by Mandy Smith
“More or less,” he said. “It’s our culture – she’ll be with me until I’m married … and then she no longer has to look after me.”
I told Mahir about my job and my family. “We don’t have nannies where I was brought up, in Hartlepool,” I joked. “You’ve just got to get out there and stand on your own two feet, fend for yourselves. Although I do have a lovely family who I’m very close to.”
He looked at me through his long lashes. “Yes I think I might have liked that … to know my family a little better.”
I decided that Mahir wasn’t a psycho or a stalker after all, so I agreed to go for dinner with him that evening. “My driver will pick you up at seven,” he said.
As a precautionary measure, I called Ania to check out Mahir’s credentials.
“I know that name, Mandy,” she said, “I think his dad is a billionaire oil tycoon. Oh my God, you have to stick with him – we’ll be able to double date.”
“It’s just a dinner date,” I said, “I don’t even know where he’s taking me … what shall I wear?”
“Something sophisticated, Mandy. You’ll be going somewhere uber-posh.”
Wearing a knee-length black dress and three-inch-heel silver sandals, I went down to the lobby at seven to meet Mahir’s white-gloved chauffeur, who led me outside to a sparkling magnolia Bentley. “Your journey this evening will be approximately ten minutes,” said the driver, as he opened the back door of the Bentley. “Do relax and enjoy a glass of champagne,” he added, motioning towards the champagne-filled lead crystal glass nestling in a chrome holder. “Thank you,” I said, thinking, I could get used to this.
The drive seemed to take less than ten minutes. I’d only drunk half a glass of champagne when we pulled up at the marina. I was half-tempted to ask the chauffeur to run me round the block a few times so I could sink a couple more glasses – it was by far the most delicious champagne I’d ever tasted, and I loved the little angel wings on the bottle.
I climbed out of the car, clutching my half-glass of champagne (I don’t like waste), onto a red carpet that stretched out to the back deck of a luxury yacht decorated with white fairy lights. Mahir was waiting on the deck, holding two more glasses of champagne and flanked by two men dressed in dinner suits. Mahir had gone for more of a casual look: khaki shorts, short-sleeved open neck black shirt and flip-flops. I teetered along the red carpet, necking the half-glass of bubbly in two gulps.
“I thought we were going to a restaurant,” I said, stepping onto the yacht. “If I’d known, I would have worn more sensible heels.”
Mahir handed me a glass. I offered my empty one. “Shall we do swapsies?”
He passed the empty glass to one of the other men and reached for my hand.
“Mandy,” he said, lifting my hand to his lips and lightly kissing my knuckles, “welcome aboard. You look magnificent.”
Mahir treated me like a princess. He was the perfect gentleman – unassuming, kind and not too forward. We sailed around the Persian Gulf, watching the sun set behind the dramatic skyline of space-age skyscrapers, while feasting on an array of delicious dishes served at our candle-lit table on the deck by Mahir’s servants. It seemed like a never-ending meal, with at least eight courses, including salmon tartare, steak, lobster and caviar – all accompanied by champagne and palate-cleansing sorbets.
I was surprised by how much Mahir and I had in common. We had similar tastes in music; he too was a big fan of the French house-music producer David Guetta, and he knew almost all of the DJs I liked. When I told him the line-up from our weekend trip to the dance event Sensation White in Amsterdam the previous month, he almost burst at the seams, he was so envious. Mahir had it all – looks, loads of money and personality – but I didn’t feel any sexual attraction towards him. He ended our date by kissing my hand again. “I’m enchanted,” he said. “Let’s do this again next time you’re in Dubai.”
Our paths never crossed again. I didn’t think it would be fair to string Mahir along, even though I’d thoroughly enjoyed a little slice of the Dubai high life. So my hunt for a more suitable rich man continued.
