Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  “Uh-huh.” I was smiling. Though why I was finding his butting in cute tonight was anyone’s guess.

  “Barbie and I could sit at the back. You wouldn’t even notice we were there.”

  Yeah, right. “I’d rather be horribly murdered, have my body dumped in the gutter, and be pecked over by pigeons than double-date with you two.” I took the opportunity to change the subject. “Speaking of the Cabbage Patch Kid, if you don’t stop trying to crash my date, you’re going to be late for your own. Dolly doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who likes her date to show up late.”

  “You know, anyone would think you call her names because you’re jealous.”

  “Then anyone would be wrong.” I began applying mascara. He watched, seeming fascinated. Silence stretched. I finished applying my mascara and touched up my eyeliner, then doubled up on the concealer under my eyes, trying to hide the ravages of a two-day hangover.

  Finally, he said, “Have you got emergency money for a taxi in case you need to get away quickly or you don’t want him following you home on the Underground?”

  “Yes, Mum!”

  His eyes narrowed. “I still think it would be better if Barbie and I came with you.”

  “No.”

  “At least–”

  “No, Mark!” His hands clenched on the doorframe above his head, and I took pity on him. “I’ve got your mobile number. If I have any trouble, which I won’t, I’ll call and you can play knight to my damsel in distress.” I rolled my eyes when he didn’t move, and then made a show of adding his number to my speed dial and showing him the screen. “There. Happy?”

  “Not really.”

  “Tough.”

  * * * * *

  An hour later, nervous excitement had my heart pounding and butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I headed down the South Bank for my date with Mr Perfect. We’d agreed to meet at the movies. My excitement dimmed when I realised it was one of those independent cinemas showing movies everyone saw years ago, or that were so weird they could be called “arty” and the pretentious would travel from all over London just to say they’d seen it. According to the billboards, it was Kevin Costner week. It could be worse. I quite like Kev (even in Waterworld).

  It wasn’t until I looked around the tatty lobby searching for Mr Perfect that I realised I didn’t have any way of recognising him. There were a couple of teenagers obviously looking for a cheap way to get into the back row and cop a feel of their girlfriends, a man in tweed with a walking stick who looked about seventy, and a short, exceptionally fat guy I thought I recognised from a recent public health advert on obesity.

  Fat guy waved, the action pulling up his too-tight jumper to expose his white, flabby belly, and smiled, flashing yellow teeth. He looked a bit like a frog, with a wide, wet mouth and bugged eyes that burned with zealous emotion under a fierce unibrow. He was wearing khaki trousers and a green jumper. He seemed to be looking right at me. I glanced over my shoulder. There was no one behind me.

  He was still staring at me.

  He was getting closer.

  I stumbled back.

  My flight mechanism kicked in.

  The wall behind me prevented escape.

  “Kate!” He knew my name? “You look beautiful.” Well, yes, of course, but– “I thought we could see something with Kevin Costner in it. I know how you women love Kevin.” With the realisation he was talking to me came the realisation that he was Romeo, and then came… horror.

  I wanted to go home. He was shorter than me and I’d gone for sexy flats with a flirty dress, fearing I still wasn’t steady enough on my feet to handle heels after my recent little drink-a-thon.

  He grabbed my hand, clutching it in both of his as he pressed a wet kiss to my cheek. I flinched, escaping the worst, I didn’t want my prince badly enough to kiss this frog. I wasn’t sure, but I thought he’d just licked my cheek. I shuddered, rubbing my cheek on my shoulder. I’d have to do an acid peel when I got home to remove the sensation.

  “Ah… Romeo?” Please be a mistake, please be a…

  “I knew you’d recognise me.” No, but he knew my name, so it seemed like good odds.

  I squeezed my eyes closed, mentally chanting, Looks. Aren’t. Everything.

  That was what I’d told Mark.

  Okay, so they would have helped, but I wasn’t going to get upset about the fact he wasn’t… well, Mr Perfect, tall, dark, good-looking. Able to fit into one seat in the cinema without oozing into my personal space.

