by Jane Moore
Now it's Kara's turn to glare at me, her eyes darting back and forth between Dan and I, every little glance in my direction a small knife embedding itself in the banquette behind my head. Oh what fun I'm having.
I look at my watch. "Blimey, is that the time?" I lean forwards in front of Harry and tap Richard on the leg. "I'm going to the loo, but when I get back we should make tracks. Don't forget you've got that early start in the morning." Total fiction, but again he didn't let me down by pooh-poohing my attempts to leave. A sure sign he had tired of his little game and was fed up with Kara's disingenuous banter.
Washing my hands in the bathroom a few minutes later, I stare into the mirrors in front of me and silently curse, for the umpteenth time, the "designer" that decided to use overhead lighting. I look knackered, with dark circles under my eyes and a nose shadow that makes it look like I'm sporting a small Hitleresque moustache. Like those small portable fans people hold in front of their faces during blisteringly hot summers, I'm thinking of pioneering a small, handheld face flashlight for women to use when frequenting public restrooms. Forget wrinkle cream, a direct light straight into the face takes years off you.
A woman walks in and stands right next to me. We exchange a polite smile and I note ruefully that her eyes are bagless, despite the dodgy lighting.
"That's a lovely necklace." She nods towards the tiny silver pendant hanging round my neck.
"Thanks." I smile warmly. "It was a twenty-first birthday present from my parents."
She raises an eyebrow. "Really? And it's still so shiny after all these years!"
With that, she saunters into a cubicle and closes the door, leaving me speechless and feeling 125 years old.
Walking out into the corridor, I'm mentally planning the patent for my face flashlight when I turn the corner and crash straight into someone's chest.
"Ah, here you are." It's Harry.
"Um, yes," I falter, slightly unnerved by his sudden appearance. "I went to the bathroom."
"Yes, yes," he says dismissively, looking nervously back over his shoulder. "We haven't got much time. Clare gets very jealous, you know."
"I'm sorry?" I ask him, baffled as to why time is running out for two virtual strangers simply passing each other in a toilet corridor.
"Look." His tone is urgent and he grasps the tops of my arms. "There's a spark between you and I. I can feel it here." He thumps the center of his chest. "I have to see you again. When are you free?"
I stare at him unblinkingly for a few seconds, studying his careworn face. He's about fifty, with small blue eyes, a large nose, and graying hair shaped by gel into a tussled boy-band cut that screams midlife crisis. He's wearing a Nehru shirt, faded jeans and--Oh God why didn't I notice them before?--white sneakers with red laces.
"Never, Harry. That's when I'm free," I say firmly.
He looks genuinely surprised by this rebuttal. "Never?" he parrots.
"Never. You're a married man."
Relaxing his grip on my arms, he takes a step back and studies me up and down. "Don't worry about it, we have an open marriage."
"Really?" I drawl, gobsmacked by the arrogance of the man. "Does your wife know that?"
He shrugs. "She has to, or she'd lose me."
"And what a huge loss you'd be." I step round him, shaking my head in disbelief. "Bye, Harry."
As I walk away, I hear him turn round to face my retreating back. "At your age, married men is all you'll get," he shouts.
Without bothering to turn round, I twist my head so he can hear my retort. "In that case, I'll stay single."
I leave the loathsome reptile with my dignity intact, but I won't pretend I wasn't hurt by his remark, as well as slightly panicked.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I will shrivel into old age with only the occasional morsel from another woman's marital plate to sustain me. Could that really be the case?
Only time will tell.
Eleven
I'm 35, tall, dark, and lonesome after the demise of a long-term relationship. WLTM someone who fancies taking it softly softly, having a bit of fun, and seeing where life takes us.
OK, so it's not the wittiest, most innovative dating ad in the world, but if truth be known he could have written "rhubarb rhubarb"and I'd have fixed a meeting on the basis of his photograph alone. Shallow, I know, but hey, what's a girl to do when her calendar's empty but her inbox is full of eligible men?
His picture shows him bare-chested, standing on what looks like a Spanish beach, judging by the "All the Sangria you can drink for 20 Euros"sign on a bar in the background.
