STOCKINGS AND CELLULITE

by Debbie Viggiano

  As Speed Dating Day finally dawned, I took one horrified look at myself in the mirror and, in the lunch hour, dashed out to a local beauty salon for a spray on tan and nail extension appointment.

  The combination of freshly applied glowing tan and beautiful nails left me feeling strangely empowered. I waggled my nails at Morag who endorsed them with a nod of approval.

  ‘I think we’re going to have a great evening Cass.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘It will be like mulling over a scrumptious box of chocolates and handpicking our favourites.’

  A little before seven, having waved the children off with Stevie, I met up with Morag and Julia in Browns, a snazzy jazzy bar already elbow deep in hustle and bustle. A set of plans had been laid down which kicked off with consuming one glass of something lightly alcoholic in order to muster a bit of the old Dutch courage. Naturally, five minutes later we were on our second with Morag lining up a third for herself. She tipped it down the hatch before inhaling and exhaling several times like a panic attack victim.

  ‘That’s better,’ she smacked her lips appreciatively. ‘My veins are waking up now. Meanwhile ladies,’ Morag looked solemnly at Julia and me, ‘love is in the air. Let us go forth and find our soul mates.’

  We arrived at the local banqueting hall, usually booked for wedding parties, where an efficient woman of about my own age greeted us. She consulted her clipboard before handing out name badges and a printed sheet of potential suitors.

  I discreetly glanced about and suddenly wanted to vomit. Dear God. There was Cynthia Castle. Don’t let her see me please. Oh too late. Our eyes clashed together and rolled in mutual dismay. Appalled, Cynthia made a desperate effort to put distance between us and cannoned blindly into another woman. Could things get any worse? Apparently not.

  A horribly familiar pensioner was working the far corner looking for potential date victims and – deep joy – Ken was edging his way towards the reversing Cynthia. Wallop! Good manners forced her to smile an apology. Ken was beaming away, ultra white dentures flashing. Excellent. There really was such a thing called karma.

  Mrs Clipboard clapped her hands for attention.

  ‘Everybody follow me please.’

  She led us into a vast meeting room and gave a speech of welcome. The men were invited to sit down on one side of a long length of tables that ran around the room. The men were to remain seated at all times. The women were to sit opposite. Each ‘couple’ would have just a few minutes to talk to each other. If you liked what you saw, you ticked the relevant box on your dating sheet. When the signal was given, the women were to move up one place for the next allotted interview until finally everybody had met each other. At the end of the evening, if respective ticks matched up, potential couples were permitted to exchange telephone numbers.

  And suddenly, like impatient horses jostling together at the starting line of the Grand National, the women were elbowing and shoving their way towards the seats and we were off!

  I found myself sitting opposite a nerdy looking male with a little boy’s side parting.

  ‘Do you do this often?’ he leant in over the table.

  ‘Er, no. Do you?’

  ‘Yes. All the time. It fills a void in my life.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You have a nice tan.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And very nice nails.’

  ‘Thank you. And you have-’ it was surely only polite to return the compliments, ‘um, a very nice side parting.’

  The signal sounded and I moved to the next chair. The faces blurred into non-descriptiveness. Eventually I found myself sitting opposite Ken. He was quite unabashed and I was beyond caring.

  ‘Cassandra! My dear lady, how simply wonderful to see you again. How are all your children?’

  Oh yes. Exactly how many sets of twins, triplets and quads was I meant to have?

  ‘They are very well thank you Ken,’ I carefully replied. ‘Ned, Ted and, er, Fred are with their Daddy for an access visit. Mandy, Andy and, um, Pandy are with the au pair.’

  ‘I had no idea you were such an Earth Mother,’ said an amused male voice. Not Ken’s. As I turned to look at the guy sitting next to him, I gasped in horror. It was Ploddy. Brad Pitt. I mean Jamie. The signal went and suddenly I was sitting opposite him.

  ‘Cassie,’ he smiled warmly.

  My heart did a few skippy beats and my armpits instantly broke out in a gushing mess. I hastily picked up my list of names and began to fan myself with it.

