by Matt Dunn
‘You live in a flat? What floor?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Because I’m going to be the one who’s going to have to struggle with the baby, pushchair, and the shopping, up several flights of stairs, not you.’
‘But there’s a lift.’
‘And anyway, what makes you think we’ll be moving into your place? I might have a lovely house. With a garden.’
‘So?’
‘So you can sell your flat and come and live with me in the arse-end of Hounslow, if you like.’
‘Er…’
‘Do you see my point, Will? You’ve got a lot of stuff to cover in terms of practicalities before you actually bother to work out if you like each other. But having said that, for a woman, if she really likes a guy, she’ll forgive him an awful lot. We think that we can meet someone and, assuming they show potential, we’ll be able to subtly mould them into an approximation of a human being. Just like I did with Tom, for example.’
From the sofa, Tom snorts. ‘Don’t mind me.’
‘I’m serious. You remember what he used to be like. No home skills, couldn’t cook, didn’t know what that funny noise was when you pressed that button on the side of the vacuum cleaner. Now? Well, he’s not perfect, but at least I know I can leave him on his own for a few days and he won’t starve, kill himself, or neglect the twins.’
‘So how does that affect what I’m trying to do?’
‘Because what you’re doing is asking someone to ignore that forgiving stage. You expect them to make a decision based on the presentation you’re making to them of you as an adequately sorted male. Which, trust me, there are very few of in this world.’
‘So you’re saying that no matter what I do, I’m always going to come up short?’
Barbara smiles. ‘It’s not just that. We want a bit of a project. And if we see you’re already sorted, well, we may not be quite so interested.’
‘Mind you,’ says Tom, ‘that’s assuming you ever actually get the chance to go on another date, of course. And speaking of which, how are you getting on with that internet dating lark?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Barbara. ‘Tom’s told me all about that.’
I give Tom a contemptuous look. ‘Thanks, mate. And actually, I do have a date. Well, maybe…’
‘Who with?’ asks Tom incredulously.
‘That one whose photo you saw yesterday.’
‘The teenager?’ says Tom. ‘Good on you.’
I can’t stop myself from blushing. ‘No. Not her. The dark-haired one.’
‘You’ve got a date? With her?’
‘Might have,’ I say. ‘Well, she’s asked if I want to meet up. Only problem is…’
‘Is what?’ says Barbara.
‘Where on earth do I take her? I don’t want to risk any of my usual haunts, given that I’m trying to project this new, er, father figure. If you see what I mean.’
Tom thinks for a moment while he sips his tea. ‘You’ve never actually met her before, right?’
I shake my head. ‘Well, not physically. I mean, we’ve spoken. Over the internet, that is.’ I decide not to add the word ‘once’.
‘And where does she live?’
‘London. I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Well, that’s what it says on her profile. But we’re not allowed to give out addresses. In case one of us turns out to be a stalker.’
‘What if both of you turn out to be stalkers?’ observes Barbara. ‘Surely that’d be a match made in heaven?’
‘I have had one idea,’ I say, ignoring her.
‘Which is?’
‘Well, I was thinking about the London Eye.’
Tom shakes his head. ‘Bad idea.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you can’t get off. Imagine if she’s awful. Or she smells.’
‘Or I could meet her at the Eye and take her to the pictures?’ I suggest.
‘True,’ says Barbara. ‘There’s that IMAX cinema near there.’
‘Even worse,’ says Tom. ‘You may want her to get a crick in her neck at some point on the date, but not from staring up at the screen.’
Barbara nudges him. ‘What about the Tate Modern?’
‘Great idea,’ says Tom.
‘The Tate Modern. The art gallery?’
Tom nods. ‘That’s right.’
‘For a date?’
‘It’s perfect,’ says Barbara. ‘In fact, that’s where Tom took me the first time we went out.’
‘But…’ I frown. ‘I don’t know anything about art.’
‘Which is precisely why you’re not going anywhere near the galleries.’
