Читать книгу The Dating Game - Carolyn Caterer - Страница 8

Date #5: Greg

Determined not to be put off by stereotypes, my next date was with Greg who was in IT. Now I am not saying that I am a technophobe, because I do have a computer and a mobile, but let’s just say that my technical expertise on both is probably only at GCSE standard and most twelve year olds probably have a greater ability with Power Point than yours truly, but I would beat them each time when it came to a touch typing test!

The photograph on his profile certainly looked ok, but I couldn’t work out his hair – it seemed to be slicked back and fairly short, though I couldn’t see where it ended, which suggested he must be keeping Brilcreem in business, but I could cope with that.

We exchanged a few emails and I managed to establish that he was an unlikely candidate to be an axe murderer so I agreed to meet him for a coffee in the shopping mall at Basingstoke (plenty more shopping opportunities for me if he proved to be a challenge too far). Erica often commented that she wondered if I was perhaps not focussing so much on the men on the website, but on the additional things I could do with my allotted time if my date failed to be of any interest. While I thought this might be a little harsh, I had to acknowledge that there was an element of truth in it, but that was mainly due to my natural leaning towards making the best use of my time no matter where I was or what I was doing.

I arrived a couple of minutes early and took my seat in the Starbucks along with the shoppers, retired couples and Mums with young kids that seemed to frequent it late in the afternoon, but just before the schools managed to get there.

When Greg walked in a few minutes later I didn’t recognise him. Even as he approached my table I assumed he was coming over to borrow the sugar or something until he said my name.

“Hi Greg”. I tried not to look as surprised as I was feeling. For there in front of me stood a man with the greasiest hair I had ever seen, tied back in the longest pony tail ever sported by a man (and perhaps even a woman).

I wracked my brains trying to remember what his picture on his profile looked like compared to the stark reality before me and, I realised that of course his hair wasn’t short and slicked back at all; it was long and tied back. Oh hell!

Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against long hair on men in principle, but I want it to be clean and, dirty hair does make you wonder what other parts of them are perhaps not conforming to basic hygiene standards. I felt the immediate need to find some alcoholic gel and ask him to apply liberally from head to toe.

Desperately attempting to conceal my feelings of horror I fixed a smile to my face and motioned to him to sit down. I checked the time on the clock located behind the counter and set myself the challenge of staying to talk to him for a mind blowing sixty minutes, wondering if this would indeed feel like the longest hour of my life so far.

At this point I feel I should point out that, while the ways of the characters in Jane Austen’s novels seem antiquarian and staid, there are many advantages to that quaint way of meeting potential suitors. For at least there was the chance to ask questions from a distance before you even agreed to meet the gentleman in question and, once meeting him, you could then feed back via friends or relatives. This surely had to be preferable to meeting someone who, while seeming normal on a website, turned out to be nothing like his description and I was driven to wonder how much he paid his friend to write such a stunningly inaccurate report.

After brief chit chat about the weather and the state of the parking in town, he seemed no nearer to offering to sort out the coffees, so I decided to volunteer in order that he would get the hint. It then became clear that subtlety was perhaps lost on this particular man who put his order in for a strong black coffee with four sugars and explained the state of his teeth, which would have done a brilliant audition for Fagan at the local amateur dramatic society auditions being held close by that evening according to the poster on the café window, which was becoming more and more interesting as the seconds moved slowly by.

I was disappointed that the queue was quite short and the staff seemed to be having a competition to see how quickly they could serve the customers as it took a mere three minutes before I was back at the table with the drinks.

Greg took his spoon and stirred his coffee very slowly (was he trying to look seductive I wondered?) and then leant towards me with the strong hint of a leer, which was only exceeded by the worst halitosis I had experienced in about ten years.

We sat in an awkward silence while I willed him to say something, or I would be unable to resist asking him who his dentist was, which would surely be met with a confused look and probably no understanding at all as to what I was hinting at.

Finally I came up with a question that I hoped would not betray my complete lack of interest and at the same time hoped he didn’t ask why I was drinking my scalding hot coffee so quickly in order that I wouldn’t have to explain that first degree burns seemed a better option than another fifty-six minutes and fourteen seconds in his company.

“So, you work in IT; tell me about that”

I wish I could remember his answer, all that I can say is that the dullness of his conversation in terms of content was more than matched by the monotony of his voice. I felt myself almost drifting into unconsciousness and was aware that my eyes were starting to roll in preparation to falling asleep and crashing into my coffee cup which seemed to be smirking at me in the way the foam swirled around on the surface.

Digging my nails into my hands I willed myself to look remotely interested, but this seemed to perplex him (probably because my expression looked more like that of someone suffering from a severe case of constipation) and his speech slowed to a drone that would I realised be a useful form of torture for errant school children. The mere threat of a detention with Greg would surely reduce truancy by at least eighty percent.

