The Serial Dater

by Rachel Cavanagh

  “Do you seriously think that sunglasses are going to hide your entire being? You’re the only five-foot-two blonde working here. He may not be the smartest cookie in the jar, but even he wouldn’t mistake you for anyone else.”

  “Don’t forget the half.”

  Talking of smart cookies, I’ve decided that Donna’s aspergillosis narration was the real Donna kept hidden, but behind a desk and cupboard full of make-up, weaves and wigs (for an earlier issue on alopecia), I find the sunglasses very… well, Donnaesque.

  As soon as we’re outside, I can’t wait to grill her. “Stop, Donna, stop walking.”

  She looks nervously back towards the security office, which I know can’t be seen from where we are.

  “He can’t see you. Tell me.”

  “Let’s just go into town.”

  “Donna!”

  “It’s stupid really, but Mike wanted us to go out Monday night and I told him I couldn’t.”

  “And?”

  “He got a bit…” She looks down at the floor.

  “Donna. Is he giving you grief again?”

  “No.”

  I’m not convinced, and it must show in my face as she looks up.

  “No, he isn’t. It’s just that he wanted to know what I was doing.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t tell him that I was going speed dating with you, could I?”

  “Well…”

  “We’re still going, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, yes. Looking forward to it.”

  “Phew.”

  “So what will you tell him?”

  “Don’t know. I’m too angry at the moment. He can stew. Let him think I’m out with someone else.”

  “Which you will be.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t need to know that.”

  “Obviously.”

  We start at Boots then the market, and hardly say a word the entire hour. We’re back at our building when out come the sunglasses again in readiness for ‘is he or isn’t he there’ Mike.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, as she puts them on.

  “I’m not being bossed around by him.”

  “But you are. You’re hiding from him. Just tell him you’re going out with me, and he can like it or lump it.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  That’s me.

  I leave work early to get to the Peterborough stadium for six. Donna and Mike have patched things up and she seems happier. I’m not holding my breath for them to still be a couple by the time I see her next, but I did tell him what I’d do to him if he didn’t look after her, so that might have helped. Not that I’m a patch on Mike’s build but, like a puppy, I have big eyes and know how to use them.

  I’ve forgotten to bring any CDs and the car radio’s been playing up for ages. It keeps losing reception and I forget how to take it off AF (auto find – you’d think I would, seeing as I run a technology column, but I only ever remember when it’s dark and I’m driving) and I’m growling at it by the time I’ve hit the A45, ten minutes from home, so imagine what I’m like when I get to Peterborough, some forty-odd miles away. Not a happy bunny. I think the problem is that the radio’s got one of these removable fronts and I’d only had the thing a couple of days when a spring came off (which probably got vacuumed up on the rare occasion that it sees a clean, usually the day before I go to my mum’s – she spots everything) so now the front doesn’t connect with the rest of it properly, and it tries to retune every few hundred yards. There’s little point in having the radio on, but I like company and intermittent AF company is better than nothing. I may need reminding I said that.

  I get there in plenty of time, thanks to my lovely lady satnav, and am sitting in the car park. It’s already very busy and I’m surprised by how many families there are. I see a couple walking in with a papoose and a little Chinese baby. I’m not known for my sentimentality when it comes to children, but he, or she, is very, very cute. I assume he/she is adopted because the parents are what is politically correctly called White Caucasians.

  I glance at the clock on the dashboard and it’s five fifty – about right – and I wander in. I can’t see anyone waiting outside, so walk through the turnstiles. Now, I like my food and am a typical yo-yo dieter and sometimes, in my bigger phases, I bump into things. I don’t know why my body doesn’t realise how big it is and accommodate. I’m not too big for the turnstile, although I see a chap along the row struggling and he’s not particularly huge, so maybe the stadium should rethink their equipment, but I’m hitting the sides like a pinball machine and am so glad when no one seems to be paying attention.

