The Serial Dater Page 13

  I reread, tweak, then print off the article and head for William’s office. He’s on the phone again (I assume not the same call), but beckons me in when he sees me standing the other side of his door. I open it quietly then close it behind me.

  “Yes, sir. I think that’s a great idea. Of course. No, it’s never been done before, but it could work. Sure, I’ll get my best reporter on it. Thank you. I’m happy with the way it’s all going too. Yes, sir. Goodbye.”

  I’m itching to know what that was all about, but wait for him to say something. He obliges.

  “That was the chairman, Sir Edward.”

  I smile at the irony of his Edward being the chairman of a multi-paper chain and my ReadyEddie potentially being on the bottom rung of the aviation corporate ladder.

  “Oh?” I say, hoping William will dish the dirt.

  “Some hare-brained scheme. He comes up with them all the time. Ways to increase circulation, but he doesn’t have a clue. He’ll have forgotten all about it by the time he goes off to play golf.”

  I’ve always admired a man who doesn’t get caught up in red tape.

  “Anyway, Izzy.”

  “Yes, William.” He’s got my full attention again.

  “About this morning.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wanted to say sorry for blubbing all over you like a child.”

  “It’s fine. I understand.”

  “Would you keep it to yourself?”

  “Of course.” And I’m certain I will.

  “And Donna?”

  “Won’t breathe a word.” Oops.

  I walk back to my desk and refresh the tallgirlnn1 page. It takes a while for the internet to kick in. I look up at the clock. Twelve thirty. Might have guessed. Everyone’s on their lunch break and they’re checking their social networking sites, the ones that are allowed anyway. We can go on anything; research is a wonderful excuse, especially when writing a technology column.

  When my profile finally appears, I’m astounded that there are thirty messages. The last one to come in is from ReadyEddie, so I eagerly open it first. He’s typed up his CV and covering letter and wants to thank me for my help and encouragement last night. He’s about to drop off the paperwork and has even rung them to get the name of the contact in HR and has addressed it directly to her. I’m so impressed. He adds that he can’t believe he didn’t see what was right under his nose.

  I reply, wishing him well. I try to be a glass-half-full person, but add that if they don’t have any vacancies, or they feel he doesn’t have enough experience, he should not be disheartened. While he’s got to learn what life is going to throw at him I don’t want to put him off completely, and when I press ‘send’ I wonder whether I’ve done the right thing.

  Of the others, I recognise OMG69 and Metal Mickey. Ollie’s confirming nine tonight, and I think it’s pointless to pretend to be the slightest bit cool, so reply saying, ‘That’s fine.’ Mickey, or Mike as he signs his message, is up for meeting me, and suggests Chicago’s. I haven’t been there for over a week and am getting withdrawal symptoms, so say that’s a perfect choice. I suggest eight o’clock, to give us time to chat before it gets busy, not that it gets particularly busy on Wednesdays.

  I work my way through the other twenty-seven messages and delete twenty of them. The others are two from the same guy, DR1NK, saying the same thing, but one is addressed to me and the other to a girl called Sindy. Although it’s clearly his standard pattern, his messages are quite funny, so I delete Sindy’s and answer mine.

  I then reply to BlackJack, HarryRoberts, SingleDad5811, AdamKzz and AlexC17. My head hurts and I’m wondering whether I’ve taken on too much when my Outlook email pings.

  I Alt/Tab over and see it’s from William. The only time I get emails from him is when it’s a round robin, talking about ways to increase circulation figures (presumably post-Sir Edward phone calls) or announcing a departmental meeting to talk about ways to increase circulation figures.

  I double-click to open it and read. It’s short and sweet.

  Dear Isobel,

  Thank you for your article. It was very well written, as usual, and I know that the last-but-one paragraph was about Baby, and I’m touched.

  Thanks again.

  W

  I stare at the screen, concentrating on the ‘W’. William rarely abbreviates anything, especially his own name. I look over at his office, but he’s on the phone, looking down at his desk. I think like many people he’s misunderstood, although he doesn’t help himself, but there’s some of that in all of us.

