by John Hughes
Elaine started counting again with her fingers. She went through them all on both hands, including thumbs, and started a second run.
“Lainey! You are kidding I hope?”
Elaine grinned. “Of course, what do you think I am! Two actually.”
“So that’s an average of one in thirteen.”
“Jeez, the down side of having a maths teacher for a friend!” She too drank some more wine. “From what you’ve said, thirteen is probably about the number of years it’s been since your Duncan performed his matrimonial duty.”
“Yep,” confirmed Paula. “Ross is twelve now, add nine months and that’s about right.”
“Seriously, has it been that long?”
“Apart from a couple of boozy birthday fumbles. I’m thinking about reapplying for my virginity.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
Paula hesitated as if not wanting to admit the answer. “Yes.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“It would appear not.”
“Do you miss it a little or a lot?’
“Big time.”
“Have you still got your…?” asked Elaine, making a buzzing noise.
“Couldn’t manage without it. Spend a fortune on batteries.”
They guffawed together, loudly and raucously, the way only drunken people can.
“Get yourself a bit on the side,” advised Elaine. “It’ll work out cheaper.”
“I could never do that.”
“I beg your pardon! I seem to remember a Christmas do a few years back, and a certain gym teacher…”
Paula coloured up instantly. “That was a mistake, a one off, never to be repeated. I was pissed. Besides we never did it – not everything.”
“So what were you doing together in the school hall store room for an hour and a half?”
“We just… I let him…”
Elaine held up her hands. “Woah! Actually, I don’t want to know so soon after a chilli con carne! God knows how you manage without it. If I haven’t had it for more than a couple of weeks I get twitchy.”
“Me too, so I get my pocket rocket out.”
“Not as good as the real thing.”
“Oh I don’t know, it doesn’t snore or fart. And the batteries last a lot longer than Duncan ever did!”
More raucous laughter.
“So are you basically content on your own then, Lainey – happy with a fortnightly bonk if it comes your way, and a bit of male company?”
“NO! I am not. I want to be married like you and I want to have kids. I’m thirty-four and the old biological clock is ticking big time. I want a husband to come home to and who loves me like crazy.”
“You can have mine.”
“Thanks but no thanks. I’d have married Tom if he’d asked. I really loved him and thought he was the one. I was wrong.”
“Remind me again why he dumped you?”
Elaine thought for a moment. “The short version is he needed space.”
“What for?”
“He never said.”
“After how long together?”
“Two years, four months, one week… approximately.” Elaine paused for wine. “I’ve never told you this before but when I met Tom I started seeing a therapist. I wanted it to work so much I thought I’d try and sort out all my demons – see if I could get to the bottom of why all my relationships have failed. I still go occasionally.”
“Can’t have helped, otherwise you’d still be together.”
“It’s helped in some ways. I’ve certainly sorted out a few hang ups from my childhood. But to be honest I’m still of the opinion it simply boils down to finding the right person. The right man for you.”
Paula gave her renowned look of smugness. “See, like I said, a numbers game.” Then after a pause: “Was Tom a good lover?”
“Pretty good… very gentle, very loving. He kept me satisfied.”
The conversation reached a natural pause and both women reached for their wine glasses.
“So now what?” asked Paula. “Keep hunting?”
“That’s what I’m doing. He’s out there somewhere, I’ve just got to find the bugger.”
“Twenty-six so far, not to mention all the others over the years. How many does it take?”
“How long is a piece of string!”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard. Maybe two a week means you’re speeding your way through all the available men in the area to the point that you’re gonna whizz past Mister Right without seeing him for what he is. Perhaps you ought to slow down.”
“Hang on!” said Elaine in exasperation. “One minute you’re saying it’s a numbers game, the next you’re saying I should go on fewer dates! Make up your mind, bird.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“What do you suggest then, Paula?”
“I don’t know. I just wonder if maybe you ought to spend a bit more time with each bloke and get to know them better before flitting on to the next one.”
“What’s the point if you know within ten minutes you don’t fancy him, or…?”
“It’s not all about sex.”
“… or there’s no common ground, I was about to say.”
“You can’t tell that in ten minutes, surely?”
“Take my word for it, you can.”
Paula sat back and thought. “Maybe it’s the raw material that’s wrong then. Maybe the men on Plenty of Fish aren’t what you’re looking for. Why not fork out and go onto a paying site?”
“Been there, done that, more than once. A lot are the same as on Plenty of Fish and the others are mostly solicitors and accountants… and teachers. Bore the tits off you.”
“Thanks!”
“Come on, Paula. Is there anyone on the teaching staff at Bishop Walton you’d want to spend the rest of your life with?”
“Umm… no.”
“I rest my case.”
Paula thought some more. “How does it work then? How do you find all these men to go dating with?”
