The Serial Dater Page 5

  Walking towards the car park, I think about how I got so cynical. Despite last night’s ‘blip’ I have high hopes that the next twenty-nine days will prove me wrong. They have to, don’t they?

  Being a town centre pub, the Bradlaugh is heaving and I look around to see a guy on his own. I can’t see anyone who fits the bill, so I wander. As I turn a corner, I see a tall thin guy standing in front of a pillar. He’s so thin I can see it behind him. My clichéd heart sinks. He’s tall, about six feet two, but must weigh less than me. I don’t usually go for men who weigh less than me, something else to add to the Don’t column.

  He smiles, steps forward and I say, “Hello.” He introduces himself as Lawrence and I do likewise (as Izzy, obviously). As he turns and walks towards the bar, I hesitate for a second, doing what all we girls do: check out the posterior. There isn’t one. I should have guessed considering the lack of meat on him, but he’s also wearing jeans that look a size too big (which begs the question as to whether they are the smallest size possible for someone as tall as him), so the denim wrinkles over what there is of his backside like the face of a Chinese Shar-Pei.

  We go to the bar to order some drinks. I fancy a cup of tea, but have prepared the request of Coke with a dash of lime, when he says to the barman, “I’d like something hot. Do you do tea?” A man after my own heart, and I nod to order the same.

  We aim for a table away from the speakers, and it’s not long before the tea arrives.

  I like my tea like gnat’s… weak, so am delighted when there’s a pot of water next to two unused teabags on a saucer. There are a couple of biscuits on a side plate, a small jug of milk and some sachets of white sugar and sweeteners. It all looks very civilised.

  Like the gentleman he’s been so far, Lawrence lets me be mum.

  “I like my tea quite weak,” I say.

  “I have it however it comes,” he replies.

  I put one teabag in the pot, tip in some of the water, stir briefly and pour mine out. I then hold the other teabag over the pot and he nods. I let it fall and add the rest of the water.

  While we sit waiting for his to brew, I drizzle a normal-sized portion of milk into my cup then help myself to a pink sachet of powdered sweetener, laying the empty sachet on the side plate as I watch him make his drink.

  I will him to put in all six packets of sugar, but he also picks up a single pink sachet. I then stare at him as he empties the sweetener into his mug, almost counting the grains as they go in.

  “They’re calorie free, aren’t they?” I ask, but I don’t think he hears me.

  I’m gripped as he trickles in a tiny amount of milk, as if he’s counting the calories as each drop falls. It reminds me of an old advert for paint when, one by one, the millicalories of this white fluid hit the surface. I remember reading once that an average serving of milk is the same as an apple, about forty calories, so think he’s had about a dozen. Before Lawrence lifts the jug, I’m tempted to accidentally knock it with my elbow, but it’s too far away. Besides, it might put him off having the drink altogether, so would be twelve calories that his body misses out on and I don’t think it can spare them.

  We drink and chat and, having forgotten to look at his profile again before I left the office, I bluff some questions to which I should have known the answers. Equally I have to recall what I’ve put in mine, but it all seems to fall into place.

  The two biscuits are still waiting to be eaten, but he’s not paying them any attention. I look at him then look at the plate, but it doesn’t make any difference. Eventually I pick the plate up and offer them to him, but he shakes his head and pats his stomach. As his hand disappears into the swathes of fleece, it hits home that not only does he weigh less than me, he also probably weighs less than the African child Tim’s meal could have been intended for. I don’t know what to say, but the silence is broken by Lawrence’s stomach rumbling. It’s so loud it drowns out the Stereophonics playing in the background and I say, “Are you sure you don’t want the biscuits?”

  I feel a bit like a mother who’s convinced that their healthy child, who has just left home, isn’t getting enough to eat, but I settle for asking him what he does for a living and he says he’s a social worker. I wonder if any of his clients have reported him to the authorities for suspected malnutrition, but instead I say it must be a very rewarding job.