  Donna and I go into town and do some girlie shopping, which is lovely. We chat about Mike then William and Janine, and we’re no further forwards on any of them. Mike, I reckon, is hard work, but Donna seems smitten again, so I suggest she treads carefully, and if it doesn’t seem worth the hassle, it probably isn’t. I can be like a dog with a bone, but if I’m in a relationship that isn’t working then I’ve learned the hard way to cut my losses and pull the cord.

  When we get back, I tuck my bag under my desk and wiggle the mouse to disable the screensaver. I type in the password and it comes up with my tallgirlnn1 account. There’s a message in from ReadyEddie. I’m hoping it’s good news, but can’t look, so go and make a drink. I gesture to Donna to ask if she’d like one and she nods. I guess, as it’s a warm day, that she doesn’t need hot chocolate, so make her a refreshing fruit tea. She’s easily pleased.

  Having put off the inevitable, I double-click the message link.

  I punch the air, as not only has Eddie gone for a chat, they’ve offered him a position. It’s just as an odd-job man – sweeping the yard, taking deliveries, that kind of thing – but he’s over the moon. He adds that his parents are thrilled, which makes me see them in a new light.

  There are also a couple of messages back from the new guys, BlackJack and SingleDad5811, so I read and reply to those.

  BlackJack asks if I like going to the dogs, and I assume he means the hairy variety not ‘letting myself go’. I email back and say I’ve only been once, but had a great time… and even came out with more money than I went in with.

  I’m just replying to SingleDad5811 when I see BlackJack’s replied already, so I flick to that. He says the nearest to Northampton (it’s obvious from my NN1 on the end of tallgirl that it’s where I live, so he’s on the ball) is Coventry, but he prefers Peterborough. Plus he lives in Rushden, so it’s his regular venue. He goes on to say that Friday is the biggest night and he wants me to see it at his best, especially if I’m going to be a ‘lucky charm’. I remind him that I’ve only been to the Peterborough track once (and on another occasion, driven through Coventry, which I understand is the best thing to do), so can’t guarantee a repeat performance, but, under his tutelage, will do my best.

  I still have Thursday to fill before slotting in guys for the weekend, and am going back to my message to SingleDad5811 when a promo pop-up appears on the screen. NorthantsDating has a speed-dating service and there’s an event next Monday. ‘Click here for more details’ it says, and I’m usually a good girl, so do as I’m told.

  I always thought that speed-dating events were held towards the end of the week, the norm for meeting the opposite sex, but their events are dedicated to the beginning of the week and, according to their website, sell out quickly. I fill in an online form then I receive an email ten minutes later to say that I’m booked and to ask for Rosie at The Cock Hotel, Kingsthorpe, seven fifteen latest for a seven thirty start. It’s not far from my house and a lovely old building, so a great choice. I just hope the men will be as inviting.

  I shake my head as I remind myself that the Cock’s not been a hotel for years, probably decades if not centuries. The Cock, the Cock, I think and smile.

  I finish the message to SingleDad5811 asking if he’s free Thursday night. Although being rather forward, it’s the only night I have this week as ‘work is so hectic’, which is sort of true.

  I flick over to my normal
emails until curiosity gets the better of me, so I go back to tallgirlnn1. SingleDad5811 has replied already. He’s sorry, but his oldest has drama class and it’s the dress rehearsal. How can I compete with a dress rehearsal? I say it’s no problem. I’m about to resume proper work when he’s replied already. Apparently his sister is visiting for the weekend, so he might be able to pop out for an hour or so on Sunday – how does that sound? It sounds great. We agree five p.m. at the Cock (a coincidence, but I don’t mind going there two nights in a row), as he lives in Kingsthorpe Village. It’s a little earlier than I would have normally plumped for, but it’ll give me an evening in, so I jump at the chance.

  I only have Thursday and Saturday left to fill, and DR1NK, alias Keith Adnams (I had a boyfriend who loved Adnams beer, so understand his profile name now) and HarryRoberts do the honours. Keith suggests Thursday at The Moon on the Square in the town centre (again giving me the dilemma of ‘do I go home first or, heaven forbid, work late’). Harry, on the other hand, has gone for Saturday at the Britannia on the Bedford Road which is the same chain as the Greyhound, but still also full of character. “Good choice, guys,” I say a little too loudly.

