by Dan Tyte
WE – Meant ‘Well Endowed’ (!) (On a first date? Well, maybe this was going to be an interesting night after all…).
CTAA – Meant ‘Can Travel And Accommodate’ (The standard issue Morgan & Schwarz GPS Flakberry could direct even the freshest off-the-boat cab driver back to number 35 after a night of meaningless sex at someone else’s place. It was best we didn’t go back to mine – drunk girls, stiletto heels and holes in the bathroom floor really didn’t mix).
AC/DC – Meant ‘Bisexual’ (Something that could be a plus-point in a partner, as opposed to being a school-uniform-wearing ginger metalhead. Although, thinking about it, that could rock too, as long as she didn’t look like Angus Young).
SWF – Meant ‘Single White Female’ (If the film was anything to go by also meant ‘avoid like crabs’).
Jesus, this bullshit was nearly as bad as PR. This biog was getting binned off. My chance to sell myself replaced by the worst words any spin-doctor could commit to copy: ‘no comment’.
I checked my hair in the mirror, sprayed on cologne bought by an ex-girlfriend’s mother four Christmases ago, brushed up my GSOH and hit the town.
Chapter 12
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, and then the doctors said I’d never be able to chew properly again but I think I’ve proved them wrong.’ She ate so quickly the poor food stood no chance of mastication regardless.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, and like I always say, “don’t bite off more than you can chew”. Ha!’
A bell rang loudly, three times. I’d spent the last 3 minutes talking to an overweight hypochondriac and the 3 minutes before that being cried at by a woman taking her first steps into the dating world after catching her husband of 7 years balls-deep in her sister while on a caravanning holiday in the Lakes. The previous 3 minutes were spent speed-drinking bourbon at the bar, my sophisticated drink of choice, to pluck up the Dutch courage to appear interested in these poor souls; my ‘dates’. This was the world of speed-dating, where a fog of desperation hung in the air and everything came in 3-minute intervals. This, when I really couldn’t be jacked to put the effort in, was about my average anyway.
We were in a cocktail bar in the city. The kind which changed its name and decor every two years, while retaining the same atmosphere of try-hardness. A beacon of light for the social stupids who flocked like flies before realising the fluorescent light was just, well, a fluorescent light. Spend too long near it and you’d almost pray you were swatted just to bring an end to it all. We’d ventured in about six months before the next gutting. The chocolate brown sofas and vintage wallpaper were tired. The bar staff resigned. The last few clientele clinging on, waiting for the cycle to begin again.
We were in the upstairs room, out of the way. The place they stuck the salsa nights and tango clubs which supplemented income now even the finger-off-the-pulses realised the place was flatlining. My company tonight was oblivious to any of these harsh truths. They had bigger fish to fry. Matters of the heart. Twenty unlucky in love/time poor/social leper/supportive friends, split evenly between the sexes, although you had to look hard to distinguish which, even under the flattering low lighting. We’d got the last two male places. Pete had been pleased with that.
‘I’m pleased with that,’ he’d said.
There was a break in the proceedings for ‘mingling’. I scoured the rectangular room looking for a potential, a maybe, an after-five-pinter. I’d had at least five pints. Pickings were slim, even if no one else was. Pete interrupted my neggy thought-train, which was grinding itself to a halt anyway.
‘How’s it going, big guy?’ he said. He was being less formal than usual. He’d had a Tia Maria and diet Coke.
‘Good. Good,’ I lied.
‘Spoke to any future Mrs McDares yet then?’ He nudged me with his elbow.
‘Not unless one of them dug my dad up and carried him down the aisle.’
‘Bill!’ He looked shocked but remembered we were meant to be having fun. ‘What are you like, yanking my chain like that?’ This was ‘banter’.
‘Just kidding, Pete. How about you? Struck gold yet?’
‘I don’t want to curse it, but I’m getting warm. I’m getting very, very warm.’
‘Tell me more, Casanova.’ I cringed at this, but it was in keeping with his expectations of laddish behaviour and I didn’t want to disappoint.
‘Well, I’ve got to say I’m pleasantly surprised. I have met a couple of what you would call p-p…’ he struggled for the next word.
My heart said ‘pigs’, my mouth said ‘peaches?’
