Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  I snorted, then wiped red wine off my chin with the back of my hand. “Sheee–” I frowned at my glass. It was still full. I’d barely started it. How come I was suddenly slurring? “See, just like I shaid, irritating.”

  Mark made a choking sound and headed through to the kitchen, calling back, “I forgot to tell you, Muriel came down earlier. She said Penny called before lunch. She said she’d arranged for you to chat next week.”

  “Who’s Penny?” I asked.

  “No idea. I’m just the messenger, but Muriel seemed happy to have heard from her.”

  “S’probably some relative or friend of a friend with a random son or nephew or other male relative recently released from prison or a mental institution that they think would be perfect for me.” He reappeared with cake. I frowned, making a grab for the plate. “Shmine.”

  “Should’ve shared your fries.” Ignoring my look of annoyance, he slouched in the chair and tucked into the cake with a self-satisfied grin. “I know a way to stop Muriel setting you up with random strangers.”

  If I hadn’t been a bottle of Merlot down and hanging on to his every word as if he was some sort of prophet, I’d have recognised his smooth tone as trouble. Unfortunately, the crafty bastard numbed my mind with Merlot first. I should stop drinking and try and sober up… Instead, I threw back my wine in three gulps. It really was the most splendiferously good wine.

  Someone should bottle it and sell it as a mood enhancer. I felt great, really nice and warm and happy. I patted Mark’s dark, shiny hair. He frowned suspiciously at me, clutching the cake closer. He was so cute and protective, trying to help me in the whole dating thing; like a real friend.

  “Mark?”

  “Hmm.” He continued eating his cake and didn’t look up, but that was okay. He’d been working on the floor in the spare bedroom (a.k.a. his room) all day. He was probably hungry, poor man, and here I’d been all moody with him, when he was so nice and considerate and caring.

  “You said you knew how to help me avoid Mum’s matchmaking.” I conveniently forgot about the fact he’d encouraged Mum in the first place. “You’re so kind.” I patted his short, soft hair again. “So… so wonderful. I can’t understand why some woman hasn’t snapped you up.”

  “Like Barbie?”

  “Oh, I forgot about the doll. Anyway, enough about you.” I waved a hand dismissively. “What’s your plan to stop Mum auctioning me off to every loser in London?”

  “We could date.”

  “Me and you?” He scowled at my incredulity. “Like that would ever happen.” I stared at him, disappointed. It was like we were kids again, with him constantly setting me up and then taking the piss out of me when I fell for it.

  “Fine, we could date… ah, pretend to date so Muriel would back off.” He looked up from his plate and stared across the room, not looking at me as he spoke. “It’s probably all a bit too High School Musical to actually work.”

  It sounded… quite good, actually. “I like High School Musical.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” He tipped forward, his feet hitting the floor, and pushed his empty dish onto the coffee table. Then he picked up the half-empty bottle of wine and turned back, staring at me. Big, dark, hot.

  I sighed. “But no. It wouldn’t work. She’d never believe we’d date each other, and even if she did, I can’t see Babs going for it.”

  He frowned, sitting back without topping up my glass.

  I pouted. “Meanie.”

  His eyes softened and he splashed a little wine into my glass. “Well, you could always try the internet. Pair-Up.com is advertising.”

  For all he said the words, he didn’t sound particularly keen. Silly man. “That’s a brilliant idea. Online dating. I could meet someone from the comfort of my own sofa. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  I dragged my laptop off the coffee table. Mark grabbed my glass out of my hand, wiping at a Merlot stain on his trousers. I didn’t even realise he was drinking, let alone that he’d spilt his drink.

  “Gi-ive.” A finger wiggle and my glass was back in my hand. A couple of taps of the keyboard and Google spewed up a list of internet dating sites.

  Chapter 10

  If you were a pair of pants, I’d wear you out!

  “Oh, goody. This one’s got lots of photos…”

  “Goody!” Mark agreed sarcastically. He wasn’t getting into this like he should. Internet dating was his brilliant idea.