  It’s not ’til then that I realise Karen has been looking over my shoulder for a while.

  “Having fun, Izzy?’ she whispers.

  “A roller coaster, while you’ve been sunning yourself.”

  She can tell she needs to take my comment with a whole heap of salt, so changes the subject, still whispering. “Did I miss any other gossip?”

  I think of the William/Janine ‘are they aren’t they’ scenario, Mike and Donna’s on-off-on again romance and Baby’s demise, but shake my head. “No, it’s been a pretty uneventful week.”

  “And these men. Are you really seeing one a night?”

  I look at the kitchen and say, “Tea, ten minutes, I’ll fill you in.”

  She winks and we get back to our respective computers. I reply to tallgirlnn1’s Keith A and Harry, before going to put the kettle on.

  We’re at Mr Nerd when Donna comes in.

  “I thought there was something up. Are you telling her about Baby?”

  “Donna! He doesn’t want the world to know.”

  “I thought everyone knew.”

  Karen looks at me. “He who? Baby who?”

  “I promised William that I wouldn’t say anything to anyone, so you mustn’t pass this on.”

  “Cross my heart.” And she does the action just to convince me.

  “William’s had an African Grey parrot all his life, but it died yesterday.”

  Karen gasps. “It must have been really old!”

  “It was, Karen,” I say, “about ten years older than us.”

  That shuts her up, for a moment anyway. “What did it die from?”

  “Err...” My super-unreliable memory fails me.

  “Aspergillosis,” Donna chirps.

  We both look at her, astounded.

  “Aspergillosis,” she continues, ”is the name given to a wide variety of diseases caused by fungi of the genus aspergillus. The most common forms are allergic bronchopulmonary aspergillosis, pulmonary aspergilloma and invasive aspergillosis. Most humans inhale aspergillus spores every day, which is a leading cause of death in acute leukaemia and haematopoietic stem cell transplantation.”

  If it were possible to be any more gobsmacked than a moment ago, we are now.

  “Where did you get all that from?”

  “Wikipedia,” she announces proudly. “When you mentioned it before, I remembered that I’d heard of it. My uncle’s ducks had it.”

  “I didn’t know your uncle had ducks.”

  “He did. A pair – Mr and Mrs Duck – but they died.”

  “Of asper–?” I start.

  “Oh no, a fox... or old age, I can’t remember.”

  “Ahhh,” I say looking at Donna’s sad face. And as if by magic, she returns to her childlike innocence. She’s full of surprises and, as I’ve said before, too good for Mike the all-you-can-eat security guard.

  We return to our desks as it’s gone four, but I can’t concentrate. Having done my meerkat impression so no one who matters (William) is looking, I nip over to Donna’s desk.

  “Donna?”

  “Yes, Izzy.” She looks at me as if she can’t cope with any more responsibility, but bends down a little and whispers, “What’s so secret?”

  “Are you doing anything on Monday night?”

  “Why?” She’s still whispering. “You want me to do one of your dates for you?”

  “Kind of.”

  She sits up straight, claps and squeals. She’s never been one for subtlety. “Can I? Can I really?”

  I still feel the urge to whisper, despite everyone in the office knowing what I’m working on. “I’m going speed dating at Kingsthorpe. If there’s still a space, do you want to come with me?”

  She claps again. “Yes please.” But her smile disappears. “What about Mike?”

  “Mike’s an idiot, Donna.”

  “No, he’s lovely.”

  “Think about it. If he was so lovely your first instinct wouldn’t have been to get so excited, would it?”

  “Err, no, I guess not.”

  “Then that’s settled. I’ll let you know if they say it’s okay.”

  They did.

  Donna and I leave at the same time and walk through reception arm in arm like we’re about to walk up the yellow brick road. Marion stares at us as we sail past her, smiling like synchronised swimmers. Through gritted teeth I say to Donna to keep that pose as we walk to the security office and she does me proud. Mike stares at us with a bead of jam dropping out of the doughnut in his left hand and onto his blue uniform jacket.