He's slim, with very dark brown hair and the kind of chiseled jaw that usually graces the pages of GQ magazine. He's not smiling, but I can imagine he has pearly white, perfectly even teeth. Though knowing my luck of late, they'll probably look like Stonehenge in a storm.
It's 1 p.m. and we've arranged to meet outside the door to the Hippodrome nightclub in Leicester Square, no doubt peppered with vomit and urine from last night's revelry. This time, though, I'm taking no chances at being the first to arrive and finding myself faced with some gremlin look-alike.
Instead, I position myself in a doorway across the road, easily hidden by the endless stream of office workers marching purposefully from one place to another, or tourists wandering aimlessly, baffled by the grubby, litter-strewn square in front of them that looks nothing like the pristine image in their city guide. As usual, there's one appallingly bad street musician, and several arty-farty, theatrical types pretending to be statues.
There's only one man currently occupying the doorway of the Hippodrome, and as he's lying down on a dirty blanket and clutching a can of Special Brew, I can only pray he's always there and isn't my mystery date.
A woman walks past him and ignores his extended hand. "Bitch!" he shouts, dribbles of lager foaming at the corners of his mouth. Oh dear. Maybe this wasn't such a wise choice of location after all.
A few more minutes pass and several more insults are bellowed. I wonder whether my date has already clocked the unsavory scene and decided to keep walking. Then, good news, he appears. Better news, he's every bit as gorgeous as his photograph.
He stands a few feet to one side of the doorway's inebriated occupant who, thankfully, seems to have drifted off into a drink-induced state of unconsciousness.
Smoothing down my coat and the back of my hair, I resist the urge to apply yet another layer of lip gloss for fear of sticking to him if there's a small kiss by way of greeting. Taking a deep breath, I start walking through the throng of people, my heart in my throat. I haven't felt this nervous before, and I wonder whether it's because he's so stunning. Good looks do funny things to the beholder, and to those blessed with them it can be the barrier to developing a really attractive personality. After all, if everyone's going to approach you anyway and laugh raucously at everything you say, why bother brushing up on witty or interesting anecdotes?
Now I'm just a couple of feet away from him, but he's facing the other way. Tapping him on the shoulder, I adopt what I hope to be a smoldering gaze and sexy half-smile, and wait for him to turn round. When he does, he has the most piercingly blue eyes I've ever seen, and my stomach does a somersault.
"Jack?" I ask, having learned his name when he e-mailed me to arrange the time and place.
He takes a small step back and, almost imperceptibly, looks me up and down. His face remains impassive. "Jack? No, sorry, you must have made a mistake."
I'm momentarily baffled. The man standing in front of me is an exact replica of the man in the photograph, right down to the little kiss curl of fringe above his right eye.
"You're not called Jack?" I try again, my eyes darting suspiciously from his face to the ground and back again.
"Nope, sorry." He looks faintly defiant, ramming his hands into his jeans pockets and moving shiftily from foot to foot.
Slowly, realization dawns on me. This is him, but having seen me in the flesh he's clearly deeply disappointed and doesn't wan
t to take it any further. Here I am, getting a large dose of the same medicine I dished out to some hapless man the other day, but as I'm now on the receiving end, I can feel my nerve ends bristling with the indignity of it.
"You must think I came down the Clyde on a banana boat," I scoff, staring defiantly at him.
"Sorry?" He's trying to look perplexed by the sight of this strange madwoman accosting him in the street, but his cheeks have flushed bright red and he's blinking rapidly. You don't have to be a detective to know he's guilty as charged.
"You are Jack," I persist. "Either that, or your identical twin is advertising on the Internet and, by a sheer trillion-to-one coincidence, he has failed to turn up and you're here to meet someone else purely by chance." I'm not sure if what I've said has even made sense, but I stand my ground in front of him, glaring.
He blinks uneasily for a few seconds, clearly mulling over what to do or say next. "Well, you look absolutely nothing like your photo," he says indignantly. "I was expecting someone much prettier and slimmer."
