1
It came, unlike me, while I was riding backward cowgirl on what must have been the hairiest man in London.
I’m going to be honest with you, it wasn’t my finest hour. I’m not talking about my performance, of course—on that front I’d rate myself a solid 6.5, maybe even 7 out of 10, and I promise you I don’t say that lightly. I was giving it all the cries and whimpers of your more talented roster of YouPorn actresses, but being totally sincere, my heart wasn’t in it.
But oh, how I wanted it to be.
The date hadn’t been great. We’d met through Mirror Mirror, the latest in the long line of dating apps that have haunted my home screen, and from what I could see on my phone, he was … well, he was male, single, and conveniently located in London so he ticked the right boxes.
Name: Charles Wolf
That should have been my first telltale sign. The Charles bit, I mean—not the Wolf, although to that point his surname was a bit unfortunate given his disproportionate body to body-hair ratio.
But Charles: not Charlie, or Chip, not even Chaz, but Charles. Like the prince of Wales or the floppy-eared dog. I wondered maybe if it was just the formality of writing down his name—I’m still the full “Isabelle” on all my work emails despite just being Bella—but as he joined me in the cute little pub that I’d suggested, he went straight in with a cheeky banker side kiss and a five-drinks-down-already slur of:
“Belle? Charles. Charmed.”
So it was Charles. Just Charles.
Still, it wasn’t his choice to be called Charles. His parents named him, the nice vicar christened him, he was the victim here and if none of his primary schoolteachers had given the whole “nickname thing” a go then who was I to blame him for it?
Name: Charles Wolf
Occupation: Assistant Manager, GRM Investments
Again, I told myself. Not his fault.
Not all those who work for investment banks are dickheads, there’s just a disproportionate number of dickheads who work for investment banks. Finding the pure gems from inside the sea of rhinestones is, speaking from personal experience, a rummage in the dark that inevitably ends with me crying my eyes out to Pretty Woman and thinking that my life would be easier if I was a beautiful West Coast prostitute.
He was probably just great at math or economics at school and teachers guided him to portfolio management the same way that mine guided me toward creative writing. That’s a bit of a lie—my teachers guided me to average grades all around but I guided myself to creative writing, and my parents invariably accepted my life choices despite my obvious mediocrity.
But, I reminded myself, someone’s name and job title doesn’t necessarily define them. I mean, they literally define them, sure, but I know firsthand that I’m far greater than: Isabelle Marble, receptionist at Porter Books Publishing Ltd.
I’m Bella Marble: writer and creator; lover of dogs and fantastic karaoke singer to aughts’ classics; four-time winner of Porter Books’s annual “most courteous telephone manner” award (an achievement that is still very much on my LinkedIn profile despite the fact that the last time I won was over four years ago now); drinker of wine, pale ales and, if I’m in need of a pick-me-up, strawberry-infused-gin and tonics; a walking advertisement for H&M clothing; queen of animal-based documentary recommendations and owner of more books than the rest of London combined. Ginger, like all Marbles, freckles like the stars, and body type “petite,” meaning at one point the rest of the world grew taller and I somehow didn’t. I can juggle (ish), cartwheel (kind of), and have a strange love of constructing IKEA furniture.
And I’m a true, hopeless, despairing romantic. Above all things, above my wish to be a writer, above my dream to hug David Attenborough one day, above anything and everything, I want love.
I want what all those Disney princesses had before the producers and writers got better and found independent non-male-oriented story lines. I want a good old-fashioned man to sweep me off my feet and make me feel like royalty, but I’m living in the twenty-first century so I also want a man who treats me with respect and admires my strength and talents for what I’m worth while he rides me off into the sunset and maybe, just maybe, I will find that in:
Name: Charles Wolf
Occupation: Assistant Manager, GRM Investments
Height: 6′3″
Age: 33
2
The pub hidden on a tiny side street just north of Chinatown is an old favorite of mine. In the heart of Soho it’s easy and convenient for most of London, but it has a beautiful home-away-from-home vibe that’s not associated with central London at all. It’s straight out of an old English fable: all dark woods, mahoganies, and the strong smell of varnish coupled with an enthusiastically early Christmas tree. It feels like a bit of countryside in the wrong postcode. I love it.
I try to leave it to my dates to pick the place. I think it tells me a lot about them depending on the kind of place they pick but the usual “where should we go” conversation with Charles didn’t quite go the way I’d hoped.
