13 Dates, page 11
It’s warm enough that I’ve still got the roof down, and when I beep the horn as I arrive, Angel’s face lights up. She already looks the part, dressed in her ‘boyfriend’ jeans (which I take as a positive sign), a flannel shirt and what I’m beginning to suspect are the only type of shoes she ever wears – a pair of Converse, purple this time.
I’ve already planned to maintain my ‘gallant’ image, so I stop and jump out, aiming to run around the car and open the door for her but, because she gets in herself – and I’m too busy concentrating on walking as if I’m not in agony with every step – by the time I get round to her side of the car, she’s already fastening her seatbelt, which makes me look a little foolish.
‘Nice car,’ she says, peering around the interior as I pretend that adjusting the passenger-door wing mirror is the reason for my little jaunt.
‘Thanks.’ I head back round to my side and climb into the driver’s seat. ‘It’s an MGB Roadster. Nineteen seventy-two. Original wire wheels. Overdrive. Two careful owners. Then me . . .’ I stop talking; Angel’s making a face. ‘What?’
‘I said “nice car”. Not “read me its CV”.’
‘Sorry.’
She sticks her tongue out, and I grin at her, then pull out into the traffic, head over the level crossing and accelerate up Queen’s Road, planning to take Angel on a romantic top-down drive through the park on the way to the stables, though for some reason she makes me stop at the bottom of the hill to put the roof up. While I assume it’s because she doesn’t want her hair messed up, when we get to the park, she asks me to take it down again.
‘Twenty miles an hour, okay?’
‘Huh?’
‘For your hair?’
Angel’s frowning at me, so I decide to concentrate on driving instead, stealing the occasional glance at her under the pretence of pointing something out on her side of the car, which is perhaps a little dangerous, not because I worry we’re going to crash, or run over one of the wild deer that roam around the park, but simply because each time I do, with her hair streaming in the wind, her face illuminated by the evening sun, I fall even more hopelessly in love.
At the stables, there’s a group of riders, all round about our age, which I’m relieved to see after the overly judgemental kids who were here earlier – perhaps not a surprise, given that we’re going to a pub. My stomach lurches a little when I spot Centurion, though he’s now being ridden by an older lady who looks like she knows her way around a horse. Which does seem to be ‘around the front’, given how he’s relieving himself again, in a way that makes Niagara Falls look like a leaky tap.
Melody is there, ticking everyone off on a clipboard, so I introduce myself with a perhaps overly loud ‘Noah’, and Angel nudges me.
‘The perfect name for a horse rider,’ she whispers. ‘Because it rhymes with whoa.’
‘Hey!’ I tell her, as Melody directs us towards the tack room. ‘I do the bad jokes.’
We collect our boots and helmets, and by the time we’re ready, Angel’s almost hopping from one foot to another in anticipation. When we’re led to our horses, she expertly climbs up into the saddle, looking like she’s going to burst with excitement. I’m determined not to embarrass myself this time, and by some miracle, I manage to haul myself on first time, causing Angel to raise both eyebrows.
‘You’ve done this before!’
‘Not before today, no,’ I say. Which is true, if you think about it.
‘So,’ says Melody. ‘We’re going to ride through the park, and stop off at The New Inn for a drink or two, then head back just before sunset. Now, has anyone here not ridden a horse before?’
As everyone looks at everyone else, I suddenly remember I’ve forgotten I’m supposed to put my hand up, so I do.
‘Noah, right?’ says Melody, playing along, and I nod.
‘Well, just . . .’
Even though I know she’s doing it for my benefit in terms of Angel, rather than to make sure I’m okay, Melody runs through the same instructions as this afternoon, and then, after a quick safety briefing, we’re off. I’ve ensured my stirrups are the right length, mainly because my backside is so tender from earlier, and it’s amazing how the pain focuses my technique.
‘Hey,’ says Angel, bringing her horse up alongside mine proficiently. ‘You’re a natural.’
‘Look who’s talking.’
