The Serial Dater

by Rachel Cavanagh

  I can only assume that O (because I didn’t stay long enough to ask him. Sorry, O, if you’re reading this) ‘digs’ older women, but I ‘dig’ older men. Not much older, you understand, anyone beginning with a four is pushing it, and more than five I’d probably have to push him in years from now, but even the thought of ‘pashing’ (that’s kissing to us non-streetwise dudes) a boy doesn’t do anything for me.

  Having checked O’s profile on my return to work, I see that he’s given his age as ninety-nine. I suspect that’s a default for anyone who doesn’t want to specify, but if that’s his real age, then O, please contact me again – I’d like to buy some of your face cream.

  It’s amazing how generations vary. O’s slang is an entirely different language to mine. I’m sure we both spoke English, but one is so far removed from the other that I feel we’d have needed a translator as a chaperone… or we would have done if we’d spoken more than the thirty-three words.

  So, girls, as much as I would urge anyone to beware of men pretending to be boys, because there are undoubtedly plenty of them, double-check that your date isn’t still wearing nappies or, as in my case, ‘bagging pants’.

  There’s such a thing as ‘young at heart’, but when the heart that’s beating in a potential date’s body is at least ten years younger, or double the age of your own, you might like to think twice.

  Therefore today’s two items to be ticked on my dater’s shopping list: Don’t date anyone young enough to be legal offspring (I know I’m exaggerating), and Do have breaded haddock and chips from the College Street chippie more often.

  I’m rather pleased with today’s article although the word count goes far short of filling the space I’m usually allocated. I therefore add some more techie internet dating stuff, because that’s what my readers, and William, expect.

  After, I check emails until I’m interrupted by Marion phoning for me to collect another parcel from Geek’s Heaven (did I say I love my job?), so I end up playing with the almost-silent ‘camera disguised as a cigarette lighter’.

  There’s no sign of Donna yet and no one knows where she is, so I go to reception to face Battleaxe Frist.

  “Hi, Marion.”

  “Yes, Isobel.”

  “Do you have any idea where Donna is?”

  Silence. Marion’s waiting for something. What have I forgotten?

  The penny drops. “Please, Marion?” How old am I? Five?

  “She went to see Mike then came back up here in tears.”

  “And you didn’t ring me?”

  “It’s not my job to be nursemaid.”

  No, Marion, it’s your job to be rude. I say nothing, and go to the only other place that Donna can be: the ladies.

  As I swing open the door, it hits the wall and I hear a squeak.

  “Donna?”

  “Izzy? Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  She whimpers.

  “What’s he done now?”

  “We…” She’s still crying. “We had another fight.”

  The door to the middle cubicle is shut, so I go in the one past hers, lock the door, and lift the toilet lid before sitting down. I never trust the plastic to hold my weight, although it’s probably designed for larger bottoms than mine.

  “What about this time?”

  “His eating.”

  “Oh, Donna. You know that’s a no-no.”

  “But why does he keep doing it?”

  “He’s like a smoker, or an alcoholic. They have to keep their mouths busy.”

  “I like keeping his mouth busy.” And with that she giggles.

  That’s better. Too much information, but better. “How did you leave things? Obviously not well.”

  “I went downstairs to tell him I’d like to cook him a healthy dinner and I caught him eating his way through a whole plastic tub of brownies.”

  “That makes a change from doughnuts,” I say rather unhelpfully.

  “But they’re not healthy are they?”

  “Oh, they’re… no, they’re not, Donna. Not good at all.”

  After some persuasion, I finally get her to come out. Her face looks as if two spiders have crawled down a rainy window, so I clean her up and place her, face first, beneath the electric hand dryer.

  “We’d better go back before William sends out a search party.”

  “Uh huh.”

  We get halfway down the corridor and I stop outside the kitchen.

  “You go ahead. I’ll make you a nice cup of hot choc.”

  “Thanks,” she says, trying to smile.

  “Mike’s an idiot. He’ll realise it when it’s too late and you’ll have moved on to Mr Six Pack and be deliriously happy with eight children in tow.”

  She giggles and walks to her desk. Knowing her, she’ll already be thinking up names for them all.

  I’m staring at my wardrobe for the umpteenth time. I never have this problem with Chicago’s normally, but tonight I’m stuck. I want to go for something retro, to fit in with Metal Mickey’s favourite era, but think it would be too clichéd. I could do something with my hair (loose or ponytailed are usually as daring as I get), but don’t think the permed frizzy look is really me. Nor are puffballs; I’m so glad I was too young the first time and too sensible the second… and shoulder pads – mine are broad enough without them, thanks very much. I go for safe leggings and a glitzy top, teamed up with my kitten heels, and I’m away.

  He says he’s going to wait for me outside, but when I get there, there are about fifty people in the queue. All nightclubs and trendy bars do it, keep everyone waiting because they’re so popular and it’s the old ‘one out, one in’ rule, except you never see anyone coming out and when they do finally allow you in, the place is half empty. I see a group of girls wearing leggings, so I’m pleased I’m not an outcast two nights in a row, until I notice that one has exactly the same top as me under her denim jacket and I wish I’m wearing a jacket too. Not denim, of course.

