takes a sip of her wine, donning her contemplation face. ‘I don’t think so. You were keen on Ewan before you met Harrison.’

At that, I’m all ears. ‘How do you mean?’

She opens the drawer under the coffee table and takes out the list she wrote – the ‘All Your Men’ list.

‘Because of this,’ she says, sliding it across the table with so much force, it falls to the floor in a flutter of pages.

---