Page 60 of Falling for You
I’ve been here for about ninety seconds and have said four words. They were: ‘Hey, how are you?’
She hasn’t even given me her name. A common occurrence for me, it seems – why am I unable to ask a girl her name? She’s a redhead and petite with big shoulder pads andeven bigger eyelashes. She’s cute, but I cannot gauge whether this date is going well or if she just wants someone to listen while she talks aboutLove Island.
‘So,’ I say, desperately trying and failing not to interrupt her. ‘What do you do?’
Her face falls and I feel a stab of embarrassment.
Well, who can blame her? It’s hardly the most exciting question.
‘I work in marketing,’ she says flatly. ‘You?’
‘Ah!’ I reply. ‘I’m a writer.’
We fall into silence and I want to kick myself.
Argh. I should have just let her carry on talking aboutLove Island. I glance over my shoulder at Remy, who is sitting at the bar with a pint. He gives me a wink.
Right, come on, Nate. You can do this. You’ve chatted up women before. There was even a time when you felt like you were pretty good at it.
‘And what do you—’
I am interrupted by the shrill bell from behind the bar, jangling loudly.
‘Right,’ I say, as all the men around me get to their feet. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you …’
I trail off, waiting for her to tell me her name, but she’s pulled out her phone.
I shuffle over to the next seat and plonk myself down opposite a girl with the largest glass of wine I’ve ever seen.
It’s funny; as our eyes meet I feel a little tug behind my chest. But then she opens her mouth and starts speaking.
‘Hallllooooooooooo, hoo are ye?’
I blink at her, my mind spiralling with panic. Oh God. I have absolutely no idea what she just said.
I take a sip of my beer and nod. It’s fine, it’s just a different accent. I’ll get used to it in a second.
‘Ah ye dyau?’
I blink. Nope, I still don’t know what she said.
‘Sorry,’ I say, after realising that she’s waiting for me to reply. ‘I didn’t get that.’
Her face changes and so, incredibly, does her voice.
‘You’re American?’
‘Er … yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re … sorry, where are you from?’ I don’t even want to guess where that accent was from.
‘London,’ she says at once, the weird accent now completely gone.
‘Has your voice changed?’
‘Yes. Sorry, where were you on Halloween?’
I can’t help it, I roll my eyes.
‘Oh yeah, here we go,’ I laugh. ‘Have you seen this man? Where were you on the night of 31st October? Who showed you this – was it Remy?’
