Love Byte

by David Atkinson

  ‘Oh, right yeah. . . . Ha ha. . . !’

  Somehow I didn’t think her laughter was genuine.

  ‘Anyway, Andy, I just wanted to have a quick chat before we meet up, just to . . . well . . . break the ice, I suppose, and to make sure you are actually going to turn up – I hate being stood up on these things.’

  Her reference to ‘these things’ made it sound like she got stood up on a regular basis.

  ‘Andy, are you still there?’

  ‘Hi, yes, sorry I was just . . . distracted, for a moment. Of course I’ll turn up. I’m looking forward to it,’ I lied.

  ‘Good. I find men are unreliable most of the time and I just like to know where I stand. Now, I’ve only a few minutes left as I’ve got to be in a meeting at half ten. Where are you, it sounds noisy?’

  I gazed across the large hall at the numerous toddlers screaming and running in random directions like bad extras in a low-budget horror film. ‘I’m at the Leith Athletic Stadium.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know you were into running and fitness, it doesn’t say anything about that in your profile.’

  I glanced guiltily down at my latte and large slice of chocolate-smothered shortbread.

  ‘Well, I’m not really. . . . I’m here with my wee girl. She’s the one running around like a headless chicken with a million other kids.’

  ‘Oh, OK that sounds like fun.’ Again I didn’t think she was being genuine. ‘As you’re busy I’ll leave you to it. So I’ll see you on Saturday at seven?’

  ‘Yep I’ll be there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘Sure you’ll turn up?’

  ‘Of course I’ll turn up.’

  ‘You can tell me if you aren’t coming, so I can then organize something else.’

  Now I was starting to get confused. ‘Do you want to do something else?’

  ‘Eh?’

  I sighed. ‘Well it sounds like you maybe want to do something else. If you do that’s fine.’

  ‘No, Andy, I will definitely be there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure, that’s why I called you, remember?’

  At that point I wasn’t sure who had phoned who, or even quite why I was having this conversation. I also decided that it was likely to go on for some time if I didn’t just agree with her. I’d learned from being married that just agreeing with a woman was usually the path of least resistance.

  ‘No, that’s fine, Carrie. I’ll see you on Saturday.’

  ‘OK, bye.’

  I hung up and wondered if Carrie would turn out to be a nutcase. The signs so far were good for that outcome. Maybe all women (except Lindsay) were nutcases, or maybe she was a nutcase too and I was just blinded by love. That got me to thinking about all the females I came across at the various nursery groups I took Amy to. They varied depending upon my work-share days which changed from month to month. I’d been to most of them now and although I was usually made to feel welcome, occasionally something happened that changed that.

  I was normally comfortable in women’s company – my work was mostly female and I liked women, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have bothered with the whole getting married thing – but in this environment it was different. I was an oddity, a curiosity and, possibly, a threat. Once I was told I was all three by a self-righteous middle-class ex-teacher. I’ve never got on well with teachers and I can trace that back to my school days.

  When I first started going to these groups I was viewed as being unlucky and regarded with pity and sympathy, which was fine – I was getting used to that. However, all that changed one day at Tree-Tots. This was a group run by Marjorie Faulks, a large woman in her mid-fifties. The whole point of TTs, as she called it – her acronym sounded rude to me as she pronounced it ‘titties’ – was educating the toddlers. Every week Marjorie brought in a four-foot model of a tree, and tried to teach the children all about that particular tree and the effect it had on the environment – quite ambitious for a group of toddlers aged between eighteen months and three. On this one occasion I had made the mistake of chatting to a lovely blonde girl called Janice (yeah, blonde again!) who was a single mother, had a reputation (unknown to me) of being a man-eater and had, according to Marjorie, who told me this later, tried to seduce some of the other mummies’ husbands. Why that should affect what they thought of me I don’t know, but it seems that after that I was tarnished. My reputation, for what it was worth, had been sullied. Maybe they thought I was out to snare myself another mummy for Amy. Who knows? After that, the reception I received at various toddler groups was frosty for a while – although it had improved recently.

  I stopped going to Tree-Tots shortly afterwards anyway as they were running out of interesting trees and the cost of the class was high at £5.50 a session – probably the cost of the materials needed for Marjorie’s models. Anyway, I wasn’t sure Amy was getting much from Tree-Tots, because at her age she didn’t really know the difference between a tree and Simon Cowell.

  Besides, on the final week we attended, Marjorie had brought in a large fern tree to the group and used a stuffed dinosaur to explain that fern trees were one of the earliest plants to populate the earth, and had been around when dinosaurs had ruled the world. (As opposed to Take That.) Unfortunately, the dinosaur looked very much like Barney and after Amy had shouted ‘He’s a poof’ for the tenth time, I decided it was time to retreat from Tree-Tots for a while.

  The other ‘classes’ – as Pauline liked to call them – Amy attended on a fairly regular basis were: Little Tots, where they basically played with toys and fought with each other; Lazy Tots, where they did pretty much the same as Little Tots but occasionally did some face painting; Eazy Tots, where they did much the same as Little and Lazy Tots but occasionally baked cakes.

