Welcome to the newest slot on my blog, the Saturday night Novel Nights In where I bring you novels in their entirety over a maximum of ten weeks. Tonight’s is the third in this series (the first novel running alongside this one but on Sunday nights) and features part five of a debut 101,000-word chick lit novel by yours truly, Morgen Bailey.
You can read the synopsis and first two instalments (chapters 1 and 2, 3 and 4, 5 and 6, 7, 8 and 9). Quick summary: Journalist Izzy has been told by her boss to date 31 men in 31 days and write about it. She’s met four guys so far (Duncan the hunky vet and Tim the slovenly butcher in the first instalment, then Lawrence the social worker and Felix the lover of Persian Piranhas in the second). The third instalment featured RobbieY69, a Bottle of Bollinger, and Nigel the Day-Glo cyclist. In the fourth we were treated to Charles, ReadyEddie and a whole host of characters at a speed-dating event.
It’s a longer than normal instalment because it ends with speed-dating so lots of weird and wonderful characters to meet. 
The Serial Dater’s Shopping List (part 5 of 10)
CHAPTER 10
What did I learn from last night? To double-check a guy’s age before entering into serious ‘conversations’ (i.e. swapping messages) with him. The guy I met last night, O… I say ‘met’ in the loosest terms, as we exchanged thirty-three words with each other (literally; I wrote them down later)… looked young enough to, legally, be my son. So, no I won’t be going there again. The Litten Tree, as I knew it when I went last, (so long ago that it had become Bar Code in between), was a mix of ages, tastes and music, but ‘groove’ was definitely outside my comfort zone.
I can only assume that O, because I didn’t stay long enough to ask him, (sorry O, if you’re reading this) ‘digs’ older women, but I ‘dig’ older men. Not much older, you understand, anyone beginning with a five is pushing it, and more than five I’d probably have to push him in a few years’ time, but even the thought of ‘pashing’ (that’s kissing to us non street-wise ‘dudes’) a ‘boy’ doesn’t do anything for me.
Having checked O’s profile on my return to work, I see that he’s given his age as ninety-nine. I suspect that’s a default age for anyone who doesn’t want to specify, but if that’s his real age, then O please contact me again, I’d like to buy some of your face cream.
It’s amazing how generations vary. O’s slang is an entirely different language to mine. I’m sure we both spoke English, but one is so far removed from the other that I feel we’d have needed a translator as a chaperone… or we would have done if we’d spoken more than the thirty-three words.
So, girls, as much as I would urge anyone to beware of men pretending to be boys, because there are undoubtedly plenty of them, double-check that your date isn’t still wearing nappies, or in my case ‘bagging pants’.
There’s such a thing as ‘young at heart’, but when the heart that’s beating in a potential date’s body is half the age, or double the age of your own, you might like to think twice.
Therefore today’s two items to be ticked on my ‘dater’s shopping list’: don’t date young enough to be legal offspring, and do have breaded haddock and chips from the College Street chippie more often.
I’m rather pleased with today’s article although the word count goes far short of filling the space that I’m usually allocated. I therefore add some more techie internet dating stuff, because that’s what my readers, and William, expect.
I then check emails until I’m interrupted by Marion phoning for me to collect another parcel from Geek’s Heaven, (did I say I love my job?), so I end up playing with the almost-silent ‘camera disguised as a cigarette lighter’.
There’s no sign of Donna yet and no one knows where she is, so I go to reception to face Battleaxe Frist.
“Hi, Marion.”
“Yes, Isobel.”
“Do you have any idea where Donna is?”
Silence; she’s waiting for something. What have I forgotten?
The penny drops. “Please Marion?” How old am I? Five?
“She went to see Mike then came back up here in tears.”
“And you didn’t ring me?”
“It’s not my job to be nursemaid.”
No, Marion, it’s your job to be rude. I say nothing, and go to the only other place that Donna can be: the Ladies.
As I swing open the door, it hits the wall and I hear a squeak.
“Donna?”
“Izzy? Is that you?”
“Yes,” she whimpers.
“What’s he done now?”
“We…” She’s still crying. “We had another fight.”
The door to the middle cubicle is shut, so I go in the one past hers, lock the door, and lift the toilet lid, before sitting down. I never trust the plastic to hold my weight, although it’s probably designed for larger bottoms than mine.
“What about this time?”
“His eating.”
“Oh, Donna. You know that’s a no no.”
“But why does he keep doing it?”
“He’s like a smoker, or an alcoholic. They have to keep their mouths busy.”
“I like keeping his mouth busy.” And with that she giggles.
“That’s better, too much information, but better. How did you leave things? Obviously not well.”
“I went downstairs to tell him I’d like to cook him a healthy dinner when I caught him eating his way through a whole box of brownies.”
“That makes a change from doughnuts,” I say rather unhelpfully.
“But they’re not healthy are they?”
“Oh, but they’re… no, they’re not, Donna. Not good at all.”
After some persuasion, I finally get her to come out. Her face looks like two spiders crawling down a rainy window, so I clean her up and put her, face up, beneath the electric hand dryers.
“We’d better go back before William sends out a search party.”
“Uh huh,” she nods.
We get halfway down the corridor when I stop outside the kitchen.
“You go ahead. I’ll make you a nice cup of hot choc.”
“Thanks,” she says, trying to smile.
“He’s an idiot. He’ll realise it when it’s too late and you’ll have moved on to Mr Six Pack and be deliriously happy with eight children in tow.”
She giggles, and walks to her desk. Knowing her, she’ll already be thinking up names for them all.
I’m staring at my wardrobe for the umpteenth time. I never have this problem with Chicago’s normally, but tonight I’m stuck. I want to go for something retro, to fit in with Metal Mickey’s favourite era, but think it would be too clichéd. I could really go to town and do something with my hair (loose or pony-tailed are usually as daring as I get), but don’t think that the permed frizzy look is really ‘me’. Nor are puffballs and I’m so glad that I left those behind… and shoulder pads, mine are broad enough without them thanks very much. I go for safe leggings and a glitzy top, teamed up with my kitten heels, and I’m away.
He says he’s going to wait for me outside, but when I get there, there are about fifty people outside. All nightclubs and trendy bars do it, keep everyone waiting because they’re so popular and it’s the old ‘one out, one in’ rule, except you never see anyone coming out and when they do finally allow you in, the place is half-empty. I see a group of girls wearing leggings, so I’m pleased that I’m not an outcast two nights in a row, until I notice that one has exactly the same top as me under her denim jacket and now I wish that I’m wearing a jacket too. Not denim, of course.
Then I see him; the eighties throwback. If I hadn’t known he was into that era already, I’d have thought it was a themed evening, but he looks totally serious, like a sixth member of Spandau Ballet. His lower half is aerobics shell suit with the trousers tucked into a pair of the loudest sneakers I have ever seen. I think they’re Converse and remember Will Smith wearing a pair in ‘I Am Legend’ except Will wouldn’t be seen dead in these. Nigel, on the other hand, would be proud, or jealous, I can’t think which as my brain is too frazzled by Mike’s top half. It’s straight out of a ‘Jackie’ speech bubble comic strip; an orange shoulder-padded nylon zip-up jacket with… no it can’t be. It is. A ‘Frankie says relax’ t-shirt underneath it. Is this guy for real?
It turns out that he is. And he’s actually very nice, but I can’t take him seriously and neither can the rest of Chicago’s. If the rest of the month carries on like this, I think I’ll need to be carted off to a mental institution, and it wasn’t long ago that Northampton had as many of those as shoe factories. Nowadays they’re converted apartments or derelict with ‘Sold’ signs waiting to be turned into ‘des res’es.
As I put my key into my front door lock, I can’t help smiling. I’ve had such a wonderful night. I never thought I would have done having looked at the queue and spotting the odd one out, but we had a ball. He can’t dance for toffee, but then nor can I, and we became so engrossed in having a good time, that I forgot why I was there. There were moments when I wished Donna were there. I was tempted to ask for his number or give him mine, but he explained that he was not long out of a serious relationship, and was sorry if he’d given the wrong impression, but he’s only looking to get out of himself. I wonder whether he’s currently ‘in’, but then reckon that it doesn’t matter, as he was clearly having a great time being single and who am I to interrupt him?
So we went our separate ways, but agreed to look out for each other whenever we’re there again, and I definitely want Donna to meet him. Mike vs. er, Mike. No comparison.
*
CHAPTER 11
What did I learn from last night? That if something was bad in a certain era, it’s bound to still be bad over twenty years on. However, what maketh the clothes, doesn’t necessarily maketh the man. And ‘M’ was the man. Smart (though not exactly in attire), funny and with no inhibitions (I’m so jealous), he was entertaining and enlightening… in fact a sharp breath of fresh air. Sadly, there was no spark on either side, as is often the way, but we parted as friends.