Angel laughs, digs her heels in and trots off in front of me. ‘It’s just like riding a bike,’ she calls back over her shoulder. ‘Well, except for the having-to-pedal part. And a lot more fun!’
And the funny thing is, it is fun, and not just because I’m mesmerised by the sight of Angel’s bottom bouncing up and down just in front of me, or the fact that we’re off for a drink (and on our fourth date!), or the fact that my plan seems to be working.
To my surprise, I find myself starting to relax and enjoy the scenery – as well as her company. I can see why Angel responded so enthusiastically: it’s a lovely evening, and the park is so lushly green and countryside-like that if it weren’t for the planes flying regularly overhead on their way to Heathrow, you’d forget you were in London; the horses are quiet (apart from the regular percussive farts that seem to be coming from the one behind me, something that sends the woman riding him into fits of giggles every time it happens); and it’s a cliché, I know, but there’s something about being out here like this, man and beast, surrounded by all this nature, on this eco-friendliest form of transport, in beautiful weather . . . While riding and I might not have been love at first sight, I can see how I might eventually come to feel that way about it.
Though the way my backside is hurting, whether I’ll manage thirteen goes, I’m not so sure.
The ‘drink’ part of the date is fun, though it turns out to be more of a group thing than the romantic two-of-us evening I’d been hoping for. Plus, I almost embarrass myself when we get to the pub, tie the horses up outside and I ask Melody whether we should be padlocking them to something, like you would with your bike.
Angel’s first at the bar, thanks to some clever use of her elbows/fluttering of her eyelashes as required (though when I shrink in embarrassment at her pushing-in skills, she simply reminds me life’s too short to wait in line, and I tell her I thought she’d meant that metaphorically), and then we nearly have our first argument when she insists on buying the drinks seeing as I’ve organised the ride, and I tell her I’ll just have a half, and she thinks I’m only saying that because I don’t want her to spend much money, but I insist it’s because I’m driving, and she laughs, and tells me it’s actually called ‘riding’, and, besides, you can’t be drunk in charge of a horse, but I remind Angel I’ve got to drive her – and then me – home. Although I won’t get what her ‘maybe’ response to the second leg of that journey means until much later.
When we eventually get back to the stables, she’s looking a little flushed, though I put that down to the excitement of the canter on the way back as opposed to the two glasses of white wine she’s had. We say goodbye to the rest of the group then head back to the car, and because it’s looking as though it might rain, I pause before I get in.
‘Roof up or down?’
‘Are we driving home the same way?’
‘Do you mean in terms of route and not technique?’
Angel rolls her eyes, then she thinks for a moment. ‘Down,’ she says.
I start the car and reverse carefully out of the stables, trying my best to avoid the various piles of manure, then head back through the park. And on this gorgeous evening, driving with Angel by my side, the wind in our hair, through this most beautiful of London settings, for the first time I’ve reason to be thankful for the normally frustrating speed limit, as it means I can spend longer in her company. She’s got her eyes shut, and looks so lovely, so beautiful, so alive, in fact, that by the time we get back to her flat, I’m having to fight off a wave of insecurity and the feeling that she’s ‘slumming it’ with me. What’s worse is, there’s a parking space right outside, which it’s silly not to pull into, so I do. And then I face the dilemma about leaving the motor running, though it’s a dilemma Angel puts an end to very quickly.
‘Do you want to come up?’
More than anything in the world, I think.
‘Unless you’ve got somewhere you need to be,’ she adds, perhaps taking my lack of an answer for reluctance.
And though I feel the only place I actually need to be is with her, there’s so much pressure that I can hardly speak. So I just nod and climb out of the car, then Angel gets out, and as I join her on the pavement, she stands up on tiptoe and whispers, ‘Your motor’s running’ into my ear, and I’m about to tell her too right it is when I realise she means I’ve forgotten to switch the engine off.
With a guilty grin, I sprint round to my side of the car, turn the key in the ignition, then – without bothering to put the roof up or even lock the doors – follow her like a puppy dog up her steps.
