She caught her line of thinking and scoffed at herself inwardly. How silly to fantasise about her therapist! Wasn’t that the oldest cliché in the book? A well-worn stereotype? Transference – that’s what it was called. She’d learned that from Kirk. Kirk, the therapist; the one who should’ve known better. How ironic that Kirk had been talking down to her all that time; telling her that she should change. And now here she was, being sent to a counsellor by her doctor; being told she needed help. Had Kirk been right all along? She dreaded to think so.
But this new counsellor – Jim – he seemed different; nicer, more genuine, kinder. Not up his own arse like Kirk was.
She shut the thoughts off and tried not to worry about it. No, Jim was not future relationship material, of course not. He was a therapist. He was doing his job. It would be entirely unethical. Besides, she was being silly. She needed to get out more; meet new people. So that she would wouldn’t be fantasizing about the first guy she laid eyes on.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Taking into consideration what Jim the counsellor said, Sasha decided to take small steps with the dating.
Small step number one was to sit down and upload her dating profile. She searched through Facebook to find a selection of photos which might generate some interest. Smiley photos, photos of her singing karaoke, photos of her playing air guitar, photos that would hopefully make her look fun and approachable, capable of having a good time on a night out. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind that actually, the truth was that it had been well over four years since she’d sung karaoke. Certainly the last year had consisted of her on the sofa, watching copious DVD box sets and playing computer games. Was she going to confess to that on her dating profile? Was she hell!
She wrote instead about all the bands she’d been to see, hoping that it would spark off conversation about music. She wrote that she enjoyed cooking and holding dinner parties, hoping that it would appeal to a need for a comforting domestic goddess. And she showed a few photos that were slightly more revealing – a short skirt, a tight top. She ignored the inner critic that told her that she’d probably put on two stone since those photos. Hovering her finger over the upload profile button, she felt a momentary wave of fear run through her.
What if one of Kirk’s friends saw her profile? What if they showed it to him? What if he guffawed at it, saying, ‘Ha! She’s still single. I had someone lined up straight after her and yet she’s still single.’
She could feel the waves of embarrassment and shame wash over her. But then she thought of the counsellor’s words. ‘If you keep doing the same thing over and over, you’ll keep getting the same results.’ Was she really going to let Kirk’s (imaginary) opinion of her stop her from moving on? Hadn’t he done enough damage? Besides, she was desperate to tick a box – to say that she had taken one small step today. Thank goodness for her OCD need to be organised, she thought.
She pressed update, then closed the computer down, vowing to have a look in a few hours’ time to see if she had any responses.
Imagine her surprise when, logging onto her account later that evening, a red box hovering over her messages said fifteen. Fifteen new messages! She felt her heart soar with excitement and gratitude. Fifteen men want to meet me! My word.
She opened the first message to view a picture of a red sports car. The message simply read “Hi, how r u.”
Really? Sasha thought. Blokes really thought it was acceptable to just put a picture up of a car and write a one-liner message? Reading his profile, it simply said, ‘I’ll fill this in later.’ Sasha immediately pressed delete on his message. If this guy couldn’t even be bothered to write a half-decent profile or post a photo of himself, he was highly unlikely to make much of an effort on a date.
So now she was down to fourteen messages. She clicked on the next one. No harm, but this guy had only a face a mother could love. Perhaps the photo would have been better if he’d got someone else to take it. But the angle was all wrong, he was staring down at the camera, the lighting was bad, he wasn’t smiling and really, in Sasha’s opinion, he looked like a convicted criminal. His profile read, ‘Does any1 actually meet up on this thing?’
That was it. One negative, self-pitying sentence that showed that clearly he had had zero luck so far. Sasha pressed delete again.
On and on this went, and her heart began to sink further with each pitiful message. Dangerously, her thoughts began to drift back to when she and Kirk had first met. The magical, romantic way in which they’d beautifully collided. As though it was meant to be. As though the stars had worked in their favour to bring them to each other.
A mutual friend had introduced them. Kirk smiled at her as though she was the most important person in the room. As though he only had ears for what she had to say. As though he found her really interesting. It was a far cry from ‘Hi how r u’ and ‘I’ll fill this in later.’
But she didn’t want to think about that just now. This wasn’t the purpose of this exercise. This was about taking one small step forward; not wallowing in the past to make herself feel more depressed than ever.
Thankfully, one of the messages looked promising. He’d taken the time to write a lengthy profile and upload photos of himself. He had a sort of ‘musician’ look about him – slicked-back hair, a pout, skinny jeans. Indeed, his profile talked about his love of music gigs and gave a list of bands he’d been to see. His message was chatty and informal and he asked her about her own favourite bands and who she’d been to see recently.
Having discovered they’d been at the same gig a year ago, she joked that he should’ve come over and said hello. He joked back, “My bad. Perhaps I could make up for lost time and take you out for a coffee?” It was effortless, easy-going and above all, she could give herself a tick for another small step achieved: been asked out on a date. Her heart soared with hope.
The date was arranged for that Saturday afternoon in Caffé Nero.
Interestingly, Sasha noticed that his texts became constant after that – almost on an hourly basis.
