by Blake, Rosie
If a man calls a woman she should end the conversation first to leave him wanting more.
If a man calls a woman she should let him direct the conversation: that shows he’s in charge!
When a woman likes a man she should try to mirror his body language.
A man likes a woman who knows her own mind.
When a man likes a woman he will find ways to touch her during their conversation.
When a man likes a woman he can sometimes appear distant in her company.
If a man calls a woman she should not return his call until he makes the third attempt to contact her.
If a man calls a woman she should return his message within the hour. This will show that she is keen!
A woman should be clear in her signals to ensure the man is confident she returns his interest.
A woman should keep her cards close to her chest to ensure the man retains his interest.
A woman should be distant and cold, he will find this intriguing.
A woman should be warm and welcoming; no man wants to date a sourpuss!
A man will always make the first move if he is interested.
A man likes a woman to instigate the first move.
I placed my head in my hands and decided to return home.
Chapter Eight
Single girl seeks man who hasn’t read ‘The Rules’, doesn’t know that ‘Men are From Mars and Women are from Venus’ and calls women back after an appropriate length of time. Oh, and who doesn’t look into what it means if there are no kisses on a text message. Or if there are 3.
Contact: Box No. 78511
The weekend might have proved a dead loss for my research into ‘How to Win a Man’ but it had clearly not dampened Caroline’s enthusiasm for what she insisted on calling her project.
‘Did you see that episode of Time Team last night,’ she asked before I had barely rested my buttocks onto the chair.
‘Er … no. I’m not an avid fan of Time Team,’ I admitted, sipping at my Echinacea tea and flicking through my diary.
‘Aren’t you?’ she raised her eyebrow as if this was a fairly sensational statement. ‘So you didn’t see the bit where they were making ale in the old brewery?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, there was this brewer,’ she explained. ‘Who was quite tall with a lovely build …’
‘That’s … nice,’ I said.
‘Yes. He was sort of a Christian Bale meets Ed Norton size.’
‘Er … right,’ I said, trying to work out how her Christian/Ed mix might morph into a real person. ‘That’s just great.’
‘Yes, not too big, but you know, not … insubstantial.’
‘Good for him.’
‘So, do you like the sound of that, er, kind of build?’
‘Build?’ I furrowed my brow.
‘Yes – in a man. It might be defined as Muscular or Around Average for a man.’
‘I’m sure it suited him,’ I smiled. Caroline had clearly developed quite a crush on this Time Team extra.
‘Good. So that’s a yes,’ she said, suddenly tapping something out on her keyboard.
‘Er … what’s a yes?’ I asked.
She paused. ‘That you like average, muscular sort of men.’
‘Right,’ I repeated, narrowing my eyes.
Caroline nodded happily and went back to her work.
Later, as I ate Monday’s snack of choice: uniform sticks of celery with a bottle of Goji Juice health drink, Caroline suddenly piped up.
‘Eyes.’
She’d been so unusually quiet in the past hour that I’d practically forgotten she was there.
‘Hmm?’ I looked up.
‘Eyes. Are you bothered?’ she asked, finger hovering above her keyboard.
‘Bothered by eyes? What?’
‘Do you like men’s eyes?’
‘Well, I usually prefer men to have eyes, Caroline, but I still don’t really get why you’re asking …’
‘Oh, sorry, I just mean do you care what colour people’s eyes are, um, usually. Like, in general.’
‘No, Caroline,’ I exhaled slowly. ‘I am a fan of all eye colours. They are all equal in my book. I don’t dislike one type of eye. I am not eyeist.’
‘So people can have any colour eyes, in your book?’ she added.
‘Yes, they can go mad and buy coloured contacts for all I care. It’s a free country, after all.’ I shook my head. Caroline was quirky, but she’d really been excelling herself in the last few hours.
‘Right. Good. So you don’t mind people having any coloured eyes … and that includes men, does it?’
‘Yes, women, men, children. Are you regularly in contact with people who have issues with eye colour?’ I asked in an exasperated tone.
‘No, no, no,’ she said breezily, tapping at her keyboard. ‘I’m just curious. I prefer blue myself, but I just wanted to see what, you know, other people liked.’
‘Right,’ I said, distracted by the ringing of the telephone. I answered with the usual patter. ‘The Sullivan Agency, Nicola speaking.’ Moments later I was rifling through my out tray for a contract that should have been signed first thing that morning. I gulped and jumped up. James was, thank goodness, in the vicinity so all I needed to do was ensure he signed it and then I could courier it over. How had I forgotten this? I scolded myself. I’d allowed all this personal commotion to distract me from my work.
