How did I meet him? Through a dating site. His
profile stood out because of its honesty. Instead of bigging himself up like
most men he admitted to a long list of faults without a hint of shame. True to
his claim of unreliability, he failed to show at Pizza Express at the agreed
time.
Usually I would have glugged down my wine, dismissed
him as a tosser and slunk off home dispirited. But I didn’t want to let it go.
There was a tantalising familiarity about his picture. I was sure I had met him
before and I needed to know where. A few taps and swipes on my phone later I had a
mobile number for him. I ordered a second glass of wine and sent him a cheeky
text asking how long he would be and did he want me to order for him. I tapped
the table with my sparkly nails waiting for a ping of acknowledgement. Half a
glass of wine later my phone was still as silent as a church mouse.
I was about to press the phone sign and give him a
piece of my mind when I had a better idea. I was dressed for a date, and with
an indiscreet rearrangement of the plunging neckline of my velveteen dress,
took a selfie which I was sure would attract his attention. Now please don’t
get the wrong idea about me. That was the first time I had sent a provocative
photo to anyone, let alone to a man I was yet to meet. I run a mile when a
camera is produced, even on holiday.
The moment I pressed ‘send’ I flushed with
embarrassment. I drained the rest of my glass intending to march off home in a
huff. But then I thought, ‘How dare he!’ and rang his number. I was going to
give that inconsiderate shit a piece of my mind.
The phone rang and rang. I hung on, waiting for it
go to voice mail. It rang until I wanted to throw my expensive smartphone onto
the floor and crush it with a stiletto heel. The appearance of a waiter asking
for a second time if I was ready to order distracted me from my phone rage. I
almost cried because the waiter was looking down at me with sympathy bordering
on pity. No doubt he had seen the same scenario many times. I realised my
cleavage was still on maximum display and would have liked to slip under the
table.
“My… colleague has been held up in traffic. I don’t
think it’s worth me waiting any longer. Can I just pay for the wine?”
I was tugging up the material of my dress when my
phone buzzed, flashed, and vibrated. I grabbed it from the table, accepted the
call, and before the bastard could speak launched into a tirade using language
I reserve for special occasions. I paused, waiting for him to defend himself
with a pathetic excuse. There was a yawn and a further breathy pause before he
replied.
“Sorry, I was asleep when you called. Am I supposed
to be somewhere?” His deep, soporific voice matched perfectly the come-to-bed
eyes of his profile picture. I asked him for his address and told him,
unnecessarily, to stay where he was. And that is how I came to be Mrs Oblomov.
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