Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  “Are you okay, honey?” Mark gave me a squeeze.

  “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I b-be?” I firmed my chin, blinking and swallowing convulsively. “It wasn’t all bad. I have the o-offer of a free makeover, after all, and if the messages keep getting better, at this rate, Mr Perfect is just three messages away.” I could feel Mark’s surprise. He pulled back and twisted to look down into my face. His eyes narrowed as he assessed me. I ignored him and focused on the messages.

  “Message number three, left yesterday at 18.47.”

  “Err… Hello… err… I want to go on a date… with you… I hope you like curry. You look like you would…”

  “Is he saying I’m fat?”

  I felt Mark’s laughter vibrating against my back seconds before the sound bounced around the room.

  “I don’t mean that in a bad way… I’m not saying that you’re fat…”

  Mark continued laughing. “Mr Perfect has called early. It’s almost like he knows exactly how you think.”

  “It’s just, well…” the voice on the phone continued. “You look like you enjoy your food… No, err… that didn’t come out right either… I, well, I like a woman who likes eating… Oh damn… I-I’ve booked a table at Vauxhall Spice Club for seven thirty in three nights’ time… Oh, I don’t know when you’ll check these messages… I, err, suppose I should say what day it is.”

  “The guy’s not exactly Einstein,” Mark muttered.

  “It’s Wednesday today… So, that means I’ve booked a table for Saturday… and I, err, I saw your, err, picture in the Underground station, and I recognised you… from the Underground… At Pimlico.” He recognised me? As in the real me, from that picture? “You might not recognise me, though.” That seemed rational, given I’d never met him or even seen a dodgy picture of him on a digital advertising board. “So, I’ll wear…” His voice trailed off into a muttered aside as he spoke his thoughts out loud.

  Mark continued sniggering. “I guess they always wear carnations when they do this in the movies.”

  The disembodied voice spoke up again. “So, I’ll wear a carnation… I don’t know what colour it’ll be…” He alternated between rapid conversation, awkward silences, and muttering his thoughts aloud. “I can always use the one from the table if I can’t find any florists before then… They’re usually red or white or sometimes those peachy-coloured ones…” There was a loud clattering, as if he’d dropped the handset. “Sorry. I dropped you. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.” He was? “Goodbye, then… I’ll see you soon.”

  I blinked rapidly. Heart pounding with… I thought it was dread. “He didn’t leave a number, so I can’t change the time or…” Cancel. “Anything. What if it’s not convenient?”

  “I guess he thought that, as you are advertising for a date, you’d be available.”

  “Technically, it’s my mother who’s advertising.”

  Mark shrugged. “If it makes you feel better.” It did. A little. “In any case, he didn’t leave his name either. So, you better hope there’s only one carnation-wearing man there when you arrive, or you’ll have to go around each table asking if they’re the man who answered the Pimlico Station poster campaign and invited you on a date. Then again, you could always just look and see who has a table with a bud vase without a carnation in it.”

  “Shut up, Mark.”

  His laugh echoed through the living room. I scowled. “Maybe he deliberately didn’t leave his number, so you couldn’t call him and talk to him or cancel the date.”

  The long beeping tone sounded, and the electronic voice announced the next message. Please, God, this one would be Brad Pitt’s younger, unattached brother.

  “Hello, my name’s Claire.” Wha… A woman? “Obviously, I’m a woman, but your advert didn’t specify who you’d like to go on a date with, just that your parents were looking for someone to date their daughter. I can understand you wanting to keep your sexuality secret.” What? I frowned. I didn’t… “I’m a professional, a lawyer. I work in the charitable sector. I enjoy the theatre and most sports, taking part, not sitting on the couch with a bag of crisps, abusing the players.” She laughed.

  Mark laughed.

  I didn’t. What the hell was going on? Why was she calling?

