I watched, confused at first and then horrified. Oh no, my mind screamed. Oh nononono. But I was here, he was just a couple of feet away, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to escape. I was going to have to get through a date with a man who was clearly completely steaming.
‘Zoë!’ He pulled me into a hug so strong and unexpected it snatched me off my stool, and my legs flailed helplessly in mid-air for a second before I slipped through his arms to the floor. His T-shirt was wet with sweat that, judging by the smell, was ninety per cent tequila. His breath smelled of fags and I could see a half-smoked one tucked behind his ear. Blurry blueish-grey tattoos covered both his arms.
‘Hi,’ I said, my voice coming out in a kind of squeak, because he’d squeezed all the breath out of my lungs.
‘Whatcha drinking?’
I wanted to say, ‘Just a glass of water,’ in the hope that he might follow suit. But my half-finished glass of wine was right there on the table in front of him.
‘Large merlot for the lady,’ he bellowed, making his way unsteadily towards the bar. ‘And mine’s a double tequila shot, salt and lemon, and a Budweiser chaser.’
Except the last bit came out like ‘bugwishershasher’. I watched the bartender hesitate, wondering whether to refuse to serve him, then shrug and pour the drinks. The women at the next-door table glanced at me again, concerned this time rather than amused, and whispered to each other once more.
The floor of the bar was shiny reclaimed parquet, solid as could be, which was a shame because right then I’d have given absolutely anything for it to collapse and swallow me without trace, forever.
But the floor was clearly not going to oblige. I was stuck there for the duration of this date with this man who, I was beginning to suspect, was as far as possible from being a spy. Unless he made a habit of going on stakeouts absolutely shitfaced, with the smell of tequila betraying his whereabouts for miles around.
Brett returned from the bar, his two shots clutched in one hand, his bottle of beer tucked under his arm, and my glass of wine held unsteadily in the other hand. He put it down on the table and the glass rocked, red wine slopping over its rim, then fortunately settled.
‘Cheers.’ Brett downed a shot, chomped a lemon slice, then poured the second shot down his neck. ‘Bit pissed. It’s been a long time.’
I smiled politely and took a sip of wine. ‘What’s been a long time?’
‘Since I had a drink. Or went out with a bird. Been away, see, like I said.’
Maybe I was being unfair, I thought. Maybe it was understandable that a man who’d been abroad, doing a high-pressure job, would want to let his hair down a bit when he got back? Maybe the lairy Essex-boy act was put on to throw people off the scent? But the scent of booze and fags was for real, there was no doubt about that.
‘Well, uh, cheers,’ I said, taking another gulp of wine. There was no way I was going to be able to drink this date successful, but at least once I’d finished this glass I could go. ‘Was it far, where you were based?’
‘Not so far. Was a good long stretch though. Two years I’ve been away.’
He picked up his beer and took a long swallow. Shit. He was almost halfway down it. I was going to have to speed up my wine drinking so he didn’t get the chance to get another round in. Or, worse still, so politeness wouldn’t require me to offer him another drink.
But I needn’t have worried.
‘Gotta go see a man about a dog,’ he said. ‘’Scuse me.’
He got up and made his way circuitously to the ladies’ loo, then fortunately realised his mistake, turned around and stared blearily for a second before spotting the sign for the men’s and heading off in more or less the right direction.
I watched him, wondering if I should just cut my losses and do a runner. But before I could get up, one of the women at the next-door table piped up.
‘Excuse me?’
I looked round and managed what I hoped was a bright smile. ‘Yes?’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but it doesn’t look like your… friend… is in a very good way.’
I felt a massive blush creeping up my neck and flooding my face. Not only was I on a date with a guy who was so bladdered he could barely string a sentence together, but people had noticed. Well, duh, obviously they had. Half the pub was looking in my direction with varying degrees of amusement, worry and disgust.
‘He’s not, is he?’ I muttered. ‘Oh my God, it’s a Tinder date and it’s just awful, isn’t it?’
‘You could ask for Angela,’ her friend suggested helpfully.
‘I could what?’
‘It’s a thing. If you go to the bar and ask to see Angela, they’ll make sure you get out of here safely.’
‘Really?’ I got to my feet and was about to approach the bar, when Brett reappeared from the loo, the front of his T-shirt wet with what I hoped was water now, as well as sweat.
‘That’s better,’ he slurred. ‘Now, another round.’
He turned and strode purposefully in the direction I’d been about to go myself, but something went wrong. His brain had said, ‘Go to the bar,’ but his feet hadn’t got the memo. One of them went one way and one went the other and his ankles got twisted around each other in a kind of French plait. For a few seconds he teetered, just like my glass of red wine had, but he didn’t manage to right himself. Arms flailing, he faceplanted spectacularly, right next to the table with the little dog, which recoiled in horror.
‘Just a suggestion,’ said the woman next to me, who I was starting to regard as my new best friend, ‘but now might be a good time to leg it.’
‘If you’re sure you’re okay to get home,’ added her friend.
‘I am,’ I assured her. ‘I’m grand. Never been better.’
I gathered up my bag and what was left of my dignity, gave them a quick wave and headed for the door. But as I was passing Brett’s prone form, I noticed something. Right there on his right ankle, between the bottom of his jeans and his grubby white sock, was a chunky plastic bit of kit on a webbing strap. I’d never seen one before, but I knew straight away what it was.
An electronic monitoring device. An ankle tag. Brett hadn’t been working abroad at all – he’d been in prison.
My dating life hadn’t exactly been a resounding success up until that point, but now I knew I’d hit rock bottom.
Two
Six months earlier
Today marks a turning point for you, Aquarius. Facing the future and finding the happiness you desire and deserve means letting go of the past, however painful that may appear.
I was pretty much used to waking up with a feeling of leaden sadness in my heart, and a feeling of hot, itchy softness on my head. The first was my longing for my ex-boyfriend Joe, the sense of loss and regret that had stubbornly refused to shift even though we’d split up years ago, after an intense three-month relationship at university. After many years apart, Joe had come back into my life – or I’d come back into his – and all those feelings had been painfully reignited, even though I’d realised there was no chance of him splitting up with his girlfriend, Alice.