‘Or the internet?’ Sophia adds. ‘My assistant Karen found somebody on a dating site, bless her. She’d been single for years by the time she gave it a go. It’s not something I’d ever consider, but it looks like it’s worked for her, the poor girl.’
Is it possible to throttle two people at once? Or should I just go and buy a shotgun?
Then I come out with the well rehearsed and practised lie that every singleton knows off by heart: ‘I’m not really looking at the moment, actually. Happy being free and single, to be honest.’
You pathetic, lying bastard Newman…
Katherine sees the look on my face and quickly pours more Merlot into my empty glass. I can see veiled sympathy in her eyes, which is almost worse than the barbed comments from the other two women at the table.
‘How are things at the company, Iain?’ Dave asks, trying to steer the conversation away from my barren love life.
Iain and Mitchell proceed to try and beat each other in the ‘who gets the better job perks’ argument, but frankly my heart’s not in the contest anymore.
For the first time I’m acutely aware that I’m the only single person at the table. The half bottle of red wine I’ve now consumed is not helping my mood, so by the time the clock hits ten thirty, I make my excuses to leave and get up from the table.
I manage to suppress the urge to strangle both Angela and Sophia as they air kiss me goodbye.
Dave claps me on the back as I walk to the front door, blackening my mood further.
I don’t need people feeling sympathetic for me anymore than I need to be told I should try internet dating like that ‘poor girl Karen’.
My house is about a thirty minute walk from Dave’s place so I amble home in no particular rush, attempting to lift my mood by breathing in the fresh summer night air and thinking happy thoughts.
Needless to say, even though it’s gone ten thirty at night, there are still reminders of my terrible singularity everywhere.
…this always happens.
There’s nothing more guaranteed to bring hoards of happy, loving couples out onto the streets than when you’re trying to forget how single and lonely you are.
I decide to count how many examples of Homo couplus I stumble across in the two mile walk back to my house.
Eleven.
Eleven bloody love partnerships between me and my front door.
Can you believe that?
The bastards were coming out of houses, passing in cars, walking hand in hand down the street.
There was even one pair walking a dog. One of those poxy little Chihuahua things. That’s just not fair. Who the hell walks a dog at ten thirty at night? Is the sodding thing nocturnal?
I stumble back into my house, lock the door and sit down in the lounge to watch a bit of Saturday night television.
The first programme that pops onto the screen when I turn on the Sky box is Dating In The Dark.
Luckily I’m still quite drunk, so my aim is off and the remote control thankfully misses the telly.
I regret my outburst – and the broken remote control - ten minutes later when Four Weddings comes on and I have no way to turn the bastard thing off.
It’s a good job I went to bed before Snog, Marry, Avoid? started, otherwise the next day’s paper would have carried the story of my late night homicidal rampage through the streets, killing anyone who looked remotely like they were in a relationship.
…or walking a fucking Chihuahua.
Laura’s Diary
Sunday, August 14th
Dear Mum,
The sunburn has finally faded and stopped hurting as much.
I now look like a human being again, instead of a boiled lobster.
It was a fantastic holiday, but boy have I paid for not taking the Italian sun seriously…
Still, two weeks soaking up the Tuscan heat was just what I needed after the year I’ve had so far.
The shop is just about making a turn back into the black thanks to the new deal I’ve struck with the wholesalers, and getting Tilly in as an assistant has been a Godsend. I was sad that Tim had to leave, but I won’t lie when I say that paying Tilly a lower wage has really helped balance the books - and kept me sane.
My series of dating disasters put me on the back foot as well – particularly the fajita episode with Jamie Newman.
There were a couple of times I almost texted him to say hello, but as my finger hovered over the send button, I had flashbacks to thunderous stair farts and pedal bins - and hit delete instead.
The anniversary is always hard, Mum.
No matter how many years pass, I still dread July 17th. It never gets easier without you here.
When Charlie suggested the trip with her to Italy I was ecstatic. She’s a lovely girl and becoming a real friend as well as a housemate.
Her cousin’s villa was gorgeous, right out of a romantic novel.
Despite the crispy lobster complexion I walked around with for the fortnight after coming home, I can safely say it was one of the most relaxing weeks of my life.
So content was I when I returned I even agreed to go out with Martin, the blonde, attractive salesmen from the wholesalers I’m now working with.
It was completely out of the blue.
We were doing a stock check at the warehouse and discussing a potential increase in the amount of truffles on my monthly order, when he straight up asked me if I’d like to go for a drink.
I never even knew he was single!
I said yes (much to my surprise) and we had a very enjoyable lunch date at one of the local bistros in the shopping centre a few days later.
The second date was just as pleasant, this time for a couple of hours in the pub just down the road from me.
It was only when we hit the third that things unravelled spectacularly... resulting in a very unexpected development, it has to be said.
I’m not the kind of girl who believes in things like fate, but after Friday night I may have to re-evaluate.
In a change of pace Martin suggests we hit the town together and visit some of the clubs dotted around the city centre.
I’m pretty keen on this idea as I don’t think my mortal soul can stand yet another quiet country pub or coffee house.
