The Serial Dater Read online

  “All day every day, but I’m still rubbish.”

  Suddenly I feel really sorry for him. He spends longer at something he’d love to make a living out of than most people do at their careers, but has convinced himself he can’t do it.

  “Is there anything like it that you might be able to do?”

  He shrugs and loses some of my sympathy. He feels like a lost cause.

  I stare blankly out of the windows, wishing they were nearer so I could kill some time by drawing on them. I wonder if he’d mind if I got my pen and paper out of my bag.

  I make a comment about the static planes on the runway, at which he looks out. Then, as my eyes refocus to my reflection, the windows stare blankly back at me.

  “So,” I say at last, “what time do you have the taxi booked for?”

  “I didn’t book one.”

  So it looks as if I’m taking him home.

  “My dad’s collecting me.”

  Yay! “Did you say a time or are you going to ring him?” I may be appearing a little too eager to get rid of him, but he doesn’t seem to twig.

  “Eleven.”

  We’ve been together about forty minutes. I think I’d commit hara-kiri (or seppuku to give it its proper Japanese title – I know this from a toy I tested) if I have to chivvy him, and the conversation, along for another three hours.

  “I’m not sure I can stay that late.”

  “Oh… I can walk home.”

  Knowing how dodgy the roads are, I say, “It’s rather a long way, especially when it gets dark.”

  “It’s fine. I’ve done it loads of times before. Besides, I don’t have to get up early. I’ll probably stay. I like it here and my dad gave me a tenner so that’ll last the evening.”

  However nice Eddie is, and he is, he needs more of a future than relying on pocket money. “How about working here, Eddie?”

  His eyes light up.

  “Have you never considered it?”

  “I come here a lot, but I’ve never thought about there being any work here.”

  “I’m sure there are jobs everywhere at some stage. You just have to be in the right place at the right time. Why don’t you come back tomorrow and have a chat with someone in the main office? You’d need a CV and to smarten yourself up.”

  He looks down at his worn jeans.

  “Maybe your dad could lend you something?”

  “I don’t have a CV.”

  “Maybe I could help you. I have some paper and a pen in my bag.”

  He looks down at the bag and smiles.

  With pen in hand, I start. “Now, I’ll write ‘personal details’ at the top, so that’s where you write who you are and where you live.”

  He nods.

  “Then you’d normally put where you’ve worked with your current position and company details at the top and work backwards, but we may have to be a little diplomatic.”

  “What, lie?”

  “No, you can’t lie on a CV because they’ll find you out, but you can elaborate on the things you enjoy doing.”

  I scribble down the things he’s already told me, but soon run out of room.

  “This is no good, the paper’s too small.”

  He sticks up his hand like a student needing to be excused for the toilet, and disappears off to the bar.

  Returning with a pad of A4 lined paper, he puts it in front of me and smiles again.

  “Excellent.” I smile. He has people skills. “Now, I’ll lay this out exactly as you are to lay it out on your computer. Do you have word processing software?”

  He nods.

  “So you’re okay with typing a letter?”

  “Oh, yes. I do letters all the time for Mum and Dad, when they have to complain about something or we’re sent Christmas presents through the post.”

  I smile again at his innocence, remembering when I was younger always having my ‘thank you’ letters out by New Year. “Great. So we’ve got your details at the top then the summary of what you’re good at.”

  “Oh.”

  “No, be positive. You’re resourceful and good at communication. You’re eager. Putting ‘eager to learn’ is always good. CVs shouldn’t be longer than a page or two anyway, so that will work in our favour.”

  He’s looking at me like a child learning something new and in awe of his teacher.

  “See, we’ve filled half a page already. So you come here a lot.” That felt cheesy. “Do you know what the different planes are?”

  “I do! There’s the Tiger Moth, the Avro 504, the Hawker Hart, the Vickers–”

  “Excellent. Then we put that you have extensive knowledge of the aircraft. And you don’t mind hard work…” I punt.

  “I don’t.”

  I have no proof of that, but take his word for it. “Great, then we put that too. Put anything else you think they’d like to hear that’s relevant to why you would want to work for them: you live locally, happy to do different shifts, that kind of thing.”

  He’s bouncing up and down like Zebedee. Like Tigger. Like Donna.

  “You’ll also need a covering letter, again with your name and address, that says, “Please find attached my CV for your consideration…” and so on.”

  He looks blank, so I write it out for him. “Are you okay with all this?”

  “Oh yes!” He claps his hands. In less than an hour he’s gone from zero confidence to being on the verge of an interview. I’m thrilled with him, and myself.

  Tearing off the top two pages, I pass the blank pad back to him to return to the bar. He stands up and lunges towards me. I pull back, but he throws his arms around me saying, “Thank you,” repeatedly.

  I have to look away as the smell of his musty t-shirt is overpowering. It reminds me of something I missed when I unloaded the washing machine and found a week or so later, by which time it, a particular favourite top, was past keeping.

  He lets go, and I say he’s welcome. He returns the pad to the bar, buys two Cokes and brings them back to the table.

  “I don’t wish to be rude,” (there’s no way around it) “but you’ll have to have a shower before you hand in your CV tomorrow.”

