The Serial Dater

by Rachel Cavanagh

  Q (sadly nowhere near the gentleman of the Bond movies) is a tall man with a very short temper. I get the impression he’s under the thumb at home (I didn’t know he was married when we booked the ‘date’) as he treats other women appallingly. First impressions were impeccable – door opening, drink buying, great manners – but as soon as something didn’t go his way, he bellowed his objections about all things female to me and a poor barmaid. Needless to say, I scarpered at the first opportunity. Two free drinks and an early night. Thank you very much, Q.

  I’ve received some more feedback (thank you everyone) on this column and wanted to share…

  I get thus far and remember the appointment at the Three Shires. It’s twenty-five to now. Donna’s on the phone, so I sidle up to her desk and wait until she’s finished.

  “So, are you ready for our ten o’clock?”

  “Sorry, Izzy, I meant to tell you. There’s no need.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve cancelled – Duncan had it done there.”

  “Okay. No… problem.”

  Since my last chat with Donna, I’d been giving her and Duncan a lot of thought, and come to the conclusion it’s her being with someone that I’m jealous of, not who she’s seeing. He isn’t the one for me and I’m clearly not the person for him so, as QuincyJ put it, what’s the big deal?

  “I had an interesting chat with Ursula last night,” I say, pointing towards the kitchen.

  Donna nods and we walk. “Ursula?”

  “My next-door neighbour. She was on the speed dating…”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “She said her father used to tell her off for putting herself down – for telling your brain a negative thought so you believe it.”

  “Yes! Self-belief begins with self-worth. It’s a well-known mental health mantra.”

  Donna, I realise, has so many layers that she’d win a vegetable competition hands down. Pity the men before Duncan hadn’t realised what a gem they’d had. I smile at the unintended lettuce pun.

  “So tell me more about Duncan’s eyes.” Before she has a chance to open her mouth, I add, “The surgery. I know they’re brown.”

  “Couldn’t you just… his surgery, yes.”

  I make the drinks and, as she watches me, she tells me everything he told her about the process in eye-popping gory detail. This is one occasion where I curse her photographic memory. I stare into her mug of Nescafé granules and sugar and imagine an eye staring back at me. It screams for help as I pour on the water, and is no more as I whisk the spoon.

  We talk as we walk back to our desks, hovering by mine as she describes the removal of the bandages. I don’t remember there being any bandages when I’ve learned about such procedures on the TV or radio, so expect some Clarke artistic licence is at play of Elephant Man proportions.

  I crack on with the article and finish it with…

  Today’s two ticks on the ‘shopping list’: Don’t – be swayed by charm and money and Do – stand up for yourself. If your date treats you anything less than as an equal, you have every right to stand up to him (her). If he’s (she’s) not worthy of you then feel free to walk.

  I’m feeling more and more like Aunt Izzy every article. Watch out, Keith… no, it’s fine. Your job is safe. I’m sticking to my gadgets. They can’t talk back. Or if they do, they have an ‘off’ button.

  There are no messages on NorthantsDating, so I blitz my Outlook emails. I like to keep my inbox clear, so I know I’ve dealt with everything that’s come in. I create a new folder for ‘tallgirlnn1’ in Archive and drag all the relevant emails in there. This’ll keep our IT department happy – they keep reminding us to declutter the server. And if IT is happy, William’s happy.

  I double-check the article and print it off. I wonder why I bother, given his ‘clear desk’ and ‘paperless office’ mantra, which is hilarious considering what we do.

  With papers in hand, I walk to William’s office. Janine’s in there with him, so I wait outside, but he beckons me. I nod and go in, holding up the article to show him what’s about to go in the tray.

  They stop talking as I lay the sheets on top of some very colourful bar charts.

  “Thanks, Isobel.”

  Before I can answer, I yawn like a lion and clamp my hand to my mouth in a vain attempt to stop. Janine smiles sympathetically.

