And so, that’s how I end up standing – one week, and a lot of surprisingly saucy Tinder chat (which I have to confess I liked more than I expected, so maybe I’m not as much of a prude as I thought) later – by the bridge leading to a riverboat on the Thames, dressed in one of Sophie’s mega-expensive dresses, sheltering under Rob’s golf umbrella in the pouring rain. Theo, my date, has told me to meet him here instead of the bar we were meant to be at, because he’s running late. I guess that’s what happens when you work in the city and you’re a high-flying investment banker type. I peer through the sheets of rain, trying to see if I can spot him through the crowds. There’s a mixture of people dressed up and heading into the party boat, drenched tourists with raincoats, and pissed-off-looking commuters making their way back home.
He’d left it late to tell me about the change of plans. I’d stood in the bar looking around for him for a while, scanning the place in case he was one of those people who didn’t look anything like his picture. But then a waiter had come up and asked if I wanted a table, so I’d said yes (because I’m a strong independent woman and I don’t mind sitting alone at a table in a crowded bar drinking a glass of red wine that costs £15). But then the glass of wine – which I’d been eking out for as long as I could – ran out, and he still hadn’t turned up. And just as I was paying the bill and thinking that literally everyone in the entire place knew that I’d been stood up (because who goes to a bar dressed in a peacock-blue body-con dress with expensive hair and ridiculous really-hard-to-walk-in shoes for a casual solo drink?) my phone buzzed. And it was Theo, full of apologies, asking me to jump in an Uber and telling me he’d sort it out when I got there.
As first dates go, this is pretty bloody spectacular. I’m his plus-one at a masquerade ball, and despite the rain and the wind and the feeling that I might actually freeze to death if he doesn’t turn up soon, I’m so excited I could burst. And I can’t wait to get my hands on him, if I’m honest. He’s gorgeous, charming, has an amazing job in investment banking, and a pretty good line in chat. I think I might have struck lucky the first time. It has to happen to some people, doesn’t it? I mean statistically speaking, for all those people kissing frogs there has to be a one-in-a-million chance that I’ll be the one who ends up with the prince?
I wrap the long coat Sophie has lent me around my chest, trying to keep the rain out. Emma’s been really sweet, and done my hair up in a gorgeous mass of curls and so many kirby grips I won’t have a clue how to get it down tomorrow morning, but that’s the last thing on my mind. I don’t even care (well, all right, a tiny bit, but I’m going to let that go) that I’m pretty sure I heard her creeping out of Alex’s room yesterday morning. It might’ve been my imagination, anyway.
Oh come on, come on … It’s five past seven, and Theo said he’d be here at five to. I’m standing in the rain, watching as glowing couples and groups of chatting people make their way across the little bridge and onto the boat. The railings are strung with fairy lights, which are swaying in the wind, and for a second it’s as if I’m looking at myself from the outside, and it feels like I’m at the start of a movie.
And then I spot him. Hmm. All right, he’s shorter than I imagined, but definitely still cute. And he’s meandering along, talking on the phone – probably some terribly busy and important investment banking call, which is why he isn’t rushing, because otherwise he’d get out of breath – and as he sees me he raises an arm in greeting, and ends the call.
‘Jess,’ Theo says, kissing me on the mouth. He smells of whisky and I realise in a second that he’s already more than a little bit drunk. His eyes are crossing slightly, and he’s swaying – and not just because we’re being buffeted by the wind. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late, got caught up in a – thing.’ His jaw is stubbled and he looks hollow-eyed and exhausted. ‘You look lovely.’
He starts walking up the gangway towards the boat, and I realise I’m still standing, half expecting him to take the arm of my now-sodden coat. I hurry after him.
‘I’ll take your coat, madam,’ says a man in a white jacket as we step onto the riverboat. He hands us each a black mask. Mine is trimmed with tiny diamante sparkles, which glitter in the light. Theo’s is plain black. He slips his on immediately and his eyes gleam out at me.
‘The ladies are just over there, if you want to—’ He gives me an up and down look, and I suddenly feel very not-London and a bit scruffy, then checks his phone. He catches a glimpse of someone over my shoulder and waves at them. ‘You nip to the loo, and I’ll get you a drink. Don’t forget your mask.’
A second later, he’s gone. I go to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror, fixing my lipstick – which I’ve chewed off, biting my lip in anticipation and nerves waiting for him to arrive – and try to tame my hair, which has come loose in the wind and rain so that lots of dark tendrils are fluffing around the edges of my face. I hook the mask on and look at myself once more.
I feel excited, and glamorous, and I tell myself that this is all very romantic. Me, at a masked ball, in London, with an investment banker as my date. A slightly drunk one, but nonetheless.
