“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with me.” He pressed a finger to my forehead and tipped my head. “There’s especially not anything wrong with that part of me.”
Ooops.
Caught.
I took a deep breath and tried to focus. If I forced myself to look him in the eye, I’d be more likely to listen, and he could stop squirming in his seat. I flushed.
“Listen carefully to the order of the words, KT. She said” – he pointed between us – “it’s not me” – he pointed at himself – “it’s you.” He prodded me in the chest, making it clear Babs laid the blame on me. “Then she said that–”
“What? Wait! Why’s it my fault? I’ve–”
“If it makes you feel better, she went on to say, ‘This should be fun, but it isn’t.’”
“Ouch!”
“Yeah. Then I came home and got drunk.”
“In celebration, I hope. You’re lucky to be shot of the bitch.”
“Hmm.” He stared at the counter glumly.
The silence stretched. “Mark?”
His “Yes?” was more a sigh then a word.
“Thank you for rescuing me from Romeo. I know that cow dumped you, but I bet she already regrets it. She didn’t realise how lucky she was to have you.”
“Thanks, KT. I–”
The smoke alarm started screaming, cutting him off. I jumped up.
Breakfast was ready!
“So,” I slid a plate of bacon, eggs, sausage, and fried mushrooms in front of him, then grabbed the ketchup before sitting with a squeal of chair legs across tiled floor. Mark winced. “Do you think which newspaper they’re in matters with small ads?”
“I’ve just barely finished telling you about my breakup and the part you played in it, and all you care about is whether you’ll get a better class of loser in the lonely-hearts column in the Times than the Sport?”
Whoa, moody. Hadn’t I just thanked him? “It’s not all about you. Some of us are working to a dating deadline.” I paused, a fork of sausage, egg, and ketchup suspended halfway to my mouth. “The Sport does lonely hearts? I thought they just did topless women on every page.”
“Jesus! The Sport doesn’t even exist anymore. I was just illustrating a point.” He stabbed angrily at his food.
“You’re better off without her. She was no fun. Besides, you’d only been going out for a couple of weeks. Here. Have another sausage.” I slid one off my plate and onto his. Comfort food always works for me. “I guess they’re more likely to be employed if they read the Times.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I’d ask how you figured that out, but I’m scared you’ll try explaining how your mind works.”
“I guess you’re not employed and you read lots of newspapers.” I hopped off my stool and pulled a few of Mark’s boring broadsheets from the paper recycling bin, flicking through them. “This one doesn’t even have small ads.”
“It’s the Financial Times. It has stock market figures it in. Try one of the others.”
“Here we go. You look at these ones and I’ll look in the free papers.” I scanned a few adverts. “Obviously you’re looking at the men seeking women adverts. Look for key words solvent and professional. Oh, and I want men who don’t specify that the women have to be skinny.”
I crunched a rasher of very crispy bacon and blue-penned Divorced dad, 35, caring, sensitive, solvent, likes pubs, eating out, walks, WLTM someone to enjoy life with. He sounded like he was responsible and caring. He’d kept the kids, so the courts must’ve decided he was more normal than his ex, which hopefully meant he wasn’t a weirdo. Then I moved on to Tall, tactile, professional, thirties, seeks intelligent, bossy female, for fun, friendship, and romance. He was employed, which was pretty high up on my list of wants, and didn’t mind a woman who was a bit bossy. Bossy wasn’t too far from moody. So, I could fit the description. I skipped over Left of centre scatty male. I didn’t need Mark to tell me that was code for weirdo loser. I slapped my pen on the counter. “I’m all done. So, what have you got?”
Mark glanced up from his paper. “That was quick.”
“Taking time on these things doesn’t seem to get me anywhere, so I thought I’d go for the lucky-dip approach. Close eyes, point pen, pick…” A slight exaggeration, but not much.
He nodded, like he didn’t expect any more from me. “Easy-going professional male, late twenties, no baggage, seeks intelligent, independent female with GSOH for friendship and possible relationship.”
