The Serial Dater

by Rachel Cavanagh

  “My sister invited me.”

  “Somewhere nice?”

  “Edinburgh.”

  “I love Edinburgh. Only been once, for a week, but I can see why people move there. It’s so clean and the inhabitants are proud of the city’s history, with the beautiful castle and–”

  “My sister.”

  His expression implies she’s not exactly a tourist attraction. Then it dawns on me. “You didn’t cancel to meet me, did you?”

  “We don’t get on. She’s got five wild brats and a ponce of a husband, so you’ve saved me from torture.”

  A man after my own heart, except my family’s not like that, but I get what he means.

  “Do you see them often?” That felt too much like a cheesy chat-up line.

  “Once, maybe twice a year. I go up there when I have to, but usually see her when she brings them down to visit our parents.”

  “I’m lucky. My sister-in-law’s lovely, and my niece is smashing.”

  “How old?”

  “Five soon.”

  “Isobel’s are all under five.”

  “Really? Five under five. She must have had them one straight after the other.”

  “Triplets and twins."

  “Wow.” Another of my favourite phrases. “And your sister’s called Isobel? That’s my name too, Izzy comes from Isobel.”

  ‘Suits you though.”

  “Thanks.” I can see we need a change of subject again, but sadly it’s one he’s intent on progressing.

  “I’m a free babysitter.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “That’s all she wants me for. As soon as I arrive, Donald takes my bags to my room, a tiny attic room, which is freezing, although the view is worth it, and then they bugger off to the pub.”

  Isobel. Donald. I wonder if they’ve also got a Jane, Mark, Ellen or Lola. My family mark II. “That seems quite…”

  “Shit.”

  “I was going to say unfair, but you’re right, it is… shit.”

  “So you can see why I don’t want to go.”

  “Can’t you say something to them?”

  He’s about to reply when the barman coughs. We’ve been there a good few minutes and not yet ordered. The barman has an ‘I’m not here for the good of my health’ look and I smile apologetically. He relaxes and looks at me to place the order.

  I ask for anything non-alcoholic that’s apple-related and he nods before turning to Vance, who looks at me.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “A late lunch. Why, what do you have in mind?”

  ‘They do mean snacks.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Burger and chips?”

  That doesn’t sound like a snack to me. It would to Tim the Weeble, but Vance is standard-size proportions – somewhere between Tim and Social Worker Lawrence. Pub burgers however are usually far nicer than burger bar food, so I shrug and say, “Sure.”

  He turns back to the barman who repeats our food order.

  “Can we set up a tab please?” Vance asks. “And I’m not driving, so a pint of Fosters please.”

  “Right you are. And the table number?”

  Vance and I look around the bar – there’s no table to be had.

  “Can we have them here?” I ask.

  “Right you are,” the barman repeats and disappears into the kitchen.

  I search for another topic of conversation. “So, what do you see yourself doing in five years’ time?”

  It’s a clichéd interview question, but better than the weather, and only leaves music before we hit rock bottom – the hairdresser’s question: holidays, and I don’t want to go there yet as it may well bring up his sister again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, job, living somewhere else…?”

  “Oh, no, I love my life. I wouldn’t want to do anything else.”

  “But you said your job was boring?”

  “The people are nice.”

  I can relate to that, but it’s not a reason to stay somewhere, especially when you’re only late twenties, so I change the subject again, getting desperate. “What sort of music do you like?”

  “R&B, rap, techno, anything like that.”

  Like Ollie. “Have you ever been to Groove?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Top of Gold Street.”

  “I don’t get into town.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. It can be a bit dodgy at night.”

  “I don’t go at all. Don’t see the point.”

  “Where do you do your shopping?”

  “Weston Favell Centre.”

  “It is handy, just down the road.”

  He nods.

  “And where do you work?” I continue.

  “Moulton Park.”

  “That’s handy too. Not far to drive.”

  “I don’t drive.”

  “I thought…”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s the point? There’s a direct bus.”

  “That makes sense for such short journeys, but what if you want to–”

  “Bus into town then I train up to Edinburgh.”

  Although I’m pretty sure of the answer, I ask, “Have you ever been abroad?”

  “Hate flying.”

  “I’m not keen,” I say, grateful for something in common.

  “No, I hate it.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “What you do you mean?’

  “Where have you flown to before?”

  “I’ve never been on a plane.”

  “Then how do you know you hate it?” I can’t help myself.

  “Afraid of heights.”

  “Can’t say I blame you.”

  “And don’t want to die.”

  “I don’t suppose many people do, but they say you’re safer in the air than on the road.”

  “Which is why I don’t drive.”

  “I think you’d have to drive a lot, and on the motorways, to be at risk.”

  “You’re at risk as soon as you walk out your front door. Something could happen to me while I’m here.”

  That’s what I like: optimism. Change of subject again, I think. “Do you have any pets?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why’s that?’’

  “I’m allergic.”

  What do you say to that, other than ‘Oh’ or ‘Oh, dear’ and if I do I’m going to sound like a broken record.

  “You?” he asks me.

  I say, “A dog and two cats,” so we’re as incompatible as possible. He’s nice enough, but hard work. At least monosyllabic Nick the librarian was cheerful.