‘Nope,’ agrees Tom. ‘Head straight up to the café on the seventh floor. Grab a table by the window. You can see the whole of the city across the Thames. Beautiful view.’
‘Which is important,’ says Barbara, ‘if your date turns out not to be.’
‘And,’ adds Tom, ‘the lifts are right next to the toilets, which means you’ve got a guaranteed escape route.’
‘Which had better not be the reason you took me there,’ says Barbara accusingly.
‘Seriously,’ says Tom, ‘it’s ideal. The view’s really impressive, you can have a coffee and a chat, and then, if you want to extend the date, just take her for a stroll along the South Bank. And it’s free.’
‘You big spender, you,’ I say. Although I have to hand it to Tom, it’s not a bad idea. What better than a coffee in an impressive environment, followed by a romantic stroll along the river? And if it’s still going well, there are loads of restaurants on the South Bank for an even more romantic lunch. Next time I speak to Sandra, I’ll suggest it.
‘Just remember to add “modern art” to your profile,’ advises Tom. ‘In case it’s raining, and you have to take her round the gallery.’
‘But I don’t know my Dalis from my–’ I struggle to think of another modern artist, and fail–‘daleks.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ says Barbara. ‘Nor did Tom. And his pathetic attempts to pretend that he did, when I could see that he was reading off the little cards next to each painting, were somehow endearing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I thought he was obviously trying to impress me. And that meant he thought I was worth impressing. Which was the biggest compliment he could have paid me.’
‘So no flashy restaurants?’
‘Will, do you really want the kind of woman who’s going to be impressed by that kind of thing? You’re asking her to be rather un-flashy for the next few years, don’t forget.’
‘And remember, be attentive, not overly keen,’ suggests Barbara. ‘And do more listening than talking.’
Tom laughs. ‘Which isn’t normally a problem where women are concerned.’
Chapter 8
But chance would be a fine thing, as there’s no sign of Sandra that evening, or even the following morning, when I try surreptitiously to log on at home without Magda seeing what I’m up to. And what’s more, there don’t seem to be many other women beating a path to my inbox. Even though I’m not in the best of moods, I still have to head into work; but as I walk into reception, I realize that I’m not the only one having a bad day, as I get to the front desk just in time to see Jen slam the phone down angrily.
‘That customer service training course was money well spent, then.’
Jen glowers up at me, but then her face softens. ‘Sorry, Will. It’s just…men.’
‘All men, or one in particular?’
Jen smiles. ‘All of them, in my experience.’
I don’t know quite what my next line should be. Jen, I know, has a boyfriend. Josh, he’s called. I’ve met him on a couple of occasions, when he’s picked Jen up from work. And from what I’ve seen, he’s a bit of a git. I think the technical term would be ‘rugger bugger’, all striped shirts and turned-up collars. He’s evidently the product of some stuck-up school, and has an arrogance to match. And from how I’v
e noticed he treats Jen, he clearly thinks women are somewhere below amoebas on the evolutionary scale.
‘Do you, you know, want to talk about it?’
‘You’re just trying to get me on that couch of yours. Anyway, I can’t.’ She pats her desk. ‘Phones to answer, people to receive.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll nip out and get us both a coffee. Then we can have a chat here. If you like, that is.’
Jen considers this for a minute, and then reaches for her purse. ‘Why not. Thanks, Will.’
I wave her money away. ‘On me.’
‘Watch what you say, or it might be,’ says Jen, forcing a smile.
I head back out and across the road, dodging the charity muggers again, and nip into Starbucks. When I get to the counter, Emma regards me suspiciously.
‘Dare I ask?’ she says, looking warily over my shoulder.
‘Just a cappuccino and a latté. To go, please.’
Emma raises one eyebrow. ‘To go? You are still allowed to drink in here, you know.’
To be honest, I’m still a little embarrassed after our last encounter, and I’m quite pleased to have a reason not to linger. ‘I would stay. But bit of a crisis in the office.’
