The Serial Dater Read online

  “Oh dear.” Part of me wants to say, “Throw your bike in the back of my car after the movie and I’ll take you to Sainsbury’s then home”, but I resist. “Your profile name implies you’re a Northerner? But you have a local accent.”

  “Ah, no. My surname’s Edwards so Nigel E becomes…”

  “Oh,” is all I can manage. “So, do you have food in at home or…”

  “No, but it’s fine. I’ve got front and rear panniers.”

  Of course you do. “That’s handy.”

  A waitress, who looks like she has constipation as she looks at Nigel’s outfit, arrives and hovers to take our orders. Neither of us has even looked at the menu, so I ask for a couple of minutes. “Sure,” she says before sniggering and going to a neighbouring table.

  “Shall we just go for snacks then?” Nigel asks.

  “Good idea.” Needless to say the potato skins are not going to be my choice tonight and, despite Tim’s assassination of them, I fancy onion rings and garlic bread, but neither are suitable for spending two hours in the dark with a complete stranger, although I can guarantee there won’t be any kissing.

  “Do you mind if I go for garlic bread and onion rings?” he says.

  “Really?”

  “It’s fine. I quite understand… second-hand breath and all.”

  “No. That’s exactly what I was going to pick.”

  “Great.” He smiles a perfectly polished smile, then sticks up an orange-pink arm and the waitress comes scuttling over. There’s one thing to be said about his attire, we won’t have trouble catching anyone’s attention.

  He orders our food, a lemonade and lime for him, and lemonade and blackcurrant for me. We’re deep in conversation when the waitress brings the food over. I scowl at her when it’s apparent she still finds us hilarious and she looks down at the floor. If she was hoping for a tip, she can keep hoping.

  We’ve finished the snacks when I look at my watch and realise we’ve got five minutes before the film starts. Again, finding the attention of a member of staff to pay isn’t a problem. I assume it’s his outfit as whenever I’m out on my own or with friends, I’m usually ignored or they look through me, which is odd because being five feet ten, I’m not exactly invisible.

  We go Dutch, although Nigel offers to pay (which is very sweet), and we walk to the cinema. We get a small drink each, which Nigel does buy, and we take our seats, four rows from the back. He lets me sit on the outside, which is great because I love sticking out my legs, and we catch the last couple of adverts for forthcoming movies. One is a gangster flick I’m not normally a fan of, but I loved Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and this one’s done by the same people. The other is for a chick flick – they can be made by anyone and I’ll still see it. That’s the joy of the season ticket. Some people won’t go anywhere on their own, but I don’t mind. Pick a weekday daytime when people are at work and it’s deadly. I love it. No one to shush at, no mobile phone screens illuminating the auditorium, and no kids asking ‘why’ every few seconds.

  It’s a 15-rated movie, so we get two out of three. Even in the dark I can tell Nigel’s looking at me with ‘should we do something about it or throw something at them’ eyes, so I shake my head. “Better not,” I whisper, “they might get funny”, but wonder why we’re all so scared of idiots who like to spoil it for everyone else, so add, “We’ll see if they stop in a bit.” Nigel nods, so we keep focused on the screen and try to blot out the numbskulls. Easier said than done. The numbskulls in question are a group of teenagers in the corner who are talking at normal volume about everything that’s happening on the screen.

  Nigel’s right leg is bouncing, so I whisper, “Shall I go and tell someone?”

  “Do you want me to?” he offers.

  I’m grateful he’s so chivalrous, but say I don’t mind. I’m about to stand up, which is annoying because the film’s started, when there’s a loud “Shhh” from the middle of the seating and the teenagers stop. Nigel and I look at each other and I can tell we’re both thinking, That was easy, when I see an empty cup being thrown from the aforementioned corner in the general direction of the ‘shhh’. Big mistake. A man, I presume the originator of the ‘shhh’, rises. And keeps on rising. He walks away from us, along to the end of his row, and then casually steps over the rows until he’s reached the back and the group. He selects two of them, one in each hand, and marches them back to the beginning of their row, causing two couples to stand. The whole audience is applauding and as he’s ‘escorting’ them down the stairs, I hear snatches of what he’s saying. I don’t understand it all, but enough to realise that it’s not English, enough to recognise the Bavarian accent. I turn to Nigel.

