Blind Date

A rom com meets horror story.

Content note to readers - contains references to coercive control.

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Standing in front of the hallway mirror, Yasmin completed her pre-date ritual. She stared deeply into her own eyes, and said out loud the one thing she most needed to hear.

‘Yasmin Peterson. You will not fuck this up.’

She hastily smeared on another layer of lipstick, grabbed her handbag, and raced out the front door. She was halfway up the path when she remembered the house keys.

Damn it.

Yasmin ran back and tugged hard at the resolutely shut front door.

Double damn it!

It was no good. She knew that she should be sensible, call the locksmith and pray the bill didn’t give her hives.

But Yasmin had been sensible all her life, and where had it gotten her? A hot-shot marketing job that bored her to tears, a relationship with a banker that ended in inevitable disaster, and a lifetime of missed opportunities falling through her quick-bitten fingernails.

Yasmin was done with being sensible. Hell or high water, she was going on this date.

She marched towards the tube, frantically messaging her friend: “Can I crash at yours tonight?” As she pressed send, a man barged past her, knocking the phone clean from her hand. Yasmin felt the screen crack before it happened.

‘Oi!’ she bellowed at the man’s retreating backside. But he was already gone.

Yasmin swiped up the cracked phone, trying desperately to read her friend’s reply. The screen was too screwed up to tell.

Well, she thought, no choice but to go on.

The tube station was heaving. Everyone seemed to be carrying bulky shopping bags or giant rucksacks, and Yasmin was jostled, bashed and bruised as she shoved her way onto a packed carriage.

Rammed into a tiny corner, Yasmin wondered whether it was time to stop trying so hard. Since her big break up with Eddie, or, as he was formally known, Edmund Richards-Smythe, she had tried every dating trick in the book. She’d played the apps game, taken up every ridiculous hobby from improv to hula hooping in an attempt to meet people, and even tried, horror of horrors, speed dating.

None of it worked. She felt like a fraud, feigning interest in their job (sales, accounting, law) or their hobbies (rafting, long-distance running, poker) while working out whether to batch cook a lamb or beef casserole that weekend. Her most recent date was with a man twenty years older and ten times balder than his profile. Singledom seemed to be her destiny.

And then, in a turbulent sea of romantic disaster, Cynthie had thrown her a lifebuoy.

‘He’s early thirties and single, very handsome, and oh, just perfect for you! Please let me set you up with him. I can’t bear the idea of you dying alone and being eaten by cats.’

Yasmin didn’t plan on dying alone any time soon, and would never own cats, being highly allergic. But it was inarguable that running Project Love Life on her own steam had utterly failed. Perhaps it was time to throw caution to the wind, and leave romance in the hands of fate.

A man next to her on the tube shuffled sideways, pressing his sweaty armpit right in her face. Then again, maybe caution wasn’t such a bad shout.

At long last, the tube doors mercifully opened, and with a few passive aggressive “excuse mes”, Yasmin forced her way out of the carriage.

She sailed up the escalator, trying to set her own expectations. This was just another date, that was all. She was hardly going to meet the love of her life.

Yasmin stepped off the escalator and tapped her phone screen against the barrier. It flashed red. She tried again.

Stupid phone.

Yasmin rummaged in her handbag with her free hand, praying she’d find her actual card, all the while tapping her cracked phone with increasing aggression.

Frustrated travellers moved around her, grumbling. Yasmin caught the phrase “bloody tourists”, attacking her to her Londoner core.

At last, her hands found shiny plastic. She pulled the card out in triumph, and tapped the barrier.

The light flashed red again.

Grunting in frustration, Yasmin tried another barrier. Something was clearly wrong with her card. What the hell was she going to—

The barrier finally opened. Yasmin rushed through, smacking straight into a guy standing on the other side.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m—’

The guy looked at her. Confused, a little startled. And absolutely drop dead gorgeous.

Yasmin felt annoyed Londoners rushing past her, and didn’t even care. It was like time had stopped around them.

‘Hey,’ said the guy, in a rich and surprisingly deep voice. ‘This might sound like an odd question, but is your name Yasmin Peterson?’

‘Y-yes, I’m Yasmin,’ she stammered. ‘You can call me Yas, all my friends do, and we can be friends, can’t we?’

Her face flushed hot, not just from the tube.

Human speech, Yasmin, her brain screamed at her. Human speech!

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ Why did she sound so flustered? ‘I got locked out and smashed my phone and—’

‘No worries. It’s fine. It’s Dan, by the way.’

He smiled at her. Such a warm, kind, genuine smile. She felt like she’d known it all her life, and discovered it for the first time, all at once.

