Page 1 of Leaning In

August

Chapter 1

Claire

“And then I realised.” Angus leans in like he’s about to drop the most scandalous gossip of the century. “I was on the wrong tab of the Excel document.”

Silence follows. A long one. A silence during which it dawns on me: that was the punchline. That was it. That’s the story.

I laugh, or at least I make a noise that I hope passes for laughter, though it sounds more like a cough that’s trying to escape a hostage situation. Settling for taking another generous sip of my wine, I give him a weak smile.

This seems to encourage him. He sits back with a satisfied look, and then immediately launches into another anecdote. This one’s about a meeting where he “completely changed the game” by suggesting they circle back to last week’s discussion points. Which is exactly what I wish I could do… circle back to the moment I agreed to this date and kick myself. Hard.

I stare at my red wine like if I drink enough, it might teleport me somewhere. I take another sip, but unfortunately, it doesn’t work. Instead of being transported to a relaxing beach, minus Angus of course, I’m stuck in this restaurant, tracing my fingers up and down the stem of the glass and nodding at what I hope are the appropriate moments whilst I allow my mind the brief luxury of wandering for his next story. I glance around the room, and catch the eye of a woman at a nearby table, who gives me a sympathetic eye roll.

Great, even onlookers are appreciating how boring this is. She’s obviously noticed that I’ve yet to talk at all on this “date”. We’re sitting at a high table in the bar area, though Angus has chosen to sit awkwardly on the corner next to me rather than opposite, meaning that his knees keep bumping into mine every time he shifts in his seat.

At least it’s a nice restaurant. Silver linings and all that. Vibrant pop art pictures line the walls around us, giving me at least one reason to smile. Gentle music plays in the background and the lights are at that perfect not-too-bright-but-not-too-dim level that makes everything look just a tad more beautiful. The drinks menu is also impressively extensive, thank goodness. I’m clearly going to need options.

I take another sip of my wine and then try to be subtle as I look at my watch.

How has it only been twenty minutes?

This must be some new low in the history of dating. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this, but at the time it seemed like the only way to get my mum off my back about my “failing love life”. It turns out that her idea of a “catch” is her friend’s son: a man so bland that within ten minutes of meeting, he told me that “LinkedIn networking” was a legitimate hobby.

I nod at the conclusion of his next story and look at my watch again. It’s now been twenty-three minutes. Shifting on my stool, the floral fabric of my form-fitting green dress rides up, drawing Angus’s attention. Damn this stool and damn his wandering eyes. What a waste of a genuinely excellent outfit on a man who can’t maintain eye contact above the collarbone—which is ironic, given how many of his own buttons he’s left undone. Someone should tell him that nobody wants to see that much chest.

I tug my hem back down, and try to keep on looking interested as, without pausing for breath, he launches into another story.

“Did you know I built a spreadsheet that calculates my macros automatically?”

I open my mouth before shutting it as he continues without waiting for me to respond.

“Let me explain it to you.”

Sitting back, I let the words wash over me. He says “macronutrient breakdown” like he’s revealing the secrets of the universe. I nod. I sip. And I make a quick decision that this is a drinks-only evening. No bread basket, no main course, no dessert. I will be home by eight.

I let it get to just over an hour before I roll out my tried-and-tested excuse about needing to leave because “my sister’s locked herself out of the flat.” Not that he knows I live alone. Or that my sister is, in fact, sat on her sofa watching Netflix and, if the vibrations of my phone are any indicator, currently texting me. Repeatedly.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” he says as we stand up.

I pull on my coat and the girl at the other table gives me another eye roll that makes me swallow a laugh. Yep, the two of us could definitely be friends. I make a non-committal noise at Angus that could mean anything from indigestion to mild agreement, or a cry for help.

We step outside, and I’m about to give him a polite hug goodbye when he leans in, eyes shut, mouth slightly ajar. My eyes widen.

No.

Surely not?

One date. One drink. Just over an hour of conversation (well, more of a monologue)… is he actually going in for a kiss? He moves closer.

Oh, wow, he is.

I turn half an inch and he misses, hitting my cheek instead. I try not to recoil. Ugh, his lips are so wet. I fight the urge to wipe my cheek as I give him a forced smile.

“I hope the rest of your evening’s good.” I hike my handbag up my shoulder like a protective shield. Then I turn and walk as fast as I can in my three-inch heels down the street. It’s the wrong way to the Tube station, but I don’t care. I’ll take the longer walk over any further time spent listening to Angus talking about himself.

I open my phone to call my sister, who luckily answers on the second ring.