by Gill Mather
IT’S FRIDAY EVENING quicker than you can say “She should’ve gone to Specsavers” and I’m madly trying on garments that might be suitable for a first date. I can't decide if it should be casual, devil-may-care attire or something smarter. Happily Dennis seems to be late since when I glance at the clock/radio, it’s seven forty. I’m in my, used-to-be-our, bedroom with heaps of stuff on the floor I’ve forgotten I even own. The other member of the “our” and I used to watch TV in bed and, as a person who now lives alone, I’ve fallen into the habit of turning the TV on as soon as possible when I get into the house. I’ve heard that I’m not the only single dweller that does this.
So the TV is blaring on from downstairs playing the One Show or some such but on switching on the bedroom box it’s already tuned to some freeview channel showing an old documentary about the mating displays of birds. I’m learning that the male of the greater crested tern dives for fish and offers it to the female as part of the courtship ritual. I realise that I should have accepted the meal tonight but as I didn't I’m gobbling down a cheese and onion pasty I bought that lunchtime and have just heated up in the microwave, and avoiding alcohol. More information suggests that it’s always the males of the species that go in for all this frenetic displaying.
I try to ignore the main purpose of this furious activity which is to get the female to copulate as soon as possible with a view to impregnation and serious chick-rearing. As I glance at the TV, a pair of terns are actually at it already. It takes all of four seconds before the male disengages and starts strutting about importantly, reminding me rather of the commercial partner Ned Hemmings when he’s involved in a “fucking great takeover”. But I’m sure Dennis is not focusing on this side of things. At least not yet. Or is he? Well if he is, on the basis of my record of failure to conceive, he’s destined to be disappointed. But I don't know if he’s interested in kids, maybe already has several. I just hardly know anything about him. That’s the trouble.
Oh what the hell I think. It should be Dennis who’s fluffing up his feathers and worrying about what to wear not me, so I grab the nearest thing to hand and struggle into it because it now seems to be several sizes too small. If I hold in my stomach and breathe in shallow gasps, I think it’ll be OK. I notice as I force the zip at the back up to the top that I’ve got a patch of pasty grease on the hem of the dress at the side but I don't think it’s that conspicuous.
The documentary is now telling me that sometimes the pair-bond is reinforced by the male and female doing a mutual display. It mentions albatrosses, penguins and grebes. Apparently these consist of “synchronous actions like calling and head bobbing”. And actually it’s now giving the impression that females often participate. Oh great! And here I am about to leave the house in an old, greasy shift dress that’s three sizes too small. I’m starting to tug the zip down again, unaware of how much more pasty grease I may be applying, when the front doorbell rings. Looking at the clock, it’s seven fifty. He’s twenty minutes late. Is that a good or a bad sign? Is it because he’s been practising bobbing to himself in his mirror at home and trying out various calls to impress me?
But it’s too late now and I grab a jacket and my bag - I hope it’s the right one - and crash downstairs on too-high high heels.
I answer the door and Dennis is there looking smart-casual, in fact a beautifully balanced outfit for a first date. He smiles, says hello and hands me a rectangular article.
“A little something for you,” he says.
My, it’s a box of chocolates. A food offering! I start to worry about copulation again.
“Goodness,” I say, “I love chocolates.” Which is true. I start to leave the house clutching the chocolates.
“Er,” says Dennis, “I wouldn't be in the least offended if you left the chocolates at home.”
“Oh ‘course,” I attempt a laugh and stretch to put the box on the hall table. They only just don't fall off. I laugh again.
“Right,” says Dennis. “Shall we get going. Sorry I was late but I’m not sure the post code you gave me was quite right. Anyway, I’ve had a bit of trouble finding you.”
“Oh surely not. I can't have!” As we walk down the path I dig out my smartphone and start prodding at it.
“Honestly it doesn't matter,” says Dennis, irritation creeping into his voice. “Look….er….” he sees I’m unsteady on my heels and seems a little alarmed. “Why don't you check when we get to the pub. Hmm?”
