Romantic Comedy Box Set (Helen Grey Series Books 1 & 2)

by Hodge, Sibel

  I caught a cab to the hotel which was hosting the speed-dating. The taxi driver gave a knowing smirk when we arrived at the venue. Fumbling around for some money, I handed it to him, then dithered a while, psyching myself up.

  ‘In your own time, love,’ the driver said over his shoulder in a bored voice.

  Taking a deep breath, I summoned all my confidence and got out of the cab, striding up to the reception before I could change my mind. A girl who looked no more than sixteen stood behind the desk.

  I leaned over so as not to be overheard. ‘Hi, I’m here for the speed-dating,’ I whispered to her.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The speed-dating, where is it?’ I repeated, slightly louder this time.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ Her lips curled into a superficial smile.

  ‘Where’s the speed-dating?’ Even louder.

  ‘Sorry, madam, I’m not quite getting you.’

  ‘Speed-dating! Where is it?’ I finally shouted, looking round to see if anyone had heard me.

  An elderly man, reclining in a sofa by the desk reading the Financial Times, looked up at me with interest. He shook his head to himself and went back to the paper.

  She pretended to cough, but I could hear the snigger underneath it as she smiled at me.

  ‘Over there, in the conference room.’ She poked her finger towards a set of double doors next to the bar area with a sign which said in big bold letters, SPEED-DATING.

  Deciding I needed a hefty dose of Dutch courage, I meandered over to the bar, my heels clicking on the slippery marble floor, as I tried hard not to slip over. A couple of men were already propping up the bar ordering some drinks, so I waited patiently for them to finish, resting my elbow on the mahogany surface.

  They were having a ridiculous conversation about the benefits of lager versus real ale. I snuck a surreptitious glance at them, whilst they waited for their drinks. I thought I recognized one of them, but I wasn’t certain, and I couldn’t really place him, so I looked harder. Then it came to me in a flash of recognition. Bugger, I thought. One of them was none other than Mr. Porsche from yesterday. If that was the calibre of available single men, I’d never meet Mr.. Right in a squillion years.

  ‘Well, ultimately it doesn’t really matter what you drink, as long as it gets you absolutely bladdered. That’s what really counts!’ laughed Mr. Porsche’s mate, who was the size of an overstuffed hippo, with insipid piggy eyes, orangey-coloured freckles and bright ginger hair.

  ‘Yeah, last night I crashed out on my mate’s couch after a skinful and fell asleep. By the next morning, I’d spilt a whole can of lager on it.’ Mr. Porsche paused for effect. ‘Only trouble was, I’d drunk it first.’ He erupted in guffaws of laughter, slapping Hippo on the back.

  They collected their drinks and wandered off into the conference room.

  I ordered a red wine and soda with ice.

  ‘No one’s ever asked for that before,’ the barmaid shot me a strange look, as if I’d ordered something completely bizarre like a Marmite cocktail.

  I took a couple of sips, debating to myself about whether the night could get any worse. I knew Ayshe would kill me if I didn’t do it, so I took myself and my wine off to the conference room.

  I stepped inside to find three rows of individual tables with women sitting on one side and an empty chair on the other. A group of men huddled on the other side, trying their best to look cool. Suddenly, I spotted a Miss Whiplash impersonator, with jet-black straight hair pulled back into a long ponytail. She wore a spray-on black pencil skirt, teetering on the highest stilettos in the whole universe. God, how could she walk in them without getting a hip displacement or, for that matter, bunions?

  ‘OK, yes please, Miss!’ She banged a gong and pointed at me while everyone else in the room turned to gawp.

  Oh God, what have I done now?

  ‘Please take a seat at that table.’ She pointed to a table with a spare chair. ‘Please fill in your contact details on this sheet, so we can pass it on to any prospective datees. I’ll also need to take a twenty pound registration fee.’

  I felt like I was at school again and almost said ‘Yes, Miss’, but I bit my tongue and sat down, sweeping the room with my eyes, checking it all out. It was pretty damn full! I filled out the form and she collected it along with the money.

