by Polly James
I phone Eva to check, and she tells me to “go to a beauty salon and get the whole thing waxed, like any normal person would”. I say that I see nothing normal about stripping off in front of a judgemental and probably spotty teenager wielding instruments of torture in the form of waxed strips, and Eva informs me I’m being “even more ridiculous than usual”.
“No one has pubic hair these days, you idiot,” she adds.
“What, none?” I ask.
How ridiculous must that look on someone of my age? There you are, all smooth and bald as a pre-pubescent down below, but with an obviously-middle-aged face looming above. Disturbing isn’t the word for the image I’ve just conjured up.
“Well, put a bag over your head if you’re so paranoid about the discrepancy,” says Eva, who is the most unsympathetic person I have ever met. “Or grow your head hair even longer, so you can cover your face with it during The Act.”
Only Eva can capitalise spoken words, as well as written ones, and I’m not going to take her advice, anyway. I’m not. I don’t even need to be worrying about any of this stuff just yet, now I come to think of it, as it would be stupid to sleep with my blind date on the first night, however “perfect” the Fembot says he is for me. I’m going to take the whole thing slowly, and see what happens.
Also, I always swore I would never sleep with a man whose name was Nigel. Nigel!
* * *
I haven’t been able to concentrate all day today, and I’m a nervous wreck now I’m back at home. Tonight’s the night, to quote Rod Stewart. (I don’t even like Rod Stewart, which only goes to prove the state I’m in.)
I’ve tried Kalms, gallons of Rescue Remedy, and I’ve also been muttering “Om” every few seconds since I began to get ready, but none of those things are calming me down effectively. In fact, the “Om” thing’s just making me hoarse, but it’s safer than the alternative, which would be to hit the gin. I can’t afford to do that, not only because I can’t risk alcohol-induced palpitations to add to the anxiety-induced ones I’ve already got, but also because I need to look as if there’s nothing to be nervous about. I haven’t told Joel I’ve got a date, and he’s hanging around the house and watching me like a hawk.
“Where are you off to tonight, Mum?” he asks, when I tell him that I’m going out.
“Cinema with Esther,” I say. “Won’t be late, though I suppose we might have a couple of drinks afterwards.”
I cross my fingers while I’m lying to my beloved (but annoying) son, but get punished for it anyway. Joel chooses that moment to mention Dan.
“You should see the film Dad was telling me about the other night when I was on the phone to him,” he says. “He said it was brilliant, so bear that in mind, if you haven’t already decided what to see.”
I nod, but am incapable of speech. The last thing I want is to bear in mind anything to do with Dan tonight. Not when I’m about to go on a date with another man, let alone another man whose name is Nigel. Dan would really take the piss, if he knew, and so would Danny, if Pammy told him about it – which she’s not going to.
If things go well tonight, and Nigel and I end up being an “item”, he’s going to have to change his name entirely, seeing as diminutives won’t solve the problem. In fact, they’re worse. Imagine Joel saying to Dan, “Mum’s new boyfriend’s name is Nige,” or, even worse, “Nidge”! I’d rather not imagine it, actually, as I can already visualise Dan’s expression.
I say a few more “Oms”, and tell myself the best thing to do is wait and see how Nigel and I get on. If we end up becoming a couple, I’ll choose an appropriate nickname for him (preferably one that doesn’t contain any of the letters that make up Nigel), and then I’ll refer to him by that.
Now my taxi’s here, so I’d better go. Ouf. Deep breaths, Hannah – deep, deep breaths.
Chapter 27
I get to the restaurant before my date has arrived, so I pop to the loo and spend a few minutes collecting myself and breathing into a paper bag, because the deep-breaths thing seems to have caused me to hyperventilate. Then, I chew three pieces of Wrigleys Extra simultaneously, while I sort out my windblown hair, then spit them into the bin and squirt myself generously with Rive Gauche. Then I remember Dan bought that for me, so I wash it off again, and walk out scentless and half-witless into blind date land.
