The Serial Dater

by Rachel Cavanagh

“We split up a little while ago. He didn’t like my irregular work patterns, so I thought I’d come here and see what happens. Bit of fun.”

  “Me too, but Donna here is more hopeful.”

  “That’s not fair. You wouldn’t mind…”

  “But more realistic,” I chip in.

  Rosie appears and chivvies us into a back room and towards two rows of eight tables, with thirty-two chairs, in pairs, face to face. It looks like an informal Spanish inquisition, but I suppose that’s exactly what it’s going to be. She beckons a few more people over until we’re all gathered around her like a coach group and their tour guide.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” She pauses.

  We twig and say, out of unison, “Good evening.”

  “Welcome to the Cock.”

  Donna bursts out laughing and I nudge her with my left hip, which shuts her up.

  Rosie coughs and starts again. “Welcome to the Cock Hotel and to ND’s Speed-Dating Soul-Mating event. We are just waiting for one more who I’m assured is on his way. When he arrives we shall have one more gentleman this evening than lady, but our blue numbers eleven and twelve have very kindly offered to rotate as a pair and, for that very reason, we will have three and a half minutes per pairing instead of three minutes. When the bell goes, you will have a few seconds to write down any comments you wish to make, but you will need to be quick, please, then move on to the next table. The ladies will stay seated and the men move. You can ask the other person, or persons, any question you like and if you wish to exchange contact details simply write that person’s number on the form and hand it into me at the end of the evening. That way, there will be no embarrassment – I shall contact you by email with the numbers of the gentleman or gentlemen who have requested your details. Only those who both wish to exchange details will be able to do so.”

  I’m following this, but Donna is frowning, so I translate. “If you think he’s hot, tick his number on the card. If he thinks you’re hot, he’ll do the same and then Rosie will send you his details and him yours.”

  “You have done this before.”

  “No, a lucky guess.” Though why you can’t just have a chat afterwards and swap then is beyond me, but Rosie’s the expert.

  I look at the group of men we’re going to be meeting and it’s not looking good. According to the website the age range is thirty to forty, but I would say it’s more like twenty to fifty. And twenty might be pushing it. Karen’s eleven-year-old son, Simon, looks older than number thirteen.

  We take our seats and are about to start when the missing man bursts in and I laugh. Donna, who’s a table ahead of me, turns. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s Hunky.”

  “Yes, isn’t he?”

  “No. It’s Duncan.”

  Donna looks none the wiser.

  “The vet?”

  Her eyes light up. “Ah, Hunky Dunky!”

  He’s looking in her direction then spots me. “Hi, Izzy. How are things?”

  “Hi, Duncan. Good, thanks, and you?”

  “Oh, you know. Busy. Only just finished work. Had to change at the surgery. Couldn’t come here in my scrubs, could I?”

  I’ve lost Donna.

  He looks back at her. “Hello. Are you okay?”

  Him speaking seems to snap her out of her trance and she sighs. “Hello.”

  “Donna, Duncan. Duncan, Donna.”

  “Hello,” she says again, giggling, and holds out her hand to him.

  He shakes it warmly. “Hello, Donna.”

  I almost see a flash in Donna’s eyes and it’s clear Mike’s forgotten, albeit for an evening. She winks at me then mouths something, and, for the first time, I know exactly what she’s said. He’s a keeper.

  I feel someone standing over my right shoulder and turn round. It’s Rosie.

  “Duncan, I presume,” she says, slapping a blue number sixteen on his Hugo Boss shirt.

  “Yes, sorry I’m late. Duty called.”

  “We’re about to start.” She looks at numbers eleven and twelve, twins in jeans and pastel-coloured polo shirts and they take a seat together a few tables down from me. She then points to the empty chair in front of me and Duncan takes his seat. Donna smiles at him then turns to the fifty-something man sitting opposite her. A serious look takes over her face and, pen in hand, she’s already asking him questions when the ‘begin’ bell goes.

