The Serial Dater
Rachel Cavanagh
Copyright 2020 © Rachel Cavanagh
The right of Rachel Cavanagh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Published in 2020 by August Publishing UK.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issues by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The locations are or were real, although Rachel has taken ‘artistic licence’ in some instances.
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Cover design by Caroline Vincent
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Titles by Rachel Cavanagh
NOVELS
Oh, Henry ~ a comic dog-detective #1
The Serial Dater ~ 31 dates in 31 days ~ The Serial series #1
The Serial Dieter ~ 31 dishes in 31 days ~ The Serial series #2
SHORT STORIES
Various Henry Houdini Dog-Detective Short Stories
This book is dedicated to my father, Don,
who I know would have been so proud.
Chapter 1 – Hunky Dunky at the Picturedrome
They say it takes less than ten seconds to make a first impression.
“How’s it going, Izzy?”
I look up and there, looming, is William, my boss. My boss-for-not-very-much-longer-if-I-don’t-get-this-article-right boss.
“Good, thanks,” I reply. “Have it done in no time,” I lie.
“Excellent. First copy on my desk by two, okay?”
Every time he says it, I think how much easier it would be to email it to him, or let him get it off the server, but he’s a rather old-fashioned editor and to him, paper is king.
I nod. “Sure.”
As he wanders back to his office, I spot my colleague and ‘BFF’ Donna looking at me. She mouths what I think is an ‘Are you okay?’ and I smile and blow her a kiss. She giggles which sets me off. She never fails to have that effect on me and, not for the first time, I wish I could bottle her effervescence.
My readers know me as Isobel MacFarlane, but I’m Izzy Mac to my friends. The only people to call me Isobel are my mother and my boss, especially when I was little and being naughty (to my mother, that is). My boss, William Stamp, calls me Izzy when he wants something, which is most of the time, but if things aren’t going his way… you get the idea.
Being one of the few single girls in the office, and because I write a technology column, he’s instructed me to set up a profile on NorthantsDating.co.uk. Disguised as ‘tallgirlnn1’ – because I’m five feet ten, female (last time I checked) and the paper’s based in Northampton’s town centre – I’m to line up a date a night for the next thirty-one days and write about it, because it’s never been done at this paper before. I can see why.
I should count myself lucky; Donna’s latest task on her ‘Health & Beauty’ section is yo-yo dieting. She has to find a new angle as it’s been written about to death, but so has dating, I suppose.
With my profile containing the barest of (very) loosely based facts up and running, I already have one message from DBvet: ‘Hi. I see you’ve just joined. Me too! I’m local but not sure what to write, so will let you check me out.’ Short and sweet.
Clicking on the ‘view my profile’ button, I learn that Duncan is thirty-two with his own vet’s practice. I assume he’s six feet as his profile says five feet twelve, which makes me laugh. A good start.
There’s no photo, but I can’t complain because I haven’t uploaded one either. I’d come to the conclusion that if this were truly going to be a blind-date project then seeing photos would rather defeat the object. I work for a local rag and although my smiling portrait appears above my column six days a week, it’s old enough and black and white enough to look nothing like me, and I figure the town’s big enough to get away with it. Besides, people are only ever interested in what the article says, not who writes it, aren’t they? But even so, I decide to play safe. I’ll see how it goes.
I send a rather forward ‘you sound nice, let’s meet’ message, and then read on. Duncan’s interests include ‘animals’ (no surprise there), ‘reading’ (I’m a big fan too), and ‘cinema’ (who doesn’t?). There’s no mention of the other cliché, ‘eating out’, but unless he’s a couch potato, that’s going to be a tick.
He replies suggesting the Picturedrome, which does lovely food, yep, no couch potato. We’re just meeting for a drink or two… the paper’s budget only stretches so far and with thirty-one dates on the menu, it may end up being a drink or one.
I reply to his message and hit the ‘send’ button.
I’m about to return to my article, or what there is of it, when I sense someone hovering next to me. I smile automatically and look up, expecting a six-foot-four William but it’s a five-foot-two-and-a-half Donna. My smile widens.
“Cuppa?” she suggests, grinning.
“Definitely,” I reply, curious to know why she’s even more bouncy than normal. She’s one of those naturally hyper people who doesn’t need any more than life to get high.
We almost skip arm-in-arm to the kitchen where she offers to be ‘mum’ and make us both hot chocolates, our daily treats. She’s an expert at multi-tasking so launches into a conversation. “How’s it going, Izzy?”
I laugh at her Williamism and she frowns. “The article or life?”
She pokes out the tip of her tongue and I giggle. I’m wondering how much I can charge for a 100ml bottle of Donnaesque when she says, “You know…”
I do. “Not so well. Bit of writer’s block. Nothing that a Donna-made hot choc can’t fix.” I hold up the mug she’s given me.