I climb the stairs and realise that while I’ve been down there they’ve loosed the boat from its moorings, and we’re sailing. The floor is swaying slightly beneath my feet.
The space is thronging with people, and I stand for a moment, trying to work out which one of the hundred or so men in black tie and a plain black mask is Theo.
‘There you are,’ he says, over my shoulder. I turn around and he’s holding a bottle of expensive champagne with a glass already poured for me. He takes a slug from the bottle. ‘Thought you’d gone overboard.’
‘Thanks,’ I say as I take the glass and sip it, looking around. The women are wearing vibrant-coloured dresses covered in sequins and sparkles. Sophie’s clingy peacock dress, which had felt so expensive before I left, now makes me feel a little bit drab, like a moth in comparison to their iridescent, dazzling butterfly garb.
‘Theo!’ A woman in a very short purple dress trimmed with feathers grabs his arm and he turns, taking another drink from the bottle of champagne. ‘There you are,’ she says. ‘And who is this?’ She looks at me, expectantly.
‘This is Jess,’ Theo answers.
‘Hello,’ I say, wondering if I should extend my hand for her to shake, or clink glasses, or what the etiquette is in these situations. She gives me a faint half-smile and turns, noticing someone else in the crowd.
‘Jack!’
‘My boss,’ says Theo. He reaches forward and fingers the sparkling strap of my dress. ‘You look gorgeous.’
‘Thanks.’
I think he must’ve had quite a lot to drink already. His voice is slurred and thick. ‘Just got to do a bit of mingling, that sort of thing. You’ll be okay here for a moment, yeah?’
I stand beside the bar, holding my glass of champagne, and try to look like I’m just casually people-watching, in the manner of a person who is happy in their own company. After ten minutes, Theo reappears, looking suspiciously bright-eyed. ‘Jess. Sorry. Want to come upstairs?’ he says.
We climb up the narrow metal staircase and onto the covered deck. The rain and wind have dropped, and the air smells fresh and clean. London sparkles, the lights on the embankment glittering like strings of jewels. The London Eye glows in the darkening blue sky and the buildings are a rainbow of lights silhouetted against the night. I turn to murmur something about how pretty it is to Theo, and realise he’s gone – again. This is not going according to plan, and I’m on a bloody boat.
Help, I message Gen and Sophie.
What’s happened? Sophie replies, instantly. Man overboard?
I shift out of the way as a couple, clearly very drunk, rebound against me, giggling, then disappear behind a pillar.
No. Man AWOL.
There’s a moment before Sophie replies.
Oh my God, he stood you up?
No, I tap into my phone, as another drunk man in a mask steps on my foot as he walks past. I glare at him, but I think he’s probably too pissed to notice.
Worse. He’s here, he’s pissed, and I’ve lost him on a bloody boat.
I go back downstairs, feeling like a complete idiot. An hour later, I’ve learned more than I needed to know about investment banking from that bloke in the office who nobody wants to talk to (there’s always one), who has cornered me and downloaded the contents of his brain onto me. Occasionally I see Theo, who’s clearly forgotten I even exist, passing by, always with a bottle in hand, rapidly reaching the staggering stage of drunkenness.
I excuse myself, leaving the office bore talking to another victim who’d found themselves in the corner of doom. And when I come out of the loo, I see what has to be the perfect end to a perfect date. Theo is standing, one arm propping himself up against the wall, the other burrowing like a ferret inside the front of a woman’s dress, with his tongue halfway down her throat. I contemplate getting a drink and pouring it over his head, but I can’t be bothered climbing the stairs and going to the bar, so I leave him there, and chalk it up to experience.
I see I have a message: How’s it going?
God, I love Sophie. I think she’s feeling guilty that my first Tinder date has turned out to be such a nightmare.
Well, he’s now getting off with someone else, and I’m trapped on the boat from hell.
Where are you?
I message her the location.
I’m somewhere near Vauxhall.
Leave it with me, she replies.
A few minutes later, she messages again. Bless her, she’s looked up the boat, worked out where the next stop on the Thames is, and has booked me an Uber. I really do love her.
‘All right?’ says the Uber driver as I climb in, having finally escaped the boat.
‘I’ve had better evenings,’ I say, sitting back against the seat and shaking my head in despair.
I get home forty-five minutes later, having messaged thanks in about fifteen different languages to Sophie, and rummage in my bag for the keys to the front door. I’m just about to put the key in the lock when the door opens and I stagger forward slightly, straight into Alex.
‘Whoops,’ says Alex.
‘Sorry,’ I say, steadying myself against the door.
He raises an eyebrow and gives that lopsided smile that makes my knees – bloody disobedient knees, which I wish would learn to behave themselves – go a bit weak. ‘Good night, was it?’
I splutter. ‘Hardly.’
‘You coming in, then?’