Oxford Street is heaving. The air is hot and dry, I have to squint as I exit from Bond Street tube. A torrent of shoppers pass the exit, and some branch off, flowing down the steps into the depths of the underground station. A constant stream of double-deckers push their way up and down the main street. The buses glisten in the sun’s glare. Their beetle-like red shells shine magnificently. People are busy shopping for their holidays. Couples can be heard arguing which factor sunscreen they should buy, the women protesting that they still want a tan, ‘Why else are we going on holiday, put the Factor 2 in the basket.’ The men are being dragged from one shop to another in search of the Holy Grail that is the perfect bikini (in the right size). I hate Oxford Street at this time of year. You can get knocked about so much that it verges on an assault.
I have arranged to meet Jayne at a place just off Oxford Street. Amidst this consumer frenzy there is a little-known gem, hidden behind the main drag. It’s like Diagon Alley, a narrow passage just before Selfridges leads you to a continental square. An abundance of bistros and bars surround a beautiful fountain. In the summer, live music serenades you while you gorge yourself on olive tapenade and a good chianti. St Christopher’s Place is the perfect location for a first date.
Even at this ridiculously busy time of year, there will be a table at Carluccio’s, if you are willing to wait long enough. Intimate yet public, exclusive but inexpensive. Perfect.
I stand outside the restaurant, just by the glass doorway. I have arranged to meet Jayne outside, she’s five minutes late. I look back towards the direction I have just come. My eyes flit from one mad shopper to the next, as I try and spot Jayne. I’m trying to remember what she looks like, picturing her photo on the site. But the images of the different girls begin to mix in my mind. Is she the blonde one, or the redhead? I can’t remember.
My phone begins to vibrate, a text from Jayne tells me that she is running ten minutes late. She says I will recognise her because she is wearing a turquoise corsage.
The mist in my mind clears and I start to remember her basic features. She has mid-length blonde hair and has that girl next-door look about her. She describes herself as ‘very attractive’. She has a cheeky look about her in the photo, sort of vivacious looking.
I clap my eyes on a girl walking out of the alley into the square. She sort of fits the image in my mind, except her hair is shorter. Perhaps she’s had it cut. She’s smiling and walking in my direction. I start smiling, coy like, back at her. She steps up and right past me. She ignores the hand I have just reached out to greet her. I feign as if checking the time on my wristwatch. I turn around, subtly, and see her embracing a guy standing behind me. Sure enough, no blue flower.
As I turn back to face the alley way, in that brief instance, someone has appeared at my elbow. A plump girl with pale skin and mousey, shoulder-length hair – the highlights have grown out.
‘Hi, Max?’
She must have noticed the pained expression on my face, wearing that ‘and-you-are?’ look, as I squint at her vacantly. As if to reply to the unspoken question, she volunteers, ‘Hi, I’m Jayne!’
I make a double take. Sure enough, there it is, the damning evidence. The turquoise corsage.
‘I thought you were blonde?’
Did I just say that out loud? Shit. I couldn’t help it, it just, sort of, slipped out. And a confused look overcomes her face, as if she’s saying to herself, ‘Er, yes, and your point is?!’
But the deception is out in the open. I know she put up a photo of herself that quite obviously shows her in a good light. It’s not often that you come across someone who looks that much better in their picture than they do in real life. In the magazine world, we’d call it a great touch up. She’s not going to get one of those tonight.
And now she knows that I know.
It would be okay if she had undersold herself. But instead of a date with an attractive blonde, I am about to make small talk with the human equivalent of a slurry pit – loose, chunky and grey. Like so many women, she’s opted for all-over black – black trousers, wedges that make her look like a trainee tranny and strappy top (reigning in at least four sets of flabby boobs). She’s not really overweight, she’s just frumpy – bland and devoid of any style. If she was a type of house, it’d be a Barrett home.
