Around the World in 80 Dates

by Jennifer Cox

  The Hal program allowed you to select a male or female voice for the system. It also let you pick the pitch and attitude of the voice (polite or curt). Garry had made Hal sound like a sexy woman, who, in my opinion, also sounded high-handed and high-maintenance—I hoped that wasn’t how he saw me…apart from the sexy bit: I could live with that.

  Picking up the microphone and trying to remember how Garry had given voice commands, I addressed the computer: “Hal, turn the heating on.” Nothing happened. I waited for a moment. Nothing continued to happen. I tried again, this time a little louder, my voice echoing around the large, open-plan, increasingly chilly house: “Hal, turn the heating on.”

  Again, nothing. Hal remained willfully silent.

  Don’t tell Garry, my new hi-tech audio-guy boyfriend, this, but I thumped the microphone down on the desk in exasperation. It was too frustrating: Why wasn’t there just a switch on the wall I could turn on, like in a normal house?

  The mike was obviously a better communicator than I, though: The sound of it clunking onto the desk got Hal’s attention. “Yes?” she asked again in a bored voice, calculated to inspire impotent fury in the listener (or maybe just this listener). I snatched up the mike from the desk, refusing to admit defeat; perhaps the problem was I’d been speaking too quietly. The advancing cold concentrated my mind; I spoke loudly and clearly: “Hal, turn the heating on.”

  “Did you say, ‘turn the lighting on’?” Hal shot back snootily, her tone suggesting, “There really is no need to shout: it’s quite vulgar and impolite.”

  Thank God, the damn thing had heard me. “No,” I replied, feeling a little flash of triumph, “I said, ‘Turn the heating on.’ ” I made a point of exaggerating the word heating, hoping Hal would feel the humiliation she’d brought upon herself. “Lights turning on,” Hal chimed smugly, ignoring my contradiction. And with that, every single light in every single room in the house snapped on.

  Right.

  This was an open declaration of war. That Sim-sucking bitch was wrong if she thought she was going to get the better of me; she was about to discover the hard way that she’d chosen the wrong woman to play computer games with.

  Ignoring the house lights, which now blazed as harshly as a fridge opened at 4 a.m., I fixed the monitor with a steady look. In a tone as clear as it was cold (actually, by now freezing cold), my voice rang out in defiance. “Hal!” I commanded, “turn the heating on.”

  “Did you say, ‘Turn the heating up’?” Hal asked bitchily, by now clearly reveling in my discomfort. Had I asked that? Could the heating be turned up, if it wasn’t actually on? Was this a trick; was she trying to outmaneuver me? I wasn’t sure, but didn’t want to be caught out on a technicality, so I said evenly, “No, I said, ‘Turn the heating on.’ ”

  “I am turning the heating up,” Hal declared, a withering glance at my poker face as she slammed down the winning hand.

  For a moment there was only silence. Then, a faint whirring noise stirred in the basement. It grew louder and louder, and as it did the walls of the house started to shudder gently. I looked around nervously, trying to work out what was causing the noise. Then, CRASH: With a terrifying roar, air—hot as a breath from Lucifer himself—blasted out from vents and ducts all over the house.

  The noise was deafening, and, moments later, the house became unbearably hot. Pausing instinctively to admire the system’s efficiency, I yelled, “Hal, turn the heating off, turn the heating off,” over and over. Maybe she couldn’t hear me over the fans as they powered the atmosphere of the Serengeti around the house; maybe she was ignoring me on purpose. Either way, Hal refused to answer.

  The house got hotter and hotter, the lights dazzled overhead: I was being cooked to death by a crazed computer-generated housekeeper, unwilling to tolerate another woman in Garry’s house.

  I shouted and shouted until the heat made my throat too dry to shout anymore, but nothing seemed to be working. If I was going to get around Hal, I clearly needed a different strategy. Staggering downstairs to get some water, I threw open the doors and windows to let some cool air in. And then I had an idea. I ran back upstairs through the blasting heat and resumed my position in the computer hot-seat.