  “I know him, the big guy. I’m going to see if I can help, do you mind?”

  “Of course not. Do you want me to come with you?”

  I think about it for a second, but that would mean both of us missing the film. Pointing at the screen I say, “Would you stay and tell me what happens?”

  “Sure,” he says a little too enthusiastically.

  I’m about to step out into the aisle, but the rest of the teenagers have decided to make a run for it and come bolting down the stairs. I follow them, at a bit of a distance, and am rounding the right-hand corner into the tunnel, when Klaus appears. He realises it’s me and we go outside.

  “Hello, Isobel.”

  “Hi, Klaus. Good on you for doing that.” It’s only when I see him in civvies that I realise he’s older than he looks at work. I’d not given it much thought before, and I’m even more impressed by his agility. “Are you here on your own?”

  “No, with my wife. You?”

  I’d never thought of a Mrs Klaus though I don’t know why. I guess I see him so rarely that I don’t picture him having a life outside of the paper. “Blind date. Project research for my column, but don’t let on please, he doesn’t know.”

  For some reason Klaus doesn’t look surprised, but I get the impression little surprises him. It’s like he has built-in armour and nothing, except for perhaps Mrs Klaus, gets away with it.

  “We should go back in. Heike will be wondering where I am.”

  “So will Mr Project. Besides, I was enjoying the film… the little bit I saw.” I look around the foyer. “What happened to the lads?”

  “I frogmarched the first two to the manager’s office. I think the others escaped.”

  He makes it sound like a scene from a war or prison film and I laugh. He frowns, so I apologise and open the door back into the movie. He bows, then pauses. “Please, after you.”

  I bow too, though there’s no need, and say, “Thanks.” It’s all rather surreal. Before I go back in though, I have one more question for him. “How did you know where the manager’s office was?”

  “This happens very often. We’re old friends by now.”

  I shake my head as I walk in front of him and wonder what the world’s coming to.

  After some very hushed filling in from Nigel, I really enjoy the film and when it’s over make a mental note to look out for it when it comes out on DVD. I think about all these mental notes I keep giving my brain and wonder how many I would need to fill its filing cabinets. They say you only use a tiny percentage of your brain in your lifetime, but there must be people, lawyers and the like, who use more than most. Something else I’ve heard is that your brain uses up more calories than any other organ in your body, something like a tenth of a calorie a minute, so if that’s true I should be a waif, but I love my food, so it probably evens things out.

  Nigel and I leave before Klaus and Heike, so we wait for them at the door. We do the introductions and Klaus winks at me before leading his wife towards the main exit. Heike is the opposite of him, diminutive in every way.

  As Nigel and I walk out into the foyer and then to his bike, I’m working out what to say to let him down gently. I get as far as saying, “I’m sorry,” when he sighs.

  “I’m so glad, because I don’t feel a spark either.�
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  “Great,” I say a little too cheerfully, then add more seriously, “Makes it easier, doesn’t it?”

  Nigel leans over, kisses me gently on the cheek, and walks to his locked green and yellow Day-Glo bike.

  I walk to my car and take a quick look back at the bicycle racks. He’s also looking in my direction, does a little Mexican wave, wraps the chain around the base of the seat, hops on the bike and races away.

  With a smile and a little Latin undulation in my shoulders, I zap the car’s remote and drive home.

  Chapter 7 – Charles at the Greyhound

  Having decided to stay up last night and watch another two movies (Groundhog Day and Sliding Doors), I have a ridiculously long lie-in. I don’t think I’ve stayed in bed ’til midday since I was a teenager and it’s fantastic. I wonder why I don’t do it more often, but by the time I’ve set some washing going, made some lunch, had a shower, washed up, bought and read the paper (I use that term loosely as they only have the Sunday Sport left) it’s gone four o’clock and there’s little of the day left until I have to go and meet Charles, Mr CXW69.