My travels led me to David, a millionaire I met on a New York flight who made his living selling designer handbags and shoes. We went on a date in London, where he wined and dined me at Claridge’s. I told him about all the knock-off handbags I’d bought in New York and Hong Kong, and he laughed and said, “I can get you genuine designer bags –and shoes – for free.” He was in his mid forties and had gone completely bald, but there was a gentlemanly handsomeness about him that appealed to me. Following The Rules, I didn’t sleep with him, but I did give him a peck on the cheek at the end of the night and agreed to see him again.
My next date with David happened sooner than I’d expected. Less than forty-eight hours after we’d kissed goodnight, he appeared on my flight to San Francisco. I was preparing the meal service in the Upper Class galley when one of the call lights flashed. I headed out to the seat in the twelfth row and there he was. “Surprise,” he sang, smiling and waving his hands by his face like Broadway star.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“You mentioned you were flying to San Francisco today, so I thought I’d surprise you. I’m going to take you out for dinner tonight.”
“But I’ve already got plans – I’m going to the Cheesecake Factory with the crew.”
David looked up, his eyebrows lifting into the frown folds on his bald forehead. “But I’ll take you somewhere nice,” he said. “Come on Mandy, I’ve gone to all this effort. I’ve got no friends in San Francisco. I’ll be lonely … please?”
I took one look at his pleading face and relented. After all, he had splashed out two grand on a flight just to see me – it would be rude of me to decline his generous offer.
“Okay,” I said, bopping my head, “you can take me to that garlic restaurant – the Stinking Rose – I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“That’s the spirit,” he beamed. Where are you staying?”
“The Marriott Hotel, near Union Square … but don’t you go thinking you’re staying with me tonight.”
“The thought never even crossed my mind,” said David. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
It was awkward. As soon as we sat down to eat at Little Italy’s Stinking Rose, I was wishing I’d gone to the Cheesecake Factory instead. There were lots of uncomfortable silences and the conversation was jagged and clumsy. We didn’t seem to have much to talk about other than the fact that he’d turned up unannounced on my flight. “I must admit, David,” I said, pushing the garlic ice cream around my bowl, “it was quite a weird thing to do. What if I’d changed flights with someone? You would have wasted two grand.”
“Two grand is nothing to me, Mandy,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
On the drive back to my hotel David came out with a bizarre request. “Will you write to me, Mandy?” he asked, as we headed along Columbus Avenue. “Send me some emails?”
“Sure,” I said, “I’ve got your email address.”
“I mean real writing, Mandy. I want you to tell me about all your past experiences.”
“Okay,” I said, after a lengthy pause. “What do you mean by that?”
“Erotic stories. I can send you some that past girlfriends have written for me – it’ll give you a feel for the kind of thing I’m looking for.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. I didn’t want to insult him.
When we pulled up outside the hotel, I kissed him goodnight. It was a very garlicky kiss, David forcing his tongue into my mouth. “Thanks for a lovely evening,” I said, getting out of the car. “See you soon.” Although I think I’d already decided I wouldn’t be seeing David again.
Out of curiosity, I read some of the erotic musings from David’s ex-girlfriends when he emailed them to me that very night – they were filthy.
After David, I had a brief fling with a billionaire called Robert, who
owned a football team. Again, I met him in Upper Class, at the bar, and he showered me with expensive gifts and took me for fancy meals. But he was always cancelling dates due to his hectic work schedule. I was supposed to meet him in Orlando once for a romantic weekend at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel at Grande Lakes, but he texted me – just after I’d landed at Orlando International Airport – to say he couldn’t make it, because he was too busy at work. “The Ritz is booked,” he said in his message. “You should still go there – enjoy the suite.” I didn’t bother; I stayed at the crew hotel instead. I was starting to think dating billionaires was a bad idea, as you never knew where they bloody were, and they were always so unpredictable.
While I was in Orlando, I called Ania. I was disappointed that Robert had stood me up and figured some advice from my dating guru would lift my spirits. She answered the phone with a soft, croaky, “Yes?”
“Oh, sorry babes, did I wake you up?” I said.
The line went silent.
“Ania, are you okay? Speak to me. It’s me, Mandy.”
“I’m fine,” she said, and then burst into tears.