“So basically blah blah the number of bytes that would normally be needed and that means blah blah” Went on Greg as I leant back in my chair to avoid being subjected to any more of his dog breath (apologies to any dogs out there).

I decided that the least I could do would be to engage him in some more diverse conversation before making my excuses to leave, at this rate within fifteen minutes of us sitting down at the table.

“So Greg, never been married or had children, either of those things actually on your agenda?” Good one Jen. This should scare him off if he is a commitment-phobe and thinks you are just dying to walk up the aisle.

His rather sallow skin (too many nights on the old PC was my guess) started to turn a heated shade of red and he coughed nervously.

“Um actually I am divorced with a thirteen year old son.”

I’m now looking at him while doing a good impersonation of a goldfish as my mouth proceeds to open and close while nothing will come out. I resort to taking a mouthful of coffee and finally manage to throw out my next question.

“So, how come none of that is mentioned on your profile nor did you say anything to me about it in any of your emails?”

“It wasn’t a happy time of my life and I’d rather forget about it to be honest.”

“Forget about it? You have a teenage son for God’s sake!” My words come out somewhat louder than intended and a number of heads at adjacent tables spun around in the expectation of a dramatic scene unfurling before their very eyes.

“Yes but I don’t really see him so it’s not as if he has much to do with my life and there didn’t seem any point in mentioning him.”

More goldfish impressions were coming from me as I stared incredulously at the man who could see his own offspring as such an inconvenience. At least this gave me all the ammunition I needed to terminate the conversation in record time.

I lowered my voice and began to speak.

“So , what you are actually telling me is that your profile is based on a pack of lies.” I hissed across the table in a voice which Joan Collins would have been proud of.

“Not lies exactly, more a case of being what is known as economical with the truth. “ Came back his reply.

“Economical with the truth must go down as the understatement of the year! Did he really think that he could get away with those sort of lies and then be instantly forgiven when found out; halitosis or no halitosis, do you think that is why his wife divorced him?!”

“Oh Anna stop it you are completely incorrigible.” I started to laugh and almost dropped the ‘phone as I relaxed on my sofa with a glass of chardonnay and a packet of Tyrell’s crisps as a reward for enduring a bad date.

“So what happened next?”

“I just told him that I really didn’t see any future for us and, unless he wanted a repeat performance from his next internet meeting I suggested he came clean on his profile and fessed up to the reality or I would consider complaining to the website owner.”

“Well done, what did he say to that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Due to the fact you were running out of the café by now?”

“Not really, more due to the fact that I received a resounding round of applause from the tables who had been ear wigging in on the latter part of our conversation.”

“Ooh how very exciting!”

“Mmm that is one way of looking at it but I think I will be avoiding that café for the next few weeks as the staff will now be watching out for what the next date will bring to the party. I did wonder if they would ask me not to come back, but they were all looking at me as if they felt sorry for me having to go through the whole internet dating process so wouldn’t make my life any worse by banning me from coming into the shop in future. Plus I imagine I provided good entertainment in the middle of their rather dull afternoon.”

“So, another one bites the dust” said Anna.

“It certainly looks that way, but let’s consider this one a lucky escape.”

“Mind you it must have had shades of Jane Austen about it, wouldn’t you say?”

“What?!!!” I began to choke and splutter on my wine.

“Oh Jen get real. She may not have mentioned it, but do you really think Mr Darcy had pearly whites in the style of Tom Cruise?” It was almost two centuries ago and personal hygiene, whilst improving, certainly wasn’t of the standard we have nowadays as I don’t think detergents had been invented had they?”

“Crikey, how come you are suddenly an expert on the washing habits of the people of the early nineteenth century?”

“I’m not! But it is so easy when reading these romantic tales to forget the fact that they had no hot running water, central heating, kettles, washing machines, tampons….”

“OK, OK, I think you have more than made your point so we’ll leave it there for the moment.”

“So who is next on your list?” I could detect the teasing note in Anna’s voice.

“Simon. He is fifty years old with three step children who are in their late teens and that he does see regularly, despite being divorced. He’s a policeman apparently so no Cagney and Lacey jokes if you don’t mind.”

“Absolutely not. Where are you going to meet him then?”

“I’ve decided on coffee again as it seems to reduce the risk of death by boredom, so we will meet in Guildford at Starbucks. After all if it doesn’t turn out to be a good date I can at least have a nice walk around the shops!”

“Sounds like a plan. Anyway you never know; this may be ‘the One’.”

“Ah yes, because you just never know.”

“Exactly. I ‘m around so if you need me to make an emergency call to get you out of there, just sneak off to the loo and text me and I will come to your rescue.”

“Thanks, I’ll certainly bear that in mind.”