The Bad Date

This one is absolutely true

As soon as I saw him, I knew I'd made a big mistake. The bowl haircut, the pressed linen blazer, the big tortoiseshell glasses, the beige chinos. So radically not my type. He was smiling nervously and I put on the requisite face, playing for time and being polite. He went in for a hug, probably expecting a brief clasp, but I was so mortified, I overcompensated for my cutting assessment of him and squeezed him like a grizzly. He looked surprised.

He fumbled in his man-bag and pulled out a CD compilation he’d made for me. We'd been talking about music in our emails and phone chats; it had been an area of common ground, so this was an entirely reasonable gift, but it made me pity him. He was trying too hard.

We were standing on the South Bank of the Thames, next to the Royal Festival Hall. It was midday in early summer, full of freshness and promise, but I would rather have been in bed in a darkened room. I had been so nervous about the date that I couldn't eat breakfast. I am nothing without breakfast. I was feeling weak from the lack of it and speeding on the excess of coffee I'd had instead. The plan had been for us to have lunch, then proceed to the Tate Modern. A fulsome date. A great date. As long as you felt attracted to the other party. I resolved to plough on and give him a chance. We’d bonded at a distance enough to get to this point - we couldn't be blamed for arriving here. Maybe I'd feel better after the food.

We walked beside the river and chatted inconsequentially. I could hear my own brittle voice, trying hard to be civil. No mention was made of lunch. I was wilting. “Shall we find somewhere to eat? I almost begged. “I'm not really hungry,” he responded. What the fuck? As far as I was concerned, this date was mainly about the lunch. I’d had visions of a nice piece of fish, a dry white wine and a sexy flirt over the mixed salad. I tried to keep going for a while, then broke. “Well, I must eat. How about we just go here?” – I spotted a pub and gestured at it.

The hostelry was grim, old-fashioned and dark with sticky tabletops. I had half a lager and a bowl of chips. He had water, I noted contemptuously. It was even more of a deal breaker if this bloke didn't enjoy food and drink. He didn't even have one of my chips. I felt lonely as I fuelled myself. The chips went down like cement. I went to the loo to give myself a motivational talking to and we resumed walking to the gallery. At least when we're surrounded by art I’ll be nourished, I thought. Sure enough, the big canvases of vivid geometric shapes and stripes and atmospheric washes did their magic. We even managed to share some conversation that wasn’t stiff and forced - but it was too little too late. The afternoon drew on. He still hadn't eaten. His clothes were making me feel irritable. Soon I could go home and never see him again.

I wasn't entirely sure how he was feeling about me, but when we left the Tate to go to the point from where we were parting, he suddenly became impassioned about seeing me again. Could he call me tomorrow? Could we see each other again soon?

I batted him away feebly, trying to say noncommittal things like, “Yeah, sure” and “Give me a bell”. Then I weaselled off to the tube, feeling icky but looking forward to an evening of telly and delicious dinner all by myself.

At 10:30 that evening, I was embedded in the couch when the phone rang. I didn't recognise the number. It was him. “You'll never guess where I am!” he said. “Christ, he's outside!” I thought, preparing to barricade the door and ring the police (I had been stalked in the past and was touchy about these things). “I don't know,” I quavered. “I'm at the hospital,” he declared cheerfully. “I've just had an X-ray. I didn't want to tell you earlier, but after you hugged me. I felt a sharp pain that went on for the rest of the day. I didn't want to eat or drink as it was so uncomfortable. But yeah, you're stronger than you know. You broke my rib!”

Well! I was appalled but also amused. That explains things, I thought. I still didn't fancy him though. “Sorry about that,” I said. “Speak soon.”

Coda:

Although I dumped this crumbly-boned fellow on the phone the next day, I maintained politeness with him, and indulged a few more emails, the content of which became shorter and shorter as the futility of our communication became clear (to him; it already was for me). His final email to me contained a kicker of a question.

“If we had started a relationship, when would it have been a good time to tell you that I spent the first six months of this year in prison?”

You will understand why I never did internet dating again.

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Art: Álvaro Gómez-Pantoja