  I feel guilty as he looks back down at his jeans.

  “You’ll need make the right impression.” I try to sound encouraging.

  “And I haven’t done that with you, have I?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m grateful. I can’t wait ’til tomorrow.”

  “Yes, good luck. I’m going to go now. Will you be all right?”

  “Absolutely. Thanks again for everything.”

  “You’re so welcome. Are you going to stay here for your dad, or do you want a lift home?” He seems charmingly harmless.

  “Thanks, but I’ll stay. I want to check the place out. Take a proper look round. Maybe find something else that I can say I’m interested in or good at.”

  “That’s the spirit. I’m proud of you,” I say, hoping I don’t sound condescending.

  He beams. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s said that to me.”

  “They should say it more often. Do something to make people proud and you’ll feel fantastic.” I think of how pleased my parents were when I got my job.

  I stand and he goes to hug me again. I offer my right hand. “Pretend it’s a job interview.”

  He shakes my hand with a firm grip. “Good morning, Miss Izzy. I’m so pleased to meet you. I wonder if it’s at all possible to leave my Curriculum Vitae with you for your consideration.”

  I stand there agog. “My goodness. Do that tomorrow and you’ll have no problem.”

  He blushes and mouths, “Thank you.”

  “Will you send me a message and let me know how you get on?"

  He nods like a five-year-old.

  The drive home is a delight.

  I have a warm glow and one of my favourite songs, ELO’s ‘Ticket to the Moon’, which I haven’t heard on the radio for years, comes on.

  Des
pite it being quite sad, and one of the songs I want played at my funeral (we all consider that, don’t we?), I chirp along with it, thinking I might have changed someone’s life.

  Chapter 9 – Ollie at Groove

  Tonight’s venue is Groove the Retro Club & Bar with OMG69, so I don’t envisage an early night unless we run out of understandable conversation, but I’m looking forward to going, and hope for the best.

  I decide to try to get in the mood with one of the trendiest outfits my wardrobe can offer: a long bold red-and-black two-tone top over a pair of black leggings, and although Karen may say I’m ‘so last season’, I’ve been told red suits me.

  I amaze myself by getting into work by eight thirty, despite having one too many Disaronno last night. I had something to celebrate, didn’t I? I set the computer going and make a cup of tea.

  The kettle’s boiling when the kitchen door opens. It’s William, and he looks awful. “William, you look awful.”

  “Thanks. You look great.”

  I feel my face matching the two-tone aspect of my top and say a feeble “Thanks”, then see how pale he looks. “Has something happened?”

  “Baby died.”

  “No! When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I thought she was getting better over the weekend, but she was listless Sunday night, and even worse early yesterday, so I took her to the vet. They tried everything they could…”

  I want to give him a hug, but don’t think I should, until I see tears threatening. That makes the decision harder. Whenever I’m on the cusp like that, someone giving me a hug sets me off. I decide to risk it.

  He backs away, so I stop, but he seems to realise my intention and moves. It’s like a mini ritual dance. He steps forward and says, “Please,” so gently I can’t resist. It’s the only time he’s let me in and it’s humbling.

  We’re still locked in a loose embrace when we hear the door from reception open, so quickly step away from each other.

  William coughs. “And that’s going well, then is it, Isobel?”

  I say an instinctive, “It is, thank you. It’s all coming together nicely.”

  We look round and it’s Donna. She appears to be her old self.

  “Morning! Don’t mind me.”

  “There’s nothing–” William starts to say, but Donna interrupts him.

  “My goodness, William, you look awful.”

  Great minds think alike.

  I fill her in. “Baby died.”

  “No!” Her face crumples. “Oh, William, poor you.”

  “Thanks.” He looks so dejected and she puts her arms out to him, but he stands his ground and coughs again, saying, “Thank you, Donna, Isobel,” before heading back to his office.

  Donna and I are heading for our desks when I remember the kettle. “I’m making a drink,” I say. “Would you like one?”

  “I’d love a coffee. Thanks, Izzy.”

  “No problem. Coming right up.”

  My mind goes back to William and his bird. They say nothing compares to losing a child, but when someone, or in this instance something, has been a part of your life for so many years, it must be a terrible wrench. My heart goes out to him.

  I put my tea on my coaster and take Donna’s coffee over to her. She’s on the phone, so we exchange glances. I look at William’s office, but he too is on the phone. I go back to my desk.

  Janine then walks down the corridor towards me as I go to sit down. I tell her about Baby and she bursts into tears. I offer her the tissues; she takes two.

  “Can I make you a drink?” I can’t believe how upset she is.

  “It’s fine.” She snuffles. “I’ll make it, and something for William. I think he’ll need something strong. Besides, it’ll give me time to get over the shock.”

  I suppose being a PA gives you a closeness, and then I think of all the times I’ve caught her looking into his office, and I imagine a cartoon light bulb pinging over my head.

  Janine disappears into the kitchen, and I crack on with the day.