‘What’s that?’ asks Emma, as she presses coffee into the filters, then sticks a jug of milk under the steamer. ‘Children running amok? A couple of women slugging it out in reception?’
‘Colleague with boyfriend problems, actually.’
Emma stops mid-froth, and turns to look at me. ‘And she’s asking you for advice?’
By the time I get back, Jen seems to have calmed down a little; that is, until she starts talking. Fortunately, it’s a quiet morning, because for the next half an hour the floodgates well and truly open, as Jen tells me all about her and Josh.
And as she talks, it makes me realize that she’s typical of a lot of my clients–and of a lot of people in general–hanging around in unsuitable relationships, letting their partners treat them badly, and putting up with it, all because they’re more scared of being single and out there, even when they’re as attractive as Jen is. And it’s a philosophy that I certainly don’t subscribe to.
‘So,’ says Jen eventually. ‘What do you think?’
I scratch my head, more to give myself a bit of time to come up with an answer than because I’ve got an itch. ‘It’s a tricky one.’
‘And?’
Ah. Obviously she wants more than that. ‘Well…’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I love him?’
‘Sometimes, Jen, that’s the least important thing.’
‘How so?’
‘Because love can make us do all sorts of strange things. Act in completely illogical ways. And love means we’re always more likely to get hurt. If you’d told me all that, but said that you didn’t love him any more, I’d obviously say you should leave him. So why should it be any different if you do love him? It doesn’t alter the facts of the case. Would you treat someone you loved like Josh treats you?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘So, turning that around, would you expect someone who loved you to treat you like that?’
‘I guess not.’
‘Do you think someone who loves you could treat you like that?’
‘No…’
‘So, what does that tell you?’
Jen doesn’t answer at first, but just stares at her half-drunk coffee. There’s a tiny blob of foam on the end of her nose, and I have to stop myself from reaching over and wiping it off.
‘That he doesn’t, I mean, he might not…love me.’
‘Jen, in any relationship, if only one person is in love, that’s not a recipe for success. Especially if the other person is taking advantage of that. Which I have to say, Josh sounds like he is.’
‘But I thought he might be the one, Will.’
‘Jen, you’re still young. Too young, even. So is Josh. Look at it from his point of view. And he’s a man, don’t forget.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Because a guy of that age, well, he might tell a girl that he’s looking for the one but, in reality, he’s just looking to give her one.’
Jen half smiles at this. ‘But I can’t split up with him, Will. It’d break his heart.’
If he’s got one, I think. ‘Yes you can, Jen. As long as you’re sure it won’t break yours.’
The phone rings, and Jen stares at it for a second or two before picking it up and asking the caller to hold, before turning back to me. ‘You’re too good at this, you know,’ she says. ‘Only one thing puzzles me.’
‘Which is?’
‘Why, if you’re such an expert, are you still single?’
The conversation with Jen puts me into a reflective mood, so I spend longer than normal with my clients today, pausing every couple of hours to check NewFlames, but there’s still no sign of Sandra. I’m starting to think that she’s ‘met’ someone else, or maybe I’m not her type–in both senses of the word.
I’m home by six, and it’s not raining. There’s nothing on television, and it’s too early for dinner, so I’m faced with no alternative: I go for a run.
I refuse to call it ‘jogging’. That’s what unfit people do–and besides, jogging’s just more of a fast walk, really. And how can you tell the difference? Well, according to the textbooks, if you have difficulty holding a conversation while you’re doing it, it’s running. But I’m not running with anyone, and I’d look stupid trying to talk to myself.
But running or jogging, it’s still a sad, single man’s activity. If I was half of a couple, I wouldn’t waste my time pounding the streets every evening. I can never understand those sad couples who go out jogging together. What’s the point? Is the guy so pathetic that he can genuinely only run as fast as a girl? And besides, can’t they think of another, more fun way to get some exercise together? I know I could.