  Our burgers arrive and the barman takes another order for drinks. I wonder whether we’ll get to a third round. Thankfully having full mouths gives us the excuse not to talk, but I know we’ll have to once we’ve eaten.

  Moments later, I’m let off the hook by a girl coming over.

  “Hey, Vancie. How are you?”

  “Hi, Daisy. Good, and you?”

  They then have the longest conversation of the night and I munch on my burger as they gaze at each other. I feel like a spare part although I’m relieved at not needing to contribute. Next thing I know, she’s pulling up a bar stool and Vance turns so he has his back to me. I can see how far his receding hair actually recedes. I can’t see him getting away without a combover for much longer. It’s very cleverly done; you’d never have known from the front.

  I’ve eaten my meal by the time they pause for breath, and I expect him to turn round and apologise, but they yak into another conversation. My second drink’s history by the time he finally looks at my plate.

  “You were hungry.”

  His meal is hardly touched and probably cold. Needless to say, I’m not sympathetic.

  “I’m going to have to go.” I hope he doesn’t ask why.

  “Sure,” he
says a little too enthusiastically.

  The barman comes over to see if I want a refill.

  “Thanks, I’m fine. Could we have the bill though please?”

  He nods and returns a couple of minutes later with a slip of paper and a handheld card machine.

  “Are we going halves?” Vance asks.

  I usually pay for my own, especially when my drinks are cheaper, but I can see he probably needs the money more than I do, and William’s still paying, so I repeat his “Sure.”

  Vance stares at the bit of paper. The barman wiggles the card machine.

  “Is there something wrong?” I ask.

  “No…” Vance hesitates.

  I take the piece of paper and realise he can’t work out what ‘going halves’ would equate to. The bill’s £20.14. It shouldn’t take a genius. “Twelve pounds each would give a reasonable tip,” I suggest.

  He nods.

  I put down a tenner and a two-pound coin and he does likewise.

  “So, why do you have to go so early?” he asks, making me think on my feet.

  A conversation with Callum leaps into my brain and I come out with, “I’ve got an essay to write about the main issues associated with meeting the challenges of international development, in the context of changing global, political and economic circumstances.”

  “Er, okay,” he says, as his sidekick sits there wide-mouthed.

  There’s nothing left to say, so I smile and head for the exit. I glance back and see my seat’s not even cold as he and Daisy pick up where they left off.

  I drive home, glad it’s nearly the end of the month, although the delicious burger did make up for the strained conversation.

  I go to bed with a cup of tea and resume my acquaintance with Elliot, pulling the duvet up to my neck in preparation for what’s to come.

  Chapter 28 – Ulver at the Swan and Helmet

  I so need today’s lie-in. After two fairly early starts, I treat myself to an eleven a.m., after which I put on my jeans to go to the corner shop, buy a paper, and go back to bed, only getting out when I’ve finished reading.

  Four o’clock. Dreadful, I know, but hey, I’ve earned it. I’m not meeting UlverTheIrish ’til eight thirty, so put on my dressing gown, go back downstairs, make a cup of tea and some beans on toast and take it all through to the lounge. I must eat more sensibly, and I know Donna would do her nut, but I can have a salad sandwich or something equally wholesome, later… had I some salad in my salad drawer.

  The next thing I know, it’s six and I need to think about having a shower. That’s the trouble with losing half a day in bed, the rest of it’s almost over before you’ve blinked.

  With the long May evenings, I’d normally have walked to the Swan and Helmet, but as we’re not meeting ’til late, I play it safe and take the car.

  As I drive past the pub, I’m pleased to see a guy standing outside waiting, although by the time I’ve found a space in a non-double-yellow-lined, non-residential permit parking area and got back, he’s gone. I look at my mobile and I’ve got two minutes to spare. He did say he might be late, so I duck inside to see if there’s anyone on their own, but there’s no one who fits the bill (the ‘waiting outside’ guy is hooked up with his gorgeous girlfriend), so I go back outside.

  I’ve just stepped out on the pavement again when Ulver comes running up to me.

  “Sorry.” He’s slightly out of breath. “Have you been waiting long? You weren’t going, were you?”

  “No, you’re fine.” In fact, he’s more than fine, he’s gorgeous. Six feet of hunky doodle dandy. Piercing green eyes, dark Italian hair and complexion (which is odd as he’s Irish) and a great dress sense. Karen would be suitably impressed. “I’ve just arrived. I went inside in case you were waiting in there.”

  We get our drinks – him a pint as he lives round the corner (and therefore delighted with my choice) and me the old fail-safe Coke, and we find a quiet table.

  I could have done with my seat being a black leather couch for the interrogation that proceeded. Every other statement I make is greeted with “And how did that make you feel?” or “Now why do you say that?” type questions or statements and I begin to wonder when he’s going to tell me my time’s up.

  Every now and then he taps the side of his nose as if something said is top secret.

  I buy the second round, he gets the third and we’re getting on okay. He’s a little hard work, but I’m determined to persevere because I can’t take my eyes off his.

