My Dating Disasters Diary

by Liz Rettig

  I took my arm away from the wall and he raced into the loo. I shouted after him, ‘Four o’clock by the park gates then!’

  ‘Yeah, OK, see ya,’ chorused some boys from the loos. By the sounds of their high reedy voices, probably the first years who’d been gawping at us a minute ago.

  Ignored them and made my way back to Liz, giving her the thumbs-up sign and smiling. Yes, job done!

  Met him at the park entrance as promised, though he took a while getting there and must have gone at the pace of an arthritic tree sloth. He was probably nervous. Maybe, just like me, this was the first time he’d done this kind of thing. I suggested we go for a walk in the park as it wasn’t raining and there were loads of frogs in the pond last time I looked. Maybe we could catch some.

  As we walked I chatted away quite easily to him as I’m used to boys’ company. ‘Last time I was here I caught twelve frogs – two were really big ones. I put them all back in the water of course, but one of them got eaten by a seagull as soon as I let him go. He was called Freddie – he was my favourite. The frog, that is, not the seagull. Maybe I should have taken him home after all but the last time I took frogs home Mum freaked out when she saw them in the bath and made me take them back. Two escaped on the way. One jumped down a drain but the other got knocked down on the road. It’s quite a dangerous life frogs have, isn’t it? They’re not very tough with their soft squidgy bodies. But being a tadpole is worse, I suppose. Then again, not many tadpoles get knocked down on the road.’

  He’d been a bit quiet during all this. Maybe he was shy with girls. Or maybe he was having trouble getting a word in edgeways as it’s true I do go on a bit sometimes – not that I’m the Bionic Mouth like Mum says, but when I’m interested in stuff I just like to express myself. What’s wrong with that? Besides, if he was shy, then my talking would put him at ease so there would be no awkward silences.

  Finally he said, ‘I’m not that interested in frogs.’

  ‘Oh, right, OK then. Want to climb the tree by the bench? Race you.’

  I sped off and after a pause he ran after me but he was pretty slow and I had a head start so I reached the tree way before him, scrambled up, then sat on a branch to wait for him.

  When he finally got there I dropped down suddenly, meaning to land right in front of him to give him a bit of a surprise and a laugh, but instead I miscalculated and kind of landed on top of him, which meant we both crashed to the ground. My fall was broken by his body so I was OK, but he was pretty winded so I suggested we sit on the bench until he recovered.

  After a few minutes he seemed OK so I suggested climbing the tree again but he just said, ‘No thanks. I don’t like heights.’

  ‘You’re scared of heights? But that tree isn’t very tall. Can’t be more than ten metres and we don’t need to go all the way up.’ I grinned reassuringly. ‘It’s not exactly the Empire State Building or anything. If you did fall out of it you wouldn’t end up looking like a squashed tomato like you would if you fell off the top of a skyscraper.’

  But this didn’t seem to reassure him – in fact he went quite grey and sweaty so I reckoned he must have one of those phobias Liz talks about. Decided to stop talking about falling from heights altogether, which seemed to work as he calmed down a lot, although he still looked a little shaky. And maybe a bit embarrassed at me seeing him looking so scared.

  I tried to make him feel better by saying, ‘Look, it’s OK. My friend Liz says lots of people have stupid irrational fears about something or other. It doesn’t mean you’re a wimp or anything. Well, it might but it’s not definite. You’ve probably just got a psychological problem.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m a nutter? Thanks a lot.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I soothed. ‘You’ve just got a phobia. Loads of totally cool people have phobias. I’ve probably got one too. In fact I have. Yeah, definitely.’

  ‘You have?’ He sounded interested and less annoyed. Good. ‘What are you scared of?’

  ‘Me? Oh, erm, lots of things. Yeah, um …’ God, what could I say? Desperately tried to remember Liz talking about daft stuff people freaked out about. Ah yes! ‘I’m claustrophobic actually. You know, scared of being trapped in small, confined spaces. Yeah, I’m dead scared of that.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said sympathetically, ‘that’s an awful feeling.’