I sigh. Of course he’s right. It doesn’t matter. It’s just that I’m so overwrought. As I was OK at the business breakfast and acting normally (I do hope anyway), he must now be wondering if he’s made a major miscalculation asking me out. It’s only since then that all these negative thoughts and uncertainties have been piling in. I take a deep breath, which is a mistake as the tight dress rides up six inches exposing far more white flabby thigh than I would have wished. I dread to think what’ll happen when I sit down.
THE SORCERER’S KITCHEN is one of those done-up old locals, the spit and sawdust swept away and the deeply beer-soaked patterned carpet removed in favour of sanded, limed floorboards, the flock wallpaper stripped off and the walls painted a tasteful pastel shade of sage green, with the beams and uprights painted a slightly darker shade from the same palette. The surface finish is flat as befits a modern gastro-pub; no shiny common old gloss paint. Even the pub’s old name, which I’ve forgotten as we didn't move to the village until relatively recently, was exchanged for this more distinctive eye-catching title. A raft of advertising has ensured that it’s now a popular watering hole and eating establishment for professionals young and older and it’s already quite full when we arrive.
As the name implies, they serve meals now instead of just Mars bars and packets of pork scratchings, and delicious smells are emanating from the dining area. I kick myself for refusing the offer of a meal as Dennis casts about for a free table. Spotting one at length, he leads the way and I follow as any seriously interested female penguin surely would and just as awkwardly given my choice of wear tonight. So now we have the let-me-take-your-coat, sitting down and what-would-you-like-to-drink rituals. He even pulls a chair out for me and I try to ensure that my derrière makes contact with it and doesn't land on the floor instead. I’ve nearly done that before, unaccustomed as I am to a great deal of male gallantry.
While he’s off at the bar, I dwell on what we might converse about as he of course is bound to be far more cultured and accomplished than I am. I now belatedly realise that it would have been so much easier if we could have broken the ice by choosing a wine and studying the menu at length. Luckily the bar is three deep so he takes ages to come back with our drinks. I drag my chair and legs as far as possible under the table since my dress has ridden up to more or less crotch level now and, though I tug and heave at it, I can't get it to shift back down any closer to my knees. This means that my forearms are resting on the table. I try to remember not to lean on one hand as I’ve been led to believe that this is rude and looks as though you’re tired and/or bored. Therefore I resort to fiddling with the beer mats and the salt and pepper on the tables for those wanting bar snacks.
I fall to thinking about the name Dennis. I don't know many Dennises, or even of many. In fact the only one I can think of off the top of my head is Dennis Pennis, a fake reporter who would accost celebrities at major events and ask them awkward questions as in to a famous actress: “If it wasn't gratuitous and it was tastefully done, would you consider keeping your clothes on in a movie?” Or to a producer: “You have nine toilets in your house. You obviously make a lot more crap than people give you credit for.” I begin to cheer up a little thinking of these put downs. They appealed to my infantile brain at the time and they still do. Dennis Pennis used to wear spectacles with revolving circles on the lenses. Dennis himself wears specs. Rather nice dark-framed ones actually that suit him.
“I see something’s tickled you,” I suddenly hear him say from behind and I jump guiltily hoping the s
ound I can hear isn't my dress seam giving way but I think it’s just the chair leg scraping the floor a little as I turn around. He must’ve been spying on me from the bar. Dennis obviously expects an answer to his implied question since he’s looking at me as he sits down, planting the drinks on the table, and I’m not sure how to get out of this one. I have to say something, as others regard with suspicion people who laugh and smile to themselves for no reason.