Angel’s place is tiny, even for a studio flat. Crammed into the eaves of the building, in what probably used to be a very small attic, it’s the kind of place that makes the minuscule show flats they lay out in IKEA look positively spacious. There’s a compact kitchenette in front of the window, a tiny dining table with two chairs, and a small, two-seater sofa against the wall, with the bed separated from the ‘living’ part by the coffee table rather than any kind of wall or curtain, which is at the same time both great and terrifying in terms of ease of access.
It’s incredibly full of stuff, too, with more paintings on the walls than we have at the gallery (though right now, that’s not too difficult), including a few colourful abstracts that look like Angel’s painted them herself. There’s a selection of books on her shelves ranging from Bridget Jones to War and Peace, an impressive line-up of Converse shoeboxes under the bed (which Angel catches me looking at, then makes the ‘what can you do?’ face), a clothes rail with what looks like a random selection from a charity shop in the corner, and a ukulele hanging on the back of the door. It couldn’t belong to anyone but Angel. And I love it for that very reason.
‘It’s not much,’ says Angel, smiling at my cursory inspection. ‘But it’s home.’
‘It’s lovely,’ I say, still a little breathless from the four flights of stairs.
‘Thanks. So . . . did you want a coffee?’
I look at my watch – it’s automatic, but immediately I wish I could take the action back. ‘Um, no, thank you. It’s late, and . . . The caffeine, I mean.’
Angel looks at me strangely, then walks over and tugs open one of the kitchen cabinets. ‘Okay, well, I’ve got some wine – though it might be off – brandy, Malibu, some tequila . . .’
I shake my head. ‘Better not. Like I said earlier, I’m driving.’
‘And like I said earlier – maybe.’
I stare at her for a moment, trying to process what she’s just said, still not allowing myself to entertain the thought that she might have invited me up here to stay, which may very well mean for sex. Apart from a peck on the cheek at the gallery, and the briefest of lip-meetings outside the climbing centre, we haven’t so much as held hands yet. And while I’m aware that makes me sound like a prude . . .
‘In that case,’ I say, aware that pause has probably lasted a lot longer than either of us would have liked, ‘a brandy would be lovely.’
Angel looks around for a couple of glasses, but she can’t find any clean ones, so she grabs two randomly out of the sink, has to wash them up, then dry them, and by the time she’s handed me a rather generous measure of brandy, it’s all I can do not to gulp it down in one to stop my hands from shaking. It’s been a long time since I last had sex, and a long long time since I had sex as meaningful as this might be.
‘Cheers,’ she says, clinking her glass against mine.
‘Cheers.’
‘So . . .’ She’s standing very close to me, making eye contact as she sips her drink, so I take a mouthful of mine. The liquid burns the back of my throat, but I don’t care – I’d welcome anything to divert my attention from, ahem, other parts of my body.
‘So?’
Angel reaches a hand up for my glass, so I take another quick gulp, a bit like a toddler might when a parent’s trying to remove a drink they’re halfway through, then I let her take it from me. She puts the glasses down on the coffee table, grabs me by the hand and leads me to the foot of the bed – a walk of all of two paces – then she stands a foot or so away from me, unbuttons her shirt slowly, shrugs it off her shoulders and drops it on the floor between us.
‘Your turn,’ she says, her voice a little husky.
Given the vision of Angel standing there in her bra, close enough to reach out and touch, it takes a second or two for my brain to process what I’m supposed to do now. Quickly, and not quite as sexily as Angel, given that I haven’t undone enough buttons to get my head through the neck hole first go, I pull my polo shirt off over my head and drop it on top of hers.
Angel keeps direct eye contact (which is good, because it means I don’t have to surreptitiously hold my stomach in) as she kicks her shoes off, undoes her jeans and wriggles out of them. Then, cleverly using one foot, she hooks them up and drops them onto the rapidly growing pile of clothes in between us.