‘Peaches! A couple of peaches. One of the young ladies had a really warm character. She reminded me a lot of my Auntie Vi.’
‘That’s not a good thing, Pete.’
‘It is. She was a very warm person. A lovely woman.’ It was confirmed. Pete was beyond redemption, but at least he was having a good time.
‘And then another who told me all about her battle with anti-depressants. I felt like a voyeur watching one of those Oprah Winfrey type shows. Intriguing.’
‘Right, and she was a peach?’ I asked.
‘No, no, not her, Bill. She wasn’t a peach. Another one really caught my,’ he paused, ‘glad eye, as they say.’
‘So, what did she look like?’ I pushed.
‘Gosh, it’s not all about the looks, Bill.’ He rolled his eyes behind his contact lenses, his black frames relegated to the bedside table for the evening, ‘But if you must know, she was very well turned out. Yes. Very well turned out indeed.’
‘Well that’s just brilliant, Pete.’ I gave the barman the wink and he begrudgingly poured me another.
‘She started telling me the most fascinating story about the Italian town of Pompeii. The whole place was exterminated when a volcano erupted in around…’ he did his recall face, ‘…80 AD, I believe.’
‘Right, yeah, and…’ I asked.
‘Well, that’s the thing. The bell rang before we could finish. I’d love to hear the end of it.’ This was typical Pete, more turned on by talk of ancient civilisations than carnal pursuits. But who was I to judge? It was nice to have common interests, particularly non-substance based ones.
‘There she is, talking to the chap with the ‘trendy’ haircut,’ Pete said. He made inverted commas in the air when he said the word ‘trendy’. She was facing the opposite way to us. Neither a J-Lo nor a fat ho. In a town with so many fast food joints, this was a solid foundation. She wore a flowery dress just above the knee and had a severe bob-cut. She looked classy enough, and well in control. The ‘trendy’ haircut milled away and she turned back into the room. Her face was inoffensive enough. She caught Pete’s eye and shot him a smile.
‘You’re in! You are so in!’ I squeezed his shoulder the way teammates standing next to each other on the halfway line watching a penalty shoot-out unfold at the goal would. He looked at me, wide-eyed.
‘I’m going to ask her for a drink. To finish the story…’
‘Easy, tiger,’ I replied, ‘you know the rules.’ I didn’t know the rules until an hour ago, but thanks to their constant repetition over a tinny microphone by a failed TV quiz show host type, I now very much knew them.
The rules of speed-dating (brought to you by Brief Encounters – Modern Mating Services) were:
Respect the bell – when it’s time to move on, move on – (While this left Pete on a conversational cliffhanger, the bell proved my saviour from numerous nutters telling me about their cats, cataracts or cat o’ nine tails – apparently there’s always one into bondage).
Be polite – (This was VERY FUCKING HARD. But I did it. For Pete).
Don’t ask judgemental questions about age, occupation or where your date lives – (Meaning I didn’t have to explain why I looked at least 5 years older than twenty-nine (the booze), explaining what PR was (no, it is not ‘like promotions’ and no I am not a ‘personal assistant’) and it’s best we don’t get into the whirlwind of woe that was number
35).
Don’t exchange phone numbers – (Trust me, on current form this lot weren’t worth the 12p a text).
Don’t judge a book by its cover (Meet everyone!) – (The rule most likely to be used against me before the night was out).
‘And you’re here because?’
‘I’m providing moral support to a friend,’ I answered.
‘Of course you are,’ she said. She took a slug of her drink. She was drinking cocktails like sodas. Common interests: it was a start.
‘Rumbled,’ I said. ‘Very perceptive of you. You’ve let the cat out of the bag, I’m here to find my life partner.’ I was trying hard to obey rule number two, albeit sarcastically.
She looked me up and down – well, to my midriff, we were sat at a sticky table – like a big cat weighing up a new piece of meat.
‘Okay. I believe you, millions wouldn’t.’ She took another slug of her drink. She had teeth like tombstones.
‘The first time, I meant. As in, I believe you’re here with a friend.’
‘Well, thank God for that.’ It was hard to turn this sarcasm off.
‘Snap,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Snap. I’m here with a friend too. Although it’s difficult to remember who initiated the coming. We’re regulars at this kind of thing.’
