Читать книгу The Dating Game - Carolyn Caterer - Страница 9

Date #6: Simon

The following Saturday afternoon found me walking up Guildford High Street in the sunshine with a spring in my step and, while not exactly a song in my heart, certainly a positive attitude to my next meeting as I refused to allow my previous experiences to affect my current feelings about the next man.

As I approached the mall where Starbucks was located I could see a man standing outside scanning the crowds wandering by in a slightly anxious and yet interested way. I immediately recognised him from his pictures featured on the website with short, thinning dark hair, heavily flecked with grey. Dressed in a T shirt which showed the potential beginnings of a paunch, Simon looked pretty normal so that was a relief and, after my previous experience this did look like a more promising encounter already.

I walked up to him, beamed my best smile and said hello.

He jumped, slightly taken aback at my sudden appearance but then broke into a smile and I saw that at least he had a full set of teeth, which, whilst not the straightest or whitest in the world did seem to be in good shape and, as an extra bonus there was no scent of halitosis emanating from his mouth. I have to admit I heaved a sigh of relief to myself at this point.

What is more, he ushered me through the door first and proceeded to ask me what I would like to drink.

“A decaf latte please.”

“What’s a latte?” He asked and I confess I was somewhat taken aback at this question. After all with so many coffee shop chains you would think it was common knowledge as to what a latte was.

“Well in short it is just a milky coffee. “ I replied, determined not to let this slightly odd question put me off my positive approach to this latest man.

“Oh right. I’ve always wondered about that.”

He then ordered himself a cake and turned round to see me eyeing up the pastries.

“I don’t suppose you’re hungry.” Came the words, which at first I thought was actually a question, but as he proffered his cash at the woman behind the till, realised was in fact a statement based on a completely erroneous assumption.

“Actually I’d like a Danish pastry please. “ I blurted out just in time for the woman to add it to the order.

“Goodness, I imagined that you’re the type that is permanently on a diet.” He remarked, as we walked towards a spare table located by the window.

“What on earth would make you say that?”

“In your profile you seemed to be quite sporty so I assumed that was because you had a bit of a weight issue so you needed to diet and exercise to stay looking as you are, or else resort to surgery in the near future.”

Now coming from a man who looked like he could perhaps do with a bit more muscle, to put it lightly, I was taken aback that he was making all these assumptions about me.

“I admit that one of the benefits of exercising as often as I do is that I can eat what I like, but a weight problem? No, not at all.” I laughed, though I was beginning to wonder if this was going to be another one of those dates that was to shortly end in disappointment.

However, I decided to let that comment go and started to ask him about his job as a policeman, which seemed to consist mainly of paperwork on the account of the fact that he had high cholesterol and so had been put behind a desk until it was sorted out. Looking at the giant chocolate chip muffin that sat in front of him, I did wonder if he had the slightest idea of the link between saturated fats and cholesterol levels, but decided against having that conversation while I was myself about to enjoy my Danish pastry.

He then proceeded to ask me about my job in marketing and I began to explain to him what I did, as he delved into his cake and started to eat.

At this point I have to say that I cannot remember exactly what I said over the next few minutes, other than the fact that he didn’t seem to be able to grasp the difference between marketing and sales and kept asking me what it was like working in sales (a question designed to really piss off the person in marketing), as what was happening in front of my eyes was too distracting.

He would take a large bite of his cake, lean back in his chair and listen (although I use that term loosely in retrospect) to me and then ask another question. Nothing wrong with that you might think? Well, no, unless you are still eating your cake and, as you begin to speak crumbs come tumbling out of your mouth. At first I thought he had no idea what was happening but then I began to notice that he would automatically brush the crumbs from his lap onto the floor, which suggested to me that this was in fact a common occurrence.

This was of course somewhat off-putting but worse was yet to come. As we continued to converse he leant forward and I began to realise that I was now in danger of being inside his spitting zone and, it didn’t take long for me to find out that I was actually correct. As he sat and asked for the umpteenth time about working in sales a raisin-sized lump of partly chewed cake came out of his open mouth and I watched, in what seemed like some surreal slow-motion film, the aforementioned piece of food, arch into the air and start heading in my direction.

