The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  Yes, she was. Of course she was. That was the goal. To attract men.

  So get your eyes off her goddamn feet.

  He forced his eyes up. But that brought no relief, because instead, they travelled over her twig-slim calves, up her cling-covered thighs, lingering over a backside that had almost no bloody curve to it and should not have been sexy but was. Up her super-straight back, across her bony shoulders, to her bare neck where those little wisps of hair curled at the base of her skull.

  Stop!

  He ripped his transfixed gaze off her to re-examine the dweeb. A most unprepossessing sight. (Unprepossessing—Sarah would love that word; he’d have to find a way to get it into a sentence.) On the one hand, he knew it was nothing short of sabotage to be pointing out a guy whose looks only a mother could love. On the other, Sarah didn’t seem to mind the guy’s appearance. He couldn’t think of one woman who wouldn’t write that guy off.

  But not Sarah. Going against type, she’d said. Because she wasn’t cynical and jaded and closed off. She was happy and hopeful and open. And trusting him, David, to help her. She had no idea what he was really doing was blighting her husband-SUV-kids fantasy by deliberately making a shitty choice of guy for her.

  At least Dweeb Boy’s posture was undergoing a positive change as he watched Sarah approach. He was straightening, thrusting back his puny shoulders. His eyes were lighting up—at least, David assumed they were lighting up; it was hard to tell from this distance, but the guy would have to be brain dead to see Sarah and not light up since she was so out of his league. One thing was certain: there’d be no negging happening unless the Dweeb was doing it, because he had to be just scraping in at a five on a good day.

  Sarah reached Dweeb. Said something. Dweeb laughed. The laugh became a smile … And David saw that he’d made a serious miscalculation. Because Dweeb had a megawatt smile that bumped him straight to a seven. Okay, to an eight, being completely objective about it.

  As David watched Sarah lean in, he started thinking about the whole sex on the first date thing. Had they arrived at a definitive answer on that? Because the answer was ‘No’. Not with a guy who could transform from a five to an eight with just one smile. A guy who could do that was not to be trusted. He had to get a message to her to make it crystal clear that sex on the first date was not on before things went further.

  He dug his phone out of his jacket pocket and texted:

  No sex on the first date okay?

  David saw Sarah flinch and look at her bag as his text arrived. Yeah, that cymbal clash could cut through metal! He was smiling as he waited for her to excuse herself, knowing some kooky comment would be flying back. Waited … as her fingers went to the clasp on her bag … which she’d open any second now … and dig out her phone …

  But she stopped. Her hand came off the clasp of her bag and instead touched Dweeb Boy’s forearm. Touched his goddamn wizened forearm. She said something—something funny obviously, because Dweeb Boy laughed.

  And that was it. Her phone stayed in her bag. Even though she knew that text message was from David.

  For a moment, David stood there, uncomprehending, his smile unnaturally fixed.

  And then the comprehension was there: Sarah had ignored his text. She’d chosen Dweeb Boy over him. She’d chosen a narrow-shouldered, pigeon-chested, chinless, balding dweeb over him.

  And it hit him—really hit him: Sarah was so deadly serious about this project they’d embarked upon, she’d try everyone in her quest to find the one. And she would find the one. Not the three weeks and one day guy David had decided he could be. She’d find a life partner—which David was nine years too old to be. Nine years too lost. Nine years too late.

  He turned abruptly away from the sight of them—right into the path of a pretty redhead who was giving him a look from under her eyelashes.

  Lightning fast, he assessed her. He put her age at around thirty. Slim, but with actual curves. Great rack. He suspected if she turned, he’d catch a glimpse of toned bottom because her arms had the look of a person who worked out regularly, unlike Sarah Quinn’s never-seen-a-dumbbell-in-their-life spaghetti arms.

  Okay, this was promising. It was time, past time, to sexually un-frustrate himself, and the redhead was ideal for the purpose.

