The Serial Dater Read online

  “And I was in town so I thought I’d see what I’ve got in store for Monday,” Karen adds.

  “You’re too conscientious,” I whisper and drink some of the hot chocolate. I shiver as I feel it descend through my insides. I’m not sure why as it’s a warm drink on a warm day. Hey ho.

  Donna gets me a glass of water and two paracetamol from the first-aid kit in the kitchen. I’m not sure how paracetamol ends up in a first-aid kit, but I’m guessing I’m not the first person in the office to feel like this.

  She slowly places the glass down on my coaster and puts the tablets in my right-hand palm. I chuck them in my mouth and wash them down.

  Donna, in her newly adopted mouse-like whisper, crouches between Karen and me. “Was it a good night then, last night?” Donna can’t help smiling.

  I nod slowly and croak, “It was great.”

  “Yes!” she claps delicately.

  “Once I got home.”

  Karen grins like a naughty schoolgirl. “Oh yes?”

  “Alone,” I add.

  “Oh,” says Donna.

  “Let’s just say he was a bit too smooth.”

  “Eek,” says Karen.

  My head hurts, so I close my eyes until the imprints of their faces disappear into the darkness.

  “I’m off.” I recognise Karen’s voice.

  “Have a nice rest of the weekend,” I say, eyes still closed. “See you Monday morning.”

  “And you. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Karen’s a married mother of three, so that doesn’t leave much.

  I open my eyes and squint as the fluorescence streams back into my eyes. “Okay, bye. Oh, and thanks for the mild heart attack.”

  “You’re welcome. They say it does your heart good to have a scare once a day.”

  I sort of smile. I’ve always wanted to know who ‘they’ are so I can kick them in the shins!

  I log on to the computer then go to the kitchen to get another hot chocolate. I put a mug under the nozzle and press the button, but a single puff of powder comes out. With the water dispensed, it looks like a muddy puddle, so I tip it down the sink and risk the kettle.

  I set it going and go back to my desk to log on to my internet profile. There are a couple of messages and I open the first one, from a Metal Mickey. These guys, if nothing else, have good imaginations, although his profile looks pretty normal, which makes a change. He loves eighties music, keeps fit and is very unfussy when it comes to food.

  The kettle boils and I’m grateful it’s far enough away for the noise not to permeate too deeply. I make the tea, guide the mug onto the coaster, and lean over sniffing the warm steam. I now know the correct distance so my nostrils stay dry and I then turn my face so it warms my right cheek.

  The next thing I know, William’s standing by my desk.

  “What, may I ask are you doing?”

  “I’ve made a cup of tea.”

  “And what? It’s talking to you?”

  “No. Got a bit of a headache so it’s warming me.”

  “You do realise it’s nearly summer.”

  “I do, yes. Female logic, William.”

  He shrugs, clearly resigned to never understanding women, which I think is a very wise conclusion, as we gave up understanding men years ago.

  The second message is from NigelEByGum saying he’s off to town to do some shopping and will get the tickets on the way home. I send a message back saying if it’s not too late he can hang fire as I have a season ticket and we could go early, collect the tickets and have a drink before the film starts.

  I then reply to Metal Mickey’s ‘Hiya’ message. A man of many words. I was an nineties teen but am nevertheless pleased we have something in common as I love eighties music. I reply with a bit of chat about ‘me’ and to drop me a line if he wants to know more.

  Then a message from Charles comes in. We’re on for seven as he has a business meeting in London at nine the next morning. I bet he’s loving whoever set that up.

  I’m about to start typing my article when Nigel replies saying he got held up by a phone call from his mother (please don’t let him be a mummy’s boy – at least they don’t live together) and that he’s happy to meet earlier. Say, six? I reply ‘perfect’ and that I’ll see him later.

  With my headache clearing and the office quiet (Donna crept out with a wave a little while ago), I get cracking on with ‘31 dates art. 0605’.

