Читать книгу Meet Me In Manhattan: A sparkling, feel-good romantic comedy to whisk you away ! - Claudia Carroll - Страница 11

‘Holly Johnson! You are one barefaced liar and you should be utterly ashamed of yourself!’

I was sitting at our tiny kitchen table for this earbashing from my flatmate Joy. It was not long after I first ‘met’ Andy online, and I was topping up our glasses with a bottle of Pinot Grigio that I’d bought us as a Friday night treat to have along with a bowl of pasta. And frankly I was starting to regret that I’d ever bothered confiding in Joy, who was sitting right opposite me, eyebrows knitted down crossly.

‘But doesn’t he sound just so lovely? Captain Andy McCoy,’ I distinctly remember trying to convince her. ‘And get of load of the profile picture he sent me … look! He’s got eyes exactly like Matthew McConaughey.’

‘You told him you could bake! Out and out pork pies, Holly. You even had the cheek to embellish it, by blathering on about getting flour and apricot jam all over your iPad, for feck’s sake.’

‘I know, but …’

‘… Listen to this for a big load of my arse! “Baking is my fundamental switch-off mechanism.” When we both know the only “baking” you did last night was to shove your lean cuisine dinner for one into the microwave.’

‘Yeah, OK, so you and I may know that, but he doesn’t …’

‘… You never even go near the oven in this kitchen, unless you want to check the time on the clock. And as for that load of horse dung about “my chocolate cherry cupcakes are worthy of The Great British Bake Off”? That sounds like such a cheesy come-on, if I ever heard one! Who do you think you are anyway, Nigella?’

‘… But the thing is, everyone knows it’s been statistically proven that guys are more attracted to women who can bake. I’ve been online dating for a scarily long time now and I know that much at least is true – so why not?’

‘… In fact, just for the laugh, I’d love you to show me where we keep our springform baking tin. And if you can tell me the difference between that and a Kugelhopf tin, then I’ll gladly hand you a tenner right now. Mother of God, you’ve even lied about your height! “Tall and slender?” Holly, you’re five foot three! You think you’re not going to get caught out in that one pretty quick? Suppose you ever meet up with this guy? What are you going to do, sprout an extra nine inches in the meantime?’

Thing was, I’d made the cardinal error of physically showing Joy all the backwards and forwards messaging that went on between myself and Andy McCoy ever since that very first night and now she was reading it off my iPad and guffawing.

‘Oh and so now you’re a skydiver as well?’ she said dryly. ‘You, that has to take a Xanax and knock back a gin and tonic before you’ll even get on a Ryanair flight? And you also go mountaineering? Can this be the same Holly Johnson who gets vertigo even sitting on the top deck of a bus?’

‘And what’s so wrong about coming across as being an active type?’ I asked her in a small voice, flushing to my roots and wishing to God there was some other way to get off this deeply mortifying subject.

‘Nothing wrong with it, if it’s the truth,’ she said crisply, tossing geometrically sharp, jet-black bobbed hair over her shoulder. ‘But let’s face it, your idea of being active is to join a gym, pay a year’s subscription, then drop out after the first month.’

I was silenced here, mainly because this would be a fairly accurate assessment, but Joy still wasn’t done.

‘Come on, love,’ she said, waving her fork around with a lump of penne pasta wobbling dangerously on the edge of it, for added emphasis. ‘You’ve got to wise up a bit. After all, you’re lying through your teeth here so how can you be certain that this Andy guy, whoever he is, isn’t doing exactly the same thing right back at you? And supposing he is? What’s your master plan then?’

‘Excuse me, for a start I’m always super-careful online,’ I told her stoutly, ‘and over time you just learn to develop an instinct for these things. OK, so maybe Andy is tweaking the odd minor detail about himself; so what? Everyone sexes their lives up a bit online, we’re all guilty of it. But it’s the big stuff that counts, and if Andy were lying through his teeth to me on that score, I’d know; I’d just feel it in the pit of my stomach.’

‘Oh you would, would you?’

‘Absolutely,’ I told her firmly. ‘And another thing; can I point out that he’s actually a widower with a little boy? So therefore he’s been married before and isn’t afraid of commitment.’

‘Ha! Don’t make me laugh. There isn’t a man on this planet who isn’t afraid of commitment. And you can take that one to the bank.’