  He tried to give his penis a telepathic How about it, fella? prod. No response. Not even a twinge. Not quite believing the situation, he glanced subtly down. Come on! Nope. Nothing happening. As in nothing.

  Which was how he found himself heading for the exit on his own and hailing a taxi. Eight minutes later, he was walking into his apartment. One of the great things about inner-city living was how close you were to everything. Whereas Sarah, on the other side of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, had a bit of a trek between her place and what he’d call a true nightlife precinct.

  Unless Dweeb Boy lived over this side and she stayed at his place …? Then again, The Rocks was practically under the Harbour Bridge. Centurion was a stone’s throw from it. So she could be thinking … Shit, she’d better not be thinking of taking him—a serial killer for all anyone knew—to her place. He’d have to remind her of that rule. He reached automatically for his phone, formulating a text in his head, but stopped suddenly.

  What if she ignored a second text from him? As in twice in one night? He didn’t know what he’d do, but the word ‘ballistic’ came to mind. Best not to find out. No text, then.

  Instead, he turned on the television, hoping for some distraction—but switched it off after three minutes because he couldn’t concentrate.

  Music. He needed music. He selected his favourite blues playlist. Three minutes—switched off.

  He thought about making something to eat, and decided he couldn’t be bothered.

  He headed for the studio, where he selected a brush, looked at a blank canvas, and then threw the brush down. He was too unsettled to paint.

  Why hadn’t he even tried to pick up that woman in Centurion? Just because he didn’t feel like sex right that second didn’t mean a kiss, a touch, a glimpse of bra, wouldn’t have sparked something. Sex tonight would have set him back on the right path. Straightforward, uncomplicated sex with a woman he didn’t have to see again and who wouldn’t be asking him if she should be having sex on the first freaking date!

  A train of thought that started chug-chugging along the one track in his mind, Sarah-sex-Sarah-sex, eventually sending him hurtling into the laundry to the recycling bin, digging for the sketch he’d torn into four pieces on Wednesday night.

  He breathed out a thank-God sigh when he held the pieces in his hands. Ridiculous to feel relieved, given he’d known the pieces were still there, but nevertheless he was breathing and breathing those thankful sighs … while not actually being able to put the pieces together and look.

  He needed a drink. He needed to be in the kitchen, pouring a drink. He’d be more relaxed there, with a counter to put the torn page on and a glass of wine in hand.

  A minute later, he was carefully placing the pieces of paper facedown on the kitchen counter. He helped himself to a glass of Pinot Noir and—bang—into his head popped an image of Sarah’s pert nose wrinkling as she’d confessed to not liking it. She liked Shiraz, and she liked Chardonnay. Cold Chardonnay. His eyes went to his wine fridge, and almost before he knew what he was doing, he was removing bottles of Chardonnay from storage and stacking them in the normal fridge to chill them.

  And then there was nothing to do except look at the ripped paper on the kitchen counter. His fingers flexed with the urge to turn the pieces face-up. Flexed, flexed, flexed … until, with a strangled curse, he picked them up. Without looking at them, he snagged his wineglass off the counter and headed for the living room. He needed to calm down and take his time, not hunch over her on the kitchen counter like a randy tomcat.

  He did the same careful facedown sketch placement on the coffee table, then sat on the couch holding his wineglass. But before he could take even a sip
, his phone pinged. He jumped, spilling wine on his jacket—and then grimaced as it filtered through his over-hyped brain that it was a normal ping, not Twinkle, Twinkle. Well, so what? He did not care that Sarah still hadn’t texted him back. In fact, he didn’t want to hear from Sarah. Especially not with naked Sarah on the coffee table.

  He tugged his phone from his pocket, saw the message was from Margaret.

  Just saying hello

  He smiled as he zipped off a simple reply. And then sat unsmiling as he scrolled through his old messages, telling himself he wasn’t checking to see if he’d somehow missed a text from Sarah.

