It was a few hours short of 2001 and I started out my night with Amanda and Catríona, friends from my misspent youth. #106 and I kept making eye contact across the crowded pub. I had never seen him before, at least I didn’t think so. It looked like there was scope here, but I had no idea what to do about it.
“Just go up to him and say, ‘Do you know Emma?’,” Catríona advised.
So I did. I started describing an Emma I knew, as if I thought I recognised him through a connection with her. For the record, I think it’s the only time I’ve basically made stuff up in order to meet somebody. #106 indulged my Emma talk for a minute and then said, “I don’t think I do. But you’re Nine, aren’t you?”
We were making out within about two more minutes. And then we swapped numbers and went off to our respective Hogmanay commitments, but somehow, after blurrily getting off with #107 and possibly making out with #81 (it certainly wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility), we managed to rendez-vous outside the art college after 5am, and I took him home with me. The verdict: intense.
He had a girlfriend, he revealed, and wouldn’t ordinarily cheat on her but he’d had a crush on me for about a year. In turn, I decided that the girlfriend issue was not my responsibility, and I wasn’t looking for a commitment.
It didn’t go anywhere, though; one night a couple weeks later, he and a friend came by and we drank in the kitchen with my flatmates, but I don’t think he spent the night. Although we’d had hot sex the first night, I wasn’t guaranteeing it was going to happen every time he showed up, and he seemed to be one of these people who think if you’re not going to have sex, then what’s the point. This difference of opinion made it pretty obvious that we weren’t really compatible.