Novel Project 2010 - Chapter Four

"A few of us are heading for a drink, wanna come along?"
    I looked up from my desk, where I was adding some finishing touches to a report that probably should have been finished the week before to find Steve, self-appointed social secretary to the office, looking down at me, willing me to quit for the day.
    "Love to, but I'm meeting a friend a little later." Technically it wasn't a lie, although I suppose it would be hard to call her a friend seeing as I hadn't met her yet. Not that I was embarrassed to admit I was going on a date, well, I was, but only because friendly office banter in our office tends to consist of ribbing and mild sarcasm. Guess that's what I get for working in an all male office.
    "That's not what that e-mail says. Who's the lucky lady that's looking forward to meeting you?"
    I hurriedly clicked around to hide the window containing the last e-mail exchange with Jane, who I was meeting about ten minutes later in a pub around the corner. I began to hope my workmates weren't heading to the same place. I tried to look as if I didn't know what he was talking about, before Steve gave up on his question, realising the others were waiting for him.
    "Well, if you strike out, we'll be in the Cross Keys across the river." Thankfully, this wasn't where I was meeting Jane.
    "Will do."
    "See you in five minutes." Steve guffawed. "We'll have a pint waiting, mate. And try not to spill wine on this one."
    How the hell did he know about that?

The pub was everything you'd expect from the traditional British boozer. In the sense that a number of the patrons were permanent items of furniture, notably the elderly men set up in each corner with a newspaper who might possibly not actually leave in the hours the place was closed. The garish design on the carpet was blunted by a combination of low light and age, decades of beer stains leaving the whole place with a hoppy aroma. The landlord regretted the move to replace the sawdust on the floor in the 70s, but that's progress for you. Nobody knew what the antique brass cooking utensils over the bar were used for. The walls were decorated in a combination of local artefacts and photographs of famous patrons few could recognise, giving a simultaneous sense of a tight-knit community, and dreams of higher things. In some circles, it might have been called a dive, and the upper classes might turn up their noses, but there was something strangely homely about the place. It might have been the dog next to the open fire.
    I wormed my way to the bar through a two-deep crowd, only a third of whom were actually planning on ordering in the near future. I waited patiently to be served, giving deference to anyone who had arrived before me - and possibly one who arrived after - eventually ordering a diet coke, attracting odd looks from one or two of the regulars who couldn't fathom arriving at a pub alone and ordering a soft drink. I hoped my date wouldn't keep me waiting long, so they would see the method in my madness.
    With my drink in hand, I edged away from the bar and began prowling the room for an empty table. Despite the heaving throng around the bar itself, the rest of the pub wasn't nearly as crowded, and I was able to move around without much in the way of pseudo-dancing or apology. After a while, I noticed a trio of people who'd finished their drinks and had started donning coats and scarves. I snuck up to one side, waiting for them to vacate, while trying not to look directly at them and revealing my intentions. This of course let to my seemingly attempting to read the front cover of the newspaper of the man at the bar opposite me, which might have been a worse proposition. They say a watched pot never boils, similarly, an observed table never gets up and leaves. As they became evidently more and more prepared I was on the lookout for any possible rivals to taking the prize of a seat and somewhere to rest my drink. They finally had all their belongings together and started to stand up, I sidled slightly closer, picking the seat I was going to take. Perhaps a little too soon, as no sooner had they stood up, but their conversation reached a turning point and they suddenly became more interested in debating the finer points of a presentation given by someone called Edward, the volume reaching a greater level in line with their height off the ground. After what seemed like an age of attempting to subtly lay claim to the almost-but-not-quite vacated table, while not getting so close as to appear part of the group. As they finally headed towards the door, I swung into action and slipped in behind them, swooping down onto a seat and setting down my drink in a single motion. Mission accomplished, I quickly checked my watch and turned my attention to the door, watching for my date. I had arrived a few minutes early, and after my table-grabbing efforts, it was now just past 8pm. Should be here any minute, I thought.
    About a quarter of an hour passed and I was still waiting. I'd alternated between sipping my drink, checking my phone for inexplicably missed messages or calls and keeping a watchful vigil on the door. During that time a number of people had blustered in, mainly office workers finishing shockingly late, and pre-inebriated gaggles of mates who were already on their second establishment of the evening. But no sign of my date for the evening.
    A sizeable chap strode into the bar. Sizeable in all senses, although slightly more in the horizontal. He had a look on his face somewhere between excitement and murderous rage. Locking eyes on a group of about ten at a long table near the window, his expression rose into something close to a laugh, and rushed over. The volume of the group immediately rose with a series of greetings and superlatives, branding the new arrival as "the legend", "booze monster", and "John-o". This guy was apparently something of a party animal, a reputation borne out by his almost immediate suggestion of a round of shots. The party agreed on a single variety of spirit, despite a few members feigning reluctance due to "early starts" and still recovering from the night before. John-o waltzed over to the crush at the bar, and wove a cash-bearing arm through the throng to contact the edge of the bar itself, staking his place in the queue. He was only about five paces from his friends, so the conversation continued while shots were procured.