  He puts down his cup, his face full of life for the first time. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. My mum was a nurse and father a doctor, so it was fairly inevitable I’d do something along the care line.”

  “And you obviously enjoy it,” I say.

  “Oh yes, can’t see myself doing anything else.”

  “That must be lovely. So many people plod along in life and never have the guts to leave something they hate doing, taking even the smallest of risk for something they’d enjoy.”

  “I know what you mean. I see so many families trapped by their circumstances. Dead-end jobs on the minimum wage, but no get up and go to… well, get up and go.”

  A different barman to the one who originally served us comes over and puts our cups and plate on the tray. He looks at Lawrence and asks, “Can I get you anything to eat?”

  I will him to say, “Yes, please I’d like a platter for two for one”, but he just smiles and shakes his head. The barman then looks at me, and I do the same, so he takes the tray away. I then ask Lawrence if he’d like another drink and he asks for a Diet Coke. Trying not to be too obvious I say, “Ew, Diet Coke, don’t you think it tastes tinny? I always go for fat Coke.” I fail miserably.

  “No, I find the proper stuff too sweet. I think you’ll find the Coke is Pepsi here and they’re supposed to ask you if that’s okay, but no one ever does.”

  “Oh,” is all I can muster and go to the bar.

  As I’m waiting to be served, I look over at Lawrence who’s looking more and more like a little lost boy. I want to fold him up like a piece of Origami, put him in my pocket and take him home. He reminds me of a tramp rifling through rubbish, and, working in the town centre, I’ve seen a few (and on more than one occasion have had to return to Boots after giving away my newly bought sandwich). Having heard stories of people inviting strays home and then waking up the following morning with their valuables, and even their cars, gone, I always buy The Big Issue on a Monday lunchtime and love hitting the charity shops when I can.

  When I get back to the table with the drinks, Lawrence asks to be excused to go to the men’s room. I smile at his old-fashioned, but to be highly applauded in this day and age, politeness and watch the crumples of denim disappear into the corner of the bar. I’m not at all surprised that he has to go after only one drink as I can’t imagine there’s much food, if any, in his stomach to soak it up.

  While I’m waiting, I sit and gaze at the other drinkers – a mixture of ages and sexes. I could people-watch for England and am still engrossed when Lawrence returns. He smiles and retakes his seat. We chat some more, taking it in turn to drink our Pepsis (his diet, mine fat). Our glasses are soon empty and, with a natural pause in the conversation, I ask him if he’d like another drink. Technically it’s his turn, but I’m still one up from the previous night, so don’t mind.

  He pats his stomach. “I’d better not.” I wonder whether it’s a calorie factor (isn’t there only one in a Diet Coke/Pepsi?) or that he’d have to go to the toilet again. I stay seated and he says, “Don’t let me stop you having another.” I lift my right hand up to indicate that it’s fine and he smiles. I decide it’s not a bad thing as we seem to be running out of conversation and it must be close to chucking-out time. I’m thinking about what to say when the expected ‘Do you want to meet again?’ pause crops up.

  Despite it failing miserably the night before, I decide on ‘You’re a nice guy’, but he speaks first. “I’ve had a nice evening.”

  “Me too,” I say, and wait.

  “But I’m sorry, you’re not really my type,” he continues.

  Because I h
ave meat on my bones, I think, but say, “I quite understand. There needs to be a spark, doesn’t there?”

  He nods.

  I now know for certain that I have to introduce him to Donna. She’d be fascinated.

  Lawrence and I stand up, and he puts his left hand forward as if I am to leave first.

  We do the usual pecks on the cheeks at the front door before going in opposite directions. I’ve parked my car at work, so don’t have far to go, but it’s raining – and not the odd drizzle, but a blanket. It’s like God’s done the washing-up and forgotten to turn off the tap. Somewhere more exotic, it would be like a tropical waterfall, except this is cold and damp rather than warm and inviting. Apart from an easy conversation, nothing about this evening has been particularly warm and inviting. Watching Lawrence and his cup of tea, with his sucked-in cheeks as he drank, was like a scene from Schindler’s List. Looking at him, I wanted to give him a hot meal. Tim could teach him a thing or two.

