At last he showed a modicum of polite interest in me and my own career. He was, after all, a man of breeding, the son of a former government minister and privately educated. And so we carried on conversing for the next hour or so (with me trying to keep it all in plain English) before he had to head off to watch some art-house film with a friend. We exchanged more cheek-kisses as we said good-bye and said we would meet up again. But I suspected we wouldn’t. It had been a friendly encounter but as they say in this game, ‘there was no spark’. Our personalities were not a good fit. And despite his rugged Latin looks I found Ramon strangely sexless.
The mojitos had been good, though, and I was reasonably well-oiled for my second date of the evening. This was with Jock (roughly the same age as Ramon), a burly, six foot three inch Scot and yet another beardy. I had never particularly liked facial hair and it was becoming strangely difficult to escape. Jock worked for a private equity company and lived in the Docklands. He had laid on the charm in his messages to me, complimenting me on my looks and ‘fantastic smile’ (which he followed with that tedious smiley-face symbol, as if to hammer home the point).
Jock lived in a high-rise block with a swimming pool and suggested I bring my bikini so he could check out the tan I mentioned I’d recently acquired in my garden. But I had had an expensive blow-dry that day and wasn’t about to spoil my hair in a pool. So we were meeting for drinks and a bite at one of the many Docklands hang-outs teeming with bonus-fed suits in ‘financial services’.
It had started to rain lightly and I reckoned I might as well have gone for that swim. Jock met me at the tube station (a process which took some time as, ridiculously, he was waiting somewhere out of sight) and ushered me through revolving doors into a packed bar. As we settled in a corner with our drinks, he turned his solemn gaze on me. He was less charming and more taciturn in person than he had been online. Neither bad-looking nor good-looking. One of those.
We discussed our respective circumstances and he explained that his divorce had recently come through from his wife, who he described as greedy and calculating. She had really made him pay. The proceedings had dragged on for ages and their rapacious lawyers had made things worse. I made a few ironic asides about divorce and relationships, but they fell flat, as he clearly didn’t ‘get them’. In fact Jock didn’t smile much at all and his pale eyes studied me closely, almost as if I were his prey, which I found faintly exciting.
When we had finished our food and drinks he invited me up to his ‘apartment’ for coffee. He lived high up, he told me, with great views of the river, the O2 Centre and boats and things. I knew exactly what he was inviting me up for but at that moment I considered only that I had never been in one of those glittering Docklands towers with their swanky lobbies and panoramic views. A coffee? Sure, why not?
The outlook from his windows was indeed impressive, although I had to twist my neck around to left and right to see the promised sights. Because dead ahead was another great glass tower, an office block with a million windows staring straight into his butch, no-frills sitting room and I wondered how he ever got any privacy. I sat down on his black leather sofa, leaned back and yawned. Dating was tiring.
He made us mugs of coffee, put them down on the glass table before us and seated himself close to me with an expectant look on his face. I took a few sips. Then he asked me what I wanted to do.
‘Dunno,’ I said, as I drank a little more coffee and gave him a noncommittal glance. Whereupon he abruptly took hold of my face and landed a big messy kiss on my mouth. Such a cliché that I laughed. Then without further ado he lifted me up and carried me off to his bedroom, like some Neanderthal carting off a helpless female consort to his cave. He lowered me onto the bed in his equally masculine bedroom, all dark wooden built-in furniture, vast TV screen and state-of-the-art gizmos.
Jock was a robust and practised shagger, in the way that most feral animals are. Hump hump hump. And the delicate chain necklace he wore was markedly incongruous with his caveman behaviour.
Three nocturnal humping sessions later, as the early morning light crept into his ‘apartment’, I felt drained and achy and ready to go home. At intervals during the night his various gadgets – phone, computer, god-knows-what – made urgent little bleeps and pips, waking me with a start each time, while he slumbered on. Apparently he never switched anything off.
When Jock, clad in huge, fluffy white dressing gown, finally got out of bed and disappeared into his butch bathroom – seemingly in no hurry to come out – I slowly rose and put my clothes on.