Deception aside, you may say I’m being harsh. But let’s not kid ourselves. It’s important I fancy this person. And she is utterly sexless. I would sooner have dinner with a size 18 with vigour, sparkle and self-assurance than this poor excuse for a woman. It’s not that there’s anything profoundly wrong with her, but that’s not the point; it’s the overwhelming lack of effort.
As we walk into Carluccio’s, my phone vibrates again, and then again. The first text is from Amber, asking me to suggest a place for our first date. It had been a choice between Jayne and Amber; which one to date first. I had plumped for Jayne. I knew I should have gone with Amber.
The second text is from Sarah, the primary school teacher. I had emailed her earlier that day with my mobile number. Her message was quite flirty and cheeky for an initial icebreaker. She makes herself sound easy. I have heard that about primary school teachers. I wing off an appropriate response to each, and put my phone on silent.
We ensconce ourselves at the table. I had pre-booked the romantic one by the window. The Montepulciano looks tempting, so I order a bottle from the gregarious and slightly over-enthusiastic waiter. I decline to sample it, I’ll let him know if it’s corked. I need alcohol.
I should have remembered ‘bubbly’ meant ‘frumpy’.
I start quaffing the wine, anything that will act as an anaesthetic. I have been talking for ten minutes and she hasn’t really spoken. It’s clearly not nerves, I’m sure she would be like this after knowing her for years, she’s just dull. And rude. Apparently, she can’t talk to waiters, just gesticulate. She won’t even look me in the eye, is she wanted throughout the Carluccio’s chain? Theft of bread tins? Eating and running on a Caesar and Diet Coke? I’m not sure if she’s been plugged in yet. Frankly, I feel more inclined to shout for the nurse than the waiter. Eventually, we start talking about dating, and why I had found it necessary to resort to Dating World. Dear God, if only my ex could see me now. She would definitely be having the last laugh, as she always did. I make up some sort of answer that sounds credible, without belying my desperation. But how do you tell a girl that you’re looking for a woman on your terms, not theirs? And all I know is that this woman would be the antithesis of Jayne and all those like her. That I want someone special, but who doesn’t know it, not someone who’s boring and thinks their God’s gift. Why are there so many girls who are able to drink in all the style tips of fashion magazines, but however much they model themselves on Kate Moss, they can never become her. Reading Grazia does not maketh the woman. Next stop the monastic fraternity.
I realise that the question was just a launchpad for her to bore me with her retort. The entire history of her previous relationships and why all men are useless and beneath her (and her wedges). If you were on the table next to us, you’d be forgiven for thinking that I was actually having a drink with Kate Moss, rather than Kerry Katona. Self-awareness is not a virtue that Jayne possesses.
After 30 minutes of unintelligent babble on Jayne’s personal Pilates trainer, Jermaine, and love of American scenes of crime dramas – ‘I can never choose between the bloke off CSI with the beard and the son on Diagnosis Murder’ – I’m almost D.O.A.!
I’m trying to finish the wine as quickly as possible. I ask the waiter for a straw.
After a further hour of lending my ear to her whines, my wine is finished. I feel it is socially acceptable to make my excuses and leave while I still can, before she begins to cover ‘Boyfriends – the early years.’ The waiter brings the bill, I don’t think I’ve scrawled my signature so quickly. In a flash, the tip is sorted, we have our coats and are standing, once again, on the other side of the glass door to the restaurant.
; ‘So, thanks for the drink. Was great to meet you,’ says Jayne, struggling with her fucking annoying corsage.
‘Yes, likewise,’ I lie.
‘I feel like I bored you about my previous relationships,’ she says, chuckling. Why is she laughing? It’s not amusing. I restrain myself from force-feeding her the triffid pinned to her top.
‘Not at all, it was… interesting,’ I smile nonchalantly. Well done Max, that sounded sincere.
‘We should do it again, soon,’ she suggests. I smile, and nod. Why can’t I just tell her, here and now, that it’s a no-go? I’m probably too much of a coward, if the truth be told.