  ‘OK. The rules are this…everyone has to write their name on a label and stick it on themselves – the women have got some labels on their tables along with some plain sheets of paper – the men can get their labels and paper from me before they sit down.’ She waved a stack of labels in her hand. ‘When I give the word, all these gorgeous men must go and sit at a table and talk to the beautiful woman opposite for exactly three minutes.’ She paused, surveying her audience. ‘Then, after three minutes, I will sound a gong and the men have to move in a clockwise direction to the next table and talk with the next lovely young lady, and so on and so on. Ladies, you do not move at all.’

  God forbid we did something wrong, this place was running to a clockwork formula.

  ‘When all the men have been round all the ladies once, you must all make a note on the sheet of paper of any people you are interested in swapping details with and hand it to me. If the same parties want to swap details, then I will pass on their information to you. So, is that clear? Are there any questions before we start?’

  No one dared.

  ‘Right then chaps and chapesses, we’re off!’ She banged her gong frantically.

  ****

  A tall gangly man who looked like a weasel sat down at my table and began rubbing the end of his nose with his index finger, not once but four times in quick succession.

  ‘I’m Sean.’ He did it again.

  ‘Helen.’ I held out my hand to shake his, taking in his stuck-in-the-70s, wide-collared shirt – first four buttons undone – stick-on-chest wig and gold medallion.

  ‘I don’t do hands,’ he said.

  ‘Alrighty, then…so, what do you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m a property developer. Sold millions.’ He rubbed his nose again. ‘I’ve just done up a sweet little number of flats in Docklands. Sold ‘em all for four hundred and fifty grand a piece.’

  Did he think I had idiot tattooed on my forehead?

  ‘And, do you know what? The punters are so stupid. They only cost a fraction of that to do up. The fixtures and fittings I put in are the cheapest going. I make a mint, an absolute mint.’

  ‘So, what brings you here, then? I would have thought you’d have the girls flocking round you!’

  ‘I’m a bit fussy. I’ve been on so many dates lately. The birds can’t get enough of me.’ Rub, rub, rub, rub.

  ‘Right. Why do you think you haven’t met the perfect woman yet, then, with all that choice?’

  ‘Well, I don’t do commitment.’ He shrugged ‘And that’s the thing about women, always whingeing about getting a ring on their finger. Am I right or am I right?’ He droned on without waiting for an answer. ‘I don’t think they like competing with me either. I’m tall, good-looking, extremely rich. Let’s face it, I’m a bloody good catch. And they just get jealous of all the attention I get from other women.’ Rub. Rub. Rub. Rub.

  I took a sip of wine, and almost choked on it.

  ‘Well, what do you do?’ he asked me.

  Ha! I thought. I can tell a few little porky pies too, if you want to play that game.

  ‘I’m a professional pole-dancer.’

  ‘Wa-hey!’ He went into finger-rubbing overdrive.

  Bong! I was saved by the bell.

  The next one to sit down hadn’t made any effort at all. He wore a pair of ripped jeans and had long greasy hair, complete with bushy sideburns, which nearly took up his whole face.

  He leaned forward to me. ‘Don’t believe a word that guy says. He’s a complete liar, I can tell by his body language. All that finger-rubbing – it’s a classic example. He does it every time he tells a lie.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘I
’m a psychology student, I know about these things.’

  Now this would be interesting!

  ‘I think you could be right there.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve prepared a list of word association questions to see if we’re compatible.’ He took a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘I’m going to call out a word and then you give me the first answer that comes into your head. Are you ready?’ He unfolded the paper and began to read from it.

  ‘I guess so.’ I ran my fingers through my hair, wondering what that signified in body language. Complete boredom, perhaps? Beam me up Scotty?

  ‘Christmas?’

  ‘Ooh…turkey.’

  ‘Bunny rabbits?’ he went on.

  ‘Chocolate,’ I said. Was he for real?

  He made a note on his paper. ‘Interesting.’

  Was that a good or bad answer?

  ‘Holes?’ He tapped his mouth with the end of his pen.

