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

by Nick Spalding

  Also, Laura has to pop off to the toilet several times, which is a bit strange as she only has one glass of wine and a diet coke.

  I can tell when she needs the loo as her left leg starts to jiggle up and down a bit and her brow creases in apparent discomfort.

  I’m not going to let a minor thing like a weak bladder stop me from liking this girl though.

  It was gone eleven before I reluctantly said I’d have to wind the date up thanks to a six thirty start the next day. This suited her as well. When you run your own shop, you have to be up at the crack of dawn every day apparently. Who knew flogging posh chocolate could be so stressful?

  The dull ache that had settled across my shoulders roared into life as I stood up, and I couldn’t stop a look of agony briefly crossing my face. Luckily Laura was putting her coat on, so she didn’t notice.

  On the walk back to the car, my brain once again threw up the kissing suggestion, this time by way of a goodbye.

  Go on. Do it. Just a quickie on the cheek, you bloody coward.

  This time I didn’t intend to argue. I liked this girl and thought it was worth a punt.

  We arrived at her bright red Nissan Micra.

  There was a nasty dent down one side on the driver’s wing. ‘That looks bad,’ I commented, pointing at it.

  ‘Yeah. Had to buy a car cheap. My old one was too far gone to bother fixing. This was the best I could find for the money.’ She ran a hand over the dent. ‘I call him El Denté’.

  That just made me fancy her even more.

  A tight body and a pretty face are one thing, but add a sharp sense of humour and I’m in heaven.

  Time for THE QUESTION.

  This is much like THE PHONE CALL. Its importance can also never be underestimated in the grand scheme of things.

  ‘I had fun tonight Laura. Would you like to get together again some time?’

  ‘Yeah, I had a good time as well. That’d be great.’

  Woo hoo! Now go for the kiss, you idiot!

  I do.

  And while this blog is full of embarrassing mistakes, social faux pas and idiotic moments in the life of Jamie Newman, this is not one of them.

  I don’t accidentally head butt Laura, or let out an unexpected belch into her face. I merely lean forward, plant a gentle kiss on her cheek and stand back.

  She offers me a heart racing smile and her eyes twinkle.

  ‘See you soon,’ she says and jumps in her dented car.

  I see her off and walk back to my Mondeo at roughly three hundred feet above the ground.

  That was yesterday, and I’m still buzzing.

  All that bloody stupid game playing can go to hell as far as I’m concerned - and with no concern for my own welfare I called Laura this morning and asked her out again.

  We’re due a second date at the weekend!

  Laura’s Diary

  Tuesday, May 24th continued…

  ‘Make sure you turn up late, darling,’ Tim had advised me in the shop that morning. ‘The right man will happily wait for you.’

  I’m never sure about these dating games, but Tim’s had more relationships than I can shake a stick at, so I followed his advice this time and got to The Barley Corn at nearly eight.

  I would have been a bit late anyway, given the length of time it took me to deal with my stupid leg wound. The gash needed a dressing over it, which usually wouldn’t have been a problem, except that tonight I was determined to wear my best jeans and the huge bloody plaster I’d put over the cut kept painfully ripping off every time I tried to pull them up.

  I had to resort to wrapping surgical tape right round my leg to keep it in place, which meant I couldn’t bend my knee properly. This caused a noticeable limp.

  Therefore, Jamie would enjoy a lovely evening with someone doing their best impression of Long John Silver.

  I hobble into the pub and see Jamie standing at the bar.

  I’m no expert at body language but from the way he’s stood so stiffly, it’s obvious he isn’t feeling any more relaxed than I am. First dates are not for the faint hearted.

  ‘Hi Laura!’ he says, and I walk over, resisting the urge to cry ‘Aaar Jim lad!’ and offer him the black spot.

  As I hobble towards him, there’s a very strange moment when Jamie appears to freeze in position, a blank expression plastered across his face. It’s like somebody has switched off the power.

  His eyes flicker for a second before he blinks a couple of times and re-animates, sticking his hand out for me to shake.

  ‘Hi Jamie,’ I say and take his hand. It’s warm, smooth and feels very nice.

  He asks me what I’d like to drink. I’ve got my nerves just about in check enough to only need a small glass of white.

  I figure if he orders anything that’s pink or has an umbrella in it for himself, I know I’m probably onto a loser.

  ‘A small glass of Pinot Grigio and a pint of Fosters, please mate,’ he says to the barman – who can obviously tell two people on a first date from a bloody mile away.

  Time to think of some small talk while the drinks are coming…

  I hate doing this. What the hell do you say to a complete stranger you’re trying to create a good impression with?

  Luckily Jamie saves me the trouble by coming out with something rather clever about how this is the point where we’re supposed to engage in small talk. It’s like he read my mind.

  Another tick goes in the mental list of check boxes.

  ‘Shall we not bother?’ I reply. ‘I don’t care what the weather’s doing, and didn’t watch any telly last night.’

  He laughs and the ice on this date is suitably broken with no injury.

  Jamie hands me my glass of wine. For some reason, as he does this, he lets out a little high pitched squeak from the back of his throat and for the briefest of moments it looks like he’s just licked a battery.