As the month progresses, I am starting to see a different side to the men of Northamptonshire, and to me. I, like many people, can be judgemental but once people let their guard down (although I don’t think M has one), we’re all alike and yet, completely different. People are complex on one side of the coin, but on the other, we all want the same things; to share and be shared and, if we’re truly honest, to grow old disgracefully, but not alone. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I’m fussy when it comes to men, perhaps because of the independence I’ve had in recent months, but I can’t see myself going grey (or, I should say, even greyer), as Eric Carmen sang, all by myself.
Meeting these guys is an experience I have my boss, William, to thank for. It’s given me a perspective on the human genus that at first glance I would have bypassed, but given the opportunity… no, privilege, to meet these characters (and boy, are some of them characters), I see who they really are (as much as I can see in an hour or two) and would urge anyone to see beyond the lycra or nylon to the person beneath the skin and the heart that beats within.
Today’s two items are don’t worry what people think about your dancing, and do allow yourself to have fun every now and then. It really doesn’t hurt.
Both email systems have gone nuts, and I end up with no lunch break and am even pushing it to leave by five. I check tallgirlnn2 before I switch off and there’s a message from Keith. It’s strangely familiar, overly so, and I wonder for a second whether it’s ‘Aunt Agnes’ Keith, but the profile description is nothing like him. As I type a reply I stand up and look over at AA’s desk. It’s empty. I stay standing until I get a reply and his desk is still a void. I then notice that he’s in William’s office getting a dressing down, so that confirms they’re two different people. I then feel sorry for our Keith for whatever bawling he’s getting.
It’s another evening in town and normally I’d not bother going home, but I overslept and didn’t have a shower (thankfully the weather’s cooled down), so need to get my skates on if I’m going to meet DR1NK at seven. I thought that was early, but he says he goes there after work, so I assume he must be a workaholic, which is still an ‘olic’, but deemed better for your health, and he only goes to the pub to be “sociable”. One shouldn’t make assumptions. But I do.
I first see this Keith sitting on a bar stool in a corner of the main lobby of The Moon on the Square. The red carnation in his lapel gives him away; a corny, but attractive, flower, which sadly matches his not-so-attractive nose.
He looks a little glazed and rather unsteady on the stool when I walk over to him, but then when he stands up he nearly collapses in my arms which, had he been in the slightest bit appealing to me, I would have welcomed with… well, open arms, but he was not, so I do not so I help him to a table.
I leave him there, and go to buy a couple of drinks. Needless to say, both are non-alcoholic.
Drinks in hand, I walk back to the table and to Keith who’s wearing the goofiest of grins.
Here goes nothing.
We struggle our way through a mostly one-sided (me) conversation. There is definitely something strangely familiar about him. I don’t recognise his face, but something about him, and the little he is saying, gives me the creeps; like an eye through a bathroom spy-hole.
I’ve just been punched the stomach. Not physically, but it feels the same. I realise where I know him from. A couple of times at the swimming pool, he’d been ‘passing by’ as I’d come out of the building, saying something about purple being nice. I have a purple costume.
“Keith?”
“Yes, Isobel.” I’m rather surprised, given his current state of inebriation, that he remembers my name and wonder if he knows more about me than I realise. He now starts singing to the tune of The Beatles’ Michelle’, “Isobel, my belle, these are words that go together-”
“Keith,” I say more firmly.
“Huh?”
“Say the word purple.”
“A game? I like games. Purple!” He shouts out loud, like a bingo player with a winning line. Needless to say, nearly everyone in the bar looks round.
It’s him; the swimming pool stalker.
“Do you remember me, Keith?”
“Sure.”
“From where?”
“From our messages.”
“Nowhere else?”
“No… have we met before? Like, in a previous life? Are you into all that mumbo-jumbo reincarnation stuff?” He’s acting his shoe size again.
“No. More recently.”
“Errr…” His eyes are having trouble focussing and his face is now a few inches away from mine. He backs away and hiccups. Lovely. “No, my belle. Enlighten me.”
“The swimming pool?”
His glazed look is now replaced by a blank one. “I can’t swim.”
“But you’ve been there.”
“Have I?”
“Outside.”
“Maybe. I live in the town centre.”
“You really don’t remember?”
Another blank look. No doubt in the morning he won’t remember anything about tonight either, and I start feeling sorry for the guy. He isn’t a stalker, a bit creepy maybe, but I don’t think that he means me, or probably anyone else, any harm. He is his own worst enemy, another perfect candidate for Aunt Agnes, except I’m guessing that Keith Mk 2 doesn’t admit to having a problem of any kind. He strikes me as a guy who has issues, but drinks until he’s numb enough to forget them, and everything else.
The glazed look is back and I watch him as he wavers. It isn’t long before he gives up the fight to stay awake and his head falls down on to the table producing an almighty crash which wakes everyone else up… had they been asleep, which of course they’re not, but it’s another reason for them to look in our direction.
If they hadn’t seen me earlier, I could have done the ‘he’s nothing to do with me’ act. I wish, for the first time in my life that I smoked so I could go outside and light up. Within seconds, they’re all back to their own conversations and I can’t see anyone looking at me. I do the next best thing to a ciggie and dig out my mobile phone. I pretend to tap some numbers and am soon having a ‘conversation’ of my own (with myself) which of course I ‘can’t hear’ and have to go outside.
Sorry Keith, but I’m sure someone will wake you up when it’s time to go home.
*
CHAPTER 12
What did I learn from last night? That any addiction, whether drinking, gambling or worse, is only solvable from within. Own up to having a problem, and you’re more than halfway there. By admission, it gives you the willpower to do something about it. However numb your ‘tonic’ makes you, it’s only temporary. You still have to wake up in the morning, face whatever crisis that’s driving you to your solace and not bury your head in the sand.
K strikes me as a man who drinks until he can’t feel anymore. We all have ‘off’ days and resort to some kind of crutch, but usually it’s a quick fix like a portion of Banoffee Pie or half an hour down the gym (guess which one I go for).
It’s not a good look to share your rock-bottom with a complete stranger, and especially not if it’s supposed to be a date – unless you want her to feel sorry for you. And that’s not a good look either.
I left K fast asleep in The Moon on the Square. There are a few bars to choose from around the market, but I would guess not many containing a forty-something business suited guy with a sore head – in more ways than one.
So if you’re feeling down, think about the things that you enjoy. If you honestly feel better after you turn to your ‘friend indeed’ and you won’t regret it later, then do what makes you happy. Life is definitely too short to take everything seriously and whilst we have the necessities such as work and bills, everything else should be enjoyable. You shouldn’t need a bolster to prop up whatever’s wrong in your life – go out there and make it right.
Today’s two items: don’t do negative addictions and do make sure that if there’s anything troubling you, you take a good look at your life and see what you can do about it before you inflict it on anyone else.
With the article added to and safely installed in William’s tray (no sign of him, nothing unusual there), I’ll get to go on a non-rushed lunch with Donna. It feels like it’s been ages since our last proper chat, albeit through a toilet wall, but she’s seemed happier today, so I’m not too worried.
At one p.m. precisely, she’s standing by my desk, tapping her right foot impatiently. I look up and she’s wearing sunglasses.
“Is it summer already?”
“Can we just go?”
We walk the corridor in silence, and past Marion in silence (who duly says nothing in return). We get near the security office and I can’t keep it in any longer. “What’s with the sunnies and silent treatment?”
“Shh.” She even puts her finger up to her mouth.
I stop walking. “What’s going on?”
Donna, now a couple of paces ahead, stops and turns to face me. She lifts her sunglasses and I expect to see a black eye or at the very least runny make-up, but she’s her usual annoyingly flawlessly-skinned self.
“So?” I say.
“I don’t want him to see me.”
“Who?”
“Mike, of course.”
“Why not?”
“Because I lied to him.”
I resist a laugh. “What about?”
“I can’t tell you here, he might come out at any second.”
“Do you seriously think that sunglasses are going to hide your entire being? You’re the only five-feet-two blonde that works here. He may not be the smartest cookie in the jar, but even he wouldn’t mistake you for anyone else.”
“Don’t forget the half.”
Talking of smart cookies, I’ve decided that Donna’s Aspergillosis narration was the real Donna kept hidden, but behind a desk and cupboard full of make-up, weaves and wigs (for a former issue on alopecia), I find the sunglasses very… well, Donnaesque.
As soon as we’re outside, I can’t wait to grill her.
“Stop, Donna, stop walking.”
She looks nervously back towards the security office, which I know can’t be seen from where we are.
“He can’t see you. Tell me.”
“Let’s just go into town.”
“Donna!”
“It’s stupid really, but Mike wanted us to go out Monday night and I told him I couldn’t.”
“And?”
“He got a bit…” she looks down at the floor.
“Donna. Is he giving you grief again?”
“No.”
