I feel quite a thrill from the unfolding plan, although I doubt they’re all going to be as easy to get on with as D. I then remember I’d planned to only date guys with no photos and if sticking to this rule I’d be left with eight, so decide to answer the non-photo non-weirdos for now and see if any more crawl out of the woodwork in the next few days, leaving the photo non-weirdos in reserve.
With messages sent, I press the F5 key to refresh the screen and already have a message from Timbo77. He apologises that he’s busy at the moment (not too busy to be checking his messages), but is free tonight if that’s not too soon (I’ll let him off). I reply that I’m more than happy, and ask if he has anywhere in mind.
I scan his profile, which says he works ‘in the meat industry’. Having visited an abattoir once for a previous job, I imagine living with someone who smells of dead animal twenty-four hours a day, although concede that a fishmonger would be ten times worse. I decide to add ‘smell’ to the shopping list, so Alt/Tab over to the Notes file and add ‘and other smells’ to the ‘BO’ line, then flick back to the internet.
I press F5 again and there is already a message from Tim.
Great! it says. How about the Picturedrome?
What is it with that place?
I reply that it would normally be a great suggestion, but that I know someone who works there (well, I spoke to the barman for a few seconds last night). ‘How about the World’s End at Ecton?’ In less than a minute, there’s a reply. It turns out that TWE (as he calls it) is one of his locals, but he wouldn’t mind if I didn’t mind. We agree on seven o’clock as he has an early start tomorrow.
In the meantime, I’ve also received a message from a Lawrence (alias LorrieChi) asking if I’m free tonight. I’ve gone from Izzy No Mates to Miss Popular in a few mouse clicks. I send a message saying I’m sorry, but I have plans. How about tomorrow night and if so, does he have anywhere in mind? He then says Wednesday’s fine and suggests the Bradlaugh pub. I smile, thinking the Richardsons would be chuffed that I’m giving them more business, although I don’t expect they’d plan to retire on a few Cokes and ice. I reply that it’s fine and make a note of his details. I realise all this dating is going to get complicated, so make a diary in the Notes document, smiling again as the techno nerd side of me has its fix for the day.
I check my proper work emails – a mixture of review comments and supplier enquiries – until five o’clock and log off. It’s been a good day and it isn’t over yet. I’ll be getting free drinks at a lovely eatery, part of a refurbished hotel, with hopefully a lovely man and all it would cost me is petrol, although I should speak to William about him paying mileage too. It is business after all.
Donna’s engrossed on the phone, so I put a ‘see ya’ Post-it note in front of her (to which she smiles) then I do the usual waving at Mike (who nods like the Churchill Insurance dog) and go home.
I don’t have time for, or need, another shower, so pull out a ready meal from the freezer; a low-fat beef hotpot, something else Duncan and I have in common. I eat my ‘meal’ (a word I use loosely as I’m still hungry afterwards, but put that partly down to an early lunch) while watching a rerun of The Vicar of Dibley. It’s one of the last, a Christmas special I think, where she falls for the gorgeous actor who played Guy of Gisborne in Robin Hood. Richard something-or-other.
I realise I’m drooling when a blob of mince drops onto my right leg, just below my skirt line, and warms my skin a little too quickly. I swear, scoop it up and, carefully carrying the hotpot, go to the kitchen for a cloth.
It gets to the bit when she’s tailing Richard and Keeley Hawes because Dawn thinks he’s cheating on her, and she’s about to disappear into the puddle, my favourite bit, when I look at the clock. It’s six thirty. Swearing, I throw the hotpot tub in the kitchen bin and the dessertspoon into a mug on the draining board.
I glance up at the kitchen clock and I’ve lost another ten minutes. With a fifteen-minute journey ahead of me I grab my bag and car keys. Fortunately, I’ve left them on the ledge by the front door, so no repeat of the ‘senior moment’ of yesterday.