  Hal obviously wasn’t going to do what I asked her, but I bet she’d listen to Garry.

  It was tricky. Much as I adored Garry, I didn’t really know his voice that well, plus there was the whole accent thing. I rang the house number three or four times to listen to his voice on the answering machine, then took a swallow of water and cleared my throat. “Hal, turn the heating off,” I said in a deep American accent.

  Nothing. Okay, it had been a dodgy accent. I tried again: “Hal, turn the heating off.” Still nothing.

  I tried a variety of pitches; I experimented with placing the stresses in different parts of the sentence; I truncated and elongated vowels. In short, I went deep undercover and immersed myself, blindly navigating the twists and turns of another gender and another culture.

  “Did you say, ‘Turn the heating off’?” Hal suddenly inquired sweetly.

  Oh my God, I’d done it; she thought I was Garry. “Yes,” I replied succinctly, not wanting to blow it now I was getting somewhere. “I am turning the heating off,” Hal replied coquettishly. And with that, the roaring from the vents stopped dead.

  The house was filled with silence.

  It was like someone had been pointing a hairdryer in my face for twenty minutes and the relief of it stopping was immense. Taking a moment to recover, I took a deep breath; then, trying to recall the winning pitch and accent, I attempted to cajole Hal into turning the lights off, too. Three tries later and off they went.

  I sat in the dark, quiet, cooling house and let the silence wash over me. Until Garry got home, there was little I could do without lights or heating. Settling back onto the sofa as comfortably as I could to recover from the ridiculous pantomime, I started pondering for the first time what I was actually doing here. I was besotted with Garry and I thought he felt the same way about me, but, seriously, where would we go from here? How was our hothouse relationship going to survive outside in the real world?

  We both lived full and demanding lives a continent apart. I couldn’t bear the thought of a permanent long-distance relationship, so where did that leave us? Would I be willing to move to Seattle? It seemed insane to be even considering the question so soon (or perhaps it seemed insane not to have considered it sooner), but if my answer was no, for both Garry’s and my sake I had to end it now before we got in any deeper.

  But there was no way I could do that. The more I got to know Garry, the more I liked him; even after this short time together I’d miss him too much.

  Wrestling to find an answer, I gradually realized that I was expecting too much too soon.

  Being with Garry had taken a giant leap of faith. Maybe I was like Neil Armstrong and my giant leap had catapulted me so high I’d be up bobbing around in orbit for a while yet. It was pointless agonizing about it all now. I wanted to be with Garry and it felt amazing. That was what was important; anything else would just have to wait until I came back down to earth.

  Damn Hal: It was her nonsense that had forced me to think about all this stuff. She was a pretty formidable housekeeper; had all this been her doing? Turning up the heat and putting me under the spotlight—I think she’d been vetting me like the rest of Garry’s circle.

  “Did you have a good night, sweetie?” Garry asked when I arrived wrung out and exhausted at Safeco Field to collect him.

  “Yes, thanks,” I replied dishonestly. Tonight’s events were going to stay between Hal and me. And, whatever else our differences, I suspected this would be the one thing we’d agree on.

  The next morning was busy. Posh PR Emma had replied immediately:

  Darling, Ted can be a frightful bully sometimes but his bark is far worse than his bite. I’ve told him he’s got to stop being so silly if he ever wants to meet a nice girl, but you know men: love to talk, hate to liste
n. If you can bear it, do pop in and see him; he’s a total sweetie really. Let me know. Oh, loved the piccy of you and Garry—what a hunk! You lucky old thing. Ciao ciao, Ems xxxx

  There was no email from Ted (maybe he was out chasing the postman up and down his street). As a sacrifice to the Numbers God I’d probably see him, but I’d make him wait a bit first. I was in the middle of emailing Jason when Garry shouted down from his office that there was a phone call for me. I picked up the extension in the kitchen, half expecting it to be Jason and feeling more than a little awkward, as Garry had been talking to whoever it was for quite a while. But it was Eddie, my old friend from home. Somehow, I seemed to be the kind of person who—based on no good reason or track record—people came to for advice. Eddie was the person I always went to—he was tough and smart and he was also concerned and protective of me, like a big brother.