The waitress shows me to a table and I sit and wait. My hands become clammier with every second that passes, until finally, someone approaching the table from behind me says, “Hannah?”
I turn round, and there he is. Nigel. In all his glory.
You know how I said I was going to choose a nickname for him? Well, now I have. It’s Gandalf.
“Don’t judge people on their looks, Hannah,” I instruct myself – in my head, obviously. I’m not that bonkers, though I am almost shocked enough by my date’s appearance to say it out loud. Nigel’s got a ponytail. Not even a proper ponytail, but one of those stupid ones that looks as if he decided to start cutting his hair himself, got all the way around the sides, then couldn’t quite reach the bit at the back. It’s tragic.
He sits down opposite me, which is an improvement as now I can’t see the thing coming out of the back of his head, though I still can’t forget it’s there. Maybe a double gin will help, though Gandalf looks a bit surprised and disapproving when I order it.
“I thought we’d be drinking wine,” he says. “I’m a bit of a connoisseur, so I was looking forward to recommending something you’d enjoy.”
I’d enjoy taking scissors to his hairy protrusion, but I don’t mention it. Instead, I change my order to a single gin, which I describe as “an aperitif”, and then I allow bossy boots Gandalf to choose the wine. I’m pretty sure he’d like to tell me what to eat as well, but there’s only so much I’m willing to do to placate his ego. And what an ego it turns out to be.
We spend the first hour talking about his exciting career in teaching. The exciting bit was Gandalf’s description, not mine, and if he bores his students half as much as he bores me, I should think he’s singlehandedly responsible for the UK’s truanting problem. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced Gandalf doesn’t think he’s teaching a student while he eats, as the way he speaks to me is so self-important and full of certainty. I try not to compare him with Dan, but I do keep praying for just one amusing comment, just something that will make me laugh and imply I’m not just here to provide Gandalf with a captive audience. What was the Fembot thinking when she described this tedious man as “perfect” for me? Am I as boring and pompous as he is, or something? No wonder Dan left me, if I am.
I’ve been eating the whole time Gandalf’s been talking, so I finish my meal ages before he does, which thankfully makes him shut up for a bit while he catches up. The sudden silence brings its own problems, though, as now I have to talk to him and I can’t think of a word to say.
I excuse myself and visit the loo, where I phone Eva, as I promised I would if Gandalf turned out to be a serial killer. I’m not one hundred per cent certain he isn’t, as he’s certainly killing the art of conversation, and if he does the same thing to every woman he meets, then that’s the “serial” bit sorted, too.
Eva doesn’t answer, so she’s obviously forgotten she’s on bodyguard duty. I leave a message.
“If you can die of boredom, then you need to get me out of here,” I say.
She doesn’t call back in the next five minutes so eventually I have no choice but to head back to the table, where Gandalf’s studying the dessert menu, and being rudely offhand to the waitress. I hate people who treat waiting staff like that. They’ve obviously never had to do the job themselves, unlike me and Dan. We both worked our way through art school by waiting tables, and we still remember what it was like. That’s why we always insist on tipping, even though Joel keeps making us watch that scene in Reservoir Dogs, the one where Mr Pink asks why he should tip waiters when he’s not expected to tip the guy who sells him shoes. (Joel claims it’s the general principle
he agrees with, and that it has nothing to do with selling shoes himself.)
“Zabaglione, for both of us,” says Gandalf to the waitress. I haven’t even looked at the menu yet, but I love Zabaglione, so I don’t object. Maybe I have more in common with Gandalf than I thought, so I resolve to be nicer to him, even though he still seems incapable of saying “please” or “thank you” to waiting staff.
“What do you do in your free time?” I ask, while we wait for our puddings.
I wish I hadn’t. Gandalf’s obsessed with the works of Tolkien. Oddly appropriate given his new nickname, but even more boring to listen to than his droning on about school inspectors and the hours he spends marking homework has already been. I wonder aloud whether the Tolkien thing is why the Fembot set us up: she once called me a hobbit, because I’m so short.