I run a couple of distinctly orange lights and arrive with seconds to spare. The World’s End car park is pretty quiet and I spot a very cool-looking silver Porsche Boxster S convertible with a blue hood and keep everything crossed that it’s Tim’s. It would tick the aspirations Do box nicely.
I park my Polo next to the Porsche and casually walk past it, sniffing for several seconds. I’m not sure whether I seriously thought I’d smell dead cow, but I do get a whiff of leather, so I suppose I’m not far off.
As I walk up the stairs to the bar, Tim stands out a mile. That’s because he’s not only that tall, but he’s nearly that wide. In fact he reminds me of a Weeble. I dismiss the Porsche theory and try to keep a straight face as I walk towards him, remembering Duncan’s Weeble story of the night before.
Tim puts out his hand as I approach him and, after the Matthew/Gisele debacle, I turn behind me to check he means me. Behind me is clear air (all the clearer thanks to the smoking ban), so I feel safe to put my hand out. I feel like I’m greeting a politician although his smile appears more genuine.
“Hi, I’m Tim. I presume you’re Izzy.”
“I am. Hi.”
He asks me what I’d like to drink and I request a pineapple juice and lemonade. It’s the closest I get to Malibu and pineapple, and I need to keep a clear head to remember everything that takes place in the next couple of hours so I can report it the following day. I always keep a notepad and pens in my bag, but think it would be giving the game away if I dig them out now.
He orders a Staropramen beer (a new one on me) and we swap ‘what do you do?’ questions, with Tim explaining that he’s a marketing manager for a dog food company. There’s a theme running here and the inevitable pets question comes up. It turns out he’s got two cats, which surprises me considering his job, but he says he’s not been there long. He says he used to work at a chocolate factory in Corby; I know the one he means, and I can imagine why he left. At least he won’t be eating his way through the new company, but as the evening progresses I start to wonder.
I ask if there’s an office dog and he says there are two and sometimes they fight like… well, dog and dog, but most of the time they’re fine. “Chalk and cheese,” I say, to list another cliché, and he nods. I later also wonder whether these are two menu items he’d not say ‘no’ to either.
We sit in a booth and I relax. It’s all going swimmingly until he belches. I anticipate the customary apology, but it looks like I won’t be holding my breath, which is a shame as I wished I had.
Next is the arrival of a huge ‘share’ mixed platter. Having placed the plate in the middle of the table, the waitress returns with two sets of cutlery and two serviettes, which she places on our left-hand sides.
I stare at the meal, then at Tim and say, “I didn’t realise we were eating. I’ve already–”
“Oh, no,” he interjects, “I ordered this before you arrived,” which is fairly obvious.
“I’ve already eaten,” I finish my previously planned statement.
“So have I,” he says, “but my stomach rumbled while waiting for you, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”
I’m not sure how he would have heard, or felt, any rumbling. I feel mean and blush a little as I nod politely and he tucks into his ‘snack’.
The whole experience is quite enlightening. Firstly, I’ve never seen anyone eat so quickly, maybe with the exception of Chinese people eating rice with chopsticks, but they’re a hundred… no, a thousand times more elegant. Secondly, between bites, but not before masticating the chicken wings and mini sweetcorn cobs, he takes another extra-large (this man doesn’t do anything in a smaller size) swig from his tankard (how old did he say he was?). I look at his huge right arm lifting up the mini-keg and compare his bicep size with that of my right thigh, which is bigger than my left, having spent years doing step aerobics, right being my predomi
nant foot.
I watch his arms compete with each other as they fight for access to his mouth and I look around the bar. No one appears to be watching other than me and for that I’m grateful, but I remember he’s a regular and they’ve probably seen it a hundred times before.
