Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  “Of course he is.” Her tone echoed pure disbelief. “A good-looking guy like you shouldn’t have to do it yourself.” That wasn’t funny. Why was she flirting with him? She was supposed to be here supporting me. “I’m willing to lend a hand if Kate decides she’s not up for the job.”

  “Pack it in, Kanchan.” Now I sounded grumpy and… jealous. Which I wasn’t. It was just… what was it with Mark and women? So, he was good-looking, well off, and could be nice when he was in the mood – that wasn’t everything, right?

  Kanchan shrugged and followed orders, turning away from the bar and Mark. “So, is it just that I’m unlucky in my date grouping, or does the quality of female speed dater far outclass the male?” She patted his back like he was her pet. “Present male company excluded, of course, hottie Mark.” She downed her drink. How come she had a drink and I didn’t? “I just spent the longest ten minutes ever with a guy whose hobby was collecting toenail clippings.” I gagged. “His own toenail clippings, you’ll be glad to know. He has a Sainsbury’s bag nearly full… I mean, what do you say to that?”

  “Have you ever considered expanding to include fingernails?” Mark joked. Kanchan laughed. I continued trying to suppress the nausea.

  “So, what else do you do, when you’re not being handy with Kate?” Kanchan layered the question with innuendo.

  “He’s an unemployed banker,” I responded, scanning the room for potential.

  “I’m not an unemployed banker.” He turned his charm on Kanchan, pulling out his wallet to pay for our drinks and get his own. “I’m an author.”

  “Unpublished,” I added before she could ask the question.

  “You didn’t tell me how hot he was.” Kanchan was straight in with the observation, as soon as he was distracted at the bar: “Are you sure I wouldn’t be cutting in on your territory if I–”

  “You want to go out with him?” I snapped. I don’t know why I’d invited her. She was always slacking at work, bitching about the other guys, or pinching my emergency sweets, and she never took her turn to buy milk or tea bags.

  “Are you blind? Look at him.” We turned as one, watching Mark pay for our drinks. “He’s George Clooney when he was first in ER, before he got old, with Brad Pitt’s body and those lovely sapphire eyes.”

  “Ah… yeah.” I gave him a thorough head-to-toe in light of her description. He leant across the bar, laughing with the bartender, his trousers stretching tight across his backside.

  Kanchan wolf-whistled.

  I winced and shot her a killer look, only just restraining myself from slapping the lecherous smile off her face. She was such a fickle slag. What about poor Vincent?

  Oh my God. What was wrong with me? She was one of my best friends. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen her in action before. Maybe it was because Mark was practically family… Yes, that was it. It was because I thought of him as a brother. That was why I didn’t like her ogling him.

  “Yes, you mind, or yes, he is gorgeous?” she asked.

  I was saved from having to answer when Mark turned from the bar and his conversation with some of the other male daters, catching us both eyeing him up. His lips twitched. “Something you want to share, ladies?”

  “We were just talking about how hot you are.” Kanchan grinned, unrepentant.

  “Behave,” he warned her, but he smiled and winked when he said it. He was going to be unbearable if she kept this up much longer.

  “I can’t help it. It’s a genetic predisposition. My mum and I are living proof that Asian stereotypes of bossy, unsubtle women are based in fact.”

  “So, you think I’m hot do you, KT?” he whispered as he handed me a drink, cocking an eyebrow arrogantly.

  “Do you have to do that eyebrow thing? It really pisses me off.” I’m crap at lying, and ever since the drip incident in the kitchen, I’d been having flashbacks and naked dreams about him.

  “I know. That’s why I do it.” He laughed at my growl of frustration, forcing himself between Kanchan and me. “Shove over, KT.”

  I stumbled to the side, trying not to spill my martini. “Hey!”

  “Hey nothing.” He leant down, warm breath puffing against my ear, whispering, “I’m doing you a favour. You shouldn’t stand next to her. She makes you look like the BFG.”

  I looked like Roald Dahl’s Big Friendly Giant? My lower lip trembled and my eyes filled. “You’re a bastard.”