A little later we drank tea and I peered out at the myriad windows opposite, now with office workers moving behind them. Jock spoke in a monotone about his neighbours, who were mainly foreign. They were all right, he said. Unobtrusive. He said he liked living in Docklands and I began to understand why. The area was as cold and impersonal as him.
He gave me an empty peck on the cheek as I left and closed the door behind me. As I wandered down long beige hallways looking for the lift, I remembered my time with Little Pup. What a blinding contrast to the Jock experience. Really, I would have to be more discriminating. And no more of this sex on the first date nonsense. (Unless I really fancied it, obviously.) In any case, I knew I wouldn’t be coming back to this place. Observing Jock in the harsh morning light, as he lay in bed, snoring, legs akimbo, I realised I didn’t fancy it with him at all.
*
I’m sitting in the kitchen with my tall, blonde daughter-in-law Sara, 34. She’s also my confidante. I certainly tell her more about my doings than I tell any of my friends. She is not only astute but ultra-discreet and I trust her implicitly. We have periodic pow-wows over a bottle of wine at which we discuss how my internet dating is coming along, and one recurrent theme is how much I should tell my two sons, the older of which is her husband. She thinks I should keep it on a strictly need-to-know basis, and that they needn’t know very much. I agree. For a start, I think it might freak out my sons to know about my coupling with Little Pup, who is considerably younger than they are. Sara, on the other hand, is full of admiration for this development. I think she rather enjoys having a mother-in-law who cooks a traditional Sunday roast for the family one week and gets it on with a cute 23-year-old the next.
But now she eyes me with consternation and shakes her head. ‘How could you just go to his place like that, on the first date? He could have been a psycho. Could have done anything he wanted to you.’ She is referring to Jock. I try to explain that I acted on gut instinct, made a judgement call, and that at my advanced age I felt I was good at evaluating people, which gave me confidence and a sense of security. ‘I mean, yes it was rather a mindless hump-fest, but Jock wasn’t dangerous.’ But I know Sara is right. I had been silly and rash. I am not an infallible judge of character; no one is.
Neither does she think it was clever of me, the other night, to invite SuperA over to my house, sight unseen. Another potential axe-murderer. I squirm under her disapproving gaze.
‘From now on,’ Sara says, ‘just as a precaution, text me whenever you go on a date, with details of the meeting-place, the time, the fellow’s name. Then send an “all-safe” text afterwards to let me know you got home okay. Otherwise I’ll have to inform the police and you might get your door kicked in the next day.’
I laugh. I know this is the protocol amongst some internet daters. Women looking out for each other. And I appreciate Sara’s care and concern. But she is the mother of two small children and drops into bed exhausted by 9.30 most evenings, so I doubt she would be aware of whether or not I’d sent her a late night ‘all-safe’. I give her a hug and promise to be more prudent. And the irony of our role reversal isn’t lost on either of us.
*
The day before my awaited dinner date with SuperA, he texted to let me know he wouldn’t be able to make it. He had unexpectedly been swamped with work and for the next fortnight would have no time for anything else. He was really sorry, as he had been looking forward to it, but h
e’d be in touch to rearrange as soon as the pressure was off. He ended with the customary XXs.
I felt a pang of disappointment. I believed there was a real connection between us and was eager to build on it. But I understood about work constraints and wanted him to see just how understanding I was. ‘I’m sorry too, but no problem. Hope the new assignment goes well and looking forward to seeing you at the end of it. XX.’
Naturally I was surprised and dismayed when, logging on to the dating site the following morning, I noticed him online. (It’s always flagged up when a member is logged on, so that it is clear who is currently available for potential ‘real time’ flirtation.) I also felt another emotion I hadn’t experienced for a while: jealousy. And I hated it.
I hammered out a curt, resentful message. ‘Busy working, are we? You men are all the same.’
Back came his immediate rejoinder. ‘Beg your pardon? What's that supposed to mean?’