I’m not convinced, and it must show in my face.
“No, he really isn’t. It’s just that he wanted to know what I was doing.”
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing. I couldn’t really tell him that I was going speed-dating with you, could I?”
“Well…”
“We’re still going, aren’t we?”
“Oh, yes. Looking forward to it.”
“Phew.”
“So what will you tell him?”
“Don’t know. I’m too angry at the moment. He can stew. Let him think that I’m out with someone else.”
“Which you will be.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t need to know that.”
“Obviously.”
We start at Boots then the market, and hardly say a word the entire hour. We’re back at our building when out come the sunglasses again in readiness for ‘is he or isn’t he there’ Mike.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, as she puts them on.
“I’m not being bossed around by him.”
“But you are. You’re hiding from him. Just tell him that you’re going out with me, and he can like it or lump it.”
“Yes, boss.”
That’s me.
I leave work early to get to the Peterborough racetrack for six p.m. Donna and Mike have patched things up and she seems happier. I’m not holding my breath for them to still be a couple by the time I see her next, but then I did tell him what I’d do to him if he didn’t look after her, so that might not have helped. Not that I’m a patch on Mike’s build, but like a puppy, I have big eyes and know how to use them.
I’ve forgotten to bring any CDs and the car radio’s been playing up for ages. It keeps losing reception and I forget how to take it off AF (auto find – you’d think I would, seeing as I run a technology column, but I only ever remember when it’s dark and I’m driving) and I’m growling at it by the time I’ve hit the A45, ten minutes from home, so imagine what I’m like when I get to Peterborough, some forty-odd miles away. Not a happy bunny. I think the problem is that it’s got one of these removable fronts and I’d only had the thing a couple of days when a spring came off (which probably got vacuumed up on the rare occasion that the sees a clean; usually the day before I go to my mum’s – she spots everything) and so now the front doesn’t connect with the rest of it properly, and it tries to retune every few hundred yards. Really, there’s little point in having the radio on, but I like company and intermittent AF company is better than nothing. I may need reminding I said that.
So, I get there in plenty of time, thanks to my lovely lady sat nav, and am sitting in the car park. It’s already very busy and I’m surprised by how many families there are. I see a couple walking in with a papoose and a little Chinese baby. I’m not known for my sentimentality when it comes to children, but he, or she, is very, very cute. I assume he / she is adopted because the parents are, what is politically correctly called, White Caucasians.
I glance at the clock on the dashboard and it’s five-fifty; about right and wander in. I can’t see anyone waiting outside, so walk through the turnstiles. Now, I like my food and am a typical yo-yo dieter and sometimes, in my bigger phases, I bump into things. I don’t know why my body doesn’t realise how big it is and accommodate. I’m not too big for the turnstile, although I see a chap along the row struggling and he’s not particularly huge, so maybe the stadium should rethink their equipment, but I’m hitting the sides like a pinball machine and am so glad when no one seems to be paying attention.
Inside, there are so many guys on their own that it’s impossible to work out which is Gary, but as there aren’t many women on their own, so he spots me and comes running over.
“Izzy?”
I nod.
“Hi. You made it. Quick!” he continues before I have a chance to respond. “They’re going to start in a few minutes. We need to work out a plan for the evening. You’re my lucky charm tonight, remember.” He grins like a man possessed, not in an ‘evil clown’ sort of way, but in excited, like a ‘child at a birthday party who actually likes clowns’ sort of way.
He grabs my arm, which surprises, but doesn’t unnerve me given his enthusiasm, and pulls me towards a table which already has a part-pint and full Coke sitting on it. Good guess, although I don’t know anyone of my generation who doesn’t like Coke, so perhaps we’re predictable.
“I’ve covered the first race. Blind Bessie. Fifty each way.”
“Fifty what? Pounds?” My limit on any kind of bet is usually two or three.
He nods.
“Great! Let the games begin,” I say enthusiastically, but he just stares at me. I can tell this is going to be another fun evening. A Mr ‘No Sense of Humour’, and two addicts in a row. I really know how to pick them.
The evening, as it turns out, was great. I arrived with £32.50, or thereabouts, and left with £92.03 exactly. G, on the other hand, lost about five grand.
We didn’t share a kiss goodnight, him being in a strop. I don’t recall him even saying, ‘Goodnight’, but did that spoil things for me? Not in the least.
He opened my eyes to his personality, not from losing the money, but from how tightly wound up he was throughout the evening. Apart from shouting in my ear every inch that the dogs are running, he slams his beer glass, his fifth, down on the table (losing some of the contents) and gets very depressed when his dog loses (which all bar one of them did). I’m very proud of myself when my dogs win, as I don’t rub it in, but do a much quieter “yay” whenever they romp home, versus his roar when his one-and-only crossed the line. The highlight of his grumpiness was when the delightful couple with the Chinese baby, who’d been on the table next to us (we’d chatted when Gary had gone to place the bets), had been unable to placate their crying baby and Gary had seriously lost his rag.
And now, it’s good to be home. The heating went off hours ago, and the house is chilly, so I put on some fingerless gloves, which I keep in the hall meter cupboard. It’s been months since I’ve had a kebab (Mike would be jealous, and Donna tutting, right now) and it’s made me really thirsty. I decide to dilute the calories, should have something healthy, so go to the kitchen and lean forward to the gap beside the washing machine and sink, pulling up a blue-topped litre bottle of orange-flavoured water.
Deciding that a full-length movie would be beyond even me, I scan the selection of TV DVDs. I fancy something girlie and am nearly halfway through when I spot Love Soup (yes, they’re A-Z), which I’ve only ever seen on TV. I remember Alice’s love life being quite disastrous and that really appeals right now. What I had forgotten was that the episodes are an hour rather than half an hour, so I’m struggling to stay awake by the time the first episode ends. I zap the remote and the whole thing shuts down.
I take a swig of the water. Anyone looking at me would think I’m mad, and I feel like a Dickensian character, but unlike them, I have money in my pocket won fair and square. Gary will have arrived home by now and is probably drowning his sorrows, but presumably on something more heavy-duty than mine.
So I go to bed. Too late for an interlude with Elliot, but tomorrow night is Harry Roberts at The Britannia, so even if we get on brilliantly, I should be home by eleven-ish and as it’s not a ‘school’ night, I can share my bed with Elliot, Natasha and Mr Häagen Dazs’ Banoffee ice cream. A foursome, I like it.
*
CHAPTER 13
What did I learn from last night? That there are different levels of gambling, and when it goes from being a bit of fun to a way of life, then you may need to ask yourself whether you have a problem. Of course some people do make a very successful living out of it, but they tend to be the racetracks, betting shops and more recently, online gaming websites.
I met G last night and whilst I saw it as an evening’s entertainment, for him it was serious business, and quite scary to watch. He did what a lot of punters do; he followed the form, weighed up the odds and then went for the ‘sure’ bet. I, on the other hand, did the girlie thing; going for names I liked or the colour of the greyhounds’ coats… jackets? There’s probably a proper name for them. I didn’t like to ask.
He’d invited me there as his lucky charm and whilst it turned out that I was lucky, that luck didn’t however rub off on him.
During the course of the evening, I watched him change from a mild-mannered individual to a Hyde-like character, overreacting because of his losses and taking it out on the family sitting next to us. Given the choice of whom I would have liked to spend the evening with, there would have been no contest.
I would like to think that G would have learned from last night but I suspect that he won’t, and that others like him don’t, but it taught me that taking anything that seriously, especially when money changes hands, is a dangerous game, and one I’d rather play with matchsticks… dead ones of course.
If you’ve been following my column since the beginning of the month (I can’t believe we’re nearly half way) you’ll have been living the ups and downs (mostly the latter) of my ‘dates’. What do you look for in a man? Have you found ‘the one’ online? I’d like to hear your experiences in the world of online profiles and virtual relationships, so drop me an email at the address above and I may include some of your tales, anonymously obviously, for the world (or at least the county) to share.
Unlike the office, my email system is a hive of activity. With Harry tonight, SingleDad5811 tomorrow, then the speed-dating thing on Monday, I’ve yet to line up more guys for the rest of the week and thereafter. Messages from AdamKzz and AlexC17 suggest Tuesday and Wednesday respectively, so I’m chuffed.
I really need to add more to my column, but William’s not in today (maybe he does have a life after all), so I guess there’s no hurry unless, in the absence of an official deputy, he’s left Janine in charge, but we’re New Best Friends, so there’s nothing to worry on that score.
Speak of whom… “Hi, Janine.”
“Hey Izzy. How’s it going?”
“Good. You?”
“Uh huh, good. So it’s going well?”
I nod.
“Excellent, on my desk by lunchtime then please.”
I watch her as she returns to said desk. This power thing’s changed her walk and it’s scary. So much for NBF. I’m learning so much about people this month, maybe I should write a column.