  “I like the BFG.”

  “If you don’t have anything good to say…”

  “I guess you don’t want to know about the rumours circulating about you in the guys’ camp, then?”

  I perked up, blinking my tears away and giving my bodice a quick tug up. His dark eyes followed my movements. The guys were talking about me? Of course, I wanted to know. “What are they saying?”

  “Ah…” He blinked slowly, licking his lips, then finally dragged his gaze back up to my face. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I’m not going to beg, Mark.”

  “The rumour is that you must have something wrong with you.” What? “Otherwise why would your mum be advertising you in the Underground at the same time as you’re speed dating?” Well, there might be lots of reasons, like… like… “The camp is fifty-fifty split between you’re looking for a ‘baby daddy’ before you begin to show, or you’re hitting a landmark birthday and are desperate to pair up before your biological clock stops ticking.” He tipped my mouth closed with a finger, obviously amused. “See the skinny guy with the glasses?” He nodded towards an anorexic man with a blue oxford shirt hanging off his sticklike frame, thick wire-rimmed glasses, and short, spiky frosted hair. “He thinks you’ve inherited money, but a clause in the will means you have to marry before you can claim it.”

  “A…what?”

  “Yeah, the rest of us mentioned it was a bit far-fetched. Ginger guy pointed out you could just ask a friend and offer to pay him if that was the case. So, everyone’s pretty much dismissed that one.”

  “Didn’t you tell them the truth?”

  “And ruin the fun? Besides, they’re not that far off. And I think if I add in the fact your mum’s desperate to see you married off and providing her with grandchildren, I might ruin the slim chance you’ve got that skinny glasses guy will take a risk that he’s right and ask you out.”

  I turned, catching sight of Damien666 making progress with a curvy, petite blonde. At least someone was getting lucky.

  “He’s special, this one.” Barbie squeezed into our group, forcing herself between me and Mark. She rested her hand on his arm in a proprietary gesture as she spoke.

  “Special? I can see how you might think that, Cindy,” I said.

  Mark cut me an amused glance, knowing I was using “special” in a derogatory “special education” way.

  “I’m one of a kind,” he responded.

  “Thankfully,” I muttered.

  “It’s Barbie,” the blonde said.

  “What?” I said, pretending to misunderstand.

  “My name. It’s Barbie.”

  “Oh.”

  She turned her back, dismissing me again. “Well, I’ve certainly never met anyone like you before.” She pressed her breasts against Mark’s arm and gazed into his eyes. God, she was so obvious, it was slutty. She did the touch, lean, and laugh thing again. I ground my teeth, wanting to rip her arm off. Not because she was all over him like a rash. It was the way she looked down on the rest of us.

  Okay, on me.

  “I’m amazed you’re willing to let all the other ladies here get their claws into him…” Natalia joined our group, speaking to me but eyeing Barbie like she might just be one of the women having problems sheathing her claws.

  “I can understand women wanting to scratch his eyes out,” I said, deliberately misinterpreting her. “I’ve considered it myself a couple of times.”

  Damien666 passed by on the way back from the bar and handed me another drink.

  I loved him. Maybe I could turn him
(not gay to straight, but friend to lover) after all. Weren’t the best relationships built on friendship? Maybe I could reconsider the Brummie accent. It could be… endearing. Given concerted effort, I might even come to like it. And who cared about hair? It wasn’t like it served any purpose, like an eye or an arm. Hair was just head decoration, like an optional extra when you bought a car. It didn’t make the car run any better. It just made it a sleeker model to show off to your friends.

  I took a long sip of my old drink, grateful for the cool bite of alcohol, then poured the dregs into the glass Damien had just handed me, filling it to the brim. I slid the empty glass onto the tray of a passing glass collector. “Thanks, D. How’s it going?”

  The only thing that stopped me asking if he wanted to blow this joint was the slim chance that Mr Perfect was waiting for me in the second half of the speed-dating session.

