The Serial Dater Read online

  Keeping in mind what happened at the World’s End I wait, giving Felix a chance to redeem himself but, ten minutes later, there’s still no sign of him so I drive home.

  With the risotto long gone, I’m way past peckish. I want something more substantial than mini snack bars. After boiling the kettle for a cup of cherry and cinnamon tea, I make a couple of slices of toast which I smother with peanut butter and apricot jam, or jelly as the Yanks call it, and take everything upstairs.

  I resume my liaison with Elliot, who doesn’t get any less creepy, and heroine Natasha, and munch my way through the toast, which I wash down with lukewarm tea because I’m so engrossed in the book.

  I end up falling asleep, waking up over an hour later with the book and remnants of toast scattered across the duvet. Fortunately, I’d already put the mug to one side, but omitted to take my glasses off which, I find out when I peer in the bathroom mirror to take my make-up off, have left an imprint in my right cheek, scar-like, something Elliot would be very proud of.

  Once my teeth are squeaky clean, I yank the bathroom light-pull and go back to the bedroom. I swish the crumbs onto the floor, the hoovering’s long overdue anyway, and put the book back next to the clock radio. I apologise to Natasha that I have to leave her and Elliot alone again and switch off the light, muttering to myself that I must have a screw loose to be talking to an inanimate object, but if it’s good enough for Prince Charles and his plants then it’s good enough for me.

  Chapter 5 – Robert at the Hilton

  I wake up with a bit of a cold, so have another fruit tea and toast for breakfast. I eat, and then put my nose up to the mug, inhaling deeply. Misjudging the distance, tea shoots up both nostrils, which isn’t pleasant, but clears the blockage nicely.

  I stand in front of my mirrored wardrobes for what seems like forever, and peer over at the clock radio. Eight twenty. Better get a move on. I look at the black-and-red cover of Opaque and the figure behind the door. I’ve still not worked out whether the shadowy figure is Elliot or Natasha, but, even closed, the book gives me the creeps. Wearing just my underwear, which would no doubt give Elliot a thrill, I walk over to the bedside chest of drawers and turn over the book. The back is a ghostly white with black-and-green writing, but still a distinctly more soothing option to the front. The bookmark, on page one hundred and twenty-three (as far as I’d got before the crumbs-on-the-bed episode) peeks out of the top willing me to skip work and take it back to bed. I open the top drawer, put the book reverently, though firmly, next to a box of tissues and slam the drawer shut. Out of sight isn’t totally out of mind; Elliot won’t let me forget him completely.

  I plump for a pair of grey trousers, sleeveless black shirt and red slim cotton scarf. It feels rather wintry for the beginning of May, but the weather still can’t make its mind up. This is England after all.

  Grabbing my red Kelly-type bag (I’m on a local rag’s wages – everything I own is fake), I finish the tea, which is almost cold, and go out the front door.

  Marion’s prequel, Jason, opens his mouth to chat, but it’s nearly nine, so I say I’m sorry and that I can’t stop. Normally it wouldn’t bother me, but I want to check on Donna, and for some reason I’m concerned about William’s bird.

  Donna’s sitting in my chair and appears to be writing something. She looks up as I approach my desk, and puts down the mug, hers, she’s just taken a swig from.

  “Morning double-dee,” I say. “How’s things?”

  This sends her into a fit of giggles, and the coffee she was drinking cascades from the sides of her mouth. I pull a stream of tissues from a box next to my monitor and offer them to her. I check the make of the box and wonder if I should buy some of their shares. Donna alone would keep me in the style to which I would love to become accustomed.

  She moves to an empty desk next to mine while I log on to my computer. I make a cup of tea (Donna says her coffee’s fine) while I’m waiting for the PC to open all the pre-selected software. I thank Bill Gates every morning for the time that ‘Startup’ saves me. That reminds me to tell Donna a rude joke I know about ‘Micro…soft’, but I’ve forgotten by the time I get back to my desk. I have a dreadful memory and have a book at home somewhere about improving it, but can’t remember where it is.

  I continue the conversation. “So… did you see him last night?”