My date with Harry is another early one. Apparently he’s flying to Germany on business ridiculously early in the morning (who works on a Sunday?) and is staying at one of Heathrow’s hotels. So, he’s driving which means sober and that’s fine with me. His profile says he’s a sales director for a printing company and he’s obviously not bothered that people know he’s on there. A lot of people, especially senior management, remain decidedly vague, and certainly no picture, as it’s “not professional”, but presumably Harry has nothing to hide. In fact every box on his profile is completed. Again people tend to leave the options as ‘not selected’. I can’t talk as there’s very little on dating sites that’s complete, or true.
Anyway, I’ve cracked on with the article and it hits Janine’s tray with a few minutes to spare. Of course lunchtime can mean anywhere between twelve and two, but I play it safe and get it there by twelve-thirty. That means after replying to AdamKzz and AlexC17, I’m pretty much done.
Donna’s not said a word since yesterday lunchtime, which is not like her. Like me, she’s not normally in on a Saturday, so I go over to her desk to try and drag her out. She says she’s got too much to do and I assume it’s because she doesn’t want to do the sunglasses routine again (although I spot a bright red wig on her desk which is likely to be just as obvious), but I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
After a hurried (Donna looks like she’s running for a bus) exit past the security office, thankfully without the sunglasses (or wig), we escape the building and walk to the café in the Grosvenor Centre, two-minutes from the office.
It turns out Mike’s been off sick the last couple of days, but given everything that passes through his system, I can’t say I’m surprised.
We nab a corner table, and I go to buy the drinks.
“We’ve split up,” Donna blurts out when I’m just about to sit back down, tray in hand.
“Oh.” I don’t really know what else to say. Great! About time. He’s no good for you anyway, but she looks upset. “Is that a good thing?”
She nods, but looks like a wounded dog.
“Who did the…”
“Me.”
“Wow. That must have been hard.”
She nods again.
“And he didn’t take it well.”
She shakes her head. I see that getting much more out of her today is going to be a tall order.
“Shall I buy some cake?” I’ve always seen food as a real tonic – Mike should be a walking medicine cabinet.
The nod is back.
“Anything special?”
Head-shaking takes over.
“I’ll surprise you.” I smile.
She sighs.
When I get back she seems a little more cheerful. The slice of ‘Death by Chocolate’ (the biggest piece on offer) and ‘Key Lime Pie’ may have something to do with that.
I’ve never really been a big chocolate fan, and am willing Donna go for the ‘death’ option. As I put the tray in between us and our hot chocolates, her eyes light up at the slab of cake, so I put it in front of her, take the ‘pie’, and put the tray on an empty chair beside me.
The café is filling up, so it’s a little difficult to hear, but our Mike conversation is far from over, so I gently dig for more information.
“I’d just had enough,” she says.
“I can understand that, honey. No man is worth crying over and it doesn’t sound as if he’s going to change.”
“You’re right, but I still love him.”
My heart goes out to her. “This is probably a stupid question but how did he take it?”
“Okay, I suppose. We’d not been together long anyway.”
“So you can go speed-dating with me on Monday with a clear conscience.”
“I guess so.”
I try cheerful. “You might meet the man of your dreams.”
“Maybe.”
I need another approach. “Or just have a fun evening.”
“That’ll be nice.”
We smile and tuck into our desserts.
She eats like she’d not done so for weeks.
“Nice?” I ask.
She closes her eyes and nods in schoolgirl-like delight then with mouth part-full, says, “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Touché, Donna Clarke.
We walk back to the office, chatting about anything other than Mike, then hug as we reach the building. I walk to my car and she heads to her desk, no doubt doing a Speedy Gonzales past the security office.
After a relaxing afternoon and microwaved portion of pasta in chicken and mushroom sauce with two lightly-toasted granary slices, I arrive at The Britannia just before six. Harry is waiting outside the pub and is drop-dead gorgeous. I’ve made an effort, but now I wish I’d made more.
As I walk over smiling, he looks disappointed. With nothing to lose, I put out my hand. “Hi, I’m Izzy. You must be Harry.”
“Hi,” is all he says, ignoring my proffered hand. He turns towards the pub’s front door and walks in first.
Fine.
I follow him and he goes straight to the bar.
“What do you want?”
I was always told off as a child for asking, “Do you want” instead of the much more polite, “Would you like”, but he’s in a strop, so I resist correcting him.
“Can I have a pineapple juice and lemonade please?”
“Sure.”
This is going to be a barrel of laughs.
He pays for the drinks and we aim for a free table in a quiet corner. It’s by an old fire, but it’s quite a warm evening, so is unlit. It’s a very romantic setting, but I get the impression there’s going to be none tonight.
We sit and wait for one of us to start the conversation. The first thing that springs to mind is the weather, but I’m not quite that desperate. Yet. “So, you’re off to Germany tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
Great. A yes man.
“Have you been there before?”
“Yes.”
Mmm. The words ‘teeth’ and ‘pulling’ spring to mind. “I have friends in Germany, near the Black Forest.”
“Nice.”
I’m going to call him ‘One-Word H’ in my column on Monday. “Do you speak German?”
He nods.
Make that ‘Half-A-Word-On-Average H’. “I speak enough to hold a decent conversation.”
Nothing. The word count average is decreasing by the second. I’m surprised because most salesmen I’ve met, and in my job, that’s been a few, can’t stop talking.
Figuring he must travel a lot, I ask, “Do you speak any other languages?”
“Japanese, Spanish, Danish and Russian.”
Of course you do, I think, but just say, “Wow.”
Silence ensues and I still resist weather. “Have you ever seen A Fish Called Wanda?”
He shakes his head.
“Jamie Lee Curtis is turned on by Kevin Kline speaking Italian and then John Cleese speaking Russian.”
“Yes, I know the film.”
But not seen it. How picky can you get? I take a large mouthful of my drink and will him to do the same, so I can get another one and keep plying him until he goes to the toilet and I can escape. Dirty trick, I know, but I’ve had my fill of sneaking out with the guy still in sight.
I’ve nearly finished my drink and he’s not started his. This isn’t fair. I’m going to have to go to the Ladies if I have another one.
This is, I suspect, a man who gives a shit about everything. When he decides to speak, he tells me he doesn’t normally ‘do’ women over a size ten, but thought he’d make an exception in my case because my profile sounded interesting and that he’d have bought me a gym membership if I looked like a good bet. I can tell by his reaction so far that I don’t. He’s not wrong.
As a barmaid walks round clearing the empty plates (they do lovely food here) and glasses (not ours – I’m still eking mine out and Harry’s had about a millimetre of his), she approaches our table and picks up speed as she sees Harry. She smiles broadly, but then reduces pace and enthusiasm when she sees his thunderous look. She veers away from our table and walks back to the bar.
When she’s not quite out of earshot, he says loudly that she looked like a fat (presumably a size twelve plus) girl running for a piece of cake. If Donna had been here to hear him comparing himself to Death by Chocolate she probably would have belted him, and I’m tempted to, but just glare. I needn’t have bothered as he’s too busy looking around the bar, perhaps to check that no one he knows can see him or for any supermodels he might be able to escape me for.
I’m tempted to do him a favour and leave, but I persevere. Why should I put him out of his misery? I’m so glad I don’t as I’d have missed the best bit.
I’m just taking my last dribble of drink when a family sit down at the table nearest to us, on the other side of the fire.
Harry glares at them. He seems to have a limited range of facial expressions, and could learn a thing or two from Donna.
“Do you have children?” I ask. I remember he’s divorced.
“God, no.”
That explains the glaring.
With the exception of our strained conversation, everything’s fine until the boy, aged about six or seven, starts playing up.
The expression on Harry’s face gets even gloomier.
Then the pink-enveloped baby starts crying. That, it would appear, is the final straw.
Rather than lean or walk over to the parents and have a quiet word, he lunges at the children and shouts at them to behave and shut up. This actually works as he stuns them into silence.
For about thirty seconds.
The baby then starts bawling at the top of her voice, and the boy screams as if his favourite toy has just been crushed by a bulldozer. Although knowing most boys (Karen’s got three and another of my neighbours has four), he’d probably love to see a bulldozer up close.
The parents are now glaring back at us and I’m trying a ‘he’s nothing to do with me’ expression, but seeing as I’m sitting opposite him, it doesn’t hold much weight.
The family then gather up their things and with still-screaming children in tow, move to another table at the opposite side of the pub.
“Good,” Harry grumbles. “Let them go and annoy someone else.”
I’m tempted to say something like, “this is a family pub”, but see it’s futile. Instead I push my empty glass towards him and say, “Thanks for the drink, but I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to be babysitting my sister’s eight children.”
I don’t have a sister; and just the one niece, Lola, but he’s not to know that. Is he?