  When he found himself adjusting the phone volume to make sure he heard his text messages arrive, he deserted the living room for the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face. He reached for a towel, and in the slight turn, a bounce of light to his profile revealed a flash of silver amongst the dark blond of his hair.

  No. No, no, no.

  Towel forgotten, he leaned close to the mirror and angled his head, trying to recapture that glimpse of …

  Arrggghhh. Noooooooooo.

  A grey hair, his first grey hair, above his ear.

  Who knew how long that grey hair had been sprouting with him none the wiser? Had Sarah seen it? Was that why she’d made that crack about Botox?

  Dear God, he was now officially old, which made his lustful obsession with Sarah Quinn somehow Lolita-esque.

  On that repulsive thought, he strode purposefully into the living room, picked up the four pieces of sketchbook paper, and tore them, and tore them, and tore them, until they were nothing but confetti.

  CHAPTER NINE

  No sex on the first date okay?

  Sarah had David’s text message memorized, so it made no sense to keep turning on the bedside lamp, reading the message, then turning off the lamp, in an endless vexatious cycle.

  What it came down to was a guilty conscience. She was just not the kind of person who ignored text messages.

  Light on.

  No sex on the first date okay?

  The only comfort was in knowing that David wouldn’t have expected her to whip out her phone while she was busy trying to hook her fish.

  Light off.

  But what about afterwards? There was no reason she couldn’t have shot off a quick reply when she and Balding Brandon had left Centurion to go for coffee. It wasn’t as though Brandon wasn’t checking his own phone a thousand times. And he’d responded to two text messages while she was sitting opposite him.

  Light on.

  No sex on the first date okay?

  David may not have appreciated a text at that point, of course. She’d seen him, checking out his own fish—a redheaded decorative koi (and everyone knew koi had a particularly nasty taste).

  Light off.

  What kind of wingman was he, anyway, to be doing that when he was supposed to be keeping an eye on Sarah? And then—poof!—disappearing?

  Light on.

  No sex on the first date okay?

  Okay, okay, it was time to admit it. In not replying, she’d done the text equivalent of stalking off in a snit, which she’d assured David she didn’t generally do.

  The real question was why she’d allowed herself to act like a jealous teenager just because a grown man who wasn’t her boyfriend was eyeing an attractive woman while she herself was homing in on another guy.

  It was ludicrous. Absurd, preposterous, foolish.

  As ludicrous as reading the text over and over hours later, thinking that would somehow change the situation.

  Lamp off. For the last time!

  But before Sarah could even re-wriggle under the covers, the cymbals clashed.

  Bolting upright and snapping the bedside light straight on again, she reached eagerly for her phone—but the noise wasn’t coming from her phone, it was coming from outside; and it wasn’t cymbals clashing, but thunder.

  She jumped out of bed and hurried to open the doors to her private garden to watch the storm develop. She laughed as the first spear of lightning split the sky, and as the rain started falling, she reached out cupped hands to catch the drops.

  She loved the exhilarating wildness of a storm. She wished she could catch it—thunder, lightning, rain, wind, all of it—and pull it into the room with her. Except that then, of course, it wouldn’t be the same phenomenon. It would be something trapped, harnessed, tamed. Like a scene encased in one of her snow domes—a pristine, predictable world under glass.

  It was the predictability of her snow domes that she liked best of all. She even understood the psychology behind wanting to collect them. When you’d spent your childhood never knowing when your home life was going to change to suit a new stepmother or stepfather—and usually your actual bricks-and-mortar home right along with it—being surrounded by tiny worlds where nothing changed was comforting. You controlled how hard you shook them, and afterwards, the snow always settled to reveal … perfection.

  Of course her brother Adam, the cynical one in the family, preferred to think of Sarah’s snow dome collection as a boring metaphor for her dating life! Being picked up and shaken for a little while by one guy, then another, and another, but with nothing ever really changing because nobody could get in.

