Blind Dates Read online

  Blind Dates

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A Letter from Gordon

  Acknowledgements

  Songs

  About the Author

  Also by Gordon Macmillan

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  This one is for my friends, past and present

  Prologue

  Have you ever had one of those moments in life of absolute clarity when you know what you have to do?

  Have you heard the voices inside your head telling you what you need to do and why? Sometimes, so loud and insistent that they are impossible to ignore. Like a Greek chorus foretelling tragedy, warning us that we will miss our chance and time if we do not act, and neither will come again.

  This is a story about two such moments. The first one is about jobs and careers and how we work away at them year after year. We become so caught up that we never stop to question what it is we are doing with our lives. Sometimes it’s hard to stop, hard to give ourselves time to look around and come up for air.

  Then suddenly, the whole world actually did stop, and we did have the time. A global pause that delivered unexpected moments of reset and reflection. I took a chance, and I changed my destination after I got thrown off the career train and then never went back.

  The other moment is about a girl, how I lost her and how I tried to get her back. That’s what this story is about. It’s a mixtape as well, one that is full of love songs, so whenever you’re ready, hit play.

  Chapter One

  ‘First Day of My Life’

  February 2020, I’m staring at the computer screen, reading back over the news story I have written with a sense of dread. I’m not sure why I am having trouble with this one. It’s a murder and I’m the crime reporter, and it’s going to be the lead story on the Evening News website. It’s what I do; I was drawn to crime reporting from the start, and I’ve written about crime for all my career. For most of that time it’s been an adrenaline-fuelled buzz that I wouldn’t swap.

  Tonight, however, it’s different and I can’t quite put my finger on why. The story itself is no different—another tragedy that is only making the front page because of the grim statistic it represents on this freezing Wednesday evening. It’s the only the end of February and there have already been ten murders in the capital, which is gripped by a growing sense of foreboding over what will happen with the spreading global pandemic.

  I read the first couple of paragraphs again. My concentration is being tugged at as the news editor, Mackintosh, drums his fingers increasingly loudly as if building to a magnificent drum solo. He wants the story now.

  ‘Tommy, Tommy,’ Mackintosh says.

  No one calls me Tommy. Not even my mother, who will on occasion call me Thomas when she wants me to stop talking and to listen to what she’s saying. Otherwise, I’m Tom, and that’s what everyone calls me, apart from news editors and mothers. Mackintosh, however, likes nicknames, calling another reporter ‘Bomber’ for his ability to break exclusives ahead of rivals. He will then shout out ‘boom’ when the story is published, and to be truthful, people do laugh at this.

  ‘Tommy, Tommy,’ Mackintosh repeats.

  I grimace. Try to concentrate. It makes me think we are in the trenches. No mud and slime for us; we’re up to our necks in bad news, wading our way through it daily. When, I wonder, will there be any good news? More and more, I have reached the conclusion that I don’t think there will be. The bullets keep flying and people continue to fall in the wind.

  ‘One minute,’ I say.

  ‘You said that five minutes ago,’ Mackintosh says. ‘I thought you had somewhere to be.’

  It’s true; I do. I want to get out of here tonight. My friends Marcus and Victoria are having a #LeavingLondon party in a pub in Soho. They have sold their flat and have bought a big house in a picturesque village up north. It is in Yorkshire, in a place called Todmorden, which is quirky and somewhat hip. The kind of place people fleeing London move to—or at least talk of moving to. It is complete with tall Victorian houses and post-industrial mills, and no doubt the setting of windswept TV dramas where there has been a murder. It is, in short, beautiful, and remote, set-in moors and rolling Pennine hills. The pictures look gorgeous on Instagram but then, doesn’t everything?

  When Marcus first told me they were leaving London I couldn’t understand it. They were leaving behind all the joys of the city. The restaurants, bars, cinemas, theatres, galleries, comedy, and live music venues. All the places I occasionally go to. They were swapping it for somewhere with a fraction of that. Marcus said it was about quality of life and work-life balance. That and other slogans favoured by HR departments in buzzword-strewn emails. As an architect, it’s easy for him to work anywhere. Victoria, a solicitor, has taken a job in nearby Leeds.

  I reread my intro paragraph and realise I am fussing over a story that is finished. There are no more words to write and nothing more to add that will change the angle or the outcome of this piece. I am desperately trying to make it sound better, dragging it somehow in a new direction when there is no way to do that. Somebody died, people are broken and sad, and people are statistics that we count and forget with far too much ease. Their stories become subsumed by screaming headlines that reduce tragedy to a numbers game.

  That’s when it hits me, finally dawns. It isn’t the story; it is all the stories. I think they are starting to get to me, as if the weight of them is pressing down upon me, and I wonder how much longer I can keep writing them. But if I don’t do this, if I am not a reporter, what else could I do? I’d always wanted to be a journalist; only now I can imagine a life doing something else. I have no idea what that something else might be.