  ‘Whatever was that all about?’ Jamie inclined his head in Ken’s direction.

  ‘Nothing. Crossed wires. Sorry.’

  ‘So how are you? In this light I can see your face has completely healed.’

  ‘Yes. All better,’ I touched my cheek. ‘It’s just the heart that’s taking it’s time to mend.’ I flinched. Damn. Why had I said that? It wasn’t even as if Stevie had sole responsibility for the current state of my emotions. Euan had contributed to the upheaval too.

  ‘Ah yes, a heart’s scars can run very deep,’ Jamie nodded sympathetically. There was something about the tone of his voice that had me looking at him sharply.

  ‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’ I held my breath.

  ‘Oh definitely.’

  For a moment Jamie looked so haunted I felt as though I were encroaching on some sort of terrible personal grief. I mentally slapped my forehead. Of course! That’s why he was here! He must have split up with the luscious Selina. Clearly the experience had knocked him sideways. Left the poor man devastated.

  Suddenly I felt my hopes surge. Might I be the one to help him get over her? For one wild moment I had a vision of us both ticking our respective boxes and walking off into a romantic sunset together. And then I squashed the thought flat. If Jamie and the stunning Selina were no longer an item, what chance had I got of wowing him? How must he regard me? A scatty female who periodically lost her car, still didn’t know its registration number, deposited cryptic messages on drivers’ windscreens, slipped into seductive lingerie for her workmen and spouted ridiculous lists of fictitious offspring to the general public. And by comparison he’d had the gorgeous Selina, every inch the sexy cop in her hip hugging uniform, brandishing a lethal weapon as she adopted a movie star pose, pouty lips ordering baddies to freeze because they were under arrest. How could I compete with that? There was no way I could tick his box. He was way out of my league. I felt bemused that such thoughts had run through my head and, more incredibly, that I had even entertained them. I peered up at Jamie under my eyelashes. He looked a million miles away.

  ‘So that’s why you’re here?’ I asked.

  ‘Hm?’ Jamie’s eyes jerked back from some faraway place.

  ‘You know – because of what happened with Selina.’

  Jamie frowned. ‘Selina? Oh she and I split up.’

  ‘Well yes, obviously,’ I nodded my head and looked down at my list of names. I hadn’t ticked one single box. The signal went. Forcing a bright smile I stood up. ‘I hope you find someone else soon.’

  Jamie’s expression changed in a flash. He smiled back at me and I noticed how his eyes crinkled attractively at the sides. ‘Oh but I already have,’ he murmured.

  Disappointment washed over me. I wondered who the woman was. Another female cop? So why was he here? And then I rallied. Why was I putting myself through this dating nonsense? When would I learn that love hurt? I mentally shook myself. Love? What on earth was I thinking about love for?

  Eventually the interviews finished and I still hadn’t ticked anybody’s box. What was the point? I realised with a jolt that the only box I’d wanted to tick was Jamie’s.

  Morag was thoroughly over-excited. ‘Did you see him?’ she asked rolling her eyes theatrically and nodding her head in Jamie’s direction. He was surrounded by a flock of hopeful looking women. ‘I ticked his box and I am almost one hundred per cent certain he’s ticked mine.’

  Suddenly I wanted
to be out of this place and in my own home. As I hadn’t ticked any boxes there would be no mutual exchanging of telephone numbers and therefore no reason to prolong the agony by staying. I began making my excuses and was on the verge of ringing for a taxi when somebody lightly tapped me on the arm. I spun round and was suddenly face to face with Cynthia Castle.

  ‘F-For what its worth,’ she stammered, ‘I want to apologise.’

  I stared helplessly into her round beseeching face. For a moment I couldn’t speak. What was there to say? Never mind Cynthia, Stevie was a cad? If it hadn’t been you Cynthia then it would have been someone else? Instead I found myself asking something completely different.

  ‘What went wrong between the two of you?’

  She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘He found someone else of course. Traded me in for the babysitter.’ I looked at her blankly. The babysitter? My hand flew to my mouth. Of course – Charlotte!

  Morag awoke me from a deep sleep the following morning.