  I wish Donna were here – it would give her column miles rather than inches. No doubt she’ll ‘Tigger D’ over to my desk first thing tomorrow morning to get the latest rundown. She and I should have a little party and invite Keith, make it a mothers’ meeting.

  I arrive at the security barrier and wave at the screen. As far as I know, security changeover takes place at midnight so it’ll still be Mike. I imagine him on his second packet of doughnuts (he rarely eats anything else, even at what would be his lunchtime) with jam or apple sauce running down his chin. I wonder again what Donna sees in him, but figure it might be motherlove and after Lawrence, I know only too well how that feels.

  Driving home, I think about the article I’m going to construct tomorrow.

  I arrive home at the same time as my next-door neighbour, Ursula. The rain’s stopped, so we have a quick chat.

  “Hi,” she says getting out of her red Fiat Punto.

  “Hello. You’re late tonight. Just finished work?”

  “Sort of. We had a callout. Family domestic.”

  “Oh dear. Nothing too serious I hope.”

  “Not really – a common occurrence with this particular family. I’m only there as a peacemaker.”

  “And I’m guessing they don’t see you like that.”

  “No. It’s difficult sometimes to get through to them, but when you do, it’s worth it.”

  “I couldn’t do it. I don’t have the patience.”

  “Outside the job, I’m not as calm as some, but you have to be professional.”

  I debate whether to ask her if she has a colleague called Lawrence, but decide against it as I still have a cover to maintain. “I’d better go,” I say.

  “Yes, me too, I’m back on at six.”

  “Ouch, that’s unfair. Can’t you go in late because of your callout?”

  “Sadly not. Such is the life I chose.”

  I smile and count myself lucky. An office job isn’t for everyone, but you can’t beat nine-to-five when it comes to a good night’s sleep.

  I’m pleased to see there’s no post sticking out of the postbox, which either means there hasn’t been any or my postman’s finally got the message. I select the smallest key on my key ring and open the green metal door. As I suspected, there’s no post, but there is a pizza leaflet, which surprises me as they are normally particularly hopeless at pushing them all the way in (those who’ll have gone past the sign on my gate displaying ‘No leaflets or cold callers’, which is usually most of them). Grrr.

  It’s rather late for another cup of tea, but I make one anyway. As I put the milk back in the fridge, I pull out the salad drawer and my right index finger hovers over the selection of fun-size chocolate bars. Most people keep salad in their salad drawers, and there is a little in there, but mine tends to keep house to far more interesting fodder.

  I pick a mini Snickers, mini Bounty and the tea, and go upstairs. I like to read when I’m eating and/or drinking, so pick up where Elliot left off, and am soon quaking in my pyjamas. As I look under the duvet, I see my ample thighs quiver, and think of Lawrence and his skeletal bones. I debate which is scarier out of seeing those naked or Elliot in the flesh, and conclude that Elliot would have to win every time. Lawrence could, I’m convinced, be mothered, whereas I don’t think Elliot ever had one.

  Chapter 4 – Felix at the Pavilion

  I get to work and log on to my computer. I anticipate the Tigger D pounce, but there’s no sign of her. By nine thirty I’m getting worried, so go out to reception. I expect to see Marion behind the desk, but early-shifter Jason’s in her chair.

  “Hi, Jason.”

  “Hello, Miss ‘What did I learn from last night?’ MacFarlane.”

  I blush and he laughs. “Only teasing. Can I help you with something? Were you after Marion?”

  “No. Donna. Haven’t seen her, have you?”

  “Not seen, no. She rang in a few minutes ago. Running late. Hot date last night, I reckon.”

  “Really? The sly old fox. She didn’t mention anything to me.”

  “Do you want me to grill her when she comes in? I do a mean frisk.”

  I laugh. “No, it’s fine, although I’m sure she’d love that. I was just a little worried.”

