Truth Or Date

‘Yeah, I think I’ll give it a miss too, thanks,’ I tell him, handing my menu back.

The enthusiastic waiter’s face falls, like a kid who just found out there’s no Santa Claus. I feel similar inside.

‘I’ll get you the bill,’ he tells us.

It’s not that I’m taking this muscly moron’s advice, but I don’t really want to spend any more time with him. He’s not a bad person, but he’s boring and his priorities are all wrong. Doughnuts above everything.

‘I’ll be back,’ he tells me, wandering off in the direction of the toilets.

The only thing stopping me leaving right now is my manners, so I sit and wait until he returns.

Moments later Deano is back as promised and I am happy because it means I can go home.

‘The men’s room was out of order, I had to use the disabled toilet,’ he tells me.

‘Good for you,’ I reply, confused as to why he thought I’d be interested, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he did have some kind of brain damage courtesy of his job.

‘Anyway, while I was in there, I was just thinking about how much I want to take you in there and fuck you right now.’

I stare at him blankly, blinking my eyes in disbelief once or twice. Not only is that a pretty gross request anyway, but it’s not like we’ve been getting on, we have zero chemistry and he said no to doughnuts – so why would I want to have sex with him?

‘Well, I mean, that’s why they have the handles on the walls, right?’ I joke, no better words coming to mind.

‘So, shall we?’

Oh shit, he’s serious.

‘Erm, no!’ I squeak.

Should I be flattered right now? Also, why does it need to be the disabled loo, why can’t it be the regular loo? What does he need all that extra space for?

‘Well, I had to ask,’ Deano says. ‘Want to go somewhere and grab a drink?’

Yes, but not with you. Soon as I get out of here I’m going to swing by one of my favourite bars (because it’s a pretty safe bet one of my friends will be there) and drink until I forget this date happened.

‘No, I’m pretty tired. But thank you, it’s been, erm…’

Nope, can’t even lie.

‘Yeah, maybe see you again soon?’

Not a chance, mister.

‘Maybe.’

Chapter 5 (#ulink_24e79f61-e31e-59d3-9263-832ce81f2789)

I gaze down at my half-eaten birthday cake. It’s a big, pink thing. Like a cupcake for a giant or a drunk 27-year-old woman hoping for diabetes ASAP, covered in a heap of pink frosting, littered with dolly mixtures and jellybeans, reminiscent of something fresh out of a Willy Wonka novel. The box it came in said that it was intended to serve twenty, but by the time Millsy and I cut ourselves a piece the other night, there was much less than eighteen slices of a similar size left. It seemed like a reasonable portion size at the time, but as we munched our way through it whilst watching old episodes of South Park, we started feeling increasingly sick. Millsy, whose motto is “workout more to eat more” was the first to bow out, but I wouldn’t be beaten. It was the middle of the night, but we were still a little tipsy and when Millsy is drunk, he regresses to being a stroppy toddler. He threw the remainder of his cake in the bin, but he was so sickened with it that he couldn’t stand to watch me eat mine either, so he took my cake from me and threw it away too. I’d have been angry, were it not so funny. He denied all knowledge of it the following morning.

It’s 1am, and I’ve just got in from a Matcher date from hell with Deano – but, aren’t they all? It was so bad, I had to go to a bar and chain drink cocktails to try and forget that it happened, but now I’m home, starving and in need of something to soak up all the booze, and I finally feel strong enough to tackle the cake again.

I pop the kettle on and grab myself a big, sharp knife from the drawer. I cut myself a generous wedge and pick at it with my hands, eating it straight from the box. Well, Nick likes me to keep the kitchen tidy, so it’s one less plate to wash. I am raining cake down on the kitchen table as I shovel handfuls into my mouth, but it’s so sweet and glorious my only qualm is that I’m technically not getting as much cake in me as I potentially could. My God, cake is wonderful.

I observe that one side of the cake is not quite even, and shave some off with the knife, like a sculptor perfecting a piece of art – a piece of art I’m eating by the slice whilst simultaneously picking jellybeans from the top with my other hand.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I hear Nick’s voice behind me. ‘Look at you.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him through a mouthful of cake. ‘It's my birthday cake.’

‘It’s not even been your birthday,’ he reminds me, as though I might not be aware of when my birthday is (or isn’t).

‘I’d had a bad day, so Millsy bought me it,’ I tell him. ‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, granddad?’

Nick rolls his eyes as he heads for the cupboard and removes a glass, before filling it with water from his lame little filter jug that he keeps in the fridge.

‘Just getting a glass of water,’ he tells me.

Watching him drink makes me suddenly thirsty, so I turn on the tap and lean over the sink to drink from the stream of water.

‘You’re like an animal,’ he observes. ‘And I thought better of Joey, eating cake. He’ll struggle to keep his body like it is, if he puts junk in it.’

‘He’s always eaten shit, and he’s always been a babe, so he’s fine,’ I reply snippily, straight to the defence of my friend. ‘Anyway, he’s a sweetheart. I’d had a rough day at work, so he bought me a birthday cake, because birthday cake is my favourite,’ I inform him, shovelling another handful into my mouth, as if my point needed proving.

‘First of all, birthday cake can’t be your favourite, because a birthday cake is any cake that is eaten on a birthday. Second of all, how bad can your workday be in a coffee shop, seriously? You want to try spending a day in my shoes, people’s lives are literally in my hands.’

‘Mate, you’re a gynaecologist, the only things literally in your hands are vaginas.’

‘Only a few more weeks of obstetrics and gynaecology for me,’ he reminds me. He’s doing that rotation thing new doctors do where they sample a bit of each area of medicine. Judging by the few stories he’s told me, this won’t be the area of medicine he chooses to practise, I’ll bet.

‘So why was your day so bad, did you give someone decaf by mistake?’ he teases.

Annoyingly, he’s not far off the mark. We had the grumpiest cow of a woman call in, asking for a skinny mocha with an extra shot. I was working on the till and Millsy was making the drinks. He prepared her coffee while I placed the granola bar she has requested in a takeaway bag – something people hardly ever buy because they look like all the loose bits that have broken off from all the other cakes, swept up and glued together. It didn’t take us long at all, still, she tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the counter impatiently. I handed her order to her and watched as she headed for the door, but as she reached for the handle with one hand, she raised her takeaway cup to her mouth to take a sip before turning on her heels and marching back up to me.

‘Is everything all right, madam?’ I asked in the friendly manner they insist we adopt when speaking to customers. Even the ones we want to hit over the head with a milk jug.

‘I asked for a double shot and this is not a double shot,’ she says angrily, slamming the cup down in front of me.

I glanced over at Millsy.

‘It is, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘I definitely put two shots in there.’

‘Are you two saying I can’t tell?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you need any training at all to do a job like this? My God, they could train monkeys to do better. At least they’d acknowledge that the customer is always right.’

I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth, because although every fibre of my being was telling me to grab the panini press and throw it at this bitch, I knew that my actions might by frowned upon in the eyes of my employers/the law.

‘Not to worry, we’ll make you another one,’ I told her, but it wasn’t enough.

‘I want to watch him pour each shot in, because clearly he needs someone to count for him. Honestly, if he spent less time at the gym and you spent less time drawing your eyebrows on, you could maybe find jobs you were competent in.’