  ‘Do you know that mean sod didn’t tick my box,’ she ranted.

  ‘Which mean sod?’ My tired eyes sought out the digital numbers on the alarm clock. Quarter past eight!

  ‘That policeman friend of yours.’

  ‘I keep telling you, he’s not a friend of mine. I don’t even know him properly.’

  ‘Why didn’t he tick my box?’ she demanded. ‘I mean, didn’t I look great last night? And what about my personality? Am I not full on and fizzy? Not to mention my bust size. I thought men liked large bosoms and mine are big enough. Aren’t they? Cass? Cass?’

  I yawned and stretched. ‘I’m here Morag and you are utterly fab. The man is evidently blind to your considerable charms and therefore not worth bothering about. Did you get any other guys’ numbers?’

  ‘Several actually,’ I could hear the smugness in her voice. ‘I’m meeting up with a rather nice chap tonight. His name is Ivan. What about you?’

  ‘W-e-ll, I didn’t do as well as you but I am out tonight with a guy called Matt Harding.’

  ‘Ooh wonderful Cass. Do you know, I think things are looking up for us both.’

  After we’d rung off with promises to have a dating postmortem on Monday, I flopped back on the pillows and let my thoughts stray to Matt.

  He wanted me to meet him later at the stables. It was to be a casual sort of date – go and see the horses, have a look around the yard, then out for a bit of lunch. After the monumental effort invested in last night’s debacle, I was determined to do exactly the opposite for tonight.

  At around six I had a quick shower and slipped into a pair of faded jeans. As my face was still golden with fake tan, I kept make up minimal with just a slick of lipstick.

  Matt was out in the yard when I drew up alongside a battered old horsebox. He was talking to an owner who was expressing concerns about her lame mare. As my shoes crunched over loose gravel he glanced around and his face lit up. The owner thanked him for his advice and Matt turned to welcome me properly.

  ‘Hey, you look amazing,’ he kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘Sorry I’m not all set for you and smell a bit ripe, but it’s been one of those days.’

  I grinned back. He did whiff mildly of horses but it wasn’t unpleasant. I found myself relaxing.

  ‘Let me show you around the yard. Afterwards I’ll fix you a big drink and ensconce you in front of the telly while I have a very swift bath.’

  There were effectively two yards split between private owners and school hacks. The liveries’ horses were polished and well bred compared to the riding school nags. Noble heads with pricked ears popped over stable doors as we approached. Some of the ponies nudged our hands, looking for sugar lumps or wanting their noses rubbed. Others munched hay, dropping it untidily over their doors while Matt patted necks and tweaked ears.

  Yard inspection over, we walked up to the house. It was impressively large and smothered in ivy. Matt showed me into a comfortable but well worn lounge. He splashed a hefty measure of gin and not much tonic into a cut glass tumbler. A pretty girl of about seventeen wandered in.

  ‘Hi,’ she smiled and lifted a hand in greeting.

  ‘This is Joanie, one of my daughters,’ Matt said.

  ‘One of many,’ the girl said wryly. I wondered exactly how many.

  Joanie made polite small talk with me while her father disappeared upstairs. I had the impression she’d done this several times before with various female friends of Matt’s.

  When Matt returned his hair was curling damply over a clean T-shirt and he was wearing sawn off jeans.

  ‘Ready?’

  I threw the gin down my neck, grabbed my bag and hurried after him.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I called over my shoulder to Joanie.

  A little while later we pulled up outside a quaint olde worlde pub near the river.

  ‘How lovely!’ I exclaimed in delight. ‘All these years of living in this area and I had no idea this place existed.’

  ‘A well kept secret,’ Matt smiled as he helped me out the car and slung an arm companionably around my shoulder.

  We sat in an alcove by a tiny picture window overlooking the river. The rough wooden table boasted a candle centrepiece stuffed into an empty wine bottle, its waxy sides melting in artistic rivers down the glass. Dinner was enjoyable and, by the time we’d reached the coffee and mints stage, I had a potted history of Matt Harding.

