The Secret to Falling in Love. Victoria Cooke

we get some dri—’ I cut myself off, realising that he was already in possession of a pint. ‘So do you like Greek food?’ I asked instead.

      He shook his head before speaking; he’d just taken a big gulp of beer. ‘Not really tried it. I tell a lie – I have tried it, many years ago. Me and my mates went to Malia for a bit of a holiday, so I reckon I tried it then. All I can remember are these giant—’ he indicated the size with his hands ‘—chicken kebab things with chips in. So I thought it seemed a bit different, a bit fancy, great for a date, and if I didn’t like the look of anything I could always get a chicken and chip kebab. It’s win-win.’ He swigged his pint and smiled. ‘You?’

      ‘Yes, I love Greek food. I actually make quite a mean moussaka. I think it may have been gyros that you tried?’ I encouraged, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

      ‘Nah it was definitely a kebab. Most days we ate at McDonald’s, so it sticks out in my mind.’

      Okay, so my theory of ‘cultured’ had left the building. Sorry, you lost me at McDonald’s, I think. Luckily Gemma was right though; his body was amazing. As my eyes glazed over it dawned on me that Gemma had looked quite dressed up when we’d spoken earlier; she definitely had make-up on, which was really odd for her as she always took it off as soon as she got home. I wondered if she was going out. But if she was, why hadn’t she mentioned it?

      The conversation didn’t get any better. In fact, when it came to ordering, Mark refused to pick anything off the menu and complained when he was unable to order a ‘chip kebab’. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and I encouraged him to try some grilled meat and potatoes instead.

      Still drink-less, I started to order, but Mark butted in: ‘Classy bird this one. Better get her a wine,’ winking at the waiter as he did. I was too busy dying of embarrassment to specify a wine colour, never mind a grape variety or country of origin, so I remained silent and anticipated whatever ‘wine’ would arrive.

      ‘So, what do you do for a living?’ he asked, finally arriving at a topic I was comfortable with.

      ‘I write a column and some other articles for NorthStyle magazine,’ I said proudly. ‘The magazine is aimed at people living in the city and covers a wide range of issues from technology to eating out.’ I wasn’t convinced this bloke could read, never mind had read NorthStyle.

      ‘Wow, I’ve seen that magazine. I didn’t know I’d be out with a famous writer.’ He grinned.

      ‘I’d hardly say famous,’ I said modestly.

      ‘Your name must still be out there, love. They always have a copy at my dentist’s.’ He took a swig from his fresh pint and raised his glass slightly towards me. ‘I run a distribution business – small vans, speedy delivery sort of thing. With more people shopping online and that, we have grown expedentially.’

      ‘Exponentially,’ I chipped in before I could stop myself, apparently channelling my mother.

      ‘What?’ he asked, frowning.

      ‘The word you used. I think you meant “exponentially” not “expedentially”.’ I sighed inwardly at the realisation that we were like chalk and cheese.

      ‘Wow, who called the vocabulary police?’ he said loudly, holding his hands up as if to surrender. Luckily, at that moment the waiter came over with my wine.

      ‘Thank you,’ I mouthed to him, more meaningfully than he would ever realise. I practically inhaled the delicious Roditis, which gave me the confidence to stick out the date a little while longer. Whilst we waited for our food, I let Mark talk. He actually did seem to have done well for himself, which I admired, but he had a certain arrogance about him I found off-putting.

      His appearance was perfect, but as the night went on I realised it was in a way that didn’t attract me, like he’d tried too hard. I imagined having to fight him for the bathroom and wait hours for him to get ready. I knew I was being a hypocrite after spending hours of getting ready myself, but this coupled with his attitude made him seem somewhat obnoxious.

      He had the triangular torso thing going on, pointing down to chunky thighs in skinny jeans. His fitted shirt and a blazer made him look smart, like he’d made an effort, which on anyone else I would find appealing. His hair was shaved closely to well above the ear, and the inch-long blonde hair on top was swept to one side, every strand angled exactly the same way.

      As I studied him more closely I realised his eyes were slightly too small for his face. The more he spoke, the more intolerable he became. It was exit time. I excused myself and headed to the ladies’. Once hidden in the male-free sanctuary of the loos, I grabbed my phone and frantically keyed a text to Gemma:

       I’m a celebrity!

      She’d know what to do.

      I headed back to the table. The food had arrived, and I wasn’t surprised to see Mark already tucking in. I even spotted him helping himself to a forkful of my moussaka, cheeky sod.

      Before I’d even sat down, he started talking. ‘I was thinking we could have a few drinks in a bar and then we could go back to yours?’ he said confidently through a mouth full of food. I almost gagged. Before I had time to concoct a reply, my phone shrilled impatiently. Thank goodness. Saved by the bell, or in my case, Gemma.

      ‘Hello?’ I put on my best who-is-this-and-why-are-you-calling voice. ‘Oh hello, Mrs Monagan . . . Oh no! That’s terrible – not again? I’m so sorry. I’ll be over right away and we’ll get it sorted out.’ I hung up to see Mark looking at me expectantly. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go. That was the old lady who lives in the flat beneath me. Apparently there’s been a flood in my apartment. The water has leaked into hers, and she’s beside herself with worry.’ I feigned concern by furrowing my brow as I gathered my bag and phone. ‘I’ve had a nice time though. What do I owe for dinner?’ I asked politely.

      ‘Erm, okay, I reckon an even twenty would cover it. I could come and help?’ he said hopefully.

      ‘Oh goodness, no, I don’t expect that. I’ll be ages with Mrs Monagan. Last time, I was there the whole night! Listen, we can get back in touch on Tinder and arrange to meet up again soon.’ I didn’t even wait for a response before throwing twenty quid down on the table and leaving. On my way out I texted Gemma:

       Thanks, MRS MONAGAN ;) – disaster!

      Whilst my phone was out, I deleted the Tinder app, and relief washed over me.