  Eddie had been talking to Garry and I instinctively held my breath, hoping, for Garry’s sake, he’d passed muster. “So, you’ve found your Soul Mate?” Eddie teased as I picked up the phone.

  “Yes,” I replied happily, “I have. I hope you were nice to him?”

  “Tolerably so,” Eddie replied sardonically, then suddenly becoming serious: “So, apart from fancying the pants off him, is everything okay?”

  I took this to be code for Have you picked another loser? And I smiled, touched by his concern. “Honestly, Eds,” I replied. “He really is wonderful. And if you hadn’t liked the sound of him yourself, you’d be telling me so by now.”

  Eddie never gave ground: The fact he wasn’t arguing was his way of agreeing. “Well,” he said finally, “I’ll meet him when he comes to London so I’ll tell you what I think of him then.”

  Come to London? When was that happening? “Oh, I don’t know that he is,” I replied, a little defensively.

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Eddie demanded.

  I didn’t really have an answer for him: I hadn’t even thought about Garry visiting me, let alone talked to him about it.

  Eddie and I caught up on news from home before finally saying good-bye. Garry came downstairs. “Your friend Eddie’s very funny,” he said, hugging me and noting my smile.

  “Yes, he’s a good man. Did you get on with him okay?” I asked, pulling back a little so I could see his reaction.

  Garry told me they had, then added unexpectedly: “He asked when I was coming to London.”

  I shrugged awkwardly. “Yes, Eddie asked me that too. Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

  Garry looked nonplussed. “Why? Don’t you want me to?”

  Now it was my turn to look blank. “Well, yes, of course I do,” I replied. “But I know how busy you are and…you know, it’s expensive and…a long way…”

  As I said it, I realized how pathetic I sounded. I trailed off.

  Garry looked a bit cross. “Jenny, London is where you live—of course I’m going to come and see you there. Why would you imagine I wouldn’t?”

  I was taken aback by how exasperated he sounded, and also by the logic of what he was saying. Garry was right: I was happy to fly halfway around the world to be with someone I cared for, but didn’t imagine for one moment he’d be prepared to do the same for me. And that’s not all. I was probably being pretty controlling, too. I was the one who waltzed in and out of the Dates’ lives, deciding when and how they got to see me. It was in their territory but always on my terms. And I kept London for me: a barrier behind which I went off-duty, to relax and recharge.

  Garry, in London, seeing me on my home turf, meeting my friends, experiencing my life, would break down that barrier. But Garry was different. Shouldn’t I be giving him the same kind of Access All Areas into my life that he was giving me to his?

  God, why was I suddenly in the House of Questions?

  It would be good to ask the Date Wranglers their opinion about all of this, but comforting as the thought was, I knew this was something Garry and I had to work out for ourselves. There was a point when new lovers stopped being public property and made their own world in private (and this was especially true of our cast of thousands relationship).

  “So?” Garry asked, obviously getting used to the long silences that inevitably accompanied me furiously debating sticky issues with myself.

  I snapped out of my inner turmoil and answered him immediately. “Yes, come to London,” I replied with complete conviction. “I’d really like you to see my home.”

  So, over the next week and a half we settled into a comfortable rhythm of going out, eating in, and falling in love. Sharing a space felt easy and natural, uncomplicated and companionable, not like we had to constantly be on our best behavior.

  And when Garry went to work, so did I.

  I’d relented and had Janelle schedule me into Ted’s (Date #59) diary for a coffee. He actually was far nicer in real life and, tall with short black hair and deep brown skin that at times seemed to shimmer golden, he was very good-looking. But he was a complete workaholic: His phone rang constantly throughout our coffee date and although Ted never took the call, each time he frowned furiously, checking to see who it was. That was my old life, and I felt a twinge of guilt remembering the many times I’d done exactly the same thing.

  Still, date done, at least Ted couldn’t sue me now.