‘Do whatever you like, it’s all the same to me. But I’ve had enough of men bullshitting me.’
‘What’s this outburst about?’
‘It’s fine if you want to trawl around the site looking for females to cavort with but a little honesty would be nice. Needn't pretend to be out of action due to work. Just say you've got other fish to fry. As for me, I'm out. Not interested any more.’
‘I’m not trawling, just politely answering a few messages. What has this got to do with whether I'm working or not and why are you so pissed off? I haven't been dishonest with you. I'm mystified as to what I've done wrong!’
‘You gave the impression you were too busy to draw breath for a fortnight. So I was surprised to find you on the dating scene.’
‘Well, unusually for a man, I can multi-task. And I don’t appreciate being berated by you.’
End of conversation. And with that it appeared my ‘relationship’ with SuperA was over before it had really begun.
Why was I upset? I had hardly known him. Obviously I had read too much into the easy connection we’d made between us. I had thought it promising, but in reality there had been no promise. And I concluded that the reason for his lack of interest in the details of my life was that, the less he knew, the looser the connection, the easier it would be for him to cut me off when he decided my time was up. Maybe that was simply the way internet dating worked for him, and probably for most other men too.
As for me, the answer was not to care so much. After all, there was an abundant supply of willing men out there in cyberspace, as I was beginning to see. No point in crying over any one of them. From now on I would endeavour to stick to that principle. I’d toughen up. No more getting upset or jealous, no more being outwardly insouciant while remaining an unreconstructed old softie inside.
CHAPTER FIVE
At this point my escapades took an ethnic turn. I’d been receiving copious attention from a 56-year-old Indian architect called Jabir, who was divorced with three grown children. He bombarded me with messages that were way over-the-top effusive, jasmine-scented and sickly sweet: ‘Hello beautiful young lady, sweetheart and delicious one.’ And the next day: ‘Hello again, you clever little angel with beautiful eyes. How are you on this fine sunny day?’ And the next: ‘What are you doing on this gorgeous day, my gorgeous dear friend? Had lunch yet? Anything yummy? XXXX.’ And all this before we had even met.
His profile narrative said all the right things about how trustworthy and responsible he was, warm-hearted and considerate, etc. The usual spiel. And his picture showed a presentable, well-dressed man with swept-back dark hair, smiling broadly for the camera. So despite his tiresome Bollywood-style effusions, and in the interests of multiculturalism, I agreed to have dinner with him, choosing my favourite Indian restaurant in north London. He seemed pleasant enough, and it would be a new experience for me. I’d never had a date with an Indian fella.
We had arranged to meet at the restaurant at 7.30 p.m. But at 6 p.m. on the evening in question Jabir texted me to ask whether our date was for 6.30 or 7.30. I answered that it was 7.30. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I am there already.’ There already? What would he do at the restaurant on his own for an hour and a half? He didn’t seem very organised. I told him I couldn’t get there before 7.30. ‘Okay, see you in a while you gorgeous crocodile!’ he texted.
But when I turned up, on the dot, I was perturbed to see that he wasn’t there at all. I sat down to wait. After five minutes I dashed off an irate text. A further five minutes later he arrived at last in a fluster. It turned out that he had been waiting across the road in McDonald's, drinking tea and sitting by the window, ostensibly keeping an eye on the restaurant entrance for my arrival. Which he had failed to notice.
Clearly this would never do.
Wearing a shiny brown suit, Jabir took his seat opposite me and I could tell straight away he was not in jolly Bollywood mood. And if his brusque manner towards the waiting staff was anything to go by, he was not as ‘warm-hearted and considerate’ as he had painted himself. To be frank, he was also more ropey-looking than on his photo. His hair had thinned, he appeared haggard, and in place of the attractive smile with its even rows of white teeth, there was a dark, decaying hole on one side where a tooth should have been. I suspected this sight would put me off my food and was tempted to get up and leave. But there was enough of the old Ms Softie in me to stay, albeit with sinking heart.