“Oh. Um. I was just thinking about something funny that happened at work today,” I say to buy time. Then I utter the first thing that filters into my conscious mind from the muddle of my subconscious, penetrating through the thick treacherous and tangled barrier in between designed to protect the public at large from my worst and most excessively idiotic imaginings. “It was….er….a client who wanted a covenant placed on the property she’s selling obliging all future owners to maintain her deceased cat’s grave in perpetuity.” I knock back most of my white wine. This isn't true of course. The nearest I’ve ever heard was a title encumbered with a covenant to maintain a tree planted in memory of a deceased son. But that’s different and sad. Not at all funny. However dead cat stories do sometime make people laugh. In my experience.
Not Dennis however. He looks at me seriously through the medium strength lenses of his spectacles and says: “My cat’s just died.”
“Oh.” I wilt and take another drink. “Oh Dennis I’m so sorry.” I place a hand on his arm and he looks down at it. My expression must be stricken since he quickly back-tracks.
“No. Actually it was some months ago and he was living with my ex-wife.” He raises his face to mine with a smile. I still appear horrified I suppose at my faux pas. “Really it’s no big deal. She didn't want any kids so we got the cat when we married fifteen years ago. He was hers really, though he was a nice old thing.” I’m still mortified. “Look I’m sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I meant it as a joke actually.”
“But you looked so serious!”
“That was supposed to be part of the joke. I didn't realise it’d upset you so much. Perhaps we can just forget it and move on.” He takes a swig of his celebration ale and looks around while tapping the table with his fingers. Then he comes up with the conversation killer of all first dates.
“They’ve….er….done this place up very nicely,” he says. This must be the dating equivalent of “Weather’s not bad at the moment is it?”
My heart sinks. I know it won't recover after this. This evening was destined to be a disaster. We’re just not suited. There’s no chemistry at all between us. Maybe it’s my angst affecting everything and filling the air with negativity. Whatever, I mutter something about the walls being a nice shade of pale green. Honestly in any other situation it’d be laughable, pale green being the colour of nineteen fifties hospital wards, or sick peoples’ faces or actual sick. But neither of us laughs. Forgetting myself, I plant my chin on one cupped hand. Dennis scratches his forehead. I’m about to say something when he offers to go and get me another drink and gratefully I accept. I see he’s barely half way down his pint but then of course he’s driving. He asks if I’d like a large one this time and I say yes.
Once he’s back at the table all too quickly, I take a huge slug. These large glasses really are pretty big. Must be a third of a bottle at least. I feel I must say something to break the uncomfortable silence. It can't be about squash or golf or computer games or he’ll know I’ve been spying on him on his firm’s website. Though why not I think. It would mean I’d taken some interest.
“Er….from your website I gather you play squash and golf and that you’re interested in computer games. Seems like an interesting mix,” I say brightly.
“Oh, right. That thing does need up-dating. One of the other partners gave the details for it without really talking to the rest of us properly. I mean I play a bit of golf sometimes but mostly these days I go to the gym. My main other passion is opera.”
I try hard not to let my eyes open wide in dismay and panic. I can't think of anything I hate more than opera. My mind fills with visions of overweight contraltos in voluminous dresses belting out tuneless lines in Italian and German, put to music that sounds suitable for a nineteen fifties horror movie. In actual fact opera to me seems like they’ve invited a lot of mad people onto a stage to screech and bawl and howl and moan for four hours in mostly foreign languages. On balance it’s even worse when it’s in English.
As with the Dennis Pennis moment, I’ve no idea how to extract myself in a way that’s at all polite. And I’m getting sick of this so I just tell him straight what I think about opera. To give him credit he doesn't get stroppy but he asks me pointedly well what do I do then in my spare time. I’m fed up with all this silly business of trying to impress or at least trying not to unimpress (have I got that right?).
“OK,” I take a sizeable gulp. “Well I eat chocolate and spend time thinking up curses on my estranged husband and his new squeeze, making corn dollies with enormous bottoms to stick pins into, going out and getting drunk with my mates or those not yet knee-deep in nappies and,” I down the last of my drink, “there aren’t many of them left these days. Reading old Dennis Wheatley books about devilry in case I can find out how to really properly and effectively jinx the ex.” I flap my hand. “Doesn't work,” I say rather drunkenly, “Trust me I’ve tried.