‘First-time caller, long-time listener,’ I said.
It was her turn to say, ‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, nothing. Woah, though. To your earlier confession. I mean, you must really enjoy these kinds of things then?’
‘I’m not sure “enjoy” is the right word,’ she said. I was pretty fucking terrified of this woman. I tried to turn the conversation away from the two of us.
‘So which is your friend, then?’
‘The girl over there.’ She pointed disinterestedly over to her right and rattled the ice cubes around her glass. It was the bob-cut girl.
‘That’s the girl my friend likes!’ I showed a little too much enthusiasm here.
‘Well, what are the chances?’ she replied in a flat one-tone voice. The voice of a girl on a dirty phone-line, tired and emotionless after telling the other end of the receiver she’d been licking the world’s biggest balls all night long.
‘I wonder if she’ll like him?’ I said. Screw worrying about the eagerness. This was Pete; it’d been a while.
‘Does he have a cock?’
‘Sorry?’
‘A cock?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Then, yes. Yes, she’ll like him.’ We were being used. I was a poacher turned gamekeeper.
The bell rang.
‘I’ve never known anyone waste 3 minutes so badly. Let’s go for a drink later to see if you can do the same again. You bring him, I’ll bring her.’
‘It’s a date,’ I replied.
‘It’s a double date, darling,’ she replied. I was TERRIFIED of this woman. Deep breaths. This was for Pete.
We’d made it out of Brief Encounters alive, for now, into a tapas bar down the block. Pete was an only child. The one other time we’d been for tapas together, a Morgan & Schwarz social, he’d ordered albondigas and patatas bravas for one. The thought of sharing was anathema to him. ‘It’s part of the experience,’ we’d said. ‘No thank you very much,’ he’d said. The bob-cut one and the terrifying one looked like they had dirty fingernails. I could see Pete was plotting an uneasy mental map of where their paws met his calamari. He put on a brave face and cracked a dad-gag.
‘So, ladies, what do you fancy…? You can say me.’ They picked up the sticky menus in silence.
Tapas suited me. Its one-for-all nature meant I didn’t have to embarrassingly leave a still-full plate in front of me. Eating was cheating.
‘Cocktail, ladies?’ I offered.
The terrifying one was silent no more. ‘Screwdriver.’
‘That’s a funny name, isn’t it?’ said Pete. Bob-cut smiled at him. The terrifying one gave me a ‘where the fuck’s my drink’ look?
‘Anyone else?’
The bob-cut spoke.
‘Oh, thanks, um…’
‘Bill.’
‘Thanks, Bill. I’ll have a… Cosmopolitan,’ she said.
‘I could tell you were cosmopolitan,’ Pete threw in. She laughed. I was unsure if it was a false one. It was harder to tell than with an orgasm.
‘Pete?’ He looked the menu up and down.
‘I will plump for one Virgin Mary, my good man.’
‘That’s got no booze in it,’ I told him.
‘Oh, really? Drat. I liked the name.’ They both laughed now. They thought Pete was being ironic. He wasn’t.
‘Okay, what about a Singapore Sling?’ he added.
I nodded and fled to the bar.
Well this wasn’t quite how I saw today panning out. Who’d have thought when I avoided the mirror and swallowed some mouthwash this morning I’d end the day on a quasi-double date with Pete. Pete who’d not had a jump under this government, Pete to whom this was the social event of the millennia, Pete who was… I looked over my shoulder… making the brace of broads genuinely laugh back at the table. A misspent youth standing next to large speakers at loud gigs had left my hearing fucked so the content of Pete’s comedy escaped me. He was all hand gestures and animated expressions. He was relaxed in the company of women; he just never seemed to fuck them. I took a moment to reflect on how the reverse was true for me.
The terrifying one broke my contemplation with one of those ‘booze-or-I-kill-you’ looks again. I ordered, waited for the slick prick of a barman to flip a bottle onto the back of his hand in an attempt to preen in front of a nubile and naive looking colleague, and then headed back like a 21st century hunter-gatherer to the laughter.
‘The worst thing was, they were totally oblivious to what was going to happen. I’ve read things which say that they were just going about their daily business, eating and bathing, blissful in their ignorance.’ The bob-cut didn’t look like she knew a lot about ancient history, but as Brief Encounters told us, don’t judge a book by its cover.