I do love it when I can shut my front door and have an evening to do with as I wish.
Harry will be on his way to the hotel and is probably grumbling about the waste of time. I thought it was hilarious; to see a man who loves himself so much behaving like that. Younger than the boy with the proverbial crushed toy, younger than Moon on the Square Keith’s shoes, and I think even the Chinese and pink-wrapped babies had more maturity.
I, on the other hand, have my second date of the night; with the sofa, bottle of Asti and a good book. Elliot, get ready to rock ‘n’ roll.
*
CHAPTER 14
I love Sundays. There’s a car boot sale on a local pub car park and the weather’s good, so I decide to walk.
I arrive just before ten and it’s a hive of activity. I pass a couple walking back to their car carrying an old exercise bike. I can guarantee it’ll get used twice then end up in the shed. I sold mine years ago, but still have a fold-up cross trainer in the dining room and trampoline (with its six feet in a plastic bag) in the shed ‘just in case’. And of course, they’re used all the time.
I’m really only after books, DVDs and a particular type of Bedford-made porcelain pottery that I like. I soon find a couple of anthologies (I rarely read novels, but the cover of Opaque did it for me) and half a dozen chick flicks. I can’t believe my luck as they’re all from the same stall and I get the lot for a fiver. The next few stalls are mainly tat or children’s toys, although I do spot a great mini theatre I think Lola would adore. She’s always telling me stories when I visit. The thing’s still in its box and even comes with five puppets.
The stallholder says her children have grown out of it and would five pounds be okay? I usually haggle if I think something’s a bit too expensive, but I know this is a bargain, so calmly say (in a Babe-like “that’ll do pig” voice), “that sounds fine, thanks very much”, then scurry back to the car with my loot.
As there are just twenty or so stalls, I go back and do another circuit and find, in a box of oddments, a small piece of pottery I collect. I turn it over and on the bottom is the GP mark although I know from the colouring grooves round the inside that it’s a piece of Bedford-made POG. I pay the extortionate 20p, find nothing else, so return to the car.
When I get home I play with my ‘toys’ (including the theatre) and make myself some lunch. The Accidental Husband is just finishing when I notice it’s just gone four o’clock. I’m supposed to be meeting SingleDad5811 in less than an hour, so quickly do the washing up and go upstairs to decide what to wear.
The Cock Hotel is another family pub, so I know I don’t need to do ‘glam’. I’m also figuring that a single father won’t be ultra chic, so go for black jeans, a shades-of-beige top and brown flat leather shoes.
I’m looking forward to tonight, as anyone with children will have lots to talk about. Donna reckons I’ll end up with someone with children because I don’t want my own, but I can’t see it myself. I wouldn’t mind as long as they’re old enough to leave home soon.
I’m five minutes late as I burst through the pub door. Everyone stares at me. I hate being late, even by five minutes. I can’t see anyone who I think SingleDad5811 might look like, so walk towards the bar. The barman nods at me as if to ask me what I want to drink, but I say I’m waiting for someone. With my back to the bar, I look around. No one’s stepped forward, so I assume I’ve beaten him to it.
After ten minutes of feeling like a lemon, I decide to get a drink. I go for the predicable Coke and start sipping it when SingleDad arrives. I can tell it’s him by his worn out expression, an expression which changes to ‘sorry’ when he sees me, that and the presence of a little boy clutching his left hand.
“Hello. So sorry. Babysitting glitch. My sister changed her plans at the last moment, so I called the usual babysitter and she was late. Then my oldest couldn’t find her iPod, the middle one couldn’t find her Pony World DS game and then Zak here said he wanted to come with me. I hope you don’t mind. He wouldn’t have settled if I’d said ‘no’.”
“No problem,” I say hesitantly. “How many children do you have?”
“Just the three, but they’re five, eight and eleven, so a bit of a handful.”
Zak is now wiping his nose with his left sleeve and my expression must be one of revulsion as SingleDad looks down at his son. “Zak! How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Sorry, Rick.”
I now look gobsmacked at Rick. “He calls you Rick?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were his father.”
“I am.”
“You don’t mind him calling you by your first name?”
“No, they all do. We are a very liberated household.”
I can tell, although liberated isn’t the word I would have chosen.
“Anyway, I see you have a drink already. Can I get you another or…”
“Thanks, but it’s okay. I’ll wait until the next round.”
Rick drags his son to the bar and orders a pint of lager and half of lemonade. He carries the lager and his son, and I take the lemonade and what’s left of my Coke to a table by a fruit machine.
“So, Rick, are you a full-time dad?”
“Yes,” he says proudly. “I only rely on outside help at times like this. I have to have a life, don’t I?”
“It’s sounds like it’s a very hectic one.”
“Oh yes, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
“That’s nice. So many fathers shirk their responsibility.”
“Don’t they,” he says, shaking his head vigorously. “I’ve been there since the minute they were born.”
“And your wife?” This, I see, is a conversation killer. In the seconds that remain unspoken, I notice there’s what looks like breakfast splattered down Zac’s t-shirt.
“Zak, you go and play on the fruit machine.” Rick hands him a few coins and the boy wanders off.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” I say when the boy’s out of earshot.
“No, it’s okay. If we’re going to be dating, it’s only fair you know.”
News to me… that we’re dating. Technically this is a first date, but he’s being somewhat presumptuous. Maybe he’s recently single, so I wait to be told.
“I’ve told everyone she died.”
“I’m so sorry,” but then it hits me what he actually said. He’s told everyone.
“Oh no, she didn’t die. She left me for… for someone else.”
I can only say an “Oh” and wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Won’t they find out it’s not true? What about her funeral?”
“There wasn’t one.”
“I guess not, but they’d have expected one surely.”
“I said she was working overseas and was eaten by a big animal on safari.”
“And they believed you?”
“So far.”
I’m not sure what to say next, so go with, “When did she leave?”
“Last week.”
“Last week? And you’re dating again?”
“I need to find a new mother, don’t I?”
Not here, you won’t. “And there’s no chance of her coming back?”
“Absolutely not. Doesn’t want anything to do with us.”
“But what if her new man feels guilty, realises his mistake or kicks her out.”
“There’s no chance of that. She’s not a he.”
Now I’m confused. “Your wife.”
“No, the ‘new man’.”
“Oh… your wife has left you for another woman,” I say it a little too loudly and realise that young ears are listening.
Zak stops hitting the buttons and picking his nose, and comes running back to his father. He starts bawling and I catch, “What was the bad lady saying? Where’s mummy?”
Rick grabs him by his hand, gets up from the table and glares at me.
I look sorry, but it’s not washing with either of them.
“See what you’ve done!” he hisses, and storms out the pub.
Oops.
*
CHAPTER 15
Mike’s back from sick leave, although he doesn’t look very sick to me especially given the food he’s still stuffing down his throat.
Donna’s back to her chirpy self. I’ve only just got to my desk and haven’t even taken off my jacket when she comes bounding over.
“Hello! Can’t wait ’til tonight.”
“Oh good.”
“You don’t seem too excited.”
“It’s work really and to be honest, it’s getting to be hard work.”
“But think of all those lovely men.”
I am, comparing them to the fourteen I’ve met already and it’s too depressing, but I put on a smile just for her and she skips back to her desk.
What did I learn from last night? That children provoke many different reactions. Saturday evening was spent in the company of H. We met early as he had to fly to an overseas meeting the following morning (only serious businessmen work on a Sunday – and boy, was he serious). We were in a delightful pub (The Britannia on the Bedford Road), but I got the distinct impression from the off that I wasn’t his cup of tea. Conversation was hard going, thanks to his one-word answers. He was, however, far more vocal on the subject of children – or rather at two excitable children who were with their parents on the next table. His behaviour made them leave and I wasn’t far behind them.
Mr Sunday Afternoon however was the complete opposite. I so wish I could get these two together. No need to buy any fireworks. R2 brought his youngest offspring, who was suffering from a bit of a cold. Whilst I admire single parents, I felt less empathy for R2 who wasn’t exactly being truthful about the ‘loss’ of the children’s mother. Still, that’s something he’s going to have to deal with at some stage. She may have cut them out of her life for now, but it’s very early days, and she is likely to change her mind. Besides, the children will start asking questions and will want to go to visit their mother’s grave, and when they find out there isn’t one, he may wish he’d been a little more honest.
Finding new ways of being diplomatic is proving difficult. Fortunately tonight’s event is speed-dating, so I shouldn’t have problems with word count. Donna’s picking me up en-route and has promised not to be late. She’s late for everything. Except work, strangely.
Where is she? It’s just gone seven and she’s not here yet. She’s been here loads of times, so she can’t be lost. I decide to wait outside. It’s not the warmest night of the year, but it’s dry.
Ten past.
Donna, where are you?
“Hi, Ursula. You look nice.”
“Thanks. And you. Going anywhere special?”