“The prince dumped me,” she sobbed. “His family have set him up with an arranged bloody marriage. He said he’d never be able to marry me, anyway – because of his religion.”
“What a bastard. He should have let you know sooner, instead of stringing you along.”
Ania sniffed. “He was the richest one so far, Mandy.”
I didn’t tell Ania about Robert – she had enough on her plate coming to terms with her own loss, but I’d decided not to be messed about by anyone anymore, so Robert was now history.
On New Year’s Eve, 2007 – just when I was losing all hope of ever finding Mr Right – Emma set me up on a blind date with a divorced millionaire security firm boss called Colin. “He’s a fair bit older than you, Mandy, but he’s a real gentleman, and he’s minted. He’s a lovely guy – got totally done over by his wife. She screwed him for £4 million.”
“I don’t know if I want to get involved with someone with baggage, Em. How old is he, anyway?”
“Early fifties, late forties possibly. At least meet him. I’ve got a ticket for you to a party at a mansion in Surrey this evening. He’s going to be there.”
I thought about Emma’s invite for a moment. She was being rather vague, but I wasn’t working, and I’d made no plans for the evening’s celebrations. I had no boyfriend, and most of my friends were either working or had already booked tickets for New Year’s parties. Maybe a blind date was not such a bad idea after all.
“Okay,” I said, “but if he turns out to be a nutter, you’ll have to rescue me.”
“Brilliant. I think you’ll really like him, Mandy.”
At fifty-five, Colin was old enough to be my father, but he had charisma and was quite fit for an older guy: trim, with silver hair and pistachio-green eyes. We hit it off immediately. He was witty, chatty and didn’t strike me as being a jaded divorcee. There was no need for Emma to rescue me – I enjoyed his company, and the more I spoke to him, the more I liked him. We danced all night at the party and, at midnight, as “Auld Lang Syne” played, we kissed beneath the disco ball. It was nice to feel wanted again – to be held and kissed. I’d been so lonely after being messed around for so long by Robert.
My blind date with Colin merged into a four-month relationship. But as I got to know him better, I noticed how insecure he was. If he thought another man was eyeing me off, he’d protectively grab my bum as if to say, “Eyes off, she’s mine.” Once, when we were in the Punch & Judy pub in London’s Covent Garden, he asked me to kiss him simply because he thought a group of lads were leering at me. “Quick, kiss me, Mandy,” he begged. “Kiss me while those guys are looking. I want them to know that you’re mine – they probably think I’m your dad.”
It was as though Colin’s wife had kicked all the confidence out of him. I felt sorry for him, so I did my best to boost him up and make him feel special. “Why are you so down on yourself?” I said after I’d put on a show for the lads he thought were ogling me. “You’re a great-looking man. You’re kind, generous … successful. You’ve got everything going for you.”
He took hold of my hand and dropped his chin to his chest. “I can’t believe that someone as young and beautiful as you would want to be with an old man like me,” he said.
I reached out and lightly lifted his chin. “Look at me,” I said. “You’re not old. I think you’re wonderful – there’re plenty of years left in you yet, boy.”
I honestly didn’t notice the age gap initially. I didn’t even consider what would happen if I settled down with Colin and decided I wanted to have children with him. This only became an issue after I’d had sex with him. It was the blandest, quietest, most mechanical sex I’d ever encountered. It happened one weekend when I stayed over at his mansion in Suffolk. There was no foreplay. Colin just slipped on a condom, rolled on top of me and started thrusting away. He didn’t even make a noise when he came. He just stopped, pulled out and rolled back over to his side of the bed. For a lass who’d graduated from the swing-from-the-chandelier school of sex, this was a shock to the system. I turned onto my side to face him. “Did you enjoy that?” I asked.
Colin smiled. “That was amazing, Mandy … fancy a cuppa?”
While Colin made the coffee I switched on the television – I needed some noise.
“I just had a thought,” Colin said when he returned to the bedroom. He handed me a mug and slipped back under the duvet.
“What?”
“I don’t need to wear a condom – I’ve had a vasectomy. My ex-wife made me have one after we had our second son.”