  What did I learn from last night? That men never cease to surprise me. Never assume the communication lines are parallel when dealing with the opposite sex. And especially when it’s the written word. It’s like text messaging – the meaning can easily get lost along the way. You’re not there when the other person receives it to explain the emotion behind it. Many a friendship has been broken, patched up or lost in the short history of the text due to misunderstanding. And what happened last night was a miscommunication on a magnitudinous scale.

  Who, in their right mind, would, before they’ve even exchanged a couple of ‘get to know each other’ remarks, ask the other whether they wish to ‘have our drinks here or take them up to our room’? I suppose I should be flattered that he, R, would like me in that way, but with only our names exchanged, I felt it was a tad (like half a dozen dates) too quick. The fact he was also (supposedly) separated, having previously talked about his ex-wife, didn’t help. She was painted as a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from, but while he was attempting (and failing) to seduce me, his probably very lovely spouse was returning to an empty home with a note saying he had to go away on ‘business’. Maybe she suspects, or maybe she knows, but however much money they have, and believe me he has plenty, I hope one day, soon, she asks herself whether he’s worth it.

  Remember, I’ve been given the task of meeting an average (some more average than others) of one man a day/evening for a work project and I would urge ALL of you to take your time. Get to know someone before you meet and then get to know them in the flesh before actually seeing much more of that flesh!

  I would imagine R is one of many many married men trawling the internet in search of ‘bimbos’, of which I’m not one. A man has to work hard for my affections. Friends call me fussy, and I am. I’m also heightist. At just under six feet, I, like most women I know, still like to look up to a man. While partners of vastly different ages stand out a mile, so does a woman towering over her date. Sorry, guys, but unless you find a woman who’s – like my friend D – a very special individual wrapped in a petite package, if you’re less than five feet nine (five feet eight may be pushing it), you don’t stand a chance. For all the personality in the world, if you’re shorter than your date and she gets back or neck ache within the first twenty minutes, there’s unlikely to be a second meeting.

  That said, you can never have too many friends and we’re not that shallow that we’d prefer a hunk over someone who makes us laugh, as a friend. So if you’re a firecracker in a small gift box, there is hope. Anyone, tall or otherwise, who goes on a first date willing it to lead to romance and a permanent relationship is bound to be heading for a fall. Leave home thinking you might have a bit of fun, good conversation or share a bottle of Bollinger RD (or in my case get the whole thing to myself in the comfort of my own home, thank you very much Mr ‘this one’s for free’ Smoothie!), and you can only have a good time… with a bit of luck.

  I wrap it up with a few more tips on the technology side of internet dating (the levels of membership and how to upload a photograph, should they be that brave), click ‘save’ then close the document.

  With the article safely in William’s tray ahead of the deadline (he’s always in at the weekends – I think work is his first home rather than second), I decide to call it a day. He’s disappeared, so I find a piece of scrap paper and pen from his desk and am writing a note to that effect when I notice a ring binder on a shelf with my name on it. I do my meerkat impression – no one’s looking in my direction and, better still, no William, so I pull out the file and open the
front cover. It’s everything I’ve ever done.

  At the front is yesterday’s computer-printed article with older ones behind it. I look at the shelf and then around the room, but there are no colleagues’ equivalents in sight. I wonder whether he’s got mine to hand for an appraisal, or something worse, and I feel sick. I put the file back where I found it in, I hope, exactly the same position. I may whinge about my job and not be the most punctual of people, but from the feedback we get, my column’s a popular one and I love what I do, so unless he’s got someone else lined up, I should feel secure.

  So why don’t I?

  I return to my desk to gather my things and am logging off when there’s whistling from the corridor behind me. I turn round and it’s William. He gives me a smile. As it’s not something I see very often, I can’t decide whether it’s a ‘her days are numbered’ or ‘I’m happy, yes it does happen sometimes’ smile, so say something to help figure it, and him, out.

  “You’re looking pleased with yourself today, William.”

  “Baby’s on the mend.”

  “That’s great. I’m so relieved.” And I’d never said a truer word. “I’ve left a note on your desk. The article’s done and my work’s pretty much up to date. Is it all right if I head off?” I figure this being a golden moment to ask such a question.