‘He’s a family man and that’s good enough for me,’ I told her, a bit primly. ‘After all, everyone knows that men who’ve committed before are by a mile the most likely to commit again. Plus, may I remind you he’s actually Captain Andy McCoy? Senior airline pilot with Delta, if you don’t mind. Now come on, even you have to admit; the job description alone is a serious turn-on.’

Then I drifted off a bit, just imagining what Andy looked like in that sexy uniform pilots wear, with the cap and the epaulettes and the calm, authoritative voice saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.’ And, of course, immediately blurring the image with that famous production still of Leonardo DiCaprio in Catch Me If You Can, all gussied up as a Pan Am pilot.

Thing is, by then things had got pretty intense between Andy and me. There was a genuine connection between us that was actually starting to feel pretty special. And it wasn’t just superficial crap about liking the same movies and TV shows and music; it was so much deeper. It was almost like he and I just seemed to think exactly the same way about things.

Day and night at that stage, he was sending me the most gorgeous, heart-warming messages and what else could I say? Having spent so long on my own, he’d started to win me over scarily fast. This was intoxicating stuff. Addictive. Impossible to let go of.

‘Yeah but just remember, you’ve only got his word for everything he’s telling you,’ Joy cautioned, tearing off a big lump of ciabatta bread and soaking up the dregs of arrabbiata sauce from round the edge of her pasta bowl.

‘And in the meantime, here’s you sitting in front of a screen, painting a ridiculous fantasy portrait of yourself to a complete and utter stranger, who could have served time in Guantanamo Bay for all you know.’

‘He’s not in Guantanamo Bay …’

‘He could be on death row …’

‘He’s not on death row.’

‘Or he could be a woman. Jesus, he could turn out to be a woman on death row.’

‘He’s a pilot, not a jailbird!’

‘Only according to himself,’ she said just a bit too triumphantly for my liking.

‘Look,’ I tell her placatingly, ‘I’ve met my fair share of idiots online and trust me, by now I’ve learned to filter out all the liars and chancers from the genuine article. Plus the big advantage of online dating is that at least this way I get to meet fellas from the comfort of home, with no make-up on and three-day-old manky hair, if I feel like it. Which you have to admit is a fairly major bonus.’

But then Joy and I had been over this ground many, many times before and she knew exactly where I stood on this particular issue. Problem is, as I’d spelled out to her time and again, work was so all encompassing and time-consuming that at the end of another long day, I was too exhausted, not to mention stony broke, to shoehorn myself into an LBD, lash on the Mac Bronzer and start trawling the town on the lookout for someone available, thinking maybemaybemaybe.

I had the energy for all that in my twenties thanks very much, but I’m at the grand old age of thirty-one now, and whether Joy liked it or not, the fact remains that Internet dating sites are to our generation what a Saturday night dance hall was to our grannies, circa 1960.

‘All I’m saying,’ I said firmly, ‘is that I’ve spent so long on these sites, I could practically teach a course in what to look out for, and equally what to run a mile from.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You absolutely certain about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Like you did with that git Steve last summer?’

Shit. I’m temporarily silenced here, and what’s more, Joy knows it. Steve, you see, was a guy I met online who described himself as a ‘special needs teacher, hugely committed to his work’. A major turn-on, I figured, and all was progressing very nicely thanks until he told me he was ‘available to meet weekdays only, between nine and five’.

And the reason? Because of his loyal and long-suffering wife back home who, he explained, he had to get back to, ‘so he could help out with the kids’. I’ll spare you the rest.

Seems Joy’s not done with me though.

‘And let’s not forget that theatre director bloke, what’s-his-face …’

‘Elliot,’ I say crisply, finishing the sentence for her. Quicker by far, I reckon, to let her just get the bloody lecture over and done with.

‘Elliot, that’s the one. Who blatantly told you he was single, whereas—’

I sigh here, knowing right well what’s coming next.

‘—He was simultaneously dating five other women at the same time,’ she says. ‘I distinctly remember you saying he made you feel like …’

‘Like I was almost auditioning for the part of his girlfriend,’ I finish the sentence for her. It’s the sad truth too. In fact, when I finally confronted him, the eejit actually said to me, ‘But you should be flattered! Just think of it like this: I’m looking for a partner, and you’ve made it to the callback stage.’