  This is the second strange interlude I’ve seen so far tonight. I hope they’re not a sign he has some kind of mental complaint.

  So far the advantages are outweighing the disadvantages though, so I let it slide and we go over to a table close by the window.

  Our conversation from then on is very enjoyable.

  Jamie is quite charming and can spin a good story. Not massively surprising since it turns out he’s a writer.

  I relax nicely into it, but I get the impression he’s still nervous throughout, as he sits upright the entire time and only makes small, careful movements.

  I think it’s quite endearing really… and a good sign he’s not a cocksure idiot.

  The only bad thing that happens is when my leg starts to bleed.

  There I am, happily talking about how bad Come Dine With Me is and I feel the disconcerting sensation of blood trickling down my calf, towards the hundred pound high heels I’ve only owned for a month.

  I have to beetle off to the loo on three separate occasions to sort the plaster out before the threat of a blood stained shoe is completely averted.

  Still, it isn’t nearly as bad as the piles episode from a few weeks ago and I don’t think Jamie notices I’m having a problem.

  As the evening wears on I become unpleasantly aware of the stock check I have to get up at six in the morning to do tomorrow, so part of me is quite glad when Jamie says he needs to leave as he has an early morning too.

  There’s another part of me that hates the infernal drudge of the working week though, as I’d be more than happy to stay here and keep talking with this handsome, funny guy for a lot longer - instead of having to rush off home early because I’ve got to pay the rent.

  We leave together and I manage not to limp too much as we walk back to where I’ve got El Denté parked.

  After a slightly embarrassing exchange about how the little red terror came into my life, Jamie asks if I’d like to see him again, and for what seems like the first time in my life, I don’t have to hesitate to say yes.

  My heart skips a beat as he leans forward to plant a soft k
iss on my cheek. I feel a little electric shock run down my back as he does.

  Having said our goodbyes, I drive away from The Barley Corn with the dumbest smile in history plastered across my face.

  So there you go Mum, that’s how I officially met Jamie Newman.

  We’ve already planned a second date. He’s promised to cook for me!

  I’m expecting to be struck down with some hideous, disfiguring disease any moment now.

  Or he’ll turn out to be a serial killer.

  Or worse – married.

  Love and miss you, Mum.

  Your surprised daughter, Laura.

  xx

  Jamie’s Blog

  Saturday 4 June

  I should have known.

  I should have bloody well known.

  Whenever things look like they’re going well, along comes Captain Cock-Up to ruin everything.

  It’s my fault really.

  What else did I expect from being so optimistic about a new woman?

  It simply isn’t in the great, galactic plan of existence for me to be anything other than a hideously lonely single bloke. Jamie Newman is simply meant to be a champion masturbator and video games expert.

  All that successful relationship stuff is for other men, who haven’t in some way offended the gods at some point in their lives.

  I don’t know what I did, but it must have been a transgression of enormous magnitude to deal me such a harsh blow - and remove yet another chance of a happy relationship from my miserable little life.

  Everything started out well.

  On paper it looked like a good idea as far as second dates go.

  Instead of the usual trip to the cinema or repeat pub performance, I thought I’d invite Laura round to my house for some grub.

  Now, I’m fully aware that this kind of thing is usually third, or even fourth date territory, but sue me, I liked this girl a lot and wanted to make a good impression.

  What better way to prove that I’m the right man for her than knocking up some tasty fajitas, along with a bottle of expensive red?

  No, get your mind out of the gutter, I didn’t plan on this being some kind of seedy night of seduction… just something a little bit different, with more effort on my part.

  I fully intended to sit at one end of the couch with her at the other, and a suitable amount of second date distance between us.

  From asking around, I’m led to believe that fajitas are a popular meal for couples in the very early stages of courtship. I have no idea why this is. I’m sure somebody with a beard and too much time on their hands would say it has something to do with sex - but they’ll say that about anything if it’ll make girls more attracted to their beards and improve their chances of a bunk up.

  Regardless, Laura seems to approve of the fajita idea. ‘Not too spicy though, please,’ she asks, and I’m more than happy to oblige. While I’m not going to attempt any horizontal shenanigans, it would be nice to get a proper kiss at the end of the evening, and having breath like our old friend Isobel probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

  Ever since I burped into a girl’s mouth when I was a teenager I’ve been terrified of food related disasters while dating.

  I promise Laura to keep the spice to a minimum.

  A speedy shop in Tesco provides all the ingredients I need.

  Such was my desire to create a good impression I didn’t even plump for the own brand cheap stuff. I went straight for the top of the range.

  I was particularly pleased with acquiring some of that very expensive free range corn fed chicken, which had been put in the sale section at 50% off.

  Laden down with various ingredients including peppers, salsa sauce, the chicken and an onion (chuck in the spice mix and that’s pretty much the recipe for fajitas if you’ve never attempted it) I wend my merry way home to begin my cooking extravaganza.

  As usual when I’m doing something outside my comfort zone, I over compensate.

  Instead of just going for a few fajitas, I also decide to cook nachos, cheesy jacket potatoes and a mixed salad – with an enormous chocolate torte for afters.