Thank you, Cynthie. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Yasmin glided out the tube in a daze, Dan a mere step ahead. She felt incredibly aware of her body, of how close it was to Dan’s. He moved with easy purpose, as if the crowds were deliberately parting to allow him through.

Unfortunately, they didn’t seem to factor Yasmin into this equation.

‘Hey – excuse me – sorry – can I – can I just – excuse me.’

Yasmin found Dan drifting away from her. She picked up pace, becoming more aggressive, but it was as if they sensed this and hardened, blocking her path. It was like being in The Verve music video, except she didn’t feel cool, she felt hot and irritated, like she was being deliberately—

‘You OK?’

Dan was standing right beside her.

‘Sorry, lost you for a bit. Sometimes you just go into London walk mode, you know?’

He chuckled. A deep, rippling sound. Like a mountain laughing.

Like a mountain laughing – Jesus Christ. Thank God he can’t hear what you’re thinking.

‘Here we are,’ said Dan, taking her arm and steering her towards the side door of a bar she hadn’t even spotted.

His touch was warm and firm. Yasmin felt a bolt of static, a prickling from his fingers all the way up to the base of her neck.

Is this chemistry?

They stepped inside the bar in a surge of sound and heat. The venue was rammed with the Saturday evening crowd, a cacophony of human voices clamouring to be heard. Beneath it all thrummed generic pop from a cheap set of speakers. The décor seemed to be trying too hard to be cool, with generically vintage black and white photos and American road signs on the walls. The words “Bar of Fates” flashed in pink neon.

Dan let go of her arm, slowly and deliberately removing his hands, staring at her the whole time. Yasmin’s stomach gave a little flutter.

‘Let’s find our table,’ he said, walking with purpose through the crowded bar.

‘Our table?’ Yasmin bellowed over the noise. ‘It’s crazy in here. I don’t think we’re going to find anywhere to stand, let alone—’

The table sat empty in the far corner. The reserved sign had been drawn in red chalk, and underlined.

‘Oh. You were prepared.’

She said it as a kind of lame joke, but he just nodded, appreciating her compliment. So he liked to be organised. Was that good? Or would he be boring? But he didn’t feel boring. None of this felt boring at all.

They perched on their stools, Yasmin’s legs dangling. It felt quieter in this corner, as if the general volume had been turned down a few notches.

‘Drink?’ Dan asked.

Yasmin swallowed. Suddenly the decision felt meaningful, as if the whole date hinged upon it. ‘Cabernet Sauvignon, please. If they have it. Any red wine is cool.’ She stared at the table. It was black, small and round, like you’d imagine a black hole to be.

He came back ten minutes later, red wine in one hand, a pint of beer in the other. In that time, Yasmin had made up her mind who she wanted to be on this date. Casual yet fun, a little bit flirty. She’d ask him questions, nothing too invasive. Most of all, she’d let him take the lead. He seemed to want to, and it was nice not to be the one conducting the entire conversation, for once, to let someone take the reins for you.

They clinked glasses and drank, his eyes never leaving hers. She broke her gaze first, putting her glass down with careful deliberateness.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You date often?’

She shook her head: liar.

‘I find it all very tedious, don’t you? All the “what’s your job” and “what are your hobbies”? You can’t really get to know someone that way, can you? Not the real them.’

She looked at him then, really looked. Light brown eyes, ringed with green. Thick lashes, long for a boy. A strong jaw coated in fine stubble, thick eyebrows, sandy brown hair kept quite long and well groomed. Some muscle definition in his arms.

All in all, a man who took care of himself. She wondered what it would be like to let him take care of her. It would be so nice, wouldn’t it, not to have to worry and plan and organise everything; to have someone reserve a table in the corner of a bar, just for you.

‘There’s something on your cheek,’ he said.

He took a napkin and dabbed at the side of her face. He did it several times, each dab a little firmer, scraping against her skin.

At last, he removed the napkin, smiling like a satisfied workman. ‘All gone.’

The crumpled napkin sat on the table between them. It was disconcerting to look at, so she looked back at Dan’s face. He really was handsome.

‘What shall we talk about, then?’ she said, placing her hand against her chin, and hoping she looked casual and chic, like Audrey Hepburn. ‘If the usual topics are off the table?’

He seemed to toss the question up and down as if it were a solid object, catching it in one hand. His smile grew Cheshire wide.

‘Why don’t you tell me something you’ve never told a soul?’ he said.

The wine cloyed around Yasmin’s tongue, sitting heavily in her mouth. She looked down at the table and saw his hands were very close to hers: almost twice the size, the nails smooth and clean, skin tanned.

What would it feel like to hold them? For them to touch her body?

She moved her hands onto her lap to avoid these thoughts. There was a flicker in his eyes – disappointment? No, he was just waiting for her to answer.