“They send messages to you, you take a look at their photo and profile and decide whether to reply or not.”
“So don’t you reply, if you’re not interested?”
“I used to reply to everyone, but not anymore. No matter how politely you say ‘thanks but no thanks’ you’re likely to get abuse in return, and not very imaginative abuse either. Lesbian, fuck you, that sort of thing. Simpler not to. If you don’t hear back then you know it’s a no.”
“How many messages do you get?”
“It varies. Sometimes a couple, maybe up to twenty a day at weekends.”
“Christ, all those men! How do you pick out the ones you meet?”
“Well for a start you immediately delete all the ones who don’t have a photo…”
“Why?”
“Because they’re either married or pig ugly.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“Harsh but true.”
“Then what?”
“Then you delete the ones who live too far away.”
“How far is that?’
“More than ten miles from Reading as far as I’m concerned.”
“Are there many?”
“Quite a few. I get them from all over the country. Abroad too… mainly from Ghana of all places. They have usually fallen in love with my photo and think I’m the woman of their dreams. After my money and a British passport of course.”
“Fair enough.”
“Then the ones who just say ‘Hi’. If they can’t string a sentence together I’m not interested.”
“Anyone else?”
“Anyone with their top off, or holding a fish.”
“Are there any left?”
“Enough to get a couple of da
tes every week.”
“And of the twenty-six you’ve met, you’ve shagged two. Presumably the pick of the bunch?”
“They were the ones I had a second date with, yes.”
“Isn’t that a bit, you know… too soon?”
“Not for me. Sex is important to me, so if that’s no good I want to know sooner not later. I’m hardly prolific.”
Paula gave her a disapproving look. “I’m not sure about that.”
“Well that’s a personal choice. Thing is, Paula, mostly if I really like someone they’re not interested in me, and if they really like me I’m not interested in them. The two so far are the ones where there was some mutual ground. One I never heard from again, so obviously just a player.”
“And the other?”
“Couldn’t keep it up for more than a few minutes.”
Paula grinned. “Perhaps he was nervous.”
“I don’t care what the problem was. He failed the interview.”
“Oh dear.”
“So what do you suggest then… where am I going wrong? Come on Paula, put me straight.”
“I don’t know. The more you tell me the more I’m wondering if Mister Perfect might be in the ones you reject.”
“What, amongst the poor, the married and the ugly?” She whistled a fragment of Ennio Morricone.
“I was thinking more of the topless and the anglers. You’re not giving them a chance. They might be really nice guys. Or the ones that live more than ten miles away. That’s no distance at all, doesn’t even take you to Swindon or Basingstoke.”
“You’ve got to cull them somehow. I can’t go on twenty dates a week.”
“Oh I don’t know! Drink up, this one’s on me.”
“I think I’ve had enough, Paula. I’m pretty pissed.”
“No you’re not. We’re gonna drink wine until we’ve sorted this dating malarky out and you’ve got a proper, structured plan of campaign.”
“Knowing you, that will involve a mathematical formula.”
“Stranger things have happened. Same again?”
* * *
Ordinarily, a text message arriving on Elaine’s phone gave out a benign, gentle Ping.
This morning, however, was not ordinary. This morning, to Elaine, it sounded like a recording of the Great Gate of Kiev slamming shut, tape looped with added reverb. It was truly horrendous, the trauma multiplied by the fact that her iPhone was lying on the pillow right next to her ear.
She sat bolt upright, her bloodshot eyes staring wildly at the wall on the far side of the bedroom. A chair stood in front of it and her PJs were lying neatly over the back. The duvet lay in a crumpled heap beside her. She looked down at herself. She was still wearing her dress from the night before, but curiously no knickers. The urge to pee was strong so she staggered into the bathroom and sat on the loo, rocking backwards and forwards as her sense of balance played tricks on her. As she did so, she noticed her knickers on the floor, presumably where she’d shed them the night before.
Back in the bedroom she lay down, pulled the duvet around her lower body and picked up her mobile. 9:30am. The text was from Paula: U get home OK?
Elaine tapped out a reply: Must have. U?
The Ping from hell again. Same. In my own bed so must have lol. Gr8 evening.
Yeh gr8.
U alone?
Of course.
Didn’t pull the cab driver then?
Lol. Cheeky mare.
I’m holding you to your pledge.
Uh?
The pledge you made.
Wot pledge?
About getting married.
Elaine’s fuzzy brain struggled to absorb this last message. Wot u talking about?
OMG you don’t remember!
Elaine thought back to their after-dinner conversation in the pub. She remembered talking about dating, and totting up how many she’d had recently, and Paula trying to give her advice. But nothing about a pledge to get married. She selected Paula’s number and pressed Call. The voice that answered mirrored how Elaine felt. Rough.
“Now what!”
