Dinner
Simon
Its been five years since my divorce, and I finally felt ready to try something serious again. On paper Im a decent catch: I own a modest terraced house in Manchester, I have a steady job as a civil engineer, Im courteous and consider myself a kindhearted bloke. Yet the reality has turned out to be messier than I imagined.
Ive always been popular with the ladies, and that never changed. Colleagues have been eyeing me for ages, and the single neighbours across the street have taken notice. They see a reliable, quiet man without any nasty habits golden as they say, not a hard man. Im even a father now; my tenyearold son, Jack, spends every weekend with me, and I get along civilly with his mother, Julia. All these facts paint a picture of stability.
When the first two dates went well, wed go to the theatre, watch a film, share a laugh. But the moment the conversation edged toward serious business, Id shut down, retreat into myself, and avoid whatever topic made me uneasy.
Useless, girls, one of my friends laughed yesterday, I told her Im a decent cook, earn a fair wage, wont be a burden, and she packed up as if Id given her a royal invitation!
And I tried the same, another chimed, I had a decent flat, looked decent enough, but the moment I asked her to move in, she vanished like a puff of wind.
A younger colleague, whod overheard us, snorted and added, Why bother? A mans life is better single. Marriage is a trap; better to go to the pub or head out fishing. There was a grain of truth in his words. In the first three years after my divorce I spent a lot of time wondering why Id rushed into marriage at twentyfive, why Id dived headfirst into domestic chores, and why Id spent evenings in strip clubs or with random strangers, dragging them home. That reckless phase lasted a year until the emptiness caught up with me. A few nasty incidents followed a lady mugged me, a drunken brawl outside my block and I realised I needed to calm down. I started seeing only familiar women, never staying with anyone longer than a couple of months, just to keep the surprises at bay.
Life settled into a bland not bad, not great routine. Then, out of nowhere, a flash of memory hit me like a hammer: Julia, my exwife, wasnt as terrible as Id painted her. At first I was angry that after our split shed started dressing up, dating again, and seemed to be doing well. But looking back, she was never greedy; she just wanted the best for herself, as we both did when we were younger and foolish. We tried to change each other, and it didnt work. We had a roof over our heads, decent money, a good son but good intentions dont always lead to happy endings.
Now Im thirtynine, with silvering temples that oddly add character. Ive looked at the many women I know attractive, successful, even younger but none of them spark a genuine feeling. The warmth is missing, and Im left wondering what to do.
Friends keep telling me that unknown women are risky maybe they have jealous husbands or a houseful of kids, perhaps something worse. I dont want to fling myself at just anyone; Id like to build a proper family, maybe even have another child. Then, as if on cue, a colleague mentioned his sisters situation.
Imagine this, he said, shes just come back from London, fancy car, looking for a quieter life here. Shes tired of the city buzz. She wants a decent bloke, someone stable. Where could I set her up?
I laughed it off, thinking about my own mishaps in matchmaking. I get it, I replied, it sounds easy until you actually start looking. He warned me that his sister, Poppy, wasnt exactly my type she was into the latest diets, dressed like a university freshman, and seemed a bit highmaintenance. Yet I was intrigued enough to give it a shot.
Poppy was elusive at first. She missed my calls, rescheduled our meeting three times, and seemed reluctant to meet. When I finally told her Id stop bothering, she reluctantly suggested tomorrow night at The Greenhouse, a nice but not overly pricey restaurant on the outskirts of town. Dont book a window seat, she warned, I hate looking out at the traffic.
I arrived fifteen minutes early, shed my coat, ordered a coffee, and watched the entrance. The place wasnt cheap, most tables were occupied by couples tucked away in cozy corners. After half an hour I ordered two Caesar salads, just in case she showed up, and a glass of light white wine to keep the table looking presentable.
When the clock struck the appointed time, my phone rang, but she let it go to voicemail. I scanned the room again, convinced shed stood me up. A woman lingered by the window, glanced inside, and vanished as quickly as she appeared. I thought, Better she didnt come; Id have been nervous anyway.
I settled for a kebab, opened my favourite music app, and sipped the wine when suddenly someone dropped into the seat opposite me. A young woman, drenched in rain, coat and bag speckled with droplets, stared at me with an odd, almost pleading look. She hesitated, then slipped her coat over my arm.
Poppy, would you like a bit of salad? Ive already ordered the wine, I said, trying to break the ice.
Ive been standing out there, watching the street, she replied, wiping her hair. Could I have some chips, please?
I checked the menu no chips, but there was a hearty roast with potatoes and mushrooms. I told the waiter to hang her coat in the cloakroom. As I stood to fetch it, she dove into the Caesar with a gusto I hadnt seen in years, washing it down with wine as if it were a tonic.
She was a striking sight: no makeup, natural hair, a simple dress that flattered her figure without trying too hard. Her eyes were bright, her smile genuine, and there was a childlike honesty to her that made me forget my usual cynicism. She talked loudly about how food should be enjoyed, how people work six days a week just for a decent meal, and she laughed at herself in a way that was both endearing and slightly naïve.
I listened, amused, as she remarked that rich people spend a fortune on steak, but a simple roast can bring as much joy as a holiday. I didnt correct her; I let her believe she was speaking wisdom.
When she finally stood to leave, she thanked me profusely, saying, Youve been wonderful. I cant thank you enough.
Ill call you tomorrow? I blurted, hoping shed give me her number.
My phones gone missing, she sighed, but why should we bother? I liked you enough already.
I watched her disappear into the rainslicked streets, feeling oddly deflated yet oddly hopeful.
Poppys story, as she later told me, was one of a village girl who had chased the promise of a glamorous city life. Shed left a small town in the West Midlands, thinking a big salary and a fancy car would solve everything. Her brother, a lorry driver, had warned her that the city would chew her up and spit her out. Shed ended up working in a bakery, living in a cramped flat, and after a series of failed flatmates, shed been left penniless, surviving on boiled rice and tea.
One night, starving, she stared hungrily at the windows of The Greenhouse, watching welldressed patrons enjoy roasted potatoes. In a moment of desperation, she tried to slip in, only to be rebuffed by a snobbish woman who shouted, You filthy rag! and slammed the door.
She walked home, ribs knocking against each other, and decided to wander the streets until something caught her eye. Thats how she met me, sitting alone with my kebab.
We talked for a while, laughed, and when she finally left, she slipped a hastily written note into my coat pocket: Meet me again tomorrow, 7p.m., same place. Simon.
Now, as I sit here scribbling this in my notebook, I cant help but feel a flicker of something I havent felt in years a tentative optimism. Perhaps its foolish to think a chance encounter could change the course of my life, but maybe, just maybe, its the nudge I needed to stop wandering aimlessly and start building something real.
Tomorrow, Ill be at The Greenhouse at seven, and Ill see if this unexpected meeting can turn into the steady partnership Ive been longing for.
Simon.