  “So Isobel. What would you like to know?”

  “I don’t know, Duncan. What is there about you I don’t know already?”

  ‘Did I tell you I’ve been on The Weakest Link?”

  I lean forward. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Sadly, no. I was in the last three though – two women and me, so they voted me off.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It was actually because I just got one question right in that round and I forgot to bank twice, so I only got them twenty pounds.”

  “Oops, but you got that far.”

  “I did.”

  We then chat about work (his real and my fake) and I’m about to change the subject when the bell goes. “God, that was quick.”

  “Good we’ve already met then.” Duncan smiles.

  “Indeed. Have a fun evening.”

  “Am already. See you later.”

  Next up is fifteen, the fifty-something. I look at Donna who’s studying her form intently. I then look at the geek sitting in front of her and feel sorry for her until I realise I’m getting him next. Great.

  I sit mesmerised by Baxter ‘OCD’ Ingells as he rolls his hand like he has a ball or sweet wrapper in it, but there’s nothing there, unless it’s an imaginary friend. He turns his upside-down beer mat (with a very cute picture of a dog on it) round the right way and then every few seconds lines up his pens so they are central to his marking card. Everything about him is coordinated, probably even down to matching underwear. We’ve not started talking yet, but I’m willing the ‘move on’ bell to go. It doesn’t get any better.

  Sport fanatic Phil is number fourteen. He’s a professional golfer (yes, I imagine him dolled up in his plus fours pushing his trolley and it isn’t a pretty sight, especially from the neck upwards), but his big passion is football. He’s ‘tried out’ for a couple of major clubs (he won’t tell me which ones as he’s signed confidentiality agreements… do I look interested?) and has played for numerous amateur clubs (again, so not interested).

  He keeps looking down at his crotch.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No.” He looks up. “Sorry.”

  I then see a flash of light that can only be a mobile.

  “Are we keeping you?”

  “The Everton Chelsea friendly starts in twenty minutes. Think I might skip the last few women, they don’t look like they’re worth it.” Knowing that will include Ursula, he plummets even further in my estimation.

  “If you want to move on now, don’t let me stop you.”

  “All right, darling, keep your frillies on.”

  I’m no women’s libber, but I’m certainly not his darling and I don’t wear frillies. “Looking at all the women here,” I say, “you’d probably be doing them a favour.”

  Number thirteen, unluckily for me, is Rebel Hell. Yorath is very forthcoming with information. He left home at sixteen (which, judging by his acned complexion, was about six months ago), lives with a mate (Ollie by any chance?) in a flat in the town centre, works as a nightshift shelf stacker at Sainsbury’s and has just had a tattoo done on his arm – of an eagle. He proudly shows me, but all I can see is a very red-and-black blur underneath some very unattractive looking cling film. I quite fancy having a small pawprint or barcode on my wrist, so that conversation takes the remaining two minutes, at the end of which I make a note not to go to the same tattooist as him.

  Next up are twelve and eleven, the twins Xabiere and Xantes Xardel, the definitive mother’s boys. They’re thirty-fi
ve and still live at home, talk about ‘mummy’ and won’t have a bad word said about all mothers. They go everywhere together, so are presumably grateful that we’re a woman short, and I’m grateful that I get them over and done with in three and a half minutes instead of seven.

  Rosie, in the meantime, is walking around the room scribbling away on her clipboard. I can’t think what she’s writing about, but she looks like she has a headache, though it may just be concentration. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen who can frown and smile at the same time. Still, an almost full house at twenty-five pounds a pop would make anyone happy.

  The next contestant is number ten – Waffler (Zeek Townsend). We’re a match made in heaven. I can talk for England.

  “Hi, I’m Izzy.”

  “Hey, Izzy. I’m Zeek, Zeek Townsend. Bet you’re wondering how I got the name? It originates back to…”

  I look at the clock: one minute and counting.