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” asks Gandalf, in response. “My son’s her personal trainer, and I think she’s got a soft spot for him, since she offered to go round and cook him dinner while I was out tonight.”
I’m pretty angry when I hear that, but I get even crosser when I pick up the menu in an attempt to calm down by pretending to study it. Turns out the restaurant is only willing to make Zabaglione if the order’s for two people or more.
I don’t mention it, as Gandalf’s already back on the subject of Lord of the Rings, so I hand him payment for my half of the bill, along with my pudding, which has just arrived. Then I tip the waitress excessively, and call a cab. No way am I dating a man who claims that orcs are real.
Chapter 28
The Fembot’s not speaking to me because of what happened with Gandalf last night. I overhear her telling Esther he came home “in a foul mood” and “at an inopportune moment”, which may have cost her a second date with his personal trainer son.
“I may have to get you to date Nigel next,” she says to Esther.
It’s obvious from the Fembot’s tone of voice that she’s joking, but Esther still says she might consider it. She must be desperate for that promotion.
She even tags along with the Fembot when she goes to lunch, and the two of them come back the best of friends, which makes me feel a bit left out, though not enough to pretend I’ve changed my opinion of bloody Gandalf – or of the Fembot for suggesting I go on a date with him.
For the rest of the afternoon, all I can hear is the Fembot holding forth (mainly about the “awesome” Paleo diet and the importance of positive thinking), and Esther agreeing with every word she says. I can’t ignore their tedious conversation because the stupid hot-desking rota means I’m seated between the two of them this week.
“You’re acting very pally towards the Fembot all of a sudden,” I say to Esther, when the Fembot finally shuts down her computer, then gets up from her desk to fetch her coat.
“No, I’m not,” says Esther, “I’m acting the same as I always do.”
That claim is rapidly disproven when the Fembot shouts, “Bye, all!”, then turns to leave.
Everyone grunts a non-committal reply, apart from Esther, who really goes for it.
“Bye, hun,” she says.
There’s a sudden, very noticeable silence as the rest of the staff stop talking and wait to see what happens next. The Fembot likes underlings to know their place, which is something Esther clearly hasn’t learned about her yet.
We don’t have long to wait before she does.
First the Fembot turns round, and freezes Esther with a single look, and then she says, “Pardon, Esther? I don’t think I heard you properly.”
“Goodbye,” says Esther, in a very small voice.
* * *
I feel awful for having to turn down Esther’s invitation to go for a drink to calm her down after the “hun” debacle with the Fembot, but Eva’s already on her way round to mine. She’s coming for a debriefing of the Gandalf date, though judging by the gifts she’s bearing, she’s already got a pretty good idea of how it went.
She passes me a bottle of Prosecco and a hand-tied bouquet, and then pulls a box of lavender-scented tissues in vintage-style packaging out of her bag.
“Blind dates really tell you what the person who organises them thinks of you, don’t they?” I say, once I’ve thanked her for the gifts. Then I query how she knew a box of tissues would be required.
“Just a feeling,” she says. “Mainly because your boss is an idiot, so anyone she recommended was likely to be an idiot too. I assume things did not go well?”
I shrug in the face of understatement of the year, and then rummage around in the kitchen cupboards, trying to find the only vase Joel didn’t manage to shatter when he was still a teenager and Dan bought him that stupid BB gun. (We lost a lot of lightbulbs that way, too.)
“Where are you, you bloody thing?” I say, as I give up on the kitchen cupboards, and head for the understair cupboard instead. (Talking to vases is another worrying new habit I’ve developed, along with talking to myself.)
I rack my brains to recall the last time I used the vase, but when I do, it’s not much help. It was for some gerberas Claire and Theo bought me as a thank you for looking after their cat while they were on holiday, just before Dan and I split up and I became persona non grata at their dinner parties, but I can’t remember where I put it after that. I eventually find it outside the back door, streaked with mud and stained with bright green watermarks, the now-mouldy gerberas still inside. Joel must have put it there when the flowers died, while I was in my newly-separated state of not giving a shit about anything.