  I gave up trying to liberate my hand and let him keep possession of it.

  I wanted to cry.

  I wanted to go home to my mother.

  Yes. It truly was that bad.

  All my earlier excitement had disappeared.

  Looks aren’t everything, I continued to chant in my mind. Hopefully, if I kept it up for long enough, I’d start believing it. After all, he was still everything I wanted on paper (physical part aside, obviously).

  “I thought we could go and see The Bodyguard. It’s one of my favourites.”

  I grimaced; I’m not a Whitney fan.

  “I’ve already got my ticket, but I asked the lady behind the counter and she said it’s all right, we can sit wherever we like once you’ve got yours.”

  I blinked at him like an idiot, my mind struggling to comprehend what he’d just said. “You’ve already bought your ticket?” I proceeded slowly, feeling my way.

  “Yes. But we’ll have to hurry to get yours and buy some snacks, or we’ll miss the start.”

  Okay. I pride myself on being a modern woman, but technically he’d invited me on the date and therefore he should pay. Then again, if I paid my own way, I wouldn’t owe him anything at the end of the date. Not even a polite cheek kiss this time.

  I paid for my ticket, fumbling my purse when he still wouldn’t let go of my right hand. I tried to ignore the stares and giggles from the back-row teen nymphos as I queued for popcorn. To be fair, I couldn’t decide which of us was the cause of their mirth. I’d gained my own not-so-kind teenage following since the Underground posters. “So… ah, Romeo, what should I call you?”

  “Well, if you want to be my Juliet–”

  “No!” I tried to smooth the edge of panic from my tone. “Ah, I’d like to know your real name.”

  “It’s Simon.” We shuffled another couple of steps forward.

  Okay, so he wasn’t doing it for me as far as looks went, but his online profile was Mr Perfect. Maybe I just needed to focus on that. Surely that would get me through the next hour or so. “And you’re a playwright?” I smiled encouragingly. At least, I tried to smile. It felt more like a grimace. I was finding it increasingly difficult to be pleasant. “So, will I have seen anything of yours in the West End?”

  “No, I’m not into commercialism. My plays are commentaries on society. They’re big on the student scene…”

  “Student scene” meant it was crap. Same as arty, movies in my experience. I tuned out when he started using words like juxtaposition and existential.

  I paid for my popcorn and Diet Coke and waited for him to place his order before I cut in on his diatribe, more to get him to shut up about his boring play than because I was interested. “Will I have heard of any of the actors?” I was grasping at straws now.

  “Have you heard of Julian Yates?”

  I hadn’t thought it possible, but he stepped closer. A cloud of noxious aftershave rolled thickly around him, smothering me. I choked, unable to inhale the perfumed air. An instant migraine stabbed through my temple. I saw stars.

  Slowly, my vision cleared. I was staring at the sparse covering of hair plastered to the dome of his head. He had so much gel in that it was rock hard. I didn’t move fast enough, and he leant close to me. I caught the scent of his hair under the aftershave and gel. He obviously hadn’t washed it in weeks, probably scared it would fall out faster if he touched it.

  His clothes smelt like they’d been left damp to moulder for a week before he put t
hem on. His hand, which was still attached to mine (like a limpet I couldn’t shake off no matter how hard I tried), was really clammy and had started to slick my own with sweat.

  I lost my appetite.

  Julian who? “Should I have?”

  “He’s big on the arts scene at the moment. I’ve just sent him my latest play. I’m waiting to hear back.” That would be a no to the famous actors question, then. I was beginning to think his online profile was as padded as his behind.

  “So, you said in your profile that you had a couple of degrees. What were they in?”

  “Well, I started a degree in media and cultural studies at the Southampton Institute of Higher Education in Southampton – have you heard of it?”

  “Southampton? Yes.”

  “No, the institute?”

  I hadn’t, but I could fully understand why he may have been institutionalised at some point in his life. I didn’t respond to his question.