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ I said. However, not wanting him to think I was a basket case, I thought I’d better water it down a bit. ‘Of course it doesn’t usually affect me much. I mean, I’m fine going in lifts, even if I get stuck in one occasionally, and I don’t mind when I’m in the car with Dad and he drives through tunnels. One time, when I was little, Dad took us on the train through the Channel tunnel, which was pretty cool. Imagine being under thousands of tons of earth and millions of gallons of water for miles and miles above you … You OK?’

  He looked a bit pale and sick again. Maybe he was aquaphobic – scared of water like dogs with rabies. Decided it was best to change the subject and steer clear of watery stuff.

  ‘I don’t fancy potholing though – sounds boring – but I went down an old mineshaft when I was on holiday in Wales once and it was cool.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you’re claustrophobic at all then,’ he said sceptically. He sounded annoyed too.

  ‘Oh yeah, I definitely am. Well, a bit anyway. I mean, I’d hate to be buried alive in a coffin. Can you imagine it? People think you’re dead but you’ve actually been in a coma and when you wake up you discover you’re trapped in a coffin under the earth. You try and push the lid up but all you can do is scratch the surface with your nails so you start screaming but no one can hear you. That would really scare me.’

  He said, ‘Please just shut up about it, OK? Please.’ He got up and started to walk away from me.

  I hurried after him. ‘Hmm, maybe you should sit down again. You don’t look very well. You didn’t have the chicken nuggets for lunch, did you? They looked pretty minging. Maybe you’ve got food poisoning.’

  He said, ‘I’m claustrophobic.’

  Trying to lighten the mood, I giggled. ‘Bloody hell. Maybe it would be easier just to tell me if there’s anything that doesn’t scare you so I know what to talk about.’

  He didn’t sit down but after a while he seemed to recover, and with his hands in his pockets he started moodily kicking an empty twisted Coke can that had been lying at his feet.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘watch this!’ I got my right toe under the can and flicked it up onto my head, then bounced it off my chest and back down to my left foot. Flicked it to the right foot then left and right again. Managed to do another fifteen keepie-uppies before I missed one. William was staring at me, well impressed. Good. Hopefully this had made him forget about being trapped in coffins or splattered on pavements.

  I kicked the can towards him. ‘Your turn. Let’s see how long you can keep it up. Think you can beat me?’

  ‘No, I’m, um, not that good at it. Not with a can anyway.’

  ‘Bet you are. Go on, try it.’ I flicked the can onto his head. It bounced off so I headed it right back to his chest and it fell onto his toe. ‘C’mon, don’t be a wimp.’

  He tried to kick the can up onto his other foot but missed by a mile and it skidded off the path into the duck pond. Bloody hell, he really was useless.

  Trying to make him feel better, I said, ‘Look, yeah, you’re right, cans suck. Let’s go borrow a ball and have a proper kick around. We can use our bags as goal posts and play penalties. Bet you’re shit-hot at that.’

  ‘Nah, I think I’ll just go home now.’

  I hurried after him. ‘Right, OK, yeah. I’m off too. Don’t know about you but I’m starving. So, erm, are you my boyfriend now?’

  He turned to me. ‘No, Kelly Ann. I don’t want to be your boyfriend.’

  ‘But why not? You said you liked me. It’s because I’m not blonde, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’

  ‘Too skinny?’


  ‘Nah, it’s just, well, um, no offence but, you know, I want a girlfriend and you’re just, well, not sort of girly enough. More like a boy really.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You’re not upset? I mean, I never promised to go out with you. Today was just a sort of trial. It’s not like I’m dumping you or anything.’

  I flushed. Bloody hell, he wasn’t feeling sorry for me, was he? I put on a totally unconcerned, happy voice.

  ‘God, no, it’s cool. No worries.’

  ‘Right, well, see ya.’

  ‘Yeah, see ya,’ I said brightly.

  I trudged home, depressed. Things hadn’t gone too well. What was I going to tell Liz?

  WEDNESDAY MARCH 17TH

  I’d avoided Liz’s phone calls and emails last night but she got me this morning at break. ‘So how did it go with William? C’mon, tell all. I want to know every single detail. Did you snog him? When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Hmm, well, no, not really. I don’t, er, think we’ll be meeting up again. The thing is, we sort of, erm, drifted apart.’