  I do some housework then, as we’re meeting at seven thirty, I decide to get ready. It doesn’t usually take long, but I’ve been struggling with outfits recently, so with warpaint, a sandwich and a twenty-minute drive, I don’t want to leave it much longer. Besides, given the choice of looking at my colourful wardrobe or sorting more bank statements, which would win? Exactly.

  I figure Charles for a skirt kind of chap, so pick a Long Tall Sally girlie floral number, a crisp white Gap shirt (one of my key pieces) and a lilac cotton jacket that matches one of the tones in the skirt. Again, I feel Karen’s influence rubbing off on me. I add the warpaint, but subtle; I don’t suppose Charles goes in for the full tribal effect.

  With ten minutes to spare (twenty – I like to be ten minutes early), I grab my car keys and head out the door. Ursula’s walking down her path as I walk down mine.

  “Hello,” she says. “You look pretty.”

  “Ah, thanks, Ursula. You look like you’re going to work.” I don’t think that came out right. She’s very attractive, but has casual clothes on – not jeans, but ‘visiting a family’ kind of clothes.

  She laughs. “How did you guess? This is one of my ‘trying to blend in’ outfits.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Just routine tonight. Regular visits, check-ups, that kind of thing.”

  “Good… well, enjoy.”

  “I’ll try. You off anywhere nice?”

  “Greyhound at Milton Malsor. Meeting a friend.”

  “Excellent. Lovely place.”

  “It is. Haven’t been there for a while, so hoping it’s still as nice.” Lawrence pops into my head and again I omit saying anything. If they do work together I don’t want him finding out he was a guinea pig, and even if she doesn’t mention where I work, it would get too complicated. I realise I’ve been standing staring at her.

  “Izzy?”

  “Sorry. Miles away.”

  “Have to go. Duty calls.”

  “Me too. See you later.”

  Milton Malsor isn’t far off M1 junction 15, so I growl at the Hilton as I drive towards it and take the turning for the village. Apart from the crematorium, the Greyhound pub seems to be the only memorable landmark. I think the post office is long gone, but remember signs for a school and think I’ve seen reports of football club matches (our sports guy, Andy, would know).

  I’m driving into the pub car park when the clock on my dashboard flicks round to seven twenty-seven. Not bad.

  Reversing into a space, I spot a Del Trotter lookalike to my right, repeatedly pointing a remote control at an old grubby grey Ford Mondeo without any success, so he eventually locks it manually. He’s without the yellow Reliant Robin, but does do the ‘sheepskin coat and bling’ look. I’m warm in my cotton jacket, so he must be boiling, but I get the impression it’s all for show.

  As I get out of my Polo, I see he’s hovering at the back of my car.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “You must be the delightful Izzy.”

  “And you must be Charles.”

  “That’s me.” He grins a little too widely. “CXW69 at your service.”

  I grin too, the sentiment of mine probably not matching his.

  “Shall we go in?” he asks, his arm round my waist, causing my body temperature to plummet. The entrance is narrow, so we enter single file.

  I duck to avoid a beam as I walk to the bar and assume Charles isn’t paying attention as there’s a loud crack behind me. I swing round and he’s rubbing his forehead. “Oh shit. Are you all right?”

  “No,” he moans, and I can tell it’s not just his head that’s taken a knock.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve done the same,” I lie. When he removes his hand, there’s a bright red stripe across his forehead and I have the prospect of talking to that all night. I surprise myself by keeping a straight face.

  Because I reach the bar first, I ask Charles what he’d like to drink, and he orders a pint of Stella, probably the most expensive lager on the menu. William’s paying, I remind myself, so hand over a crisp ten-pound note for the Stella and my J2O.

  We find a cosy corner away from the main dining area. It’s near the toilets and it isn’t long before Charles is twitching.

  “Anything wrong?” I ask.

  “I don’t like it here. I want to move.”

  He reminds me of Lola… my four-year-old niece.

