One of his messages had read: ‘I am looking for a serious, long-term relationship. But I realise that with our age gap it is less likely to be serious and permanent and more likely to be a casual one (at least at the start) but I don't believe that’s necessarily a bad thing. As long as we are both single and the chemistry exists, we can see how it goes, share quality time with respect, honesty and dignity. I am not after a one-night stand or a fling, though. Let’s meet and see if we are on the same page.’
In the end, after several entreaties (yes, ever the softie) I decided to give him a chance and agreed to meet for a drink. At The Bells. He seemed a well-disposed, if unexciting, bloke. Anyway, it was only a drink at my local.
I found a seat at an outdoor table and waited for HelloToYou, who informed me he’d be a little late as he was held up in traffic. A young black man in a leather jacket sat opposite me, talking and laughing into his mobile. He was telling a mate about a woman he’d recently met. He gave her ‘nine out of ten’, as I couldn’t help but hear. I glanced at him from time to time. He had an attractive smile.
At last HelloToYou arrived. He was shorter and slighter than I had expected, and even more staid. He bought us drinks and sat down next to me – a little too close perhaps – and we began talking about ourselves and what we hoped to get out of online dating. The black guy, who had by now finished chatting on his mobile, glanced over at us, his interest roused.
I explained that I was taking the dating lightly, not searching for anything too intense, no serious long-term commitment, no, not me. Meanwhile he studied me intensely and seriously, while edging even closer so that our thighs were almost touching. My personal space was disappearing rapidly and I wanted it back. When I glanced up at the black guy, our eyes met and a faint smile flickered across his lips.
My date then launched into a lengthy amplification of his position. He was after a love affair with ‘honesty and trust’, whether long or short, it was the quality that mattered, the passion. He found the idea of intimacy between a young man and older woman ‘very sexy’, he said. Then he added that he thought I was the right woman for him and we should try it.
How could I tell him that I too found the idea of that kind of intimacy sexy, but that he was far from my ideal candidate? For me – as for most people, I believe – physical attraction is a sine qua non. And I didn’t fancy him one iota. To boot, his personality was strangely colourless. So I suggested that we could be friends. A lame idea, admittedly, but I felt cornered with nowhere else to go, and anyhow, that approach seemed to work with NiceMan. But he dismissed the suggestion. ‘I’m not sure we’re on the same page,’ he observed mournfully. Same page? Not even in the same book, mate! I wanted to say.
At this point I looked at the black guy again and he winked at me. Now there’s somebody who is fanciable and looks like good fun, I thought. Why can’t I be having a drink with him?
HelloToYou remarked that the only basis on which he would agree that we positively weren’t on the same page (that tedious expression again) was if I told him that I felt there was no chemistry between us. That he could accept. So I took the bull by the horns and said, ‘Look, I think you’re a nice man and I’m sure the lady you’re searching for is out there somewhere. But it’s not me, because I don’t believe there is any chemistry between us.’
He nodded slowly and said ‘Okay.’ I felt a welcome wave of relief, like when you take off a bra that’s too tight and you can breathe freely again. A few minutes later we stood up and it was good-bye to you, HelloToYou. As I turned to leave I threw one last look at the cool black dude and we smiled at each other conspiratorially. A delicious moment and one I suspected he would soon be sharing with his mate on the mobile. Which was fine by me.
I was beginning to see that internet dating was rather like shopping for clothes in a charity store. It was a good idea, and ploughing through all the weird, odd-smelling stuff was a bit of an adventure, but you were only too aware that finding something you liked was going to be a tough call.
*
The following week I had a date with a Frenchman. This internet dating business was fabulously cosmopolitan, I told myself.
Édouard was in his mid-fifties, another divorcee, urbane and Continental in his manners. He had proposed that we meet to share a bottle of chilled French white at a bar in swinging Notting Hill. It was a warm sunny evening and we sat at an outdoor table in our sunglasses, chatting about our families, past relationships and work (Édouard was in advertising).
