Page 2 of In the Same Boat

‘So you’re basically responsible for making sure we all have clean water,’ Danny says.

Ugh, now this is the real test, talking about my job.

‘Oh, when you put it like that, I guess I do,’ I say with exaggerated pride. ‘No pressure. Well, some pressure.’

Shit. It’s cracking jokes like that – ones better suited for the office – that could send this thing south. Whether he gets it or not, he laughs.

‘That’s really impressive,’ he says. ‘You must be really smart.’

‘It’s mostly staring at spreadsheets,’ I say. ‘And occasionally standing in the middle of the field wondering where it all went wrong.’

‘I’m no stranger to wondering where it all went wrong – usually while I’m sitting in A & E,’ he replies. ‘I love my job a bit too much sometimes, I get a bit overenthusiastic, I don’t know when to slow down…’

‘Is that what happened to your finger?’ I ask.

He nods.

‘You should see me drilling…’

I’m sure it’s only because I haven’t had sex in a really long time, but everything he says suddenly sounds like dirty talk.

We’re in my house, my bedroom is upstairs, we’re alone – would it really be so bad to jump the gun a little? Forget the five-date rule. I’ve tried that. Perhaps my problem is that I play it too safe. I’m too scared to fall.

What if I jumped?

I untuck my long blonde hair from behind my ear, as though it’s going to cloak me, to stop Danny from reading my mind.

I know, I know, I’m getting ahead of myself. I take another sip of wine and remind myself not to get carried away. It’s just a date, just a dinner… except it feels like more. He’s entertaining, he likes my cooking, he credits me as being the kind of girl who can bake bread, for fuck’s sake. I’m going to say it… it’s going great.

Of course that’s when the door opens.

‘Sammie, darling, you didn’t say you were having company…’

What I want to say is: I didn’t, because you said you would be out. What I say instead is…

‘Oh, didn’t I?’

Danny looks back and forth between us, trying to work out what’s going on.

‘I thought you were out tonight…’ I say.

‘Change of plan – I thought I’d have a night on the sofa with you. You and…’

‘Danny,’ he replies.

‘Danny, lovely to meet you. I’m Chris.’

I’m going to have to say something, this is so awkward…

‘Sammie’s housemate?’ he asks.

Nope. It’s worse. So, so much worse.

‘Oh, bless you. No, I’m not her housemate. I’m her mum!’

My mum, Chrissy (although she’s trialling Chris, during this phase of – what does she call it? – reinvention), has been living with me for 150 years. At least that’s what it feels like.

‘Any dinner left for me?’ she asks, dumping her shopping bags down on the table with so much force she almost blows the candle out.