“Is that it? Just one.” His eyes narrowed in warning. I took the hint. “Great. Thanks.” For practically nothing. Given that it was his fault I was in this situation in the first place, you’d think he would be more enthusiastic and helpful. “That’s it, then. I’ll leave messages on their voice mails and see if they want to go out on Saturday.”
“You’re going on a group date with these guys?”
“No.” Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea. Then again, I didn’t do well in group situations. “I’ll meet one for breakfast, one for lunch, and one for dinner or drinks.”
“You’re going to go out with three men in one day? Isn’t that a bit…”
“A bit what?” I snapped. I was doing my best to be positive here.
“Ah, slutty?”
“Are you calling me a slut?”
“No.” He shook his head, holding his hands up. “No. No way. I am not calling you a slut.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“I’m questioning the morality and logistics of dating three men on the same day, one straight after the next.”
“And you’re such a great model for male morality.”
“Yes. What’s that look for? I don’t cheat.”
“You kissed me when you were going out with Barbie.”
“I was honest with Barbie from the start. I said we were just dating and we should both see other people.” The hint of defensiveness would have been endearing if he hadn’t also been calling me a slut.
“Is that what you call morals? Telling a girl straight out that you’re going to cheat on her.”
“It wasn’t one-sided. I said she could date other people too. I encouraged it.”
How noble. “And did she?”
“Not that I know of, but that was her choice, and she dumped me, remember?” He pushed his empty plate away and propped his head in his hands, sighing like the world was ending. “You know, we could end this entire dating shit right now.”
“How?” I said to the top of his head as he continued to stare at the counter.
“I’m available. You’re available. We could date.”
My eyes rolled, but I said nothing. I wasn’t in the mood for his jokes. I scooped up the plates and dropped them into the sink, making sure I made enough noise to irritate his bad head. Call me a slut, would he?
Ooopsy. I dropped a knife on the tiled floor, enjoying the clatter as it bounced. Mock the fact I couldn’t get a date, would he? Ask me out so he could… What? Stand me up? Tell my mum I was cheating and fake-dating him so he could make the viral video advert? I thought we were past that shit.
“For Christ’s sake.” Mark winced.
I hid a smile and squeezed washing-up liquid into the sink then turned the taps on, giving up on why Mark would ask me out. Some things are unfathomable. “I’m fed up of wasting every Friday night and weekend on useless dates with weirdos and losers. If I see all three of them on Saturday, I can do nothing on Sunday and actually enjoy part of my weekend.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” he said. I considered dropping the knife again. “KT, don’t you dare drop that.”
Chapter 16
I’m a great swimmer. Can I demonstrate the breaststroke?
Who’d have guessed it was so hard to pick one outfit for three totally different types of date and time?
I settled on a long black smock-style top, clinched with a leather belt, over skinny jeans with my Prada heels. I’d paid a fortune for them and I was going to ge
t my money’s worth in wear. I’d tied my hair back into a thick, silky ponytail for the morning coffee date. I had a brush, jewellery, and some makeup in my bag to glam things up as the day progressed.
I’d go fresh-faced to coffee. After a lot of soul searching, I decided if I was going to get up in order to meet the guy by ten a.m. on a Saturday, he could deal with me sans makeup (but with tinted moisturiser and mascara; there were limits to “makeup-free”). After lunch, I’d add a touch of lip-gloss, redo my mascara and tinted moisturiser, then go for the full face and hair down for my dinner date.
I’d been planning my itinerary for the best part of the week. Sexy as my precious Pradas were, they were not made for hiking miles between dates in, so I’d planned my dates appropriately and was sticking close to home in Pimlico. All three locations were within a couple of hundred feet of each other on Wilton Road.
I unfolded my written program and checked it out. Ten a.m. coffee date: Tall, tactile, professional, thirties, seeks intelligent, bossy female, for fun, friendship, and romance, in Caffé Nero on the corner of Wilton Road and Warwick Way.