“Charming. Have you woken up grumpy?”
“No he’s still asleep.”
Elaine sniggered. “What’s this about a pledge?”
“Do you honestly not remember? You must have been pisster than me.”
“There’s no such word.”
“I made it up. English is an evolving language.”
“Come on, tell me about the pledge.”
“Okay, so we were talking about how many dates you’ve had off Plenty of Fish, and how you whittle down your messages by distance from Reading, whether they fish or can string a sentence together.”
“I remember that.”
“So, we ascertained that you’ve had twenty-six dates and shagged two of them – giving an average of thirteen before you drop your drawers.”
“I can think of more subtle ways of putting it, but I kind of remember that too. Go on.”
“Well, after some lively discussion and agreement that this sort of thing can’t go on forever, plus my influence that you could be missing out on the man of your dreams by undervaluing some of these guys…”
“Yeh yeh, spit it out.”
“We agreed that you would pledge, which you did…”
“Tell me for Christ sake!”
“That you will have no more than thirteen more dates… and that you will marry one of them.”
“I never did!”
“You did.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to, I’ve got it recorded on my iPhone. I think it’s called a Voice Memo.”
“Let me hear.”
“Hang on, I’m hauling my ass out of bed so as not to disturb Duncan. He’s making grumbling noises… dressing gown on… and… in the kitchen.” Elaine heard water pouring into a kettle and the flick of a switch. “Right, are you ready?”
“Ready.”
“Here goes.”
Elaine cringed with embarrassment as the recording played back and she listened to herself making the pledge, just as Paula had described. Her voice was very slurred and there was a good deal of background noise, but the words were unambiguous. The voice stated clearly that she, Elaine Kirby, pledged she would have thirteen more dates, and not a single date more, and one of them would be the man she would marry.
When it came to the end, Paula said: “There you go, so you can’t deny it and, what’s more, I’m going to hold you to it.”
“You can’t, I was hammered!”
“Makes no difference, it was a pledge. And a pledge is a pledge.”
“But thirteen… of all numbers to choose.”
“It chose you. Unlucky for some, but not for you.”
“Oh God I think I’m going to throw up.”
“And no cheating! To make sure you don’t, I’m going to insist you keep me posted about every single date, with feedback, and if you try and squeeze in extra dates without telling me there will be a forfeit.”
“What?”
“To be decided.”
“Paula, I have to go now.”
“What’s up?”
“I really am going to throw up…”
* * *
By early afternoon, having slept some more and downed several glasses of water, two strong black coffees and munched on a piece of dry toast, Elaine was beginning to feel half human again. She sat on the tiny balcony of her tiny flat with its view of the distant river and Caversham beyond, and mulled over her predicament.
How was she going to get out of this one!
It was crazy, a piece of drunken foolishness. She had no intention of sticking to it. She would carry on dating, but the pledge was nonsense. Nor would Paula make her stick t
o it; although she had sounded pretty adamant on the phone earlier. She’d been winding her up, of course, and it didn’t really matter what Paula thought, it was her life and she’d not be pressured into such a huge decision based on a boozy speech recorded on a mobile phone. Her first marriage had been a brief and total disaster; she’d only been eighteen… still a kid. It had lasted under a year. Number two would last forever, so he had to be perfect.
It was bright and sunny, and becoming very warm, a pleasant change for a Mayday bank holiday; nice also that the first day of May actually fell on a Monday. The balcony caught the afternoon sun. It was on the top storey of the block, so private and not overlooked. She nipped inside, exchanged t-shirt and tracky bottoms for a snakeskin string bikini and returned to settle back on her chair with her feet up on the wall and her aptly named laptop on her lap. Almost immediately she undid her bikini top and let it drop onto the floor next to her.
Resisting the temptation to log on to Plenty of Fish, she chose instead to check for emails. Her inbox contained about thirty messages; half were alerts from Plenty of Fish that she had new messages, others offered vouchers for discounts at Café Rouge and Pizza Express, and there were a handful from friends and family. Towards the top was one from Paula Gilbert. In the subject box she saw a single word: PLEDGE. There was an attachment – an Excel spreadsheet.
Elaine clicked to open the message: Hi Lainey, attached is something to help you keep track of your last ever thirteen dates. I want you to update it every week and send over for me to monitor. If you think this is intrusive and excessive, you’re right lol. Love Paula xx
The spreadsheet consisted of thirteen sets of rows each with columns and headers:
1. Name:
Date of Date:
Duration:
Shaggable?
2nd Date?
Marriable?
Feedback:
Having studied it for a while, Elaine clicked on Reply: Thanks, Paula, but I think I’ll pass. If I stick to this I’ll end up marrying someone for the sake of it, make a massive mistake and be miserable and shackled to someone totally unsuitable… bit like you honey ha ha!”