I knocked timidly on the door to James’ office and waited. He was probably doing something horribly important and I hated rushing in and imposing administrative duties on him. I could hear him talking on the other side of the door. He didn’t have a meeting so I assumed he must be on the telephone. I looked at the contract in my hand. I had to have it signed and sent out in the next half an hour. There was just no time to wait. I took a breath and knocked again a little louder. I heard a quick, ‘Come in’, and pushed open the door. James was pacing up and down the room, talking into a blue vase that he had looped around his neck with some kind of frayed ribbon. My brow creased in panic. He was saying things like, ‘Well just order something in suede then’ and ‘Peter Jones is a great idea’ into the vase. I hesitated. What was happening? Why was my boss speaking rapidly into a piece of handblown glass that was precariously balanced around his neck? I knew he was stressed and busy but had he finally tipped over the edge? Should I run for help? Maybe I should get Caroline, at least? Oh God. Caroline is useless in a crisis. There was nothing in the office guidelines to cover a moment like this. I knew this because I’d written them.
‘Yes, yes, no, it’s just Nicola. Okay fine,’ he was saying to the vase. ‘Yes, go ahead then. Okay. Bye.’
He signed off with the vase and I gaped at him. ‘Er, Mr Sulli, James, I wanted to … I needed to …’ Now I had completely forgotten why I was there. My eyes flicked back to the vase around his neck.
‘Nicola, this must look a little strange.’
I sighed with relief. He had at least noticed that he was coming across unusually.
‘Well, I didn’t want to say but I … you see … um … CONTRACT,’ I eventually shouted, brandishing the bunch of paper before him. ‘I wanted you to sign this,’ I said, finally remembering the original reason for my visit to his office.
‘You have small hands, don’t you, Nicola?’ he stated.
‘Er …’
WHAT was going on today?
‘Um, yes. I suppose they are fairly small,’ I said in a barely-there voice.
‘Well, you’re a woman so they must be smaller,’ he muttered, unlooping the vase from around his neck.
‘… Smaller than what?’ Children? Hobbits? What was he on about?
‘You see, Nicola, I have managed to, er, drop my mobile phone in this vase and I can’t get it out because of all these stupid blue baubles that keep sliding out and getting in the way. I don’t want to smash it because it is a present from Thalia and she is bound to ask me to produce it at some point and I don’t—’
> ‘—Fine,’ I put up my hand to stop his explanation. Then I smiled at him. The relief in my face must have been apparent because he started laughing.
‘Probably looks like I’ve lost the plot, eh?’ he hazarded a guess. ‘Talking to the vase?’
‘Something like that.’
He placed the vase on the desk and I peered inside. I could make out the mobile phone but knew my hands weren’t that small. I had a go. James looked at me hopefully as I plunged my hand in, face scrunched in concentration, fingers wriggling around to see if they could clasp at anything. Every time we tipped the vase, the blue baubles slid over the phone.
‘I’m sorry,’ I gave up after a good five minutes of digging around.
‘Hammer it is,’ James sighed, realising there was little chance of seeing his mobile again otherwise. ‘Thanks anyway, Nicola.’
‘Not at all.’ I shrugged. A few awkward seconds passed before I remembered again why I was there. ‘Contract! I need you to sign it!’ I explained holding out a pen and the pieces of paper. He quickly scrawled his name on them and before he could say anything else I bolted back towards the main office. Curiosity overwhelming me, I paused in the doorway. ‘So how did you answer the …’
I was cut off by his mobile ringing again and watched as he produced a biro, leant over the vase and jabbed at the mobile. Then he grinned at me. ‘Hello,’ he answered. ‘Hi Thalia, you’re on loudspeaker.’
I smiled back and nodded at him. He shrugged his shoulders and put the vase back around his neck.
I was still smiling as I returned to my desk.
‘Oh good, Nicola,’ Caroline began the moment I’d taken my seat.
Oh God.
‘Yes,’ I sighed.
‘I’m just sitting here thinking of all the latest films at the cinema and I’m wondering what your favourite film is.’
‘Um … I can’t think, I don’t have a favourite.’
‘Oh.’ Her shoulders slumped. She looked crestfallen. Wow. She must be really interested in films.
‘I like a good drama,’ I said, trying to buck her up a little.
‘Oh goody! Any one in particular? Say, Legends of the Fall? Or The English Patient? Last of the—’
‘—Yes, yes The English Patient, that’s my favourite,’ I said quickly, before she continued her list of movies.
‘Righto.’ She beamed at me and clicked her mouse. She was a strange one.
The morning passed by in a similar vein. By 2 p.m. Caroline had asked if I played any unusual sports, had enquired as to whether I was a Christian, a Hindu, an atheist, a Sikh, an agnostic or ‘other’ and had wanted to double-check I was definitely the youngest child in my family. I’d been desperately busy doing paperwork and had answered her questions quickly without wondering why she was suddenly so concerned about my religious well-being and sporting hobbies.
Then at around 2:11 p.m. she said, ‘Um … Nicola …’
‘Yes, Caroline,’ I said, anticipating a question on the type of books I read or my preferred choice for a city break, or the regularity of my bowel movements.
‘Um … Do you like children?’ she asked casually.
‘Like them? Um …’
I didn’t know. The truth was, I was a little bit afraid of children. They were fragile, stamped ‘Handle with Care’, utterly reliant on you. And then there was all the poo and smells and germs. But I could hardly say that to Caroline when she doted on her own two little treasures.
‘Do you want them someday? Children?’ Caroline pressed.