  “You’re probably thinking I don’t know why she’s calling. I’m not a lesbian.” Yes. Yes. I nodded enthusiastically. That, what she said; that was exactly what I’m thinking. “Well, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. This may be the reason you’re not getting anywhere with men. Anyway, if you’re interested in having some fun, and maybe exploring something more, give me a call. Don’t just say no out of hand. Think about it. As I said, my name is Claire, and my number is…”

  Claire finished leaving her number. A numb silence stretched until the next message started. “Message number five, left today at 21.13.”

  “Oh, err… I forgot… I left a message and forgot to say who called. My name’s… John… I left that other message, the one about going to the Indian restaurant on Saturday night and wearing a carnation. Anyway, I forgot to say who I was… John.”

  The dial tone was followed by an electronic voice announcing the end of my messages. I looked from the phone to Mark and then back again.

  “Is that it?”

  “You said it yourself – it wasn’t the best picture.” His comment lacked something in the tact department. He saw my chin quivering as I turned away, and slung a strong, heavy arm around my shoulder. “Come on now.” He didn’t even try to suppress his amusement. “It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s worse.”

  “It was just some kids messing around. It was bound to happen.”

  “It’s not just kids. Five million people use the Underground every day. According to the advertising material Mum prattled on about, assume over two and a half million of them are men, but the women have sons, brothers, male friends, and I only got five messages. Five.” I held up one hand, fingers splayed in case he needed a visual to aid his comprehension. “You heard them: one was abuse from kids, three and five were from ‘oh, err, carnation John’, two was the offer of a free makeover, and the fourth” – I bent my index finger back stabbing at it – “was a lesbian.” My breath hitched, my voice rising shrilly.

  “Seriously, KT. You can’t be surprised not to have found the man of your dreams based on an advert in an Underground station.” I couldn’t? I slouched through to the kitchen, dragged my emergency movie bag of Doritos from the cupboard, and prepared to gorge. “Okay, maybe you can. Come on, though. It was only in Pimlico Station, after all. Not the whole Underground system. Pimlico is a small station. Two and a half million men don’t pass through there in a day, probably not even in a month.” He was right – I’d panic-googled in bed the night I found out what my mother had done. Just over thirty-two thousand people used Pimlico Station every day. “It’s only one step up from a business card in a phone box for passing traffic.”

  That analogy was supposed to make me feel better? “That’s not what you told my mother.”

  “I was enjoying pissing you off.”

  I sniffed back a tear. He looped a stray lock of brown hair behind my ear, stroking his finger down my cheek then flicking my nose.

  “Come on. Don’t take it so seriously.”

  I swatted his hand away. “This is my life we’re talking about. I may never hold my head up in public again. I may never date again.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “You’ve seen the photo.” He gave a fair point, well made nod.

  Snatching up a handful of Doritos, I dropped onto the sofa. Mark sank down next to me, taking up more than his fair share of space, settling his arm along the sofa behind me, hand hanging over my shoulder.

  “Come on, KT. You’re okay.”

  “No, I’m not.” Sniff. “I haven’t been this depressed since I learnt the orange bit in Jaffa Cakes doesn’t count as one of my five fruit and veg a day.”

  Chapt
er 3

  I’m new in town. Could I have directions to your apartment?

  “I could just not show.” I walked along Regency Road, breathing constricted either by nerves or the tight bodice of my little black dress, my heels rapping against the pavement. I shivered, wrapping my black mid-length jacket closer around me. I’d gone fairly smart for this, my first poster date. It was a while since my last date, and my track record with men wasn’t great – plus I was keen to prove that I looked much better in reality then I did in that shitty bloody photo.

  “You can’t stand the poor guy up,” Mark said. “That would be cruel. Besides, you agreed you’d go on dates for the next two months. This one’s set up, ready and waiting for you.”

  “I could go on a different one. Just because I don’t go out with this guy doesn’t mean I’m not trying.”

  Mark gave me a level look. “Who else are you going to go out with? I don’t think the karaoke kids would be up for it. The gay’s not interested in more than giving you a makeover, and your mum won’t settle knowing she spent her life savings for you to go out with a lesbian. Not when she wants grandchildren.” He steered me along the pavement with a firm hand to the small of my back, giving the occasional nudge when I wavered, keeping me propelled in the right direction. My heart was pounding uncomfortably. There was no escape. “Do you know Vauxhall Spice Club?”

