Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  “I’m not good in crowds.”

  “Isn’t speed dating one on one?”

  “There’s a mixer thing at the beginning and during a break in the middle.”

  “You’ll do fine. You’re gorgeous, funny, intelligent.”

  I glanced up, surprised at the compliment, but he was looking ahead and reaching for the door to the venue. He was never nice to me. It must be his way of boosting my confidence before he abandoned me to my dates. “I get nervous and stay stupid things.”

  “Everyone gets nervous. It’s a first date. Just remember, everyone else there is in the same boat, so they’re predisposed to be kind.” He glanced down at me. “Plus, you look like a brunette Jessica Rabbit in jeans in that outfit. Any guy with working vision and testosterone isn’t going to care what you say when you look like that.”

  I snorted an unattractive sound of amusement and nerves, then froze, looking around the hotel lobby, one hand pressed to my stomach to hold back the butterflies. It was one of those chain places that looked like the decorator had shopped straight from the uncomfortable but cool section of some generic hotel decor catalogue.

  A group of people perched on the edges of slippery looking barstools, their name badges glowing white in the dim interior, holding complimentary glasses of champagne. A larger group, maybe thirty people, milled aimlessly to one side.

  I’d managed to persuade Kanchan from work that speed dating was better than our monthly cocktail night. Kanchan and I had started work at the same time and were the only women – and the only people under forty – in the finance department. So, we’d bonded quickly. Being an accountant in the civil service was not exactly glamourous or exciting, but she could make a dull day fly by, just by instant-messaging humorous commentary on what was going on in the office, or her life. She was a cute, petite, straight-talking Asian dynamo, who was – conveniently for me – in an off-again period with her no-good, lying, cheating on-again-off-again boyfriend Vincent. Hopefully she’d find a great guy tonight and stop wasting her time on Vincent. She was totally out of his league. I was also looking forward to her take on the whole speed-dating thing. Although I couldn’t see her yet.

  I stood in the doorway, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other, hands nervously fretting at my bustier, making sure everything was covered. What if I made a fool of myself? What if I really liked someone and we got together and then it just didn’t work and they left me? My abandonment fears kicked into overdrive; the small seed of fear and self-preservation that hid in my heart started to swell, urging me to protect myself and run.

  “Why are you hanging around out here?” The pressure of Mark’s hand on my back increased. “Go on in.”

  “What if no one likes me? Speed dating is like a short interview, or a test, and I’ve never been very good at either.” My words started coming more quickly in my panic. My legs locked, preventing forward movement. “What if I like someone and they don’t like me, or they do and then we get together and then they dump me for someone else?”

  His eyes softened. “What happens if you meet the man of your dreams? He realizes how lucky he is to have found you and asks you out. You go on a date and fall in love and both live happily ever after.”

  “Dad didn’t.”

  “What didn’t Chris do?” He turned to face me, one hand rising to cup the side of my neck, eyes locking on mine, waiting for my response.

  “He picked you and your mum over me and mine.” I struggled to hold eye contact as the words spilt out.

  “No, honey.” He squeezed the side of my neck, underlining his point.

  “Yes. He did.”

  “No,” he repeated forcefully. “Chris picked himself. He’s a selfish, narcissistic bastard. That’s not on you – or Muriel – that’s on him. There is nothing you should or could have done differently, not when you were eight years old and not now, because Chris doesn’t care about anyone but himself.” He held my eyes for a couple of seconds, as I blinked back emotion, then pressed a quick, hard kiss to my forehead before stepping back, his hand falling from my neck. “Right, now, let’s get you signed in.”

  “I’m not sure–”

  “Come on, KT. What’ve you got to lose?”

  “My self-esteem.”

  “You’re being silly.”

  “What if no one picks me, or I do or say something stupid and someone’s here undercover, working for some magazine, and turns me into a joke? Or someone recognizes me from the Underground adverts.” Panic beat frantic wings in my stomach. My chest tightened. I struggled to breathe normally. “Or worse, someone–”

  “Okay. Okay.” He squeezed my shoulder. “I get your point. How about if instead of sitting in the bar and waiting for you to finish, I sign up too and promise that when we have our date, I’ll write you a really glowing report?”

