Would like to meet

LAST SUNDAY. DATE ONE – with, of course, another Bumble* match. We met in a swanky Southbank venue, his choice, and watched the autumnal day turn into early evening as we chatted family and holidays and favourite television shows. I liked him. I’d known it immediately.

I don’t know why, but I’ve never made the fifirst move before – never been ‘the lunger’. Never been the one who leans in for a snog at the end of the night, fully confident that it has all gone well. I expect to be kissed. Hope to be kissed. I’m adept at slowing down my words as we talk, staring at his mouth a little more than I should, rubbing my neck as I pull my gaze back up to his eyes, chin tilted upward, silently requesting him – inviting him – to dip his head so his lips meet mine. But with ‘M’ I didn’t do any of that. With M, I went for it.

‘I’m just nipping to the loo,’ I said, wriggling out of my seat. He replied, ‘Another drink?’ There’s always that terrifying bit on a first date where you have to establish that, yes, you’re having a nice time and so, yes, you’ll stay a bit longer. The singleton’s equivalent of

I LET MY NOSE TOUCH HIS, AS THAT’ S HOW I LIKE TO BE KISSED– THE LING ER, THE ANTICIPATION IS WHAT IS SEXY

a wedding congregation holding their collective breath after the vicar says, ‘If anyone knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage…’ is asking the date opposite you, tentatively and with barely concealed hope, ‘Two more Pinots?’

I glanced at Jude Law, sat on the table behind us overlooking the Thames. Was being on a table next to Jude Law like being on a date with Jude Law himself? Actually, scrap that. I didn’t want to be on a date with Jude Law. I wanted to be on a date with the exact man offering to get in an extra couple of large glasses. ‘That would be great,’ I answered. ‘Thank you.’ I’m a polite date.

I went to walk past him as he signalled to the waitress for her attention, so his hand ended up grazing my bum. We were both taken aback by this unprecedented declaration of touch and, in sarcastic reflex, I stopped, raising an eyebrow, and said, ‘Feeling me up already, are you?’

He was flustered; I’d put him on the spot instead of being a lady and excusing his accidental grope. But the way he coloured-up like that, lost his words, panicked, it made me giggle. GIGGLE. Like… like I was flirting. His eyes pierced mine and I was suddenly the only person in the room. In the goddamn world. Because I was stood so close to him (and his wandering hand) somehow, without thinking – like literally I was doing it before I understood what was already happening, like I’d left my body for a moment – I bent over his chair. I let my nose touch his, because that’s how I like to be kissed – the linger, the anticipation, the almost-there of it is what is sexy. I lifted the fingertips of one hand to his stubbled chin, lightly held his face, and pressed my parted lips to his. * This column is not sponsored by Bumble

Laura Jane Williams is looking for love – and she’s not afraid to say it…