  “…and a funny thing happened today at work. Did I tell you I’m a glazier?”

  He did.

  “I went to fit some new windows for an old dear and…”

  I look past him to see how Donna’s getting on, tilting my head while pretending to be listening, and she’s deep in conversation. A two-way conversation.

  “I’m sorry. I should let you say something. Which reminds me…”

  It would appear everything reminds him of something else. He’d make a good comedian. They never seem to pause for breath, with endless ammunition ready to fire out at their audience – bam, bam, bam…

  There’s a pause and I go to speak, but the bell goes.

  Quiet Mr Nine, Nick, works in a library, so I’d expect him to be quite sociable. Wrong. He’s like Harry from Saturday night’s Britannia; I string along a perfectly good question, which deserves a perfectly good answer, and what do I get? Yes’s and no’s.

  “So you work in a library?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been there long?”

  “No.”

  “You must read a lot of books.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been to one of these before?”

  “Yes. You?”

  I’m trying to think of another question when it dawns on me that he’s asked me something.

  “No. This is the first one.”

  He doesn’t say anything to that. I look at his hands and they’re beautifully polished. I don’t know what that has to do with the price of fish. I should google it to see where that expression comes from. Probably nothing to do with fish.

  “Do you work?” he finally asks. He’s coming out of his shell.

  I nod. “I’m a… a secretary for a training company.” Oops, nearly slipped up there.

  He nods, going back into his shell. Damn it.

  I’m saved by the bell. Literally. Our ‘conversation’ has been so drawn out that the three and a half minutes has flown by. Ish.

  I can smell number eight before he leaves the neighbouring table. Sidney, the smoker, appears to be a pack of nerves. He sits down and before long his right leg is shaking so much that it keeps hitting the table. I wonder whether it’s me or the whole experience making him anxious.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. It’s not going to be a fun three and a half minutes if the table, and therefore my Coke, is going to get pummelled.

  He nods, but looks at the door.

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  He shakes his head. Great, this is going to be more painful than number nine. “Do you need a fag?”

  He nods.

  “I guess there’ll be a break at some stage – we’ll need to get a drink, won’t we?”

  He shrugs.

  “You’ve not done this before?”

  He shakes his head again. It’s obvious he speaks English as he’s nodding and shaking in all the right places, assuming they are the right places, but something’s obviously got his tongue.

  “Have you met anyone nice so far?” It’s a bit of a shame that in such a short time the conversation has already moved on to someone else.

  “A couple.”

  He does speak.

  “There was a girl a couple of people back who was quite funny. She’s a horse-riding instructress. I don’t know anything about horses though…”

  I let him waffle on and it’s not long before the bell goes.

  “Thanks for that, Sidney.”

  He smiles, stands up and walks past me to the next table. Ho hum.

  I’m seriously beginning to lose the will to live, until the bell rings twice and Rosie steps forward.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. We shall have a ten-minute recess and you can talk to one another, but remember you have another seven partners to meet, so reserve judgement until the very end of the evening please.” She makes it sound like a courtroom; we’re the jury that she’s trying to plead her case to.

  We return to the main room and Donna sprints towards me, waving her card furiously. “Isn’t this fun?”

  “Uh huh.”

  She then rushes over to number seven, who I’m due to meet next, and chats to him. I can’t say I blame her as, apart from Duncan, who she’ll meet last, none of the ones I’ve met so far merit a second conversation. I shake my head as I listen to myself. I’ve become so cynical in the past two weeks and have another two to go.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Hi, Duncan. Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Are you having a good time?”

  “It’s something different to do, isn’t it? Beats the telly night after night.”

  That sounds so appealing right now, but he’s right. It’s good to get out and meet people. I’m taking it far too seriously, but that’s me.

  “Would you like a drink, Izzy?”

  “Thanks. Just a Coke please. No… as I’m not driving, do you mind a Southern Comfort in it? Medicinal, of course.”

