Shame Week #5 :: What’s the Worst Thing You’ve Ever Done On a Date?

I have a confession to make. Actually, a number of confessions. I’m not actually ashamed of killing a mouse with a table tennis bat. Neither am I ashamed of vomiting in Marie’s duffle hood and hair. Nor pretending I had a girlfriend or stealing an illustrated bible. If I’m honest, I’m actually rather (now not so secretly) proud of all of those things. I think they show character. A bit of spunk. I am however, ashamed of this next thing. Heartily so. I’m also a little apprehensive about telling it. That’s why I left it till last. I think you’ll be rather disappointed in me. I’m certainly disappointed in myself.

...

Grace was a friend of Avril, the first woman I ever got intimate with. Apparently I‘d met her before our date, once, but I was having trouble remembering. Avril was on the phone, reminding me.

‘Tall girl with red hair,’ she said. ‘Very striking.’

‘Did I like her?’ I asked, although frankly, if I had to ask, the chances are I probably didn’t.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Avril. ‘She liked you though. That should be enough, surely.’

Avril was matchmaking.

‘Just go out for a drink with her,’ she urged. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

‘I dunno,’ I replied. ‘Murder?’

‘Oh, she’s not going to murder you, Stan. For fuck’s sake. It’ll just be a drink. It’s no big deal. Go on. I bet you’re desperate. I bet you haven’t had sex since the last time we did it, have you?’

‘You’d be surprised,’ I said. I don’t know whether it was because I’d paused slightly too long or just because Avril knew me quite well.

‘I’d be amazed,’ she said, and she laughed her golden, throaty laugh.

…

Digression

There are certain things in this life which I really, really hate. For example, I hate being judged by the way that I look.

I hate it when people dismiss me because of how I look, carelessly overlooking any other qualities I might have.

I hate shallow people.

I hate rude people.

I hate cowards.

And I hate hypocrites.

…

Grace was sorry she was late. I told her it didn’t matter. And it didn’t. It was only five minutes after all. However, what did matter, apparently, was how she looked.

Avril had described her as tall with red hair. This was a little inaccurate. Actually it wasn’t exactly inaccurate. It was just misleading. She was tall, yes. But she was also wide. Very wide. She did have red hair too, roughly. It would have been slightly more accurate however, to describe it as copper-coloured, and insanely frizzy. She was certainly striking though. She reminded me of an enormous mid-op transsexual with a terrifying, bright ginger afro.

The fact is, from the moment she sat down opposite me, I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of our date working out.

The fact is, I didn’t fancy her. At all.

The fact is, I thought she was hideously ugly.

I know. Me. With my reputation.

If she had felt the same about me, everything would have been a piece of cake. But she didn’t. It would also have been easier if we hadn’t got on at all, if we’d had absolutely nothing in common. But unfortunately this wasn't the case either. On the contrary, we got on fine. She was intelligent. She read books. She was doing an MA on something to do with Jane Austen. She liked cats. The one thing that might mitigate my overriding desire to flee from her presence was that she seemed, how can I put this, slightly psychologically delicate.

First up, she was a bit full on. I swear it’s not just that I have Groucho Marx syndrome and I’m appalled by anyone offering me membership to their club, but I do feel slightly uncomfortable in the face of unremitting compliments. Grace seemed to think I was wonderful, and after 30 minutes of conversation, she was already plotting our life together.

‘People like us need to stick together,’ she said at one stage.

‘People like us?’ I queried. ‘What are we like?’

‘Well, you know. You’re no George Clooney,’ she said. ‘And I’m no Catherine Zeta Jones.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘I suppose not.’

‘I want to have kids,’ she said.

If I’d been drinking at that point, I might very well have showered her in Guinness foam. But I wasn’t. In fact, I’d finished my first pint. I ignored her rather previous revelation and asked her if she’d like another drink.

‘No, I’ll get these,’ she said. ‘Same again?’ And she made her way to the bar.

I had to get out of there. I decided to tell her when she came back from the bar. It wasn’t going to work out. I’d tell her so. It'd be fine.

‘What are you doing next Friday?’ she said, placing another Guinness in front of me.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, my expression surely betraying me. ‘Why do you ask?’

…

Digression

I realise this might seem rather like Ian Huntley wagging a disapproving finger at Ian Brady, but Grace really was horribly overweight. I feel rotten saying that, I really do, but I believe I can justify it to a certain extent. I am and always have been repulsed by my own body fat. I stand in front of the mirror clutching at my buttocks and scowling, grabbing my belly and slapping my moobs and spitting vile rebukes at myself. So if I’m repulsed by my own fat, surely I’ve every right to be repulsed by other people’s?

…

‘I’m having a few people for dinner on Saturday.’ That’s how she phrased it. In such a way that even if she hadn't been as large as she was, it would automatically have occurred to anyone with a sense of humour to make some kind of joke about cannibalism. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it was something about admiring a woman with a healthy appetite. I thought I was being rather witty but Grace did not. Her face immediately crumpled.

‘Why do you want to hurt me?’ she said.

I was mortified. I knew it was an odd reaction to a fairly inoffensive comment, but still, I reacted. ‘I don’t!’ I cried. ‘Honestly, that’s the last thing I want.’

She smiled a small smile. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘So you’ll come?’

I started shaking my head. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I should.’ I forced myself to speak the next sentence, sure that it would bring about an end to the evening. ‘I’m not sure this is going to work out,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

Yeah. That would do it.

‘Don’t you like me?’ she said, all plaintive and furrowed. ‘I thought we were getting on.’

‘We are!’ I protested, slightly too much. ‘We’re getting on great.’

‘Phew!’ she said. ‘That’s a relief. God. I thought for a second you were going to say you didn’t want to see me again.’

‘Oh…’

I was incapable of finishing my sentence.

She was nodding at me, smiling. ‘I really like you,’ she said. I smiled back. It was Marwood’s smile in Withnail and I when he has no idea how to cope with Uncle Monty’s advances.



‘I’ve just got to pop to the loo,’ she said. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

‘I won’t,’ I said.

As soon as she was gone, I took a pen from my pocket and searched around frantically for a piece of paper. Finding none I picked up a beermat and scribbled on it. ‘Sorry. Had to go.’ I placed the beermat next to her drink and I walked swiftly and decisively out of the pub. I didn’t look back.

Her bag and coat were left untended on her chair. I took the risk that no one would steal them.

All the way home, I imagined her reaction on returning from the toilet. She’d see that I was not sitting at the table. She’d look to the bar, around the rest of the pub. She’d sit down and wait. Eventually she’d see the beermat. She'd read the note.

I couldn’t believe what I’d done. But I’d definitely done it.

The next morning I got a call from an incredibly pissed off Avril. Grace had just left her house. ‘She was crying her eyes out all night,’ she said. ‘What the fuck do you think you were playing at?’

I had no excuse. It was cowardly. And it was incredibly mean. And I should have known better. I did know better. I knew much better.

Avril swore a lot, and when I wouldn’t assure her that I’d do everything I could to make it up to Grace, she hung up on me.

We haven’t spoken since.

...

I enjoyed writing this week’s other posts because, as I said earlier, I wasn't really ashamed of any of the things described in them. However, I didn’t enjoy writing this one.

This is probably the one I needed to write.

…

I’m sorry if I’ve gone down in your estimations. I’m sorry for going down in my own. If you can bring yourself to, please leave your worst date behaviour in the comments.

Feedback Friday is away. It’s not speaking to me.

Have a good weekend.