I tried desperately to move out of the way and, managed to twist my knees out of its trajectory but it fell with aplomb onto the top of my shoe (suede, so a complete disaster if it were to mark it). Simon seemed to be completely oblivious to all of this culinary action, though he did ask me if I had a problem as I swung my foot up and down in an effort to dislodge the piece of muffin before I had a greasy stain on my shoe, but luckily a hefty kick against the table saw the guilty piece fall to the floor.

The next ten minutes seemed to be more like a tennis match with me waving my arms around in an attempt to bat the barrage of cake crumbs away as he talked about his favourite football team (I didn’t know Guildford Town held such an allure for soccer fans) while at the same time trying not to show my boredom by yawning for fear that one of those crumbs would land inside my mouth and I would regurgitate my Danish Pastry all over the leather Starbucks chair.

I sat listening to him droning on about his lifelong support for his team, wondering if perhaps internet dating really was a kind of hell on earth when I felt that I was being watched. I glanced up through the window to my left and there, across the other side of the mall was none other than my ex-boyfriend, whom I had not seen in three years.

Oh hell, what on earth was he doing here and why oh why did he have to see me when I looked like I was doing an impression of Kate Bush singing Wuthering Heights? How could I get out of this situation without being totally humiliated? I hoped, that Steven would merely think that this mad woman just looked a bit like me (I had changed my hair after all) and would then go off and do whatever it was he was in Guildford to do. No such luck of course, because this is real life where humiliation usually wins over everything else.

I turned towards Simon and tried to look totally enthralled in the conversation, thinking that perhaps this would be a not so subtle way of telling Steven to ‘fuck off’.

Of course that didn’t happen and the next minute a voice was ringing out next to me.

“Jen, how great to see you. Long time etcetera, etcetera. You look great, gorgeous. How are things?”

“Fine thanks” I glared back at him willing the earth to choose one of us to swallow up, but the earth was obviously having too much fun witnessing my discomfort, to assist me in any shape or form.

“Who is this?” Simon’s words betrayed the fact that he obviously did not like being interrupted.

“Just a friend, a former friend.” I attempted to sound calm and not give Steven any more ammunition knowing just how much he loved to stir things up. Actually, considering I knew that much about him from very early on in our relationship has always made me question how it was that I didn’t work things out for myself. However more about that later. In terms of the current situation I wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible, before he asked too many questions and was able to work out that Simon and I were in fact meeting for the first time. The thing is, I also didn’t want him to think that anything romantic was going on between the two of us, as that would make the humiliation even worse.

I wondered how I was going to get out of this situation and how long Steven had been watching us from across the mall. The longer it was the more likely he would have been to witness the whole spitting thing. This really was not doing my credibility any good at all.

While I contemplated my next step, Steven and Simon were sizing each other up, in what can only be described as a rather comical way. They really were starting to remind me of peacocks as they seemed to preen and puff themselves up in a way that only men can. Steven of course with his muscular body (easy to tell despite the leather jacket and scarf) had no competition from Simon in the hot body respect, with Simon’s rather soft features (i.e. his belly) contrasting with the chic, smooth and smartly turned out Steven and didn’t they both know it. I was beginning to wonder if they would shortly challenge each other to pistols at dawn, when I was saved by the bell; Steven’s mobile blared out from his jacket pocket and, he quickly pulled it out and read the text message, his eyes lighting up his tanned face. He snapped the phone shut and beamed at us both.

“Sorry, important business to attend to, so must dash. Perhaps we will catch up another time.” He looked triumphantly at Simon and then bent down to give me a kiss on each cheek.

“Jen darling, always a pleasure. See you again soon I hope. Ciao.” He winked at me and then sauntered out of the shop looking very smug.

“What a complete…”

“… and utter waste of space, arse, idiot?” I proffered.

“What a completely charming chap. Very buff I think women would call him, don’t you?” Said Simon.

