Page 4 of You Had Me at Chateau
Tom picks up a cream cheese and cucumber sandwich, his appetite clearly unaffected, and takes a huge bite.
Yes, obviously my mum catered telling us that she and my dad are getting a divorce.
Dad sighs heavily.
‘You kids should stay single for as long as you can,’ he suggests with a jokey smile, though you can see a hint of sadness behind his eyes. Then, as if to distract himself from the reality of the situation, he asks: ‘So, what are you two doing this evening?’
I glance at Dad, a smile creeping across my lips.
‘I have a date,’ I confess. ‘But, if it’s any consolation, those usually end with me continuing to be single, so…’
‘Ah, don’t be daft, you’ll have a great time,’ he tells me. ‘Ignore me, I’m an old cynic.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Tom says. ‘And by that I mean tell him: good luck with that. That being you.’
Do brothers ever grow out of winding you up? Because Tom has been my brother for thirty years and, I swear, he’s only getting worse. Still, aside from being siblings, we’re friends too. We both work in London so we hang out all the time, and I know that, if I ever needed him, he would be there. He just might crack a joke while he was there too.
‘Tom, why don’t you stay for dinner?’ Dad suggests. ‘It’ll be less awkward with you there.’
‘Why doesn’t Amber stay?’ Tom replies, vaguely panicked at the thought of sitting at a dinner table between our warring parents.
‘Because Amber has a date, she just said,’ Dad replies.
‘And speaking of which, I need to get going,’ I say, smiling to myself as I leave Tom to deal with this one alone. ‘I’ll see you guys later. Good luck.’
I direct those last two words at Tom. He shoots me daggers.
Yes, the weight of my parents’ impending surprise divorce is weighing heavy on my shoulders, but there are plenty of other things on those bad boys too. I need to get a few other things offmy plate, before I can add this into the mix, and one of those things (and the easiest, if I’m being honest) is this date tonight.
Suddenly I’m not feeling all that romantic, or optimistic, but we move. Let’s just hope I’m luckier in love than my parents, huh? Somehow I doubt it!
3
If there is one dating rule that I have always stuck by, it’s that I would never, ever,everunder any circumstances be set up on a blind date. I believe my exact words would usually be something along the lines of: it would have to be a cold day in hell, before I would let someone set me up with a stranger.
Well, it turns out, it doesn’t need to be a cold day in hell, just a chilly December evening in London. Let’s just say that my love life has been pretty quiet lately, and by ‘pretty quiet’ I mean non-existent, and by lately I mean for a really, really long time. Sure, I’ve been on dates, but they never seem to go anywhere, and I don’t really think it’s me (not most of the time, at least), or the lucky, lucky men who get to date me, but things just never seem to click for either of us.
I’ve tried meeting people myself, but I don’t quite have the confidence to essentially pick people up in the street, and I don’t exactly give off the confident, approachable vibes that would make the men come to me, if I’m being honest. Oh, and of course I’ve tried the apps. I’ve tried them, uninstalled them, tried them again and uninstalled them again – and so on and so on.
Really, the only two things I haven’t tried are going on blind dates and taking part in a reality TV dating show, and with the latter being so very far out of my comfort zone, I’m left with no choice other than to give being set up a go.
Still, I almost backed out, right at the last moment. I don’t know what I was hoping for – perhaps to bump into Chris Hemsworth on the journey to see my parents, who would of course fall in love with me, at first sight, and he would somehow know about my blind date and he would tear off his shirt, and get down on his knees, and beg me to go out with him instead. Didn’t see him, though, didn’t even see anyone who looked like him, or looked at me, so here I am.
It’s just a coincidence, that I’m living in a loveless world after learning of my parents’ impending divorce (excuse me, pre-divorce), so perhaps I should just be thankful that I’ve got this date lined up this evening. A little bit of hope is exactly what I need right now, to try to take the edge off the bleakness.
Sometimes even I find it hard to believe that I’m a romance writer – seeing as though I can only conjure it up on the page, and not actually manifest any in my real life. You would think it might serve me well, to know the tricks of the trade, to have tried and tested things on the page, like I’m running scientific simulations. Sadly, I’ve always found the com to be more my strong suit. As for the rom, I don’t know, I don’t even feel like I’m doing a good job on the page at the moment. I know that I should just finish this draft, in the way that Jen wants me to, but for some reason I just can’t make it happen. It’s not writer’s block necessarily, more that the creative side of my brain is protesting. It refuses to let me work on it. The second I try to work on my book, I freeze up. That’s why I’m so keen to get Jen to read my other draft. God, I hope she likes it. Although it does need a lot more work, because a big chunk of it isn’t actually written yet.
With less than a month to go until Christmas, I’m not sure what’s easier, going on a good date or finishing writing my book? The latter, for sure. Not that it’s easy, not at all, it’s just I’ve seen evidence that I’m actually capable of that one.
I rushed back to my apartment after my parents dropped the bombshell on me, and got ready for my date in less time than I would have liked, but I figured it was better to turn up looking vaguely presentable, but on time, than to spend ages on my hair, make-up and outfit, only to make a bad impression by turning up late. So here I am, not looking my best, but on time, and there’s no sign of the guy anyway.
And now I need a stress wee – fantastic. It’s funny because when I’m at home, in my writing pit, I will drink and drink (mostly coffee, never enough water), and not move from the spot for hours, and not need the loo all day, but as soon as I have any sort of social obligation, my body fires off signals left, right and centre, so I’m off to the loo, I guess.
I’m in a bar called Charliez, one that I haven’t been in before but it seems nice enough. Like all bars in December, it’s super busy, with clusters of people pumped to the max with festive cheer, so at least I know we won’t need to worry about awkward silences. It could still be awkward, obviously, but at least it won’t be silent.
It’s one of those places with a room full of individual toilets that can be used by anyone – good, because that means more toilets, so no crazy queue for the ladies’ while fellas fly in and out of the gents’, but bad because it significantly increases your chances of sitting on a seat covered in splashes.
I sit down and take my phone from my clutch to check my messages from my cousin Amy again. It’s Amy who has set me up with her friend Ray – she pitched him to me as a fellow writer, someone I was bound to get along with. I don’t think I know of any men called Ray who are under sixty. The namemakes me think of my dad’s former bestie (they fell out over a STIHL saw – something my dadSTIHLgoes on about, and no, I don’t know what one is either, I think only Dad can tell his thousands of saws apart) who was called Ray – and then I suppose there’s Ray Winston, Ray Charles and Ray… Mears? Best I can do. None of them make me think of a young bloke turning up (thirty is generally still categorised as young, right?) but Amy assures me that this Ray is my age, and that he’ll be carrying a single red rose, so that I can spot him – something that feels impossibly corny, like the kind of thing I would write into a scene for a date that was doomed from the start.