My mouth is now wedged open with shock at the injustice of what he's just said. OK, so I'm not Kate Moss, but I'm not exactly chopped liver either. And slimmer? What does he want, a pipe cleaner?
"So what are you saying?" Great. As if his insult wasn't bad enough the first time round, I now seem to be asking him to repeat it.
He sighs. "I'm saying that what I saw is not what I've got standing in front of me. Your photograph is deceptive."
"No it isn't. My friends say it looks just like me."
"They're being kind," he says dismissively, looking at his watch. "Look, no offense, but I just don't fancy you. So what's the point of going for a coffee, or whatever, if I already know that?"
"I see. So, such is the depth of your personality, that you judge people purely on looks alone?" I demand, pushing aside the hypocritical recollection of how I'd felt when I first clapped eyes on his photo.
He shrugs. "Not just looks, no. More chemistry really. A spark."
He was making perfect sense, of course, but the lingering sting of rejection wouldn't let me admit it. I was allowed to say things like that, but he was supposed to be blown away by the mere sight of me. "A spark can always come later," I retort.
"No." He shakes his head. "The fire comes later. The spark that makes the fire has to be there from the outset and it's just not there for me . . . sorry," he adds as an afterthought.
"Yes, yes, so you keep saying." I frown, momentarily distracted by the sound of Mr. Special Brew stirring to my right.
"Look . . ." Jack's expression and tone have softened. "It's nothing personal, honest. I'm just very focused on what I want, and you're not it. But I'm happy to go for a quick coffee if you like, just to show there are no hard feelings."
Oh God, he's pitying me now, offering me a consolation prize. That's worse than being told, in so many words, that I'm an unattractive heffalump not fit to sully his eye line.
I can feel my irritation ebbing into depression now. I have to get away.
"No point," I say wearily. "I think I've wasted enough time here already. I'd better get back to work."
"OK, nice to meet you." He flashes me a movie star smile. "And sorry again."
"Not as sorry as I am." The drunk behind me has now leaned forward and is tapping my ankle asking for money. "But thanks anyway, it's been really . . . er . . . forgettable."
I turn away from him and fumble in my coat pocket. Finding a pound coin, I stoop down and place it in the grubby, open palm of the dosser.
His bloodshot eyes look down and focus on it, his mouth clearly curling into a sneer under the mass of unkempt beard.
"Tight bitch!" he bellows at my retreating back.
Thank you, God. What a humdinging, bells ringing, bunting-waving arsewipe of a day.
Little did I know that things were about to get much, much worse.
Twelve
True to form, next door's dog starts yapping at precisely 8 a.m., the time his elderly owner gets up to make his first cup of tea. I know this, because he has an ancient water tank that cranks noisily every time he turns on a tap. Ah, the joys of cheek-by-jowl London living. As the old joke goes, the walls are so thin that every time I have sex (rare), my neighbors have a postcoital cigarette.
Lifting my head slightly, I prize out my pillow and flop it over my face, hoping to block out the noise. It dulls it slightly, and I manage to drift off into one of those shallow, hallucinogenic morning dozes where all manner of strange things happen to you--on this occasion, being chased by Regis Philbin, who's brandishing a Frisbee in one hand and a bottle of baby oil in the other. As "experts" say all dreams are about sex, the mind boggles.
He's just caught up with me and grabbed my faux fur collar when I'm dragged back to consciousness by the sound of the phone. It's 9:15 a.m.
"Hello?" I wearily prop myself up on one elbow.
"Hi, sis."
"Hi, Liv. Boy, am I glad to hear from you. You just saved me from the oily clutches of Regis Philbin."
"Right . . ." She sounds distracted. "Look, sorry if I've disturbed you, but what are you up to later this morning?"
As her voice seems subdued, I decide to ignore the fact that she considers my bizarre remark as unworthy of comment. "Oh, now let me see . . . Colin Farrell is picking me up on his motorbike at one, then we're speeding off for lunch at The Ivy, before retiring to our luxury hotel room for an afternoon of steamy sex."