  “Nice six-pack.” I scrolled down. “The rest of him is not bad, either.”

  Mark leant forward, wrapped an arm around me, and hauled me across the sofa. He shuffled me around until I was tucked against his side. Finally content, he settled his arm around my shoulders, the laptop on both our knees, so he could see too.

  “Jeez, KT. Have some standards. He’s wearing budgie smugglers.” He tapped a blunt finger against a picture of my potential date on holiday, wearing Speedos. “And they’re not flattering him. He should stuff…”

  An unattractive snort of amusement burst from me. “Is that what you do?” My head rolled against his shoulder as I looked up from my position tucked into his armpit.

  “Some of us don’t have to.”

  “You just wear baggy shorts, so no one can tell.”

  He gazed down at me hotly. “Any time you want to see how I measure up, you just need to ask.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” I turned back to the laptop.

  “The guy’s a loser. Look at that photo.” He tapped the screen again. “Is he winking or stroking out?”

  “Winking…” I looked at the picture closely. “I think.” I scrolled down. “Ooooh, here’s the Who Am I? section. This is so much better than having to go on a stupid date.”

  Mark laughed. “You can’t hold down a relationship just writing emails, my little introvert. At some point you have to meet him, to speak with him, if only to introduce him to your mother.”

  “Let’s see what he has to say for himself… The winker likes to party, enjoys clubbing, pubbing and socializing and, er…” I frowned. “He says he likes to get a buzz-on on the weekend?”

  “He’s a junky. Why are you even bothering to read this crap? You’re way out of this guy’s league.”

  I pressed a sloppy wine kiss to his bristly cheek. “Thank you. I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  He blinked back, seeming surprised.

  I snuggled back down against him.

  Sometimes he was so sweet. “He’s a quantity surveyor!”

  “Wow! He’s a brick counter and you’re an accountant. That sounds like a fun night out. Maybe you could balance your chequebooks together when the bill comes at the end of the date.”

  It sounded dull when he put it like that. “Okay. Who else is out there in cyberspace just waiting for me…”

  “What about this one?” Mark asked. “He’s online right now. You could make his day by clicking on him whilst he’s looking to see if anyone’s interested.”

  “I’m not clicking on someone who doesn’t have a photo. There must be something wrong with him. Everyone else has managed to put a photo up, and they’re not exactly Gap models.”

  “And looks are everything,” he deadpanned.

  “I don’t want a catfish.” I stuck my tongue out at him. “Oh, now he’s cute. Definite Gap potential.”

  He grunted. “He looks like he abducts small children for fun on the weekend.”

  “That’s disgusting.” But now I looked at the guy again, there was something a little sinister about him. His eyes were too close together… and strange.

  “Uh-huh, and against the law.”

  “You’ve ruined him now.” I clicked moodily on to the next page. “I’m not going to let you look if you keep this up.” Mark moved his arm, anchoring me more firmly against his chest. “His eyes are nice, normal, blue.”

  “Yes. They’re the nicest, most normal, bluest eyes we’ve seen tonight,” he agreed in a falsely jovial tone.

/>   “Ignoring you.” I singsonged, clicking through to the bit where the men described themselves. “Let’s see what he has to say for himself.” All about me – hair: dark brown. “He has brown hair. That’s good–”

  “Having hair doesn’t make a man date-worthy.”

  “It’s a start.” I deliberately forgot the whole head-decoration point from speed dating.

  “Well, if you’re going to set your standards that low, he has eyes, too.”

  “Yes. Two of them,” I agreed. “And they’re blue. My favourite. And look under best feature – he’s written brain. Cute!”

  “And so not true. Oh, come on. No one rates brain above…” My glare must have worked because he trailed off lamely.

  “Hmm. He likes sports, too: cycling, dancing, running, swimming, walking, hiking, weights. Wow. He exercises five or more times per week.” My enthusiasm was waning. Just reading the list of sports was wearing me out. When did he just sit and watch TV like the rest of us mortals? “He likes healthy food.”

