Page 2 of The Best Ex of My Life

‘Come on, this way. You look beautiful by the way,’ he says, his eyes roaming from my platform shoes all the way up my green mini dress to my long, curled copper hair. ‘I love how petite you are. You make me feel huge.’

‘Er, thanks.’

He takes my hand again and I grimace inside. When it was to help me through the drunken throng in the bar, it came across as caring, but now he’s leading me off on a quiet, open street. I free myself from him when he starts to pull me along, feigning checking inside my bag for something. Instead of slowing down to match my pace, he carries on, making me rush to keep up with him.

It’s fine, I tell myself, pushing down any oncoming doubts before they take hold and ruin this for me. We need to get into the date now, that’s all. Once we’re settled in some nice bar, glasses of wine in our hands, we can relax.

‘That place looks nice,’ I say, pointing to a tapas bar on the corner of Tipp Street. ‘I don’t think you have to order food. Shall we go in for a glass of wine?’

‘I’m not really a wine fan. Keep going?’

‘Sure,’ I agree. Also fine. So what if he doesn’t like wine? I can like it enough for the both of us.

‘Go on then, Lizzie, tell me – am I what you thought I’d be?’ he asks as we’re walking past the lovely, fairy light-lit tapas bar.

I look up from the uneven pavement I’m trying not to trip up on (these shoes were designed for elongating legs, not half-jogging to keep up with a man whose stride is double my own) and am met with an expectant expression, a slight smugness to his grin as he waits for a positive answer. It’s such an out of place question. It belongs at the end of the night, after hours of talking and laughing.

‘I don’t know yet,’ I say, honestly. ‘Give me a few hours, and I might give you an answer.’

‘O-K,’ he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. ‘But I will ask you again later. Or maybe tomorrow morning,’ he adds with a wink.

Shit. There’s nothing fine about that line.

‘Let’s start with a drink first, shall we?’ I offer him a pacifying smile so we can move on, but inside I’m not smiling. Inside, my hopes for tonight are shrivelling up and dying.

‘In here?’ he asks, pointing to an old-fashioned pub a few doors up the street. In this maze of trendy bars and pubs, it would be the exact choice my dad would make for a Guinness and a game of pool with me when he comes to visit half a dozen times a year. I say a silent farewell to the thought of drinking a crisp Sauvignon Blanc in a serene setting and agree. If our date doesn’t properly begin soon, I’m not sure I’m going to want to go anywhere with him.

We order drinks at the bar and take them to a booth at the back of the pub. At least it’s quiet in here, and we’ll be able to hear each other talk. I run over my tried and tested conversation openers, trying to select the one I think will work best. Something tells me a conversation with Isaac about the last books we read, or our favourite restaurants isn’t the way to go, so I fall back to the failsafe option of complimenting him.

‘You know,’ I begin, after taking a massive gulp of my drink. ‘I’ve really enjoyed talking to you this week. Your whole outlook on life, on getting the balance right, has been so refreshing to hear. After the week I’ve had at work, it’s definitely made me think.’ I fan my hair out so it sits prettily over my shoulders and smile at him.

‘Yeah, you’ve got to limit the time you’re being told what to do, where to be. It’s not good for you. Working twenty hours a week is my maximum. After that, my time is my own.’

‘God, twenty hours a week. I’d kill for that. I reckon I hit at least sixty, and you wouldn’t believe the amount of work I’ve got to do while I’m off to get me through the next half term.’

Isaac doesn’t reply, just smiles and takes a sip from his pint, killing the conversation. OK, then. Some people can be funny about teachers’ hours, thinking we’re off half the year and doing bugger all when we’re in school. Maybe I shouldn’t be talking about work on a Friday night, anyway. What am I after? His commiserations? Isaac is probably someone who likes compartmentalising his life, so work doesn’t spill out everywhere like mine does.

‘What are your plans this weekend?’ I go for, hoping it’s a better line of conversation.

‘I’m glad you asked,’ he says, sliding over so our thighs are touching and putting his arm around me. ‘My plans hopefully involve waking up in bed with you tomorrow.’

I slide away.

‘Listen, I probably should tell you now, that’s not going to happen. First dates for me are all about getting to know each other better before any of the other stuff comes into play. Sorry,’ I add, but immediately wish I hadn’t just apologised for not having sex with him. Besides, what I said wasn’t strictly true. I’m not averse to the occasional one-night stand, but Isaac isn’t meant to be someone I’ll sleep with and never see again. Before I met him, I really liked him. I’m not here for a few hours of sparks and excitement, I’m here for the long version. I’m looking for the person I’ll still be holding hands with decades down the line, sparks that will still exist when we’re old and wrinkled.

‘Seriously?’ Isaac asks. ‘It’s like you just said – we’ve been talking all week, getting on great. How much more do you need to know about me before we hook up? Do you want references? My National Insurance number?’

‘No thanks, that’s not necessary,’ I say, smiling through gritted teeth. ‘Why don’t we just have a drink and a chat and see what happens?’

His eye rolling rivals some of my most dramatic thirteen-year-old students. ‘No offense, Lizzie, but I’ve plenty of people to chat to. If I wanted a chat I wouldn’t be here.’

I nearly choke on my gin and tonic. It’s not like he made out he was looking for a wife and kids or anything like that, but he seemed nice, decent, not the kind of guy who would tell someone how much they were looking forward to meeting them and how excited they were about where this might lead when, in fact, their sole intention was to get into their knickers.

‘You know, I’ve got to hand it to you, online, you play a good game. I was excited about tonight. I actually thought you were interesting and smart and funny. Shame I got it so wrong.’

Both of us widen our eyes in surprise that I’ve just said that. Out loud. A strange smile creeps over his face that brings to mind the smiles of serial killers or those people in Tesco that try to sell me Sky TV on my way out.

‘Fuck you,’ he says quietly enough that none of the other drinkers around us can hear him – but making damn sure I can.