We make the usual, somewhat awkward, parting graces of two people who know they will never meet again. We kiss each other on the cheek, and bumble some more. In an uncomfortable silence we make a final parting gesture. Jayne walks off in the direction of Selfridges, to the right of the restaurant, and I head back up to Oxford Street.
As soon as I am out of sight, I reach for my mobile phone. I cancel the silent mode. I have had five messages while I was in the restaurant. Two from Sarah, more teasing than the last and suggesting that we meet up. One from Amber, confirming the details of the date tomorrow. And a text each from the other two girls I had made contact with. I reply to all of them, with suitably flirty responses to Sarah in particular. I also find myself replying to Amber in a vain that delivers an air of promise for the following night’s meeting. I can’t help it, even though I’ve never met the girl. But because it’s at a distance, I find myself saying things I probably wouldn’t say face to face with her, or even if we were talking over the phone. This is exaggerated in my replies to Sarah. I’m being outright, blatantly obvious and as yet we haven’t even exchanged a spoken word.
My messages are, in turn, replied to by Amber, then Sarah. Everything is on track with Amber, we’re meeting at Carluccio’s tomorrow at 7pm. Well, why not, it’s a great table. I like the tiramisu.
Sarah asks me to tell her something unusual about me. I tell her I have a curios birthmark on my bottom. And then she informs me she is about to have ‘a good long soak in the bath’. It has its desired effect, I’m picturing her doing just that, with me sitting behind her, rubbing her back. Another text arrives from Suzanne, one of the lawyers. She’s telling me about the area of law she practises in, and wants to know who I work for.
This is getting ridiculous. There is a constant relay of messages. But it is slightly intoxicating. As soon as I send one message, I grow agitated, waiting for the reply. I’m losing the sense of feeling in my right thumb. I’m starting to forget what I have told to whom.
I emerge from Angel tube station. The evening has grown balmy. My phone beeps at me, alerting me to the fact that I have more messages waiting for my attention. The girls have all texted me again, when I was out of signal. The conversations have stepped up a notch. I feel as if I’m really starting to know them, I’m attributing facial expressions, voices and accents to their photos from the site. This is ludicrous – I’m starting flings with virtual women. Is this what it has come to – a virtual relationship with binary information. And yet I find myself getting annoyed if they don’t text me back immediately. It’s like they have stood me up for a date. But when I do receive a message there’s an immediate emotional pick me up. I’m dipping in and out, as and when I need someone to make me feel good. My God, is this the future of dating in this town, this country? I have to check myself into the text-obsessed clinic and end this now before I get indefinitely hooked on this instant digital loving.
I promise myself that I will meet up with Amber, I don’t want to let her down, having gone this far. And she seems cool. But I clear all the other girls’ names from my phone, and then I turn it off. No beeping, no vibrating. No more virtual two-timing. It’s hard at first, it’s like cold turkey for text addicts. I’m missing the attention, the potential of meeting these keen women.
I make it through the night, although I can’t say I wasn’t tempted to turn my phone on at some point and text someone, anyone. The next day I feel better, I’m back in control. I’m looking forward to meeting up with Amber. I turn my phone on for the first time, and, without reading them, delete the messages I have received over the night, from the now unknown numbers.
There I am, for the second night on the trot, standing outside that glass door of Carluccio’s restaurant in St Christopher’s Place. It’s even warmer this evening. The dry heat has been replaced by a mugginess that could grow uncomfortable. However, the heat hasn’t deterred the ubiquitous weekend shopper, not in the slightest.
An East Coast American twang brings me back to reality.
‘Hey, Max Hunter, I presume?’ The American accent has always made me melt. My eyes focus on the girl in front of me. I snap out of the dream and remember why I am here. It’s Amber. It’s definitely her, I mean she actually looks like her photo. No, wait, she looks better than her photo. Her long, light blonde hair hangs straight, down to the middle of her back. She’s wearing a deep red, slightly see-through, chiffon top that matches her juicy vermilion lips. The hipster cords show off a great pair of firm thighs. She looks fantastic, and has a really warm smile.
