It’s a date? It’s a date?!
What has happened to me? Should have written see you there. Instead, I said it’s a date. Which it’s not. Probably. Also, am not a person who says things like it’s a date, even when it is.
Rub eyes and fidget on the spot. I’m under the departure boards at London Victoria station, along with a hundred or so other people, but while they’re all staring up at the boards, I’m keeping my eyes on the exit from the underground. Wonder if Tiffy will recognise me when I’ve got clothes on. On that point: it’s a freakishly warm day for September. Should not have worn jeans.
Check directions from Brighton station are loaded up on my phone. Check time. Check train platform. Fidget some more.
When she finally appears, there’s no danger of missing her. She’s in a canary yellow jacket and tight trousers; her orange-red hair is thrown over her shoulders and bounces as she walks. She’s also taller than most of the people streaming all around her, and is wearing yellow sandals with a heel, giving her an extra few inches on the general population.
She seems entirely oblivious of how many eyes she catches as she walks by, which only makes the whole effect more attractive.
Smile and wave as she spots me. Proceed to stand awkwardly smiling as she approaches, then, at this extremely late moment, am struck by question of whether we should hug hello. Could have spent last ten minutes of waiting time debating this. Instead, have left it until she is right in front of me, eye to eye, her cheeks flushed from the stuffy heat hanging in the station air.
She hangs back; too late for a hug.
Tiffy: Hey.
Me: Hi.
And then, simultaneously:
Tiffy: Sorry I’m late—
Me: Not seen those yellow shoes before—
Tiffy: Sorry, you go.
Me: Don’t worry, you’re hardly late.
Thank God she spoke over me. Why would I draw attention to the fact I am familiar with most of her shoes? Sounds extremely creepy.
We walk to the platform side by side. I keep glancing at her; can’t get over how tall she is, for some reason. Didn’t imagine her tall.
Tiffy looks sideways at me, catches my eye, and smiles.
Tiffy: Not what you expected?
Me: Sorry?
Tiffy: Me. Am I what you expected?
Me: Oh, I—
Tiffy quirks an eyebrow.
Tiffy: As in, before you saw me last month.
Me: Well, didn’t expect you to be so . . .
Tiffy: Big?
Me: I was going to say naked. But also tall, yes.
Tiffy laughs.
Tiffy: I wasn’t as naked as you were.
Me, wincing: Don’t remind me. I’m so sorry for—
Ahhh. How to finish that sentence? It might be my imagination, but her cheeks seem to be flushed a little pinker.
Tiffy: Seriously, it was my fault. You were just innocently showering.
Me: Not your fault. Everyone oversleeps.
Tiffy: Especially when they’ve drunk pretty much a whole bottle of gin.
We’re on the train now, so conversation stops as we move down the aisle. She chooses us a table seat; in a split second, I decide it’s less awkward to sit facing one another rather than side by side, but as I slide into the seat, realise my mistake. This way is very eye-contacty.
She slips off her jacket; underneath she’s wearing a blouse covered in enormous green flowers. Her arms are bare, and the blouse drops to a low V across her chest. My inner teenager attempts to take control of my gaze and I just about catch myself in time.
Me: So – whole bottle of gin?
Tiffy: Oh yeah. Well, I was at this book launch, then Justin turned up, and – anyway, lots of gin was involved in the aftermath.
Frown.
Me: The ex? That’s . . . weird?
Tiffy shakes her hair out and looks a little uneasy.
Tiffy: I thought that too at first, and wondered if he’d tracked me down or something, but if he wanted to see me he could have just come to my work – or, apparently, my flat, judging by that bunch of flowers. I’m clearly just paranoid.
Me: Did he say that? That you were paranoid?
Tiffy, after a pause: No, he never said that exactly.
Me, catching up: Wait. You didn’t tell him where you live?
Tiffy: No. I’m not sure how he found me. Facebook or something, probably.
She rolls eyes like it’s a minor irritation, but I’m still frowning. This doesn’t sound right. Have nasty suspicion I know men like this from my mother’s life. Men who tell you you’re crazy for getting suspicious of their behaviour, who know where you live when you don’t expect them to.
Me: Were you together long?
Tiffy: A couple of years. It was all very intense, though. Lots of breaking up and shouting and crying and things.
She looks slightly surprised at herself, opens her mouth as though to correct that, then thinks better of it.
Tiffy: Yeah. It was about two years in all.
Me: And your friends don’t like him?
Tiffy: They never did, actually. Not even at the start. Gerty said she got ‘bad vibes’ even when she only saw him from far away.
Am liking Gerty more and more.
Tiffy: Anyway, so he turned up and tried to whisk me off somewhere for a drink to explain everything away, as per.
Me: You said no?
Tiffy nods.
Tiffy: I said he has to wait a while to ask me out for a drink. A couple of months, at least.
Tiffy looks out of the window, eyes flicking as she watches London slide away around us.
Tiffy, quietly: I just didn’t feel like I could say no. Justin’s like that. He makes you want what he wants. He’s very . . . I don’t know. He owns a room straight away, you know? He’s forceful.
Try to ignore warning sirens in my head. I’m not liking this situation at all. Hadn’t got this sense of things from the notes – but maybe Tiffy herself hadn’t got this sense of things until recently. It can take people time to notice and process emotional abuse.
Tiffy: Anyway! Sorry. God. Weird.
She smiles.
Tiffy: This is a very deep conversation to have with someone you’ve only just met.
Me: We’ve not just met.
Tiffy: True. There was the memorable bathroom collision.
Another eyebrow quirk.
Me: I meant, it feels like we’ve known each other ages.
Tiffy smiles at that.
Tiffy: It does, doesn’t it? I guess that’s why it’s so easy to talk.
Yes. It’s true: it is easy to talk, which is even more surprising to me than to her, probably, because there are about three people in the world I find it easy to talk to.