  “Late night, Isobel?” William asks.

  “A few, yes.”

  “Is it getting too much for you?”

  “It’s fine. Besides, I’m on the home straight.”

  “Let me know.”

  “Thanks, but no need.”

  “Well…”

  “Yes. Thanks. Bye, Janine.” She winks at me and I make a rapid exit, closing the door behind me.

  I look at the clock and it’s just gone one, so I hover around Donna’s desk until she comes off the phone. “Next two opticians?”

  “That would be great. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. This open-plan spying is fun.”

  “It’s helping me no end. I’m a bit stuck on the online stuff. I’ve found a fair amount, but I’m sure you being the technology expert…”

  “No problem. Leave it with me. I’ll have a look when we get back.”

  We plan to hit the pedestrian area, Abington Street, again aiming for a national optician and an independent. As we walk down Lower Mounts, I look at Donna’s list. “How come some are ophthalmic, others are dispensing, but some are both? Do you know?”

  Knowing Donna as I do, it’s a foolish question.

  “That stumped me too, so I looked it up. Ophthalmologists undergo twelve years of undergraduate and medical or osteopathic education and residency. It prepares them to understand the relationship between your eyes and the rest of your body, how certain conditions, such as diabetes, can affect your eyes. That’s the American version anyway.”

  “And the English version?” As she draws breath, I raise my hand. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s pretty much the same.”

  “Donna, you are so wasted… okay, I won’t say it again.”

  “Do you think I don’t enjoy my job because you don’t enjoy yours?”

  “Eh?”

  “You don’t enjoy your job.”

  Do I not enjoy my job? There are aspects that I love – testing the gadgets, and I’m loving the reader feedback… not the dates so much, but that’s temporary and tiring – but has she picked up on something else?

  “Izzy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can we grab a sandwich on the way back? I didn’t bring anything in and I’m starving.”

  “Sure.”

  We stop off at a bakery and she gets a pasta salad.

  “I thought you were going to get a sandwich.”

  “This is much healthier.”

  I could never do her column. Apart from the odd night-out binge, she’s always being good and never leaves the house without a hint of make-up, which is probably why she’s so delighted when the free samples come in.

  Whizzing past Marion again (we’re getting good at this), I duck into the kitchen and grab our corner table while Donna fetches her notes on the online opticians. We spread them out across the table and are engrossed when William walks in.

  “Hello, ladies.”

  Donna looks up first. “Hi, William. We’re going through all the online stuff, it’s very interesting.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to reading your first piece. I’m aiming for Monday – is that okay with you?” He manages to put the mug under the machine without any damage this time. My effect must be wearing off, especially as he’s not yet looked in my direction.

  “No problem. We’re doing the last shops on Thursday so plenty of time.”

  “Great. Hello, Isobel.”

  “Hello, William,” I say to his back as he walks off.

  Donna looks disappointed.

  I pre-empt her by saying, “You should be thinking of your love life, not
mine.”

  With that, a huge smile radiates from her face and we resume the paperwork.

  By the time my computer archiving’s done, another workday is over. Donna’s already typing up her first article and all I get from her is a wave as I walk out the door.

  I’m standing in front of my mirror wearing the old faithful 501s, a green top and thin black leather jacket. The black slip-ons get another airing and I’m ready to go.

  Counting on more traffic than there was, I arrive at The Four Pears with twenty-five minutes to spare before the quiz starts. Better early than late for the ‘collect paper, pen, pay your pound and meet your blind date’ routine. Should be fun.

  I get the last space in the tiny car park next to another purple Polo, except this one has three doors instead of five.

  As I get out of my car, so does the owner of the twin – a thirty-something with a faded denim jacket and a tour t-shirt.

  I zap the remote and walk slowly towards the front of the car. He does likewise.

  “Nice car,” I say.

  “Thanks, yours too.”

  I smile. “Jake?”

  “The very same. You must be Izzy then.”