  Liz stared at me sceptically. ‘Don’t be stupid. You can’t “drift apart” when you’ve not even snogged once. Drifted apart my arse. Tell me what happened!’

  ‘It’s private, Liz,’ I said with quiet dignity.

  But privacy and quiet dignity are impossible when your best friend is the nosiest person in Scotland and pretty soon she’d dragged the whole story from me. Every embarrassing detail. Oh God.

  Liz was disappointed and unimpressed. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Kelly Ann, but really I think you haven’t yet reached the necessary level of psychosocial development to deal with boyfriends.’

  Liz could be a pompous pain in the arse at times. I wasn’t putting up with this. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I’m not grown up enough? You’ve a nerve, given that you still play with the same My Little Pony Santa got you when you were six.’

  ‘That’s just a memento of childhood. Perfectly wellbalanced, psychologically sound, mature individuals keep mementos.’

  ‘And the Barbie doll you got for your seventh birthday.’

  ‘Also a childhood mem—’

  ‘Whose hair you washed and braided last week.’

  ‘Hmm, well, OK, I still do some childish stuff but really you need to grow up a bit with boys. I mean, you beat William at running, climbing and football. Couldn’t you have let him win at one of them at least?’

  ‘Deliberately, you mean? Why would I do that? No boy would respect someone who just let them win.’

  Liz sighed. ‘Yeah they would. Boys only don’t respect you if you let them do stuff like groping your boobs on a first date or—’

  ‘Yuck! I’d never do that. On a first or any other date.’ Then I laughed. ‘Mind you, I don’t suppose any of them would want to. Not with me anyway. Would you ever let a boy do that?’

  ‘Well, not on a first date. Obviously. But maybe when the relationship has shifted to a deeper, more committed phase and mutual trust has been established.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘Third date.’ Liz giggled. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘What?’ I said, giggling as well now.

  ‘Peter’s asked me out for a meal. A proper meal. In an Italian restaurant with candles and cloth napkins.’

  ‘Oh my God. That’s so cool,’ I said, genuinely impressed.

  Liz has had boyfriends before although none had lasted this long and most finished after one or two dates. Probably because she spent the whole time psychoanalysing them, which usually meant telling them how pathetically weak, neurotic or nuts they were. However, unlike me, she has snogged quite a few boys, and one had bought her chocolates afterwards. And she’s even been on a date to the movies twice, though not with the same boy. But out for a meal? And at a real grownup restaurant, not just Burger King or McDonald’s? It just seemed so sophisticated. I wouldn’t let anyone grope me but I wouldn’t mind being asked out to a posh restaurant. Provided the boy paid of course.

  Hmm, good point. Peter wasn’t known for being generous. In fact, he’d a reputation for being a bit mean and it was rumoured that when he was at school he used to charge people to borrow a rubber because of ‘wear and tear’. Don’t really believe that but I do know he recycled a previous year’s birthday card for his mum, hoping she wouldn’t remember. She did and gave him a black eye. Social work found out and got involved but I don’t think they were that sympathetic towards Peter, and his mum got off with a warning.

  ‘Are you sure Peter is treating you, Liz?’

  ‘Of course. He’s not at school like me. He’s got a proper job. A salary. Anyway it’ll cost me a fortune getting clothes and stuff for it so it’s only fair.’

  The rest of the time Liz chatted about what she was going to wear – she would need new shoes, skirt, top, jewellery and make-up – and what she was going to tell her parents, who don’t like Peter and think he’s pretty shady.

  Officially Liz was going to be at my place and sleeping over. That’s the great thing about a mobile, which Liz’s parents bought her for safety reasons so they could always keep in touch: you could be absolutely anywhere and your parents will never know, but the fact that they can call you means they don’t check.

  Well, except for Gary last month, who said he was at Chris’s but had actually managed to con his way into a pub with the help of two older cousins. When his parents called they heard the background noise of clinking glasses, music and the barman shouting last orders. Disaster. Why can’t parents text, for God’s sake?

  SATURDAY MARCH 20TH

  Chris called and asked me to go into town with him this afternoon to help him choose the new football boots he’d been saving up for, but I told him Mum was making me help clean the house and then I’d planned to go to Liz’s.

