This is why love spells come with warnings

Sweaty disappointment

Choose something. Come on. Focus on some words. Chicken….pasta….pine nuts… garlic and herbs….argh I can’t rest upon any of these descriptions, it’s just too damned hot in here.

This restaurant, tiny and packed to bursting with families and couples, depresses me as I fan my face with a warm breeze which is of no help at all. It’s merely blowing the humid air into my system faster.

I place the menu down on the table, resting my hands upon it like one half of a negotiation party in a hostile meeting. I’ve seen what’s on offer and I’m not willing to give away the goods for this lowly price. I ponder the words in my mind. Greg. It’s not you… no that’s too cliché. Greg. I just don’t feel it,why waste out time and our money on ordering food at all? From the moment I set eyes on your sweaty face with its horrendous goatee I felt my insides shrivel up in whatever the opposite of flaming desire is. Icy disdain?

I open my mouth, ready to form some sentence of the aforementioned meaning, but with more kindness – I’m not a complete bitch – and he leans forward, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and one just about ready to drop from his nose into his wine. Shudder. With a delighted grin he says “well, it’s just about as hot as you are in here,” then winks at me. I try not to look too sickened and I shoot him a polite smile.

Hey, I’m sure he’s a nice enough guy. He’s done nothing wrong. It must be the heat. It’s making me bad tempered. I’m not used to this kind of dry, baking warmth.

I moved to London from Scotland a few months ago, as part of a job relocation. I was so excited to get here. I love this city. But this summer, wowsers. It’s like renting a little back corner of an oven and calling it home.And even when you step out on the street or into shops or restaurants the oven’s heat follows you. Everywhere is dry, cracked, baked. Even the lawns in the parks have turned golden yellow instead of the luscious green they were when I arrived in spring. I sigh and take a sip of wine. If I don’t have the guts to say something at this early point in the date, I may as well drink up. Mmm. Good wine. Silver linings.

Greg is a friend of a friend. Laura insisted I would adooore him. She told me had made loads of money off an accountancy app and was good looking. I squint over my glass at him, searching for the looks of which she regarded as good. I’m not a looks person, believe me. If the guy is a gem and is funny and kind, he can have a beer gut or a bent nose or whatever. But there’s something about Greg’s desperate smile. His face is like a cringey dad joke personified. He looks like he’s always on the brink of saying something risqué and then winking and elbowing you in the ribs while he guffaws himself into oblivion. He’s anatomically pleasing – just not my vibe.

A tragic Italian love song comes on in the background and by god it just makes me feel worse. I take another huge gulp of the delicious red wine – he has good taste, I’ll give him that.

My eyes fall on a couple behind Greg’s right shoulder, so close to us if he leaned back at all he could become a thrupple with them. The guy is nuzzling into the woman’s neck, sniffing her skin gently. She’s laughing and leaning her head to the side to give him more access to her olive-coloured skin. Her hair is piled loosely up on her head in one of those artistic, carefree buns. She looks cool. Her boyfriend looks cool. He’s sporting facial hair on the right side of gruff – just before it looks shabby. He looks like he’s in heaven, his eyes gleaming and a huge grin on his face as he plants soft kisses on her collar bone. I’m caught in their vibe for a few minutes, just staring and sipping. Staring and sipping.

Greg waves his big meaty hand in front of my face. “Earth to Suze. Knock knock. Are you in there?” And he starts his guffawing again because he’s just so funny. I give him another polite smile. It’s like it’s all I’ve got in my bag of responses for him. I’ve given up, I realise.

His forehead is now so shiny I swear he’s going to blind me as the overhead lighting bounces off the beads of sweat causing sparkles of light to shoot across at me. I suppose I’m not much better. I can feel my satin top sticking to my back and my stomach. I look down and sure enough there are dark sweat patches appearing on the emerald green fabric. This is the worse date ever. I just want it to end. Can I fake illness? Heat stroke is a very real possibility, maybe that will work.

“Buongiorno!” Greg hollers as a waiter approaches the table. He orders something so quickly I couldn’t quite pick up what he was saying. He pats the waiter far too firmly on the back with a loud laugh which signals the end of their interaction and the slightly startled waiter nods and turns on his heel with the order scribbled down on his note pad.

“Did you just order food for me?” I lean forward and ask, unable to hide the surprise in my tone.

“Oh, yeah, I come here all the time, trust me. You’ll love what I’ve ordered.”

I can feel my eyebrows rising high on my forehead. “You don’t even know what I like. I could be vegan or have allergies.”

Greg looks a bit disgruntled. “Are you? Do you?”

I shrug and amid that, no, neither of those things are true. It’s the principle of it that pisses me off. It’s a bit old fashioned. I don’t say this of course because I’m realising I’m completely spineless. I never speak my mind. I just sit quietly, thinking, observing, having all the tough conversations inwardly where they’ll never actually be heard by my target.

We sit awkwardly, sipping wine, looking around us. “It’s nice and authentic here,” I offer, trying to bring back some lightness to the table. He nods awkwardly.

I look at a young family over his left shoulder. Three kids between the ages of about two and nine, are giggling and fidgeting around the table while their parents beam at them with that glazed amazement parents have when their kids do anything that resembles civilised behaviour. “You’re so clever,” the mum gushes at the littlest one for picking up his spoon and stabbing it in the vicinity of his own mouth. He grins up at her with pride as the red gooey sauce slides down his chin. I smile. It’s actually quite adorable.

Then I feel a knot of sadness swirl in the pool of wine in my tummy. Here I am, mid thirties, crossing people off my dating list left right and centre, no closer to having my own little person to praise for the simple act of almost eating. If I keep dining out with the Gregs of this world it will never happen. I’ve been sleeping next to a rose quartz crystal every and lighting love manifestation incense sticks every night for the past week, yet here I am. Loveless and uninspired.

I look at his disappointed, pink and gleaming face. He’s probably thinking the same things. I stifle a laugh as I imagine what it’s like from his side. A sweaty, grumpy, sarcastic woman who’s making no effort whatsoever. I make the decision then and there to make some effort. Why make this whole night miserable? We’re in the city, we’re healthy, we’re drinking good wine. I turn on the Suze charm and begin telling him a funny story from that day at work when Stefan was trying to replace the water cooler bottle but it was leaking excitedly all around him. I explain that he eventually got the huge bottle in place on its stand but by this stage it was half empty and his trousers were soaked through. The sheepish look on his face nearly killed me. I run off down that road of laughter again while delivering the story. Greg melts a little and joins in the laughter. This feels good. We’ll be fine. We’ll have a nice night. And then we’ll say goodbye. I’ll pretend I’m going to call him sometime and I’ll go home to sweat profusely on my bed, watching video reels on my phone until I fall asleep.

And that’s exactly what happens.