I reach down, pull my trainers and socks off in one go (mentally patting myself on the back for this, as it means I won’t be stood there in underpants and socks later), then undo my belt, unbutton my jeans, shake them down to the floor and step out of them. I’m not quite as coordinated as Angel, so I have to bend down to pick them up to add them to the pile, and while this puts my head level with where I’m guessing Angel’s tattoo might be, I’m too much of a gentleman (or too terrified) to look for it.
When I stand up again, Angel’s grinning at me. Her eyes flick down to my boxer shorts, and I’m wondering how far this game has to go: her next move is her bra, obviously, though she’s wearing one more item of clothing than me, so I’m going to be naked first. I could of course intervene. Step forward, pick her up and carry her the (admittedly) short distance to the bed. But to be quite honest, despite the fact I’m shortly going to be standing embarrassingly buck naked in front of her, this is one of the most enjoyable games I’ve played in a long while.
With the slightest of smirks on her face, Angel reaches round, unhooks her bra, then slips it off, keeping one arm across her breasts as she drops it onto the pile. I realise I’ve got no other option but to go for it, so – keeping my eyes firmly fixed on hers – I grab the waistband of my boxers, lower them to my ankles, and step confidently out of them. But when I stand back up again, Angel’s looking puzzled.
I freeze, wondering what on earth it could be about my genitals that’s causing so much consternation. Are they that weird-looking? Too small? Or – and I realise it’d only be as a result of any swellings caused by today’s two horse rides – too big? But before I dare to check, Angel finds her voice again.
‘Why are you wearing double underpants?’
I frown at her, peer down at my groin and go pale. I’d completely forgotten I’d put an extra pair on as padding, and now Angel’s going to think . . . I can’t even imagine what she’s going to think.
‘For the horse riding,’ I say, as if that explains everything.
‘Did you think it was going to be that scary?’
‘No, it was for . . .’ I exhale loudly, and decide that at this point, honesty is probably the best policy, so I’d better admit to my sneaky afternoon ride. ‘I’m a bit tender.’
Angel raises both eyebrows. ‘Dare I ask why? And where?’
‘Well, funny story . . .’ But I’ve been caught out, and while I’d like to come up with a clever answer, I can’t think of anything apart from coming clean. ‘I went riding earlier today too. I’d never been before, so I thought I’d better get a feel for it. Just so I wouldn’t embarrass you. Or look stupid.’
‘Like you do right now?’
‘Um, yeah. Sometimes spontaneity takes a bit of planning.’
‘For some people.’ Angel rolls her eyes, then she laughs. ‘So those were for cushioning?’
‘Yup.’
‘And did they work?’ says Angel, taking half a step towards me.
‘I’ll tell you in the morning,’ I say.
11.
I miss the following morning’s parkrun, though that’s mainly because I’m in so much agony after yesterday’s exertions – all of them – that it’s all I can do to get out of bed. And while I should be leaping up and punching the air while clicking my heels together – metaphorically, at least, given how knackered and sore I am – Angel’s off-handedness towards me when I say goodbye to her is in such stark contrast to her hands-on approach last night, I can’t help but feel a little deflated.
When I eventually limp into the gallery and lower myself gingerly into my chair, Marlon’s smirking at me.
‘What?’
‘What do you mean, what?’ he says, mock-indignantly.
‘Your face is a picture.’
‘It’s the only thing in here that is, at the moment.’ He straightens one of the Hanksy frames on the wall, then hands me a cushion from the bench in the middle of the room, and I gratefully slide it underneath my backside. ‘I take it that’s from the horse riding?’
‘Mostly,’ I say.
‘Crikey, Noah. I know they say love is a battlefield, but you make it look like the one at the start of Saving Private Ryan.’
‘I’d find that funny, if laughing didn’t hurt. Everywhere.’
Marlon widens his eyes. ‘And that’s after only four dates? Impressive. For you.’
‘Thanks. I think. But . . .’
‘There’s a “but”? Already?’