  Then I see him: the eighties throwback. If I hadn’t known he was into that era already, I’d have thought it was a themed evening, but he looks so serious, like a sixth member of Spandau Ballet. His lower half is aerobics shell suit with the trousers tucked into a pair of the loudest sneakers I have ever seen. I think they’re Converse and remember Will Smith wearing a pair in I Am Legend, except Will wouldn’t be seen dead in these. Nigel, on the other hand, would be proud, or jealous, I can’t think which as my brain is too frazzled by Mike’s top half. It’s straight out of a Jackie speech bubble comic strip: an orange shoulder-padded nylon zip-up jacket with… no, it can’t be. It is. A ‘Frankie says relax’ t-shirt underneath it. Is this guy for real?

  It turns out that he is. And he’s actually very nice, but I can’t take him seriously and neither can the others at Chicago’s. If the rest of the month carries on like this, I think I’ll need to be carted off to a mental institution, and it wasn’t long ago that Northampton had as many of those as shoe factories. Nowadays they’ve been converted into apartments, or are derelict with a ‘Sold’ sign, waiting to be turned into a ‘des res’.

  As I put my key into my front door lock, I can’t help smiling. I’ve had such a wonderful night. I never thought I would have, having looked at the queue and spotted the odd one out, but we had a ball. He can’t dance for toffee, but nor can I, and we became so engrossed in having a good time that I forgot why I was there. There were moments when I wished Donna had gone with me. I was tempted to ask for Mike’s number or give him mine, but he explained that he was not long out of a serious relationship, and was sorry if he’d given the wrong impression, but he’s only looking to get out of himself. I wonder whether he’s currently ‘in’, but reckon it doesn’t matter, as he was clearly having a great time being single and who am I to interrupt him?

  So we went our separate ways, but agreed to look out for each other whenever we’re there again, and I definitely want Donna to meet him. Mike vs er, Mike. No comparison.

  Chapter
11 – Keith at the Moon on the Square

  What did I learn from last night? That if something was bad in a certain era, it’s bound to still be bad over twenty years on. However, what maketh the clothes, doesn’t necessarily maketh the man. And M was the man. Smart (though not exactly in attire), funny, and with no inhibitions (I’m so jealous), he was entertaining and enlightening… in fact a sharp breath of fresh air. Sadly, there was no spark on either side, as is often the way, but we parted as friends.

  As the month progresses, I am seeing a different side to the men of Northamptonshire, and a different side of me. I, like many people, can be judgemental, but once people let their guard down (although I don’t think M has one), we’re all alike, and yet so different. People are complex on one side of the coin, but on the other, we all want the same things – to share and be shared and, if we’re truly honest, to grow old disgracefully, but not alone. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I’m fussy when it comes to men, perhaps because of the independence I’ve had in recent months, but I can’t see myself going grey, as Eric Carmen sang, all by myself.

  Meeting these guys is an experience I have my boss to thank for. It’s given me a perspective on the human genus that at first glance I would have bypassed, but given the opportunity… no, privilege, to meet these characters (and boy, are some of them characters), I see who they really are (as much as I can in an hour or two) and would urge anyone to go beyond the Lycra or nylon to the person beneath the skin and the heart that beats within.

  Today’s two items are Don’t worry what people think about your dancing, and Do allow yourself to have fun every now and then. It doesn’t hurt.

  Both email systems have gone nuts, and I end up with no lunch break and am even pushing it to leave by five. I check tallgirlnn1 before I switch off and there’s a message from Keith. It’s strangely familiar, overly so, and I wonder for a second whether it’s ‘Aunt Agnes’ Keith, but the profile description is nothing like him. As I type a reply I stand up and look over at AA’s desk. It’s empty. I stay standing until I get a reply and his desk is still a void. I notice that he’s in William’s office getting a dressing down, so that confirms they’re two different people. I feel sorry for our Keith for whatever bawling he’s getting.

  It’s another evening in town and normally I’d not bother going home, but I overslept and didn’t have a shower (thankfully the weather’s cooled down), so need to get my skates on if I’m going to meet DR1NK at seven. I thought that was early, but he says he goes there after work, so I assume he must be a workaholic (which is still an ‘olic’, but deemed better for your health), and he only goes to the pub to be sociable. One shouldn’t make assumptions. But I do.

  I first see this Keith sitting on a bar stool in a corner of the main lobby of The Moon on the Square. The red carnation in his lapel gives him away – a corny but attractive flower, which sadly matches his not-so-attractive nose.

  He looks a little glazed and rather unsteady on the stool when I walk over to him, but when he stands up he nearly collapses in my arms which, had he been in the slightest bit appealing to me, I would have welcomed with… well, open arms, but he’s not, so I don’t, and I help him to a table.

  I leave him there and go to buy a couple of drinks. Needless to say, both are non-alcoholic.

  Drinks in hand, I walk back to the table and to Keith who’s wearing the goofiest of grins.

  Here goes nothing.

  We struggle our way through a mostly one-sided (me) conversation. There is something strangely familiar about him. I don’t recognise his face, but something about him, and the little he’s saying, gives me the creeps, like an eye through a bathroom spyhole.