“Not really, just out with a work colleague. You?”
“Same, kind of. Meeting some friends.”
“Have a great time.”
“And you.”
At last. Donna and her trusted steed (a Ford Focus).
“Sorry. Sorry. I know we’re cutting it fine.”
“We are. Never mind. I don’t suppose we’ll be last.”
Rosie lives up to her name; a wide red-lipped smile and badge on her lapel giving her name with ‘ND Speed-Dating’ above it and ‘Soul-Mating’ underneath.
She ticks off our names and slaps a pink number seven on my chest and eight on Donna’s, before handing us a form and pen each. Rosie then smiles plastically and points us in the direction of the bar to get a drink before we begin, while looking at the clock as if to make a point.
The place is busy for a Monday and we’ve just ordered our drinks when Donna whispers, “Have you done this before?”
“No. You?” I whisper back.
“Why are you two whispering?” A voice behind me says.
I turn round and there’s Ursula.
“Hello neighbour,” I say then look at her chest. “I didn’t know you were coming here, number four.”
“Me, neither. How funny, if we’d known we could have shared a car.”
“We could.”
“And this is your work colleague… friend?”
“Hi, I’m Donna.” Donna thrusts out her hand, and Ursula shakes it firmly.
“This is Ursula, my next door neighbour. I thought you and Max…”
“We split up a little while ago. He didn’t like my irregular work patterns, so I thought I’d come here and just see what happens. Bit of fun really.”
“Me too, but Donna here is more hopeful.”
“That’s not fair. You wouldn’t mind…”
“But more realistic,” I chip in.
Rosie appears and chivvies us into a back room and towards two rows of eight tables, with thirty-two chairs, in pairs, face-to-face. It looks like an informal Spanish inquisition, but then I suppose that’s exactly what it’s going to be. She beckons a few more people over until we’re all gathered around her like a coach group and their tour guide.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen.” She pauses.
We twig and say an out of unison “Good evening.”
“Welcome to The Cock.”
Donna bursts out laughing and I nudge her with my left hip, which shuts her up.
Rosie coughs and starts again. “Welcome to The Cock Hotel and to ND’s Speed-Dating Soul-Mating event. We are just waiting for one more who I’m assured is on his way. When he arrives we shall have one more gentleman this evening than lady, but our blue numbers eleven and twelve have very kindly offered to rotate as a pair and for that very reason, we will have three and a half minutes per pairing instead of three minutes. When the bell goes, you will have a few seconds to write down any comments you wish to make, but you will need to be quick please, then move on to the next table. The ladies will stay seated and the men move. You can ask the other person, or persons, any question you like and if you wish to exchange contact details simply write that person’s number on the form and hand it into me at the end of the evening. That way, there will be no embarrassment as I shall contact you by email with the numbers of the gentleman or gentlemen who have requested your details. Only those who both wish to exchange details will be able to do so.”
I’m just about following this, but Donna is frowning, so I translate. “If you think he’s hot, tick his number on the card. If he thinks you’re hot, he’ll do the same and then Rosie will send you his details and him yours.”
“You have done this before.”
“No, just a lucky guess.” Though why you can’t just have a chat afterwards and swap then is beyond me, but Rosie’s the expert.
I look at the group of men we’re going to be meeting and it’s not looking good. According to the website the age range is thirty to forty, but I would say it’s more like twenty to fifty. And twenty might be pushing it. Karen’s eleven-year-old son, Simon, looks older than number thirteen.
We take our seats and are about to start when the missing man bursts in and I start laughing. Donna, who’s a seat ahead of me, turns round. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s Hunky.”
“Yes, isn’t he?”
“No. It’s Duncan.”
Donna clearly is none the wiser.
“The vet?”
Her eyes light up. “Ah, Hunky Dunky!”
He’s looking in her direction then spots me. “Hi Izzy. How are things?”
“Hi Duncan. Good thanks, and you?”
“Oh, you know. Busy. Only just finished work. Had to change at the surgery. Couldn’t come here in my scrubs, could I?”
By now, I’ve lost Donna.
He looks back at her. “Hello. Are you okay?”
Him speaking seems to snap her out of her trance and she sighs a, “Hello.”
“Donna, Duncan. Duncan, Donna.”
“Hello,” she says again, giggling, and holds out her hand to him.
He shakes it warmly. “Hello Donna.”
I see a flash in Donna’s eyes and it’s clear Mike’s forgotten, albeit for an evening. She winks at me then mouths something, and for the first time, I know exactly what she’s said. He’s a keeper.
I feel someone standing over my right shoulder and turn round. It’s Rosie.
“Duncan, I presume,” she says, slapping a blue number sixteen on his Hugo Boss shirt.
“Yes, sorry I’m late. Duty called.”
“We’re just about to start.” She looks at numbers eleven and twelve, twins in jeans and pastel coloured polo shirts and they take a seat together a few tables down from me. She then points to the empty chair in front of me and Duncan takes his seat. Donna smiles at him then turns to the fifty-something man sitting opposite her. A serious look takes over her face and pen in hand, she’s already started to ask him questions when the ‘begin’ bell goes.
“So Isobel. What would you like to know?”
“I don’t know, Duncan. What is there about you I don’t know already?”
“Did I tell you I’ve been on the Weakest Link?”
I lean forward. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Did you win?”
“Sadly, no. I was in the last three, though; two women and me, so they voted me off.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It was actually because I just got one question right in that round and I forgot to bank twice, so I only got them twenty pounds.”
“Oops, but you got that far.”
“I did.”
We then chat about work (his real and my fake) and I’m just about to change the subject when the bell goes. “God, that was quick.”
“Just as well we’ve already met then.” Duncan smiles.
“Indeed. Have a fun evening.”
“Am already. See you later.”
Next up is fifteen, the fifty-something. I look at Donna who’s studying her form intently. I then look at the geek sat in front of her and feel sorry for her until I realise I’m getting him next. Great.
I sit mesmerised by Baxter ‘OCD’ Ingells as he rolls his hand like he has a ball or sweet wrapper in it, but there’s nothing there; unless it’s an imaginary friend. He turns his upside-down beer mat (with a very cute picture of a dog on it) round the right way and then every few seconds lines up his pens so they are completely central to his marking card. Everything about him is coordinated, probably even down to matching underwear. We’ve not started talking yet, but I’m willing the ‘move on’ bell to go. It doesn’t get any better.
Sport fanatic Phil is number fourteen. He’s a professional golfer (yes, I imagine him dolled up in his plus-fours pushing his trolley and it isn’t a pretty sight, especially from the neck upwards), but his big passion is football. He’s ‘tried out’ for a couple of major clubs (he won’t tell me which ones as he’s signed confidentiality agreements… do I look interested?) and has played for numerous amateur clubs (again, so not interested).
He keeps looking down at his crotch.
“Something wrong?”
“No.” He looks up. “Sorry.”
I then see a flash of light that can only be a mobile.
“Are we keeping you?”
“The Everton vs. Chelsea friendly starts in twenty minutes. Think I might skip the last few women, they don’t look like they’re worth it.” Knowing that will include Ursula, he plummets even further in my estimations.
“If you want to move on now, don’t let me stop you.”
“All right, darling, keep your frillies on.”
I’m no women’s libber, but I’m certainly not his darling and I don’t wear frillies. “Looking at all the women here,” I say, “you’d probably be doing them a favour.”
Number thirteen, unluckily for me, is Rebel Hell. Yorath is very forthcoming with information. He left home at sixteen (which, judging by his acned complexion is about six months ago), lives with a mate (Ollie by any chance?) in a flat in the town centre, works as a nightshift shelf stacker at Sainsbury’s and has just had a tattoo done on his arm – of an eagle. He proudly shows me, but all I can see is a very red and black blur underneath some very unattractive looking cling film. I quite fancy having a small Pawprint or barcode on my wrist, so that conversation takes the remaining two minutes, at the end of which I make a note not to go to the same tattooist as him.
Next up are 12 and 11, the twins Xabiere and Xantes Xardel, the definitive mother’s boys. They’re thirty-five and still live at home, talk about ‘mummy’ and won’t have a bad word said about all mothers. They go everywhere together, so are presumably grateful that we’re a woman short, and I’m grateful that I get them over and done with in three and a half minutes instead of seven.
Rosie, in the meantime, is walking around the room scribbling away on her clipboard. I can’t think what’s she writing about, but she looks like she has a headache, though it may just be concentration. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen who can frown and smile at the same time. Still, an almost full house at twenty-five pounds a pop would make anyone happy.
The next contestant is number ten – Waffler (Zeek Townsend). We’re a match made in heaven. I can talk for England.
“Hi, I’m Izzy”.
“Hey, Izzy. I’m Zeek, Zeek Townsend. Bet you’re wondering how I got the name? It originates back to…”
I look at the clock; one minute and counting.