‘I…’ She paused again. ‘I can’t think…’

Her phone buzzed in her handbag. She pulled it out, almost with relief.

‘Saved by the bell,’ said Dan archly, glittering with wicked charm.

Yasmin’s heart thudded as she answered. Despite the cracked screen, the phone still worked, though the signal was appalling.

‘What?’

‘Yas— Jen. I don’t… can you hear me…?’

‘You’re breaking up!’

‘That’s better.’ Jen’s voice again, clearer. ‘I got your message. Where are you?’

‘I’m at a—’

She barely felt him take the phone. It slipped from her fingers like a snatched fish, still slick with seawater. She could almost feel the ghost of its weight as Dan put the phone to his ear.

‘Uhuh, yes, hello. This is Dan, Yasmin’s blind date. Didn’t she mention it? I see. Right. She can’t speak right now but she’ll call you later. Thanks. That’s wonderful. Have a good evening.’

He ended the call and extended his hand out to her, the phone flat in his palm. Yasmin snatched it back. A thousand objections rose in her throat.

They died away. She was being silly, really – almost hysterical. Dan was just trying to be helpful. She was making something out of nothing.

Instead, she said, ‘I tried to curse a girl when I was seventeen.’

Dan looked genuinely surprised. ‘Why?’

‘She stole my boyfriend.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded sagely. ‘Did it work?’

Yasmin wriggled a little in her seat. She was wearing tight black skinny jeans, the kind that are meant to make your legs look good but only made her feel itchy.

‘Of course not.’

Dan nodded again. ‘Still, it’s an interesting secret. How did you do it?’

Yasmin shrugged. ‘Some stupid spell I found online – you had to use a bit of their hair. I stole her hairbrush. It was really dumb.’ She shrugged again, trying to worm free of this humiliating memory.

She’d watched the girl’s hair burn in the candle flame. Even at the time she’d known how stupid it was, but the thought of letting her get away with it was worse. The smell of burnt hair made her imagine what it was like to actually catch fire, your skin crisping, your fat crackling, all your synapses screaming in agony.

Yasmin gripped the table. The solid, real table. She was an adult, on a date with another adult. Nothing was on fire.

‘My turn,’ said Dan. He leaned in closer, as if they were about to kiss. She wasn’t sure that she wanted him to, not quite yet. But she didn’t stop it. She just sat there, unable to bear the anticipation. The not knowing.

At the last second, he moved to the side, his mouth a fraction from her ear. In a low whisper, that should not have been audible in a busy bar, he told her his secret.

Yasmin blinked for a few seconds, trying to process what Dan had just told her. A laugh burst out.

‘You’re joking. Aren’t you?’

Dan shook his head. ‘I’ve never been more serious.’

And he really looked it.

She stood up quickly, gripping her handbag so tightly, the edges of the handles dug red marks. With her free hand, she scooped up her cumbersome winter coat, holding it limply, like a dead animal.

This had all been a ruse from the start. He was toying with her, making her think he was interested in something genuine, but all the while…

‘Goodbye, Dan,’ she said. Too angry to say anything more.

She turned her eyes to the shape of the doorway, but found his hand on her arm. It wasn’t a grip; she was sure it wasn’t. Yet she couldn’t take that step.

‘Let me explain,’ he said. His tone was calm, reasonable and utterly disarming. ‘I promise I won’t waste your time.’

All of Yasmin’s righteous rage hovered in the air, clamouring at her to follow through. Make a dramatic exit. Tell him to go to hell.

She slid back down into her seat, the coat and bag still in her hands.

‘Go on. Be quick.’

He leaned back in his chair. There was something leonine about him, a rawness that looked wrong in a shirt. He swirled his beer for a second, as if it were a fine vintage.

‘The Bar of Fates,’ he said, relishing each syllable. ‘Interesting name, isn’t it? Do you believe in fate, Yasmin?’

Yasmin gripped her bag tighter. What was he about to say? We’re “destined to be together”? She couldn’t stand it.

‘No?’ he continued, as if her anger didn’t register. ‘Karma, then. The punishment of the wicked.’

She was halfway to standing. ‘I don’t have time for stupid riddles.’

His laughter surrounded her, a dark, warm chuckle. The air was hot and stale and smelled of bodies, and for the first time in years, she wanted a cigarette. Her fingers twisted around each other, as if it were there. And she could smell the burning.

She could smell the burning.

They were outside some nightclub, her and Cynthie, drunk and exhausted. The new heels pinched Yasmin’s feet. Cynthie has already kicked hers off and stood barefoot on the pavement.

‘Put your shoes on,’ Yasmin slurred, looking down at Cynthie’s bare toes. ‘You’ll cut yourself.’

‘Don’t care.’ Cynthie’s lit cigarette was a single point of light. ‘Je-sus.’