  “I don’t like being on a flight path,” he explains.

  “Fine,” is all I say.

  We pick up our drinks, but can’t see any free tables on this side of the pub, so walk to the dining area. All the tables are full. Sunday night appears to be family night and we do a whole circuit of the pub, but there isn’t a space to be had, so we head back to our original table which is, of course, occupied. We therefore end up standing near the bar, but find that wherever we are, we’re in the way, and have to keep apologising whenever someone wants to order a drink. I apologise; Charles just glares at them, like it’s their fault the bar was placed where we decided to stand.

  “Shall we go outside?” I ask, trying to be helpful.

  “I’d rather not,” he says.

  “Oh.” I wait for him to explain, but it’s not forthcoming. The red stripe looks to be easing. “How’s your head?”

  “It hurts.”

  I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that’s why he appears to be in a bit of a mood, until someone accidentally bumps into him, making him spill his drink on his fake sheepskin jacket.

  “Oy!” he shouts and spins round. The offender is nearly a foot taller than him, but that doesn’t stop him standing on tiptoes (on his fake leather loafers), and demanding an apology, which he would have already heard, had he been paying attention. I feel I should butt in and say something, but the other chap apologises again and Charles spins back to me grunting, “I should think so too.”

  The couple behind him look at each other and the husband shakes his head, the woman saying something out of earshot. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I would love a cartoon Acme hole to appear in the ground, so I can jump in and disappear to a Toon Town somewhere, resurfacing as Jessica Rabbit’s twin, so I can be ‘bad because I’m drawn that way’.

  Sadly, no hole appears and Charles is buying another round of drinks. This time he’s ordered himself half a pint of local ale (the cheapest on the chalkboard) and he and the barman are looking at me, waiting for me to say what I want.

  “Sorry. Just a Coke will be fine please. Is it Coke or Pepsi?” I say looking at the barman.

  “Coke.”

  “Bottled or pump?”

  Charles coughs, but I ignore him. I like my proper bottles of proper fat Coke, thanks very much.

  “Pump, sorry.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Charles is tapping his foot. Tonight is going to be remembered for all the wrong reasons and I can’t
wait to go home. I wonder how quickly I can down my drink and call it a night without being rude, even if Charles hasn’t exactly been Mr Diplomacy.

  I take a swig of tap Coke and some of it goes down the wrong way, so I splutter. More than a drop of Coke ends up on the front of Charles’s coat and I needn’t have worried about ending the date early as he takes one look at me. “That’s it, I’ve had enough,” and storms out the front door.

  I’m left speechless until the barman says something. I turn round and he repeats what he said. “That’ll be three eighty, please.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Three eighty. One Coke, one Potbelly.”

  “Pot what?”

  “Potbelly. The local ale that your… that the gentleman had.”

  Potbelly sums up CXW69 perfectly.

  I hand over four pound coins and raise my hand to stop the barman when he attempts to give me the change. Seeing as my date has already left, I ask if I can have a receipt and the disgruntled barman presses a couple of buttons on the high-tech till (the only thing holding my interest) which prints one out. He hands it over with a glazed expression then moves to the next customer, smiling falsely.

  I continue standing at the bar until I’ve finished my Coke and walk back to my car. The Mondeo’s long gone; the only evidence of its existence is a trail of oil. A smile creeps over my face as I imagine hearing a distant bang as a certain Ford engine gives up the ghost.

  I’d never noticed before how difficult it is to start a car with your fingers crossed.

  Chapter 8 – Eddie at the Aviator

  Didn’t sleep very well last night. Thanks, Elliot.

  I’d decided to reacquaint myself with him but woke up twice worrying about Natasha’s baby. I’d assumed Opaque’s prologue was talking about her baby, but I’ve not got the explanation of that, so it’s been at the back of my mind since the beginning of the story, which I guess is what prologues in this kind of book are good at. I believe this is a first novel, so if I could write that well for my debut I’d be chuffed. I’m not a fan of children, but a missing baby – you’d have to be pretty hard not to be bothered by that, fictional or otherwise.