  “Yes.” I could hardly deny it. Their takeout menu was held to the front of my fridge by a giant magnetised chilli pepper. “You can see the lights from here; it’s just over the road. I walk past it on my way home from work and pop in sometimes.” Often enough that they gave me a Christmas card and a calendar this year. “You know, I don’t have to go just because–”

  “No, of course you don’t have to go.” He paused, then continued sarcastically, “I’ll just go back to the apartment, look up your bikini video, and hook up my laptop. It’s got an excellent video-editing program on it. Did I tell you about the article I was reading yesterday on viral emails and how easy they are to–”

  “Fine. I’ll go.” No matter how bad the date was, going bikini viral would be worse.

  “So gracious.”

  “Don’t push it.” I shrugged off his hand. “And if the guy turns out to be a knife-wielding axe murderer–”

  His lips twitched and he vibrated with suppressed laughter. “You’d think he’d be axe-wielding if he was an axe murderer.”

  I ignored him. “I’ll blame you and my mother.”

  He laughed at me. Again. “I don’t remember ever laughing as much as I have since I came back home.” Eyes narrowed, I turned on him. He was boasting about laughing at me? “You have nothing to worry about. Stop fretting. I told Muriel I’d look out for you. Lucky for me, I like a good curry as much as the next guy. Lucky for you, I’ve already promised to come along and sit at one of the other tables whilst you make pretty with your dial-a-date. If it turns out that you need rescuing, you can signal me and I’ll rush over.”

  I gave in grudgingly. “I guess we should work out some sort of hand signal. Maybe if I drop some poppadom on the floor or put my hand behind my back and wiggle three fingers.” That was it, genius. I nodded. “Yes, if you see me do either of those things, particularly the finger wiggling, it means I need rescuing.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of you shouting, ‘Mark, he’s got an axe,’ if you thought he was about to wield his axe, or knife, or other weapon.” His lips twitched again. “You’re a big girl. If he’s just boring, change the topic of conversation or tell him you have to leave early to tend to your sick mother. He’ll realise he’s being lied to and dumped, but he’ll be able to pretend it’s true and save face. But really, as long as the poor guy’s making an effort, you shouldn’t blow him off just because you’re a little bit bored. First dates are tough on everyone. Besides, you didn’t put your little black dress and heels on to walk around the block with me and then sit at home and eat the last of the cherry bakewells.”

  Then why did that sound so nice?

  * * * * *

  “Hi, Kate.” Amir – my favourite waiter at Vauxhall Spice Club – held the door open for me. I fought the urge to run – from the date, not Amir – as he smiled, handing me a takeaway menu off the counter.

  “Ah, actually, I’m eating in tonight, Amir.” I scanned the dining room on my right, eyes flickering over a middle-aged couple enjoying a quiet meal and what was obviously a party of half-cut lads kicking off a night out, and edged back towards the door and escape. “I’m just looking to see if my, ah… friend has arrived.” No way was I claiming him as a date before I got a good look at him. There was still time to get out of this without anyone knowing. Behind me, the door opened on a rush of cool air and Mark stepped in, crowding me further into the small lobby space and blocking the closest exit. Okay, so escape without anyone who counted knowing. He was supposed to wait five minutes before he followed me in, so that no one linked us.

  I headed into the left-hand dining room without acknowledging him. A dark-haired, kind-faced man with an athletic runner’s build stood in a flurry of awkward motion, knocking over his glass of water and waving a red carnation. Drops of water splashed from the stem, marking his blue oxford shirt and caramel-coloured blazer.

  “Over here!”

  I watched in horrified fascination as the flower head snapped off and sailed across three empty tables to land in the murgh tikka haryali of the woman at the only other occupied table in this dining room.