  “Hi.”

  “Have you brought your brain with you?”

  “I hope so. Are you any good at these?”

  “Not bad,” he says.

  That turns out to be the understatement of the year. I hadn’t realised it was a music quiz and he answers everything post 1960s. I get a few, but he’s already written them down. The only rounds we struggle with are the fifties and sixties, but I know some from what my parents used to play when I was growing up. In the end, we come second to a team of seven who could easily take on the Eggheads.

  We win twelve pounds, which Jake and I split, although I insist on only taking a fiver as he answered more questions and had paid the pound each to enter.

  As the quiz finishes just after nine, we stay and chat. It’s the first opportunity we get because we’ve been so engrossed in listening to the questions and remembering the tunes of the ones we’re struggling with when the quizmaster speeds on to the next question.

  We start with the usual, “What do you do?” He works in a pet store and I tell him what I ‘do’, then say, “I couldn’t do what you do.”

  “Work with animals?”

  “No. I’d want to take them all home.”

  “So, you’re an animal lover.”

  “I am, but don’t have any pets ’cause I work full time. It’s a shame because I grew up with dogs.”

  We skip the redundant ‘What sort of music do you like’ question and move on to hobbies.

  “I love reading,” Jake says.

  “Me too. I’m about halfway through a crime story at the moment.”

  “Which one?”

  “Jack Myler’s Opaque, do you know it?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “It’s a real page-turner.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you read?”

  “Romance usually.”

  “Really?” I know men do read romance, but he doesn’t look the type. Something to do with his Rolling Stones t-shirt.

  “I used to read horror, but I found it too…”

  “Horrible?”

  “Exactly. My mum got me into romance. She reads a Mills & Boon a day.”

  “They are very popular.”

  “I find the romantic ones the hardest to read.”

  “Because they’re too slushy?”

  “Absolutely, I burst into tears.”

  How I keep a straight face then, I don’t know, so I change the subject. “How about films?”

  “Love them. Grittier the better. You?”

  Great, he’s redeemed himself. “I like pretty much everything, although comedy and chick flicks are my favourites.”

  “Can’t watch chick flicks.”

  “Are they not like romance books?”

  “Yes, that’s the trouble. I can’t stop crying at them.”

  What can I say to that? “They can be very realistic. I’m a bit of a slush bucket.”

  “I know when it all started.”

  “Oh?” All we need now is a black leather couch and I can ask him how it makes him feel.

  “When my dog died.”

  “Sorry…”

  “We’d had her since before I was born.”

  My maths is pretty good, so I’m fairly sure of the next answer. “And how old were you…”

  “Ten.”

  I was a couple of years out. “Oh, bless.” I can see tears welling up in his eyes again. “Do you want to go?”

  Unable to answer, he nods, grabs his jacket, mouths “Thank you” and leaves.

  I smile at the bemused quizmaster and go home.

  Chapter 24 – Edgar at the Boston

  There are still no messages for tallgirlnn1 and I’m panicking. Not seriously, because I’m ‘dated’ ’til Monday, but I don’t want to leave it much longer to set up the last few before getting my life back. I like the thought of that.

  What did I learn from last night? That even hard toffees can have soft centres. I met J last night for a pub quiz (we came second, thanks mostly to J) and then stayed on to have a chat. The rock group t-shirt he was wearing gave me no indication as to what lay beneath. J’s a lovely guy, but can’t handle serious conversation about delicate subjects. While being soft-natured like C, his emotions are far rawer. We touched on the subject of animals – he works with them – and when dogs were mentioned, he went into a mini meltdown. It transpires he lost a family pet when he was ten and has never fully recovered. I only hope none of the animals he works with dies.

  That said, I’m all in favour of men showing their feelings. There’s a wonderful advert with a man sobbing while watching a soppy movie (which I admittedly do), but I’m sure even he doesn’t still get teary when talking about it decades afterwards. There needs to be a happy medium. Happy mediums make happy relationships.