You could have knocked me over with a feather at this reaction. I knew I had to get out of there fast before any further interrogation took place about my friendship with Steven. I hate talking about my exes, but I particularly didn’t want to start with this ex.

Fortunately mobile ‘phone technology was to come to my aid once more as mine started to ring. I apologised profusely (if not sincerely) for leaving it on and then answered it anyway as I could see it was Anna.

“Everything OK Jen?” Came Anna’s voice.

“Oh no that’s awful, are you alright?” I started to look concerned.

“Things not going so well I imagine.”

“Absolutely, of course I can come straight over. Hope you can cope with the baby until I get there.”

“Baby. God, you are desperate to get out of this one. I can’t wait to hear and will see if Polly can pop round too; we could both do with a laugh.”

“No problem. I‘ll be with you in half an hour then. Bye.”

I turned to Simon who had continued to spray cake crumbs about his person while managing to remain oblivious to the chocolate stains forming on his jumper.

“I’m so sorry but I have to go. One of my friends has got the vomit bug so I really don’t want to leave her alone with a four month old baby to look after. I need to head over to hers and see what I can do.”

“Good Lord, doesn’t she have a husband?!” Spluttered Simon, looking rather miffed at this development.

“Yes, but he’s in the army; Afghanistan.” I impressed myself at this brilliant ad lib.

“Well, what about family?”

“Oh she’s an orphan, no family.” This was pushing my luck a bit, but I was desperate.

“Oh well, never mind. We can catch up some other time.”

I was pleased and annoyed at the same time when I stood up to leave as he remained resolutely seated in his chair, which I found quite rude, and noted that Miss Austen would be very unimpressed at this behaviour, but also acknowledged that this meant I would not have to start ducking and diving to avoid the whole kissing saga.

Seeing the amount of cake on his hands as well as his clothing I stepped back and with a wave of my hand, wished him well, in what I thought was a firm and yet final way and headed off back to the car park and the safety of my MX5.

Half an hour later I was sitting on Anna’s sofa sipping yet another latte and updating Anna and Polly on the latest dating disaster.

“So which was worse, the spitting or the crumbs?” Asked Polly.

“Why on earth are you expecting me to make a choice? I have no intention of seeing him ever again and will have to write yet another email politely declining any further meetings or correspondence, without pointing out the main issue with the cake and the crumbs. It’s put me off chocolate chip muffins for life I can tell you.”

“So what was it like seeing Steven?” Anna raised her eyebrows.

“Well, not as bad as it could have been thanks to the lure of a text. A filthy one if the look on his face was anything to go by. The funny thing was that Simon seemed to actually be taking a shine to him.”

The three of us started to giggle at the thought.

“What, you mean Simon didn’t realise? Gasped Polly.

“Simon doesn’t actually strike me as the type of man who has any gaydar. Just as well really. After all, how was I going to explain that this gay man was my former boyfriend? It doesn’t look good does it? He’s either going to think I was a bit dense for not realising it, or wonder if I was too assertive in bed and turned him gay!!”

“You could have explained that when you first dated him you did wonder yourself but he insisted he was bi.” Suggested Anna.

“Ah yes, because that is the kind of conversation you have on the first meeting with a total stranger, isn’t it? Pass me another biscuit and not chocolate chip!”

“I have to say though Jen, so far the dates have been a bit disappointing if not quite dire. Bearing in mind this is supposed to be the cream of the crop, so to speak, aren’t you beginning to wonder if perhaps all the claims of finding love online are in fact a bit over-hyped?”

These words were still resonating in my ears later on that evening at home, where I sat in front of my bookcase wondering which Jane Austen novel would be the most appropriate to read in the middle of all this modern dating turmoil and challenges.

Having been born only a few miles from her last home, and possessing a romantic streak from the age of five, when I erroneously thought that finding a husband meant the bride to be walked up and down a line of handsome men until she found one she liked and hey presto, they all lived happily ever after, I suppose it was inevitable that I would migrate towards these rather innocent sounding tales laced with some witty and cutting observations, rather than immerse myself in the drama and pain offered by the Bronte sisters. Whenever I felt frustrated in love, or life for that matter, I would choose one of Austen’s books and re-read it to enjoy another world where things seemed so much simpler, even if no one had any of the modern devices we take for granted such as washing machines and central heating, but where love always one through in the end. I felt sure that Mr Collins would have been prone to spitting his food across the table and so no wonder Elizabeth Bennett felt she could not accept his marriage proposal.