  He said, ‘No problem, we’ll go tomorrow. Most of the sports shops are open then.’

  Went over to Liz’s this afternoon an hour before she was due to meet Peter. I expected her to be looking fantastic by this time, as I knew she’d been preparing all day, but when she opened the door she was still in her dressing gown with white gunge on her face and a pair of pink knickers on her head. She also smelled bad.

  I came in and said – stupidly, I suppose, ‘Aren’t you ready yet?’

  Liz said, ‘Yeah, actually I am. I decided on a casual look tonight but I’m not sure about the knickers. Maybe black would be classier.’

  Very funny. As we climbed the stairs to her bedroom she told me Peter had texted her to say he’d had to reserve a table an hour later than he’d hoped so she wasn’t running late. Oh my God. He’d reserved a table. Couldn’t help being impressed. Imagine having a friend who had a boyfriend who reserves tables in restaurants. Knew Liz was pleased too but was trying not to smile because of her face-mask thing.

  ‘What have you got on your face?’

  ‘Egg white. It’s supposed to be good for the complexion but you have to leave it on as long as possible for best results. I’ve had it on for six hours now. And I’ve got the yolk on my head. I read somewhere that egg yolk makes a fantastic conditioner for blonde hair. The knickers are to stop the egg white and yolk mixing. Don’t want to be covered in omelette.’

  We went into her room and Liz cleared a space on her bed for us both to sit down. Close up, in the confined space of her bedroom, the smell was awful. ‘Are you sure you used a fresh egg, Liz? You smell a bit like Terry Docherty’s stupid stink bombs.’

  ‘Oh God, do I? I never noticed. Got a bit of a cold today.’

  Liz went off to shower, thank God, and I opened the windows to let out the smell before I gagged. How could she not have noticed? When she got back she looked a lot better without the egg white and knickers. Smelled better too.

  Two hours later and Liz was finally ready. She was wearing her new skirt, tight black top, drop earrings and high heels. She looked really old and could easily have passed for eighteen. Well, sixteen anyway. Definitely. />
  We crept quietly down the stairs and Liz was just about to grab her jacket from the hall and scurry out with a quick ‘Bye, see you later,’ when her dad came out of the living room and spotted us. Or Liz anyway.

  ‘And just where do you think you’re going dressed like that? The red-light district? I know finances have been a bit tight recently since those sodding insurers didn’t pay up, but your mother and I don’t plan on sending you out on the streets just yet. Now go back up those stairs and put on some decent clothes.’

  Liz of course refused, which had her dad going all red and ranting at her, so her mum came out to see what all the fuss was about.

  Her dad turned to her mum. ‘Would you look at the sight of her dressed like a bloody prostitute!’

  Liz’s mum shrugged. ‘It’s just the fashion. They all look like that.’

  ‘All look like hoores?’ spluttered her dad.

  ‘More or less,’ Liz’s mum replied calmly. ‘When they’re dressed up anyway.’ But then she frowned suspiciously at Liz. ‘I thought you were just going to Kelly Ann’s to watch a DVD tonight? Why are you all tarted up?’

  Liz stared innocently back at her mum. ‘I think it’s, er, important not to take friends for granted. Why shouldn’t I take the trouble to dress up for my best friend now and then? It, um, shows respect for our long and, um, loyal friendship.’

  Liz’s mum raised her eyebrows in disbelief at this lame excuse but eventually Liz was allowed to go, along with a promise she would ring them later and a threat that one or both of her parents might ring her later.

  Everyone was out so I had the house to myself tonight. Mum and Dad were at Aunt Kate’s for ‘dinner’ (takeaway curry with a bottle of Bacardi and eight pints of beer) so they wouldn’t be back until eleven at the earliest. They say they are just five minutes away and I’ve to call if I need them. Yeah, right. Like I need two drunk parents stinking of onion bhajis rolling up. Had just settled down to watch the football when the phone rang. Hoped it wasn’t Liz’s parents checking up on her by calling her here instead of on her mobile but it was Liz’s mobile number. Good. The match wasn’t very interesting and I was dying to hear how her date had gone. I snatched up the phone.