On the upside, he had dropped the earlier toe-curling, gushy tone of his messages.
Being an Indian, I had assumed Jabir was Hindu. But it transpired that he was Muslim. We started discussing current affairs and various socio-political issues, and had opposing views on every single one of them. Put simply, he blamed George W. Bush for virtually all the ills of the world. And I didn’t. This was never going to be a meeting of minds. But I didn’t want an all-out row.
So I changed tack and asked about his dating experiences, and right away things became more interesting. He had been on the site for eight months, he said, and met a number of women, all in their fifties. Most, he said, were ‘desperate for physical intimacy, sex, TLC’.
One woman, who as it happened was Jewish, came out with an overt sexual proposal on their first date: ‘She asked me what is my favourite position in bed, and are there any special kinky things I like. But I didn’t accept her invitation. I said “Miriam, this talk is unbecoming to a nice lady like you.” Unfortunately I had given her my phone number and she called me a few times in the middle of the night. Thank god I didn’t give her my address or she would have showed up at my door.’
Other women he dated, he said, were just ‘very stupid. They wanted to talk about silly things, but knew nothing of world events. If I said to them, “I wonder whether Kim Jong-un will start a world war,” they looked at me blankly with no clue what I am talking about.’ I started warming to the guy, a little.
Then he recounted the story of the stunning 25-year-old blonde on the site who one day winked and messaged him warmly. He responded in kind, immediately smitten. (I could easily imagine it: ‘Hello gorgeous, beautiful, angelic-looking young lady, delicious, yummy yummy, how are you today and what’s for lunch? XXXX.’) She was foreign and a little vague when asked about her background, but he guessed she was Eastern European. Once they had exchanged mobile numbers her messages became more ‘sexually suggestive’ and he got hot under the collar, reckoning his luck was in. They set up a rendezvous at a big shopping centre on the northern outskirts of London.
He waited a long time for her at the agreed meeting place, but she never showed up. Later she rang to apologise: she’d been called away suddenly, her mother had suddenly been taken ill. Any bozo would have seen through that hackneyed pretext. But Jabir believed her: ‘I said, oh please don’t worry, that’s fine, mothers are very important, one’s sick mother must always come first.’ Whereupon the beauteous Cossack, or whatever she was, assured him that she was still keen to meet and gave him her new mobile number, urging him to call her soon.
‘A few days later
I rang this number and another woman answered. We talked and talked and I realised it was a kind of sexual services number and the woman asked me what kind of service I would like, full-body massage, etc., and she went through a long list and told me how much each one cost. I declined all of them of course, but it was embarrassing and I found it difficult to get off the phone. Eventually, after maybe half an hour, I hung up. And when my phone bill arrived I saw that the call cost me nearly £40.’
I frowned at him, lost for words. Jabir was au fait with world events. He knew all about the war-mongering tendencies of Kim Jong-un. But when it came to scams, there was no greater mug.
He admitted that, on reflection, it wasn’t likely that a gorgeous pouting 25-year-old (or in reality, perhaps, some ugly pock-marked con artist from the Caucasus) would throw herself at a middle-aged Indian divorcee living in Pinner.
When dinner was over and he had paid the bill and given me a box of high-quality chocolates as a present (a surprising move which I found quite touching), we made our way outside and he walked me to my car. We said how nice it had been to meet, interesting chat, lovely food and all that, said good-bye and shook hands. We knew we would not meet again.
The next day I texted to thank him for the dinner and wish him happiness for the future. In the end, he had proved to be gentleman. I just hoped he did something about that missing tooth. He had no chance of finding a girlfriend before then. None at all.
*
My multicultural dating continued apace. The day after my dinner with Jabir I had a date with a Turk whose user-name was the über-cheesy HelloToYou. A bespectacled, 34-year-old sales manager, he had been sending me earnest, detailed messages on a regular basis, filling me in on his daily activities, his work, holiday plans, sporting endeavours and opinions on the weather. Too much information, so I ignored most of them.
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