Twelve noon, move across the road to George’s Plaice and fish and chips for lunch with: Divorced dad, thirty-five, caring, sensitive, solvent, likes pubs, eating out, walks, WLTM someone to enjoy life with. I’d have gone for a pub, given his likes, but he was bringing along his kids – “They’re nice, honestly, and they’re really looking forward to meeting you.” In the background I could hear little people having some sort of argument. Unfortunately, Mark was listening in and smirking, so instead of backing out I’d stuck it out with a weak, but audible, “Great!”
Then finally, four thirty p.m., I’d saved the best for last (I hoped). I was having pre-dinner drinks at Corner Bar with: Easy-going professional male, late twenties, no baggage, seeks intelligent, independent female with GSOH for friendship and possible relationship.
Mark’s choice. If I liked him and wasn’t bored, repulsed, dead on my feet, or fit to burst after lunch, we could head over to Ottomans for dinner.
* * * * *
“How was heaven when you left?”
I laughed. I like a guy with a good sense of humour, and cheesy chat-up lines are a great icebreaker.
“Crowded,” I responded. I’d arrived at the coffee shop five minutes early for my first date and couldn’t see any single men, so I’d gotten myself a cappuccino, found a table with a comfy sofa, and started playing Candy Crush on my phone.
Tall, tactile, professional (at least, I thought it was him) laughed, showing orthodontist-straight teeth. He was good-looking, with bright blue eyes, a round face, and sandy-blond hair in a floppy Hugh Grant Four Weddings and a Funeral hairstyle. He was dressed in a blue shirt and chinos with a Hackett jumper over his shoulders, catalogue-model style. He had great genes – he looked more early twenties then thirties.
He thrust a lightly shaking hand at me. “Well, Angel, I’m Adam and you’re even more gorgeous than you sounded when we spoke on the phone.” Okay, now he was starting to sound a bit silly, but it was hard to think of things to say on a first date, so I was willing to be sympathetic.
“Hi, Adam, my name’s Kate.” He took my hand in his and bent over it. I snatched it back (Romeo had mentally scarred me) before he could kiss it, sitting on it to keep it safe.
“Is there room for another one?” He squeezed onto the sofa next to me without waiting for a response, signalling for the barista to come and serve us.
I tried to shift over, so he wasn’t practically sitting in my lap. He moved with me. “I think you order at the counter and they bring it over,” I offered, so he didn’t sit there all morning waving at them.
I felt the heat and pressure of his hand burning through my jeans. He squeezed my knee, then his hand started sliding up my thigh.
I squealed and jumped, the firm squeeze of his hand the only thing holding me in my seat. “So, Kate, baby. Is your dad an alien? Because there’s no one else like you in this world.”
My dad’s a lot of things, but I wasn’t going to talk about him on a first date. I gave a half-hearted smile. Chat-up lines are only really funny as an ice-breaker. After that, they became a little creepy. His hand slid another couple of inches north and his little finger edged in toward my crotch.
“No.” I clamped my hand over his, nails digging in, preventing further movement. When did men stop respecting women’s personal space? I pried his fingers free and deposited his hand on his own lap, slamming an elbow into his stomach when he looked like he might move it.
“Ah…” His voiced trembled. “Do you have a map? Because I keep getting lost in your eyes.”
His face was close to mine. Too close. I pulled back, scowling. He stared at me without blinking. “Is there something wrong with you?” I said. Clearly there was, but I meant something specific, that he knew about, with a medical or psychological diagnosis.
No wonder he needed a bossy woman: he was a menace. Unless… Was it some sort of joke? I looked around for a camera and crew (maybe it was one of those shows like Game for a Laugh where they humiliated someone for other people’s entertainment). I couldn’t see any, though.
“Listen, I am trying really hard to give you the benefit of the doubt. I totally get how nerve-racking first dates are, but you need to stop with the chat-up lines and just be normal, or we’re not going to get along.”
