Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy)

by Nick Spalding

  ‘I’ll text you,’ I lie.

  The Pinot has the decency to feel a little ashamed of itself as Brian offers me a happy smile and drives off into the night - a content and sexually satisfied estate agent.

  I feel quite awful as I open the front door… and finally trip over the high wedges, landing spread-eagled on the carpet, painfully bashing one of my lumpy knees against the staircase.

  Yes indeed, Laura McIntyre is back in the dating scene with a vengeance, Mum!

  Love and miss you always,

  Your shameless and shameful daughter, Laura.

  xx

  P.S: I’ve received seven texts from Brian since our date, asking in increasingly fraught tones about when the second one is going to be. I haven’t worked out how I’m going to let him down yet without coming across as a complete bitch. I might get Tim and Dan to tell him I’ve come down with a dose of herpes. That should put him off.

  Jamie’s Blog

  Saturday 26 February

  There are invariably times in life when you wish you were somebody else.

  Last night, on my second blind date in as many months, I wish I’d been someone at least 73% more physically attractive - with an IQ ten to twenty points higher.

  Then I might not have felt like I was punching so far above my weight it caused oxygen depravation.

  Annika was a goddess.

  A blonde, perfect, golden-skinned creature of myth (or Sweden, as they apparently call it these days).

  New in town and my cousin Sean’s work colleague, she was looking to meet people. Sean thought I’d be the perfect candidate, given that he knew I was horrifically single and would therefore be guaranteed not to have any plans.

  ‘She’s stunning, mate,’ he told me over the phone.

  ‘Hmmm. Real stunning? Or let’s wind up the pathetic single cousin stunning?’

  ‘Honestly… drop dead gorgeous. You want to get in there before somebody else snaps her up – which they will in about five seconds. Shit, I’d have a pop if I wasn’t snowed under with three kids, and Denise didn’t give such a good blow job.’

  ‘Well… okay. But if I turn up and she looks like pig sick I’m going to kill you.’

  She didn’t look like pig sick.

  In fact, if someone looking like pig sick was at one end of the attractiveness spectrum, then Annika was at the other.

  It was ball-achingly terrifying.

  Because I didn’t entirely trust Sean – I figured he was either winding me up or just had very low standards – I didn’t go overboard with my preparations.

  Also, memories of Isobel the sex fiend were still at the front of my mind, so I was determined to stay sober throughout.

  The best way to achieve this was to pick a location that didn’t serve alcohol. I dutifully texted the number Sean had given me to arrange a date with Annika in Café Leon, a coffee shop in town that caters for people with too much money and chronic insomnia.

  Annika texted back that she was looking forward to meeting me - which was a good start.

  I naturally arrive early and spend ten minutes trying to decide which of the complimentary magazines I should be casually reading when Annika walks in.

  FHM and Loaded are definitely out. Empire will make me look like a movie geek and Take A Break will make her think she’s meeting a retard.

  I go for a copy of GQ - the magazine that no man actually reads, only buys to impress other people.

  It takes me a further five minutes to decide between sitting on the brown leather sofa near the counter, or at a nearby table.

  I elect for the table, given that while sitting in the huge sofa might be the more comfortable option, it would make me look like a five year old waiting for his dad.

  I shoo the waitress away when she comes to grab my order. ‘I’m actually waiting for somebody,’ I tell her, like she gives a toss.

  I sit back, open the GQ at a random page, and try to look as interesting and compelling as possible.

  Annika walks in and I know I’m in serious trouble.

  It appears Sean doesn’t have low standards. If anything he shows a marked ability to underestimate physical perfection.

  I’m not even going to bother trying to give you an accurate description of this girl.

  Instead, I suggest you spend a constructive ten minutes on the internet Googling ‘stunning Scandinavian girls’ and multiply whatever results you get by ten.

  That would be Annika’s uglier little sister.

  You may be wondering why I’m not sounding more positive about this. After all, how lucky am I to be on a date with this goddess?

  No.

  No, no, no.

  I’d have been quite happy if she’d just been a very attractive girl. I have enough self confidence to hold a conversation with a pretty lass, without becoming tongue-tied or making a fool of myself.

  Hell, I even bumped into Scarlett Johansen in the lift of a swanky London hotel once and managed to conduct a polite conversation with her while we rode the lift up ten floors. She’s not keen on fish, it transpires.

  So, pretty girls I can cope with.

  This fucker is flawless, though…

  I always thought being slack-jawed was something only people in bad books and movies ever suffered from, but it happens in real life too.

  Annika’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans that show off her long, sculpted thighs. Her honey blonde hair shines with health and light.

  It’s a saving grace she’s wearing a suede jacket when she walks in, because if I’d caught sight of how amazing her tits look in the pastel blue sweater she’s got on, my brain would probably have exploded.

  ‘Hello. Are you Jamie?’ she says with a gentle European accent.

  No! No, that’s not me, oh great and perfect one. How could a sorry sack of chicken faeces like me ever think he could be on a date with you? I’m sure this Jamie of whom you speak will be here shortly. I’ll just go and sit in the corner where I belong and try not to dribble while I stare at you.

