Page 52 of The Suite Life
‘Don’t you think they’re kind of pointless?’ he replies. ‘And harmful – I’d ban them, me.’
‘You would ban them?’ I blurt, struggling to keep a lid on my feelings on the matter. ‘Why would you ban them? They’re fun, they’re imaginative, and they can be really meaningful – look at something likeThe Babadook?—’
‘I’ve never even heard of that,’ Olly interrupts me. ‘But you can’t convince me it’s anything more than just a bunch of creepy stuff and blood and things that will traumatise you.’
‘Life can be traumatic,’ I point out.
‘Not really,’ he replies. ‘Not actually traumatic.’
Is he not on the same date as me? Because this is starting to feel like it’s up there.
‘What do you like to do for fun?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘Well, I like to play football, obviously,’ he tells me – which isn’t going to be something we can talk about.
Bloody hell, there is more life in the cocktail I’m drinking – which, ironically, is a Zombie. This tall glass of bright red deliciousness is genuinely the highlight of my night. I wonder how many of them I would need to drink, for Olly to suddenly seem interested, charming or even nice. I know all of my drinks are paid for here but, damn, they would probably run out of mixers, if I were to give it a go.
‘I never would have guessed,’ I joke.
Olly doesn’t laugh.
‘All right, footballers are sharper than you think, you know,’ he ticks me off. ‘I’m sick of people thinking that footballers are thick, and that football is only enjoyed by thick people. It’s not true.’
‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ I say sincerely, feeling bad that he mistook my crap joke for passive-aggressive sarcasm.
‘You have to be smart, to be a footballer,’ he continues. ‘Not like those folks doing menial jobs.’
‘Menial jobs?’ I repeat back to him for clarification.
‘The ones you don’t need to be smart for, like cleaning or hairdressing,’ he replies.
Not only is that deeply offensive but it’s entirely wrong. Speaking as a hairdresser, I can assure you, you have to be smart to do a good job. If I was thick, would people trust me with scissors and chemicals?
Olly hasn’t even asked me what I do for a living (which makes me think that he might have assumed I’m G.G. Marsden), and maybe he wouldn’t have said it, if I had told him what my job was, but even so, it’s not a good look, and it’s made me kind of angry. He’s more of a miss than a match.
Olly, seemingly oblivious to my irritation, changes the subject.
‘So, Gigi, what’s your dating history like? Must be a line of suitors, huh?’ he says as he drains the last of his beer.
I take a large gulp of my drink, willing it to go down faster, maintaining a diplomatic smile.
‘Oh, you know, just the usual,’ I say. ‘Nothing notable to report. I’ve always believed in quality over quantity, though.’
He smirks, thinking he’s getting somewhere.
‘Well, I’ve had my fair share,’ he informs me. ‘Being a footballer, you know, every girl dreams of being a WAG. Can’t blame them. It’s always quality, though.’
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
‘Really? I don’t think I’ve known that many women, who would describe that as their dream,’ I point out.
I don’t think I’ve knownany.
‘Well, it might not be what every woman strives for. But let’s be honest,’ he continues, seemingly proud of himself. ‘Who wouldn’t want to be with a footballer?’
I somehow maintain my diplomatic smile, not willing to burst his bubble. I wish I had it in me, to put him in his place,but being rude doesn’t come all that naturally to me. I’d rather we just called it a night.
‘Well, charm and kindness go a long way, regardless of the profession,’ I say.
