I walk down the path and notice I’m in tandem with Ursula, who’s tapping into her mobile. “Hi.”
“Hi, Izzy.”
“Work or speed dating?”
She laughs. “Neither. Visiting a friend in hospital.”
“Oh dear.”
“Nothing major. She’ll be fine, but I think she’s bored.”
“I meant to ask you when the thing finished on Monday, how did you get on?”
“All right. How about you?”
“Just the one guy.”
“Number sixteen?”
I laugh. “How did you guess?”
“No contest really, was there?”
“No.”
“I had a couple of matches. Sadly neither was him.”
“Oh?”
“Nick the librarian and a guy who talked a lot…”
“Zeek?” I ask.
“That was it. I’m somewhere in the middle, so not holding out much hope, but it’s a bit of fun, isn’t it?’ Wiggling her mobile, Ursula says, “I’d better go. Sorry.”
“Me too. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks, and you. You know, we should go out. I hadn’t realised until you said you were single, I thought…”
“It’s a recent thing, but a long time coming. We thought a change of scene would do, but…”
“I know how that goes. Anyway, I should be…”
“Indeed. See ya.”
Ursula drives off and I make my way to the Romany. I’m going to be a minute or two late, but I’m sure he won’t mind.
As I walk through the car park, I notice a group of rough-looking guys standing outside puffing away. It looks so unattractive that I’m glad I started and stopped smoking in the same week.
I’m approaching the steps into the lounge when one of the guys steps forward.
“Hello,” he says.
I smile politely and say, “Hello,” back, but keep on walking.
“Are you Izzy?”
Oh no. I should say yes, but I’d much rather say no and keep going, but I’m a good girl, so I nod and besides, what have I been saying all along about not judging a book by its cover?
This particular book is a hardback, rock hard, with solid ‘Goudy Stout’ lettering. The jacket’s rather tatty and the pages look well thumbed. Judging by the people he’s with, he’s clearly part of a serial, but I can’t decide whether a sequel or prequel.
He sniffs loudly and throws his cigarette on the floor. Behind him is a stub container, but I resist saying anything as he looks the sort to throw me on the floor and stub me out. Again, I remind myself about the ‘judging book by cover’ bit and smile.
He walks up the steps first, I assume to open the door for me, and he does, but not for me. He marches through and lets go so it nearly hits me, and I hear a cackle from his cronies behind me. It’s only a job, I tell myself as I grab the door and march into the bar after him.
He slightly redeems his lack of brownie points by asking me what I’d like to drink, but loses them again when he obviously doesn’t approve of my costly request for a Southern Comfort and lemonade. I don’t usually go for a short when a man is paying, but I’m walking and everything about him so far is far from gentlemanly, so I may as well make the most of the situation.
He reluctantly hands over the four eighty-five for our two drinks. His pint of Great Oakley Gobble, I see from the ales board, is fifteen pence more than my drink, so he can’t complain, although he looks like he wants to.
“Pool?” he says.
“Sure.” I used to play a mean game of pool, but I’m so out of practice that if it’s anything like my darts and bowling, it’ll go one of two ways: rubbish to start then warm up until it’s mediocre, or great then go rapidly downhill. I figure it’s probably best to let him win anyway – he looks anything but a good loser.
We take our drinks and walk through into the public bar, where there’s football playing on the TV in the corner. I’m delighted as he’s wearing a dark blue Scotland football shirt (I only know that from the badge), and it may put him off his game.
He digs around in his jeans for a coin and holds it in his hand waiting for me to call.
“Heads,” I say, and he throws it into the air then slams it on one side of the pool table. It’s tails.
“Yes!” he shouts, fists flung in the air. I can’t imagine him coming second at anything.
As I wait my turn for the table, I think about how to describe him to Donna, which I’ll no doubt have to do when I see her next.
He’s bald, and has piercing blue eyes. I’ll then explain the hardback’s dust jacket and she’ll think I’m exaggerating. When he grins, which he does whenever he pots a ball (we’ve had three smiles already), he has surprisingly good teeth, other than the ones that are gold or ruby encrusted. I’ve never seen the sense in that. He’s also got tattoos everywhere, including D O D G E over the knuckles of his left hand, and I expect to see M S on his right to spell out my favourite fairground attraction, or even H A T E (L O V E would be beyond him), but they’re bare and I’m rather disappointed.
As he pots his fifth red, I suspect he only invited me to play pool to show off, but he misses the next one, and I step forward, holding my rather tatty and chalkless cue. I pick up the cube of blue chalk from the corner of the table and wiggle it against the cue’s end. I hear foot tapping and am not surprised when it’s Dodge.
I take aim at one of the many yellows and misjudge the angle (him hovering at the end of my line of sight didn’t help) and, while I graze the yellow, it goes nowhere near a pocket. I console myself that at least it didn’t approach the black, but realise I spoke too soon when my second shot (after two more reds go down) sends the black ball heading in the direction of a corner pocket. Dodge lets out a shriek of laughter, and I can’t help glaring at him.