What I needed now was a good old fashioned romance, which all works out despite seemingly being in the doldrums early on, so my hand headed straight to my well worn copy of ‘Persuasion’ and I sat on the sofa, book in one hand and hot chocolate in the other and transported myself to this other world to escape the rather disappointing reality of my own.

Two hours later I was wondering if I would find any man who could possibly match up to Captain Wentworth, not helped any more by the fact that a recent television adaptation of this novel had seen Rupert Penry Jones usurping pride of place from Colin Firth in my list of favourite Jane Austen actors.

Where, for instance would I find a man who would induce my bosoms to heave and cause me to swoon at the mere sight of him? Hmm, this could be much harder than I thought.

However I had only tried one site so far, and maybe it was time to branch out and experiment with some of the others out there, but where was I to start?

“I know just the site for you.” Declared Kate, my hairdresser, a few days later as I updated her on the not quite so hot men that had I had met from the first website.

“I saw it advertised in The Guardian, so it must have some pretty intelligent men on there who are interested like you in literature (though of course I cannot guarantee Jane Austen, who, you have to admit, is not exactly the kind of writer you will see the average man queuing up to read) and stuff like that. Plus the best thing about this one is that you get matched on your compatibility based on some psychological test that you have to take. So you see all in all they filter out the duds for you and save you the time and effort. What could be more perfect than that?”

Indeed, I thought as I logged on later that evening to parfection.com and spent twenty minutes filling in a detailed questionnaire. While it seemed a bit of a pain at the time I reassured myself that, anyone who was prepared to go through this process must surely be looking for a serious relationship, so I wouldn’t be batting away innuendos from men who were looking not for true love but instead one night of ‘lurve’.

Taking a deep breath and getting out my credit card yet again for the privilege of finding my soul mate I wondered if in fact my credit card was a modern version of a dowry? All I could hope was that this time my investment was going to bring me greater rewards than it had done on its previous dalliance with the world of internet dating.

Not long after I was sent a number of details about men that were more than eighty percent compatible with me and started to look through them.

Not one to let my previous experience turn me into a cynical old cow, I started to scan the basic details of these men, who were first sent over without a photo, so you couldn’t just immediately dismiss them on looks alone.

The major challenge was location: obviously this was not considered to be a barrier to true romance by the Parfection team as the first four men I was sent were located as far away from me as was possible when living in the British Isles, namely the Outer Hebrides and Northern Ireland as well as Inverness and the Isle of Man. None of these places seemed to be easy to commute to and I could see my credit card starting to hyperventilate with the strain of endless flights and trains, just to meet each of them once. OK so I know that for the right person you would probably fly half way around the world and back if need be, but let’s remember that at the moment I have no idea who this guy is or where he is located, so this all seems like a very big investment for what could be very poor returns. If it were the stock market I couldn’t see many traders actually taking a position on this and risking their clients’ money on something that seemed so hit and miss, so why would I, a simple marketer, risks such a high proportion of my income?

This was becoming quite depressing but eventually I did find a few men who were actually located in the South East of the country and who seemed to have fairly normal interests, although no one is going to declare a tendency to spit or pick their nose on a dating site are they?

I finally chose two men to contact, one in Kent and one in Northamptonshire and wrote a short email to each to see if they would respond.

Pleasingly they both did, the one in Kent seemed quite chatty via email and was honest enough to admit he worked in a funeral home (what a dinner party conversation that could be) marketing and printing up their literature. I did wonder how much marketing was involved in the funeral business, bearing in mind most people are not in the habit of actually looking around for the ideal company to bury them, but decided that the general public did need some awareness of where to locate these places when the need arose.

More importantly, Geoff seemed to actually enjoy his job, so it seemed we were off to a fairly good start. That was until his second email which finished with the words “Why do people write ‘empathetic’ on their details when they actually mean ‘empathic’?”