Instead, we meet at The Frog And Figment - one of the popular bars in the part of the city frequented by the hip, happening young people.
I freely admit to being someone who happened about eight years ago, but I’m willing to revisit the hectic Friday nights of my youth just this once.
We both turn up in taxis, so we can drink without fear of subsequent criminal proceedings.
Martin certainly seems in the mood to let his hair down and has downed two Jack Daniels before I’ve even got halfway through my first vodka.
‘It’s good to be out on a Friday night, isn’t it?’ he shouts at me over the Lady Gaga spilling from the enormous speakers mounted close to the ceiling.
‘Yeah, sure is!’ I reply enthusiastically, trying to get into the spirit of things.
‘Rock ‘n roll baby!’ Martin shouts, knocks back the tequila shot he’s just bought and loudly claps his hands together.
It appears Martin becomes a somewhat different proposition once he’s got a couple of drinks inside him…
He was quite a straight-laced, quiet guy on our previous two dates, so I’m rather surprised to find myself in the company of a guy who says things like ‘rock ‘n roll baby’ with no trace of irony when approaching the legal limit.
Still, it’s been ages since I let my hair down and Martin is a good looking guy, so I decide to forgive him some alcohol induced exuberance and try my best to catch up in the inebriation stakes.
This proves impossible, given the pace at which Martin is downing shots. You’d think alcohol was about to be made illegal.
‘Lesss go to the Sheeter Lounge,’ he says about an hour later, draping an arm around me. ‘I wanna do some dancin!’
The Cheetah Lounge isn’t my favourite place, given the sp
eed dating / piles triumph of a few months ago, but I’m willing to give it a try. ‘Okay!’ I holler over The Kings Of Leon.
‘Great! C’mon then!’ He downs the dregs of his pint (this is one boy not afraid to mix), grabs my hand and drags me towards the exit before I have time to finish my vodka.
It’s gone ten o’clock by now so the queue to the club is starting to grow.
Martin and I stand with a selection of people younger, better dressed and more excitable than we are.
…actually, scratch that last one as far as Martin is concerned.
One of his legs is jiggling up and down and you can tell he’s dying to get on that dance floor and bust some shapes.
He pays for us both to get in (which my overdraft thanks him for) and we push our way into the already full club.
‘How about El Cheetos?’ he suggests. ‘They’re doing cheap tequila all night!’
‘Can we just go to the Jungle Bar instead?’ I respond. I don’t really fancy the Mexican section, having spent an itchy couple of hours in there. Also, Martin appears to have quite the taste for tequila. I don’t think being near a bar selling it for next to nothing would be a good idea.
‘Yeah! Alright! Rock ‘n roll baby!’ he virtually screams and does the hand clap thing again.
To use a phrase like that once can be considered unfortunate, but twice in one evening suggests we might be skirting close to the edges of a catchphrase here, which is a distinct no-no in my book… especially when it’s punctuated with that annoying hand clap.
Still, I’ve downed four vodkas, so I once again put the issue out of my mind as we head to The Jungle Bar and the dance floor Martin is no doubt desperate to shake his booty on.
And boy, does he shake it…
I’ve never seen somebody have an epileptic fit while simultaneously being electrocuted with a cattle prod, but they would still have more co-ordination than poor old drunk Martin.
There’s a strange jerking of the hips going on, accompanied by wild arm flailing that makes him look likes he’s directing air traffic during a hurricane.
As the Pendulum track gets into its stride, my date’s wild undulations achieve dangerous proportions. The other people on the dance floor are now starting to give him a wide berth.
There’s every chance he’s about to head butt his own knee.
‘I’m just getting a drink!’ I shout. ‘Do you want one?’ This should get me away from the blast zone for a while.
Martin takes time out from his erratic thrashing to tell me he wants a Jägermeister. ‘Make it a double!’ he adds.
‘Okay!’
‘Rock ‘n roll baby!’ Hand clap.
Oh shit.
So this date’s gone south then.
A third use of the catchphrase, accompanied by a style of dancing that would make Morris Men weep, means I’ve had enough.
I start formulating excuses to leave as I’m waiting for the drinks. I’ve elected to go with a Diet Coke, as I’m going to need all my wits about me.
Mind you, I’m not sure Martin would even notice if I just sloped off without telling him, as caught up as he is in his body popping extravaganza.
Nevertheless, I decide to go with an ‘I feel sick and need to leave’ excuse as I carry our drinks back over.
If he pushes it I’ll just tell him it’s period related. That should shut him up.
I hand Martin the drink, and he mercifully stops his one man assault on the art form of dance to take a swig.
‘Phew! I’m really hot!’ he says.
Hmmm… with your hair sticking up, face as red as a baboon’s arse and sweat patches under your arms? I’m not so sure, buddy.
‘Shall we go outside Laura?’
This is actually a pretty good idea. I’m pretty damn sweaty myself and could do with some air. It might also be easier to give Martin my excuses to leave if I don’t have to shout at him over more Lady Gaga.
‘Okay!’ I shriek and lead the way out onto a broad veranda at the back of the club.
The terrace is packed with smokers and clubbers looking for a breath of fresh (hah!) air, but we find a corner to stand in, having squeezed past them.