“Okay.” His mouth twisted as he chewed his lip. He seemed uncertain and kind of immature, considering his advert said he was in his thirties.
“Good.”
He sighed, seeming defeated. “Can I just ask one thing?” I nodded, cautiously. “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”
“Not if we were stuck in an avalanche and it was a choice of sharing body heat or freezing to death,” I snapped, losing my temper. “Have you made a bet with someone that you’ll have a date and spend the whole time talking in clichés and chat-up lines?” There was no other explanation. There weren’t any cameras and he hadn’t said an original word since he opened his mouth.
He blinked, his face a mask of hurt and confusion.
I had a choice: I could either leave now – and hang around alone in the rain until my next date – or I could give him a second chance. I decided to be kind and cut him a break… Okay, so, honestly, I don’t want to hang around by myself for an hour and a half and get soaked before my next date. But also, maybe he was using the chat-up lines because he thought it was amusing, or he was nervous? Not everyone had been on as many dates as I had recently, and I was nervous when I first started all this. It was kind of second nature now. Maybe he’d benefit from speed dating.
I had.
A bit.
Okay, I’d only gained one thing from speed dating, my question list, but I was willing to share that. Perhaps if I could get him to talk about himself and relax a little… “So, Adam, what are you looking for out of a date?”
“I’m not looking for a relationship.” Huh? What was the newspaper advert about, then? “I’m looking for an experience.”
Okay, I was wrong. He clearly needed to relax a lot. And possibly borrow a personality from a friend. “I need another coffee.” If I was going to sit through this much longer, I’d need to make it Irish.
Adam took advantage of my hunched position – getting my purse from my bag – to drape his arm behind me on the sofa and play with my ponytail. Note to self: “tactile” in newspaper dating adverts meant handsy. I stiffened and waited for him to read my body language and remove his arm. Then he snapped my bra strap. The sting of the elastic hitting my skin was like a light switch being thrown, catapulting me back into my teenage flirting years. “You’re not in your thirties, are you?”
His face paled then flushed, his eyes darting around the room. “Ah…”
“Don’t lie to me, Adam.” I used my best stern adult voice. “How old are you?”
“Twen–”
“Adam!” I snapped.
He deflated.
“N-nineteen.”
At least now I understood his behaviour. “Okay, so what’s this about?” It better not be some joke.
“I just… I thought… I wanted to get some experience, of dating and… stuff.” Stuff being sex, I guessed. “So I don’t make a fool of myself when I go out with someone I really like… I thought if I could meet an older woman, they, you… I could learn.”
Bugger. I seriously considered walking out and leaving the little fucker to find out how life and relationships work through mistakes and humiliation and other dating disasters, like I had (me and most of the rest of the population), but… God, he was young even for nineteen. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?” He avoided eye contact and shook his head. “Ever dated?” Another shake. “You need to swim in your own pool.”
“What?” He looked up, and I gave him an encouraging smile. Yes, I was disappointed that another date turned into a dud, but I wasn’t going to be a bitch about it. Growing up sucked.
“You need to date girls your own age.”
“I want to get some experience first, you know beforehand, so I don’t…”
“You need to learn with them, enjoy the experience together.”
“I don’t want to make a fool of myself and get laughed at.”
I totally sympathised with him. Dating sucked until you were in the relationship phase of things. “If she laughs at you or says something mean, then she doesn’t deserve to be with you,” I responded, my latent maternal instincts kicking in.
“That’s what my gran says,” he said morosely.
I laughed. “See, you don’t want to go on dates and do stuff with old people who sound like your gran. It would be icky!”
“I-I guess.”
“And Adam, I’m going to give you a tip.” I’d also give him my speed-dating questions later. “Be honest with her. Don’t pretend to be something that you’re not. She probably has – or has had – the same fears as you about dating. Everyone has to start sometime. Oh, and listen to her. Women like that.”
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