I hastily re-read my profile and realised that I had written empathetic and, try as I might I couldn’t get into that part to amend it. Great, a private education and here I was putting men off by my poor vocabulary skills. I replied that I thought perhaps people confused it because of sympathy and sympathetic.

While telling Erica about my faux pas the next day, I began to wonder if this was the sort of deal breaker for Geoff that spitting had been for me.

“But I thought you could use either empathic or empathetic.” Came back Erica’s response.

“Really. Wow I didn’t think of that, I just assumed he was right. Hey, this is mad we are having coffee in a bookshop so let’s go to the reference section and find out for ourselves.”

Five hours later I received a response to my email to Geoff informing him that you could indeed use either version.

It seemed however that Geoff wasn’t convinced and said he would have to check it with his sister when she got back from her holiday because she had studied Latin at degree level and would know which was correct.

“Don’t you think the Oxford English Dictionary actually knows the answer?” Came my incredulous reply to his dismissive comments, but it seemed he wasn’t going to be persuaded. I could already see cracks forming and we hadn’t even met, so I suggested he gave me a call so that I could ascertain if there was any point in arranging to meet up. He duly agreed and we set the time for eight o’clock the following evening.

One advantage of modern technology is that you can have a broadband telephone and ensure that you keep that number for your ventures into cyberspace. This has two advantages; firstly that you always know it must be one of your online contacts who is calling and, secondly, with caller identification you don’t have to take the call if you decide they are a stalker and won’t leave you alone after you have clearly told them you are not interested. I felt quite pleased that I had this option of keeping them separate and that as the line was ex-directory there was no chance of them materialising on my doorstep at any point early on in the proceedings.

The following evening I am waiting for the call, curious to find out what this man is really like and if he is as pedantic in other areas of his life as he is about the English language and is he as arrogant as he appears in his emails when it comes to his opinion versus that of the team at the OED.

I let the telephone ring five times (I don’t want to appear too keen or needy) before I pick it up and say “Hello”.

“Heeelloooo” comes the response from the other end of the line. My spine starts to tingle and not in a good way.

“Hello?” I say again, wondering if this is some random pervert calling me.

“Heeellooo” comes the voice again, with no indication as to who it is.

“Geoff?” I inquire.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Lucky guess” I try to be witty and light but I am beginning to wonder how his company gets any business if he ever has to answer the office telephone.

How do you deal with a man who has a voice that sounds like a serial killer from a slasher movie, and whose every utterance has you wanting to run for the door and check that all the locks are fully functioning?

I really was at a loss to know what to do. I could barely hear the subject of his conversation as I was trying to work out if this voice was his real voice or if, God forbid, he thought he was being sexy by talking in this way.

I decide to bring up the subject of the empathic/empathetic debate but he was absolutely resolute in his refusal to accept that he might actually be wrong, and that the OED did know what they were talking about and that his sister actually didn’t have the final word on this subject.

Twenty minutes later and he still won’t budge and I am wondering why I am torturing myself with this conversation so I finally make an excuse to end the chat, but not before I have somehow agreed to speak to him the following Saturday.

“I know, I know!” I wailed down the telephone to Erica having updated her on the whole conversation. “Why I agreed to another call I don’t know and I am just dreading the fact that he is then going to want to meet me.”

“Well you are just going to have to say no aren’t you?”

“How am I going to do that without having to tell him why? I can’t just tell him that he sounds like some psychopathic axe murderer and his voice really freaks me out can I?”

“Jen, you don’t even know him, you’ve exchanged a few emails and spoken to him once; you’re not breaking off an engagement to him or anything.”

“I know, so why does this seem such a difficult thing to do and what am I going to say?”

“Just tell him that you’ve decided that you don’t think you have much in common and you have decided not to pursue this any further.”

“Say that again, I need to write it down.”

“Why?”

“Because Erica I can then just say it to him and not panic and agree to meet up with him.”

“Jen I cannot believe you are going to use my words; you’re in marketing and you more than anyone know how to express yourself.”