  I’ve just been punched in the stomach. Not physically, but it feels the same. I realise where I know him from. A couple of times at the swimming pool, he’d been ‘passing by’ as I’d come out of the building, saying something about purple being nice. I have a purple costume.

  “Keith?”

  “Yes, Izzy.” I’m rather surprised, given his current state of inebriation, that he remembers my name and wonder if he knows more about me than I realise.

  “Keith,” I say more firmly.

  “Huh?”

  “Say the word purple.”

  “A game? I like games. Purple!” he shouts out loud, like a bingo player with a winning line. Needless to say, nearly everyone in the bar looks round.

  It’s him; the swimming pool stalker.

  “Do you remember me, Keith?”

  “Sure.”

  “From where?”

  “From our messages.”

  “Nowhere else?”

  “No… have we met before? Like, in a previous life? Are you into all that mumbo-jumbo reincarnation stuff?” He’s acting his shoe size again.

  “No. More recently.”

  “Errr...” His eyes are having trouble focusing and his face is a few inches from mine. He backs away and hiccups. Lovely. “No, my belle. Enlighten me.”

  “The swimming pool?”

  His glazed look is replaced by a blank one. “I can’t swim.”

  “But you’ve been there.”

  “Have I?”

  “Outside.”

  “Maybe. I live in the town centre.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Another blank look. No doubt in the morning he won’t remember anything about tonight either, and I feel sorry for the guy. He isn’t a stalker; a bit creepy maybe, but I don’t think that he means me, or probably anyone else, any harm. He’s his own worst enemy, another perfect candidate for Aunt Agnes, except I’m guessing that Keith Mk 2 doesn’t admit to having a problem of any kind. He strikes me as a guy who has issues, but drinks until he’s numb enough to forget them and everything else.

  The glazed look is back and I watch him as he wavers. It isn’t long before he gives up the fight to stay awake and his head falls down onto the table, producing an almighty crash which wakes everyone else up… if they’d been asleep, which of course they weren’t, but it’s another reason for them to look in our direction.

  If they hadn’t seen me earlier, I could have done the ‘he’s nothing to do with me’ act. I wish for the first time in my life that I smoked so I could go outside and light up. Within seconds, they’re all back to their own conversations and I can’t see anyone looking at me. I do the next best thing to a ciggie and dig out my mobile phone. I pretend to tap some numbers and am soon having a ‘conversation’ of my own (with myself), which of course I ‘can’t hear’ and have to go outside.

  Sorry, Keith, but I’m sure someone will wake you up when it’s time to go home.

  Chapter 12 – Gary at Peterborough Greyhound Stadium

  What did I learn from last night? That any addiction, whether drinking, gambling or worse, is only solvable from within. Own up to having a problem, and you’re more than halfway there. Admission gives you the willpower to do something about it. However numb your ‘tonic’ makes you, it’s only temporary. You still have to wake up in the morning, face whatever crisis that’s driving you to your solace and not bury your head in the sand.

  K strikes me as a man who drinks until he can’t feel anymore. We all have ‘off’ days and resort to some kind of crutch, but usually it’s a quick fix like a portion of banoffee pie or half an hour down the gym (guess which one I go for).

  It’s not a good look to share your rock bottom with a complete stranger, and especially not if it’s supposed to be a date – unless you want her to feel sorry for you. And that’s not a good look either.

  I left K fast asleep in The Moon on the Square. There are a few bars to choose from around the market, but I would guess not many containing a thirty-something business-suited guy with a sore head – in more ways than one.

  So if you’re feeling down, think about the things you enjoy. If you honestly feel better after you turn to your ‘friend indeed’, and you won’t regret it later, then do what makes you happy. Life is too short to take everything seriously
and, while we have the necessities such as work and bills, everything else should be enjoyable. You shouldn’t need a bolster to prop up whatever’s wrong in your life – go out there and make it right.

  Today’s two items: Don’t do negative addictions and Do make sure that if there’s anything troubling you, take a good look at your life and see what you can do about it before inflicting it on anyone else.

  With the article added to and safely installed in William’s tray (no sign of him, nothing unusual there), I’ll get to go on a non-rushed lunch with Donna. It feels like it’s been ages since our last proper chat, albeit that being through a toilet wall, but she seems happier today, so I’m not too worried.

  At one p.m. precisely she’s standing by my desk, tapping her right foot impatiently. I look up and she’s wearing sunglasses.

  “Is it summer already?”

  “Can we just go?”

  We walk the corridor in silence, and past Marion in silence (who duly says nothing in return). We get near the security office and I can’t keep it in any longer. “What’s with the sunnies and silent treatment?”

  “Shh.” She even puts her finger to her mouth.

  I stop walking. “What’s going on?”

  Donna, a couple of paces ahead, stops and turns to face me. She lifts her sunglasses and I expect to see a black eye or at the very least runny make-up, but she’s her usual annoyingly flawless-skinned self.

  “So?” I say.

  “I don’t want him to see me.”

  “Who?”

  “Mike, of course.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I lied to him.”

  I resist a laugh. “What about?”

  “I can’t tell you here, he might come out at any second.”