She says nothing for a few seconds, then coughs a little. "Michael is taking the children ice skating this morning, followed by lunch at Pizza Express. So I thought I might come over and see you."
It's enough to immediately arouse my suspicion. After all, even in the unlikely event that she didn't want to join the family outing herself, under normal circumstances she would certainly have savored having the house to herself for a few hours.
The fact that she wants to come over here makes me even more convinced there's something wrong between her and Michael, and she wants to talk about it.
She arrives shortly past eleven, giving me just enough time for a hasty tidy-up, lobbing the contents of cluttered surfaces into cupboards and quickly whipping a Swiffer liberally around the place. Not that Olivia would even notice, but the layer of dust that's built up is enough to shame even slovenly old me.
I greet her with our usual hug, but her shoulders feel more rigid than usual. Her face is undoubtedly pale and looks slightly waxy, and I notice immediately that her usually trim nails look irregular and bitten.
I suddenly feel nauseous, my mind spiraling forward to what may be about to unleash. Michael having an affair with a young, pretty nurse, Olivia falling apart, Matthew and Emily left baffled and heartbroken . . . oh God, Matthew and Emily. The thought is too horrible to even contemplate.
"Coffee?" I smile at her.
"Thanks." She attempts to smile back, but it's so weak as to be barely noticeable.
She follows me into my small kitchen with its low, raftered ceiling and tiny, murky window. A top-floor flat, I refer to it as "Anne Frank's attic" because of its propensity to feel slightly gloomy and enclosed. In winter, it's undoubtedly cozy and homey, but come the summer it can become too stifling and claustrophobic for comfort. But my bank balance, or lack of it, won't stretch to anything else.
Reaching for my prized "Aunty" mug, which Matthew and Emily bought me during a family seaside holiday, I give Olivia the dainty, bone china cup I usually reserve for Mum's infrequent visits. The last time she came, I had spent four hours frantically cleaning the place prior to her arrival and she still walked in the door and immediately pointed out how untidy it was.
But Olivia never notices. Or cares. I'm not sure which.
"I thought you would have jumped at the chance to have the house to yourself," I say casually, not daring to broach directly what's weighing on my mind. I'm desperate to be put out of my misery, but can't quite bring myself to ask her outright.
"Not really." She shrugs and
stares up at a Simpsons calendar hanging on the noticeboard above her head. It's endless blank squares are symbolic of my uneventful life.
"Why not?" I heap a generous teaspoon of sugar into her cup. "I know I hate my own company, but that's because I get so much of it. You never have any time to yourself, so I thought you'd relish it."
She looks in my direction, but remains expressionless. "I just didn't fancy it today. I wanted some company."
"Oh." I pour in the boiling water. "So why didn't you go with Michael and the children then?"
This time, my question prompts a reaction and she looks slightly concerned. "Is there a problem with me coming over?" she asks. "Do you have something else planned? I thought you said you were free."
"No, no problem at all," I reply hastily, placing the steaming cup of black coffee in front of her. Owing to my Borrowers-size kitchen, there's only room for a three-foot by two-foot table along the far wall. She's sitting at one end and I hover at the other. "Shall we adjourn to the living room? It's a bit cramped in here."
She nods silently, picks up her cup, and follows me down the hallway. We sit side by side on my bright red, two-seater Ikea sofa bed, a housewarming present from the parentals.
"So what's new? How's everything?" It's usually such a harmless question between friends or family, but on this occasion it's loaded with meaning. For a few seconds, waiting for her answer, I forget to breathe.
"Oh, same old same old," she says vaguely, staring at the ceiling as if seeking inspiration. "Um, the children are great. Matthew made the first team for school rugby, which Michael's thrilled about . . ." She stops and takes a sip of her tea. "And Emily has been chosen to play Mary in the school nativity."
"Wow!" I'm genuinely impressed and thrilled for her. "The nearest I got was being one of the Three Kings when Ian Clark went down with chicken pox at the last minute."
Olivia smiles properly for the first time since her arrival. "I remember. I also remember you were a bale of hay the year before."