Love Byte

by David Atkinson

  This happened occasionally and I knew from Pauline that although she enjoyed having her granddaughter overnight, it was sometimes difficult for her emotionally. It was the only time I ever got to glimpse Pauline’s pain. She would perch on the edge of the bed and watch her beautiful granddaughter sleeping, and chastise herself for crying, knowing that little Amy was the only blood connection left to her daughter.

  Sitting in Lindsay’s old room always wrung out her emotions. It had changed little since Lindsay had left all those years ago. The posters of Will Smith and Savage Garden were long gone of course. Pauline had not kept the room unchanged for any sentimental reason, it was more that, as a spare room, she’d not had the motivation to make any alterations.

  Lindsay had occasionally slept in her old bed and even moved back in for a few months after graduating from university. Lindsay and Amy had even slept there for two nights once when I was in London at a conference. That was of course before she became ill.

  In my opinion Pauline had not cried enough for her daughter; she kept busy and that was her way of dealing with it. It was probably the only time in her life she had bottled anything up. Once or twice I had sat with her, playing the part of a silent companion, as bittersweet memories floated around the musty old bedroom like dust motes.

  I think she now understood why I had decided to sell the house Lindsay and I had bought together – the memories had been too painful to deal with. She had been a little shocked when I’d cleared out all her daughter’s clothes and shoes only a week after the funeral, but now realized that had simply been my defence mechanism kicking in.

  I know she worried about me; she worried about Amy. Pauline was a champion worrier; she could have worried for Britain. If such an Olympic event existed she would have been in with a shout for the gold.

  My mother-in-law wasn’t stupid. She knew I was up to something. She would know as well why I wasn’t telling her much.

  Pauline had welcomed the involvement in our lives. It had definitely given her a sense of purpose and undoubtedly helped her deal with her daughter’s death. But could that go on for ever?

  If I did eventually meet someone new, what would that mean to her? I wasn’t sure, or what her role would be if that happened. They were big questions and I didn’t have any big answers. One thing I knew for sure was that parents were not emotionally designed to outlive their children.

  I pulled myself from my thoughts and hopped off the bus as it stopped almost outside the door to the pub. I entered with trepidation and discomfort, recalling the previous evening’s exploits.

  I made my way to the bar and discovered that the bar stool at the end was already occupied by a pretty blonde. The rest of the seats were available and there was no row of platinums tonight.

  I decided to take a seat three down from the girl which allowed me a clear view of the entrance. I kept an eye out for anyone who resembled a nutcase, which would signify that my date for the evening had arrived. There was, of course, always the outside chance that multiple nutcases would show up and what I would have done then is anyone’s guess.

  I ordered a beer and waited. After about twenty minutes I had given up hope that anyone was going to show and I was relieved. I could fall back on my preferred plan B and have a quiet evening to myself at home. I would then have fulfilled Lindsay’s request and my conscience would be clear.

  I drained my glass and was just about to leave when the girl at the end of the bar jumped down from her stool and walked over.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re Andy, are you?’

  My heart sank. The nutcase was here waiting for me all the time – it was an ambush.

  I had the briefest opportunity to extricate myself and say ‘No sorry, I’m Colin, I don’t know anyone called Andy. . . .’ But I didn’t. Instead the nice part of me said, ‘Yes, sorry I didn’t realize. . . .’

  She held out her hand and smiled. ‘I’m Terry.’

  Of course it had to be her; I wondered if she had a willy. ‘Good to meet you, Terry, I’m sorry,’ – I was determined to finish my apology – ‘I didn’t realize that was you sitting there, I just thought you were waiting for someone.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I know that now, but . . . oh never mind, it was a crazy idea. Thank you for coming.’ Duh, there it was again, the air of mystery gone.

  I ordered myself another pint of lager and Terry surprisingly wanted the same. Maybe she did possess a penis after all.

  Our conversation was stilted to say the least. I asked her what she did for a living.

  ‘Hairdresser. What about you?’

  Dilemma time, do I tell her the long version or the envelope version? I had quickly gauged that Terry wasn’t the sharpest of cookies – which is a saying that doesn’t make much sense if you think about it – so would probably believe either. I made the mistake of giving her the long version and I noticed her eyes glaze over after ten seconds – a new record.

  It was so obvious that we were in no way compatible but we both persisted, or rather I persisted. I suddenly discovered that I possessed a unique skill of asking stupid questions combined with an uncanny inability to stop.

  ‘What do you do for fun?’ I asked, sounding like someone’s elderly dad.

  ‘Fun? Mmm . . . I don’t know.’

  Terry didn’t look like she was having much fun so far, so I decided to ensure that would continue and followed up with an equally bizarre clarifying question. ‘OK, well, given a choice would you rather, go for a long walk on the beach or for a walk in the countryside?’

  ‘Ehm, well, I don’t like the beach much as the sand gets in between my toes and I suffer from hay fever and actually, I don’t like walking much. So given a choice, neither.’

  I continued the interrogation; I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘What about your family? How many brothers and sisters do you have?’

  ‘One sister, Fiona.’

  ‘Is she a hairdresser too?’

  ‘No, she’s studying.’

