Page 40 of The One That I Want

We’re at Dalla Terra, a restaurant in Covent Garden with an abundance of natural finishes: wooden floors, leather seats, and a bar made from granite tile and a single plank of highly polished wood. I’ve never been before, but I didn’t want to meet Marcus someplace I frequent, taking dating advice from Tiggy: don’t sully your favourite haunts with bad dates.

Her other advice: only ever commit to an hour and only stay longer if it’s going well. With this in mind, I interrupt Marcus ordering a three-course dinner, saying I have a ‘big day at work tomorrow’ and time for just one drink.

His expression sours instantly at that. ‘Right, okay. I wish I’d known,’ he says with a pinched expression. He doesn’t elaborate on what he would have done differently if hehadknown, so I smile politely then order a gin-based cocktail from the bartender.

‘Vodka soda,’ he adds gruffly.Charming.

The bartender starts making our drinks and Marcus takes this as a cue to launch into a monologue about his fitness regime. Even though Poppy warned me this might happen, it’s still quite affronting – like a TED Talk but far less interesting. And it’s obvious why Marcus’ shirt doesn’t fit properly – he spends two hours a day in the gym lifting weights. Who gets up at 4a.m. every morning? Toexercise?

When the bartender slides our drinks across the bar with a smile, I thank him. Marcus doesn’t – he’sstillmonologuing – or is it lecturing?

‘It’s all about discipline. The body is a temple and when we take care of it, it takes care of us.’

I nod along as if I’ve madeanysense of that, and he continues – blathering on about intermittent fasting. Tuning out, I sip my cocktail in silence and start counting out the seconds in my head:one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi… Unfortunately, this does not make the time go faster. When Marcus looks away, lost in his own little world of the tenets of self-discipline, I glance at his smart watch. Eighteen minutes have passed. Eighteen!

I signal to the bartender to bring me another cocktail.

‘You know, there are a lot of empty calories in that,’ says Marcus, nodding towards my nearly empty glass. ‘Soft drinks and fruit juice are essentially liquid sugar, and you know what they say: sugar is the new smoking.’ His gaze momentarily lands on my waistline.

Wonderful, now he’s fat-shaming me. What a total arse.

‘Oh, I know. But as a reformed smoker, I’m betting on sugar being the lesser of two evils. And life’s no fun without at least one vice, right?’ I have no idea where that retort came from. I’m not usually so sassy. I’ve also never smoked a cigarette in my life.

Marcus blinks at me as if I’ve grown two heads.

‘Right,’ he says, his brow furrowing. From his expression, it’s obvious he’s grappling with what to say or do next. Perhaps he’ll acknowledge this date is going terribly and make an excuse to leave.I’dleave right now if I weren’t on assignment.

I finish my drink while he decides what to do next, girding myself for another instalment of ‘This is How Much of a Wanker I Am’, which I’m sure would be the title of his podcast if he had one. Actually, he probably does, he’s so vain.

‘Oh, shit,’ he says abruptly. ‘I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to drive my sister to the airport tonight.’

His performance so over the top, I need to stifle a laugh. And what a creative lie – I’m almost impressed!

He downs the rest of his drink in one gulp – I don’t mention that he shouldn’t finish it if he’sdriving– and stands, leans across to smack a dry kiss on my cheek, and says, ‘Nice to meet you, Greta. We should do this again sometime.’

I watch him leave with great amusement and even a hint of satisfaction.

Date from hell number one: tick. And even though it only lasted twenty minutes, I’m sure I can get several paragraphs out of it.

The bartender arrives with my second cocktail, a Fizz 43, which is made with Liqueur 43 and ginger ale.

That’s when I realise Marcus departed so suddenly, he’s left me with the bill. While hewasa self-obsessed, fat-shaming arse, I wouldn’t peg him as a cheapskate. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he was just flustered by my shocking revelation that I used tosmoke.

I chuckle to myself. There’s something rather enjoyable about this dating-the-wrong-bloke endeavour.

Poppy did say this assignment could be fun – though she was referring to proper dating. I’ll admit – at least to myself – I still have trepidation about that. The stakes are just so much higher.It’s easy to dress up and play a part when I know I won’t end up with any of these blokes.

I suppose this part of the assignment is essentially dating practice, bringing me to something else Poppy said about kissing frogs and how dating the wrong men will help me narrow down what I do and don’t want in a partner.

‘Please don’t think I’m stalking you.’

The voice draws me away from my thoughts and I turn to discover Ewan standing next to my bar stool.

‘Oh, hello, you,’ I say, cheering up instantly. ‘What are you doing here – besides not stalking me?’

‘I met a friend for a drink after work, but his wife just called and he had to rush off – sick toddler.’

‘Oh no. Poor little mite.’

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