I bring the vase inside, squirt it with washing-up liquid and then dump it into a sinkful of hot water. The whole process takes so long that Eva loses patience, and decides to open the Prosecco herself.
“I’ve got a feeling you could do with some of this,” she says, handing me a glass. “Now tell me what happened on your date, and don’t leave anything out.”
I do as I’m told while I clean the vase and finally put the flowers in water, and she shudders appropriately at all the worst bits of the Gandalf saga. I save the part about his ponytail until last, to go out with a bang (unlike the date).
Eva winces.
“Jesus,” she says. “A semi-pony? That is traumatic. And did he really have ears like Gollum’s or did you make those up?”
“No, I didn’t, and yes, he did,” I say. “Now change the subject. I’m feeling sick at the thought.”
Another glass of Prosecco helps the nausea a lot (who knew?), and then Eva starts to tell me off.
“You are an idiot, agreeing to that date,” she says, rearranging the flowers I seem to have mangled during my attempt to fit them into the vase. “If I’d known you were desperate enough for high-risk dating, I’d have suggested someone who’d be a much better option.”
“Who – a child?” I ask, thinking of Eva’s penchant for Marlon, and her fake one for Joel, too. I hope it is a fake one, now I come to think of it. Imagine having Eva as a daughter-in-law!
There’s no chance of that, though, not with Eva so dead-set against marriage. She’s always telling me the single life is best, especially when I get a bit maudlin about Dan – which usually happens when I drink too much Prosecco. That could happen any minute.
“Cheer up, Han – I know a man who’d be ideal for you,” says Eva, stopping my wobble in its tracks.
She goes on to say that she’s just employed someone she knows to come and work at Viva Vintage, and he doesn’t know anyone in the UK because he’s been in the US almost as long as Eva was. She adds that he doesn’t have a ponytail, does have normal ears and – most importantly – does not believe in orcs.
“He’s also unbelievably handsome,” she says, making her closing argument. “I mean the stop-you-in-your-tracks kind of handsome.”
I’m not stupid. I do ask Eva why she’s not snaffling this man for herself, if he’s such a catch, but she changes the subject and I forget to bring it back up again before she leaves. I don’t forget to agree “in principle” to go on a date with him though, o
nce I’ve had the makeover Eva’s promised me. My normal self might be good enough for the Gandalfs of this world, but it won’t do for the super-handsome.
Chapter 29
Time flies when you’re having fun, but it goes even faster when you’re not. It’s Dan’s birthday in two days’ time, and are you supposed to send your husband a birthday card when you and he are separated? What’s the protocol? I don’t want him to have a happy birthday – not without me – but I don’t feel I can ignore it either, not when he knows I know that it’s his birthday. That would just seem petty, wouldn’t it?
I spend most of the day dithering, but when I go into town after work, I decide the best thing to do is send a joint card from me and Joel.
More hours of indecision later, I finally choose a card featuring a Terry Frost painting (one of Dan’s favourite artists). It’s lovely, and also blank – so there are no embarrassing verses that could be misconstrued. When I arrive home and show it to Joel, he informs me he bought a card for Dan “ages ago”, and has already posted it.
This has never, ever been known to happen before. Even on the very rare occasions when Joel remembers to buy someone a card, he always forgets to post it and sometimes he doesn’t even get round to writing it. That last part comes in quite useful, actually, as it means there’s usually a spare card or two somewhere in Joel’s bedroom, perfect for birthdays you’ve overlooked.
I probably could have used one of those, and saved myself the trip to the shops, but now I sit and stare at the card that I’ve just bought. Should I send it to Dan or not? And, if I do, what the hell should I write in it? I’ve been scrawling the same thing every year for twenty-seven years, but it won’t do now. “I still love you as much as I always did,” doesn’t seem appropriate any more, even though it may be true.