  Remembering Mike’s diet, I do some research on Google and find a hospital paper that lists a three-column chart on ‘Not so good’ food (they’re being far too polite), ‘Getting better’, and ‘Eating for your heart’s sake’. I’m delighted to see the last column includes chapattis (I love Indian), porridge (my mum’s a big fan, so I get that for breakfast whenever I visit), and even crumpets. I think they mean the ‘Let them go cold then put on the lowest-fat butter-tasting spread you can find on them’ way rather than my ‘Grab them both out of the toaster, spread as much of the real thing full-fat butter on them as you can, so it soaks right through and makes a not-so-little pool at the bottom of the plate, then threatens to drip all over you when you pick them up, burning your fingers’ way, but which tastes nicer? I rest my case.

  I come to the conclusion that because doughnuts and Bombay mix are in the same, let’s be honest and call it ‘As bad for you as eating ten McDonalds in a row’ category, that they must be as bad as each other. I’m sure Mike will be as delighted as me that he can eat chapattis, crumpets and porridge as well as the other ‘hearty’ items such as nuts, which I knew were a good source of protein, but always thought they were fatty – I suppose it depends on whether you have unsalted naked nuts (boring) or honey-coated cashews (my fave). He can also eat fish (again I would say battered would be outlawed) and naked white meats… now that I can do, and a silly grin appears on my face.

  I print off the page for Donna, and can’t resist logging on to tallgirlnn1. There’s one message.

  Metal Mickey’s got all chatty and sounds like fun. He’s the eighties music lover, so I pause iTunes, type in 80 in the search bar and set a-ha’s ‘Take on me’ going. I love the video, so go to the internet and find it on YouTube and am jigging away as the pencil drawings come to life.

  Then there are half a dozen Outlook emails – one from Geek’s Paradise asking how I got on with their grasshopper. I reply saying I wouldn’t normally advise my findings in advance of a review, but in this instance I’d let slip that I thought it was awesome. If they wanted to send me other ‘subjects’ I’d be very happy to do some more trials, although I didn’t say so exactly. As diplomacy isn’t my forté, however, I might as well have done.

  The others are feedback, thankfully all positive, on my ‘31 dates’ column, and I’m done replying to the last one when Donna appears, minus spark.

  “Hello, Donna. How are things with you and Mike?”

  “He’s forgiven me and we’re speaking again.”

  “That’s very gracious of him. Is that why you’re a bit low?”

  “Sort of, though I’m thinking about William’s bird. Isn’t it sad.”

  “It is. He’s taken it hard. Actually, I need to run something by you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not here. Let’s go into the kitchen and get another drink.”

  I tell her about my Janine suspicions.

  “Ah, she has a crush. How sweet.”

  I look around the kitchen. “Donna! Don’t you dare say a thing.” But I know I’m speaking to the wrong person.

  “Of course I won’t. You know me.”

  “That’s why I’m asking you not to. You’re more hopeless at keeping secrets than I am.”

  “Isobel MacFarlane, I am not. I’m very good.”

  “What about the time when…”

  “Point taken. Do you think there’s anything going on then?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but you’re nearer them geographically. Have you noticed anything?”

  “No.”

  I hadn’t for a moment thought she had, because (a) she tells me everything that’s going through her mind, especially when it comes to office gossip and (b) she wouldn’t notice if Cupid himself landed on her desk and aimed his bow at her.

  She makes the drinks (the only person I know who makes my tea exactly how I like it) and we go our separate ways. She has strict instructions to keep an eye out for any �
�signals’ and report back to me if she spots anything. I’m not holding my breath.

  I open up Microsoft Word, save Document 1 as ‘31 dates art. 0905’ and type.

  What did I learn from last night? That you shouldn’t give up on anyone or anything. You may know someone who you think is a waste of space, useless, or a lost cause. Give them the benefit of the doubt; they may surprise you.

  Last night I met E. Although we didn’t get off to a great start (he was dropped off at the venue by a parent he still lives with), the evening turned out to be an enlightening one.

  Our conversation started the usual way with us getting to know each other – and then hit a rough patch: me, I’m ashamed to admit it, wondering how I could leave early. However, the next few minutes proved to change our lives – me in a small but distinctive way, and him, I’m hoping, drastically.

  I’d initially written him off as having no future, and I’m sure I’m not the first person to have thought, or perhaps said, that about him. However, once we found the one thing that gave him passion in his life, he lit up.

  In the years since I left home, I’ve changed enormously. Yes, I have the odd Bridget Jones-style weight fluctuation (who hasn’t?), but my personality has been the one thing to have undergone the most dramatic transformation. I consider that I have grown as a person; I’ve become far more independent and confident, and feel capable of dealing with anything that life throws at me (mainly because I have no choice).

  While I have been lucky to have very supportive parents, others have been less fortunate, and I believe E is one of those people. His parents may provide for him, but they don’t appear to have pushed him to be independent. Perhaps they’re not ready to let him go.

  They say nothing compares to losing a child, and when someone has been a part of your life for thirty years it must be incredibly difficult to let them go out on their own. E’s parents have to remember they will see him again, and the more freedom they give him, the more he’ll appreciate it and the happier they’ll all be.

  So today’s two items ticked on my dater’s shopping list: Don’t assume that lack of money means lack of potential, and Do give someone time to surprise you. They could well be worth a second chance.