‘Yes, of course, um … with the right person,’ I said vaguely. Caroline dropped her head to type something and then looked up at me.
‘And how about smokers?’ she asked. ‘You don’t seem the type to like smokers, but I’m just curious …’
‘Children smokers or smokers in general?’ I quipped.
‘Smokers as a group. Forget children, just smokers, smoking, how do you feel about them on the whole?’
‘Look, Caroline I have no idea why you want to discover every little thing about me on this dreary Monday morning, but I know you are up to something. With regards to smoking, I don’t like it, but I don’t mind if others want to partake of a cigarette or two. Happy?’ I finished, scowling at her.
‘In your home?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Do you mind if they smoke in your home?’ she went on.
I sighed.
‘Caroline, are you organising some kind of Smokers Anonymous get together in my home? Because, yes. I do mind. I don’t want smokers in my flat.’
‘Right, phew, good, thought so.’ She tapped at her keyboard once more.
‘Okay,’ I frowned. ‘What do you keep typing?’
‘Nothing,’ Caroline replied, eyes darting left then right.
‘You’re lying!’
‘It’s a …’ She clicked on her mouse again. ‘A …’
‘Yeeeeesss?’
‘A press release.’
‘A press release for what?’
‘Oh, um …’ She closed her eyes. ‘A press release for a new … a new … Oh fine.’ She crumpled. ‘Fine it’s not a press release, Poirot, it’s a little something I am doing for you. A favour if you must know. It was supposed to be a surprise.’
‘What favour?’ I asked, reckoning that this favour might not be favourable at all.
We both jumped as James wordlessly swept past us and out of the office. I shook my head and turned my attention back to Caroline. ‘Explain yourself?’ I hissed.
Caroline tutted. ‘Alright, Alright! I might have signed you up to that dating website I showed you.’
‘Nooo.’ I put my head in my hands.
‘Look, Nic, you don’t have to do anything about it, but take a look, see who’s on there. Some of the fellas are gorgeous.’
‘Hmm …’ I groaned, unconvinced.
‘Honestly, if I was ten years younger,’ she sighed dreamily. ‘Look, I’ll send you the link and you can just have a little look at who is out there. I’ve made you sound great. Not that you’re not, but well, you sound great, because you are great, oh, Nic, just look at it.’
‘Fine, fine, fine, fine,’ I said, lifting my hands in surrender, ‘I will look at it, but—’
Before I could finish my sentence, James erupted back through the office door, a determined expression on his face and clutching a hammer in his right hand.
‘Everything all right in here?’ he asked, seeing our startled faces.
‘Er … yes. Lovely,’ Caroline said.
‘Great, just great,’ I added, the two of us worriedly eyeing the hammer.
‘Good, good,’ James said, stalking through to his office and slamming the door behind him. A sudden flash of light went off to my right.
‘Smile!’ Caroline said, springing up by my desk. ‘It’s for your profile on the site.’
I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the bright light from where it had imprinted on my retinas. A few moments later Caroline said, ‘Sent!’
I slumped into my chair. So, Nicola Brown was now on the internet. On a dating website. This whole process was frightening. Was it weird to be so blatant about my quest to find a date? The fact that millions of other people did it every day didn’t really make me feel any better.
My email pinged as a new message popped up. ‘Welcome to Find Me A Mate! Nicola Brown.’
The two hippos were kissing. I put my head back in my hands. Oh God.
From James’ office, I heard the sound of a vase smashing.
Chapter Nine
Single girl WLTM real man in the flesh. Not internet weirdo who says he is athletic and 30 and is, in fact, 55 and medically obese.
Contact: Box No. 90002
I got home that evening feeling ready to tackle the task ahead: Find me a mate my way. Caroline’s efforts had prompted me into further action. I needed to continue with my plans, claw back some control. I settled myself onto my lovely squishy sofa and forced my mind back to past relati
onships. I reached into the shoebox of letters I’d retrieved earlier from the top shelf of my wardrobe. Squirreling through the pile of papers, I pulled out one particularly dog-eared photo from my last year of university. There we were. The two of us. Even without the photograph, I was able to recall every detail in my mind. I remembered the day it was taken. His arm was slung over my shoulders, his warm smile directed towards the camera. I was beside him, blissfully content, relaxed, my body melting into his. He’d just asked me to move in with him after graduation. Exactly a month later he’d left me. I was distraught. To make matters worse I’d only just scraped a third-class degree after three years of studying and having always been top in my year. It was then that I vowed not to ever let another man mess up my life. Of course I’d had the odd evening out, the odd date, but nothing that ever came to anything. I was completely closed off. Protecting myself from hurt had been my grand plan. And it had worked. It had worked so well that now, seven years later, I was sitting alone in my flat wondering where the girl in the picture had gone; the girl brimming with confidence, with a wide grin and glowing skin, shiny dark hair flowing over her shoulders, the girl completely at home amidst the buzz of university life, surrounded by friends. My throat felt thick as I traced her outline with my finger. She had been me. She was still me. I felt determined to find her again.