  “Cute blonde in the corner.” He nodded across the hall towards the petite, round blonde I’d seen him with earlier. She was smiling back tentatively, looking a bit worried as she saw him talking with me. “She’s marked me as a yes.”

  “Way to go, Damien.” We high-fived under the mocking gazes of Mark, Barbie, and Natalia.

  Ding.

  “Round two,” Natalia called.

  Here we go. Let the man hunt recommence.

  * * * * *

  I was fascinated.

  No, really.

  I’d never seen a man who looked so feminine or was so short (outside of the Lord of the Rings movies). Even his name, Lesley#1, was genderless. He’d definitely never had to shave, and as everyone here was between twenty-five and thirty-five years old, he should’ve passed through puberty a good while ago. Even blond as he was, I would’ve expected… a few hairs on the upper lip… something.

  If he was a woman, – and I was pretty sure he wasn’t (after all, he didn’t have to rotate to the men’s tables like the rest of us females did) – he’d be called petite, but as a man… Technically, how short did a person have to be to qualify as a hobbit?

  I’d google it later. You never knew when the knowledge may come in handy. I love a pub quiz.

  Unless… I leant forward to see over the edge of the table and eyed his/her crotch, searching for a bulge. After all, there might’ve been some sort of mix-up when Natalia was handing out the cards, and Lesley was a woman, but was too polite or scared to bring it to Godzilla’s notice.

  I looked up at the forced sound of a throat being cleared.

  Bugger! Caught in the act of eyeing Lesley#1’s crotch. I fanned myself with my comments card to combat the flush of embarrassment.

  That said, I hadn’t seen anything.

  Not so much as a chipolata-sized bulge.

  Would it be against the rules to ask one of the dates if they were a man or a woman? Neither Archie nor Damien had covered the speed-dating etiquette in this situation.

  Okay, time to go through the motions…

  Lesley#1 went to Nottingham University.

  S/he was a Londoner born and raised, but liked meeting new people.

  S/he liked the theatre and had recently been to see Mamma Mia! I glanced at my watch and forced a smile. Five more minutes of this?

  Sorry, what was that?

  I was pretty sure s/he just said s/he liked Mamma Mia!

  This was not going to work.

  It didn’t matter how nice she was – and I was pretty sure she was a woman now, not a man or a hobbit – but I’m just not attracted to women. I took pity on her. No one should be scared to be themselves. Leaning forward, I whispered, “I know she’s a bit scary, but if you want, I can say something to Natalia for you.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean? Say what?”

  “If you want to rotate with the rest of us. I can let Natalia know.”

  She sat back, scowling at me. “Why would I want to rotate? The men sit.” Her tone was distinctly unfriendly.

  “Ah…” I trailed off. I was just trying to be nice, but I was on shaky ground here. Maybe she was transitioning. I didn’t want to offend her/him. I was trying to be helpful, but if Lesley was actually a man, or wanted to be a man, I wasn’t going to challenge it.

  I fell back on the question list. Question number seven: “What’s your favourite food?”

  “I’m a vegetarian, so…” Definitely not a man. Real men ate meat, unless their girlfriends were veggie and refused to let them. Then they just ate it behind her back when they were on boys’ nights out or at their mum’s.

  I phased back in on an uncomfortable silence.

  I had a choice: loan Lesley#1 my question sheet or ask another question myself and pray for his/her answer to take us to time up.

  I consulted the list and went for question three: “Where do you see yourself in three years’ time?”

  “I’m married again, with two children.”

  “Two–” I echoed weakly.

  Evidently Lesley#1 thought I was the maternal type and disappointed with his/her prowess, which, given his/her answer to the previous question, I may well have been. “I’ve already got two children with my ex. They live with their mother, but I can’t afford more than two more.”

  S/he was a he.

  He had an ex.

  He’d fathered children.

  Wow.

  “What about yourself, Kate?” What about me? I was still stunned that Lesley#1 had managed to contribute sperm towards the creation of life. “Can you see yourself as a stay-at-home mum?”