His gaze is fixed on the white ball, so he doesn’t see my face crease as the shot looks a dead cert, but I smile (he growls) when I realise it doesn’t have enough power.
I’ve finished my drink, so ask him if he wants another. Fortunately, he’s been too busy to drink much of his, so I don’t give him the chance to say yes, which I feel he’s going to do anyway.
I buy a replacement SoCo (I’ve always thought it a daft name) and lemonade and return to my ‘date’. I go to put the drink on the edge of the pool table, but he barks at me.
“Don’t you dare!” He lunges towards me and I recoil as he puts both arms forward to grab me.
“Sorry, love,” he says. “Instant reaction. They’re very protective about the felt and if anyone knocks your drink over…”
“No, you’re right.”
“Guess I shouldn’t have been so reactionary.”
I agree, but the damage is done. “Is it my go?” I say coolly and he nods. I play my shot and we take turns until he wins with four of my yellow balls left on the table. Again clenched fists (his) are thrust in the air. He took longer getting the last few balls in, perhaps to let me catch up, but it was inevitable I’d lose.
By that time though, I couldn’t care less.
Chapter 19 – Louis at the Grosvenor Shopping Centre
I’m really tired by the time I get to work, partly thanks to Elliot and his latest literary antics, but also through sheer lack of enthusiasm for my current project.
Donna, on the other hand, has enough for both of us and nearly crashes into me as I get to my desk.
“So, so, so… how did it go?”
“You’re a poet and you didn’t even know it.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind. I presume you’re talking about last night.”
“Of course.”
“Waste of time.”
“That’s not good.”
“It wasn’t great. He was not what you would call charming or debonair.”
“Unlike the lovely Duncan.”
“Poles apart.” I can tell by her expression she’s brought up his name for a reason. “Go on, tell me.”
“What?” She does her ‘Miss Innocent’ routine.
“You’ve got a date with Duncan, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Sunday.”
“That’s great.” I try my hardest to be sincere, but can’t help wallowing in self-pity. I should be happy for her. I am, really I am. I sound as earnest as Judy Dench in Jack & Sarah, but wear my biggest smile. “Are you going somewhere nice?” I half expect her to say the Picturedrome, but they’re meeting at its older, more mature sister bar, Auntie Ruth’s, and I’m so jealous. It’s for members only and I’m not (an ex-boyfriend was).
Donna can see my mind’s elsewhere.
“I’m a bit concerned.”
“What about?”
“My cover being blown.”
“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about that.”
“You haven’t said anything, have you?”
“No, but…”
“But?”
“I would have done if you’d not reminded me. You’re going to have to fill me in on what we do before Sunday. Cuppa?”
“Cuppa.”
And we got to the kitchen.
William walks in as we’ve just sat down and looks at us with a ‘you two are always here’ expression.
“Just helping Donna get her head around the online aspect of buying glasses.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m just helping Donna with…”
“Great. Erm…”
I obviously needn’t have pre-empted him as he’s clearly on another planet. We watch in silence as he fumbles for a mug then drops it on the floor where it disintegrates, and he stands staring at it as if nothing like that has ever happened to him and he needs to be told what to do.
We rush over, Donna to him, and me to underneath the sink to get a dustpan and brush. Donna ushers him back to his office with a promise that we’ll make a drink for him (we assume there’s no Janine yet) as I sweep up the bits. I shovel them in the bin as Donna returns.
“He’s got it bad,” she says.
“Sorry?”
“He’s got a serious crush.”
“On…?’
“You.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Has so. You didn’t see him looking at you before he dropped the mug.”
I’ve never noticed him looking at me. In fact, he usually avoids eye contact. No. It couldn’t be true. “Maybe he was looking in my direction, but was thinking about work and the mug slipped.”
“You mark my words. He’s got a C.R.U.S.H.”
“Yes, mother, whatever you say. You’ve promised him a drink, so you’d better deliver.”
“I’ve got a better idea. I’ll make it, but you deliver.”
“Nice try, but I’ve got work to do.” I pick up my tea and walk back to my desk.
“Chicken!” she shouts after me.
“That’s me,” I reply, and squawk, much to Karen’s amusement.
“Hey, my boys have tested your games.”
“Already? What did they think?”
“Simon loved the car one, but thought the egg hunt one was boring.”
“He’s your oldest, right?”
“He is, but Thomas loved the egg hunt and got to…” she digs a piece of paper out of her bag ”… level nine.”
“Wow.” I don’t know if that’s good, but it’s higher than I’d got on any of my iPod games and he’s her youngest. “And Ivan?” I impress myself this time by remembering her middle son.
“He kept crashing into Thomas’s car, which is probably why Thomas lost interest. He thought the egg game was stupid, but he thinks everything’s stupid at the moment, so I didn’t persevere.”