  “I bet he doesn’t eat fries. If he did, he’d probably share them.” Mark grunted through my elbow in the ribs. “He hasn’t specified his income, so it obviously can’t be anything to brag about.”

  “I wonder if they have a category for unemployed. You could use that on your own page and post some photos of you in stuffed Speedos.”

  “I’ve already told you, I’m more than happy to prove I don’t need to stuff my swimming trunks, and I’m not unemployed. I’m an author. Nor am I the one having trouble getting a date. You remember Barbie, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. She went out with Ken.” I gave a mock-sweet smile. “He had a few problems in the anatomical department too, now that I think about it. No! Get off!” I lurched across the sofa, trying to avoid him.

  “Give me your hand.” He laughed as I squealed, struggling to keep my hand out of his grip and thus his trousers.

  “Stop it! Stop it, Mark. I believe you!” We wrestled across the sofa. “It’s a veritable trouser snake. A ten-foot python. I mean it. Stop it. I’ll tell Mum!”

  He paused, hovering over me. “You’ll tell Muriel what?” he asked with amusement, looking down at me.

  “That you forced me to touch your–”

  “My trouser snake?” He laughed. “My ten-foot python?”

  I suppressed a laugh and struggled to sit back up and hold on to my laptop. “Shut up and drink your wine. I like you better when you aren’t talking.” I settled back down. “Do you always have to force women to touch your…” I hurried on before he could quote me again. “You against their will?” I took another gulp from my glass.

  “You’re the one who seems fixated on my attributes.” Mark tapped the trackpad and flicked off Blue Eyes’ page. “He could have put a bit more effort into his online name.” He scrolled through the profiles page. “You want someone better looking.”

  “Looks aren’t everything.” Hadn’t he just finished telling me that?

  “They help.”

  “Only if you’re shallow.”

  “Said the woman who refused to look at the details for the man without a photo.”

  I chose not to hear him again. “I’m going to look at more of what they’ve written and find one who likes what I like.”

  A few pages later I’d found him. The One. “Oooh, oooh, listen to this: I’m easy-going, a good listener, and also a person that enjoys a really good talk. Although I am attracted to physical beauty, good looks fade, what I really find stimulating is an interesting and intelligent conversation. That sounds–”

  “Like a load of bullshit! No man is interested in an intelligent but ugly woman. Don’t give me that look.” He held up a hand. “It’s not my fault. We’re genetically programmed this way.”

  Hmm. I turned back to the screen. “I am extroverted and witty, the life and soul of the party. I love travel; I’m always looking to broaden my horizons and travel regularly to new places around the world.”

  “I didn’t realise any new places had been discovered in the world recently. I guess South Sudan became a new country in 2011, and a couple of small, lifeless volcanic islands have probably sprung up in–”

  “Shut up!” Why did he have to ruin it? “My ideal girl would ideally be my best friend, not only a girlfriend… That’s romantic.”

  “It’s straight from the dating liars’ handbook.”

  “That’s it! I’m going–”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Mark trapped me in place with the weight of his arm clamping around me. I struggled and got… nowhere.

  Whatever. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself and lose a fight for freedom. I went back to scrolling through candidates. “Oh, wow, look at Sailor Boy–”

  “It sounds like he works for the Village People.”

  I gave him my mean prisoner look and then continued, “He likes French cuisine and fine wines.”

  “You like chips and costs-less-than-a-fiver Merlot.”

  I scrolled down the screen. “He sails, climbs, dives–”

  “You like to put your PJs on early and-–”

  “I’ll have you know I’ve been climbing, diving, and sailing.”

  “How many times?” Growling, I refused to answer. “One rough crossing on a P&O ferry from Dover to Calais does not make you a threat to Ellen MacArthur, or even a fair-weather sailor, KT.”

  “Just like reading a book doesn’t make you an author, Mark.”

  “I’ve submitted my manuscript to publishers and agents.”