Our initial online conversation, a week or so previously, had gone well. ‘I love the name Monica,’ he wrote in one message. ‘As I held the hand of a girl named Monica when I was eight years old!’ Oo-la-la. When I mentioned that I was relaxing and sipping a glass of wine at my desk after a long day’s work, he asked: ‘What are you drinking, red or white?’
‘Red, Édouard. A nice little Fleurie. And feeling better already.’
‘Red is good. Although a fine white, Sancerre or Chablis, can “lift me higher”, to put it in a flowery way, without being a writer. Let us reconvene soon to have a glass or two of Sancerre…or Chablis…’
Something of a connoisseur, then, with Gallic charm. And while he was no Alain Delon, the face in his photos was unlikely to frighten the horses. All in all, it boded well. And now here we were, basking in the west London sunshine.
After our wine-drinking we decided to amble off in search of a light supper. We entered a noisy eatery off Portobello Road. It was packed with young trendies and we joked about being the oldest people there.
As we ate our steamed monkfish with sautéed beet greens and sipped a chilled summery rosé, we carried on talking – about our travels and the differences between Continental and British cultures, and then, inevitably, about some of the people we had encountered through internet dating. I can’t say I felt a sexual spark between us, but I enjoyed his sophisticated company and our freewheeling conversation.
It was still only 9 p.m. by the time we rose to leave. He walked out of the restaurant in front of me and as I watched him from behind, I noticed for the first time his slightly bow-legged old-man’s gait, like someone with gammy knees perhaps, or a dodgy back. Now he really did seem out of place in that hipster hang-out. It might sound shallow, but I knew I could never be romantically involved with someone who walked like that. Sorry!
We said good-bye at a street corner; I was going one way and he the other. We pecked at each other’s cheeks, agreed that it had been a lovely evening and that next time we’d go to a restaurant a little more in tune with our own style and generation. I wasn’t sure there would be a next time, if only because we didn’t seem fated to become anything more than casual friends. But that was all right. I reckoned he was the sort of chap I could one day invite over to a drinks party in the garden, to add a French touch to the proceedings.
A few days later, whilst perusing the dating site, I saw Édouard’s profile and decided to dispatch a friendly note. ‘Hello, hope you’re enjoying the summer. Been drinking any nice Chablis?’ But a box popped up on my screen with an astonishing message: ‘Sorry, this member has blocked you from making further contact.’ I stared at it. What the fuck? I said out loud.
I wracked my brains to think what could have caused him to take this draconian step. It had been an agreeable evening. Was it something I had said? I’m pretty sure I resisted the temptation to be rude about the French. Something I had done? Or did I have beet greens stuck between my teeth?
Then it occurred to me that he might have blocked me my mistake. Inadvertently clicked on some bit of the website. So I texted him: ‘Hi Édouard. Did you mean to block me on the dating site? If so, it’s fine, I’m just curious as to why.’
The damned frog never even replied. So, no mistake then. Maybe there were just some weird aspects to this internet dating business that I had yet to figure out.
And I was about to learn exactly how weird it could get.
CHAPTER SIX
A wink pinged onto my laptop and when I entered the site to see who had sent it, I found MaxE8. He was English, aged 30 and six feet tall. A graphic designer living in the East End. I was enjoying this attention from young men, and MaxE8 was attractive, even-featured, his dark hair worn spiky on top, the way young men often do, to give them that slightly bad-boy look. And there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. In short, he was sexy. And after my past three encounters, all I could think was vive la difference.
His profile contained the standard stuff about enjoying going out with friends to restaurants and pubs and films, while also being happy to stay in with a DVD and a pizza and the ‘right girl’, and how he liked to keep fit and was hard-working but also adventurous and open-minded. I’d read it all before. But at the end he had added: ‘There is more to me than meets the eye.’ Intriguing!