Bella Marble
Where do you fancy going?
Charles Wolf
What’s near your place?
Bella Marble
I’m sure there’s a place that’s good for both of us! Soho maybe?
Charles Wolf
I don’t know Soho
Bella Marble
Where do you work then?
Bella Marble
I’m happy traveling to you if you know somewhere nice?
Charles Wolf
Running late. Be there in 10 x
Bella Marble
Be where?
Charles Wolf
Wrong chat
Another sign maybe that it wasn’t going to be the happily-ever-after I’d hoped for, but it wasn’t like he was the only guy I was chatting with either. Well, he was, but it wasn’t like I wasn’t open to chatting with multiple other men. I just happened to not be, right at that moment in time.
When I didn’t hear from him I thought about calling the whole thing off, but then it occurred to me: I had the power. I’m a strong female, raised in a house led by a strong female, living with other strong females and watching strong females on television more often than I’d care to admit. Plus, I hadn’t had anyone even accept a date with me in months. So I took the lead.
Bella Marble
Free Friday?
Bella Marble
There’s a cute pub on the edge of Chinatown?
Bella Marble
Maybe like 7:30?
Bella Marble
I think it might already sell mulled cider
Bella Marble
If you’re into that, it also sells beer
Bella Marble
Or wine if that’s what you drink
Bella Marble
It’s like a normal pub, it sells all drinks, just to be clear
It’s not like a specific cider place or anything is what I’m saying
Bella Marble
I just called them up to check and they won’t be selling mulled cider
Bella Marble
So like, let me know if you fancied it. No problems if not, obviously
Bella Marble
We could also meet later if you had other plans
I waited five hours after sending that last one and regretted everything. The stupid app interface doesn’t let you delete messages or I would have instantly. I was about thirty minutes away from deleting my entire profile, but, like a true prince galloping over the horizon, he texted back.
Charles Wolf
Sounds good to me. Let’s say 11
3
Eleven p.m. was a rogue time for a first date, but given how much effort it had been to secure the rendezvous I didn’t want to take my chances asking to move it only to find myself alone on a Friday night. Luckily for me, 11 p.m. is basically the new 7 p.m. in Soho … at least that’s what I told myself as I reapplied my makeup five hours early and tried to coerce a few of the commissioner’s assistants to have after-work drinks with me so I wasn’t just hanging around. By the time I polished off a shared bottle and finally wandered down Marylebone Road toward the twinkling lights of Piccadilly, swerving around annoying tourist and Instagrammer alike, it was already 10:30 p.m.
Still, I was early and arriving early on a date is never ideal. I thought about circling Leicester Square but given that I’d opted for heeled boots my feet hurt too much to walk more than I already had. Plus I went for a “borderline-work-appropriate sexy” look in a sheer white shirt over my black jeans, and given my autumn jacket is basically a moth-eaten relic, it was too cold just to hover outside.
I picked a corner of the nearly empty pub maybe a bit close to the Christmas tree (it’s September now; surely it will die before December?) to try to avoid people looking up at me with those “you okay, hon” eyes as I waited completely alone, not “okay, hon.” It didn’t help that the place was almost empty. The kind of vibe the pub emitted, all homely and warm, isn’t the kind of vibe people come to Soho for on a Friday night, unless you’re me, of course.
As 11 p.m. came and went the last-call bell rang out. Charles had already sent me a preorder with some flimsy late excuse so it wasn’t an immediate problem, only it did remind me that it was probably not the best idea to choose a pub for an 11 p.m. date. Then again when I’d suggested the place I think I’d anticipated a slightly earlier start time. But he did get there eventually, all politeness and apologies and any thought I had for calling it a night early was quickly switched out for the happy butterflies of budding romance.
“So tell me a bit about yourself.”
“Ever seen that Leonardo film?” His accent was cool public school drool, which wasn’t entirely unexpected. His stiff white shirt was unbuttoned at his collar and a plethora of thick brown hair was protruding out of his chest like a fur blanket. In fact it was quite easy to follow the zigzag of hair from his chest, right up around the sides of his ears, right around his untamed beard, and finishing with a thick patch of brown sprouts twisting around in no order whatsoever on the top of his strangely square head. I was trying not to stare directly at it, keeping my eyes fixated on his.
Copyright © 2023 by Luci Adams
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