  ‘Doughnuts.’

  ‘Dinosaurs?’ An intense look crept over his face.

  ‘Eggs,’ I laughed.

  ‘Grass?’

  I narrowed my eyes, head on one side for a moment. ‘Sheep.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying!’ He nodded, scribbling something on his notes. ‘OK, let’s try another. The sea?’

  ‘Turnips.’

  He looked up at me. ‘Wow! That’s very interesting. How did that question make you feel?’

  ‘Bananas.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. I haven’t done another word association.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I crossed my hands in my lap and waited for more.

  ‘OK, here’s a tricky one for you. Butter beans?’

  ‘A massive amount of wind.’

  ‘Are you taking this seriously?’ He squinted at me.

  ‘Absolutely.’ How could he doubt me?

  ‘Bananas?’

  ‘We’ve already had that,’ I said.

  ‘No, that was an answer, not a question. I can say it again if it wasn’t a question the first time.’ He let out a dramatic sigh. ‘Bananas?’

  ‘Food.’

  He suddenly leapt out of his chair. ‘I knew it, I knew it!’

  I frowned. What was he on?

  ‘I knew it would all come down to food. You see it’s simple when you know what’s going on. I’ve been working on a new theory for my thesis.’ He leaned forward as if he was going to let me in on a huge secret. ‘It all comes down to food, you know. All the problems in the world – all the trouble – all the wars – are actually about food. Take Iraq for example, that war was totally about food.’ He nodded manically.

  ‘So it had absolutely nothing to do with oil, political aspirations, or…crazy dictators, then?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. It’s all about food.’

  Two words: complete nutter.

  BONG!

  Thank God.

  As I saw the next one approach, I couldn’t believe it. He was the spitting image of Gary Newman, complete with leather trousers covered in strategically placed zips – only a bit older and more wrinkly than when I’d last seen him belting out ‘Cars’ in the 80s. It was so uncanny, I was convinced it was him.

  ‘Hi.’ He sat in front of me.

  I perched on the edge of my chair, studying him. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you are the absolute double of Gary Newman?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ He shot up, tipping his chair back and stormed off out of the door in a hissy-fit.

  All eyes turned to look at me for a moment and the room went deadly silent. I turned the colour of a beetroot and doodled on my piece of paper. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, everyone resumed their conversations, while I sat there alone in stunned silence. I was quickly losing the will to live.

  I heard the door to the conference room swing open again and my gaze slid to the door, expecting to see the return of Gary Newman. Instead, a dark head popped through the opening and quickly scanned the crowd. My eyes sprang open in surprise. It was Kalem. What was he doing here? Had he come for the speed-dating? No, surely not. Speed-dating wouldn’t be his thing at all, and anyway, he already had a girlfriend. His eyes locked with mine for a few seconds, a confused expression on his face, before he wandered over to me and slipped onto the now empty chair opposite.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Speed-dating,’ I whispered, bowing my head in shame.

  Kalem looked round the room. ‘How come you’re the only one not talking to anyone? Have you managed to upset everyone already?’

  ‘Look, it’s bad enough that I’m actually here, without you rubbing it in, as well. Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  ‘OK, come on then, ask me some questions while I’m here.’ He leaned back in the chair, folded his arms across his chest and flashed me an amused smile.

  I mimicked his calm and rather annoying posture. ‘How is it that you always manage to turn up at my most embarrassing moments?’

  ‘Well, Helen–’

  BONG!

  ‘Damn, there goes the bell. I’ll let you get back to your non-speed-dating, then.’ He grinned as the Hippo appeared. Kalem examined him for a moment and whispered in his ear, ‘Definitely a lesbian.’ And he casually slipped out of the room.

  The Hippo heaved his hefty buttocks down and the chair groaned in protest.

  ‘You got rid of that other bloke pretty sharpish, didn’t you?’

  ‘I told him he looked like Gary Newman. He wasn’t too impressed, though. Did you think he looked like him?’

  ‘Who the fuck is Gary Newman?’ His eyes formed into two small slits.

  Here we go again!