“Yes, but on this one I have completely freaked out and I just have to use your words rather than worry about messing it all up myself and getting myself a meeting with him in an effort not to hurt his feelings.”

And so, paper to hand, the following Saturday I answered the telephone and, verbatim with a delivery that would never have passed an audition for drama school, informed Geoff that I would not be pursuing this contact any further. I didn’t need to worry about explaining myself as he slammed the ‘phone down and that was the end of that.

“So this one was a disaster before you even met him then?” Laughed Polly.

“Crikey Jen you are not a good advert at the moment for internet dating.”

I had to admit Polly had a point and I wondered where on earth I was going wrong. I knew the kind of man I was looking for and I was getting better at filtering out those men who really were incompatible early on in the whole process, so that I didn’t actually have to meet them (as was the case with Geoff and ok let’s forget the whole embarrassing scenario of me using someone else’s lines to get the message across, but we do all suffer from nerves). The thing that was most frustrating me at the moment was, that of the ones I had met, none had come remotely close to lighting my fire. There wasn’t even a candle burning, or come to think of it a match, in most cases.

How could I change things to improve the suitability of the men I was meeting? It hardly seemed appropriate to ask them if they spat out their food or had halitosis or greasy hair. It was far easier to ask them about previous girlfriends and establish if that was going to cause a problem.

On the other hand if I just decided to treat it all as a numbers game, then statistically, the more men I met the more likely I would be to meet the one who would, at last, float my boat and warrant a second date. Ah a second date….at the moment a second date seems about as likely as me having a first date with David Tennant. Now there’s a man that you wouldn’t mind seeing in a wet shirt.. Surely someone could include him in a future production of a Jane Austen novel? That would make so many of the female population happy indeed.

But back to reality and the elusive Mr Right. How was that going to work out?

The man from Northamptonshire seemed quite promising and he immediately wrote back to me. He was in early fifties with two grown up children and was divorced and so there seemed to be no significant emotional baggage. Or at least that is what he was claiming.

Charles, also ran his own antiques company and seemed to be quite interested in theatre and ballet as well as being quite a keen runner from what he told me.

I held my breath when he sent through his photo as that can really disappoint, but he looked quite pleasant with brown eyes and straw blond hair and he certainly looked younger than his years.

Next we chatted on the ‘phone and he actually had quite a posh voice, which was due to being educated at Rugby and coming from a family that seemed, from what he said, to own a number of farms in Northamptonshire making organic cheese and other dairy products.

We spoke for almost half an hour and he said that he was coming down to Hampshire the following week and perhaps he could meet me and take me out to dinner. I thought this sounded like a good idea and so we agreed to meet the following Thursday in the Town Square at eight o’clock. He said that he would book himself into a hotel rather than drive home so late at night.

“A hotel room? You are kidding me?” Erica looked incredulous.

“What do you mean? I thought that was actually very thoughtful and showed that he wasn’t going to drop any seedy hints about staying at my house if we were still chatting to each other over coffee in the restaurant around midnight.”

“So you don’t think he booked the hotel room in the hope that he could tempt you to go back with him for coffee?” Probed Erica.

“I hadn’t thought about that angle at all. Oh God here we go again, he is going to turn out to be a pervert I can just tell. There was me thinking he had impeccable manners and he’s just looking for a shag in a hotel. How naïve can I be?”

“Jen you don’t know that.” Erica chided gently.

“No I don’t but you have certainly got me thinking.”

“Well I could be way off track and he may well indeed be booking a hotel room so that he can have a drink and ensure he doesn’t have to drive home over the limit. It sounds as if he can afford to book into hotels and, from what he says, he does a lot of travelling around with his antique business. For all you know he may well be going off to some auction quite local to you and therefore what would be the point of driving back home on Thursday night?”

“Maybe, but I suppose I will find out on the night.”

“Remember to text me and let me know how it all goes.”

“Oh don’t worry, I am sure you will get the full details of this latest encounter when I see you, Polly and Anna at Aleks’s at the weekend.”

“Of course. I’ll look forward to it.”