slightly uneven top lip. So, while Jack was far from a monster, he wasn’t Brad Pitt either. On a scale of
one to ten (one being hideous gargoyle and ten the aforementioned Mr Pitt), I’d give him an eight. Too good for me, I know; I’m only a six. I’ve read that if you want to have a
lasting relationship you’re supposed to go out with people who are at a similar level of attractiveness to you, which means I should have felt permanently insecure in the knowledge that at
some point Jack would realise his mistake and leave me for someone better-looking. Which I didn’t, because he always made me feel like I was a ten. Which, itself, was one of the reasons why
he was perfect.
What else? Let me see. He had perfect manners – in the opening the door for you, always calling when he said he would way – and I could tell he did it because he wanted to, not just
because he knew he should. He was funny, without being a clown, and knowledgeable without being cocky. He listened to me, even when I was rambling on and on about nothing, but he wasn’t
monosyllabic in response, like some boys. He was kind about my friends, polite to my parents and really sweet with my little brother. But he wasn’t sickeningly nice: he’d been known to
play wicked practical jokes on people, like removing all the furniture from his sister’s room while she was out, and setting it up again in the garage, in exactly the same order. It was way
before my time, but I don’t think she found it very amusing. Then again, I did say he was the perfect boyfriend, not the perfect brother.
It seems weird to think now, but I wasn’t at all sure Jack would call after the party. He’d taken my number, yes, and he’d promised he would use it but, in my experience, a boy
storing your number in his phone doesn’t always equate to him actually dialling it. I wondered if Jack would get home, sleep on it and decide he hadn’t liked me all that much after all.
Or, his sister might say of me, ‘She wasn’t all that,’ and he’d think better of his instinct to call. Or, he could just chicken out altogether.
Call me contrary, but while I hoped he would call, I didn’t want him to call too soon. Everyone knows there are rules about these things. Sunday – the day after – would have
been far too early, making him look desperate. But Thursday would have been too late; by then I’d have convinced myself he wasn’t interested and made myself get over him, and I’d
have made my weekend plans. That left an open window of three days. Three days of constant phone checking. Three days of butterflies in my tummy. Three days of daydreaming.
I simply can’t imagine how people ever got together in the old days before texting and instant messaging and email. Before people even had mobile phones, when they used two cups and a bit
of string. OK, that last bit isn’t true. My mum told me that when she met a guy, he’d have to call her house and risk her parents answering, which of course led to loads of embarrassing
questions. When they did get to speak, she couldn’t be certain her parents weren’t listening in from another extension but, even if they weren’t, she could be sure that after
about twenty minutes they’d be shouting at her to get off the phone so they could use it. With technology being so limited, sometimes my mum and her boyfriends actually wrote letters to each
other, like people in Jane Austen books. Can you believe that? I’ve no idea how anybody ever dated properly. It’s a wonder I was even born.
Jack rang on Tuesday. He sent a brief text first, saying hi and how lovely it was to have met me, and did I want to meet up. It pinged into my inbox at seven o’clock, during dinner. I left
it for about half an hour before I replied, mainly because we were having apple crumble for dessert as a treat, and I didn’t want to miss out. I was suddenly ravenous. I hadn’t eaten
much the previous few days – all those pesky
one to ten (one being hideous gargoyle and ten the aforementioned Mr Pitt), I’d give him an eight. Too good for me, I know; I’m only a six. I’ve read that if you want to have a
lasting relationship you’re supposed to go out with people who are at a similar level of attractiveness to you, which means I should have felt permanently insecure in the knowledge that at
some point Jack would realise his mistake and leave me for someone better-looking. Which I didn’t, because he always made me feel like I was a ten. Which, itself, was one of the reasons why
he was perfect.
What else? Let me see. He had perfect manners – in the opening the door for you, always calling when he said he would way – and I could tell he did it because he wanted to, not just
because he knew he should. He was funny, without being a clown, and knowledgeable without being cocky. He listened to me, even when I was rambling on and on about nothing, but he wasn’t
monosyllabic in response, like some boys. He was kind about my friends, polite to my parents and really sweet with my little brother. But he wasn’t sickeningly nice: he’d been known to
play wicked practical jokes on people, like removing all the furniture from his sister’s room while she was out, and setting it up again in the garage, in exactly the same order. It was way
before my time, but I don’t think she found it very amusing. Then again, I did say he was the perfect boyfriend, not the perfect brother.
It seems weird to think now, but I wasn’t at all sure Jack would call after the party. He’d taken my number, yes, and he’d promised he would use it but, in my experience, a boy
storing your number in his phone doesn’t always equate to him actually dialling it. I wondered if Jack would get home, sleep on it and decide he hadn’t liked me all that much after all.
Or, his sister might say of me, ‘She wasn’t all that,’ and he’d think better of his instinct to call. Or, he could just chicken out altogether.
Call me contrary, but while I hoped he would call, I didn’t want him to call too soon. Everyone knows there are rules about these things. Sunday – the day after – would have
been far too early, making him look desperate. But Thursday would have been too late; by then I’d have convinced myself he wasn’t interested and made myself get over him, and I’d
have made my weekend plans. That left an open window of three days. Three days of constant phone checking. Three days of butterflies in my tummy. Three days of daydreaming.
I simply can’t imagine how people ever got together in the old days before texting and instant messaging and email. Before people even had mobile phones, when they used two cups and a bit
of string. OK, that last bit isn’t true. My mum told me that when she met a guy, he’d have to call her house and risk her parents answering, which of course led to loads of embarrassing
questions. When they did get to speak, she couldn’t be certain her parents weren’t listening in from another extension but, even if they weren’t, she could be sure that after
about twenty minutes they’d be shouting at her to get off the phone so they could use it. With technology being so limited, sometimes my mum and her boyfriends actually wrote letters to each
other, like people in Jane Austen books. Can you believe that? I’ve no idea how anybody ever dated properly. It’s a wonder I was even born.
Jack rang on Tuesday. He sent a brief text first, saying hi and how lovely it was to have met me, and did I want to meet up. It pinged into my inbox at seven o’clock, during dinner. I left
it for about half an hour before I replied, mainly because we were having apple crumble for dessert as a treat, and I didn’t want to miss out. I was suddenly ravenous. I hadn’t eaten
much the previous few days – all those pesky
Similar Books
Flight of the Golden Harpy
Susan Klaus
All In
Molly Bryant
The Summer Kitchen
Lisa Wingate
Tigers Like It Hot
Tianna Xander
Peeling Oranges
James Lawless
Feels Like Family
Sherryl Woods
The Reluctant Wag
Mary Costello
All Night Long
Madelynne Ellis
The Gladiator
Simon Scarrow