The cool air is glorious and Martin is starting to resemble a normal human being again now he’s not in sight of a dance floor.
‘You having a good time, Laura?’ he asks.
He’s got such a happy smile on his face that my resolve crumbles. I can’t bring myself to throw out a spurious excuse for leaving.
Damn my manners!
‘Yes I am,’ I lie.
‘Yeah, me too. Wouldn’t mind leaving soon though.’
Brilliant!
It sounds like I won’t need to use an excuse anyway.
‘Getting a bit hot and bothered here and wouldn’t mind going somewhere quieter.’ Martin leans closer to me.
Oh dear.
‘Um… that’s nice,’ I say and try to back away. Sadly I’m right up against the railing that runs around the veranda and have nowhere to go.
‘Maybe we could blow this joint and have a little fun on our own,’ he says and waggles his eyebrows.
Martin then does something so incredible I still have trouble believing it happened.
He leans against the railing and starts to gently massage his right nipple through his shirt with one finger.
My eyes widen in shock.
He must be mucking about.
‘How would you like to come back to my place?’ he says, leering at me while continuing to play with his nipple in a slow, seductive circular motion that makes me feel quite ill.
Oh good God, he’s serious.
Martin has gone from potential relationship material to potential restraining order material in the space of two hours.
I have to suppress a horrified laugh as he starts to caress both nipples.
He’s also pouting at me.
‘Sorry! Feel ill! On my period! Have to leave!’ I blurt out and shove past him.
‘Wait! Laura!’ he calls after me as I speed back into the club, heading towards the main exit as fast as I can in the tightly packed throng of people.
I can hear Martin calling my name even over the bombastic music, so I know he’s close behind me.
If I can just get to a taxi as quickly as possible, I’ll be okay.
Bursting from The Cheetah Lounge I hurry along the pavement to the taxi rank.
There aren’t any…
Unbelievable.
Martin is now right behind me again.
‘Oi! Where the hell are you going, baby? The night’s still young.’ He grabs me by the arm and spins me round.
‘You can’t just fuck off and leave me like that.’ He drunkenly stabs a finger at my face. There’s an edge to his voice that makes my heart race.
Okay, this has now gone from plain weird to downright scary.
I look over his shoulder to see the bouncers busy with a herd of scantily clad girls. No-one is looking at me - and what is fast becoming my maniac stalker.
‘I reckon you should just relax and give me a kiss,’ Martin says, leaning in. His breath is horrendous.
‘Let me go, Martin,’ I tell him firmly and try to shake off his grip. He outweighs me by a good four stone though and his arms are very strong, so I can’t get free. ‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Nah… I’m not hurting you. You’re fine. You just need to loosen up a bit.’ He tries to kiss me and I turn my head away in disgust. ‘Don’t be a fucking bitch Laura,’ he hisses.
I try to pull away again.
Now I’m scared to death.
‘Let her go, mate,’ a calm voice says to my left.
I look up and Jamie Newman is standing there.
‘Piss off, dickhead,’ Martin replies.
What happens next is scary, but quite wonderful at the same time.
Jamie walks forward, grabs Martin round the throat, puts his face right up to Martin’s and stares at him with an absolute look of hate. ‘I said let her go,
or I’m going to beat the living crap out of you right here and now… dickhead.’
Martin is a good three inches taller and two stone heavier than Jamie, but the venom with which the threat is issued causes the bigger man to instantly release me.
Martin pushes Jamie away and steps back.
You can see his intoxicated brain trying to size up the situation. Jamie looks to be stone cold sober, so it could be something of a one-sided fight.
…mind you, if Martin starts busting out some of his head butting dance moves it might end up being a close run thing.
Given the look of fury on Jamie’s face and his sobriety, Martin wisely decides this is a fight his inebriated body is very likely to lose and puts up his hands. ‘Chill out, mate. Jus’ mucking about.’
‘Go muck about somewhere else.’
Jamie couldn’t be my hero any more right now if he had his pants on over his trousers.
Martin looks back at me. ‘You’re a fucking slut,’ he says and points a finger.
Charming.
The drunken idiot then turns and marches back towards the club.
I lose sight of him in the crowd of girls and turn to Jamie. ‘Thank you so much,’ I say with relief.
‘Not a problem. I was walking along and saw you over here. Wasn’t going to bother you, but I saw him getting handy.’
‘Yeah. That was scary as hell. Don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along. Very brave of you. Thanks.’
‘Brave? You’re kidding aren’t you? I think I’ve just shit myself.’ The fury is gone and Jamie now looks as white as a sheet. ‘I’m glad he didn’t kick off. He probably would have beaten me senseless. The last time I won a fight it was because my best mate broke my favourite He-Man.’
‘I thought he was a nice guy,’ I say in a small voice.
‘He-Man?’
‘No… Martin. That guy you just saved me from.’
‘Apparently not.’ Jamie fishes out a packet of cigarettes, pulls one out and lights it. He looks at me and misinterprets my expression. ‘Sorry, I keep meaning to quit but don’t seem to get round to it.’
Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Page 10