Page 29 of Stella is Starting Over

‘That sounds like some kind of gay dating site,’ I snap.

Dom laughs, then moves my hand away. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘You’ve drilled into a pipe.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I had kind of gathered that.’

‘Are you going to be this moody the entire time I’m helping you?’ he asks.

‘I’m sorry!’ I say. ‘No.’

‘I’m going to find your stopcock,’ he says. He disappears for a few minutes and goes upstairs. I try to remember if I’ve left a pair of knickers on the bathroom floor or not, but before long the water stops.

‘It’s stopped!’ I shout.

‘Yeah, that was the idea,’ he shouts back. ‘Some sociopath put your stopcock in the loft.’

I smile. It’s nice to bicker with someone.

He comes back downstairs looking smug. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘I can probably find something to patch the damaged part of the pipe, and I’ll go in via the wall inside that cupboard, so you won’t be able to see it much. You’ll need someone to come and take a proper look, and patch the pipe with a blowtorch, but this will tide you over long enough not to pay for an emergency plumber. Or I could get a blowtorch and learn serious plumbing rather than just quick fixes.’

‘You’re a literal angel,’ I say. ‘And I don’t think you should buy a blowtorch. Can I get you anything?’

‘I’ll take a drink when I’m done,’ he says. I must have looked worried, because he looks down at my phone, then my outfit, then puts two and two together. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘You’re off out?’

At that exact moment, a car horn sounds. I don’t want to answer it, because I can see from the silhouette that whatever company Richard uses to ferry women around sends a driver wearing a fucking uniform and a hat.

‘I don’t have to go,’ I say. ‘I can let my friend know that I’ve had an emergency – this is literally an emergency.’

‘No, no,’ he says. ‘You’re all dressed, you look great, you should go. I can finish this and then let myself out.’

‘You absolutely don’t need to do that.’

‘No, I know,’ he smiles. ‘But I’m an incredibly good guy. And I like getting a chance to show off my DIY skills.’

I laugh. I think for a moment that I’d really like to stay here. And that it’s insane to let him handle this by himself, and irresponsible, and taking advantage. But if I don’t, we won’t have any water, and when Rose gets home we’ll have to go to Lou’s or something until I get a plumber to fix it, and that’ll probably be hundreds and hundreds of pounds.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Well, listen, I owe you a favour. And I hate owing people favours so I need you to actually let me do something for you at some point, okay?’

‘Sure.’ He smiles. ‘Now get going. If he’s sending you a driver he must be keen.’

I go bright, deep, painfully red. ‘Bye,’ I say, staring at the floor. ‘Thank you.’

Stella

I think I would probably claim that I wasn’t that into romance. Maybe it’s an internalised misogyny, trying to be a cool girl kind of thing, but the idea of someone deliberately trying to woo me always struck me as a bit cringey. If anything was going to change my mind about that, it was Richard’s take on a first date. Every previous date I’ve been on has been drinks, or very occasionally dinner. The only other offers I’ve got have been ‘come to mine and I’ll cook for you’, which even I, the most naïve woman on the internet, understand to mean half a packet of tortellini and a shag. Richard, on the other hand, has been scripted by a woman writing a man to seduce as many women as possible.

The car picks me up on the dot of 7 p.m. and I’m whisked away in air-conditioned silence, into central London and along the river. Waiting outside the Tate is Richard.

He opens my door, kisses me on each cheek and smiles. ‘You look great,’ he tells me.

Now, initially, I’ll be honest, this all feels a bit cloying. He’s even better-looking in person and the idea that he’s made this big effort to do something I’d like feels sort of queasy-making. Claustrophobic. What the fuck is wrong with me?

‘I thought we’d do a gallery late, and then perhaps a drink?’ he says, as if he were offering something random and off-the-cuff rather than a date that he’s very clearly planned. ‘There’s an exhibition of works by female artists, and you mentioned that you liked art, so I thought you might like it,’ he pauses, sounding sort of hopeful. Then his face falls. ‘Though I guess it might also be a bit samey, given that it’s what you do for a living?’

‘Oh, no, don’t worry,’ I say, without thinking. ‘Interiors is miles away from figurative art, and anyway, I’m actually still on maternity leave.’

The words have fallen out of my mouth before I’ve given them a second thought. I’ve got so used to telling men about my ‘tiny housemate’ on dates that I’ve stopped being sensitive about it. He pauses, halfway up the steps to the gallery. ‘Maternity leave?’

I give him an embarrassed smile. ‘I usually buy the first round before I explain all this. But, yeah, I had a baby almost a year ago, I’m going back to work in a couple of months, I split with my husband just after she was born.’