  ‘What’s she studying?’

  ‘Beauty therapy.’

  ‘That’s nice. Is she beautiful?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Your sister, is she beautiful? Because if she’s studying beauty therapy I think it always helps if you are beautiful,’ I said, offering an opinion on beauty therapists I never knew I had.

  ‘She’s all right I guess.’

  ‘Do you have a picture of her?’

  ‘Eh?’ Terry and Jamie would get on well. They could sit and say ‘Eh’ all night.

  ‘Can I see a picture of your sister?’

  ‘Why?’

  I had driven myself down a bizarre one-way street with these questions and I could see that Terry had started to get angry. I was surprised it had taken this long.

  ‘Just to see if she is as beautiful as you said she was.’

  ‘I didn’t say she was beautiful, I said she was all right.’

  ‘Well, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’

  ‘Who says that?’

  That stumped me, ‘I don’t know, Shakespeare maybe?’ (Plato actually, as I discovered on Google later.) ‘Look, it’s just a saying.’

  ‘I’ve never heard it.’

  ‘You must have, everybody’s heard it.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t. Who said it again?’

  ‘I said it.’

  ‘Yeah . . . so you did. But what has that got to do with my sister?’

  ‘Well, if you show me a picture of your sister I can decide if she’s beautiful or not.’

  ‘What is it with my sister? Do you want to go out with her or something? How do you know about my sister anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about your sister. I only know she’s a beauty therapist because you told me.’

  ‘She’s no
t a beauty therapist yet, she’s studying to be one.’

  ‘Well, all right, she’s a would-be beauty therapist.’

  ‘She will be one.’

  ‘Whatever. Do you have a picture of her or not?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve got loads on my phone, but why should I show you?’

  ‘So I can see if she’s beautiful or not.’

  ‘And then you’ll ask her out.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘I don’t know, probably. You’re a fucking weirdo.’

  ‘I’m not a weirdo, I’m just trying to see if your sister would make a good beauty therapist or not.’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I don’t blame you for leaving.’

  ‘Oh, why? I thought you’d be angry.’

  ‘Not angry, just sad.’

  Terry picked up her belongings. ‘Sad I’m leaving?’

  I nodded. ‘A little, but mainly I’m sad that I’m so bad at dating.’

  Terry agreed. ‘Yeah it wasn’t a great date, I’ve had worse, but it wasn’t good.’

  I couldn’t imagine how anyone could possibly have had a worse date than this. I was dying to ask but was reluctant to reopen the interrogation, or where it might lead to. Terry was about to leave anyway, and I couldn’t resist it. I asked one last question.

  ‘Terry?’

  She turned back with a glimmer of hope on her face. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you have a cock?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  I stayed in the bar for half an hour longer. I told myself it was in case another girl turned up that I could be rude to, but in reality it was in case Terry was waiting for me outside with a baseball bat. Eventually, I cautiously left the bar for my quiet evening at home and reflected on the fact that, if I did go on any more dates, I could expect to be either beaten up, arrested or probably both.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Pauline was bringing Amy back after lunch so I had the morning to myself. I sat out on the balcony and ate a breakfast of coffee and croissants, then, as the wind turned cooler, I went inside and flipped open my iPad. I couldn’t face opening my email in case there was a message from Terry, or worse – her sister.

  I was still shocked at how rude I had been to Terry. Despite our lack of chemistry she didn’t deserve that and I wasn’t sure what had come over me. It was completely out of character. I had never behaved like that before but for some reason she had just annoyed me. All I could think of was that, due to stress, I had subconsciously decided to sabotage the date. I wasn’t even drunk and couldn’t blame alcohol. I tended to be a happy drunk anyway. I added it to my pile of stuff to feel guilty about, and made a mental note to try and find out where Terry lived and send her some flowers as an apology.

  I clicked on to Google and instead searched around the Internet for dating advice to see if I could discover why I was behaving so weirdly. I had made the decision on waking that morning that I was not going to go on another date for a long time, but when I did, I wanted to avoid another Ellen or Terry. I wasn’t sure which was worse – probably Terry, as I was mostly to blame for that debacle.

  I came across a website called Men Like Women and Women Like Shoes. I wasn’t exactly sure what the title was all about, but the information was interesting if not particularly useful. It seemed that early on in the dating process women liked their men to be cool and relaxed, keen but not too keen. I obviously needed to avoid being seen as desperate. They also liked them to be engaging but not over-emotional. That part I didn’t really understand, but I expect it meant don’t go telling them all about the fact that you miss your dead wife and how you’ll never get over her, and stuff like that.

  The site also advised that both parties should try and keep some air of mystery around themselves for as long as possible and to hold back some secrets, as this helped keep the other person interested. I could do that. I could hold back the part about my dead wife setting me up on dates. That might be a good secret to hold back.

  Then it got really confusing as at some point into the relationship, it advised that you need to switch from being ‘aloof and independent’ to ‘partner focused and co-dependent’. In other words: emotional, needy and maybe a little bit desperate.