With his mouth full of I sadly know exactly what, he says, “This seems rather unfair. Did you want some of this?” He points down at the plate; there isn’t much ‘this’ to be had. The wings are bones and the dishevelled cobs devoid of corn. The stuffed mushrooms and onion rings were the first things to go and are remembered only by the presence of a few breadcrumbs. They would have been my first choices. This may be one thing, perhaps the only thing, Tim and I have in common, other than we’re both human, though at the moment I’m debating that too. There are a couple of potato skins, which I normally adore, but they look rather greasy. I’m pretty sure though that even a banoffee pie (my favourite food ever – something I would not only die for, but kill for) would be equally unappetising right now.
I shake my head, attempt a smile, and watch him clear the plate. Finally, he picks up the chicken bones and I expect him to eat them whole, but he licks them clean and drops them back on the plate. He issues another belch, this time apologising as he realises it was loud enough to draw attention to himself, as if the devouring of an African family’s monthly intake wasn’t bad enough.
Throughout the whole episode, there’s not been a word of proper chat between us. He’s been too busy eating and I’ve been concentrating on keeping my hotpot down.
As the last morsel of food disappears into the black hole, the waitress heads for our table, I assume to clear the platter away, but she’s holding a plate above her left shoulder. I’m relieved it’s not big enough to be another meal for two, although I wouldn’t put it past him, but more like a standard-sized dinner plate. I will it to be nothing I would normally eat, but am sorely disappointed as laid before me is a double helping of, the waitress announces, “Home-made banoffee pie”. I could cry.
I smile less than half-heartedly at the waitress who looks sympathetically at me before retreating to the kitchen, I assume to gossip about Table 14.
At the thought of the beautiful dessert being dismembered in a similar way to the platter, I look at Tim’s eyebrows. I can’t bear to look any further down as his nose is running and it’s close to meeting the barbecue sauce on his upper lip. I’ve finally had enough and blurt out, “I’m sorry, but I’ve just remembered I’ve left my oven on.” But I recall Duncan’s battle to lose weight and feel guilty, until Tim’s mouth gapes open revealing a mixture of toffee syrup and pastry, which threaten to spill over the edge like a coin cascade at a fair, and I can’t bear to look anymore.
As I get up to leave, he splutters, ”So, do you want to meet again?” I don’t know what to say without hurting his feelings. I mumble a non-committal, “I’ll message you,” and almost do a Usain-Bolt sprint down the stairs.
As I walk to the car, I think of how proud William will be that I’ve not spent any of tonight’s budget and equally proud I’ll have such a wonderful story to recount. Again, I debate how much I should surrender to print, but for opposite reasons to the previous night.
As I start the engine, there’s a tap at the driver’s window. I look up and it’s Tim. Tim with pie stains on his white Bolton Wanderers football shirt. I sigh at the waste.
I zip the window down and say a weak, “Hello.”
He grins, thankfully with his teeth closed, although a strand of onion is trying to escape. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
I don’t know what to say, which is most unlike me. “Um,” is all I can muster.
“I can talk for England,” he says.
I’m so pleased he didn’t and point to the restaurant, saying, “Have you done a runner?”
“Oh no. They know me. They know I’ll be back.”
“Ah.” I wish he’d take the hint and return inside.
“Nice car,” he says.
“Thanks. What do you drive?” I’m certain he won’t say the Boxster, and he points to an equally sexy blue Mini Cooper S on the other side of the car park. It’s exactly as I would have picked myself, and had done so a few months ago… well, to the point of going on the Mini website and ‘spending’ over twenty grand on a Mayfair model with the go-faster stripes and alloy wheels. I nearly cried when I had to close the screen without hitting the ‘order’ button.
I’m wondering how such a hulk of a man would fit inside the car, when he cheerfully repeats, “So, do you want to meet again?”
I realise I’m going to have to be a lot less subtle than ‘I’ll message you’, so decide I’m going to have to hurt his feelings. I guess though, it wouldn’t be the first time. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re a really nice guy…”
He looks crestfallen and I think maybe his skin’s not that thick after all.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “It’s just that…”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I know how ‘you’re a nice guy’ goes.”
“I’m sorry.” I can’t help it.
“Okay,” is all he says, and walks back towards the pub.
