‘That’s right,’ I say.
He nods along. ‘I guess this means you like kids…?’
Harry says it with a smile, but I have another moment of panic. How are we on to talking about kids within minutes of meeting for the first time?
‘Um…’
He laughs and waves it away. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. The reason I first contacted you is because you said you were a dog person – so what I really want to ask about is your dog…’
Finally, we’re onto something I can talk about confidently and warmly.
‘Billy,’ I say. ‘He’s a Staffie. I got him from a shelter about four years ago. He’s almost ten now.’
Before I know it, my phone’s out and I’m proudly showing off photos as if I’ve got a newborn. Perhaps he’s humouring me, but Harry seems interested. He laughs at the silly pictures and goes ‘aww’ when I would.
‘Have you got a dog?’ I ask.
‘I wish I did. My building doesn’t allow tenants to have pets. Someone could probably get away with a fish or a guinea pig, but that’d be about it. No cats or dogs.’
‘Why?’
‘I think someone went on holiday and left his dog at home for a week. One of his friends was supposed to be going around to feed him and let him out – that sort of thing – but there was some mix-up. I don’t know all the details. It was before I moved in. Either way, the building council banned pets after that.’
I try to think of the last time I had a holiday away but can’t come up with anything more recently than the time six years ago when Ben and I went to Cornwall for a week.
‘The poor dog…’ I say.
Before we can get much further, the waiter is back with Harry’s lager. I wonder if workers in places like this can spot the couples on first date. Perhaps they have some sort of radar for it and sit in the back trying to guess which pairs will reach a second date. If things were reversed, I would definitely do that.
The waiter asks if we’re ready to order food and I’m on the brink of saying ‘soup’ when, for a reason of which I’m not entirely certain, the word ‘ravioli’ pops out. I almost correct myself, but he’s already moved onto Harry. I glance down to the menu and feel a rising panic at the ‘£14’ that’s listed. Harry orders a risotto (£13.50) and then everything is cleared away. I’m left wondering how I can possibly justify spending so much on a single meal. It’s more than I might usually spend on food in a few days.
I bat away a yawn that’s crept up on me from nowhere and Harry makes the obligatory ‘Am I that boring?’ remark.
‘I’ve been at work all day,’ I reply. ‘And I went running this morning.’
‘I’m afraid I spent the afternoon at the football. My team lost.’ He pauses to sip his drink and then adds: ‘You’re in a supermarket, aren’t you? Do you work every weekend?’
I had forgotten letting that scrap of information out. ‘Not always,’ I say. ‘I’m sort of assistant manager, so sometimes I have to cover.’
It’s a lie but the words are out before I can call them back. The assistant manager’s job was up for grabs eighteen months ago – but the applicants all needed degrees. I figured that, if I was going to spend time and money getting those sorts of qualifications, I’d rather find something I thought I’d enjoy. I’m in the circle of not being qualified for better jobs and not having experience to go for jobs within industries that interest me. I’m hoping my part-time course can change that.
‘I work in internet security,’ Harry says. ‘It’s all a bit boring, I suppose.’ He holds up his phone. ‘I’m on call in case one of our clients have a major problem. I alternate with a few others from the team, but one of us always has to be ready to drop everything.’
I fumble something close to a question about what that means, while simultaneously trying to appear as if I know what I’m talking about. It feels like he’s trying to downplay what he does while I’m trying to make what I do sound more important than it is.
He tells me that he looks for security holes in company’s websites and then effortlessly turns the conversation back around on me: ‘If you’re doing an Open University course now, does that mean you’ve been working since you were a teenager…?’
It’s a reasonable question, I suppose – especially if this is us getting to know one another. I’m thirty, so why wouldn’t he ask about what I’ve spent the rest of my life doing? I could go on about the past four and a bit years where I’ve been going nowhere in a supermarket, but it doesn’t feel like an achievement. Then there are the years before that…
‘I nearly went to university when I was eighteen,’ I say, starting to stumble. ‘I had a boyfriend at the time and we chose to move in together instead.’
Harry nods along. It’s all normal – except, before I know it, the rest is coming out.
‘His name was Ben,’ I say quickly. ‘He died five years ago on Tuesday.’
It’s not enough to splurge about what happened to Ben on a first date, I have to be precise with the timing.
‘Twenty-four others died, too – including Ben’s brother, Alex. There was a train crash.’
Harry gulps and I have little doubt he’s regretting being here.
‘Ben was off to a work thing,’ I add, apparently unable to shut up. ‘I didn’t know he was going with his brother. You can google it – the crash was a big thing. You might remember it. We were going to get married, buy a house, all that…’
I tail off, suddenly breathless.
It’s a flood of information Harry doesn’t need to know. Not yet, anyway. It’s hard to know why, but I couldn’t stop myself. The voice in my head was screaming for hush but out it came. I reach for my glass, but the water is gone. Harry slides across his lager and I don’t hesitate, swigging a couple of mouthfuls and then passing back the glass with a whimpered apology. I don’t even drink beer. I’ve not had alcohol of any sort in months. Years. It costs too much.
‘It’s all right,’ he says, with a closed-lip, though kindly, smile. ‘If something like that happened to me, I’d want to talk about it, too. It must be one of the biggest things that has ever happened to you…?’
It’s such a reasonable response to my dump of information that I have to blink away tears. I mask it – or try to – by flapping an arm to catch the waiter’s attention and pointing to my empty glass.
‘Do you miss him?’ Harry asks. ‘It’s fine if you do. I’d miss someone if they’d died like that.’
This time I have to glance away. I focus on a poster that’s advertising Christmas meals and scan the details over and over until I’m certain I can talk without losing the plot. As first dates go, I’ve turned this into a disaster – but there’s no going back now.
‘It’s not that simple,’ I manage, surprising myself by not cracking. ‘There were debts…’
He waits, saying nothing. Moments ago, there was a low chunter of other people chatting to each other, but now it feels as if everyone is silent, wanting to know what happened.
‘He took out loans online,’ I say. ‘I still don’t really know how he did it, but he used my name and ID. It was tens of thousands. After Ben died, I started getting letters about payments being overdue. He must have intercepted anything like that before. I’d call the banks and say I didn’t know anything about them – but they had my signature and things like that. They didn’t believe it wasn’t me who’d applied for the money.’
I stop for a breath. It’s a long time since I’ve said any of this out loud. Karen was the last person I told – and that was three years back. I have no idea what’s come over me to go through it now.