  “Anyway, I was homesick, missed my mum.” He smiled in a way I thought he thought was endearing. “So, I left after the first year and changed to a joint honours degree in creative writing and theatre studies here at the London Metropolitan University. I graduated with almost a Desmond.” He glanced at me, looking really pleased with himself, then lifted our still-joined hands to wipe the sweat beading his forehead.

  I gagged, mouth open, stomach heaving. I bent over the ticket bin, grateful I hadn’t eaten today. There was nothing else I could do – I took myself to my mental happy place, by praying for death until the dry heaves had passed, and we shuffled through to the theatre. I tugged, and once again failed, to secure the freedom of my hand. “That’s slang for a 2:2. You know Desmond Tutu?” Simon continued obliviously.

  “Not personally,” I responded. He looked confused. I wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. I was amazed he actually had one degree, even if his profile boasted two. Was there anything he hadn’t lied about? “And your PhD?”

  “I’m taking a break at the moment, for my writing. One day, when my work’s recognised publicly, I’ll get an honorary one anyway.”

  Of course he would.

  Right after I won the EuroMillions’ biggest ever draw.

  I tipped my head to one side, thinking. I just about had him pegged now. “Do you live with your mother?”

  “Yes, and my dad. Would you like to meet them?” No! “I’ve told them all about you already.” That would be tough, considering the sum total of his knowledge of me came from one drunken email. Thankfully, the film started and I was saved from answering.

  * * * * *

  I couldn’t wait for the movie to end.

  I’d tried to focus on the film – it beat the alternative – but Kevin Costner just wasn’t hot enough to distract me from Simon. Maybe, though, if I tried really hard… Whitney Houston was singing “Queen of the Night”. Kevin – as the bodyguard – was watching for weirdos. I nearly leapt from my seat and shouted, “There’s one over here, Kevin. He’s sitting beside me, row F, seat 15.” And then Simon started singing… To me.

  Only it was the wrong song.

  It was like one of those movie scenes, when everyone turns at exactly the same moment, only it was real and they turned to stare at me.

  And laugh.

  “Shh. Stop it!” I was convinced it couldn’t get worse, and then his phone rang. The ring tone was Britney Spears, “Womanizer”. Womanizer, womanizer, womanizer… Simon fumbled it out of his pocket, still without releasing my hand.

  I was beginning to think I’d have to amputate to get away.

  I was increasingly willing to do this. In fact, a few more minutes of this and I was pretty sure I’d start gnawing it off myself to escape, like a bear caught in a trap.

  “Hi, Mum! No. She’s still here! It’s going well.” Simon didn’t whisper. The whole cinema shushed him. I tugged my hand, hoping to get free whilst he was distracted. I wasn’t that lucky. I sank down in my seat, trying to make myself as small as possible. The person behind kicked my chair hard enough to rattle my teeth.

  I wished I was one of those tough-talking, catty women who could just tell a guy to their face that they were a loser and to fuck off. Instead of the kind who said maybe to a second date with a loser, but in a no tone. So, I sat there tugging my hand and wishing it was possible to die of mortification. If it was, this would be eulogy time.

  Just when I was about to shout fire and see if I could lose him in the stampede, he shifted, laying his disgusting, greasy, smelly head on my shoulder. My stomach pitched and my eyes watered. I prayed that just this once, Whitney’s sister would succeed in killing her, so the movie would finish quicker. I waited out the last few minutes with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner on death row.

  Finally, the movie ended.

  I wiped the tears off my face.

  “Oh, baby, don’t cry. You women are such emotional creatures,” Simon crooned, wiping a podgy, sweaty finger over my cheek. I bolted from my seat, whipping back as I reached the end of his arm tether. “Let’s go get supper.”

  I stumbled out of the cinema, dragging my human loadstone with me, sucking in big gulps of fresh air. “I’m sorry, I… I have a really bad migraine. I have to go home.” It wasn’t a total lie.

  “But–”

  “Right. Now.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  “I’m catching the tube.”

  “I’ll come with you, see you to the door. A gentleman should always see a lady home at the end of a date.” He said it like he was reciting from some 1800s etiquette book.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve been seeing myself home safely for the last twenty years.” And I’d rather be found dead in a ditch than let him know where I lived.