  “Mike?”

  I nod.

  “Yes, we…” She’s drooling again, so I move the box of tissues to her desk. “It was lovely. He…”

  I put my hand up – I only want the barest of details – but she thinks I’m after the tissues, so gives back the box. I leave it on her side of my desk just in case.

  “He was so gentle and caring. I never thought…”

  I’m wondering whether I want to hear everything she’s about to say when I realise that she’s stopped talking and is looking behind me. I turn and William’s standing there with a ‘Do you two not have any work to do?’ expression, but sees the stained tissues and scuttles off to his office without saying a word. I should buy those shares.

  “So, Izzy Izzy, let’s get busy… how did your night go last night?”

  “Let’s just say the Virgin Colada was the best thing about it. Two nights out of four I’ve not spent any of William’s money.”

  “At least you didn’t have very far to go. Was he not very nice, this Felix?”

  “Oh no, he was lovely, that was the trouble. It was like bees round a honeypot, except king bee didn’t notice queen bee leaving and sitting in her car for ten minutes on the off chance that he’ll have missed her… which he didn’t.”

  “I didn’t know bees had kings?”

  Donna reminds me of the blonde from the Philadelphia adverts.

  “You’re not as dumb as you look, Donna.”

  “Thanks!” she says with her usual goofy grin.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “So you won’t be seeing him again then.”

  “No, I would imagine not. I’m about to log on and check my messages, but I don’t expect to see one from him.”

  “Okay,” she says, and goes back to her desk. I imagine that all the space there is in that little head of hers is currently taken up with Mike and I’m pleased for her. He makes her even more inanely happy than she normally is, and while that could be sickly, I’ve seen her at some really low points, where the smile is close to disappearing. I sometimes wonder whether it’s a defence mechanism, and I’m surprised Keith’s not pounced on her before now as an agony aunt case study. That would be fun to watch.

  I don’t have any work emails, which is unusual, but leaves me more time to work through my tallgirlnn1. I log in but see ‘You have 0 new messages’. The only thing left to do then is to start my article, a bit disappointed that I have to do some proper work. I Alt/Tab over to Word and save the blank ‘Document 1’ as ‘31 dates art. 0505’, and type.

  What did I learn from last night? That there are many different types of men in Northamptonshire, and many first impressions to be had. Take my date last night, for example. He was a very handsome guy, looked after himself, but had eye trouble. I wear glasses (and suffered the ‘boys never make passes at Izzy in glasses’ taunt at school) and obviously sympathise with anyone with a disability, but the trouble with his eyes was that they wandered. Not in a Marty Feldman kind of way, but it turns out that I’m of the wrong nationality.

  F had chosen the Jade restaurant for a reason, actually about a dozen reasons: all petite, all dark haired, and all letching after him. And of course he wasn’t going to complain. If you read my article yesterday you’ll recall my ramblings about physical attraction being a small part of a long-lasting relationship. F obviously doesn’t read my column. F is as shallow as the two-foot-six end of a swimming pool. I’ve sprained an ankle doing ‘bubbles’ (jumping in and pushing down both feet to make as much splash as you can) in the two-foot-six, and last night was even more unpleasant.

  Can I ask that if you’re a man
reading this column and you’re struggling to meet, or hold on to a woman, you ask yourself these three questions about the last woman you went on a date with:

  1. What was the colour of her hair?

  2. What was the colour of the top or dress she was wearing? (Okay, four questions: can you say what type of garment she was wearing?)

  3. What colour were her eyes?

  The chances are that if you can remember what colour car she was driving but nothing about her appearance, you’re not going to score too highly. We like to be paid attention to. Not fawned over, but if you don’t notice we’ve left the room, the chances are pretty high that there isn’t going to be a second date. I wouldn’t put it past F to still be waiting for me to return from the ladies toilets, assuming he’s not been eaten by the Persian Piranhas.

  I’m about to start a new paragraph when William walks over.

  “How’s it going, Izzy?”

  “Good, thanks, William.”

  “And the money. You staying within budget?”