  The band around my chest loosened. That might work. “Promise?”

  “Pulitzer Prize stuff,” he said stepping forward.

  “Wait. Stop.” I grabbed his wrist, halting him. “We need to run over the ground rules again.”

  “The what?”

  “The signal in case something goes wrong and I need rescuing. You totally failed last time.”

  “I don’t think they’ll have any poppadoms for you to drop on the floor here, KT, and it’s only a ten-minute date in a public place. I’m pretty sure you won’t need rescuing.”

  “But–”

  “But if you shout for help, I’ll save you.” His lips twitched, his eyes flashed navy, and a dimple showed in his right cheek. He’d come a long way from his geeky teenage years; even his wonky nose just served to set off how perfect the rest of him was. He didn’t need to speed-date – he could slow-date anyone he wanted.

  So why was he free to trail me around on dates, and why the hell would he want to? Surely the whole torturing me thing had stopped being funny now?

  A super-confident and falsely perky woman, with more teeth than Godzilla and enough fake tan and makeup to make a drag queen take a second look, pinned Mark with her overeager gaze. She stalked him across the hall, a she-lion scenting fresh and particularly tasty-looking meat.

  “Hi there. I’m Natalia. Your hostess for the evening. Are you already booked in, or would you like to pay at the door?” She placed a manicured hand on Mark’s arm. It might’ve been to stop him from trying to make an escape, but it could equally be an attempt to mark her territory. So far, she hadn’t seemed to notice I exist.

  “I’ll pay at the door.” He smiled back. Her hand slid off his arm as he pulled out his wallet, thrusting me into the room with the same motion.

  I tripped, cursing as I crashed into Natalia, sending her stumbling back a step. The room hushed. All eyes turned to me. I straightened and tried to style it out by giving a little finger wave, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  “Well.” Natalia’s smile turned blatantly false. She assessed my outfit, giving it a disparaging look. I was wearing stone-washed ripped Levi’s, bustier, and heels. So, it wasn’t the height of fashion, but I liked it and it highlighted my boobs, waist, and butt and gave me a confidence boost. Plus, Mark had said I looked like a modern-day Jessica Rabbit, so I’d take his positive assessment over her negative one. I was here hoping to attract a man, not impress the hostess.

  “You certainly know how to make an… interesting entrance,” Natalia commented. “Dare I hope you–”

  “I’ve already paid,” I cut her off, before she said “have stumbled into the wrong room.” Spying my nametag on the table by the door, I leapt on the excuse to get away. “I’m Kate!” I’d had to add the exclamation, as there was already a Kate and a Kate1 signed up.

  “Well, Kate, you look like you could use your free glass of champagne. How about you pick up one of those light green comment cards on the table there and go over to the bar, whilst I sort Mark here out.”

  I flashed a nervous look at Mark. He smiled and nodded encouragingly as he abandoned me to my fate.

 
“It looks like everyone’s here, so as soon as I have him good to go, I’ll come over and explain how everything will work tonight,” Natalia said.

  She smoothed a hand over the front of Mark’s shirt, making a purring sound of appreciation, as she stroked and patted his name badge into place. Rolling my eyes at him (the man slut), I cut across to the bar, trying to work a crease out of my own badge that distorted my name into Hate!

  “Mind if I join you all until this starts?”

  Ooooh, goody. I smiled, feeling a wash of relief that I wasn’t about to be a speed-dating wallflower. It was fast, too. Maybe there was something to speed dating after all. He was shorter than I’d normally go for, but still taller than me (if I wasn’t wearing heels) and he was well built. He resembled Thor, with broad shoulders and strong thighs. Unfortunately, he didn’t look like my screen idol Chris Hemsworth facially. He was ordinary looking, but not unattractive, with thick, longish blond hair and a close-cropped beard.