It’s at times like this I’m glad I don’t have children. I’m sure they bring sheer joy on the odd occasions, but the thought of managing a household of four ‘children’ (I’ve met her husband) doesn’t fill me with any particular desire to add to the human race, although I admire Karen hugely for her having done so, and still clearly enjoying the whole experience.
She hands me the piece of paper from her bag and, as I’m deciphering the children’s writing, it soon becomes clear I have competition for my job. “This is great.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Who did this, Simon?”
“He and Ivan, I think.”
“Wow.” I’m back on my broken record mode again, but it’s all I can think of to say, so I say it again. “Wow.” I look at her bemused face.
“I’ll tell them you’re pleased. They’ll be chuffed, especially Ivan. He reads your column every day without fail. He hates Sundays.”
“Really?”
“No, not really, because he doesn’t have school on Sundays.”
“Thank you for boosting my ego, and thank you so much for these.”
“Given the choice of doing their homework or playing games and writing about it, there’s no contest.”
“I suppose not, but I wouldn’t want to…”
“They do their homework first, but miraculously it takes a fraction of the time it normally would, so you’re doing me a favour, plus it keeps them out of my hair. Anyway, better get on. Fashion waits for no one.”
“As does technology… or doesn’t.” I’m confused.
I set about writing the article on Dodge and am struggling to say anything positive about the whole experience. Even the ‘judging the book’ scenario fails to amuse me. I’ve got quite a lot to do today and I need a favour.
“William?”
He looks up from his desk and blushes. Maybe Donna’s got a point. “Yes, Isobel.” (Ah, we’re back to ‘Isobel’.) Maybe not.
“Can I be a bit late with my article today? It’s just I have a lunch date…”
“Oh?”
“Techno Geek, Grosvenor Centre, twelve thirty.”
“Ah.”
“I’m a bit behind writing up last night and want to see if I can do Techno Geek after lunch instead of coming in tomorrow.”
William looks nonplussed.
“If that’s okay.”
No reply.
“Not coming in tomorrow?”
“Sure. It’s your day off, it’s only fair.”
“Thanks. What time do you want the piece in by?”
“Can you get the first one done by three and then the other by close of play?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will, Isobel.”
“Thanks, William,” I say hesitantly, and leave the office. Something’s troubling him and, contrary to Donna’s earlier comment, I don’t think it’s me he’s got on his mind.
I’m particularly excited by TechnoGeek; I think out of everyone so far, he’s going to be the one I’ll have most in common with.
I get the majority of Dodge done by quarter past twelve and rush to get to the Grosvenor in time.
I’m racing along the outside walkway when I see the upper mall is shut.
‘Shit!’ I don’t know what to do as I don’t have TG’s mobile number.
I race back towards the down ramp and burst through the double doors by Beattie’s. The lower floor is packed with people and as I reach the ‘up’ escalator, I see it’s cordoned off. There’s a centre security guard in front of me, so I tap him on the shoulder and he spins round.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“A flood.”
“Eh?”
“The toilets at the top of the stairs flooded and made the whole floor dangerous. Got as far as the café. Not a pretty sight.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting–”
“Doesn’t matter, love. You can’t go up there.”
“But I don’t–”
“If you want to wait an hour or two it should be re-opened once they clear up the mess.”
“I can’t, I’m on my lunch break. Besides, I don’t think he’ll wait that long.”
“Impatient type, is he?”
“No, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Oh?”
&nbs
p; I don’t normally confide in complete strangers, but he’s the only one who’s talking to me, and he works in the centre, so I cling on to the hope he might be able to do something.
“Ah.” He twigs. “Blind date, is it?”
“Err…”
“Sweet.”
I’m about to tell him he’s wrong, and save face, when I feel tapping on my shoulder. I turn round and look up.
“Hi, did I hear right?”
I’m lost for words as I look at the most gorgeous black man I’ve ever seen.
“Are you on a blind date?”
“Err…” Donna would be proud of the way I’m keeping it all together.
“Then you’re Izzy?”
I’ve died and gone to heaven. “Techno Geek?” I whimper, then rub the corners of my mouth as I’m convinced I must be drooling.
He smiles and my legs almost wobble. You see guys on TV with brilliant teeth and a comic flash as the person smiles, but this is literally blinding. He’d easily give Simon Cowell a run for his money.
“What have I missed?” he asks.
“A flood.”
“Really? How biblical.”
I laugh, a Dawn French Vicar of Dibley kind of exaggerated laugh, and if I had a pair of legs that worked properly, I’d use them to kick myself.
It’s obvious to anyone that he’s not going to get another word out of me, so it’s up to him to speak. “So if we can’t go upstairs, is there anywhere else?”
“McDonalds?”
“That’ll do.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“It’s upstairs, although there’s a lift.”
“Never mind. Anywhere else?”
“There’s a cookie place or a smoothie bar.”
“Not very healthy.”
Yes, Donna would approve. “There’s a nice place along Fish Street.”
“That settles it.”
As we walk side by side towards the nearest exit, I feel like telling the whole world ‘he’s mine’ at the top of my voice.
The Serial Dater Page 21