  “Yes, surprisingly so. About petrol though…”

  “Excellent. Usual deadline,” he says, and walks off.

  Sometimes I think I’m too honest. Bars and restaurants can give receipts for rounds of drinks, but, like the getting out of notepad and pens from my bag, asking for a receipt for a ‘date’ would arouse suspicion, so William’s taking it on spec. I figure he’s got other things on his mind, although he does look more cheerful; cheerful’s pushing it, so I decide to leave the petrol issue for now, and see how things go. If I have more dates like Tim and Felix, I’ll be in pocket regardless of whether I claim for petrol or not. I would be if I filled in the expenses forms in my favour, but, as I said, I’m too honest… most of the time.

  Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the Persian Piranhas.

  The first thing to remember about a first date is not only to notice what she’s wearing, but comment on it. And guys, please, positive. Even if you don’t think she looks lovely, say she does, or say, ‘I love the colour,’ even if her pink hair clashes with her orange boob tube. Unless you’re embarrassed to be seen in the same room as her, getting out after one drink is fine if there’s no chance of taking it any further. You can be a gentleman and say you don’t think you’re compatible. Unless you’re the fiftieth guy she’s been out with who’s turned her down, she’s unlikely to go nuts. It’s a brave man who suggests dinner on a first date, but if you’ve had a drink or two and it’s going well, you can play it by ear.

  Remember that you always, always buy the first drink. Offer to buy the second, but if she’s a modern woman, she’ll insist on going Dutch. If she doesn’t and also lets you buy the third without offering, you might like to question her motives. If you drip in gold, drive a flashy car, she may be interested in you for more than your looks. If you drip in gold, drive a flashy car and look like the back end of a bus and she’s still interested then this may tell you whether she’s going to go Dutch on the haute cuisine and Bollinger you’ve just ordered. The words ‘chance’ and ‘fat’ spring to mind. Still, if she’s hot it’s still cheaper than a high-class escort…

  I remember this is a family paper, so delete the final sentence.

  If you’re currently single all the relationships you’ve had to date are failures, aren’t they? If you go on a date, you like the woman and think there’s potential, it’s worth the investment. If it doesn’t work, you’ve only lost an evening of your life, a day’s (a week’s or month’s) wages, but had a good time. As the saying goes, you can’t take it with you so you may as well spend it on someone with whom you had fun, and doesn’t it warm your cockles to know that she’ll be driving home with boosted confidence wearing a dress she wasn’t sure about but someone who seemed like a nice guy said he liked?

  If you’re following this column and are building your dater’s shopping list, the latest are: Do pay compliments and attention and Don’t have wandering eyes.

  If you’re going on a date tonight, good luck and, you never know, it may just be with me!

  I’m pretty happy with what I’ve written, so I give it a quick skim, make a couple of changes then print it off. William’s at his desk when I drop it in. He leans forward, looks at my article, but doesn’t say anything.

  “How are things?” I ask.

  “Good.” He hesitates. “Things with you?”

  “Good, thanks.”

  There’s an unnatural pause for he continues. “Did you want something, Izzy?”

  “How’s your bird?”

  He looks surprised. “Who told you about Baby?”

  “I can’t reveal my sources,” I reply in a stupidly cloak and dagger fashion, trying to be funny and failing miserably. “Chloë’s sister works at your vet.” As I said, I’m hopeless at keeping secrets.

  “Isn’t there supposed to be client confidentiality?” He scowls.

  “Sorry,” I say, and go to leave his office.

  “No, I’m sorry. You were asking about Baby.”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know. It’s fifty-fifty. She’s on medication, so I hope so.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She’ll be forty in July.”

  “Wow.”

  “Did you have her as a…” I wrack my brains for Baby’s baby version.

  “Chick. No, my parents got her when she was six.”

  Doh. “When will you know whether it’s worked?”

  “I’ve got to go back in a couple of weeks.”

  “I’ll keep everything crossed.”

  William just smiles and after a moment of silence, I turn to leave.

  “Wait,” he says.

  I turn back and he’s leaning forward. I wince as I think he’s spotted something glaringly awful about my article, but he looks at me and mumbles, “Thanks, Izzy.”