  ‘Yes… yes, that’s me,’ I reply, in an octave higher than my usual speaking voice. ‘Pleased to meet you!’

  ‘Thanks, you too.’

  Annika takes her jacket off and I can’t quite suppress the slight moan of excitement that jumps from the back of my throat as she shrugs the thing off. Those are classic 34DDs if I ever saw a pair in my life.

  I will never be able to look at a blue sweater again without getting a raging hard-on.

  ‘What… what would you like to drink a coffee a tea or something else they do very nice muffins in here especially the blueberry ones I quite like the chocolate ones as well though they’re really bad for you!’

  No, I haven’t lost my ability to punctuate dialogue. That’s how it came out.

  ‘Um…’ Annika didn’t quite get all that - understandably.

  ‘Sorry!’ I tell her as she sits down opposite me. I take a deep breath and try to speak less like I’m off my face on amphetamines. ‘What would you like to drink? A coffee?’

  ‘Yes please. I’d like a latte, if that’s ok?’

  Of course it’s ok, you faultless bitch. I’d cut off my genitals if you asked me to.

  ‘Sure, I’ll call the waitress over.’

  Now, I am usually a pretty easy going, self-effacing kind of bloke. Not prone to being bombastic or arrogant. It’s just not in my DNA.

  However, being in the presence of Annika makes me feel more inadequate than an impotent midget with a one inch penis, so something deep down in my idiot brain decides I have to compensate for this perceived shortfall by acting big and tough.

  Maybe if I come across as a commanding, hyper-confident kind of guy I might actually stand a chance of getting out of this blind date alive.

  In any normal situation I would wait politely until the waitress was drifting past my general vicinity and raise a hesitant hand, calling her over in an equally timid voice. The waitress would fail to hear of course, forcing me to wait another few minu
tes until she’d finished serving the two Goths in the corner.

  Today though, I intend to show Annika my thrusting prowess…

  I locate the waitress over by the tills, raise one stiff arm skyward, click my fingers three times in sharp staccato fashion and virtually bellow ‘WAITRESS!’ at her from across the cafe.

  I realise my stupidity as soon as it’s out of my mouth.

  Annika’s perfect brow creases in horror as she processes the fact she’s on a blind date with Captain Arrogance.

  Everyone in the cafe is looking at me with various levels of disgust - including the waitress, who’s probably not used to being ordered around like a newly minted army private.

  She shuffles over, glowering at me.

  Annika is now sat back in her chair with her arms folded. You can already see the excuses to leave formulating behind those glorious blue eyes.

  ‘Aah… sorry,’ I say meekly to the waitress. ‘I’ve been suffering with a build up of ear wax recently and it’s made me a bit deaf.’

  As feeble excuses go, this one is a cracker.

  The waitress seems to accept it with fairly good grace though.

  From the corner of my eye, I can see Annika peering closely at my left ear.

  Things are not going well.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ the bored waitress asks.

  Well, if pretending to be confident has backfired, maybe coming across as a cosmopolitan kind of guy will do a better job.

  …and what better way to show how cool, relaxed and open to interesting new things I am than ordering an exciting flavour of coffee?

  ‘A latte and a…’ I peer over at the chalk board above the counter. There’s about ten different varieties on offer, none of which I’ve ever ordered. I decide to combine several in desperation: ‘…a skinny mocha cappuccino with a twist of lime, mint and vanilla please.’

  The waitress looks at me like I’ve just shit in her hand. ‘What?’

  ‘Er… a skinny… er, what did I say? Um… a mocha cappuccino with vanilla, lime and some mint. Add another shot of espresso as well. And some more mint.’

  She writes this down and offers me one last look of disgust before wending her way back to the counter to give the barista the strangest order he’s ever taken.

  I turn back to Annika, breaking her horrified examination of my ear hole.

  ‘That’s an interesting choice,’ she says.

  I lean back in my chair, waving a hand in a gesture of indifference that I think makes me look cool, but everybody else thinks makes me look like a screaming homosexual. ‘Well, I like to try new things, Annika. Life gets really boring otherwise, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Silence descends.

  Think of something to say, idiot.

  ‘Do you like coffee?’

  Brilliant.

  Here we are sat in a coffee shop and she’s just ordered a latte. The chances of her liking coffee are probably quite high, all things considered.

  To Annika’s credit, she answers this massively redundant question. ‘Yes. I drink it all the time.’

  ‘Really? Instant or ground?’

  Bugger me. Is this really the best conversation I can come up with?

  ‘Er… instant, I suppose.’

  ‘Excellent. Caff or decaff?’

  Why not just ask her if she enjoys watching paint dry and be done with it?

  ‘Caffeinated mostly, though I swap to decaff after 8pm.’

  ‘Me too!’

  At last! We have something in common!

  ‘Oh. That’s… that’s nice.’

  We lapse back into silence.

  The part of my brain that creates small talk has shut down for the day - citing unsuitable working conditions - and has bunked off for a smoke. What’s left is apparently unable to do anything other than stare at Annika’s breasts.

  I don’t want to stare at Annika’s breasts, but my sub-conscious has now dropped into some kind of default setting as a way of protecting itself from this awful date – and boob watching is the way it intends to cope with the situation.