‘Quite, quite incredible,’ said Pete. ‘I’ll have to make sure I’ve got my wits about me the next time I’m in the tub, just in case.’
‘Put your rubber duckie on red alert,’ she said. Her warmth belied the severity of her hair do. They were hitting it off. She continued the history lesson. ‘They say that when they saw the first sign of smoke, they were more curious than anything. ’
‘What is it they say?’ Pete replied.
Bob-cut started, ‘There’s no smoke…’
‘Without fire,’ Pete finished. They guffawed in unison.
‘Speaking of which, I’m going to go outside for a cigarette,’ the scary one said. The booze had calmed her, but frantic laughter had turned to boredom.
‘That,’ I said, ‘sounds like a very good idea.’
‘Do you feel like we’ve gatecrashed the nerdiest first date in history?’ She cackled smoke out of her mouth and nose like Pompeii plumes.
‘She may seem boring, but she will fuck literally everything that moves. A variation on this happens every time we come to these things.’
‘He’s quite the opposite,’ I said, ‘but a good ride would do him the world of good.’ An image entered my mind: Pete, slick-haired, wearing a smoking jacket, sat around the boardroom table drinking scotch, slapping his thigh, laughing heartily.
‘Well, let’s just say, he’ll have his own eruption later.’
Christ.
‘And what about you?’ she said.
‘What about me?’
‘Do you fuck everything that moves?’
‘That’s a very personal question.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I should answer that.’
‘Do you want to fuck me?’ she said.
Christ.
Before I’d finished my smoke, she’d flagged down a cab and her chipped fingernails were tearing at my pubic hair.
&nb
sp; Pete would have to make his own way home.
I awoke with the familiar of unfamiliar surroundings. It was some clattering outside the door that did it. It sounded like the usual morning sounds: wardrobe doors opening and slamming, showers gushing, the low hum of a radio host. I was alone in an unmade bed. The room was blank and bare. So was I. I was wearing one sock. It said ‘Wednesday’. It was Thursday. This great escape couldn’t involve months of planning and dirt-dispelling through holey pockets. I had to get the fuck out of dodge, and now. I looked down to my left to find last night’s clothes in a pile. My boxer shorts were draped on the radiator. This was not a good sign. I dressed like a fumbling first-time necessity stripper in reverse. No sock in sight. This could help the next operation, which was all about stealth. I was hardly feeling my most cat-like. I turned the handle before pulling the door towards me to silence the opening. What would Pandora’s door reveal? The radio got louder. The shower stopped. A corridor ran ahead of me with stairs leading off it. There was light at the end of the tunnel. I moved quietly, touching the near wall, quietly hovering over the carpet and down the stairs towards the chink.
Flashback: neat house, neater spirits. Her: aggressive, domineering, wanting to slap and be slapped. Call me… what was her name? At least once you’d think I’d be able to remember her fucking name.
There was a bureau by the front door: take-away menus, charity collection bags, free newspapers, mail. I picked up a circular. Diana Davies, that was her name. Diana Davies. I slipped out of the door to safety.
An overwhelming thought smacked me in the jaw. The name on the letter wasn’t Christy.
Chapter 13
Young Boy Scouts in more enlightened parts of the world have the pleasure of rubbing sticks together and holding maps upside down while looking lost, not just with other spotty spec-wearing runny nosed boys, but with girls. Wandering in the woods together. Losing innocence under the star-smudged sky. No such luck for me. I was stuck with Geoff, an ageing outdoors type who liked to ramble and hit young boys with sticks, often from distance. His wife chose to go by the name of ‘Badger’, perhaps in allusion to her greying perm. Which I can’t help thinking now seems a little cruel. Bereft of the distraction of bare-legged girls in green, I started to carve out a burgeoning career for myself in the city’s 81st troupe. I won orienteering competitions in record time. I erected tents efficiently and securely. My divining rod often found a source of water. At the tender age of twelve, I reached the lofty heights of Seconder. The Sixer was getting on a bit. His balls had dropped and it wouldn’t be long until his Wednesday nights wouldn’t be spent in the scout hut but in the park with a bottle of White Lightning and ten Regal Superkings. This was a young man’s game. My eye was on the prize.