“…and a funny thing happened today at work. Did I tell you I’m a glazier?”
He did.
“I went to fit some new windows for an old dear and…”
I look past him to see how Donna’s getting on, tilting my head whilst pretending to be listening, and she’s deep in conversation. A two-way conversation.
“I’m sorry. I should let you say something. Which reminds me…”
It would appear everything reminds him of something else. He’d make a good comedian. They never seem to pause for breath, with endless ammunition ready to fire out at their audience; bam, bam, bam…
There’s a pause and I go to speak, but the bell goes.
Quiet Mr Nine, Nick, works in a library, so I’d expect him to be quite sociable. Wrong. He’s like Harry from Saturday night’s Britannia; I string along a perfectly good question, which deserves a perfectly good answer, and what do I get? ‘Yes’s and ‘No’s.
“So you work in a library?”
“Yes.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been there long?”
“No.”
“You must read a lot of books.”
“Yes.”
“Have you been to one of these before?”
“Yes. You?”
I’m just trying to think of another question when it dawns on me that he’s asked me something.
“No. This is the first one.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. I look at his hands and they’re beautifully polished. I don’t know what that has to do with the price of fish, but it’s something to do.
“What do you do?” he finally asks. He’s really coming out of his shell now.
“I’m a… a secretary for a training company.” Oops, nearly slipped up there.
He nods, going back into his shell. Damn it.
I’m saved by the bell. Literally. Our ‘conversation’ has been so drawn out that the three and a half minutes has flown by. Ish.
I can smell number eight before he leaves the neighbouring table. Sidney, the smoker, appears to be a pack of nerves. He sits down and before long his right leg is shaking so much that it keeps hitting table. I wonder whether it’s me or the whole experience making him anxious.
“Are you all right?” I ask. It’s not going to be a fun three and a half minutes if the table, and therefore my Coke, is going to get pummelled.
He nods, but looks at the door.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
He shakes his head. Great, this is going to be more painful than number nine. “Do you need a fag?”
He nods.
“I guess there’ll be a break at some stage as we’ll need to get a drink won’t we?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“You’ve not done this before?”
He shakes his head again. It’s obvious he speaks English as he’s nodding and shaking in all the right places, assuming they are the right places, but something’s obviously got his tongue.
“Have you met anyone nice so far?” It’s a bit of a shame that in such a short time, the conversation has already moved on to someone else.
“A couple.”
He does speak.
“There was a girl a couple of people back who was quite funny. She’s a horse-riding instructress. I don’t know anything about horses though…”
Do I really want to know about the other women here tonight? I let him waffle on and it’s not long before the bell goes.
“Well, Sidney, thanks for that.”
He smiles, stands up and walks past me to the next table. Ho, hum.
I am seriously beginning to lose the will to live, until the bell rings twice and Rosie steps forward.
“Ladies and gentlemen. We shall have a ten-minute recess and you can talk to one another, but remember you have another seven partners to meet, so reserve judgement until the very end of the evening please.” She makes it sound like a courtroom; we’re the jury that she’s trying to plead her case to.
We return to the main room and Donna sprints towards me, waving her card furiously. “Isn’t this fun?”
“Uh huh.”
She then rushes over to number seven, whom I’m due to meet next, and starts chatting to him. I can’t say I blame her as, apart from Duncan, whom she’ll meet last, none of the ones I’ve met so far merit a second conversation. I shake my head as I listen to myself. I’ve become so cynical in the past two weeks and have another two to go.
“Are you all right?”
“Hi Duncan. Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Are you having a good time?”
“It’s something different to do, isn’t it? Beats the telly night after night.”
That sounds so appealing right now, but he’s right. It’s good to get out and meet people. I’m taking it far too seriously, but then that’s me.
“Would you like a drink, Izzy?”
“Thanks. Just a Coke please. No… as I’m not driving, do you mind a Southern Comfort in it? Medicinal, of course.”
He smiles and puts his hand up to attract the attention of the barman, which he succeeds in doing almost immediately. I’m so glad he’s here.
Donna’s back and even more excited than ever. “You’ll like number seven. He’s lovely.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Hey, Donna. I’m just getting Izzy and I a drink, would you like something?”
“Hi, Duncan,” she drools. “Can I have a lemonade and lime please?”
“Sure. No problem.” He orders the drinks and we move away from the bar to let in others. “So you’re having fun then, Donna?”
“Oh yes. It’s wonderful. Really taking my mind off… things.”
“Oh dear.”
I butt in. “She’s been seeing an idiot who doesn’t appreciate how truly wonderful she really is.”
“A one-woman Donna fan club.” Duncan says, and Donna giggles. Duncan smiles at me and I want to kick myself for letting him go the first time we met.
Rosie appears, like a Border Collie, rounding everyone up to go back into our pen.
We three are the last to go in and Donna makes an excuse for Duncan to go in front, saying she wants a quick word with me. We walk behind him and watch his Levi 501s sashay towards the back room.
“He’s gorgeous,” Donna whispers.
I nod.
“And he really likes you.”
“Really?” I take a swig of my drink. “Do you think?”
“Oh, yes, I saw the way he smiled at you back there.”
We follow him and his little red Levi label, and resume our seats.
Blue number seven, it turns out, is Walter the anti-smoker. Not just casually as most of us non-smokers are, but he’s strident in his beliefs. He can’t take his eyes off blue number eight and clearly isn’t concentrating on our conversation, which is fine by me because nor am I. We get as far as swapping professions. He tells me he’s a biological researcher and I stick with the secretary role, hoping Donna doesn’t forget, especially blabbing to Duncan when they come to meet properly. Not that they’d talk about me of course, but I can live in hope. Walter is a little man, of about my age, but gives of an aura of maturity. That’s me being polite. He’s as dull as watching Big Brother at four a.m. What Donna sees in him, I’ll never know, but there’s no accounting for taste, although she does find Duncan gorgeous.
Number six, John, spends the whole three and a half minutes trying to drum up business for his struggling electrical company. “So I’ve set fire to a couple of houses, but the police never pressed charges” doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, so I make up a handyman neighbour and he soon loses interest.
He looks like a labourer. His hands are rough and he’s ‘weathered’. I start to feel sorry for him until the bell goes and he starts his patter on the girl behind me. She’s laughing, so sounds like an easier target.
It soon becomes apparent that number five is not only unemployed, but unemployable. Frankie has never had a job and doesn’t want one. He’s made little effort and it looks like he had the same breakfast as Zak. For a split second he reminds me of Aviator’s Eddie, but there’s no hint of a spark in Frankie’s eyes.
I assume he’s after a woman to ‘keep him’ and it appears he can read minds when he says, “You may wonder why I’m looking for a woman if I’ve got nothing to offer her.”
“Well…”
“Oh, but I have.”
You could have fooled me.
“I’m quite wealthy.”
Which is why you’ve been wearing the same t-shirt all week and your jeans have non-intended holes in them.
“I inherited some money.”
“Oh.” Is all I can muster.
“Yes, from a rich aunt.”
That old chestnut.
“She was a writer.”
Now that does sound interesting. “Oh?”
“Have you ever heard of Margaret Allingham?”
“Do you mean Margery Allingham? Author of Campion.”
“Er, yes… we weren’t close.”
Clearly. “Margery who died in the 1960s.” I like my crime writing.
“There was a Trust.”
“And you’re part-Canadian?”
“Er…”
This time he’s saved by the bell. Hadn’t banked on someone who actually reads, had he?
Bottle collector Paul is number four. My mum collects old bottles, especially the ‘cod’ variety with the marbles, so it’s something we can talk about, although I make the mistake of saying “That sounds like an interesting hobby.”
“No, you misunderstand, it’s my career.” Not a job, but a ‘career’. “Oh, yes,” he continues, “I sell on eBay, but travel all over the country to buy them. Car boot sales, jumble sales, charity shops, you name it.”
“Antique fairs?” I offer. He did ask.
“No. They’re always too expensive. That would be like Bargain Hunt.”
I look at him blankly.
“You know that programme where they buy from antique dealers and sell at auction, and wonder why they never make any money. They don’t because that’s where dealers buy the stuff in the first place.”
I just think he’s getting more like a cartoon character when he says, “Doh!” and then spends the next minute or so that’s left, telling me all about the different types of glass and stoneware bottles, which are the most valuable (I assume the oldest ones, but I’m soon put right) then just as he’s telling me all about his membership with the ‘Antique Bottle and Pot Lid Collectors Web Ring’, the bell goes. I’ve never been so pleased.
Thirteen down, three to go.