  Which may be true, but she could get out, couldn’t she? She could walk into the storm that very moment if she wanted to.

  But as if to taunt her, the thunder, lightning and rain ceased abruptly on that thought. As the world resettled, Sarah looked down and saw herself for what she was: naked, cold and alone, standing inside so that she was safe from the elements, with her hands held out to pull a few captured raindrops in with her as though they were all the wildness she could risk.

  She wondered if David would share Adam’s view of her snow domes, that they were boring, unchallenged worlds. David didn’t have the air of a man who’d stayed safely inside all his life while storms raged without. He knew what it was like to be outside with the elements buffeting him.

  Nine years ago, I grew up. That’s what happened. Words that said it all … and yet said nothing.

  Whatever had happened nine years ago, it was something more momentous than the bloodless divorce he’d spoken of so easily. Something deeper, darker. It had triggered his brutal phase—the dates on the landscape, the dancers and the still life in his living room told her that.

  She could have asked him what it was … and yet, she hadn’t. It was as though she’d been too scared to know. She shivered, remembering how she’d felt following David out of the storeroom that first night—like she was out of her depth.

  The truth was, she was out her depth, with him. She was treading water, trying to find her footing, wanting to know how far she could swim if she was dragged out to sea, but looking constantly back at the shore to make sure she was safe.

  Shaken in her snow dome world … but not released from it.

  Something in her wanted, desperately, to be released. To be dragged out from beneath the glass and swept up, tossed and turned and tumbled by a real storm. Someone like David could do that to her. Someone like David …

  Whom she could never have because of Lane, and there was no use staring out at the cold night and thinking there might be a way that she could.

  She closed the French doors, dried her hands, got into bed, and rechecked the message on her phone, determined to treat it as Lane herself would, with clear-headed face-value consideration.

  No sex on the first date okay?

  Okay-with-question-mark. But she had to assume it was a rhetorical question—more of an instruction, with which she could comply or not as she saw fit. Otherwise he would have texted her again, or even called her.

  Ha! As if a man like him would care whether a girl like her texted him back or not!

  It was a moot point anyway, the whole sex on the first date issue, as far as tonight was concerned. For her at least. For David, who knew? He may well be entwined with some redheaded
koi-type person right that very second. And that was fine.

  Just fine.

  Safer.

  Safe.

  She turned off the bedside light with a decisive snap.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Sarah, at a hospital fundraising lunch she’d organized on Monday, found herself turning down a date with a perfectly decent, handsome, charming doctor for no better reason than she couldn’t imagine kissing him until her insides were clenching, her blood was boiling, and her skin was tingling, she knew she had a problem.

  What was the point of comparing guys to David in terms of their kissing ability or anything else? As she’d already acknowledged, David was the pinnacle, the Mount Everest of men. He came with an avalanche warning for the general female population, and for Sarah in particular there were all those hidden crevices that made him so unscalable it wasn’t worth even trying to get a grappling hook into him: he was the storm to her snow dome; he effectively belonged to Lane; he was Adam’s enemy because of that; and he was a devotee of one-night stands, which was the last thing Sarah needed.

  Use him; don’t fall for him. How many times did she have to tell herself that for it to sink in?

  Use him, use him, use him.

  And using him meant setting herself up at Everest Base Camp for a mountaineering masterclass. Even though she had no intention of scaling Mount Everest itself, she could apply the skills she learned there when ascending a whole selection of other mountains. There were amazing views to be appreciated from the K2s, the Kilimanjaros, the Mont Blancs and the Mount McKinleys, after all. And should she have to descend to lower foothills, there would still be some delightful steep walks to be had.

  All it was, was a mindset.

  She spent the next two days going over the list of personality modifications in the rulebook, preparatory to trying them out on David. She would be less talkative than usual. She would attempt to be still. She would be less politely agreeable. She would be circumspect when discussing her date with Brandon.