  Today’s two items ticked on my ‘dater’s shopping list’: Don’t assume a hard exterior equates to a hard centre; they may be the favourites in a box of chocolates, but the soft ones are worth it too, and Do wear your psychiatry hat when dealing with anyone who has any emotional baggage (which, if we’re honest, is all of us).

  I turn in the article, with added techie bits, and Donna and I do the other two Abington Street opticians. They’re all pretty much the same and, in a way, it amazes me that so many keep going. Are there that many people in Northampton wearing glasses? Maybe they make their money on contact lenses and we’d just never know. No doubt Donna will enlighten us.

  I plough through my work and it’s five before I know it. I have a quick check of tallgirlnn1 before I leave and there are still no messages. I’m going to have to do something if there’s no joy tomorrow, but tonight I shall concentrate on having fun.

  Dressed in a suitably glitzy outfit (silver shimmery top and black satin jeans – it sounds horrible on anyone other than a skinny rake, but I’m surprisingly pleased with the combo), I decide to take a taxi into town so I can let my hair down.

  As taxi drivers always do, he doesn’t stop talking and I’ve not said a word until we approach the town centre and he asks me where I want dropping off. Because of the one-way system, I say anywhere near the bus station, so he asks me if I’m going somewhere nice. Before I can stop myself I say, The Boston, and the rest of the journey is spent in silence.

  He’s not overly impressed either when the fare comes to two pounds sixty and I give him three pounds and tell him to keep the change, but knowing exactly where the pub is, he’s dropped me the wrong side of the bus station, so I think he’s done well. I’ve now got to walk on a pavement-less, dual lane, one-way road through a major set of traffic lights. Thanks, mate.

  Edgar’s waiting outside. I think it must be him, as I mistake him for a very ugly woman. He’s wearing a pink puffball skirt, orange skin-tight Lycra top and has dyed pillar-box red hair, which matches h
is bright red lipstick. He looks like a colour-blind traffic light and I struggle to keep a straight (pardon the pun) face.

  “Edgar?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Izzy.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. We’ve arranged to meet?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Your profile name is EddieG?”

  He nods, but still looks confused.

  “You sent me some messages on NorthantsDating.”

  He looks mortified. “But you’re a woman!”

  “Last time I checked.” I laugh, but his expression hasn’t changed.

  “You’re not supposed to be a woman.”

  “I think I am. You could ask my parents, but…”

  “No! I messaged a man.”

  I don’t know how from ‘tallgirlnn1’ he thought I was a man. “No, sorry, I’m very much a girl.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m happy to still go in if you like.”

  “I suppose.”

  Needless to say, I’m heartened by his enthusiasm.

  So we walk into the Boston and it’s everything I’d imagined it to be. It’s packed with same sex couples and a variety of groups. The music is lively and loud, but goes with the atmosphere and I’m astounded it’s only a Wednesday night.

  It occurs to me that people might think we’re a couple, despite being of opposite sexes, but it’s very much ‘everything goes’ and that’s what I love about the place.

  I look around and EddieG’s disappeared. We didn’t even get to a first drink or talk about the weather. Under normal circumstances I’d be annoyed, but the next thing I know, I’m overshadowed by a six-foot-four hunk who looks like he could be the seventh member of the Village People. His non-green Incredible Hulk hands grab mine and whisk me onto the dance floor, which is packed with gyrating bodies. I don’t recognise the song, but I love the beat and become part of the rhythm, especially when Goldfrapp comes on to a wall of cheers. Again, it’s not a song I can name, but I have it on my iPod, so sing along to it, as does nearly everyone else.

  I spot Edgar in a corner chatting to someone equally brightly dressed (head to toe in turquoise) and I see a match made in heaven. He clearly didn’t need NorthantsDating, but I’m so glad he tried it or I wouldn’t be having such a wonderful time.