Mixed signals

I seriously think there is something wrong with me. Either my love life is actually cursed or I am officially the worst person in the world at playing this so-called dating game.

One minute I’m besotted with some guy who can barely commit to a text message never mind an actual date, then I somehow end up dating a guy who I don’t remotely fancy but who I can‘t seem to say no to every time he asks me out. Ah, she’s just desperate, I hear you say. But you know what, I wish it was that simple. If I was desperate, surely I’d be happily dating this latest guy, not kicking myself each time I find my fingers involuntarily responding to his text message, not backing off every time he leans in for a goodbye kiss, and not having this conversation in my head in the first place.

When he first asked me out, I will admit it was possibly the volume of mind-altering substances in my body that led me to accept (and the fact that I felt obliged after already snogging the face off him in my inebriated wisdom), but now, what’s my excuse?

He texted last night asking if I fancied supper this week (apparently posh boys say supper, not dinner- yes, he‘s posh but we‘ll get to that later), I spent all of an hour trying to pretend he hadn’t texted at all, then came up with this genius reply: “Sure, supper would be lovely but I seem to have lost my diary so I’m not quite sure when I’m free. Can I let you know tomorrow?” Will you check out the mixed messages here… “supper would be lovely”- that sounds keen, no? But then what’s this nonsense about losing my diary? I’ve not lost my diary, I never lose anything, I’m just putting off the moment that I actually have to commit to a date.

Then today I’ve gone from being 100% sure this morning that I’m going to call it off, to deciding this afternoon that as I have quite a quiet week ahead, dinner (or supper - whatever!) might actually be nice. A few hours of to-ing and fro-ing later and then somehow there’s a text on the way to him saying “I’m free any night but Wednesday”.‘Ach, what harm can dinner do?’ I say to myself. ‘We’ll have a nice meal, a few drinks, then I’ll get a cab home at a reasonable hour and all will be fine.’ Only that’s not what he has in mind - apparently he wants me to go to his place so he can cook me supper…yeah right! Sorry but it doesn’t take a genius to work out what that means. There’s no way I’m making the mistake of going to his place (again).

Yes, okay, I am skipping a few significant parts of the story here. I have indeed been in his house before…on Friday night, after attending several parties and consuming way too many drinks and far too little food, I somehow found myself stranded in Battersea with him at 7am after a mutual friend‘s birthday. It would have cost me 40 quid that I did not have to get a cab back to mine in the North, and frankly, I was way too wasted to be allowed anywhere on my own. At the time, I’m sure the alcohol helped me rationalise it. The next afternoon, when I woke up at his place, it all seemed rather different.

This is the moment I should have got the hell out of there and deleted his number. Of course, I’m way too polite (or messed up in the head - which is it again?) to do that so I wind up here, agreeing to see him again (cue the moment where I spend the next couple of paragraphs convincing myself this is a good idea).

Maybe this time, I’ll change my mind and decide I actually like him. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with him. In fact, on paper, he’s quite the catch. For a start, he’s my age, which means he’s much more mature than all the young indie boys I usually waste my time on. Plus, he’s a gentleman - he wouldn’t dream of letting me pay for a thing, always remembers to holds the door open, kisses me on the cheek when I arrive, and takes care of getting me a cab home (on his business account, but still it‘s an improvement on the night bus!). He’s got a good job as a restaurant PR which means lots of lovely meals in very nice restaurants and occasionally free champagne. He’s funny, confident, and he has his own flat - which is very rare in London (even more rare is that it’s not a hovel). And most importantly of all, he makes it plainly obvious that he really likes me - he always calls when he says he will, he acts totally engrossed in everything I say, and he tells me I’m beautiful all the time.

Now for the cons, he’s not just posh, he’s super posh - he’s from an intimidating wealthy family who own a massive global beauty firm. They have houses all over the world, and go skiing every Christmas for god‘s sake. (Eurch, I bet he even calls his parents mummy and daddy!) Con number 2: from what I can gather, he’s quite the fan of recreational drugs. Con number 3: he wears a long coat and carries a man-bag (is it wrong that I find the last con most offensive of all?). Oh no, wait, con number 4 - I don’t find him attractive. What I do find attractive is how nice he is to me. And oh, it’s been such a long time since someone’s been that nice to me.
One more date couldn’t hurt. Could it?

Could it?