  You know that African village I could have clothed with my Primark purchases? Well tonight I was going to cook enough to feed the buggers for a week as well.

  I won’t bore you with the details of Mexican cookery. Suffice to say you chuck the fajita stuff into a frying pan, the potatoes in the oven and the nachos in the microwave.

  By seven thirty everything is cooked and I leave it to stand while I go upstairs to get dressed.

  The doorbell rings at eight o’clock (Laura is on time for this date – officially a good sign) and I answer it smelling and looking my best.

  She’s wearing a very pretty cream dress, which looks fabulous, but probably isn’t the best thing to wear when you’re about to eat messy Mexican food.

  I don’t point this out of course… I’m not a complete idiot.

  She makes appropriate noises over how good the food smells, and as I pour her a glass of red, I’m very pleased to hear her compliment me on the way I’d laid the table.

  This delights me more than it usually would because I had to borrow the table (and the matching cutlery) from my sister.

  It had been a right bugger to lug back to the house in the car. Single men don’t have much call for dinner tables (it’s much easier to eat your pizza straight out of the box while sat on the sofa) and I sure as hell wasn’t going to buy one for just one evening.

  I like Laura a lot, but let’s keep things in a bit of proportion, eh?

  I nearly picked up some candles from Wilkinsons to top the whole thing off, but thought better of it, as it’d be laying it on a bit thick for a second date.

  Unfortunately the table is quite small, so can’t handle the banquet I’ve cooked.

  I have to resort to dragging over the coffee table, which wouldn’t be too bad were it not for the fact my mate Ryan had drawn a penis on it in permanent marker last month while he was arseholed on cheap gin.

  I cover the offending phallus with the bowl of potatoes before Laura sees it.

  The meal itself goes off without a hitch. The non-spicy fajitas come out well, Laura likes the cheesy jacket potatoes and the chocolate torte is demolished with no concern for calorie intake.

  Admittedly, there’s still a mountain of food left at the end, but that’s what Tupperware and freezers are for, after all.

  We stay sat at the table chatting for well over an hour with no problems whatsoever. She isn’t even bothered when she lifts the bowl of potatoes and sees Ryan’s handiwork.

  By nine thirty I’m confident that the evening is going well and that the meal has been a success.

  Oh Lord have mercy, how wrong I was…

  Laura’s Diary

  Sunday, June 5th

  Dear Mum,

  I knew it was too good to be true.

  I don’t think I’ll be seeing Jamie Newman again.

  Things happened on Friday night that I am only now able to put into words.

  I’ve spent the weekend in mortified shock and while I’m usually happy to tell people about my dating misadventures, this one will stay between me, you, Jamie and whatever heavenly deities may be watching (and laughing their collective celestial bottoms off no doubt).

  The evening began with the customary hatred of my wardrobe.

  There was literally only one item I could wear that was suitable: the lovely cream dress I’d picked up for Melina’s wedding to Travis last year that I never got round to wearing because of the ‘incident’. You know… the one I told you about? Where she found all those pictures of her sister naked on Travis’s phone?

  The fallout has only just settled from that one.

  Anyway, that was the dress I wanted to wear.

  One problem though: I was going to be eating fajitas.

  Sloppy Mexican food and cream dresses do not a happy combination make.

  But what choice did I have? It was either that or the purple m
axi that sagged at the boobs, the cocktail dress with the permanent absinthe stain, or the Elvis jump suit I’d bought for a Halloween party two years ago.

  I’d just have to eat very, very carefully, that was all.

  It’s apparent when he opens his front door that Jamie has decided to wear an entire can of Lynx deodorant this evening. I let him off (and hold my breath) as at least he’s made too much effort instead of none… which is always better in my book.

  The rather lovely smell of cooking fajitas is even stronger than the Lynx and I feel my stomach rumble in anticipation.

  I’ve virtually starved myself all day to make sure I’m hungry. Even if Jamie is a terrible cook, I’ll eat whatever is put in front of me.

  This is another one of Tim’s valuable dating tips – one which actually makes some sense in a twisted, masochistic way.

  I needn’t have worried… Jamie is in fact a very good cook – even if he has made enough to feed an entire football team.

  His house is quite tidy for a boy.

  The Raiders Of The Lost Ark poster hung on one wall is a bit much, but at least it’s in a frame.

  ‘Signed by George Lucas himself!’ he says with pride, as if this is meant to mean something to me.

  Other than that – and the vast collection of DVDs that seemed to exclusively feature things exploding – Jamie’s bachelor pad is more than acceptable.

  I firmly believe the way a man keeps his house says a lot about him.

  There was one guy I dated years ago called Nathan, who thought that purple suede effect wallpaper all over the house was a good idea - along with a black sofa, black curtains and a matching black coffee table. His penis, along with his skill at conversation, was very small.

  Then there was Terry, who thought nothing of inviting a girl to his house, even though he had no less than thirty posters of Page Three girls stuck up with blu-tac in various places. There was even one on the toilet door, to be gazed at whenever he was taking care of business. Terry could talk the hind legs off a donkey, but was also severely under-endowed - and snorted when he laughed.