Of course we shall do some proper checking, but ridiculous as it may sound, I instinctively approve. The classical training speaks of a seriousness of purpose, no doubt plenty of hard work, and of course an artistic side. All in all, on the face of it, a well-rounded individual who—dare I say it?—dare I?—okay, I will—who might be everything that Daisy is not. With luck, he can complement her notable strengths in other arenas, becoming the yin to her yang, the string to her kite (as I’ve heard it put), the Lennon to her McCartney (although, please God, let’s hope he doesn’t turn out to be Ringo).
But we are getting ahead of ourselves here. They haven’t yet met. There may be zero interpersonal chemistry. As if reading my thoughts, Daisy now begins messaging the Maestro. (I really must try to contain my excitement about Owen Cornish. It’s difficult because he represents a marked departure from the usual—I nearly wrote riffraff!—with whom Daisy has been content to throw in her lot. The journey from The Golden Nicky to Dean Stuart Whittle was indeed a trajectory of decline.)
Hi, she thumbs. Thanks for swiping right!!
His reply takes several hours to arrive (perhaps he had to plunge into rehearsal for some particularly tricky cantata).
Hello. Are you free to meet for a coffee?
Sure! she replies.
More hours pass before the musician’s next communication (I suspect this may be his first smart phone. Must remember to check).
Excellent.
At this rate, the pair should finally manage to come eyeball to eyeball somewhere around Christmas.
Daisy responds, Do you know anywhere nice?
It’s now almost home time—I have edited out the more irrelevant details of her day—and the boys and girls of Tangent Television are making final checks of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and their other vital networks before powering down desktops and dispersing to buses, Tubes and local hostelries.
Daisy and Chantal agree they can “squeeze in a cheeky margarita” before braving the Jubilee Line and the Central respectively so when the factory hooter sounds, they repair to a favored bar within a nearby fashionable hotel. The place is already filling with young men and women, happily wafting pheromones at one another at the close of another busy day in the world of work. Daisy and Chantal find a corner table away from the central mating area and clink their brimming Y-shaped glasses. (Audio and video credits to the usual suspects.)
“So, look. What do you think?”
Daisy is showing Chantal the picture of Owen Cornish from Tinder.
“What? Have you dumped the estate agent?”
“He was married.”
Chantal raises her cocktail in congratulation. “I won’t say I told you so, but I told you so.”
“He wasn’t all bad.”
“Hitler was a dog lover.”
“Honestly.” She sighs. “What am I like?”
“You? Too nice. Too forgiving. Too willing to see the good in others.”
“In other words, an idiot.”
“Uncynical.”
“A gullible fool.”
“Too harsh. Let’s say… charmingly unworldly.”
This colleague of Daisy’s has clearly got her head screwed on. A small part of me realizes sadly that had I been installed in Chantal’s kitchen instead of Daisy’s, there wouldn’t now be a dusty old grape lurking beneath my underparts (to say nothing of the moldering potato salad).
“Anyway,” says Daisy. “This is Owen. What do you reckon?”
Chantal takes a long hard—worldly? cynical?—look at the image on the mobile. She has another sip of margarita before delivering her verdict.
“Intelligence. Intensity. Myopia.”
Daisy does a little ironic fist pump. “Yessss! The big three!”
“A muso.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Why do you put it like that?”
“They can be. Let’s say. Difficult.”
“You know that?”
“Well, Roger was probably a bad example. He specialized in playing ancient instruments.”
“Ah.”
“We weren’t really suited. There’s only so much fifteenth-century dulcimer one can listen to before one’s gagging to hear The Killers.”
“This Owen plays wind instruments apparently.”
“Good lips, then.”
They giggle. And at this moment a small water-plip sound effect alerts Daisy to an incoming message. It’s Owen’s reply!
I’m quite fond of the café at the Wigmore Hall, but you may prefer somewhere more exciting.
The women stare at the words on the screen, searching for clues to this man’s soul.
Chantal nods grimly. “It’s never simple with musos, in my experience. Unless of course he’s a drummer. If he’s a drummer, then it’s actually very simple.”
This makes me—well, I nearly wrote smile!
The date—which takes place after two further days of sporadic messaging to arrange—happens not in the Wigmore Hall but at Browns on St. Martin’s Lane.
We have allowed it to go ahead because Owen apparently possesses four of our qualifying categories, viz:
1. Posh (his parents live in Carshalton Beeches)
2. Clever (professional classical musicianship is not for dummies)
3. Hinterland (goes with the territory)
4. Big hair
Whether or not he is handsome is open to debate, nor is there any obvious golden quality. Frankly, it’s not the most exhaustive piece of due diligence ever undertaken, but Owen is so different from Daisy’s usual type of chap that I think we are all curious to see how this one pans out. (It helps too that he’s not an obvious shitbag.)
The designated venue is noisy this early Wednesday evening, with difficult camera coverage, but I am able to secure an acceptable feed and the Daisy team—self, telly, microwave and toothbrush—settle in to watch the unfolding drama. I can see why Daisy has chosen this place—it’s big and loud and any potential awkwardness may be readily dissolved in the hubbub. The principals have successfully completed the introductions with a minimum of embarrassment—he took rather a long time to get served, which is never a good start—but, that said, they have hopped onto two vacant barstools and Daisy, eyes shining, teeth flashing, is in the full flush of the first drink (Blackberry Fizz). Meanwhile Owen (Aspall Waddlegoose Three Berry Cyder) is blinking quite a bit. Here in the peanut gallery, we agree this probably denotes dazzlement on his part; Daisy is looking lovely—blusher, lipstick and perfume have all been pressed into play—and Owen Cornish is the proverbial fish in a barrel, rabbit in the headlights, to be honest you can