  Inside, there are so many guys on their own that it’s impossible to work out which is Gary, but as there aren’t many solo women, he spots me and comes running over.

  “Izzy?”

  I nod.

  “Hi. You made it. Quick!” he continues before I have a chance to respond. “They’re going to start in a few minutes. We need to work out a plan for the evening. You’re my lucky charm tonight, remember.” He grins like a man possessed, not in an ‘evil clown’ sort of way, but in an excited ‘child at a birthday party who actually likes clowns’ sort of way.

  He grabs my arm, which surprises but doesn’t unnerve me given his enthusiasm, and pulls me towards a table which already has a part-pint and full Coke sitting on it. Good guess, although I don’t know anyone of my generation who doesn’t like Coke, so perhaps we’re predictable.

  “I’ve covered the first race. Blind Bessie. Fifty each way.”

  “Fifty what? Pounds?” My limit on any kind of bet is usually two or three.

  He nods.

  “Great! Let the games begin,” I say enthusiastically, but he just stares at me. I can tell this is going to be another fun evening. A Mr ‘No Sense of Humour’ and two addicts in a row. I know how to pick them.

  The evening, as it turns out, was great. I arrived with £32.50, or thereabouts, and left with £92.03 exactly. G, on the other hand, lost about five grand.

  We didn’t share a kiss goodnight, him being in a strop. I don’t recall him even saying ‘Goodnight’, but did that spoil things for me? Not in the least.

  He opened my eyes to his personality, not from losing the money, but from how tightly wound up he was throughout the evening. Apart from shouting in my ear every inch that the dogs were running, he slammed his beer glass, his fifth, down on the table (losing some of the contents) and got very depressed when his dog lost (which all bar one of them did). I was very proud of myself when my dogs won; I didn’t rub it in, but did a much quieter ‘yay’ whenever they romped home, versus his roar when his one and only crossed the line. The highlight of his grumpiness was when the delightful couple with the Chinese baby, who’d been on the table next to us (we’d chatted when Gary had gone to place the bets), had been unable to placate their crying child and Gary had seriously lost his rag.

  It’s good to be home. The heating went off hours ago, and the house is chilly, so I put on some fingerless gloves, which I keep in the hall meter cupboard. It’s been months since I’ve had a kebab (Mike would be jealous, and Donna tutting right now) and it’s made me thirsty. I decide to dilute the calories, should have something healthy, so go to the kitchen and lean forward to the gap between the washing machine and sink, pulling up a blue-topped litre bottle of orange-flavoured water.

  Deciding that a full-length movie would be beyond even me, I scan the selection of TV DVDs. I fancy something girlie and am nearly halfway through when I spot Love Soup (yes, they’re A-Z), which I’ve only ever seen on TV. I remember Alice’s love life being quite disastrous and that appeals. What I had forgotten was that the episodes are an hour rather than half an hour, so I’m struggling to stay awake by the time the first episode ends. I zap the remote and the whole thing shuts down.

  I take a swig of the water. Anyone looking at me would think I’m mad, and I feel like a Dickensian character but, unlike them, I have money in my pocket won l
egitimately. Gary will have arrived home and is probably drowning his sorrows, but presumably on something more heavy duty than mine.

  So I go to bed. Too late for an interlude with Elliot, but tomorrow night is Harry Roberts at the Britannia, so even if we get on brilliantly, I should be home by eleven-ish and as it’s not a ‘school’ night, I can share my bed with Elliot, Natasha and Mr Häagen Dazs’s Banoffee ice cream. A foursome – I like it.

  Chapter 13 – Harry at the Britannia

  What did I learn from last night? That there are different levels of gambling, but when it goes from being a bit of fun to a way of life, you may need to ask yourself whether you have a problem. Of course, some people do make a very successful living out of it, but they tend to be the racetracks, betting shops and, more recently, online gaming websites.

