‘So, where is Heather tonight?’ I ask – not that I care.
‘She’s on her way over, so can you hold your breath or something to speed this up? I don’t want her to see us like this, she might get the wrong idea.’
I roll my eyes, even though Nick can’t see my face.
‘Dude, you’re literally wrestling me into my clothes. That’s as unsuspicious as you can get.’
‘Whatever, Ruby. Look, I don’t even know why you wear these things, you’re not fat.’
‘I ain’t thin, doll,’ I reply in a very matter-of-fact manner.
‘If you’re not happy with how you look, go on a diet, go to the gym – anything that means I don’t have to do this.’
Nick goes to the gym at least once a day, he eats clean and he is in excellent shape. My cardio involves running for trains, the only lifting I do is food to my mouth, and as such I am a comfortable size twelve…occasionally a ten, if I don’t eat salt for a few days, or a fourteen if we’ve just had a major holiday like Christmas or Valentine’s Day, the latter of which is best enjoyed alone, eating chocolate and watching films starring Hugh Grant.
‘The gym sounds awesome, but have you ever thought about punching yourself in the face?’ I ask, straight-faced. ‘That sounds much more fun.’
‘Hey, I’m not saying you need to go, I’m just all for whatever gets me out of being the person who has to pull your tights up. Just out of interest, how do you cope when you need the bathroom?’
‘I drink light and thank God for my excellent bladder control,’ I reply.
‘Wish I hadn’t asked,’ he replies as he heads for the door. He hovers in the doorway for a second. ‘Date tonight?’
‘How did you guess?’ I ask, fully expecting him to give me a lecture on how I go on too many dates.
‘The scary tights, Beyoncé playing – it’s like you’re simultaneously making yourself feel sexy enough to pull someone, whilst reminding yourself that you don’t need a man at the same time.’ I think for a second, considering whether or not this is possibly a compliment, until he adds: ‘You know, in case he scarpers like the rest.’
‘You can leave now,’ I tell him. ‘Your girlfriend will be here soon. We don’t want her catching you in my room, while I’m in my lingerie.’
‘You were right before,’ he calls back. ‘No one would suspect a bloke of sleeping with a girl in those things – at least you don’t have to worry about date rapists, they’d never get into those.’
I look in the mirror, examining my slightly smaller looking, tights-clad body and sigh. Dating is horrible, isn’t it? Just a ridiculous nightmare that’s absolutely impossible, with all these rules of what you’re supposed to do, what you’re not supposed to do, how you’re expected to behave – and most people stick to them. And even though we have bad ones, we suck it up, we have our grumpy flatmate pull us into our tight-tights and we get right back on the horse, ready to give someone else a chance. Does my optimism for finding someone deplete every time I go on a bad date? Maybe, just a little, but it also hardens me to it. I don’t take it personally anymore. I don’t wonder what’s wrong with me if someone tries to cover me in love bites, I wonder what’s wrong with people, and while that may be a depressing thought, it doesn’t hurt or damage my self-esteem, and I don’t feel bad about myself in the slightest. In my control tights, I am untouchable – literally, apparently.
With every first date there is always this thought at the back of your mind that if you just get it right this time, it might be your last ever first date, and wouldn’t that be wonderful?
I grab a dress from the top of Mount Clothesmore. It’s a short black number with a mesh panel down the front. With a little bit of extra weight comes a great pair of boobs, so I may as well work them to my advantage. The truth is that I probably could stand to lose a few pounds. If I went on a diet, my nearest and dearest wouldn’t be hurrying me off to The Priory to talk to someone, you know? I’m just normal, I guess. Not skinny, not fat – but most importantly, not bothered. I’m happy in my skin. I know how to dress to make the most of what I’ve got and I love eating and drinking way too much to become the girl who only orders a salad in restaurants. I certainly have no intention of ordering a salad tonight. I imagine I should, according to the rules of the dating game. Even if I don’t plan on keeping it up forever, I could order a salad the first few times we go out to make him think that I’m this dainty little thing who doesn’t stuff her face and then, once he’s suitably charmed by me – boom – that’s when I reveal my secret appetite for red meat and dessert.
Hair – check. Make-up – check. Tights – check. Dress – check. Heels – check. That’s me ready to go. I grab my handbag to make sure I have the necessities: purse, extra make-up, rape alarm – all the things you need for a successful date with a man you’ve never met before.
I make my way into the living room, grabbing my keys from the bowl on the coffee table where Nick insists we keep the keys, ready to make a dash for it before his girlfriend arrives, because if there’s one person I like even less than Nick, it’s Heather, Nick’s current bird.
‘How do I look?’ I ask Nick, who is stirring something over the cooker.
‘Not like you’ve got terrifying tights on, kid,’ he tells me, which I think is a compliment.
Nick has called me kid since pretty much the day we met. At first I thought it was just one of your typical terms of endearment used by Yorkshire folk, but then as we realised we were never going to get along, and he started comparing me to an immature child, I realised that he probably called me kid because he thinks I am one. I call him much worse, so it’s fine.
‘How does the food smell?’ he asks.
I walk over and peer into the pan, but its contents are not recognisable to me, not by sight or smell.
‘Erm, what is it?’ I ask.
‘It’s vegan stew. Will you taste it for me?’
‘That’s a thing? I’d rather close the fridge door on my head,’ I reply.
I watch as Nick takes a spoon from the drawer, scooping a little out of the pan and tasting it. As he does, a little drops down and it lands on his apron, which he promptly begins cleaning. It’s only now that I’m looking at his apron that I notice the slogan: meat is murder.
‘Taste good?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah, I mean, it’s not the same as meat, but as long as Heather likes it.’
‘Boy, she’s got you whipped.’
Nick pulls a face.
‘No she doesn’t.’
‘So I suppose you’ve made yourself a meat version, then…’
‘Look, I don’t expect you to understand, but this is what you do when you’re in a relationship, you make sacrifices. If Heather doesn’t want me to eat meat in front of her, I won’t. She’s happy for me to do it when she’s not around.’
‘Bullshit kind of vegan she is then,’ I reason. ‘That’s like a policeman who is OK with murdering people, so long as you don’t do it in front of him.’
‘So you acknowledge it is murder,’ I hear Heather say victoriously from behind me.
I jump out of my skin, I’d no idea she was here.
‘How did you get in?’ I ask, accusingly.
‘Nick left the door open for me.’ She gets back to the subject at hand. ‘So you acknowledge that they’re both murder?’
‘That is not the comparison I was drawing and you know it,’ I tell her.
Heather