  He looks around the desert of an office. “Have a good weekend. See you bright and early on Monday.”

  Not sure whether he means that literally, I smile and say, “And you, thanks.”

  After plodding home, I’m waiting for the kettle to boil when I remember my mobile sitting on my desk. I growl and flick the switch to off.

  I grab my car keys and head back into town. After parking at work, I nip to Sainsbury’s for the basics, or thereabouts – I always buy too much. I’m a nutty seedy bread fan and am gutted when my usual brand isn’t there. In fact there’s very little pre-packaged bread at all. I wonder if there’s a world war looming that no one’s told me about, and the population of Northampton have spent the morning stocking up and are building their shelters as I spend my less than twenty quid on a week’s worth of shopping. I decide that if the end is nigh, I may as well splurge the diet (not that I’m on one anyway) and get a ‘tiger’ French stick, three varieties of English cheeses and a four-pack of full-fat full-taste dips. I’ve got plenty of proper butter at home, so finally pick up a four-pack of Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup (only the best will do for my last days on earth).

  If the world is going to end in the next few hours, I’m going to be sorely disappointed as it’ll mean I’ll be unlikely to meet OMG69, see the inside of ‘Groove’, or hold a conversation that would teach me a thing or three, if I understood a word of it.

  Passing the drinks aisle, I stop and retrace my steps figuring that if I have a short time to live, I may as well be drunk.

  Everything looks pretty much as I left it when I emerge from the centre and lug my emergency supplies back to my car. There was no sign of Klaus earlier, but he’s now standing by the car park exit barrier.

  “Good afternoon, Klaus,” I say politely and go to push my pass into the slot.

  “Guten tag,” he replies. He speaks perfect English, but knows I have splatterings of his mother tongue.

  “Und wie geht’s heute?” I say.

  “I’m good, thank you. How is your weekend going?”

  He must have caught whatever happy bug William has, as this is the almost longest conversation we’ve ever had.

  “It’s going well, thank you. Just off home for a late lunch.”

  “Ah, good idea. I’ve just had mine.”

  “Anything nice?” I can’t believe we’re talking about food. Unlike Mike, I’ve never seen Klaus eat anything and he challenges Lawrence in physique terms, which is rather odd given his job. I can’t see him chasing anyone round the block without breaking in two, but he is nearly seven feet tall with an imposing personality to match, so I suppose weight isn’t everything.

  “Wurst, cheese and crackers,” he says patting his stomach. His uniform jacket disappears in a scene reminiscent of Lawrence’s fleece. They are definite contenders for Donna’s column. Anorexia may not be at the top of her list of topics to cover, but it seems to be a growing trend, especially with the menfolk of this town.

  My mouth is watering as I realise Klaus is talking. I look up at him. “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, don’t be,” he replies in his strong Bavarian accent.

  “No. I missed what you said.”

  “Just to have a good weekend.”

  “Thanks, Klaus, and you.”

  My car radio bursts into life as I leave the underground car park and I recognise Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 14 in C sharp minor, Op.27-2… better known as the ‘Moonlight Sonata’. I look in the mirror to see if Klaus has heard any of it, but he’s disappeared back inside his office. I’m pretty good at remembering modern song titles, but hopeless at classical. It’s like having the words helps, which I suppose is pretty obvious. I only remember Ludwig’s no. 14 as it’s one I can play the first few notes of… that and ‘Für Elise’ (Bagatelle in A minor) as well as the intro to Deep Purple’s ‘Smoke on the Water’ and, of course, ‘Chopsticks’.

  Despite buying a bottle of Disaronno liqueur (I’d seen the adverts and had tried it at Ursula and Max’s housewarming/Easter holidays party), I have to stay sober and take my luscious lunch into the lounge to set my Jack & Sarah DVD going. It’s one of my favourites – yes, I’m actually a slush-bucket under this exterior – but I’ve not seen it for months and can’t wait to be reacquainted. If the world ended as the end credits rolled, I’d be a happy woman.