  I met G last night and, while I saw it as an evening’s entertainment, for him it was serious business; quite scary to watch. He did what a lot of punters do; he followed the form, weighed up the odds and then went for the ‘sure’ bet. I, on the other hand, did the girlie thing – going for names I liked or the colour of the greyhounds’ coats… jackets? There’s probably a proper name for them. I didn’t like to ask.

  He’d invited me there as his lucky charm and, while it turned out I was lucky, that luck didn’t rub off on him.

  During the course of the evening, I watched him change from a mild-mannered individual to a Hyde-like character, overreacting because of his losses and taking it out on the family sitting next to us. Given the choice of who I would have liked to spend the evening with, there would have been no contest.

  I would like to think that G learned from last night but I suspect he didn’t, and that others like him won’t. It taught me that taking anything that seriously, especially when money changes hands, is a dangerous game, and one I’d rather play with matchsticks… dead ones of course.

  If you’ve been following my column since the beginning of the month (I can’t believe we’re nearly halfway) you’ll have been living the ups and downs (mostly the latter) of my ‘dates’. What do you look for in a man? Have you found ‘the one’ online? I’d like to hear your experiences in the world of online profiles and virtual relationships, so drop me an email at the address above and I may include some of your tales, anonymously obviously, for the world (or at least the county) to share.

  Unlike the office, my email system is a hive of activity. With Harry tonight, SingleDad5811 tomorrow, then the speed-dating thing on Monday, I’ve yet to line up more guys for the rest of the week and thereafter. Messages from AdamKzz and AlexC17 suggest Tuesday and Wednesday respectively, so I’m chuffed.

  I need to add more to my column, but William’s not in today (maybe he does have a life after all), so I guess there’s no hurry unless, in the absence of an official deputy, he’s left Janine in charge, but we’re New Best Friends, so there’s nothing to worry about on that score.

  Speaking of whom… “Hi, Janine.”

  “Hey, Izzy. How’s it going?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Uh huh, good. So it’s going well?”

  I nod.

  “Excellent, on my desk by lunchtime then please.”

  I watch her as she returns to said desk. This power thing’s changed her walk and it’s scary. So much for NBF. I’m learning a lot about people this month, maybe I should write a column.

  My date with Harry is another early one. Apparently he’s flying to Germany on business ridiculously early in the morning (who works on a Sunday?) and is staying at one of Heathrow’s hotels. So he’s driving, which means sober, and that’s fine with me. His profile says he’s a sales director for a printing company and he’s obviously not bothered that people know he’s on there. A lot of people, especially senior management, remain decidedly vague, and certainly no picture, as it’s ‘not professional’, but presumably Harry has nothing to hide. In fact every box on his profile is completed. Again people tend to leave the options as ‘not selected’. I can’t talk as there’s very little on dating sites that’s complete, or true.

  Anyway, I’ve cracked on with the article and it hits Janine’s tray with a few minutes to spare. Of course lunchtime can mean anywhere between twelve and two, but I play it safe and get it there by twelve thirty. That means after replying to AdamKzz and AlexC17, I’m pretty much done.

  Donna’s not said a word since yesterday lunchtime, which is not like her. Like me, she’s not normally in on a Saturday, so I go over to her desk to try to drag her out. She says she’s got too much to do and I assume it’s because she doesn’t want to do the sunglasses routine again (although I spot a bright red wig on her desk which is likely to be just as obvious), but I won’t take no for an answer.

  After a hurried exit (Donna looks like she’s running for a bus) past the security office, thankfully without the sunglasses (or wig), we escape the building and walk to the café in the Grosvenor Centre, two minutes from the office.

  It turns out Mike’s been off sick the last couple of days, but given everything that passes through his system, I can’t say I’m surprised.

  We nab a corner table, and I go to buy the drinks.

  “We’ve split up,” Donna blurts out when I’m about to sit back down, tray in hand.

  “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. Great! About time. He’s no good for you anyway, but she looks upset. “Is that a good thing?”