  I suppressed a sigh. ‘Oh, never mind.’

  ‘What do you think of real ale?’

  ‘Not a lot.’ I glanced at him, willing him to go away, feeling severe boredom and rigor mortis creeping in.

  ‘What about lager, then?’

  ‘Even less, actually.’ My eyes wandered round the room.

  ‘Less than what? Guinness or Newcastle Brown Ale?’ His piggy eyes bore into me.

  I stared back in silence, clenching my jaw.

  ‘Come on…get with the programme,’ he sneered.

  ‘What programme?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You just said, get with the programme. What are you talking about?’ I folded my elbows across my chest, blinking at him.

  ‘No I didn’t!’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘Yes, you did!’ I hissed.

  ‘Christ, you’re a bit of hard work, aren’t you, missy. No wonder the last one left.’

  When was this night going to end?

  ‘Are you a complete moron?’ I gave him my sweetest smile.

  ‘Are you a complete moron?’ he repeated in a whiney, high-pitched voice.

  God, how juvenile! I rolled my eyes, gazing off in another direction. He was the most infuriating excuse for a man I’d ever met.

  ‘I won’t be putting you on my list, that’s for sure,’ he said.

  As if I would even want to be on his list!

  ‘Good.’ I carried on looking elsewhere; if I ignored him for long enough maybe he would just go away.

  ‘You know what your problem is?’

  I tried to ignore him.

  ‘You’re a lesbian.’ He scratched his armpit and the whole of his flabby arm wobbled.

  ‘No, I’m not!’ I swallowed hard as a shiver of revulsion rippled up my spine.

  ‘Yes, you are.’ He waved his piece of paper rather rudely at me.

  ‘I think I’d know if I was a lesbian!

  BONG!

  Hallelujah.

  Before Hippo left he leaned over and whispered ‘Lesbo’ in my ear.

  ‘Ew!’

  I drank the rest of my wine, wishing I’d bought a whole bottle and wondering if it was possible to commit hara-kiri with it.

  A run-of-the-mill looking man was the next to appear. He wasn’t great-lo
oking, but he wasn’t bad. He had golden-brown hair, and a closely trimmed goatee beard. Our eyes locked and I couldn’t tear myself away. They were the most startling topaz colour, framed by long, luxurious eyelashes. Any woman in her right mind would have been completely jealous of them, and with good reason. I was hypnotized into their depths.

  ‘Hi, I’m Nick.’ He smiled, fluttering his eyelashes.

  ‘Helen.’ I returned the smile.

  ‘I’ve never done this before. It’s a bit strange.’

  ‘It’s totally weird. This is my first time too.’ At last! A normal guy! I felt myself beginning to loosen up for the first time all evening.

  ‘It’s just that it’s really hard to meet people when you get to our age. All my mates are married so it’s not as if you’re likely to meet people clubbing and stuff, like you can when you’re in your twenties. You have to resort to some pretty strange things,’ he said.

  ‘I agree. It definitely gets harder as you get older. All my friends are attached, which just leaves single old me.’ I nodded, gazing into his eyes.

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘I’m a wedding photographer. It’s good, I enjoy it.’ I played with my hair.

  ‘Wow! That’s interesting. I’m just a boring old plumber.’ He shrugged, returning my intense stare.

  ‘But everybody needs a plumber – in fact, I need one now. I’ve been trying to get one to fix my dishwasher for weeks but they keep letting me down.’ He could tackle my creaky pipes and washers any day.

  ‘Yeah, I am pretty flat-out, but I could definitely take a look at it for you.’ He grinned at me and his whole face lit up. ‘If you put my name on your sheet of paper, I’ll gladly come out. It’s probably only a five minute job.’

  ‘Well…that sounds good.’

  ‘No problem. So what do you like to do, Helen?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual sort of stuff…swimming, yoga, romantic walks, the cinema, eating out, cosy nights in…um, usually anything that involves quite a lot of alcohol…’ I trailed off, tilting my head. I didn’t want to come across as some kind of alcoholic, so I added, ‘Ha-ha.’