  I brush this thought aside. I realise I am unsettled by the departure of Marcus, which has been looming for months and now is happening. We were at university together. There were three of us who shared a house in Bristol. It was me, Marcus, and Adam, and now we are down to two.

  I close the story and shout across to Mackintosh that I am done. He claps his hands together, and I sit back in my chair. I pick up my phone and check my messages as I wait for Mac’s approval to go. Most of my messages are about the party tonight. Various friends have already arrived or are on their way, having gone straight from the office to Red Lion behind Carnaby Street.

  I watch Mac as he picks his way through my story, alert for any flourishes of typing. His fingers go to work, and they are like hammers smashing away at the keyboard. There is silence. He sits back, reads; nodding to himself.

  ‘Good stuff, now go, and have a beer for me,’ Mackintosh says.

  I don’t wait for a repeat invitation. I am out of my seat and across the newsroom of the Evening News, and in the lift.

  Out on
the street, it is dark, and an icy winter wind blows through Kensington. People have their heads down as they walk stiffly along the High Street. The road is packed with red buses, choked with traffic, and taxis and cars jostle for space.

  I walk the couple of minutes it takes to reach the tube, and head through the ornate shopping arcade that leads to the station entrance. I run down the steps in time to catch a Circle Line train, which is standing room only, and filled with people coughing and sneezing their way through London, while others pull faces at the constant sternutation.

  There’s no doubt that this is the worst part of my day; commuting to and from North London where I live in a tiny flat nestled between Highbury and Finsbury Park. That is another thing Marcus expressed great joy about. He wouldn’t have to do this anymore. He waxed lyrical about being able to work from home, and the joy of not starting each day on the tube nestled under someone’s armpit. Really, I don’t care: I would hate to leave London. That said, I have slowly come to recognise some of the benefits of going.

  After a quick change to the Central Line, I get off the tube at Oxford Circus and weave my way through the slow-moving crowds spilling over from Oxford Street and cross into Soho. I always get a small sense of joy when I do this. It is as if I am crossing the border and leaving behind the busy shoppers bustling with bursting bags, and heading into a happy space of bars, and restaurants, which I have criss-crossed many times over the years. Walking into Soho always sparks memories of good times and late nights, moments spent hanging outside drinking on the street, or sitting tucked away in a quiet corner.

  As my mind flits through a random highlights reel, I cross the road in front of Liberty and turn into the fashion strip that is Carnaby Street, where the scene and the crowd changes. I turn down the first side street, heading past the cafés and bars of Kingly Street to the Red Lion pub where Marcus and Victoria have booked the first floor for their farewell bash.

  A few idle on the street, braving the cold, cigarettes, and drinks in hand, their icy breath as thick as smoke, as I nip inside the pub. A red rope is hung across the stairs with a ‘Closed for Private Party’ sign dangling. I unclip this and speed to the top floor bar.

  Upstairs, it is all dark wood and an old red patterned carpet, giving the ample space a gloomy look. It’s a bar I’ve visited a few times over the years, almost exclusively for leaving drinks. It’s always here or in the Crown and Two Chairman on Dean Street or Soho House. Tonight, however, is different.

  I stand at the top of the stairs and scan the room. The small bar is to my left, busy with a crowd gathered, and beyond that is a horseshoe-shaped seating area. To the right, people sit in groups on the padded benches that line the wall of the main area and around the cluster of small tables.

  Now I am here, I know it is happening, and that it is real. Marcus is leaving London. I still find it hard to accept. I know it is something people do but I guess I never thought he would. I know his life is changing; he is married, and thinking of starting a family. Victoria doesn’t want to do that in London. She wants to be close to her parents, and I get that. Selfishly, I just don’t like it.

  I can see Marcus—six-feet-three with thick wavy brown hair, dressed in jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up—standing with a group of five or six people amidst the tables and chairs. I know most of them, people from the architecture practice where he works.

  One of Marcus’s colleagues taps his shoulder and nods my way. Marcus turns and smiles and throws his arms out. I step towards him, and we hug.

  ‘Mate,’ he says. ‘This is it!’

  My lips are pursed. I give a resigned nod in agreement: this is it. There won’t be many more nights like this, is what I think, and the memory of when we first shared a room in halls of residence is fresh in my mind. Only it was fifteen years ago, and now it feels like we are fully grown.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re here,’ I say.

  ‘I know. Come on, let me get you a drink,’ Marcus says.

  We weave our way through the bar, nodding hello to a couple of people, as Marcus gets us two pints of lager. We clink our glasses together, cheers. As we sip, we are on the edge of Marcus’s time in London. This is their last night and tomorrow they drive north.

  ‘So, it’s tomorrow then?’ I say.

  ‘We’re all packed; the bed is about the only thing that hasn’t been taken down. We’re off at nine. Hand over the keys, and then that’s it,’ Marcus says.

  ‘Goodbye to London and all that,’ I say.

