The Good Part(9)

‘I live right here,’ Dale says, pointing to the flat next door. ‘If you want to come up for a drink, I have some dodgy Slovakian gin and flat tonic.’ He shoots me a broad smile. ‘You might be wary of going into someone’s house who you’ve just met online, but I promise I’m not a murderer.’

‘That’s what a murderer would say,’ I tell him, smiling politely.

‘You’re right.’ He puts a hand to his chin in a purposeful pose of contemplation. ‘There should be some kind of “Decent Guy” ID card I could show you. It might not attest to my gin making skills, or the quality of my conversation, but it would guarantee I’m not a threat to life.’

‘Let me see your wallet,’ I ask, holding out my hand. He gives it a little too willingly, considering he only just met me.

‘Are you robbing me?’ he asks.

There’s something I like about his manner and I feel myself smiling as I rifle through his cards. Among the usual bank cards, I find a Southwark Libraries membership, which I take a photo of with my phone. ‘I’m going send this to my friends. If you murder me, everyone I know will take books out using your membership number. You’ll have library fines following you around for the rest of your life.’

Dale lets out a full-bodied belly laugh. He has a library card, and he thinks I’m funny, which eases my reservations about going back to his. Sometimes you need to be guided by your gut and your phone-charging requirements.

Dale’s flat is unremarkable. He tells me he lives with a girl called Philippa, but she’s away in Spain this week. He puts on some music while he fixes us drinks – something Spanish and acoustic that suggests he knows more about music than I do. Once he’s handed me a charger and a gin and tonic, I find myself relaxing into his low, beige sofa. Dale tries to tidy up the living room as he talks to me, throwing an old pizza box out into the hall, moving a laundry rack, and hiding a messy pile of post. Maybe Dale is a decent guy, maybe we’ll see each other again and start dating and this will be the story of how we met. Could I seriously date someone called Dale, though?

‘So have you met many people through LondonLove?’ I ask him.

‘You’ll be my fourth,’ he says. ‘I prefer it to the other apps. I don’t like talking to someone online for weeks only to meet up and find there’s nothing there.’

‘Completely.’ I nod. Forget the name, could I fancy Dale? He might not be as slim and tanned as his profile picture, but if I squint, he could pass for a short Chris Hemsworth, if Chris Hemsworth had a hangover and a dad bod.

‘I met this one girl; she was a personal trainer.’ Dale smiles at the memory and then sits down next to me on the sofa. ‘She seemed normal, but we ended up in bed, and she wanted me to count, you know, as if I was doing reps in the gym.’

‘That’s a lot of pressure,’ I say, laughing.

‘So much pressure! I hit twenty and lost count and then I was paranoid she thought I couldn’t count to more than twenty.’

‘I once met up with a guy who brought a Tupperware pot full of his own nuts to the bar. He said he didn’t trust the hygiene of bar nuts.’

‘Ah, Squirrel Man, he’s a mate of mine,’ says Dale with a grin.

We laugh at each other’s shared confessions, and I sense the early ember of attraction. I like how easily he laughs, how animated his face is when he does. He puts a tentative hand on my leg, and I don’t move to brush it away.

‘So Lucy26, what do you want to be when you grow up?’

‘Good question.’ I take another sip of my drink, enjoying the warm sting of it in my throat. ‘I always wanted to be a TV producer, but I’m twenty-six and I’m still at the bottom of the TV food chain. I’m not sure how much longer I can handle being plankton. How about you?’

‘I’m impressed you’ve reached the heady heights of plankton. I’m still a student, I’m not even in the food chain.’

‘What are you studying?’ I ask.

‘I’m doing a master’s in machine learning.’

‘Ooh what does that involve? Teaching robots how to take over the world?’

He laughs again. Maybe he laughs too easily. Maybe he laughs like this with everyone. ‘Ha, no. More like computer programming.’

‘I’m terrible with technology,’ I tell him.

Dale pulls out his phone and now I wonder if I’m boring him.

‘I have some questions about your profile,’ he says, putting on a voice, as though this is a serious interview. ‘You have some interesting things on your “likes” list.’

‘Do I? I can’t remember what I wrote.’

‘You say here you like badgers. Why badgers?’

I shrug. ‘They’re feisty and I like their monochrome vibe.’

‘Fair enough. You’ve also put Poirot here under “likes”. Isn’t that old lady TV?’

‘Sacrilege, no!’ I say, giving him my best indignant face. ‘I used to watch it with my parents growing up. I find the theme tune immensely comforting.’ Dale waits for me to say more. ‘It’s the original cosy crime, isn’t it? Poirot always catches the bad guy, everything gets explained in a satisfactory way. In the world of Agatha Christie there is balance and order and resolution.’