He’d already told me he had two sons, both in their late twenties, but he’d never mentioned his vasectomy up until now. I stared at the television, suddenly engrossed in an episode of Saturday Morning Kitchen.
“I’ve never really liked using condoms, anyway.”
I couldn’t conjure up a response other than: “They’re making hollandaise sauce.”
“Is it a problem that I’ve had a vasectomy?” Colin added.
It was a huge problem. “Well, kind of … I’m not sure what you can bring to this relationship, Colin,” I said. “I’d like to have children one day and …”
“That’s okay,” Colin interrupted, “I can get the vasectomy reversed. I’ll speak to my doctor – it’s a straightforward procedure.”
I let him down gently, thanked him for his kind offer, but told him I wanted to be on my own for a while. After that, I’d look for opportunities to meet single men closer to my own age – if there were any decent ones left out there – with or without baggage.
“I understand,” he sighed. “But if you ever change your mind I’m always here for you, Mandy.”
I kissed his cheek. “I’m sure you’ll find someone soon.”
The question was: would I?
CHAPTER 20
GOODBYE, DOLLY
It was summer 2007 and I was single … again. Single yet hopeful. I was certain my Mr Right was out there somewhere, and I just hadn’t found him yet. I was in great shape – the slimmest I’d ever been – and going on scores of dates with some lovely men, but none of them seemed to fit the bill.
I wasn’t alone; Laura and Felicity were also single and searching for love.
There was a moment – a drunken moment – when Felicity and I actually wondered whether we might be gay. It was a Friday night and we were on our third bottle of wine, sitting on Felicity’s sofa, eating pizza and moaning about men. “Maybe we’re lesbians, Mands,” said Felicity, filling my glass. “Maybe that’s why we’re not attracting the right fellas – because we’re giving off the wrong vibes.”
“Oh, I’d never thought of that,” I said, “That would explain everything. Mind you, I’ve never really had any lesbian inclinations.”
“Me neither … but maybe that’s just because I’ve never experienced being with another woman.”
“Do yo
u think we’re missing out on something?” I joked.
Felicity shot me a mock worried look. “Yes, I think this is the answer, Mands. I’m a lesbian … I must be.”
“Me too … I think.”
The doorbell rang. “Hold that thought, Mands,” Felicity said.
Felicity answered the door and came back into the lounge with Nick, one of our work friends. “Get your glad rags on, girls,” he said, waving two bottles of champagne in the air.
“Me and Mands think we might be lesbians, Nick,” said Felicity.
Nick cocked his head and fluttered his eyelids. “Well there’s only one way to find out, sweetie.”
Two hours later Felicity, Nick and I were in the Candy Box – the dullest gay bar in Kemptown, Brighton’s gay village – dolled up as though we were going to the Oscars and surrounded by lesbians. We tried to act normal as possible, by strutting in confidently – even though we looked completely out of place. The atmosphere was tense and miserable. Most of the other girls in the bar were wearing jeans, and some had shaven heads and facial piercings. “I thought you said tonight was ladies night, Nick” said Felicity, as we teetered towards the bar. “This lot don’t look as though they’ve gone to any effort.”
“I think ladies night just means lesbian-only night, right?” I said, looking at Nick for back up.
He didn’t speak, just shrugged in agreement – half pushing us through the doors by linking our arms.
We sat at the bar – me in my cobalt-blue silk dress, Felicity wearing a coral chiffon number – observing the girls. “I can’t really spot any good-looking ones, can you?” said Felicity sitting down on a bar stool, then, adjusting the top of her low-plunging dress to reveal more cleavage, added: “Do I look alright – am I giving out the right vibes?”
“You look great, babes. Do I?”
Felicity nodded. “Superb.”
All was fine until I went to the toilet and left Nick and Felicity at the bar ordering drinks. I was reapplying my lippy when Fliss came bursting into the toilets. “Shit, Mands, we’ve got to get out of here,” she said, tugging at my arm. “But we’ve only just got here,” I slurred. “How will we know if we’re lesbians or not if we leave now?”