  Towards the end of the evening, people filter out of the pub and there are half a dozen of us left. As far as I know, neither Ulver nor I have work in the morning, but he downs the rest of the pint and pulls on his jacket.

  “I’m off,” he announces.

  “Oh, okay.”

  “I won’t be the last to leave.”

  I’m not sure what that means exactly, and he can tell he needs to explain.

  “I never stay in a pub until I’m the last person. It smacks of desperation, having everyone clear up around you.”

  It’s not something I’d thought much about. If anything, I’d say it smacks of having a good time, but I guess he’s not.

  “Thanks, Izzy. It’s been interesting.”

  “You’re welcome.” I think he is, anyway. He’s got my head spinning from how cute he is, but also from the ‘twenty questions’ (although it seemed like a lot more). I feel like a science experiment or as if I’ve been caught by a high street market researcher on a lunch break where I have five minutes to get back to work, but must answer their hundred or so vital questions because the fate of humanity depends upon it.

  “But we won’t be seeing each other again,” he states.

  “That’s a shame,” I say, because although it felt like a Spanish inquisition, I’m warming to him.

  “I think we both know it wouldn’t go anywhere.”

  I want to say, “I didn’t know, but I do now. Thanks for putting me straight, in case I was in any doubt,” but cop out with a repetitive, “Oh, okay.”

  I watch him walk out of the pub and feel deflated. So we probably weren’t compatible, but to be told in such a manner was somewhat surprising. This month has been nothing if not that.

  I drive home in need of Mr Ben and Mr Jerry, so raid the freezer as soon as I walk through the door. I revel in a late-night horror movie, C-rated at best, and pep up a little by the time I go to bed. I know this project is work, but somehow I couldn’t help but let a part of me get involved and, although I should know better, I feel a little piece of my heart chip away from the rest of it and bob along my bloodstream towards the entity that’s my brain.

  Chapter 29 – Welland at the Spencer’s Arms

  Another lie-in today – I could get used to this. With newly bought newspaper, hot buttered toast and cup of tea, I settle down to a catch up of my Sky+ recorded programmes. The planner’s only showing twenty-three per cent memory left and the weather is foul (of course it is, it’s a bank holiday Monday), so what better excuse than a day vegging?

  Starting with the half-hour programmes (comedies then dramas), I progress to the hour longs.

  By the time there are just the movies left, it’s six thirty. With the exception of another trip to the corner shop, I’ve been in my dressing gown all day and it’s a wonderful feeling.

  I’m not meeting WellyY35 ’til eight, but it’s at the Spencer’s Arms, Chapel Brampton, a good ten to fifteen minutes’ drive away. With a shower and debate on what to wear (I know I should have thought of this earlier, especially as it’s a posh pub), I have to get a move on.

  I lean back on the sofa and tip down the remaining contents of the bowl of popcorn. I’m such a slob, but the curtains are closed, so no one can see. Normally I don’t like to shut out the sunlight, but there isn’t any today. Of course there’s supposed to be, but the sky is as black as a number eight pool ball. It looks like I’m going to need a brolly just to get to the car.

  I imagine a few thousand peopl
e at seaside resorts swearing at the sky, and the Met Office, and the eighty-three million pounds the PWSCG (Public Weather Service Customer Group) spends each year getting it wrong. I know all this thanks to Aunt Agnes’s desk neighbour, Bertie. His real name’s Cuthbert – he let slip at last year’s Christmas party when he and I were in a quiet corner chatting about global warming.

  Squeaky clean and dressed in black trousers and a smart aubergine jumper, I make a dash for the car. The rain’s eased up a little, but it’s still not pleasant.

  The drive’s a breeze as few people are venturing out, so I make it in ten minutes. I arrive at the car park fifteen minutes early, and decide to hang fire to see if the rain stops, but it only gets worse.

  Needless to say, I get the last space in the car park, the furthest away. I make a run for it, but when Mother Nature is throwing buckets of water at you, it feels like a marathon.

  My feet are soaking. I’m wearing suede shoes and can almost hear them squealing as they’re probably marked for life.

  As I burst through the door, everyone inside turns. They soon go back to their conversations with the exception of a fusty-looking chap sitting on a bar stool at the far end of the bar staring at me. I smile uncomfortably.

  I can sense eyes boring into me and, without moving my head, turn my eyes and see Mr Fusty’s still staring. I fancy something warming, so order a Baileys to have something to occupy myself with while I wait for my date. As the seconds tick by, and the eyes become more intense, I realise Mr Fusty is WellyY35. I should have guessed as much (and earlier). Although we’re just a few feet apart, he waves at me like an aircraft marshal. I’m so pleased that no one else is taking any notice. I move along and sit on the bar stool next to him.

  “All right?” he asks.

  I put on my synchronised swimmer smile and say, “Yes, thank you, how are you?”

  “All right.”

  Another man with a one-word vocabulary. OK, two words.

  “Have you been here long?” I ask.

  “A while, yes.”

  “Sorry. Was I late?”

  “No. This is my regular.”

  “You live in the village?”

  “No. Next door.”

  Unless I’m very much mistaken, next door is technically in the village as the pub is, but I just nod. “That’s handy.”