She slumped to sitting on the ground, still holding her cigarette. Yasmin tried to pull her friend upright, unsuccessfully.

‘I’m sitting down, alright!’

Yasmin joined her on the pavement. Her head was thrumming, the after effects of the thumping house music and vodka shots taking their toll.

It took a while to realise her friend was crying. It wasn’t loud, or dramatic, like Cynthie always was about everything. It was quiet little breaths, a shiny face, eyes screwed up tight.

‘Oh babe, babe no, sssh.’ Yasmin rubbed her friend’s back. ‘You’re just drunk.’

Cynthie’s body tightened up. When she spoke, her voice was small but clear. ‘I’m thinking of breaking up with him.’

‘Oh, babe.’ Yasmin couldn’t think what else to say. Oh babe, oh babe.

‘It’s not like I don’t love him! I do. He’s just… you know…’

‘I know.’ Yasmin kept rubbing her friend’s back. Everyone knew what Cynthie’s boyfriend was like. He was witty and good looking and funny, of course. But he could be full on. Like, really full on.

Cynthie starting talking again, but her words were drowned out by a group of pink hatted Hen-nighters spilling out of the club and onto the street, shrieking the words of “Sweet Caroline” at the top of their untuneful voices.

By the time they’d stumbled away, Cynthie’s cigarette was on the floor, smouldering.

‘It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ she said.

Yasmin helped Cynthie to her feet, her stomach churning. She wanted to say, ‘Leave him,’ the way she’d wanted to whenever he put Cynthie down, or laughed at her, or made her look stupid. When he put his hand around her neck and steered her about like he possessed her. When his eyes went dark and cold.

So many times, she’d wanted to tell her. And yet…

He was Eddie’s best friend. Yasmin and Eddie were talking about their life plans - getting engaged in a year, married in two, retirement before 60. If Eddie found out Yasmin caused his best friend’s break up, it would screw it all up. It would ruin everything.

Besides, getting involved in other people’s relationships was never a good idea. It was all too complicated. Too messy.

Yasmin called a taxi, and helped Cynthie into it. She kissed her friend on the forehead, and told her to text when she could back. And she didn’t say a word about Cynthie’s boyfriend.

She didn’t say a word about Dan.

He was looking at her across the table, his palms spread open. He looked a little older than she remembered, a little more muscular, with longer hair. But the eyes were the same. Dancing between delightful and cold.

He reached for her, and she flinched away. Bodies surrounded them. Bodies without faces. She turned to try and see them, to catch someone’s eye.

There was no one to see.

Yasmin tried to move and couldn’t. She was held, somehow. Helpless.

Dan leaned across the table. Brushed his fingers against her neck.

‘Oh Yasmin,’ he crooned, a tuneless lullaby. ‘Oh sensible, safe, “don’t rock the boat” Yasmin. Didn’t you think your fate would catch up with you?’

And she remembered how Cynthie shrank from her after that night, shrank from everyone. How she stopped turning up to nights out. How answers to texts took longer and longer, before fading to silence. How Yasmin let it happen. Because it was easier to let Cynthie disappear. To forget the inconvenience of her existence.

Their worlds moved on. Yasmin married Eddie, her banker, her safe, secure choice, like being suffocated with a beige blanket.

Their marriage was comfortable and unsatisfying, without being especially bad. Eddie had at least one affair, which Yasmin carefully ignored. She rose high in the ranks of her soulless marketing career. She went on nice holidays and bought designer handbags and paid off her parents’ mortgage. She was neither happy nor unhappy.

And then, on her 55^th birthday, there’d been a particularly wild party on her husband’s boat. They were both retiring, her and Eddie, and facing the fact that they no longer had work to distract them from each other. She’d gotten very drunk. Clambered onto the railing at the prow, arms outstretched, pretending to be Kate Winslet.

She imagined someone behind her, holding her like a young Leonardo DiCaprio. She’d felt so wild, in that moment. So wild and free.

And then, as she was trying to climb back down, a wind gust knocked her clean off balance. Her heel slipped and she tumbled forwards over the railing, pitching into the cold and unforgiving sea.

Yasmin gasped, as if for air. Dan’s hand pressed against her bare throat, his fingers sliding slowly upwards to her cheek.

‘You thought you could escape me,’ he whispered, cradling her face in a vicelike grip. ‘But fate always finds you, in the end.’

He smiled at her. A warm, kind, genuine smile.

And he leaned in for his kiss.

#

Thanks for reading! This story was initially inspired by watching the film Man Up (because Simon Pegg is in it), and realising how many rom com tropes are so. dang. creepy. But then it morphed into a reflection on guilt and fate, a little inspired by an amazing short I read in this wonderful collection.

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