She blushes, takes a tentative sip of very hot hot chocolate, and looks down at her feet.
“Are you okay?” I ask, wanting to give her a hug but not risking either of us getting a scalding.
The beam is back, and I know she’d tell me if there were anything wrong – she can’t keep any kind of secret – and I relax. If only the article were that easy to fix.
They say it takes less than ten seconds to make a first impression.
I had hoped reading it again would inspire me, but sadly it doesn’t do the trick. I sit and stare at the screen. The cursor flashes encouragingly, but like the page before me, I’m pretty much blank.
I remember Sarah, a friend from years ago, and her list of things she ‘didn’t do’.
“Shopping list. I need a shopping list,” I mutter, but sense someone hovering over my desk. Surprise, surprise, it’s William.
“Aren’t you a bit too busy to be thinking about food? That’s Donna’s department.”
I smile and pretend to type. He’s not usually fooled, but I grin as he walks back to his office with the cup of coffee he’s just made himself. His PA, Janine, has called in sick, which has made him even more miserable than usual. Not that I blame her.
I open a Word document of notes I’ve ingeniously called ‘Notes’ (to go with ‘31 dates art. 0105’ for the article itself). Remembering what Sarah did and didn’t ‘do’, I create a table with such neatness that it could be classed as inane (I did say I’m a techie). A journalist or secretary would understand, a
nd for the next thirty-one days, I’m both: journalist by day and ‘secretary’, when quizzed about my profile, by night.
I start typing the list, but soon run out of lines, so add a few… then a few more. Twenty-five lines later, I’m done. I stare at the screen. The Don’t column dominates the Do, so I fill in the missing Dos.
Don’t do (in no particular order)
- Trainers with smart suit
- Greasy hair/dirty fingernails
- Too young or too old
- Too short
- No arse (I smile)
- Boring conversation
- Couch potato
- Nauseatingly smooth
- Geek or trainspotter
- Old-fashioned (I’m too young for pipe and slippers)
- Addiction of any kind
- Wants kids
- Smoker
- Moustache or beard (although I do love a goatee)
- Too feminine
- No hard drugs
- Too ugly or self-indulgent pretty boys
- Orange suntans/leathery skin
- B.O.
- Never left Northampton
- Beer-bottle glasses
- Slurps his drink (the image of a cartoon slurper pops into my head)
- Sweats like a pig (I grimace and want to oink but resist – the office is too quiet)
- Ignorance
- Scrounger
Do (in a very particular order)
- Tall
- Funny/good conversation (binman)
- Tall
- Non-smoker
- Tall
- Intelligent
- Tall
- Smart appearance (clean hair etc.)
- Tall
- Some ambition (i.e. not a layabout)
- Tall
- Keeps up to date with current events
- Tall
- Passionate
- Tall
- Likes similar music/interests etc.
- Tall
- Well travelled/interesting
- Tall
- Likes animals
- Tall
- Rugby physique
- Tall
- Pays his way
- Oh, and did I say tall?
I look at the reference to the binman and laugh. It’s reminded me of a conversation I’d once had with Sarah where she wanted someone with money and I’d said I’d rather date a humorous binman than a tedious accountant. Being an accounts assistant, I don’t think she found that very funny, which went to prove my point.
With the list complete, I feel slightly inspired, so continue with my article.
And this girl has thirty-one impressions to make, all within the month of May. If you’re a fan of ‘Sex in the City’ or ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’, then we have your very own local version. If you’ve ever considered internet dating this is the column for you. Let me experience it on your behalf. Follow me as I meet hot and cold men on hot and cold nights, the roller coaster of emotions and, at the end of the month… who knows? Will I find the man of my dreams or will it be one big nightmare? I’ll let you know.
I add a shorter-than-planned review of the new eCopter 3000, and then explain that my usual column will be back in June. After my thousand words are done, I edit, then re-edit.
With the piece printed and safely stowed in William’s in tray, Duncan and I exchange a couple more messages and he’s confirmed as tonight’s guinea pig. One down, thirty to go. I look at the clock and it’s just after four. I need to line up more dates for the rest of the week, so do a search for some other men. Being five feet ten, I decide to select the ‘6ft+’ box, but untick it as I remember that it’s for work and not for myself. Besides, knowing the lack of talent in Northampton from weekend jaunts with fellow singleton Donna, and having read a statistic once that only four per cent of the UK male population is six feet and over, I’d end up seeing Duncan every day of the month, although I suspect this wouldn’t be a bad thing.
Speak of the devil, fourth one down is DBvet. The first three sound as dull as lard, and with so many (around two hundred) to choose from I can be fussy. Scrolling through the first five pages, I refer to my shopping list and backtrack a little. I’ve ignored the ones with photos, which are surprisingly few, but after having studied the pictures in more detail, I’m not at all surprised. Very good-looking men invariably know they are and it’s usually the cute rather than stunning ones that are worth following up on.