  I began to wonder how I’d ever managed to get married to Lindsay without knowing all this stuff. I must have been incredibly lucky. What would have happened had I become emotionally needy at the wrong time, or displayed desperateness when she was expecting aloofness? God forbid the consequences had I tried to become co-depen-dent when she was pre-menstrual. What a minefield.

  The final piece of useful advice was ‘to make sure you pick the right time to display any overt emotion’.

  Had I ever displayed overt emotion when I was with Lindsay? I remembered I was first to say ‘I love you’. It was just after we’d made love for the first time. In fact I can remember the exact moment – it was when I was lying beside her all sweaty and out of breath. It was only partly the exertion of sex that had made me that way, mostly I believed it was the fact that her heating was cranked up full. What is it with women and heating? Why are they always cold and why do they need the heating turned up to Brazilian Rainforest setting? Thankfully I didn’t need to enter the moment on to my Outlook calendar. I also remembered that it took another week before Lindsay reciprocated. Cheeky cow.

  Maybe that was the secret for me then. I had to sleep with someone and that was the key time to switch over to the emotional needy thing. The three big rules therefore were:

  Don’t appear too keen.

  Don’t appear desperate.

  Avoid needy and emotional.

  So those three, along with not being an axe murderer, were what I needed to remember.

  As interesting as the website was, it didn’t tell me how to avoid being an arse. I guess that was something I needed to work out for myself.

  Pauline turned up just after one o’clock with some bacon rolls, and we munched them while she told me how clever Amy was at picking out her letters.

  I knew that Amy was useless at picking out letters. I’d tried with her loads of times and she didn’t know the difference between a P and a Q. She knew what an X was as she said it was a kiss, but that was it. Maybe Pauline had asked her to pull out kisses all the time in which case she was probably brilliant at her letters. I wasn’t worried. Amy was great at her colours, so I reckoned everything else could wait. She was too young to be worrying about letters.

  After Pauline left I took Amy down to Portobello Beach where we spent a busy afternoon building sandcastles.

  Later we splashed about in the shallows and tried to avoid getting too wet by avoiding the bigger waves that rolled in. We put some small crabs in Amy’s yellow plastic bucket and made them the new residents of Amy’s sandcastle. The crabs didn’t appear to be very happy with the arrangement and kept trying to escape. Amy squealed and jumped into my arms as Colossal Colin (the biggest of the crabs) took a suicidal leap from the highest part of the sandcastle and landed on Amy’s bare foot. He then scampered away back towards the water. Colossal Colin was only about an inch and a half long, but that made him at least twice as big as the rest of the crustaceans we had captured – hence the name.

  We let him go as I reckoned he’d earned his freedom with his daring leap. I bought two ice creams and we sat on our waterproof blanket gazing out across the water as we licked them. The summer was drawing to a close and this might be one of the last days warm enough to hang out on the beach and I wanted to make the most of it. The memories would keep me warm when the icy winds of winter whipped in from the North Sea and made the sand a no go area.

  Later we had dinner in a small café near Ocean Terminal and afterwards pottered home. I carried Amy on my shoulders for most of the way as she was complaining that her le
gs were sore. I think she just wanted to go onto my shoulders and she knew how to get me to do that. God help me when she got older and really learned how to manipulate me.

  After we got home I bathed Amy and jumped in the shower myself. I’d grown hot and sweaty after carrying her in the late afternoon which had turned dark and humid – perfect storm weather.

  I towel dried my hair and pulled on my pyjamas – M&S called them lounge pants, but they looked like PJs to me – I then heard the unmistakable sound of thunder in the distance.

  Amy and I rushed over and gazed out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. We saw a storm brewing out over the water.

  I was distracted by my phone pinging and left Amy staring out through the window. I was half-expecting it to be another text from Lindsay, but instead it was from Amanda – the ‘little red-haired girl’ from my previous musings. I’d forgotten all about her, probably because I’d vowed never to go on another date. I regretted sending her my number now. I read her text which started out very like a postcard.

  Hi Andy, hope you are well; I’m having a nice time in Ireland, weather wet and cool, but what you would expect here? Went fishing today. Sorry I’ve just read that back and it reads like a postcard, doesn’t it?

  Glad she thought so too.

  Never mind I can’t be bothered changing it. As I’ve not heard from you, I thought I’d send you a quick text. I’m going to be free later on so if it’s OK, I’ll phone you tonight – about nine if that’s all right. I’ll be out at dinner until then. Love Amanda xx

  PS If I don’t hear from you I will take it that nine is OK. If not I can do later.

  PPS Not too much later. I need to be asleep by eleven as we are going shopping tomorrow and I’m tired after fishing all day.

  PPPS – That sounds rude doesn’t it like I need to go to the toilet lol. No, seriously, I don’t think I like fishing much. First time today and had to get up at crack of dawn to fish as fish get up early supposedly! Xx

  I might be mistaken, but given Amanda’s display of keenness, it was likely that she was not a subscriber to Men Like Women and Women Like Shoes. I didn’t text back, I wasn’t sure I wanted to speak to her, but probably would as being rude to both Terry and Amanda in one twenty-four-hour period would not be good, and maybe I could make up for the Terry incident by being nice to Amanda, but not too nice by following rule number one: don’t appear too keen.