I winked back at MaxE8 and soon afterwards he sent me a message to ask how I was finding the site and what I was looking for, signing it ‘Max’. I said I was just after a little fun following the end of a long, difficult relationship. ‘Fun sounds good,’ he replied. ‘Maybe we could have that together…’ Wha-hey!
I told him I was fond of younger men and he answered that, as he was fond of older women, we might be suited to each other. This was getting better and better. ‘You look great for your age,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, for my age? Ha ha…’ And so we carried on for a while and I was enjoying the flirtatiousness of our exchanges. When I mentioned that I liked swimming he said he did too but that maybe we should try the hot tub together instead.
We agreed to meet for a drink the following Saturday evening and he took my mobile number, saying he would text me later that night.
At about 11 p.m. I was lying in bed surrounded by my usual accoutrements: newspapers and magazines, books, Filofax (I can be so quaint), notebook and pen, radio remote control, mobile phone, mug of peppermint tea.
My mobile tinkled with the arrival of a text. It was Max. Gone was the more understated tone of our earlier online chat. Flirty had given way to dirty. His opening gambit was: ‘Looking forward to ripping your knickers off, sexy!’
A part of me – the 60-year-old grandmother part, I suppose – thought I ought to be offended. Did he think I was some floozy? But I couldn’t get uptight about it. A hot-looking guy half my age fancied me. It was exciting and heady. So I took it as a compliment. And anyway, hadn’t I set myself up for this?
‘Ooh, hold that thought.’ I texted back.
Max had other thoughts, too. Including some very naughty ones involving threesomes. His favoured scenario involved us getting into bed with a ‘slutty 18-year-old’. Clearly, we weren’t ‘on the same page’.
‘I think you’ll have to do that with some other older woman!’ I tapped out.
‘How about a horny 18-year-old guy then? You would enjoy the kinkiness of it.’ Jesus. Compared to this, SuperA’s ‘saucy quiz’ was like something out of Dennis the Menace.
‘Maybe I’m not quite your type, Max. I’m a bit classier than that. Let’s concentrate on us instead of involving third parties.’
‘That’s fine. But you still like kinky naughty stuff, right?’
‘Up to a point. But there’s got to be some affection too, otherwise it’s soulless. Know what I mean?’
He didn’t answer that.
‘I want to kiss you passionately,’ he went on. ‘As an older woman you can instruct me on how to kiss you. I think we’ll be attracted to each other. Don’t you?’
‘Yes, but I need to like you, as well.’
‘Well I hope you like me then!’
‘Me too. Meanwhile, don’t think mindless shagging. Think making love. That’s so much better.’
And after a pause: ‘Do you want me to call you mummy when we’re making love?’
‘Oh for chrisssakes! No I do not!’
‘Just an idea.’
‘A dopey one. Right, I’m off to sleep. Good-night!’
I liked his fervour but he was definitely an unorthodox one, that Max, definitely ‘adventurous and open-minded’ as per his dating profile. Still, as the senior partner in this little liaison, the older woman who he said could ‘instruct him’, I reckoned I could rein in his wilder appetites.
But first we would have to meet for that drink and take the measure of each other. So on Saturday evening I headed back to The Bells.
*
I was sitting on a bar stool, sipping a glass of iced Zinfandel, when he walked in. Tall and cool, wearing jeans and a tight-fitting hoody which showed off his fit young body, and sunglasses which he took off so that he could wink at me. He looked even hotter than I’d expected. He kissed my cheek, murmured ‘All right?’, and ordered himself a beer. Oh yes. I was going to enjoy this date.
We sat down at a table and he started talking, easily enough, about his life. He liked his job but wanted to start his own design business one day so he could be his own boss. He said he enjoyed living in the East End – such a great area for creative types like him. And he explained that he grew up in Bristol and his parents were divorced. ‘Everyone’s parents are divorced now, right?’ he quipped. He said he never wanted to get married or even live with anyone. ‘I couldn’t do that,’ he said, rather too definitively, I thought.