  “Sure.” I changed my answer into a cough, as I realised he was talking to the cute redhead beside me. I turned back to my sparkling wine (they should be sued for calling it champagne), cheeks burning. I took a big sip to cool my flushed face. Ugh, it was disgusting. I’d have preferred a glass of Prosecco, or just about anything else, really. There was no way I was going to be able to choke this down. I was going to have to buy myself something else.

  I scanned the room, looking for potential. The male/female split didn’t work in my favour, but I scoped out a couple of potentials, a heck of a lot more forgettables, and a couple of hairy apes.

  I assessed my competition. This was stiffer. There were at least five gorgeous, dressed-to-impress women who could star opposite Brad Pitt, several pretty, fresh-faced, and friendly, two in tracksuits – neither looked like they worked out; I could only imagine they liked the elasticised waistband – and one big-haired scary who was either squinting, or was proof that when my mother told me not to pull that face or the wind would change and I’d stay like that, she wasn’t lying.

  Tucked in a dark corner, already stuck into the cocktails and laughing, was Kanchan and a couple of her friends, who I knew vaguely. I waved at her as Natalia strolled over with Mark and a cat-that-got-the-cream expression. A frown dented my forehead as he moved to stand with me at the bar, talking the bartender into exchanging his free but horrid “champagne” for a whisky.

  Why didn’t I think of that?

  “You’re driving,” I told him.

  “That’s why I don’t want to waste the one drink I can have on cheap sparkling wine.” He scanned the room and smiled at a tall, slender blonde and a short, curvy brunette. Both women had made my Pitt list. They smiled back at him, fluffing their hair, eyes twinkling and flirting from across the room. I scowled at him as he leant over my shoulder, looking at the green card I was reading.

  “Can you go and stand somewhere else? There’s a shortage of men. I don’t want one of the few good-looking ones here to think we’re together and mark me low.”

  “Get real, KT.”

  Before I could ask him what he meant by that comment, dental advert Godzilla on the prowl (a.k.a. Natalia) began to explain the question-and-answer system on the card, pointing out that although the men’s cards were blue and the women’s green, the questions were exactly the same. “It’s just to make things easier when we come to matching you all up…” I tuned out, fishing a pen from my handbag and completing the top bit with my contact details.

  Godzilla was still droning on. Couldn’t we just get started?

  “… and, of course, the most interesting bit, ‘Would you like to date this person again?’ requires a simple yes/no answer. I’m afraid there are no maybes in speed dating. So, be sure you consider everyone carefully before you fill out that section. I wouldn’t like to think that you’ve let your perfect date slip away.” She gave a fake laugh. “Now, we want you to enjoy your experience here with us this evening and to feel safe at all times. This brings me to the last question on your card, ‘Was this person friendly and respectful?’…”

  Would a rude, disrespectful, and possibly dangerous person give me time to complete that section of the card? Just as well I had Mark in backup should things go wrong.

  “If – at any time – you have any concerns, please let me know. The first bell will sound shortly. Gentlemen, I’ll take you through to the tables now and you can settle yourself in. I’ll come back for you ladies shortly and we’ll re-join the men and get started. Please, make sure you move on swiftly when the bell sounds, ladies, so that no one misses out on a date.”

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later, I was seated in front of my first speed date. The room was set up like a café or restaurant with several tables for two. The men were already seated at them. Natalia led the women to our first date and reminded us to rotate after ten minutes.

  “Ah, so…” I dredged my mind for a question. A mental clock started to tick down my allotted dating time. My mind blanked. The silence stretched.

  My date, a tall – even sitting down – slender man with a narrow face, high forehead, and long nose, which gave him an aloof air, stared back mutely. Clearly, he had no more idea how to get this started then I did. It was like Mark said: we were all nervous. So, I would have to kick us off. Men liked it when you asked them about themselves, right? “So… ah” – a quick check of his nametag – “Archie. What do you do for a living?” I gave a nervous but encouraging smile.