  “Well, he looks happy to see you.” Amusement laced Mark’s voice. He sidestepped, blocking my retreat. “No, you don’t.” Why did he care so much about me dating – or not? Surely, he’d grown out of torturing me? His breath shivered past my ear as he said, “Don’t forget the potential viral video.”

  Obviously not.

  Sighing with resignation, I took a moment to step back and grind my spiked heel into his foot. Relishing his grunted curse of pain, I set off across the room to meet my fate. Date! I meant date! Not fate. A rigor-like smile fixed on my face. If this didn’t go well, I’d never be able to eat here again, and the only other good Indian takeaway wasn’t on my route home from work, way over on Wilton Road.

  Amir lead me across the vibrantly decorated red, gold, and black restaurant, weaving a path between the tightly packed tables. All too quickly, we arrived at the table for two where my digital poster date John hovered, clearly waiting for me.

  Amir stopped beside the table and frowned, glancing between me and my date and back again. Then, clearly sensing the direction things were going to go, he asked, “What can I get you to drink, Kate?” before helping me out of my coat or pulling out my chair to seat me.

  “Wine,” I said on a desperate breath.

  “Chablis, or the Merlot you like?” Amir asked.

  “Whatever’s strongest, and make it a large glass.” I shed my coat into his waiting arms and glanced across the table at my date.

  “Hi, Kate. I wondered what your name was, but I heard the waiter use it. I’m John, but I guess you know that from the carnation.” He waved the stalk at me, still blissfully unaware the flower was currently sinking into our neighbours’ curry sauce.

  I hovered, ignoring the chair Amir had pulled out. “On second thoughts, Amir, bring the bottle.”

  “Sit down. Sit down,” John said, waving at the empty seat. He was perfectly normal looking, not attractive or repellent, and I couldn’t see an axe or any other weapon, but something – maybe it was the way his eyes shone with a feverish light – some warning instinct was telling me not to sit down.

  It was probably just first-date nerves and my instinctive desire not to be forced into this date and not to do something that Mark had a hand in arranging. I had to fight every muscle in my body to force myself to sink down into the chair opposite John and not run for the exit.

  “I knew you liked it here,” he said. “I’ve seen you come here on your way home.”

  Oh, shit. I glanced over my shoulder
, making sure Mark was within shouting distance and had a clear line of sight in case I had to resort to hand signals. “You know where I live?” I squeaked.

  “Oh, yes. It’s luck really, or fate, depending on how you look at it.”

  My vote was option three: it’s scary.

  He offered me a large, crisp poppadom from the plate in the middle of the table, turning the pickle dispenser so I could reach the lime pickle and the mango chutney. My favourites. I shrugged off a prickle of Hammer Horror fear. They were everyone’s favourites, right? I was starting to feel like this was the moment in horror movies where everyone one with a brain cell watching sat screaming at the stupid soon-to-be-dead girl on the screen to run.

  He watched me with over-shiny eyes, which turned his previously friendly-looking face almost fanatical. I spooned a little of each sauce onto a piece of poppadom, surreptitiously breaking some off with my other hand and dropping it on the floor behind me, giving Mark the Bat-Signal.

  “Let me get that for you, Kate.” Amir scooped the crumbled poppadom from the floor, signalling one of the waiters to bring more. He poured my wine, smiling encouragingly before settling the wine bucket beside the table and melting away.

  “I like that dress,” John said. Me too. It was one of my favourites. “It’s the same one you wore when you went to dinner at Ottomans for your mum’s birthday.”

  Oh, hell. Adrenaline shot through my system, as my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. A fine tremble racked my body. I fingered my knife, testing the edge of the blade with my thumb. It was reassuringly dull, but that didn’t mean John hadn’t brought his own tools with him. I glanced over my shoulder again, checking the distance between Mark and I, calculating how quickly he could make it across the room.

  “It really suits you. Although I think you look just as good dressed down when you go to the corner shop on a Saturday morning. I thought about coming over to say hi when I saw you this morning, but I didn’t want to spoil the surprise when I saw you tonight.” He spoke in a nervous rush, one word almost blurring into the next, just like his phone message.