  Whatever. I clicked through a couple more profiles. “This one is reading philosophy at–”

  “You read chick-lit about vampires and shape shifters.” I gave him another narrow-eyed look. “I’m not being mean. The aim is to find someone who shares the same interests as you. There’s no point otherwise. I thought you weren’t going to sabotage yourself anymore.”

  “If you keep thisssh up,” I slurred, “I’m taking my computer into my room and you won’t be able to play.” His jaw flexed and released, flexed and released. “Oh, here, thissh guy’s a TV critic.”

  “There you go. You like criticising TV. Just yesterday you were saying there’s nothing good on now that Britain’s Got Talent has finished. Quick, press the eye icon to ‘wink’ at him, before someone else beats you to it.”

  I ignored his sarcasm and read out loud what kind of woman he was looking for: “Petite, blond, slender” – a.k.a. Barbie.

  “The guy’s batting way out of his league. He’s a fat, balding TV critic. Everyone knows TV critics are failed actors. Try another one.”

  I clicked disconsolately through a few screens. And there he was. “Mr Perfect. This is him. This guy’s my ideal man.”

  Mark frowned at the screen. “Sorry, honey.” Not if his tone was anything to go by he wasn’t. “It says he’s looking for someone with auburn or red hair.”

  “My hair has red highlights. When you catch it in the right light.”

  He ran a few strands of my hair through his fingers, holding them up to the light. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “He says any eyes. I have two of those.” I swilled another mouthful of wine. “Twenty-twenty vision, too.”

  “Height: three foot seven to five foot four,” Mark added.

  I leant closer to the screen, frowning to get the words to focus. “He wants a little person… or a hobbit, and it seems he wants a skinny one, too. Body type: Athletic and toned, slender. Creep.”

  The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of my finger tapping the trackpad to move back to the main screen with lots of profiles.

  “Stop.” Mark knocked my hand away from the trackpad and pointed at the screen. “Try that one. He looks like he can appreciate a woman who’s tall and built like a woman should be.” He squeezed me closer as he spoke.

  I knew what I was doing now, and scrolled straight down to the bit where he’d described his ideal woman, saving time and disappointment. “Red hair, green eyes, educated to post
graduate level. It’s discrimination. I don’t think they even have options in their dropdown lists for mud-brown hair, fat, and accountant.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your figure. Come on, have a bit more wine and look through a few more.”

  “I swear, I’m going to contact the first man who wants a woman who isn’t skinny and blonde or red-headed. Most women in this country are a size sixteen. That makes me below average. As for blondes, there aren’t any natural blondes left. They’re all just brunettes in Clariol’s Nice ’N Easy disguise.”

  His laugh jostled me against his chest. I continued to search and mutter.

  “It’s no wonder these guys have to go on a website. They have totally unrealistic expectations. What’s this guy looking for?”

  “Spellcheck, by the looks of things.” A hand clamped around my arm, preventing another elbow to the ribs. “That doesn’t deserve an elbow. The guy claims he’s a freelance journalist, yet he’s spelt nine words incorrectly in his first extraordinarily long sentence.”

  “Hmm.” He had a point.

  “Besides, he hasn’t filled out the bit about his ideal date, except to say what turns him on, and he’s listed everything except a strong breeze. It would’ve been easier if they’d had a section for what doesn’t turn him on.”

  “I’m not listening to your negativity.”

  “You can’t be serious. You’re going to look at his profile?”

  “He looks kind, and his profile says he’s been active within the last two weeks.”

  “That man hasn’t been active with anything other than his own hand in yea–”

  My elbow landed hard on his chest. “Just because you like self-service doesn’t mean everyone else does.”

  He finally managed to pull in a choked breath, wincing and rubbing his ribs as his chest expanded. “Believe me, honey, all men DIY when there isn’t a better option available. Sometimes even if there is. Besides, he’s too old for you. He’s forty.”

  “He likes children.”

  “He likes children a lot.”

  “That’s okay. I want children too. Plus, I’ve got childbearing hips.”