  ‘And all that,’ Marcus repeats, glancing around the room. ‘I’m going to miss it all.’

  When he says this, I know he isn’t only talking about the city, but everything else as well. Us, his friends, and life here. The people and the places, and evenings like this when everyone drifts across the city and comes together in a bar or a pub. Where it is easy to do so.

  ‘Me too,’ I say, and we tap our glasses together again, and take another drink.

  Victoria appears by my side and places a hand on my shoulder. She has wavy strawberry-blonde hair, which is tied loosely back, and is wearing a black dress to her knees, with knee-high black boots. I smile, air kiss her check.

  ‘Glad you’re here, Tom. I’m sure Marcus was getting anxious that his actual friends weren’t going to turn up,’ Victoria says.

  Marcus rolls his eyes, and I shake my head, smiling. That sounds like Marcus. I wonder when Adam will arrive. He is the third leg of our university stool.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re going to do, Tom. You spend so much time together,’ Victoria says.

  Her words echo my own thoughts. I’ll do what everyone does, I suppose and adapt. It won’t be the same, but it often seems that new people fill the spaces made by those who move on.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll cope,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you will, and you know he will be expecting you to visit, if you can bring yourself to leave London,’ Victoria says.

  ‘There are some amazing walks to do, with good pubs along the way,’ Marcus says.

  ‘So, bracing,’ laughs Victoria.

  They sound only half convinced. I offer a big smile and say that the pictures look amazing (which they do) and do my best to be happy for him. Besides, over the last couple of years we have gone on regular weekend walks around the UK with a few other friends, visiting Ben Nevis, Snowdon and along the route of Hadrian’s Wall, so this will be no different, I tell myself.

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sure you are, but if there was ever a time to find someone then it is now. It’s been a long time since you dated anyone, and you know I’ve been dying to set you up with Carolyn,’ Victoria says.

  On a point of order, it hasn’t been that long. Six months, give or take. Is that long? Is that too long? I’m not sure, and I’m not concerned by it. I just don’t want to meet anyone. I met Victoria’s friend Carolyn at their wedding five years ago. She’s a local TV reporter in London, blonde and cute, and on the basis that we are both reporters, Victoria is convinced we would be a good couple.

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ I say.

  Victoria places a finger to lips, and then offers her hands out. ‘What is it you’re waiting for, Tom?’ she asks.

  It’s a good question, and I don’t know the answer. My mind leaps to an image of Elspeth Johnson, who I met when on the Reuters graduate training scheme after university. Elspeth—or Beth, as everyone calls her—is intelligent, sharp, and pretty, with a soft Scottish accent, and we have been friends ever since.

  If I had split my friendships into friends and best friend categories, I would put Beth down as a best friend without a second thought. We’re on the same wavelength, and while we don’t agree on everything, we never argue. I love spending time with her. I’m sure that’s why our friendship lasted. I miss the sound of her voice and how, after a few glasses of wine, it gets even more Scottish. At that point, she sounds like her mother, who runs a knitwear shop in the border
town of Hawick, and who Beth is the spitting image of. Her mother is a small and elegant-looking woman, and always, whatever the weather, dressed in flowery dresses and pearl-buttoned cardigans.

  Beth and I never dated although I have thought about it on numerous occasions. I have just never been brave enough to make the leap from friendship to the dating zone. What if she said no? Or—a conundrum of an equal size—what if she said yes? This thought sparks cold sweats. It would from the start be all in with us. We already know each other so well. It would be a case of making it work or bust, and that has always scared me. I’ve missed my chance now anyway—if she comes tonight, she’ll be with Michael, her boyfriend of nine months. The timing for us has never been right, at least that is other thing I tell myself.

  I find myself articulating this final thought.

  ‘Is Beth bringing Michael tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘Talking of things you’re waiting for, it sounds like you haven’t heard,’ Victoria teases.

  Marcus grins, already knowing what Victoria is going to say. I feel my stomach muscles tighten. My thoughts jump to the conclusion that Beth and Michael—who is a dashing doctor, tall with dark curly hair, and a bit too good-looking—are about to get married or move in together.

  ‘Don’t tell me he proposed?’ I say.

  Marcus laughs at this and shakes his head. Victoria finds this less amusing, and she flicks her husband a disapproving look to which he pulls his head back, askance.

  ‘They broke up,’ Victoria says.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I say.

  Marcus laughs, and Victoria shakes her head, shooting me a sceptical look. Victoria is right. Those words fell from my lips without conviction, and they do not match my expressions when I hear this news about Beth, I brighten. Victoria narrows her gaze, watching my reaction. I know I shouldn’t, only I can’t help it. It isn’t schadenfreude. It is that this snippet sparks thoughts about the two of us being together. They flicker in my mind, like a match lit in the dark, before I snuff it out, as I always do. I am a coward and will never do anything about it. I hate myself for this, but I am a prisoner of my fear, and I am fully aware of this.