    As tales of their weekend exploits unravelled, I became acutely aware that I probably shouldn't be listening in on the conversations of complete strangers and should find something else to occupy me. Still keeping one eye on the door, I took out my phone and went to the time-killing standby activity of deleting old messages. I'm always a bit slow at deleting messages when I've read them, so my phone is always packed with information whose usefulness has long since expired.
    "im just round the corner. see u in 5." Weeks ago, deleted.
    "r u busy 2nite?" Tonight meaning last month. Gone.
    "Dial 7 for new offers from your mobile operator." Why did I keep this? Bye-bye.
    Perhaps this habit is a sign of a deeper seated tendency to hoarding, and I'll eventually be found dead in my home, crushed under the weight of all the trinkets tchochkies and kipple I'd accumulated and stored over the years. That or I'll open a pub and keep it all on the walls.
    After deleting a series of now useless messages, and even a few that might have been useful later, I realised my drink was empty. I'm not the sort of person who can sit in a pub without a drink, as it feels a little like freeloading and possibly not justify my use of the table I had acquired. However, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get away from the table and back with a fresh drink without someone snapping up the space as I had not half an hour before. If I get up I might lose the table, if I stay I probably deserve to lose the table. Bowing to the force of the market, I stood up and carefully draped my coat over my chair to mark my territory. Just to be safe, I tweaked the angle of the chair a little so it was visible to as much of the room as possible. I was coming back, and wanted everyone to know.
    I struggled to the bar and waited to order, nervously eyeing my table in case I had to pounce on anyone that failed to notice the flag of ownership I had erected. Both the bar and the table deserved attention, and I juggled them twitchily whilst still occasionally remembering to check for anyone coming through the door. All the time wondering if I should check my phone for messages. Eventually I managed to catch the eye of a barmaid and bought my second drink with hardly a word. I swooped back down to the table and sat down again, drained by the whole experience. I'd say I was a social drinker, drinking alone is far too stressful.
    The minutes dragged on, people came and went and it became increasingly clear that my date probably wasn't coming. Should I send a message?  I wondered. But I don't want to seem to eager, or too angry. What if I got the wrong time? Or the day? How stupid would I look then? There are all kinds of reasons she might not be here, right? Its not like she changed her mind. But if she was running late, or couldn't make it, she'd have let me know. I'll just send a quick text to check. But what if she send a message and it didn't get through? Then I go and ask where the heck she is, I'd look like an ass.
    After reaching the one hour mark, having sipped my second drink painfully slowly to avoid having to get up again, I figured she probably wasn't coming and I should go home. Slipping on my coat, I rose to my feet and walked towards the door, trying my best to look like I meant to sit alone drinking a soft drink and doing nothing in particular for the last hour. I wasn't two feet away from the table before it was occupied by a group I'd noticed hovering nearby for the last few minutes. They'd even managed to get an extra chair for their fourth member.
    I stepped out of the door and onto the street, nearly colliding with a pedestrian passing unnecessarily close to the pub. I turned to face her, and without making eye contact we both half-raised a hand and almost mouthed the word "Sorry". True to the style in London - and to the stereotypes - we were eager to escape the situation before it became necessary to speak. Almost too predictably, we both chose the same escape route and found ourselves on a collision course. No sooner had we started moving than we stopped and planned another avenue of escape. After choosing to pass through the same space a further two times, we looked up, to hunt for clues as to the other's intentions. Then we stopped and finally broke the traditional London strangers' silence.
    "Vanessa?"
    "No way! Its been years! How are you?" I assumed she'd forgotten my name. Which wasn't surprising, we hadn't seen each other since we graduated from University. We hung around with the same crowds for most of our degrees, and shared many a drunken evening with friends. But for some reason, we'd spectacularly failed to keep in touch after we got proper jobs.
    "I've probably been better." I replied, immediately realising I'd have to explain why.
    "What's wrong?"
    "Well, its a little embarrassing."
    "Oh come on, tell me. Can't be that bad."
    "I'd really rather not."
    "Oh come on, try me. Promise I won't laugh."
    "You're not going to let me leave without saying are you?"
    "Not a chance." She said with a mischievous grin.
    "Dammit, I should have remembered that about you. Fine, I've just been stood up."
    "That's a bit crap." Her grin melted into a strangely sympathetic expression.
    "I'll survive. Was only a first date anyway."
    "Yeah, could've been worse. It could've been a fifth date and meant as a hint." She chuckled, leaving me to hope she wasn't speaking from experience. Suddenly I didn't feel quite so bad about my own evening, though.
    "Anyway, its been ages. How've you been?"
    "Not bad, working late a lot though, which is rubbish." She grumbled, indicating over her shoulder that she had only just left work.
    "That is rubbish. Still, pays the bills, though right?" God, what a terrible cliche.
    "Guess so. Look, its kinda cold out here. I'm assuming you have no other plans for tonight, want to get a drink and catch up."
