Page 2 of Leaning In

“That was dire, Sophia,” I tell her before she can say anything.

She cackles. “I told you it would be. The blind dates Mum sends you on are always the worst. How many questions did he ask you about yourself?”

“Drumroll please…” I pause for dramatic effect. “Two. And one of them was ‘which Microsoft Office product do you prefer?’”

She lets out a low whistle. “I think that might be a new record. That’s bad. Sorry, Claire. I’ll buy the drinks next time we go out.”

I laugh and tug my coat tighter around me.

“Anyway,” I continue, “I told him that you’d locked yourself out of the flat and that I had to go back and let you in. So, if you ever happen to meet him, please pretend you were having building work done and had to stay with me.”

“Building work again? Honestly, I seem to love living with you. I had no idea I was such an interior design enthusiast.”

“You’re the queen of fictional home renovations.” I skirt around a couple who look annoyingly happy walking hand in hand down the street.

“Of course I’ll go along with the story,” she says. “I’m just about to have dinner. But we can debrief properly at brunch after Mum’s left.”

Ugh brunch. I’d almost forgotten about that.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Looking forward to that part at least.”

We chat for a few more moments until I reach the station and say my goodbyes.

As I sit on the Tube scrolling my phone, I realise that at least it’s a good story: yet another failed date that I can laugh about with my friends whilst they secretly sigh in relief that they’re all happily coupled up.

But even as I think that, something twists a little in my stomach. I didn’t exactly think Angus would be The One. I’d rather marry one of the spreadsheets he’s obsessed with, but still, I’ve lost track of how many first dates I’ve been on in the past few years. At twenty-eight, I thought at least one or two of my friends would still be single, but they’re all in serious relationships, and I’m the one who is either on a string of awkward first dates, or with someone just long enough for it to get mildly promising before they quietly disappear. I used to think it was bad luck.

These days I’m less sure.

It’s nice, being the one with the good anecdotes. I like making people laugh. But sometimes, when I’m walking home alone in heels that pinch my toes, pretending I’m fine, it stings. I can already see how I’m going to spin this extremely sub-par date: “Oh, he referred to chicken breast as ‘a lean lifestyle solution’” and “he kissed my cheek like he was trying to seal an envelope”.

When I finally get home, I kick off my shoes and head straight to my room. Bra off. Oversized sweatshirt. Leggings. Sorry, Angus, but elastic waistbands are my one true love. I head to the bathroom, reaching for the makeup remover, and erase the evidence of the last hours before pulling my blonde hair up into a bun. I let out a sigh. That feels better.

But almost immediately on getting to the kitchen I realise I have a problem. There’s no food in the house. I’d held firm on my drinks-only plan, and Angus’s mention of being in a “cutting phase” had made that considerably easier. But now the only thing I have left in the fridge is a pint of milk and half a block of cheddar.

I guess it’s a pizza night. And I’ll buy a tub of ice cream from the corner shop on the way to collect it, because if I’m going full Bridget Jones, I might as well commit. Pulling out my phone to order, I grab my coat and head for the door.

On the way to Belillo’s pizzeria, I send my friend Kath a quick text update about my tragic evening. I’m still looking down when I crash into a person leaving the restaurant and reel backwards.

My shopping bag drops to the ground. The ice cream rolls into the grass, the Oreos land near this stranger’s shoe, and the box of Maltesers takes a dive toward the street.

Shit, that was definitely my fault, and it serves me right for attempting to text whilst walking.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I chant at them as I reach down to pick up my things.

“Planning a party, Buttercup?”

Oh crap. I know that voice. I know that nickname.

Only one person calls me Buttercup, and given my large, longstanding and unrequited crush he’s not the person I want to bump into whilst carrying a mountain of snacks and wearing leggings with a hole in the knee.

Great. Just great.

Chapter 2

Claire

Iglance up, and yep, it’s him. Stuffing the last of my things back into my shopping bag, I offer a weak wave.