  Jason (Date #60) was just as much fun as I had hoped. Both huge music fans, we talked nonstop over margaritas at a little Mexican place in Belltown. I loved the sound of his life: both that he knew and was so involved with the Seattle music scene, also the more niche activities revolving around his love of the ukulele. He wasn’t my Soul Mate but he was very entertaining and we had a fun night out.

  Relaxed and comfortable as Garry and I were with each other, as the time approached to go to San Francisco I became increasingly preoccupied. Only three more days together, then I’d be flying back to London. And although I missed London and was looking forward to seeing family, friends, and my flat, leaving Garry and going back to my old life filled me with a kind of dread.

  Too soon it was time to fly down to San Francisco.

  We picked up a rental car at the airport and drove to Andronico’s, the upscale supermarket in Walnut Creek, for boat provisions. We browsed among the aisles of soft fruit, glossy like multicolored cricket balls; rich rounds of ripe, pungent cheeses; broad loaves of crusty bread, knotted like muscular arms; cakes as fussy as Easter bonnets. But as we pressed the spongy flesh of the portobello mushrooms and piled feathery fronds of dill and fennel into our baskets, I was jittery and distracted. And this was nothing to do with flying home.

  I was about to meet Garry’s parents.

  I wanted to buy them something but found myself getting increasingly worked up as I dithered between the walls of unfamiliar wines and the banks of endlessly exotic flowers. Of course, I wanted to make a good impression, but never having met them, I didn’t know what they liked.

  Garry was no use. “You don’t have to get them anything.” He shrugged.

  I narrowed my eyes and sighed in exasperation. “Garry, your parents are letting us use their boat for three days; there is no way I’m going to turn up empty-handed.”

  We left the supermarket and drove to the Bay Area marina where the boat was moored. I was very quiet as we started unloading the provisions, and Garry put the groceries down on the ground, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed me. “Jen, don’t be nervous,” he said, stroking my hair reassuringly, “my parents are really easygoing. And after tonight, it’ll just be the two of us on the boat. It’ll be relaxing, you’ll see.”

  I knew he meant well, but I couldn’t keep it in any longer. Trying to keep the snippiness out of my voice, “Garry,” I said tersely, “I really appreciate you organizing this and I know it’s what you find relaxing. But I have a long and well-documented history of seasickness and the thought of spending three days on a boat scares the bejesus out of me. And as for your parents: They’re your parents, so I’m sure they’re absolutely lovely. In fact, I already know they�
��re lovely because they’ve given us their boat. But the fact remains any minute now a conversation will take place where you say: ‘Mom, Dad, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend,’ and they’ll be like, ‘Oh, how nice, how did you two meet?’ and I’ll have to say, ‘Well, funny you should ask, because I’m going round the world dating eighty complete strangers. Garry was…number fifty-five, wasn’t it, darling? But no need to worry: only another twenty dates with men I’ve never met, then I’ll be all done.’ ”

  Maybe I was being a little melodramatic, but, let’s face it, it was the truth and it didn’t look good. I was genuinely horrified at what his parents must think. Garry looked at me in astonishment. Okay, maybe I should have said something sooner rather than waiting until, one, I was completely freaked out about it and, two, we were moments from boarding the boat.

  Garry took it all in his stride, though. He was calm (which was good because I clearly wasn’t) as he pulled me to him, giving me a long, slow kiss. I don’t know which stress-management school taught that particular technique, but they deserved a medal: I immediately felt calmer and more secure. Pulling away, Garry smiled affectionately. “My parents are going to love you as much as I do, Jennifer Cox,” he said.

  “Really?” I whispered, crinkling up my face in concern.

  “Yes, really,” Garry replied softly.

  Hang on. Had Garry just told me he loved me?

  Is that what he meant? Or did he mean it in another way? Did he mean he loved—as in was in love with—me, or did he mean, he liked me and…you know…loved liking me, and his parents would like me and love that, too? Or did it mean something else altogether?

  Like a crying child having a stuffed toy thrust in its face, the distraction worked brilliantly. As we walked down the ramp onto the jetty, with armfuls of food, flowers, and wine, I was blissfully preoccupied and not in the least bit nervous.