  Although the toddler groups had some variation of venue type and activities, they all had one common feature: fighting. No matter where you went there was always, at any one time, two or three toddlers knocking seven bells out of each other. At that age, gender is pretty much irrelevant; boys and girls are equally as strong and aggressive.

  I am of sufficient age to have grown up when such playgroups didn’t exist. We as kids had to make our own entertainment and, not blessed with any siblings, I could only torment my poor mother as my father worked long hours. Between the ages of two and three I managed to swallow a bottle of coconut imbibed sun-tan lotion, blow up my father’s music centre by repeatedly banging the plug and socket with the heel of my hand, and set fire to my ‘Pooh’ teddy-bear by squishing his head between the bars of the electric fire. (I have to say in my defence that all three of these events could have been prevented with some simple parental prevention measures, but my mother – although very loving and caring – didn’t and still doesn’t have a great deal of common sense.) At the age of seventy-five, she fell eighteen feet from a tree by managing to saw through the tree branch she was clinging onto at the time. I think this last event illustrates my point well. Firstly she didn’t make the connection between the tree branch, her hand and the saw. Secondly, why the hell at the age of seventy-five is she climbing up a tree in the first place?

  For my part, only the consumption of the sun-tan lotion posed me any discomfort, producing copious diarrhoea for three days and nights. My father mourned the loss of his music centre until the day he died, and I still have the scorched remains of Pooh Bear somewhere. I believe his remains are interred in the spare bedroom in my apartment.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Apart from alternating between spending time with Amy and my colleagues at Perennial Mutual, an uneventful week drifted by. I received no more emails or texts from Lindsay and my profile on Love Bitz didn’t pull in any more emails. This was probably just as well given my state of mind.

  I had been mentally sparring with myself all week abo
ut whether to meet up with Carrie or not. After my telephone conversation with her I wasn’t sure it would go well, but despite my reservations I found myself, on Saturday evening, sitting on the top deck of the bus trundling into town.

  Weirdly I had a guilt thing going on in my head about Amanda. I had chatted to her on the phone a few times by then and the conversations had been comfortable and easy. I’d discovered she had three brothers and two sisters and was part of a large Irish Catholic family. I did manage to restrain myself from mentioning anything to do with the Irish potato famine, even though that was some 160 years ago. I used to annoy an ex-girlfriend with that particular jibe, probably one of the reasons why she became an ex-girlfriend.

  Amanda and I seemed to be getting on well. I would have said we were getting on like a house on fire but that struck me as a silly saying, because if my house was on fire I’d want to run like hell in the other direction, and I didn’t think I wanted to run away from Amanda. I had even managed to discuss Lindsay’s death and what had happened to her. Amanda sounded sympathetic and interested.

  I think one of the reasons I was so reluctant to meet up with Amanda was that I was bound to make a mess of the date. I had wondered if it was possible to keep her interested for another six months or so, by which time I might be ready to meet someone new. Amanda probably wouldn’t want to go along with that plan.

  The bus arrived at my stop and I jumped off. The evening was pleasantly warm and as I wandered along George Street, the waning sunshine felt good on the back of my neck. A light breeze blew up small dust eddies between the tall buildings, and I watched fascinated as a Walkers crisp packet spun in the air for a few moments before it settled into the gutter where it was promptly flattened by a number 26 bus.

  Many of the bars had set up tables outside to take advantage of the late summer weather and they were all packed. The Pink Strip was probably the biggest bar in Edinburgh and as such had more outside space than the others. I was reluctant to take a table on the pavement and preferred the more private setting of a booth inside.

  The waitress appeared as soon as I sat down and I ordered a beer. I wasn’t sure what Carrie’s drinking habits were as her profile didn’t go into that level of detail. She arrived just when the waitress returned with my beer and ordered herself a large glass of red wine. She then casually tossed her shoulder bag onto the seat opposite me and slipped into the booth.

  She was blonde-haired and blue-eyed which I knew she would be, but her hair had been cut into a short bob, a different hairstyle from her profile photograph where it had been long and luxuriant.

  Another feature that had failed to register in her profile photograph was actually how huge her breasts really were. The tight blue top she was wearing did nothing to disguise the size of them, and I noticed a few other men in the bar staring over at us. One poor chap was caught ogling by his girlfriend and got a slap for his trouble. Completing the ensemble were baggy black jeans and lace up Replay trainers.

  Our conversation was awkward initially but once we’d both consumed some alcohol we relaxed, and I (mostly) managed to keep my eyes on her face and not her tits. In truth I had two goals, one was to get past the first ten seconds and then to avoid being rude to her. I managed both which already made it a much better date than my previous efforts.

  After we’d ordered a bottle of wine to share and some nibbles, Carrie leaned over the table and placed her chin on her hands. She stared straight into my eyes and said, ‘So tell me about your Internet dating experiences so far.’

  I smiled and told her about Ellen and Terry, intentionally keeping the details vague and that she was my third. ‘So I’m not quite an Internet virgin, but close.’

  She laughed, her eyes lit up when she smiled and I liked that. ‘Well, I’ll be gentle with you, I promise.’

  That comment broke whatever ice was left and as the wine disappeared we became more comfortable.