  “I insist.”

  I marched along without looking at him, trying to work out ways to escape. Romeo gave me the opening I was looking for, saying, “I just need to pop in here and pick something up for you. I won’t be long, sweetie.”

  He finally released my hand. I wiped it down my favourite dress, not caring if it ended up with sweat stains. I was going to burn every stitch of clothing I wore as soon as I finished scrubbing myself in a boiling hot shower.

  “No, really, I don’t want anyth–” Simon darted into the Tesco Metro. I considered making a run for it. I’d never make it to the Underground station before he reappeared, but I could probably catch a taxi. I looked up and down the street, hoping for vacant taxi to miraculously appear. That way I’d be gone when he came out. I should have known; finding an empty taxi on a Saturday night in London is like spotting a unicorn. I made it five steps… I really need to take up exercise. Starting Monday, I’d be in the gym every morning on the running machine.

  “Sweetie!”

  Was he talking to me? I picked up my pace, refusing to look around. His hand landed heavily on my shoulder, freezing me in place.

  “This is very embarrassing.”

  This wasn’t embarrassing. It had passed embarrassing five minutes after I met him. This was traumatising.

  “I seem to have run out… can I borrow some money?” Everyone at the till was staring at us through the large plate-glass window. A security guard hovered in the doorway, huge, muscled arms folded over his chest, glaring at me.

  What had I done?

  It was Simon he should’ve been glaring at. I hadn’t even been in his rotten shop.

  “I only have a twenty-pound note.” My emergency taxi fare. I was so close to escape that I already had the money in my hand.

  “Thank you, sweetie.” He whisked the money out of my grasp and skipped back into the shop.

  Chapter 14

  I’m like chocolate pudding – I look like crap, but I’m as sweet as can be.

  I stared at twenty pounds’ worth of £1.99 red carnations. “I… I… I just don’t know what to say.”

  It wasn’t just that I’d developed a recent and severe loathing of carnations, but a man was supposed to buy flowers and bring them with him b
efore the date, or send out to Interflora the next day. He wasn’t supposed to steal his date’s escape fund to make a far-from-grand gesture.

  “I know. You’re overwhelmed.” His tone was pure condescension. “But I’m an old-fashioned guy. I like to buy a lady flowers. It’s romantic.”

  Romantic? Perhaps, if the woman hadn’t bought them herself and hadn’t had to spend time in his company, I would’ve been able to agree.

  How stupid was he?

  I finally saw a free taxi and flagged it down. I might not have any cash, but I was willing to offer the driver (male or female) sexual favours if they got me away from this moron. “I thought we were going to catch the tube?” Simon asked.

  “I’ve decided not to inconvenience you.” Or let him know where I lived. One stalker was more than enough. “Bye, Simon.”

  “I’ll see you again.” He leant forward, reluctant to part, his lips puckered for his goodbye kiss. “Tomorrow?”

  I nearly said “maybe” in a no tone. Then I remembered what Mark said about the difference between what women said and thought and what men heard and changed my mind. I wasn’t willing to risk misinterpretation on this. “No. No, I’m sorry” – not – “but it’s not going to work, Simon.”

  I turned away without waiting for a response or taking the lip-puckering hint.

  “What? Why? Is it because I’m fat?” He trotted after me, panting with exertion.

  Time to become one of those tough women who brushed off losers without a thought to their feelings. “Yes, and smelly, and stupid, and a liar.”

  “Please, Kate. Don’t just leave like this.” Being a bitch apparently wasn’t going to work on him. “All I’m asking for is one minute of your time.” I hesitated, only for one second, but it was one second too long. Simon fell to his podgy knees, wrapped his arms around my legs, and started crying.

  Crying!

  I wanted to escape, but I couldn’t move. It was like one of those nightmares where something horrific was after you and you tried to run, but you were frozen in place. Only I knew what the horrific thing was, and I wasn’t frozen, I was trapped in its sweaty, flabby arms.