Page 13 of Stuck

I sighed, knowing all too well where her insecurities came from but not wanting to encourage her deeply warped view of relationships. “I can support myself perfectly well, and I think a first date is a tad early to be worrying about who’s going to pay the bills, don’t you?”

I regretted telling my mother I was getting ready for a date almost as much as I was beginning to regret saying I’d go for dinner with Billy in the first place. The former had slipped out when Mum complained she couldn’t hear me properly, but I was late and still rummaging through my wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear while we chatted.

As for dinner, my misgivings were rooted in the same search for an outfit. It never boded well when I wasn’t sure how to dress for someone. It meant I didn’t know who they thought I was or what they were expecting of me. Not that I’d change anything, but I preferred to know where I stood. I shoved the worry aside and pulled on my dark blue jeans.

“At least Jane has found a man with good prospects,” Mum said. “Do you think she’ll bring him home to meet me soon?” Her voice sounded small, as though she knew Jane was avoiding it. My heart squeezed for her, but no matter how she tried to tamp it down, Mum was a lot. Not without good reason, but her manic temperament had scared off enough of our love interests over the years for me and my sisters to be wary.

“I’m sure she will,” I said, my voice muffled by the top I was pulling over my head. My feet momentarily tangled in the hair dryer cable, tripping me towards the bed, where I whacked my shin on the frame. “Bollocks!”

“Lizzy! Language!”

I pulled my head free. “Sorry. They’re in Scotland at the minute; did Jane tell you?”

Mum didn’t answer. Instead, her face got really big as she peered closely into the camera. “What’s that you’re putting on?”

I looked down at myself then back to her. “My Florence and the Machine T-shirt.”

“You can’t go on a date wearing a scruffy T-shirt, child! I brought you up better than to go out looking as though you buy your clothes in a charity shop.”

“I did buy this in a charity shop. Eco-chic. It’s all the rage.”

Mum didn’t get it. In her mind, anything second-hand screamed hardship and ruin. In her attempts to overcome the privations of our past, she’d become obsessive in her insistence that we present a front of prosperity and respectability to the world—at least, her version of it.

She continued to rant about the importance of making a good impression until she got so wound up, she started to get teary, and I changed into one of Jane’s designer shirts to avoid a meltdown. I changed back as soon as I’d hung up, not least because the shirt was white and begging to have something spilled down it. Also because I’d had more than enough of pretending to be Jane this week. Tonight, I wanted to be as much myself as possible.

This also turned out to be a mistake. After two hours of strained conversation and a burnt chicken pie, Billy gathered the courage to admit that the “me” I’d presented him with wasn’t quite hitting the mark.

“Elizabeth, I like you a lot, and you’re really pretty, but… I’m not sure this is working. You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself all that much.”

Feeling a mixture of relief and regret, I twisted my wineglass back and forth, staring at the circles of condensation it drew on the table. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him; he was nice-looking, had a cool job, and enjoyed similar hobbies to me, but when there’s no spark, there’s no spark. “I’m sorry, I⁠—”

He held up his hand to interrupt me. “Don’t apologise. I wouldn’t want you to pretend to feel something you don’t. How about we keep being just friends, eh?”

“You’re not offended?”

He shrugged, his cheeks pink and his hands fidgety. “I’ll get over it.”

Agreeing to call it a night, we split the bill, and he walked me to Kennington station, where we hugged goodnight and parted ways. I said a silent prayer of thanks to Florence and the Machine as I turned and went through the ticket barrier. In the end, my T-shirt had given the perfect first impression—that being “didn’t make much of an effort because I wasn’t really interested to begin with.” I hoped we were able to stay friends. I didn’t want to have to find a new swimming group.

I nearly dropped the glass I was filling with water when a message sent my phone vibrating across the kitchen counter. I turned the tap off and picked up my phone to find a text from Jane.

Saw on the door cam that you’re home. How did it go?

Turn off your motion alerts, creeper. What if I’d brought him home and we’d sucked face on the doorstep?

I can see you didn’t bring him home, so…?

We ate pie and agreed to stay friends

Shame. He looked nice on his socials

He is nice. But he didn’t do it for me. Too keen. Too… idk, boyish?

This was probably why Billy had got the impression I wasn’t interested. The whole night, all I’d been able to think was how bouncy he was. How eager for me to approve of everything he said. How unsure he’d seemed. A week ago, I might have thought it was endearing. But after four days of being followed around by a searing dark gaze, of being interrogated with menacingly composed scepticism, of being loomed over by a perfectly put-together fortress of muscles and aloofness, I’d had a taste of something a whole lot more grown-up. And despite how little Darcy deserved my appreciation, I didn’t hate it.

Not surprised. No boy is ever going to be able to keep up with you.

Unless you’re running. Then he’ll catch up embarrassingly quickly