“Hi, how are you doing?” he’d asked.
“Grand thanks, just chilling and watching TV. What are you up to?” she’d reply.
“Same.” He’d answered.
Then an hour later, he’d texted “Hi, how’s it going? What are you up to now?”
Was this guy for real? Did he really need to know what she was up to every hour?
It was as if the sub-text was; ‘Hi, I’m still here. Do you remember me?’ and ‘Hi, it’s me again, please reassure me you haven’t forgotten me?’
Sasha couldn’t help but feel a little claustrophobic about this. Clearly this guy was very needy, if he wanted constant reassurance from her.
As if he didn’t come across as needy enough, Sasha was even more surprised to open a text from him to find a playlist he had made for her! She could’ve sworn that when a guy made a playlist for a girl, this was a sign that he was falling in love with her big-style. Had he really devoted the time and energy to compile a list of songs especially for her, when they hadn’t even met yet? Sasha had to admit, it unnerved her. It made her feel under pressure; as though he had heaped tons of expectations on her that she would like him and they would hit it off.
Or, another voice chided Sasha, perhaps it was her problem. Hadn’t it always been the case that she had run away from ‘nice’ guys? Guys that were too available, too giving, too needy. She didn’t feel comfortable around them. Undeserving. As though she didn’t merit all this attention and praise. Give her an out-and-out bastard any day. She felt much more comfortable around guys who were off-hand, unavailable and dangerous.
She was determined to meet this guy for a date. She wanted to tick off another small step. She wanted to give a nice guy a chance for a change.
So she dealt with every text on the hour; updating him on a regular basis to tell him what she was up to; stopping short of telling him that she was on the toilet or wiping her bum.
By t
he time Saturday rolled around, she felt like any mystery about the guy had completely vanished. But she turned up anyway, with her low expectations and her high heels; more to tick a box than anything else.
She saw him in the queue – his spiky hair and his skinny jeans. His wide smile, showing his keen demeanour. He was bigger; much bigger than his photos. His face was much fuller, his belly much more rounded, protruding over the waist of his jeans. Inwardly she chided herself. Hadn’t she too, posted photos of the slimmer version of her? Perhaps he too was noticing the extra weight around her face and the clothes which were baggier than the skimpy ones in her photos.
She told herself to just enjoy the coffee – enjoy the warmth of the frothy cappuccino on her lips; the bite of the chocolate tray bake. He was polite enough; friendly, chatty. They people-watched, commenting on the passers-by – making up little stories about what their life was like.
It was fun. She was having fun, she thought. She was away from her sofa. She was sitting in a window seat in a café. She was watching the world go by. She was being part of life.
It was just a shame she didn’t fancy him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sasha had another date lined up the very next day. This guy, according to his profile, was tall, slim and only twenty-eight years old. Twenty-eight! She did allow a brief flicker of doubt to flash through her mind at the huge age difference. Thirteen years of age difference. But if she was honest, she did want to glow in a momentary glimmer of flattery. A man thirteen years younger than her, what an achievement. Surely she was allowed a minor ego boost after the hell that had been Kirk?
So, armed with her handbag, her umbrella, and a heavy dose of hope, she set off to meet this twenty-eight year old.
His profile stated that he was six foot two; he liked running, boxing and weight lifting. He was certainly into his fitness. He was also a postman – which meant that he was on his feet every day walking. Surely this would mean he had the body of an Adonis? Facially, he looked okay – depending on the lighting.
Arriving at the café, Sasha was early. Sasha liked being early. She knew it wasn’t cool but Sasha’s OCD did not do cool. Sasha liked to be there early to get the seat she wanted, get comfortable, top up her make-up and wait patiently with an air of gathered togetherness. There was nothing worse than arriving late and looking flustered. His first impressions of her would be: frizzy hair, panic stricken face and a glisten of sweat across her forehead. She would then have to sit on a high stool picked by him, plumped in the middle of the café with everyone brushing past them every two seconds. She wouldn’t have time to comb her hair, check that her teeth were devoid of lipstick and pat a tissue against her slightly balmy armpits.
No, it was better to sit and wait with poised grace and perfection. She could pick a nice corner comfy seat, she could re-apply her lipstick. She could compose herself with confidence.
So she sat and waited. And waited. And waited.
Oh God. Was it possible that he was going to stand her up?
A brief moment of irritation and frustration flashed through her mind. How very dare he? Why bother arranging to meet up with someone and then just not bother turn up? My God, those dating sites are full of the biggest time-wasters on earth!
But then she reasoned with herself. Okay, if he doesn’t turn up, it doesn’t matter. I’m out of the house. I’ve gone for a walk. I can stroll around the shops. It’s not the end of the world.
Out of interest, she logged online to his profile. He was currently online! Did this mean that he was sitting at home casually scratching his balls in his boxers and checking out other women – or was he about to message her to tell her he was running late?
Throwing caution to the wind, she decided to message him.
“I’m here, where are you? x.”
She knew he’d reply with some pitiful excuse about how he’d forgotten, or how he had a sudden last minute appointment to take his frail father to the hospital. But she was feeling brave and reckless and she didn’t really care.