  With the aforementioned credits rolling, and Eileen Atkins firmly planted in my memory (I think she’s a great actress, but can never remember her name), I look out of the window and, again, everything looks as I left it, so I decide it’s worth going upstairs to get ready for Nigel. The Undertones song immediately pops in my brain and I hum it (I only know the chorus) as I’m taking my plates and mug into the kitchen.

  I stand for ages in front of the wardrobe and nothing leaps out at me. One day I wish it would, especially on a weekday morning because when you work with a room full of colleagues five, or currently six, days a week and sit next to the fashion columnist, you want to make an effort. You can only team up so many key pieces with other key pieces until your look gets a bit tired. And so does your brain, having to remember what you wore on each weekday for the past six months.

  I finally plump for smart black jeans and a favourite embroidered turquoise t-shirt. The latter wouldn’t look out of place on a Caribbean island beach and having had ‘summer’ for two days in a row, I want to encourage the sun to stay out.

  Nigel (or someone who I assume is, but desperately don’t want to be) is waiting for me outside.

  It’s Saturday night, the ‘hottest’ night of the week, the actual hottest evening of the year so far, I’m surrounded by the hottest people in Northampton, and on a date with Mr Nerd. The name Nigel is often synonymous with trainspotters, but I have a friend called Nigel who’s lovely: tall, fair and handsome (and sadly, for me, not interested in women), but this one is… a real picture.

  His legs are whiter than mine, and that’s saying something. At the top of his anaemic legs are red, bright red, brighter than a newly painted post box red, cycling shorts, tighter than an Elizabethan corset and containing less than Eric Morecambe’s paper bags. At the other end of these hairy beanpoles are yellow socks enveloped by brown open-toed sandals and cycling clips. His shoes don’t look comfortable or practical enough to ride a bike in, but I guess he knows what he’s doing.

  Nerdy Nigel (mercifully no hint of a trainspotting jacket) is wearing a pink and orange Day-Glo cycling top. I had thought nothing could be worse than a Bolton Wanderers sports shirt, but I was wrong. If I didn’t need sunglasses before, I do now. I could, by rights, walk back to the car and leave – he’s not spotted me yet – but I figure that after the dr
ink (I’m hoping in a very dark bar, although no doubt his outfit is fluorescent), we’ll be seeing the movie, so we won’t have to talk much. Then it hits me. If the outfit is fluorescent in a dimly lit bar it’s going to be positively radioactive in the cinema.

  People are laughing at him as they walk into the foyer and I feel sorry for him, so I keep walking. He’s oblivious to them, but spots me. I’m grateful he doesn’t do any kind of wave (a Mexican wouldn’t be a shock), but his eyes are concentrating on me and I feel distinctly overdressed.

  As I make a beeline for him (and am surprised the real insects aren’t congregating around him by now), he holds out his hand.

  I shake it as he says, “Izzy, hi. I’m Nigel. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  I muster a smile as bright as his outfit and say hello too.

  “I must apologise for this…” He waves a hand at his attire. “My car broke down, so I had to go and get my bike. I hate being late or I would have walked here.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your car and am grateful you went to so much trouble.” I picture the sort of outfit I’d have been treated to if the car had behaved and think perhaps I prefer this one. If nothing else it’s brightened my day (and the Sixfields complex) and will be something interesting for Tuesday’s column.

  We get the tickets and walk to Frankie & Benny’s next door. Heads turn as we walk in. I’m getting a little peckish after my late lunch, and love F&Bs, but wouldn’t want to do a Tim. We’re shown a corner booth (no surprise) and given two menus.

  “I know we said just a drink, but are you at all hungry?” Nigel asks.

  “A little. You?”

  “I wasn’t, but having to push my car off the road, run home and get the bike has given me a bit of an appetite.”

  “I’m surprised you made it here before me.”

  “I’d left early to do some food shopping on the way here, but I guess it’ll have to wait until the car’s fixed.”