  Without a doubt I liked him. I could sense the feeling was mutual and that he’d like to see me again. However, Matt made my own emotional baggage look like a mere weekend carry case. Two ex-wives for starters. The third and current Mrs Harding was soon to join her predecessors. In addition to Joanie, there were four more daughters resulting from the second and third marriages plus two step-sons he’d inherited from the third marriage. Clearly, from the way he spoke about the boys, there was a genuine fondness. Matt waved away my one failed marriage and a pair of twins as a mere blip. He freely confessed that the first Mrs Harding had been traded in for the second Mrs Harding who had, in turn, gone on to duly trade Matt in. Undeterred he’d picked himself up, dusted himself off and simply resumed life eventually dating one of the grooms. In time she became the third Mrs Harding.

  ‘So what on earth went wrong this time around?’ I asked.

  Matt sighed. ‘Do you know Cass, it’s difficult to define any one specific thing. Rather it was a combination of many effects. Overall though it amounted to the laxative effect.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We irritated the shit out of each other.’

  Back at the stables I clambered out of Matt’s car and walked over towards mine. Matt ambled alongside me. After I’d lowered myself into the driver’s seat, he leant in and kissed me very gently on the mouth.

  ‘You know Cass,’ he murmured, ‘you don’t have to go.’

  The invitation in his voice was unmistakable. I looked at him. There was a warmth between us which was both easy and casual. But that last word neatly summed it all up. Casual. If I followed him back into his home and up to his bed, it would all be so very casual. And casual sex just wasn’t my scene. After the earlier heady madness with Euan that had abruptly ended in such a humiliating shambles, I knew that whilst rebounding from a failed marriage might have fun moments, regularly falling into other men’s beds really wasn’t me.

  I touched his cheek.

  ‘You are one very nice guy Matthew Harding. But I’m going home.’

  ‘Hey no problem. Can I call you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  And then he kissed me one more time.

  I was awoken the following morning by the phone shrilly ringing at half past seven. Anathema on a Sunday. Snarling with badtemper I snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Morag,’ I barked into the handset. ‘I’m going to bloody kill you.’

  ‘Sorry Cass, did I wake you up?’ asked Matt. ‘I’m always forgetting normal people don’t rise until after ten on a Sunday morning.’

  ‘Oh God Matt, I do apologise.�
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  ‘Just because I’ve been up since six feeding horses I automatically presume the rest of the world is as wide awake as me. So how about I let you drift back to your dreams but later on you come over for brunch?’

  ‘That sounds good,’ I smiled into the handset.

  When I resurfaced it was to greet a beautifully warm day. As I drew up outside Matt’s front door I neatly side-stepped bees buzzing fatly around a flowerbed of lavender.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ Matt threw open the door. He steered me down the hall, through the kitchen and out onto the patio. A little table was laid up complete with a jug of Pimms. Cubes of ice, fresh fruit and mint bobbed about in the ruby liquid.

  ‘You be Mum and pour the drinks and I’ll be back in two ticks.’

  When Matt reappeared he was bearing a tray of granary bread and butter, a plate of Parma ham, mixed cheeses and a dish of pickles and chutney.

  ‘Mr Harding I’m impressed.’

  ‘Oh my culinary skills are legendary. Don’t tell everybody,’ Matt glanced about furtively, ‘but I also do a very mean beans on toast.’

  ‘A man after my own heart!’

  It was nice sitting in the warm May sunshine sipping fruity Pimms and getting mildly tight.

  ‘Do you fancy a walk?’ Matt asked after we’d cleared the table together and loaded the dishwasher. ‘I’d love to show you Poppy and her new foal.’

  Poppy was Matt’s thoroughbred mare currently in her own exclusive paddock and quite a trek away. Matt’s land ran into considerable acreage. We strolled along a dirt track that ran parallel to the yard before meandering through various fenced off fields. Matt pointed out cordoned off areas that were being rested. These meadows were thick with lush grass sprinkled with buttercups and daisies. The track rose on an ever inclining gradient. Puffing alongside Matt, I looked back at the stables tucked away at the bottom of the hill looking like a picturesque sight from Toy Land.