To her surprise, he replied with “I’m here! Where are you?”
All of a sudden, her bitter resentment of him lying around in his lazy-ass boxers disappeared and she felt a glow of considerate warmth for him. There he was, sitting in some other Caffé Nero across town, looking online wondering where she was.
Then ensued a minefield of lost and confused messages that went like this:
Him: I’m in the Caffè Nero next to Boots. Which one are you in?
Her: I’m in the Caffé Nero in Lombard Street where I told you I’d be. LOL.
Him: Where’s Lombard Street?
Her: Thinking – er – Google it? You’re a postman aren’t you? Surely finding directions is your forte? Erm… I can come to yours instead?
Him: No, no. Hold on. I’ll find it.
Sasha sat back, satisfied. Good. He had a bit of get up and go. He was willing to go on an adventure and find stuff himself.
Later, still no sign of him. She checked her messages again.
Him: I’m here. I’m sitting outside.
Her: Erm… I can’t see you. I’m sitting outside too. Which Nero are you at?
Him: The one next to City Hall?
Her: No. I’m at Lombard Street. (Like I told you the first and second time, she thought).
Just as her patience was wearing thin and she was about to give up and go home, she scolded herself. C’mon Sasha, you know which Caffé Nero he’s in. Just go round and say hi. So she plastered on her brightest mood and replied.
Her: I know where you are. I’ll come to you.
When she did arrive, she expected him to be apologetic, to make a joke about how crap it was that a postman couldn’t find his way to his destination, but to her horror, he was grumpy. He had a face ‘like a lurgan spade,’ as her mum would say. He looked exasperated, worn out and, what’s more, accusatory. As though it was her fault for picking an obscure street.
Luckily, Sasha was in a good mood and was willing to let his childishness wash over her. She was, however, disappointed to see that he was really rather unattractive. There was no other word for it. He had scabs down his nose and over his cheeks which looked like he’d been picking at them. And, well, he just wasn’t attractive. Tall, yes. Slim, yes. But attractive, no.
Inwardly she sighed, but chided herself that she was here now, she might as well say hello.
“Shall we take a walk around City Hall?” she suggested breezily.
He agreed and off they walked, finding a bench to sit on beside the lawns.
The conversation went a bit like this:
Her: It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?
Him: Yeah, great.
Her: So you work as a postman then?
Him: Yeah.
Her: Do you like it?
Him: It’s okay I guess.
Her: I suppose it’s a hard job when it’s raining?
Him: God, yeah. When it’s pouring, it’s like… oh God. But if it’s a nice day, it’s great.
Her: (Nods head politely).
Silence.
Him: (cosies up to her on the bench, body language a bit too full on, has the smug smile of someone who has the authority to cosy up to her just because they’re sharing the same bench). You’re very attractive. I don’t mind the age difference, do you?
Her: (stands up abruptly) I’m just going to put this in the bin (she points to her half empty bottle of juice. She returns, bristling with the ‘age’ comment and way he’d invaded her space).
Bit presumptuous isn’t it? You’ve no problem with the age difference? That would presume I fancy you, and want to be with you, when in reality you haven’t even passed the first date yet, which, let’s be honest, is like an interview.
“Shall we walk?” she suggested, ignoring his question and just glad to get away from his encroaching body language. In a way, she wished this date had stopped at the ‘stood up’ stage. Then she wouldn’t have had to endure this. She was already wonde
ring how she could wrap the meeting up and get away.
But that was when he mentioned that he lived in Magherafelt and that he didn’t drive – which meant that he had had to get a train up, which would have taken him forty-five minutes. No wonder he had no idea where Lombard Street was. Added to that, he confessed that, at twenty-eight, he still lived at home with his parents and yes, his mum did all the cooking and cleaning for him.
Sasha thought that perhaps there wasn’t a barge pole big enough to get away from this bloke.
“Well, that’s me,” she said, suddenly, abruptly and not caring how obvious she looked. “I’m going this way.”
His face looked crestfallen. “Is that it, then?” he asked. Meaning: I guess I won’t see you again. I guess this is the date over?
“Yes,” she replied. Confidently, assuredly, no beating around the bush. She was not going to waste another precious moment of her day off by pussy-footing around someone.
“Oh, okay then,” he replied.
And off she went. She pleaded with her mind not to drift down into a cess-pit of self-pity. Not to reminisce about Kirk and remember the good times. Not to compare the good dates with Kirk with bad first dates.
Remember the shit times, she told herself. Remember the shit times. Remember the shit times.
And unfortunately there were far too many of those to recall.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After the disaster of the postman date, you would think it would put Sasha off online dating for life. That it would make her swear off forever, with or without a solemn oath. Yet here she was, sitting in front of the computer again, like a moth to a flame; a sucker for punishment. She still clutched her hope, although now it was slightly battered. She was determined not to give up; not to fall at the first hurdle. After all, this was her year of living with no rules, of taking risks, of prying herself away from the confines of her sofa and her comfort blanket. This was her year of taking chances. Who knew what the outcome was likely to be, unless she was prepared to take risks?
The Year of No Rules Page 12