If I was part of a couple, I wouldn’t be wasting my time going out for a run every evening, like some sad Billy-no-mates. We’d be in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine, and chatting about our working days as we cooked something delicious, which we’d eat on the sofa in front of EastEnders. Pasta, maybe, or something with couscous. I long to have the kind of relationship where we eat couscous together. And I’m not even sure what couscous is.
Because running in the dark is the saddest thing of all. It says, ‘I’ve got nothing better to do with my evenings, so I’m going to go for a run in the hope that my slim physique will make me more attractive to the opposite sex.’ And it’s a vain hope, in more ways than one. If women were really attracted to runners, you’d see them hanging around at athletics tracks, or mobbing the winners of the London Marathon.
I entered a ‘fun run’ last year. ‘Fun’ and ‘run’–two words that have absolutely no business being in the same sentence. It was round Richmond Park, so at least the scenery was pleasant, and I enjoyed it at first, particularly because people seemed to be applauding me whenever I passed. In fact, I soon got caught up in the spirit of the thing, and started to wave back at them, acknowledging their support, and it was only after the third mile that I realized that they were actually cheering the blind guy running with his guide dog a few yards behind me. The last mile was the worst. It was supposed to be a fun run but this other guy kept trying to overtake me. I’d speed up a little and so would he. As if he was waiting for his moment. His opportunity to sprint past me on the final stretch. Which he did. Quite convincingly. And I wouldn’t have minded, if he hadn’t been wearing a gorilla suit.
I first got into running at school. It was something I could beat the bullies at. A way to stop them teasing me about my dad. Because it’s hard to take the piss out of someone if you’re fighting for breath yourself. Unlike the rest of the kids, I’d look forward to cross-country days. The loneliness of the long-distance runner? Not if you prefer your own company. And now here I am, some fifteen years later, pulling on a pair of reflective trainers, choosing an appropriate
playlist on my iPod, and ready to go out and pound the streets until my chest hurts and my knees ache, all in the name of ‘fitness’.
I head out of my flat and break into a light jog down towards the river front, then speed up and bound along towards the railway bridge. I dodge the drinkers outside the Slug & Lettuce, who seem to be happy to stand outside clutching their pints even on the foulest of days, then past the slipway, down by the White Cross pub, and along the towpath. There are a few joggers coming the other way, but being a proper runner I ignore them, and concentrate on getting into a rhythm.
And why do I do this? Put myself through this torture every evening? This reminder of my sad single status? Running is my thinking time, you see. If ever I’ve got a problem, I just have to stick on my running shoes and hit the pavement, and soon a solution will come to me. I don’t know why it is, but the moment I start breathing hard, my mind begins to process whatever it is that’s bothering me, and this evening, it’s Jen’s parting comment. Why am I still single? And although I do a long loop, all the way to Twickenham and back in fact, by the time I’ve finished, the only answer I can come up with is maybe it’s because I spend my evenings running, rather than trying to meet someone new.
As I walk back in through my front door, breathing heavily and sweating profusely, I catch sight of my laptop on the kitchen table, and realize that I’ve left myself logged on. But just as I’m about to sign out, I hear a ping–I’ve got mail. It’s not the Instant Messenger that Sandra used last time but hoping that it’s her, I click on the envelope icon, and open up the message.
‘Hi,’ it says. ‘I’m Cat Lover.’
Uh-oh. Cat lover. I click on the link, and open Cat Lover’s profile. She’s pretty enough, but cats and babies don’t exactly mix, I seem to remember from some news item I watched a while ago. Given her feline friendship, I’m just about to hit ‘delete’, before I notice on her ‘About Me’ section that she doesn’t actually like cats. ‘My name’s Catherine,’ she explains, ‘but my friends call me Cat.’
Hmm. Suddenly, Cat Lover sounds exciting, rather than sad. I’m sitting trying to compose my answer, while wondering whether I should jump in the shower first, when there’s another ping. Congratulating myself on my popularity, I click on the link, and see it’s from Cat Lover again.