  He smiles and puts his hand up to attract the attention of the barman, which he succeeds in doing almost immediately. I’m so glad he’s here.

  Donna’s back and even more excited than ever. “You’ll like number seven. He’s lovely.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Hey, Donna,” Duncan says. “I’m getting Izzy and me a drink, would you like something?”

  “Hi, Duncan,” she drools. “Can I have a lemonade and lime please?”

  “Sure. No problem.” He orders the drinks and we move away from the bar to let in others. “So you’re having fun then, Donna?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s wonderful. Taking my mind off… things.”

  “Oh dear.”

  I butt in. “She’s been seeing an idiot who doesn’t appreciate how truly wonderful she is.”

  “A one-woman Donna fan club,” Duncan says, and Donna giggles. Duncan smiles at me and I want to kick myself for letting him go the first time we met.

  Rosie appears like a Border Collie, rounding everyone up to go back into our pen.

  We three are the last to go in and Donna makes an excuse for Duncan to go in front, saying she wants a quick word with me. We walk behind him and watch his Levi 501s sashay towards the back room.

  “He’s gorgeous,” Donna whispers.

  I nod.

  “And he really likes you.”

  “Really?” I take a swig of my drink. “Do you think?”

  “Oh, yes, I saw the way he smiled at you back there.”

  We follow him and his little red Levi label, and resume our seats.

  Blue number seven, it turns out, is Walter the anti-smoker. Not just casually, as most of us non-smokers are, but he’s strident in his beliefs. He can’t take his eyes off blue number eight and isn’t concentrating on our conversation, which is fine by me because nor am I. We get as far as swapping professions. He tells me he’s a biological researcher and I stick with the secretary role, hoping Donna doesn’t forget, especially blabbing to Duncan when they come to meet properly. Not
that they’d talk about me, of course, but I can live in hope. Walter is a little man, about my age, but gives off an aura of maturity. That’s me being polite. He’s as dull as watching Big Brother at four a.m. What Donna sees in him I’ll never know, but there’s no accounting for taste, although she does find Duncan gorgeous.

  Number six, John, spends the whole three and a half minutes trying to drum up business for his struggling electrical company. ‘I’ve set fire to a couple of houses, but the police never pressed charges’ doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, so I make up a handyman neighbour and John soon loses interest.

  He looks like a labourer. His hands are rough and he’s ‘weathered’. I feel sorry for him until the bell goes and he tries his patter on the girl behind me. She’s laughing, so sounds like an easier target.

  It soon becomes apparent that number five is not only unemployed, but unemployable. Frankie has never had a job and doesn’t want one. He’s made little effort and it looks like he had the same breakfast as Zak. For a second, he reminds me of Aviator’s Eddie, but there’s no hint of a spark in Frankie’s eyes.

  I assume he’s after a woman to ‘keep him’ and it appears he can read minds when he says, “You may wonder why I’m looking for a woman if I’ve got nothing to offer her.”

  “Well…”

  “Oh, but I have.”

  You could have fooled me.

  “I’m quite wealthy.”

  Which is why you’ve been wearing the same t-shirt all week and your jeans have non-intended holes in them.

  “I inherited some money.”

  “Oh.” Is all I can muster.

  “Yes, from a rich aunt.”

  That old chestnut.

  “She was a writer.”

  Now that does sound interesting. “Oh, who’s that?”

  “She… err… erm… Have you ever heard of Margaret Allingham?”

  “Do you mean Margery Allingham? Author of Campion.”

  “Err, yes… we weren’t close.”

  Clearly. “Margery who died in the 1960s.” I like my crime writing.

  “There was a trust.”

  “And you’re part-Canadian?”

  This time he’s saved by the bell. Hadn’t banked on someone who actually reads, had he?

  Bottle collector Paul is number four. My mum has a few old bottles and especially the ‘cod’ variety with the marbles, so it’s something we can talk about, although I make the mistake of saying, “That sounds like an interesting hobby.”