  “Ah…” I suppressed a shiver of panic. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my stomach heaved at the mental image of this man/woman impregnating me. “I don’t think so.”

  I cast a desperate look at my watch. One minute left.

  Lesley#1 geared up to ask a follow-up question.

  Ding.

  Thank you, God.

  * * * * *

  How could someone look so hot and full of potential on the outside and yet be so empty on the inside…? I should have known I’d be disappointed. Why would someone as perfect as him need to speed-date? He should be beating women off with a stick.

  It was too cruel.

  Luke’s eyes were a bright cornflower blue, his hair black and thick and straight, reaching to brush his collar. His mouth was perfect, well-shaped lips under a perfectly straight nose. His jaw was square and stubbled, his chin dimpled and his body athletic.

  Johnny Depp’s younger, sexier brother.

  A fantasy come to life.

  But…

  He didn’t drink.

  He didn’t like sport (actually, I didn’t mind that). But he went to church regularly. Not just on Sundays, but during the week too. “I didn’t know it was possible to go to church on days other than Sundays,” I said. “I guess I thought it would be all locked up, or something.”

  He flashed a perfect smile, momentarily dazzling me. “Christianity isn’t just about Sunday services, Kate.”

  It wasn’t? “Ah. No. No, of course not.”

  “Are you religious?”

  “I used to sing hymns in assembly at primary school.” Of course, I’d mimed more often than I sang, and if I did sing, it was usually the rude version. The only polite ones I could remember now were “Kumbaya” and “All Things Bright and Beautiful” – just the chorus of both. “I want to get married in a church though,” I offered.

  He stiffened. “Christianity’s about more than just getting married in a church, you know?”

  “Yes. It’s about getting Christmas presents and chocolate at Easter, too,” I joked.

  He didn’t think I was funny. “Have you been christened? You can’t marry in the house of God if you haven’t been christened.”

  The house of God? Was this guy for real? “I, ah, think so.”

  What a waste of a hot body.

  Such a shame.

  Time for a subject change. I desperately smoothed out my list of questions. “So… Ah…” What was his name again? Something religious, like Cain or Abel or Mathew�
�� Mark… Luke. It was Luke. “So, Luke, what was the last book you read?”

  “I’m rereading the Old Testament. It’s fascinating.” Of course he was. “What about you, Kate?”

  “I really like chick-lit, but at the moment I’m reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. I’ve seen a couple of the movies, but I didn’t really like them, so one of my friends recommended I try the books instead. Have you read anything by J.K. Rowling?”

  “No. I don’t believe in magic, it’s…”

  I gave up listening. I tried praying for the time to be up, but God seemed to be on Luke’s side.

  I sighed heavily and looked around the room as he started to bang on about how J.K. Rowling’s books were heretical.

  Ding.

  I jumped with shock, knocking over my half-full martini glass, as the alarm – ah, bell – rang.

  Where was I?

  Oh, yeah, speed-dating with God boy. I struggled to sit up, wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.

  I thought – no, I was pretty sure – I’d fallen asleep for the last couple of minutes there. Then again, I might just have blacked out with boredom. Bracing my hands against the table top, I shook my leg to wake it up, flashing a desperate glance at Mark. He pointed to my hair, eyes laughing.

  I scooped a hank of brown fluff behind my ear, smoothing over it a couple of times, and limped dead-legged to my final date.

  Chapter 8

  You know, you might be asked to leave soon. You’re making the other women look bad.

  I sat in front of blond-haired, bespectacled fortune hunter Johnny4*.

  My last date of the night.

  I was heading for tipsy, couldn’t be bothered with the awkward questions, and wouldn’t fancy him if he was the last man on earth and my vibrator’s batteries had gone flat.

  Okay, maybe then I would think about him.

  Actually, if Johnny4* was all that was left, I’d probably give Claire the lesbian from the Underground adverts a call first.

  “Hello, Hate! I have to admit, we’re not exactly strangers.” Really? “I’ve seen your posters in the Underground.” Great, and he’d recognised me. “I’m amazed someone hasn’t swept you off your feet already.”