‘Hi Amber, it’s great to meet you at last.’ We exchange kisses. ‘What a lovely evening!’
Some people you meet, you immediately feel very comfortable in their company. As well as clicking with someone romantically, you can simply feel very at ease with them. That’s exactly how I feel with Amber. I think that this is going to be a really great date. And to think I nearly didn’t turn up.
We ensconce ourselves at Max’s table by the window, overlooking the bustling square. Yes, the table does have my name written on it, at least it should do after all the dates I’ve had there over the past year. Outside, a young woman has just dropped one of her expensive-looking shopping bags, and what I presume to be a new summer wardrobe now lies strewn on the York stone. A young man has come to her aid, he’s on his haunches, helping her gather up the garments. I wonder whether that chance meeting will be anything more than an act of a Good Samaritan, the beginning of a romance, an affair or a fling. I return my gaze to Amber, who has just finished rearranging her jumper. She fidgets a little more, readjusting the strap of her watch, and she gives a sigh of finality that means all her attention is with me.
Amber has great chat. She’s better than I could have hoped for. In addition to her great looks, she’s incredibly engaging, and she laughs so easily. We cover a wealth of subjects, like why she came to the UK, how she’s liking it, what it’s like back home, college, American foreign policy. Anything and everything. She’s so enthusiastic, this has to be my best date in ages. Why on earth did this girl have to resort to an online dating site? I put it down to the fact she doesn’t know anyone here.
Unfortunately I have another dinner engagement later that night, a friend’s birthday bash. When we originally arranged to meet up, I had told Amber that I would have to go to this, and she said that was fine. She preferred meeting up sooner rather than later. The two hours seemed to go as if it were a matter of minutes since we first sat down. We had polished off a second bottle of the red wine, and we ordered coffees to give us a bit of a kickstart.
‘Amber, I’ve had such a great time.’
‘Me too, it’s been really good.’ Her smile is infectious. Two small dimples appear in her cheeks when she beams like that. She nods slowly, to show her sincerity.
‘I’m just sorry I have to dash off, I wish I could stay so we could grab some dinner together.’ And, for a change, I don’t find myself saying it just to be polite.
‘Well, let’s do that next time.’
Next time? Awesome. ‘Great, how about Monday, or even Tuesday, after work?’
I really like this girl, she’s a pleasant surprise. Who would have thought you could meet someone so in tune with your own wavelength off a dating site, and one that is so, well, fit. Genuinely, I wish I didn’t have to go off to this party. We make plans to see e
ach other early next week. She insists on paying, saying it would be an insult if I didn’t let her, and that I can get the ‘cheque’ when we have dinner next week. This is a novelty too – she’s just written herself in my list of top ten birds, ever.
I leave that night with an unsuspected spring in my stride. The birthday party is a washout, but I don’t care. Other than the fact I wish I had stayed with Amber for that meal. I text her later that night, on my way home in the cab. I’m not texting her in the same vain as my recent spate of messaging, but as a non-addicted ‘safe’ user. In other words, like a normal person. I tell her, again, what a lovely evening I had. And that I am looking forward to seeing her in a couple of days for dinner, when there’ll be no time constraint. In an instance she responds, saying the she too is looking forward to it, and that she had had a wonderful time.
Monday comes round, and out the blue I get a call from my cousin. He’s in town from New York, on business. It’s not often we get to meet up, but luckily he’ll be around for the next couple of days. I suggest we meet up that night for a well-deserved catch up. As soon as we finish chatting on the blower, I send a text to Amber, explaining that tonight is taken up with my cousin, but that tomorrow is free and clear, if that is good for her.
Her reply is the last thing I would ever have expected. I can’t quite believe it, as I read it a second time. Perhaps she meant to send it to someone else? But the sign off at the end of the text removes that as a possibility. I’m astounded. The text reads as follows;
Tomorrow is fine. I just have to ask r u seeing anyone at the moment – that might or might not be an obvious question. And what stage are we at? Have a good night with your cousin. A x
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