“Beauty is only skin deep”. “One cannot judge a book by its cover”. “Personality and inner beauty are what counts”. I am repeating these mantras under my breath and hoping my flat mate won’t notice I’m talking to myself as I iron my ‘second date’ top (well, I say iron, it’s more accurate to say I’m kind of pressing the iron gingerly onto the top and squirting steam everywhere in the hope that it looks like I might know how to iron). Flat mate looks up from the copy of Heat she’s engrossed in long enough to say ‘whatevs, Zee’. I opt for a different tactic and start chanting ‘all gorgeous men are heart-breaking pig-dog devil monsters from the Planet Bastard’. Flat mate doesn’t respond so I assume she approves of my new motto.
Yes, I’m seeing ‘Mr Darcy’ from column 6 again after two weeks of frantic flirty texting (avec smiley faces, kisses, pet names and innuendos), poking each other on Facebook and trying to resist the urge to blab about the fine physical specimen I’m dating to my mates, boss, Mum, the postman etc.
As I put the finishing touches to the ‘I’m naturally beautiful, honest’ makeup it’s taken me 40 minutes to perfect, I attempt desperately to remind myself that he. Is. Just. A. Boy. And anyway, I’m fabulous and have lips like Angelina Jolie and there’s no such thing as leagues and it will all be fine.
As it turned out, all my mantra chanting must have worked a treat, because I even impressed myself with my cool demeanour and subtle flirting techniques (at least I hope they were subtle and not, you know, obvious, desperate, inept and a little bit sad). He, in turn, is witty and charming and we engage in easy banter as we wander across a bridge over the Thames by moonlight. There are, inexplicably, fairy lights in the trees (even though it’s not Christmas) and the whole scene is so utterly magical and romantic I begin to wonder if I’m dreaming (it wouldn’t be the first dream I’ve had about him over the past fortnight).
If it had been a dream, however, he would have kissed me by now and there’s been a distinct lack of snoggage. I’m baffled. The setting couldn’t be more appropriate for some lip-action and I’ve flirted my cute little pop-socks off. I keep looking at his perfect full lips in a wanton manner. There’s no way I’m going in first, though. Imagine if the kiss wasn’t reciprocated. I’d have to crawl into a hole and DIE of SHAME.
It’s 1am and we’re parting ways, ready to jump on the last tube of the night (separate ones, thank goodness, which eliminates the possibility that I’ll walk into this one in front of him) and….yippee, he kisses me. Of course, being a woman, even as the kiss is happening I start analyzing it. I decide that’s it’s perfect and that I love him and want his babies. I tell myself to stop being an idiot. And then all too soon it’s over and time to walk away….. We’ve already arranged date number 3, though, so stay tuned….
Words by Zowie Edwards