Number three is Mr Chilled, alias Quent, short for Quentin. I’d never have guessed. He’s a surfer dude out of place, given that we’re probably one of the most inland points in the UK. He’s named after granddad and very proud of it. He’s not making any notes and has no numbers ticked, and answers the questions with “yeah, you can do” or “I suppose so”. I can just picture his bedroom (or flat, house, cardboard box – we didn’t get that far) being a shambles. He seems very ‘earthy’, so I imagine the place being full of plants, except they all died months ago and he’s not noticed. I feel rather wilted myself.
Last but one is Maurice, a ‘not so happy snapper’ photographer. I have a really uncomfortable feeling about him. My dad’s a retired photographer, so I usually like them, but can’t bond with this one. He’s a candidate for the most overly dressed; not in your dinner jacket or tuxedo way, but too many layers of clothing. It’s a mild evening and I can count at least four. There’s a t-shirt under his shirt, which is a very nice blue check, then a not-so-nice patterned jumper, and an olive green train-spotter type jacket. He’s also wearing nerdy glasses with detachable shades (which he’s wearing up, of course, because we’re inside, but they’re called detachable for a reason). Has no one told him it’s summer?
“Aren’t you warm in all that clothing?”
“A little, but you never know what the weather’s going to be like in May, do you?”
Checking the weather forecast or looking out the window might give you a clue. “No, I suppose you don’t. It is England after all.”
The conversation runs out of steam, just like me. I look at Rosie who’s nowhere near the bell and is looking at a couple at the far end of the room who seem to be getting on well.
I’m desperate now. “So, have you photographed anything nice lately?” Nice is such an insipid word, but as I said, I’m desperate. I feel like adding ‘underage children or trains’, but resist the urge.
“Oh, yes.” At last, some passion. “I took a lovely picture of a door the other day.”
“A door.”
“Yes. It was lovely.”
There are lots of things in this world I would call ‘lovely’, but a door isn’t one that springs to mind. “And where was this door? Somewhere nice?”
“My goodness, yes.” He’s really beside himself and I’m wishing I wasn’t. “On the top of a skip.”
It just gets better. Maybe it was a skip on a beautiful tropical island. I dread asking. “And the skip was…”
“At the tip.”
“Oh.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
I bet you do.
“Not the most romantic of places.”
“That thought had crossed my mind.”
“But you can take some wonderful pictures of rubbish.” He’s nearly orgasmic now.
Right.
“One person’s trash and all that…”
Is it still trash if it’s in a skip and not being saved?
This is the longest three and a half minutes of my life.
I look at Rosie again and she’s walking back towards the bell. She stops. No! I will her to step forward. “Just a few more paces.”
“Sorry?”
“Er… there must be a few more places you’ve found to take wonderful pictures.” I’m talking to him, but my eyes are fixed firmly on Rosie. She finally glances at her watch and looks horrified. She sprints to the bell and rings it as if her life depends upon it. “Yes!” I say a little too loudly and Maurice grunts before getting up and moving to his final table. Poor Miss Number Six.
Last but not least is number one, a teacher. He hasn’t told me he’s a teacher, but he can’t be anything else. Who else wears tweed? He sits down opposite me and stretches out a long scrawny arm. I shake his hand, and tell him my name.
“Hello Isobel. I’m Quigley, Victor Quigley. I teach 7VQ… Year 7 physics.”
I was rubbish at physics. At my first parents’ evening, my physics teacher told my mum and dad I should give it up. I was only too glad to do so.
I glance behind Victor and see Donna and Duncan getting on very well. Duncan then spots me spying and smiles. I can’t really see what Donna’s doing, but it looks like she’s writing furiously on her card. She’s got her other elbow on the edge of the table and is looking dreamily at him. I love her to bits, but I’m willing her elbow to slip in a classic ‘Only Fools & Horses’ moment.
“And what do you do? Hello?”
“Sorry. My friend’s sitting behind you. She’s a bit nervous,” I lie.
Victor turns round and Duncan smiles at him. This makes Donna turn round and say, “Hiya.”
Rosie comes over. “Victor, please turn round.”
“Sorry.” The teacher now blushes like a naughty schoolboy, as she walks away.
“What did you ask me Victor?”
“What you did for a living.”
“Secretary for a training company.” I’ve said it nearly thirty times now and am beginning to feel that’s what I do.
“So we have a lot in common then.”
He waits for me to agree, which I don’t because I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.
“We help people learn. Take an empty shell and fill it with enlightening information.”
“Yes, I suppose we do.” I concede.
Victor’s just telling me all about their latest experiment when the bell goes. I think I’ve remained conscious throughout, but either can’t remember, or understand, a word of it, but say, “That sounds really interesting. I’m sure my friend Donna, the one sitting behind you, would love to hear all about it. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, yes, I had her first. She was lovely,” he says then gets up and heads for Rosie, marking his card as he walks. I look down at mine, and the empty boxes. Just to have something to hand in, I tick box number sixteen (Duncan).
As Duncan also walks towards Rosie, Donna turns round to me and claps. “Wasn’t that great?”
“Yes, delightful.”
“Come on. It was fun.”
“I suppose. Definitely different. Lots of fodder for tomorrow’s article.”
With that she slaps her hand over her mouth.
“What have you done?”
“I might have said something to someone.”
“Who?” Please don’t say Duncan.
“Number…” and looks at her card.
“Yes…?” I’m slightly relieved as it can’t be Duncan as she would have said his name not his number.
“Well…”
“Donna.”
“I think it was either number three or number ten.”
Looking at my card with the notes I’d written in the margin, that signified ‘Chilled’ and ‘Waffler’. I think I’m pretty safe. I don’t figure Chilled for someone who’d put two and two together and Waffler, if she’d managed to get a word in, wouldn’t have been paying attention as he’d be too busy concentrating on what to say next.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure they won’t say anything?”
“Oh, and number one… Victor. He was really interesting; telling me about a new microscopy technique has allowed researchers in the US to make the first measurements of the earliest stages of crystallisation. He said the technique could help scientists to gain a more complete understanding of how materials crystallize – which might eventually lead to high-speed computer memories based on crystallization.”
She, and her auditory memory, never cease to amaze me. “Only Victor and Duncan know we’re friends and unless the two of them are… no!”
Donna swings round in the direction I’m looking. Victor and Duncan are both heading for Rosie at the same time and now they’re chatting like best friends. I feel sick. I can’t imagine Duncan making a big deal of it, but Victor might. ‘Take an empty shell and fill it with wondering information.’ I know it still applies with what I really do, but most teachers abhor lying and I’ve told a few whoppers here tonight.
Cards delivered, they’re now pointing in our direction. Uh oh, they’re walking over.
Victor puts out his hand in Donna’s direction and she shakes it warmly. “It was so lovely talking to you.” He then does the same with me before whispering “I’ve put both your numbers down. You were both delightful, truly lovely.”
I don’t know what to say other than a feeble “thanks.” He pauses as if waiting for me to say that I’ve put his number down too, but he’s got a long wait. “Nice to meet you too,” I continue. “Have a safe journey home.” He takes that as his cue and walks to the bar.
“That was mean.” Donna sees the best in everyone.
“Not intentionally, but I couldn’t tell him I wasn’t interested.”
“Have you put my number down?” Duncan asks.
I slap the card to my chest, blank side out, and smile. “Now, that would be telling.”
“I have!” Donna bounces enthusiastically.
“Thank you Donna. I’ve done likewise. In fact…” He leans in closer between Donna and I. “You’re the only two numbers I’ve put on my card.”
We’re now both speechless.
“Well, ladies, I’d better go. Donna, a pleasure. Isobel, a re-pleasure.”
Donna sighs again as we watch the little red label walk out the door then she slaps me with her card. “Why didn’t you ask him out?”
“We’ve already been out.”
“I know, but you like him.”
“So do you.”
“You got there first.”
I start to wonder whether I just have feelings for him because I had to share him with fourteen other women including my best friend. I’m not into mumbo jumbo, as Keith Mk 2 put it, but decide to let fate take its course. Rosie will send our details and if it feels right, then I will.
I look around the room for Ursula, but she’s chatting away to Nick the librarian and I’m surprised when I see he’s giving as good as he gets. She’s clearly found a topic that gets more than the monosyllable, so we leave her to it.
Donna can’t stop talking on the way back to my house. She relives the last couple of hours in her mind, except it’s spilling out through her mouth. I find it hilarious though as her take on the evening is so different to mine, but then to me it’s still work and to her it’s excitement, Donna style.
*
The novel continues with part 6 next Saturday but if you don’t want to wait, you can purchase it via Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.com, Smashwords (c. £2 / $3)
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Encouraged by his earlier success, the page ran after the ‘thing’, remembering a bag of treats he had in his pockets for the King’s Smoushonds, he retrieved it, threw out the treats – oblivious to the resulting scurrying of claws along the newly-polished floor – and lunged at the ‘thing’, wrapping it expertly in the bag, twisting the top so it had no chance of escape.
In December 2011 I was nominated (by 
Then late February 2012 
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