  Carrie explained she worked for the local environmental health department, mainly in a desk-based role but occasionally she got to go out on inspections and trips to restaurants and bars. Her main role however was to prepare the legal documents connected with any cases they wanted to pursue. She had trained as a lawyer but didn’t want to work in a lawyer’s office, so started working for the council whilst in her final year at university and transferred over to environmental health after she graduated. I kept my occupation details vague to avoid boring her to death.

  After around an hour had ticked pleasantly by there was a natural pause in our conversation and Carrie broke the silence first. ‘There’s a lovely little place just around the corner – Paddy’s Piano bar. Have you ever been?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh you’d remember if you had, come on, let’s go.’

  She bounced up (literally) which caused a chain reaction in her breasts that rippled on for more than ten seconds. I gulped down the last of my wine whilst trying not to look. We walked briskly to the end of the block and Carrie disappeared down a flight of stairs to a basement entrance. There was no sign over the door and no clue that it was anything but a private address. She knocked loudly on the grey metal door and it was opened by a smartly dressed bouncer who was wearing top hat and tails – something I thought must be uncomfortable on such a warm evening. Carrie just nodded at the man and walked past him. She was obviously a regular. Inside the bar was air-conditioned and chilly and as I followed Carrie through a heavy blue silk curtain, I shivered involuntarily.

  The bar was intimate and snug, with tables and chairs arranged against the dark walls. Conversation was muted and the lighting was subdued and soft. A number of long red curtains were draped periodically around the room, giving privacy to some VIP tables but which also made the bar feel silken, soft and hushed.

  On a raised platform in the corner was a baby grand piano and the vacant stool in front of it was lit by a single spotlight. Carrie ordered some wine and as the waitress returned with a bottle on ice with glasses, a polite smattering of applause announced the arrival of the pianist. She was dark skinned and exotic. My first impression was a cross between Sade and Halle Berry. She sat and began to play a jazzed up soul song. Her voice was soft, husky and hypnotic and it soared to meet the high notes. I was mesmerized. Three songs later the spell began to wear off and Carrie and I returned to chatting quietly.

  Carrie whispered, ‘Will you do me a big favour? Will you go and ask her to play “Cry Me a River” by Julie London, I just love that song.’

  I agreed and when she finished her next song I carried out her request. A few minutes later she performed possibly the best version of that song I had ever heard in my life and Carrie was ecstatic.

  I had to wonder about the singer, how someone so talented ended up playing in a bar in Edinburgh. I thought about the huge number of talentless numpties that auditioned for the TV talent shows, and why someone like this had not been discovered.

  I was about to mention this to Carrie when she said, ‘I have a theory about dates. I think, no I know there has to be the “phwoar” factor. If that’s not there you might as well just go home.’

  The perceptive part of me noted the nearly empty wine bottle and that Carrie hadn’t gone home. ‘I assume we’ve got the “phwoar” factor then?’ I was at a loss here, the Men Like Women and Women Like Shoes website hadn’t mentioned a ‘phwoar’ factor, so this was unknown territory for me.

  Carrie nodded, and gazed into my eyes. ‘Well I feel it anyway.’

  I felt uncomfortable and squirmed in my seat for a moment before Carrie checked her watch.

  ‘What time is your babysitter leaving?’

  ‘It’s Amy’s gran actually, so she’s not on the clock.’ I felt immediately guilty about saying that but the excitement I felt in my loins overrode it.

  Carrie waved to the waitress for our bill. ‘Excellent, let’s get out of here, it’s too nice a night to
be sitting indoors.’

  Outside Carrie hailed a taxi and we jumped in. I was feeling a little nervous and excited by this turn of events.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘Back to my flat of course, where else would we go?’

  Where else indeed? I found myself opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish.

  Carrie continued. ‘I recently moved into one of the new flats in Fountainbridge overlooking the canal. It’s gorgeous. We can sit out on the balcony, have a drink and watch the sun go down.’

  I found my voice again and asked good-humouredly, ‘What if I’m an axe murderer?’

  Carrie took my hands and turned them over examining the palms. ‘You’re not.’

  ‘How can you tell by looking at my hands?’

  ‘If you were an axe murderer, you would have calloused hands from swinging-the-axe practising.’

  ‘OK you’re right, I’m not an axe murderer, but honestly . . . how do you know I’m not some kind of nut-job?’

  ‘You don’t look like a nut-job.’

  ‘I didn’t know nut-jobs had “a look”.’

  Carrie nodded. ‘Yep they do, I’ve known loads of them over the years.’

  I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. She noticed my reticence and leaned closer to me and lowered her voice to a whisper.

  ‘Look, Andy, I’m a very good judge of character, always have been. I trust my instincts completely. Anyway, all I’m suggesting is a few drinks and a beautiful view – and I don’t mean me, but I’m pretty good to look at, I think. I know you find me attractive because your pupils are all dilated. I’m not the sort of person to worry about standing on ceremony. If I want something I usually just go and get it. It’s just who I am. If you are uncomfortable, you can leave anytime, and if I don’t think I want you there any more I’ll ask you to go. Fair enough?’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’