A Memorable Evening

"This is a short story I wrote in 2009 'The Perfect Date', and posted it as a 'note' on Facebook. People liked it but I wasn't sure if it was good enough to really put it out there. I came back to it in 2010 and re-wrote it changing the name to: 'A Memorable Evening'. Since creating my blog I've built up some of the confidence I always dream of. I hope you enjoy reading this."

At first I was apprehensive about calling her. I hadn’t been on a date for some time, hell I hadn’t been out of my house after 8pm in months.

After some coaxing and a promise that she was really nice, warm and had a great personality by my friend, Rhea, I couldn’t help but become curious about how true her description was. What did I have to lose? If worst came to worst at least I might be out the house after 8pm for once. I could chalk it up as an achievement.

I make the call ...  we end up talking on the phone for over an hour, which is good.

Neither of us thinks to make a date in the diaries to meet up. Talking on the phone is so natural, comfortable even; secretly we don’t want to spoil it. I honestly believe we mutually agree to meet up, I can’t be sure. Our conversations are so rich and full it’s hard to keep track of who says what exactly. But the date is set...

Its 6pm and we’re at an art exhibition a friend of hers has put on. The decor minus the creativity on the walls looks as though it was inspired by a contemporary designer, and we find ourselves marvelling at the architecture behind the art.

It’s amusing that everyone is being so pretentious, trying to come across astute in some kind of semi-subconscious, I’m a better Art Interpreter than you are! competition. Our glasses are charged and the best thing about the location we can agree on is; our drinks taste fantastic.

It’s not long before we’re caught in a vicious conversation between two arty types, regarding a painting of blue people set against a green backdrop that, we happened to look at for a moment too long. Unfortunately for us, we’re standing between a badly dressed version of Russell Brand and a young woman that may have styled herself on every character Helena Bonham Carter ever played. The feeling of verbal suffocation begins to set in.

We’re asked questions but never given the chance to answer as Russell and Helena know the answers already, and merely crave the attention of people outside of their; disagreement. What’s more is, an audience is forming, people are watching with marked interest, looking at us as though we have everything to do with what’s going on.

“I can’t see any reason why blue people have any place at an exhibition such as this.” Russell barks, his face a picture of practiced shock and disgust.

“That’s because you clearly do not understand the representation of the piece. Maybe if you painted yourself blue and spent the day in a field, you might learn something!”

Apparently, no one but us can see how hilarious the pair look and sound, and we attempt to quietly slip away under the gaze of a portion of the rooms inhabitants. And as we suspect, Russell and Helena don’t even notice we’re gone.

Though I’d taken the time to compliment my date on her dress, shoes and hair; I hadn’t consumed the complete image totally. This happened soon after we left the exhibition and found ourselves in a black cab. I was close enough, it was quiet enough to pause and admire her sneakily.

We headed towards a book launch party. No one we knew. But we had invites all the same.

The events at the exhibition had given us something to laugh about and the veil of nervousness had vanished, replaced with a playful intimacy that suited both our personalities.

Black cabs provide such ample opportunity for great conversation!

As she shares a funny story from her school days, I take notice of the way her eyes light up when she gets excited and the unconscious flick of her hair when a really interesting thought pops into her head.

I sit there listening. Trying to figure out what cloud I’m on with this beautifully engaging woman who is enjoying my company more than I thought she would.

The party is somewhere in the heart of the capital and provides a change of speed. More drinks, but this time with literary-types, publishers, writers and yes, groupies. My date is having a great time chatting to a guy and his wife about a book the couple wrote on why marriage is futile. I leave her to bask in the irony of the conversation and make my way to the bar for a club soda.

The music is just loud enough for me not to hear exactly what she says in my ear but I catch the words: “Martini ... thanks ... nice shoes.” It’s not my date who’s across the crowded room laughing uncomfortably at a joke someone more interested in her cleavage just told her. Instead, it’s some children’s book writer, last name: Hinks, not married, and currently in London buying a two bedroom Victorian. I find this out without having to ask. Every so often I look across the room to catch my date making; save me eyes back at me. The married couple gone, replaced by sharks nearby; circling their prey, my date.

I cut the one sided conversation short by buying the pretty writer a Martini, thank her for her company, and leave her to be devoured by the, Great White wearing a dark blue suit and white rimmed glasses who'd been watching her butt for the majority of her oration. My date grabs my arm when I get close enough and whispers in my ear playfully but stern, “Don’t you dare leave me alone in here again!”

Warmed by her determination to stay close, we finish up talking to the author of a book called: The Subtle Art of Mingling, and get out into the cool night air.

Outside the scene is a myriad of lights and ambient city sounds. The glow of the Thames and the imposing yet sobering view of Tower Bridge casting reflections on the water are calming, reassuring. We’re relaxed even more now, helped by the serene feel of the evening. Talking, walking along the bank-side, drinking in the sight of other couples enjoying themselves, a lot of them wordlessly, as we stroll arm in arm on the sporadically placed cobbled paths and walkways all parallel to the quietly glistening waters.

Again the opportunity to marvel presents itself. Underneath her thin black coat, her dress clings to her body’s contours highlighting her slender and curvy frame. Her warmth, both in the way she carries herself and the temperature her body gives off; makes me cling tighter. My senses are smitten, but the time to admit that with a kiss is a long way off.

The water seems to call out to us and we find ourselves watching the boats drift along the surface.

“Do you think people take the time these days to simply slow down and enjoy the view?” she asks.

I can’t help but let my eyes linger on her for a brief moment, and return them to the picture she is referring to.

“It’s so hard not to miss all of this; you’d have to be extremely preoccupied to neglect it all.” My words aren’t really about the boats, the water, or the glow of the lights bouncing off it.

She looks at me; her words are subtle, slow, yet deliberate. “I totally, agree.”

Disengaging our arms from each other she shudders almost imperceptibly and I instinctively put my arm around her. The fit of her body. Head on my chest, arm around my waist, is perfect.

We talk some more about nothing much at all, and time is misplaced as we forget that there are other people nearby or the fact that the world needs more than just the two of us to keep it populated.

We walk some more until the London Eye looms above, its cargo a reflection of us.

It’s easy to see why tourists enjoy London, especially on warms nights like this. The city is either a buzz of pounding reality and energetic individuals searching for somewhere to blow their minds, or, sombre and relaxing, a perfect environment for lovers to explore and discover each other. We decided mutually there and then that London is definitely one of the best cities in the world, without saying it.

Between the exhibit, party and the stroll; we’d worked up an appetite and Wagamama’s had its glass door ajar, enough for the rich smells of pan-Asian food to waft out into the evening air.

Our seats are cosy and feel secluded, like the maitre d’ read our minds when finding us a table.

Not long after placing our orders the sweet aroma’s from Yasai Gyoza and Chilli Squid waft from our table. The main course of, Cha Han; one for each of us is brought shortly after our drinks have been recharged. The food is almost as fantastic as the company in my opinion and by the time we get into a black cab on London Bridge we’re tipsy, but not enough to quell our debate about why men and women get on famously provided alcohol is involved. Truth is we’d been getting on famously all evening. Even our phone calls to each other over the days prior were memorable. 

We end up somewhere in the Docklands on a balcony owned by a restaurant overlooking the river. I hadn't noticed until now how much closer we'd got to each other standing, looking out at the lights caressing the water's surface. She hugs me tighter as the cool air blows circles around us. I give her my jacket and hold her for some warmth. 

We don't say much, there isn't anything that needs saying. We just watch the night quietly step over the evening.