I shake my head as I think about how clinical all this is, but realise this is how a woman’s mind works. Take my friend Sarah, and her shopping list as long as… well, a shopping list, and if a man didn’t conform to it then he was toast. And who did she end up with? A guy who ticked all the boxes? Correct. Sebastian ticked all the Don’t boxes. It goes to show that what you think you want and what you end up with are usually two different things. But I’m not really looking, am I?
After sending a few ‘winks’ and a couple of messages, I decide I’m done for the day, lock my computer screen, gather up my belongings and walk out to the car park. I smile at Mike the security guard who waves me through. It’s something he does every day and I never know why.
Jason who does the early shifts is a different being. He can chat for England and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been late for work because I can give as good as I get. More recently I’ve done it to annoy William, which probably hasn’t helped my job situation, but there’s more to life, as Jason tells me. He’s counting down the days until he’s finished his home-study law degree and he’s off. Can’t say I blame him.
The weekend daytime guy, Klaus, is German and, although he’d be too young, I’m convinced he’s a former member of the Gestapo, but what do I know? I’ve only met him twice (I usually submit two articles on Fridays instead of working weekends and have never met Sidney the weekend nighter who makes up the quartet). William wants me to do Saturdays this month, a month with two bank holiday Mondays at that, so I’ve drawn the short straw. Maybe if Klaus gets to know me, he’ll like me. I live in hope.
As I drive out of the underground car park, I wave and smile at the security camera. I imagine Mike grunting back as he eats his doughnut. He’s always eating. Donna says it’s to maintain his security guard physique. I think she has a soft spot for him. It takes all sorts.
Ten minutes later and I pull up outside my house. There’s a piece of mail sticking out of the postbox and I growl. My postman’s lovely, but he doesn’t have a clue about security – I dare say Klaus could teach him a thing or two – and don’t get me started on littered red elastic bands.
I let myself in, hook my bag over the bottom of the banisters, hang up my coat and make a couple of slices of beans on toast. There’s some garlic bread in the fridge that could do with using up, but I can’t imagine my dates liking second-hand garlic breath, so I stick it in the freezer, making a mental note to use it early next month.
After checking I have no landline messages, I go upstairs and jump in the shower. I had one before work, but my hair’s gone flat from being buffeted around at lunchtime. I make another mental note to take sandwiches instead of having to go to Boots for their lunch snack mega-deals, which always means I eat and spend too much.
Showered and changed, I grab my bag and look around for my keys. I live less than a mile away from the venue, but have decided to drive. I figure it’s a quick getaway if I need… well, a quick getaway. I dumped the keys somewhere when I came in, but the exact location escapes me. Then I remember the toast and there they are… the keys… by the kettle. I hadn’t made a drink, but yet, there they are. I read once that the brain goes into reverse when you hit the big four-oh, which means I’ve still ten years to go, so dismiss it. When I realise the light shining down into the hall is the bathroom’s, I guess my mental age might be closer to forty anyway.
I’m a bit early, so stop at the corner shop on the way. I’d forgotten to buy a national newspaper at lunchtime and figure it might co
me in handy if Duncan is late. We get free copies at work, but William always hogs them; research, he says – we figure they end up lining his birdcage. He lives for that creature.
I find a parking space round the corner from the bar, and as I walk in the early summer night’s breeze, I take in my surroundings. The old Racecourse Pavilion, now Jade, an oriental restaurant, has half a dozen cars outside with another pulling up. From the obscured view I have of the park, it’s teeming with dog walkers and teenagers still enjoying a bonus day off school or college. It’s been a beautiful day and I’m a little envious of the families by the sea or pottering in the garden, while I was slaving away over a cold keyboard.
As I reach the Picturedrome’s front door, there’s no one waiting outside. My mobile says seven fifty-four, so I go in.
There’s a chap standing by the bar and my heart leaps. He’s at least six feet four, my ideal height for a man, and a Matthew McConaughey lookalike. I can’t believe my luck, but remind myself to be cool. I smile and he grins and waves. My smile gets bigger and I wave madly. I’m about to speak when I realise he’s looking through me. I turn round and am face to face with a Gisele Bünchen replica. When she passes me I want to walk in the direction I’m facing: towards the door. I turn back to the bar and fake a smile. As Matthew and Gisele disappear through the middle doors into the lower part of the building, I see a man sitting on one of the bar stools. He smiles.
On first impression he’s to die for, more dark and brooding than Matthew, almost an Antonio Banderas. I get all excited, until he stands up. Six feet in platforms maybe. We’d be the same height if I was barefoot or wearing flatties, but I’ve got on my favourite kitten heels, so I’m a couple of inches taller. My disappointment must be obvious as his smile fades. I immediately beam and his twinkle reappears.
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