I feel like shouting after him that we could be friends, no hard feelings or another overused cliché, but I know the moment’s passed. I try not to feel guilty because he probably would have been there having the meal anyway, but it’s still a horrible feeling to turn someone down. I think I’ve been too hasty, but again remind myself it’s for the paper and not to get personally involved.
I drive home in silence and the bleep of the car’s remote, the flashing indicators and the squeaky gate are the only sounds to indicate I’ve arrived.
I need an animal to greet me as I open my front door to a cold hallway, and wonder whether Duncan would lend me one of his.
I swap my jacket for a jumper as I wait for the central heating to kick into life. Had I been away the anticipated two hours, plus travel time, I would have come back to a toasty house, but the kitchen clock tells me, as I fill the kettle, that it’s been just over half that.
I take a cup of tea to bed and pick up Jack Myler’s Opaque, a novel that’s been patiently sitting by my digital clock radio for the last couple of months. Every time I read a bit more I keep thinking, This is great, I should read this every night, although parts of it scare me to death. I’m particularly looking forward to reading tonight as I’ve got to the end of a very long but enjoyable hundred-page chapter one, and can’t wait to see what Elliot will do next. I’m hoping he will take my mind off Tim and his massacre of a lovely-looking banoffee pie. Something tells me I’ll never again see it in quite the same light.
Chapter 3 – Lawrence at the Charles Bradlaugh
I’ve just unlocked my computer screen when William comes striding over to my desk. My face creases as I anticipate an ear bashing.
“Good work, my dear!” he gushes. “We’ve had floods of requests to meet this D.”
“Really?” I’m quite astounded and, if honest, a little jealous. D was my find and I’m not sure I want to share him with my reading public, other than in print of course.
“Women love tall, dark and handsome.”
“Oh, he wasn’t very–’
“And they want to know what your shopping list consists of. And so do I. Two p.m.”
I go to answer, but he turns and goes back to his office.
I look back at the screen and am logging on when I feel a presence hovering. I look up and it’s William again. I’d love to know how he manages to appear as if by magic, like a scene from the 1970s cartoon Mr Benn.
“I forgot to say,” he says, “we’re renaming the column ‘What did I learn from last night?’”
“Okay,” I mumble, and he almost glides back to his office like the Martian Girl in Mars Attacks. I’ve never seen him like this and it’s scary. He should have a chat with Klaus, that’ll sort him out.
I first check my work emails and wade through the usual mix of round-robin cru
d which William would do his nut over if he was ever accidentally copied in on them. One is inane natter from Donna wanting to know all about D, although she only lives a few desks away from me, and we swap copious amounts of WhatsApp messages whenever we’re not in ear or eyeshot of each other. Several emails are from companies requesting for me to review their latest gadgets, which is always lovely.
With those dealt with, I log onto NorthantsDating and guestimate my new messages to be around a dozen. I’m pleasantly surprised when it’s twenty-three, although by the time I weed out today’s weirdos, I’m left with an unlucky thirteen, so wasn’t far out. I notice Tim’s ‘Timbo77’ halfway down the list and click on that one first. I expect a barrage of abuse, but it’s a gently worded few lines saying how lovely it was to meet me, sorry he wasn’t what I was looking for, and wishing me all the best for the future.
I send a message back, thanking him for his understanding and saying I’m sorry too, making reference to the elusive ‘spark’, which I then delete. I wade through the others and one in particular leaps out at me. ‘FelixP69’. I roll my eyes whenever I see the numbers six and nine together, but I note it’s his year of birth, so let him off. He sounds quite normal, so I send a message asking if he’s free this week. I dismiss three others, giving them automated ‘tallgirlnn1 has read your profile, but doesn’t wish to proceed’ replies, and move on to a guy who sent six messages, which is far too keen. Opening them up reveals photographs of various parts of his anatomy, far from photogenic, so I allocate them, and him, to the weirdos bin by clicking on ‘block this user’.
The Serial Dater Page 3