  Donna giggles as we walk to the car park. She lives round the corner from the office, but I offer her a lift home so we can talk about my forthcoming dates.

  Wearing another trendy outfit (same leggings, but a silver version of the red top), I feel like a fish out of water as I walk into Groove. Firstly, I’m a bit older than most of the occupants, not old enough to be their mother but not twenty either, and I am somewhat underdressed. Or rather overdressed in respect of having too many clothes on (I wonder what their mothers really think), but it’s too late to do anything about it now.

  There doesn’t appear to be anyone on their own, so I wait at the bar with a clear view of the front door. No one else has leggings on and certainly not a top like mine. I thought it was trendy – I’ve seen Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas wearing the same thing (though no doubt twenty times the price) – but I guess by the stares I’m getting that my nine-month-old top is out of fashion again.

  I’m not sure how much slower I can drink my Coke. I guess I’ll have to try.

  There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to get another one. I need the toilet, but I’ll lose my seat if I go and he’ll probably come in and think I’ve gone home already and leave again. I can hang on.

  I really need to go and am wiggling in time to the music.

  It’s no good. I’ve got to…

  “Sorry, dude,” Ollie says as he sways up to me. Last time I checked I wasn’t a ‘dude’, but smile anyway.

  No problem, bro, I want to say, but drop the ‘bro’.

  He’s everything I imagined him to be. He looks like a backing dancer in an Eminem video: the epitome of hip-hop with baggy trousers and CXW69 Charles fake bling, although at least Ollie’s looks more realistic.

  “It’s a banging tune, innit,” he says, and I nod enthusiastically. In fact my whole body is enthusiastic, except he’s not to know it’s not about him.

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to go to the…” I rack my brains for a cool word for the ladies and fail miserably, my task to learn an entire slang dictionary forgotten. “Loo.”

  “Sure, cool. Wan me to gitcha somat?”

  “Sure.” I hesitate. “Cool. I’ll ’ava Coke. Fanks.” I sound more cockney that ‘hip and happening’, but he dips his head in true gang
sta style, although to me it looks a bit more Kevin and Perry, and tries to attract the attention of the bar staff. I can’t take my eyes off him, sadly for all the wrong reasons. No one is paying him any attention and, for once, I’m glad I’m wearing what I am, because at least people notice I exist. And, for once, I wish Nigel and his Day-Glo clothes were here.

  I just make it to the toilet and thank every god under the sun that there’s no queue.

  When I get back out, there’s no sign of Ollie. I assume he’s taken one look at me and decided I’m not ‘dude’ enough, but I spot him sitting on a sofa in a left-hand corner, talking to some of his mates. He’s surrounded by at least half a dozen people who look exactly the same as him: baseball cap (worn backwards of course), baggy trousers… sorry, ‘bagging pants’ – that’s one I remember from the little research I did – and black chunky sneakers (trainers), but more alarming is that they’re all around the same age as him, some ten years younger than me.

  None of them have noticed my return, but they’re likely to if I make a run for it. I’m debating what to do when one of the bar’s bouncers, a guy who would make Tim look tiny, heads for the door, so I walk on his right and am completely shadowed. I make some inane comment to Mr Massive as I get the feeling he’s sussing me out, then hang a sharp right and walk up College Street, past one of the greatest fish and chip shops in town.

  I’m not at all hungry, but the adrenalin currently pumping through my brain and the smell wafting out of the door are irresistible, so I end up a breaded haddock and chips richer, but six pounds poorer. I walk back towards the office and my car, and as I take the first bite it’s like sinking into an edible cloud. I’ve never eaten cooked cloud, but if I could, I guess it would taste something like this. Simply heaven.

  Chapter 10 – Mike at Chicago’s

  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 – we exchanged thirty-three words with each other. Literally. I wrote them down later), looked ten years younger, if not more. 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), attracted a mix of ages, tastes and music, but ‘Groove’ was outside my comfort zone.