  “You’re not allowed to ask that question.” His tone was abrupt. Why couldn’t I ask what his job was? It was a perfectly normal question. “Natalia explained it when she went over the rules and procedures at the start.”

  She did?

  Oooookay. “How about we live on the edge a little bit here and you answer anyway, and we can see where it takes us?” I asked with my best flirty smile.

  “I don’t believe in breaking the rules.” Wow. I physically deflated in my seat. My best obviously wasn’t good enough for rule monitor Archie. “They’re there for a reason, you know?”

  Ah, no. No, I didn’t know. At least not in this case. What harm could come from me telling someone I was an accountant if they asked? I supposed it might make them assume I was dull. Again, the silence stretched, whilst my mental clock counted down our date.

  I had to think.

  Think.

  Think.

  Okay, a question.

  A good dating question…

  It couldn’t be that hard to think of a question.

  I’d been asking people questions for years.

  Surely, I could think of one question, even under pressure. “If you could only have one type of sex for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

  Bloody hell. I winced.

  Not that question.

  He flushed, all the way up his long, giraffe-like neck and into his cheeks. “You can’t ask that!” He sounded like a shocked Victorian virgin spinster.

  Probably just as well. Visualisation – it’s a killer for a person like me with an active imagination. I sat back. The silence dragged. I started to feel panicky. Where did I go from here? The date had only just started and already I was failing. I glanced around. I couldn’t see Mark from this position, but at every table I could see couples were chatting or laughing and enjoying themselves. I wanted to enjoy myself too. “Are men allowed to ask any questions, Archie, or is it just women who ask?”

  “Anyone can ask the questions.”

  Okay, then this failure to launch wasn’t all on me. Archie could step up and ask questions too. “Do you want to help me out a little here?”

  He swallowed, audibly, his large Adam’s apple bobbing down his throat, disappearing under the collar of his starched white shirt, before popping back up like a cork. “When I’ve done this before, my dates have asked me about my holidays and hobbies.”

  Okay. I could do that. I took a deep breath, pushing back the panic, smiled my most charming smile, and, voice perky, asked, �
��Where did you go on holiday this year, Archie?”

  “I didn’t go on holiday this year,” he responded morosely, sitting back in his chair, hands folded limply on the table, face blank of emotion. There was no need for an exclamation mark or number after his name on his nametag to differentiate him from all the other Archies. He was definitely an original. “My mother was sick. I was looking after her.”

  Jesus, then why suggest the question? “I’m, ah, sorry to hear that. I hope she is feeling better.”

  “She died.”

  Shit! What did I say to that? I took a gulp of the martini I’d ordered when I dumped my complimentary champagne before the dating began and checked out the exit. I was getting good at spotting the exits at all my dating venues. The ten minutes of our date slot seemed to have expanded into an hour. Time passed more quickly when I was in jail.

  I twisted around, searching the room. A few tables over, Mark was laughing with the curvy brunette he’d shared a look with earlier. Damn it. He didn’t even want a date. If he could make this work with his irritating personality and lack of employment – not that anyone would be able to find that out from the questions – so could I.

  Galvanized, I turned back to Archie. “Tell me about your hobbies.”

  “I haven’t had much time for hobbies lately, what with nursing my sick mother.” Was this guy kidding? “But I used to like gaming.”

  Great. Gaming. I could work with this. “Like Las Vegas and casinos?” Finally, he was starting to sound interesting.

  “No.” He shook his head, looking at me like I was an idiot. “Like Dungeons & Dragons.”

  “Computer games?” Not so interesting.

  “Role play.”

  Jesus. I could imagine him dressed up as some creepy gnome, playing guardian to some pointless relic. That said, I did not need a date badly enough to ask him about role play. My idea of role play, especially if it involved going to the effort of dressing up, started and ended in the bedroom and involved multiple orgasms.

  That was it.

  I’d exhausted all my conversational gambits, so I passed the ball into his court. “When you’ve done this before, did you by chance ask your other dates any questions?”