‘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