Then he abruptly stopped talking, stood up and announced: ‘I’m going outside for a smoke.’ And before I knew it he was gone, leaving me sitting alone, glass in hand, at the table. A bit odd. And he was away a long time. Had he changed his mind about me and gone home?
But at last he returned, sat back down and flashed me a smile, and we picked up where we had left off. A moment later he said: ‘I’m starving. Should we eat something?’ So we ordered sausages and mash from the bar and as we ate our meal I stole glances at him, marvelling at the turn of events which had led to my date with a young hunk like Max, when only a few months earlier I had feared my dating days were over.
By this point I knew I’d be inviting him back to my place. I was dying for a snog. When we had finished our meal and came to a natural break in our chat, I gave him what I hoped was an alluring smile. ‘So…wanna come up and see my etchings?’
He looked confused. ‘Etchings.’ He frowned as if trying to work out whether we had mentioned etchings earlier in the conversation.
Obviously he had never heard the expression. Wrong generation. Perhaps I’d better not refer to Private Eye’s ‘Ugandan discussions’, either.
‘What I mean is, fancy some coffee at my place?’
‘Yeah.’ He gathered his things and stood up. We stopped at the bar to pay the bill, which was handed to me, as the tab was on my credit card. ‘I’ll give you the cash,’ he said, already making his way towards the door and taking another cigarette out of his pocket. I paid and followed him out.
We walked back to my house, less than ten minutes away, and when we got there I led the way into the kitchen, turned on the radio for some easy-listening music and reached for the percolator. But he wasn’t bothered about any of that. He took me by the arms and gave me a long and zealous kiss. Afterwards he had a look around and observed approvingly that the place was clean and tidy.
We got touchy-feely again and it wasn’t long before we headed upstairs. But once there, he did something unusual. While I entered my bedroom, expecting him to follow me in, he went off instead to peer into every other first-floor room, to ‘see what’s in them’. Like an estate agent sizing up a property for sale…which was what my house was, of course.
‘They’re just bedrooms,’ I called out, baffled. Maybe he was interested in the housing market? Or was he worried about possible strangers lurking in this big silent house?
Turning lights on and off in various rooms, he satisfied himself that there was nothing untoward going on. But when he saw children’s cots and toys in one of the bedrooms, he turned to me curiously and asked about them.
‘Grandchildren,’ I said. Now I knew I had to divulge my real age. Otherwise the numbers just
wouldn’t add up. ‘Max, I’m a little older than it says on my profile.’
‘Oh? How much older?’
‘Um…59.’
He eyed me shrewdly. ‘You’re sixty, aren’t you?’
I sighed and gave up. ‘Yup.’ I paused. ‘Is that a problem?’
I was expecting some show of disappointment, maybe even antipathy. But his mouth formed into a wicked grin and he said, ‘A 60-year-old granny. Even kinkier.’ And he kissed me again, hard.
*
Lying in bed, I watched Max take off his clothes and lay them down neatly in a row on the floor. That’s when he mentioned his OCD. And suddenly it all made sense. The examining of the rooms, the preoccupation with tidiness, the blunt statement about not being able to live with anyone. When he had mentioned during our meal that he never cooked because he didn’t want to get his kitchen utensils dirty, I’d laughed because I thought he was joking.
So. OCD. That must have been what he meant about there being more to him ‘than meets the eye’. Must be tricky to live with, I thought. What a palaver. I had never before observed this condition at such close quarters. But after years on Fleet Street there wasn’t much about the human race that could surprise or shock me. I could handle it. If this was as bad as it got.
But then it got worse.
Max was a forceful sex partner, strong and insistent. I didn’t mind that – although a little tenderness would not have gone amiss – because, like most women, I’m partial to the occasional ‘bit of rough’. But he took it too far, going at it with as much obsession as he put into his orderliness with clothes and kitchen utensils.
Pinning me down on the bed, he looked into my eyes and said the one word I had hoped he wouldn’t utter. Mummy.
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