  “No problem,” I say, and leave, closing the door as softly as an Ikea glide drawer. I’ve got an Ikea kitchen and spent hours after it was installed playing with the drawers, all fourteen of them. I was like a child in a sweetshop, except with me it’s gadgets. And sweets. Pick ’n’ mix especially. Banoffee pie isn’t the only thing I’d kill for.

  Donna looks worried and mouths, “Okay?” I smile and walk back to my desk.

  I look up at William’s office and he’s getting something from his filing cabinet. He sees me as he turns and smiles a brief but professional smile. He’s all business, is our William.

  I get back to the task at hand and refresh my internet screen. It turns out our server was playing hooky, and I have twelve messages. Seven are from idiots, so are deleted and blocked from ever contacting me again. This is great. It’s like having your own judge to issue restraining orders. Have I said I love technology?

  The other five include one from RobbieY69 saying that the old witch is having little Bobby and he can’t wait to meet me tonight. I can see me being a rebound, but if it gives him something to look forward to, who am I to deny him that little piece of happiness?

  NigelEByGum has suggested going to the cinema, which regular readers will know I love doing, so I answer him first. He likes arty films, and if that’s all right with me will let me know what’s on. I say I’ll fit in with whatever he has planned. After all, I don’t have a social life for the next twenty-six days, except I don’t tell him that of course.

  CXW69, alias Charles, alias Mr Sunday seventh May, is message number four. He’s said although he thinks the lady should choose the venue so she’ll feel comfortable, he adds that the Greyhound at Milton Malsor is nice. It’s a favourite of mine, so I say yes, and that I would ‘feel very comfortable there’. Although it’s a chain, it’s a lovely old pub oozing old charm, and it’ll be nice to see it again. Tickety boo.

  ReadyEddie cracks me up. He’s so laid back he’s horizontal. He’s said he’ll ‘go with the flow’ and is happy to do anything I suggest, unless it’s jumping out of an aeroplane (on the rare occasions I’m in one, I strap myself to the seat when the
seat belt sign illuminates, and it doesn’t get undone until the light goes off, so why would I want to get off the plane until it’s hooked up to the concertina tube that always reminds me of my dad’s darkroom storage bottles), riding a camel (that I could do, providing I had even more padding on my backside than Mother Nature has already given me, and as long as I’m not at the front end when they spit, although it may be preferable to their back end), or going to the circus (I never understand why people are scared of clowns, but don’t approve of the way some treat their animals).

  Eddie, I think you’re pretty safe on all three counts. Unless there’s a multi-creatured festival in the grounds of Sywell Aerodrome, which reminds me that I’ve heard great things about the Aviator pub there, so I suggest that, promising myself we’ll only be seeing the outside of planes.

  NigelEByGum sends me a list of the films and times and the order in which he’d prefer to see them. He’s spookily as geeky as me and, even better, he’s suggested Cineworld (he lives in the modern complex at Upton, which I know well as there’s a fairly regular Saturday morning car boot sale nearby). I pick After Jessica because I’ve heard good things about it from a friend who’s recently married a gorgeously funny Yank, lives in Washington, and, like all Americans, can see films way before they’re shown here. They spend half their leisure time on the back row of a dark ‘theatre’… I can’t imagine why.

  The fifth message is from an ‘OMG69’. I roll my eyes. I immediately imagine that ‘Oh My God 69’ is going to be another Felix. I take a look at his profile and I’m not reassured. I like to think I’m fairly ‘with it’, but can’t understand half of what he’s saying. He loves Dizzy Rascal, or I assume he does as he calls him ‘sick’. He gets a tick in my (newly added) ethics box for ‘dissing’ (not approving of – I know that one already) ‘disco biscuits’ which londonslang.com tells me is ecstasy, a quote from the film Snatch apparently, which I would have known if I’d seen it for more than fifteen minutes (I do occasionally fall asleep at the movies – the last time was watching Insomnia, which I still find hilarious. Me falling asleep, not the film, which I’ve still not seen the end of).