  “Do you want me to buzz you when…”

  “I’ll come back later, but thanks.”

  We then have a chat about his course and plans thereafter, and I go back to my desk. There’s no sign of William either, but I shake my head. She’d never go there.

  It’s ten by the time she comes in and she’s very red-faced. I’ve checked and replied to my work emails and am about to log on to tallgirlnn1 when she rushes past me and goes to her desk, doing a quick recce of William’s still-empty office en route. I stare in her direction until she’s dumped her bag and taken off her coat. She swings round as if she’s suddenly remembered my existence. Waving at me like a mad woman, she’s wearing the biggest grin I’ve seen, even for her. She mouths something like “I’ll tell you all about it later” (I’m not the world’s best lip reader) and slumps onto her chair.

  I go back to the internet and type in my username and password. There are seven new messages and I’m keeping everything crossed that one of them will lead to a date for tomorrow night. I need to keep this train a-rollin’.

  The first message is from Felix who I’m due to see tonight. I open it, dreading he can’t make it, but he’s suggested the Jade, which is great for me as it’s opposite the Picturedrome. I reply with ‘Yes, but can we just do drinks as I’m on a tight budget?’ (I don’t think William will be too happy stumping up for an oriental, although when I think about it, I’ve never been too sure about his taste in women.) I click on ‘send’ and move back to Robert, alias, RobbieY69.

  Smooth as ever, he wants to know whether I’m free tonight. I send a reply apologising that I can’t make it, but could he do tomorrow night? I take a sip of tea and before I’ve gone to the next message, there’s already a reply from Robert. He usually takes his son to swimming lessons, but says he’ll make other arrangements. I need him to say yes, but email back saying that he needn’t do that on my account, especially if it means missing seeing his son swimming.

  I take another swig of tea and he’s replied again. This guy is slicker than John Travolta’s Danny Zuko! Much to my colleagues’ amusement, I punch the air when RobbieY69 comes up trumps by saying that it’s not a problem as his ex-wife has been whingeing that she’s not spending enough time with ‘little Bobby’, so she’ll take him. I assume he has custody of the boy, which is a half Don’t on the list. I like children, especially my niece, but even she can be a handful.

  Robert suggests the Hilton at M1 junction 15. I say that’s a good choice. Although I’m not a fan of corporate, I like clean, and it should be quiet, even on a Friday night. I imagine the wicked ex-wife, so add my sympathies.

  I get a phone call from Marion to say I’ve got a parcel from Geek’s Paradise and would I collect it ‘at my leisure’? This equates to ‘Now!’, so I go ASAP.
I arrive through the double doors and walk towards the reception desk, when I bump into, not quite literally but almost, Mike. For once he’s not eating anything, but the colour of his face matches the jam filling that I often see adorning it and I put two and two together.

  “Hello, Mike,” I say, with a grin as big as Donna’s. ‘Did you two have a nice time last night?”

  “She told you?” he splutters, and I’m grateful that he’s in between meals.

  “She hasn’t, no.”

  “Shit!”

  I smile, trying to look reassuring. “Why? Isn’t a work fling allowed?”

  “It’s not a fling,” he says rather too quickly.

  I’m touched. I’m very protective of my Donna and realise that he does have layers, in more than one respect. I’m pleased he’s human after all. “I wouldn’t worry,” I say, “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Thanks,” he whispers, and then goes back downstairs towards the security office, I assume to relieve Jason, although he’s rather early. It’s not like him to be keen, but know his incentive to be on site.

  I notice Marion behind her protective glass straining to hear what’s going on, but she sits back in her chair as I approach. I collect my parcel, smile and leave.

  As I approach my desk, I glance in Donna’s direction. She’s looking at William’s office and I see there’s still no sign of him. Rather than inflict another Marion session on myself, I ring her.

  “Reception,” she snaps, knowing it’s me.

  “Hi, Marion.”

  “Yes, Isobel.” She’s never called me Izzy.

  “Any idea where our lord and master is?’