  There follows a very uncomfortable three seconds where I know that she knows that I’m staring at her tits. A further two seconds pass as she realises that I know that she knows that I’m staring at her tits.

  It takes a Herculean effort to snap out of this enforced default mode and look her in the eyes again.

  For God’s sake, say something. It doesn’t matter what!

  I pick up the ratty copy of GQ I was flicking through before Annika’s arrival.

  ‘I read GQ,’ I tell her and waggle the magazine at her for added emphasis. ‘Do you read GQ?’

  Yes… yes of course she does. Her being the perfect audience for a men’s lifestyle magazine, you cretin.

  ‘No. I never have.’

  ‘I do. It’s great.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘There’s a particularly interesting article in this edition all about…’ I flick through the mag trying to find a feature. ‘…men addicted to excessive masturbation.’

  Oh crap.

  I stop the words ‘have you ever been addicted to excessive masturbation, Annika?’ from escaping my traitorous mouth and put the magazine back down.

  Another period of silence, pregnant with awkwardness, descends.

  It’s mercifully broken by the waitress, who brings over a latte for Annika, and something resembling nasal discharge for me.

  ‘Here you go,’ she says, offering me a smile. It’s a speculative smile, as if her and the barista have made a bet on how much I’m going to drink.

  Annika picks up her cup. Even she is watching me carefully to see what happens.

  With trepidation, I grasp the warm mug and put it to my lips. I take a sip… and immediately wish my taste buds didn’t work.

  It’s like someone’s blended a packet of Polos into a jar of Nescafe and topped it off with washing up liquid.

  My face crumples like a bulldog chewing a thistle.

  But I can’t spit the bastard out, can I? I’m the one who ordered this concoction to appear daring and cosmopolitan, so I’m going to have to drink it.

  I force a smile. ‘Mmmm. Lovely stuff.’ I keep my lips closed because there’s every chance my teeth have been irrevocably stained green by the minty coffee.

  ‘Is it nice?’ Annika asks, in much the same way someone would ask the Elephant Man if it was painful.

  ‘Yes,’ I say from between pursed lips. I take another gulp to prove how nice it is.

  It’ll be another four hours before my bowels extensively disagree with me.

  With a final grimace, I put the cup down and try to think of something else to talk about.

  ‘So… how are you finding the UK?’ I ask, hoping to salvage the conversation and move us away from coffee appreciation.

  ‘Oh, it’s very nice,’ she replies with sincerity.

  ‘That’s great. Missing Sweden at all, are you?’

  This animates her even more. ‘Yes. A lot. Especially my family. Other things too, though.’

  ‘What like? Never been there myself.’ This is better! Now I’m starting to sound like a proper adult.

  She looks up. ‘Oh, lot’s of things… the clean air… the friendly people… the scenery…’

  ‘The porn?’ I interject.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Oh shit.

  I laugh nervously. ‘You know. The er… the porn? Sweden’s famous for it, isn’t it?’ Shut up Jamie. Shut your big, stupid mouth. ‘My mate gave me about ten DVDs full of it last year… the girls all looked like you.’

  Annika is on her feet before the last syllable of that particularly stupid sentence is out of my mouth.

  ‘I think I should be going,’ she says, putting on her jacket.

  ‘But… but you haven’t had your drink yet!’ I point out, as if the idea of losing half a latte is enough to keep her in the company of what is apparently a sex-crazed, arrogant maniac wh
o drinks minty coffee.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she replies. ‘You can have it. I’m sure they’ll put some lime in it for you if you ask. Goodbye.’

  Annika turns to leave and without a backward glance she rushes out of the coffee house - and out of my life.

  …her arse is majestic.

  I look round to see the Goths trying their hardest not to giggle.

  My friendly waitress has disappeared under the counter. I can hear snorts of laughter drifting up from it.

  I sit at the table, leafing through GQ for a further five minutes. I feel this is an appropriate amount of time.

  I even take a final sip of minty lime coffee before getting to my feet, dropping eight quid in change onto the table (apparently a skinny mocha cappuccino with lime, mint and vanilla is bloody expensive as well as disgusting) and hasten my way out of the coffee house, vowing never to return.

  Sean texted me later that evening. All the message said was:

  You cock.

  I couldn’t really argue with that.

  Laura’s Diary

  Sunday, March 20th

  Dear Mum,

  I have the fashion sense of a demented chimpanzee.

  I am completely unable to put together a decent outfit that makes me look like anything other than a mad fishwife.

  My entire wardrobe is a sad collection of clothes from seasons past, none of which go together in an attractive ensemble.

  I’m in this state because I have a date tonight with a guy called Graham, set up for me by my hairdresser Stephanie.

  …yes, that’s how bad things are. I’m relying on the woman who hides my roots to sort out my love life.

  There’s nothing for it, I’m just going to wear black.

  Black jeans, black cardigan, black high heels.

  I’ll throw on a white t-shirt as well, so I don’t look like a cross-dressing ninja.

  Wish me luck Mum… I’m going to bloody need it.

  I’ll report back on my return.

  …