  She nods, but looks like a wounded dog.

  “Who did the…?”

  “Me.”

  “Wow. That must have been hard.”

  She nods then shakes her head. I see that getting much more out of her today is going to be a tall order.

  “Shall I buy some cake?” I’ve always seen food as a real tonic – Mike should be a walking medicine cabinet.

  The nod is back.

  “Anything special?”

  Head-shaking takes over.

  “I’ll surprise you.” I smile.

  She sighs.

  When I get back, she seems a little more cheerful. The slice of Death by Chocolate (the biggest piece on offer) and Key Lime Pie may have something to do with that.

  I’ve never been a big chocolate fan, and am willing Donna to go for the ‘death’ option. As I put the tray in between us and our hot chocolates, her eyes light up at the slab of cake, so I put it in front of her, take the pie, and put the tray on an empty chair beside me.

  The café is filling up, so it’s a little difficult to hear, but our Mike conversation is far from over. I gently dig for more information.

  “I’d just had enough,” she says.

  “I can understand that, honey. No man is worth crying over and it doesn’t sound as if he’s going to change.”

  “You’re right, but I still love him.”

  My heart goes out to her. “This is probably a stupid question but how did he take it?”

  “Okay, I suppose. We’d not been together long anyway.”

  “So you can go speed dating with me on Monday with a clear conscience.”

  “I guess so.”

  I try cheerful. “You might meet the man of your dreams.”

  “Maybe.”

  I need another approach. “Or just have a fun evening.”

  “That’ll be nice.”

  We smile and tuck into our desserts.

  She eats like she hasn’t seen food for weeks.

  “Nice?” I ask.

  She closes her eyes and ‘mmm’s in schoolgirl-like delight then, with mouth part-full, says, “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  Touché, Donna Clarke.

  We walk back to the office, chatting about anything other than Mike, then hug as we reach the building. I walk to my car and she heads to her desk, no doubt doing a Speedy Gonzales past the security office.

  After a relaxing afternoon and a microwaved portion of pasta in chicken and mushroom sauce with two lightly toasted granary slices, I arrive at the Britannia just before six. Harry is waiting outside the pub an
d is drop-dead gorgeous. I’ve made an effort, but wish I’d made more.

  As I walk over smiling, he looks disappointed. With nothing to lose, I put out my hand. “Hi, I’m Izzy. You must be Harry.”

  “Hi,” is all he says, ignoring my proffered hand. He turns towards the pub’s front door and walks in first.

  Fine.

  I follow him and he goes straight to the bar.

  “What do you want?”

  I was always told off as a child for asking ‘Do you want’ instead of the much more polite ‘Would you like’, but he’s clearly in a strop, so I resist correcting him and am extra polite. “Can I have a pineapple juice and lemonade please?”

  “Sure.”

  This is going to be a barrel of laughs.

  He pays for the drinks and we aim for a free table in a quiet corner. It’s by an old fire, but being quite a warm evening, it’s unlit. It’s a very romantic setting, but I get the impression there’s going to be none of that tonight.

  We sit and wait for one of us to start the conversation. The first thing that springs to mind is the weather, but I’m not quite that desperate. Yet. “So, you’re off to Germany tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  Great. A yes man.

  “Have you been there before?”

  “Yes.”

  The words ‘teeth’ and ‘pulling’ spring to mind. “I have friends in Germany, near the Black Forest.”

  “Nice.”

  I’m going to call him ‘One-Word H’ in my column on Monday. “Do you speak German?”

  He nods.

  Make that ‘Half-a-Word-on-Average H’. “I speak enough to hold a decent conversation.”

  Nothing. The word count average is decreasing by the second. I’m surprised because most salesmen I’ve met, and in my job that’s been a few, can’t stop talking.

  Figuring he must travel a lot, I ask, “Do you speak any other languages?”

  “Japanese, Spanish, Danish and Russian.”

  Of course you do, I think, but just say, “Wow.”