    "Sure, one condition. We go somewhere else." I said, nodding at the pub sign behind me.
    "Of course," Vanessa laughed, not entirely maliciously. "I know somewhere round the corner."
    "Lead the way." I said, waving my arm to clear the way. Vanessa lead on, and "round the corner" turned out to be more than a figure of speech, the other pub was near enough next door. As we walked in I was surprised to discover it was also practically identical to its competition. Still, that wasn't all bad, I hadn't just been stood up in this place.
    We went straight to the bar and caught the attention of a bored looking twentysomething barman.
    "A diet co-", I began, before suddenly realising I could have a proper drink, "No, a lager, please mate. What can I get you?" I asked, turning to Vanessa.
    "No, its ok, I'll sort myself out."
    "Fair enough." I relented, remembering I wasn't actually on a date at this point, and chivalry was likely to be more insulting than flattering. As I paid for my drink, Vanessa ordered a glass of wine from the barman's colleague who had miraculously appeared beside him. Drinks in hand, we wandered off to find a table, uncovering one in a corner behind a group of office workers.
    "So who's the girl that left you waiting?"
    "Don't really know her, to be honest."
    "Oh, a blind date, eh?"
    "Not really, guess you could call it partially sighted. I met her online."
    "You've been doing the online dating thing?"
    "I've dabbled a bit." I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
    "Really? I've been trying that myself."
    "You're kidding. Small world."
    "You could say that. What site are you on?"
    "LiveDate, what about you?"
    "MeetBox."
    "Shame, might have been funny if we'd found each other in a search."
    "Yeah, but would you have said hi?"
    "Probably not, no."
    "That was a dumb thing to say.'
    "No, not at all. Well, yes, but I won't hold it against you."
    "Um, thanks? So, you met many guys so far?"
    "A few, but only been on a couple of months."
    "Didn't work out?"
    "No, they weren't really what I was after. And one was downright creepy."
    "Creepy? We talking stalker or axe murderer?"
    "Stalker, definitely stalker. Although the severed heads did make me wonder."
    "What?"
    "Oh, didn't you know? Very romantic gift, a severed head. Chocolates and roses just don't cut it in comparison. Of course, some women will take a horse's head, but they're just easy."
    I sat in silence for a moment, unsure of exactly how to take that. "I sincerely hope you're kidding."
    "Of course I am. He did mention head, but not the severed kind."
    "Ah, that kinda creepy."
    "Yep, he was obsessed. Kept going on about which positions he thought were best, and trying to ask me which were mine."
    "Lovely."
    "When he got onto the one involving hooks I was pretty much running for the door."
    "Hooks?" I very nearly shouted.
    "Yeah, apparently some people like that, hanging from the ceiling by hooks in their back."
    "Part of me was hoping it was some kind of Peter Pan thing."
    "Are you sure that's not worse?"
    I mulled over the implications for a second, before remembering a certain high profile court case. "Good point."
    "I thought it was."
    "So moving on." I stuttered, " What are you doing these days?"
    "I'm working for a charity."
    "Wow, that's great. Enjoying it?"
    "Well, its mainly just admin, so bit boring sometimes. But its nice to be helping people."
    "What kind of charity is it?"
    "We work without the homeless."
    "Good cause."
    "Yeah, I like to think it is.", Vanessa said, breaking into a wistful smile. "What about you? What line of work are you in?"
    The conversation seemed effortless, and once we'd caught up a little, it was like we'd never lost touch. Several hours passed, during which I recounted some of my recent disastrous dates, and Vanessa told me of some of the stranger responses her profile had attracted. All peppered with a few trips back to the bar. We snuck a glance at our watches and decided it was probably time to call it a night.
    "I should get going, got work tomorrow." I said with a mildly tipsy air of responsibility, before emptying the glass in front of me.
    "Same here, need my beauty sleep."
    "Surely not." I countered, immediately wondering if that was too much of a compliment for a friendly chat.
    "Don't try to be smooth with me." Vanessa jokingly threatened, lightly punching my shoulder.
    "Just getting in practise."
    "Sure you were. We should meet up again, compare notes on future dates."
    "That'd be great. Your number still the same?"
    "Yep, same as it ever was."
    "Mine too, will be in touch."
    We wished each other luck with the dating thing and went our separate ways. For saying it had started with me being stood up, I'd actually had quite a nice evening. Funny how it was so much easier to talk to women when I wasn't worrying
about whether or not they'd want to meet again.

    As I arrived home, I was barely through the door when my phone sprang to life and emitted a series of beeps and buzzes to tell me I had a message. Standing in the doorway, leaning on the handle, I removed my phone from my pocket and read the message. It was from Jane.
    'Whoops, can we reschedule?'
    Part of me was eager to suggest an alternative night. Part of me wanted to reply with a series of four letter words, possibly all in capital letters. But, somewhat predictably, I took the easy middle road out. I put my phone back in my pocket and ignored it.