“Oh,” something suddenly occurs to me, “another Dennis!”
“Sorry?” says Dennis.
“I was just earlier trying to think of other Dennises. And I c’d only think of one at that time. But o’course there’s Dennis Wheatley.”
I realise my speech is slurring a little. Dennis looks at me consideringly and nods. Now some men might have suggested taking me home at this point but Dennis offers instead to go and get me another glass of wine to which I, with no radar at all by this stage for the possibilities of making a complete ass of myself, agree.
I sit peering owlishly at the bar menu while Dennis is absent. The dishes, said to be smaller portions of items on offer in the main restaurant area with the addition of salad and chips, or salad or chips with the option of potato wedges instead, sound mouth-watering. I put it down quickly. I don't want Dennis to see me slavering over it. And here he is now with my drink.
“We could have eaten you know,” he says.
“No really. I’m….er….on a diet.”
Dennis nods again.
“So,” he say seriously, though I can't be sure he’s being serious, not really, “who was this other Dennis you thought of earlier?”
In vino veritas. “Oh, what the hell. It was Dennis Pennis.” Dennis lowers his head and covers his face and his eyes with his hands and coughs into them. I’m not sure what this means but when he takes his hands away he looks fairly deadpan.
“A natural thing to think I’m sure,” he says looking at me. Seriously. And nodding. “Anyway, so tell me Anna about your ex and what happened. Was it long ago that you split up?”
“Not that long. `Bout two months. Unless ‘course you count the extended period of his easing himself into this relationship with the Backside from the security of his marriage to me, the late nights, the inconsistencies, actually now I come to think of it the weekend away which he told me was with his mates.” I’d never thought of this before. “The bastard!” I tell Dennis. “He got me to book the bloody hotel room for him! God what a fool I am!” I slouch in my seat, swig my wine and critically regard my white thighs.
Dennis nods. “Look, you don't have to talk about it. Not if it’s painful. I just thought you might like to, you know, get things off your chest.”
I sigh, thinking about the state of the world and how my troubles are minor in comparison with….all sorts of other things. I shake my head.
“Anna,” I hear Dennis saying, “I think you’re a very nice woman, but I don't think you’re ready to start dating really do you? It takes time to get over these things. I know what it’s like.”
“D’you?” I’m trying h
ard to focus on his face and spectacles properly.
“Of course I do. When my wife left I thought it was the end of the world. And she didn't even go off with anyone else.”
“Didn't she?”
“No. And she still doesn't have anyone else. She just doesn't want me either. So. You just have to wait until you start to get over it.”
“D’you know Dennis? Tha’s just what I’ve been trying to tell everyone but they won't listen. And when I found bacterial growths, I thought I’d better do something.”
“Sorry?” says Dennis.
“Oh never mind. You’re absolutely right. I’ll take it out of the fridge again. If it won't turn into yoghurt, it’s too bad.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” says Dennis. He obviously knows better than to disagree with a drunk.
“An’ you’re right too,” I say, “Thank you for making me face up to the fact that I’m not ready for the bobbing and calling.” Dennis nods. I’m certain most men would in these circumstances. “But the food offering was ver’ much ‘preciated.”
“Good,” says Dennis kindly.
I realise of a sudden that Dennis is nice and kind and probably looking for a nice settled relationship. But with someone who isn't going to rail against her ex and talk about sticking pins into effigies.
I see that Dennis’s glass is empty at last. “Can I get you a drink Dennis,” I manage to say.
“No that’s fine. I’d better not. I’ve got to drive you know.” I think about his manly torso and its probable ability to absorb alcohol without undue effect.
“Oh, go on,” I say. “One won't hurt and I wouldn't mind another one.” I get up to go to the bar.
“No really,” he says. “Honestly you’ve had enough Anna. And I really can't have any more as I’m driving.”