Sweet suffering Jaysus, I only wish that were an exaggeration. But then that’s the one thing about having had a rough past romance-wise, I figure. It teaches you for the future. And with every mistake, you learn. You may well be humiliated, your heart might have been trampled on, but believe me, you learn.

‘So have you taken absolutely nothing from all this?’ said Joy, interrupting my thoughts.

‘OK, so you’ve made your point,’ I told her hotly, ‘but you’re wasting your time being so cynical right now, because this guy really does sound like the genuine article.’

I couldn’t quite catch her response, as it was mumbled between mouthfuls of ciabatta, but it sounded a lot like, ‘Worse gobshite, you.’

‘And have you forgotten that this “Andy” lives in the States?’ she added, changing tack with her mouth still stuffed. ‘So what are you going to do? Hop on a plane and fly transatlantic every time you’re going out on a date with him? Oh yeah, ’cos I can really see that one working out, alright.’

‘So the fact that we live on different continents is certainly an obstacle, I’ll grant you that much. But then you read his messages; he commutes back and forth to Ireland all the time! Besides, I’ve spent my whole life dating guys who lived within a one hundred mile radius of here and where has it got me? Alone on a Friday night and with no plans for the weekend, that’s where.’

‘Well call me old-fashioned, but I think telling downright porkers to someone you’ve just met isn’t exactly getting off on the right foot now, is it?’ she muttered darkly into her glass of wine.

‘I mean, look at the whoppers you’ve fed the poor eejit about yourself for a start. All that shite about being an investigative reporter on telly who loves her job …’

‘I do love my job …’ I trailed off, a bit weakly. Or rather, to be perfectly truthful, I used to.

‘You work as a freelance researcher on an afternoon radio show. And of course, it goes without saying that you’re bloody good at what you do and you work round the clock for them. But come on, half the time, that crowd at News FM don’t even pay you.’

I couldn’t even answer her back, mainly because it’s actually true. The radio show where I work, or more correctly that I used to work on full-time as a researcher, had kept me ticking over nicely and all was well until last summer when, because of drastic cutbacks at News FM, my hours got radically slashed back to just a handful a week. So just to make bloody sure I still cling tight to those, I’ve essentially been doing exactly what I always did; turning up at work same as ever and energetically pitching stories to my producer, except for approximately half of the salary I used to be on.

Now I’ve actively looked around for other full-time, better-paid research gigs – my ultimate dream is to work as a researcher on hard news stories, which is actually what I’m trained to do – current affairs is my passion; day and night, I’m on the Irish Times website, devouring the news. But sadly this just isn’t a good economic climate to be a freelance researcher in.

I didn’t mention this bit to Joy, though, but being online most of the day at least gave me a great opportunity to catch up on all my dating websites. Every cloud, and all that.

‘Just listen to me for a minute, love,’ said Joy, shoving her plate away, leaning back on the kitchen chair and rubbing her tummy like she’d just ate two Christmas dinners back to back. ‘Because I seriously think you need to wise up a bit. Stop jumping in feet first with guys you meet online and who you know absolutely nothing about.’

‘Ah come on, Joy, you have to understand I’m just enjoying all the messaging and flirting with Andy so much! I think I really like him and come on, when is the last time you heard me say that about any guy? And December is around the corner. You of all people know just how tough that month always is for me, even though it’s been all of two years now. Is it so wrong that I don’t exactly relish the thoughts of facing it all alone, same as I seem to do every other year?’

And for the first time all evening there’s silence.

But then I’d just played my trump card. The Christmas card. I know it and so does Joy. Long story and trust me, you don’t really want to know.

‘Oh hon, you’re not alone and you never will be,’ she eventually says, softening now. ‘Of course I know how rough December is for you. All I’m saying is … well, just look at you. You’re a gorgeous girl and a wonderful person and a fabulous friend. So why do you feel the need to embellish that and tell all these out and out lies about yourself? And all for what, to impress some stranger? Why can’t you just be yourself online? Trust me, any fella would be delighted to be with the real you, not this online façade called Holly Johnson.’

Anxious for a subject change, I leaned back against my chair, then segued off into an only-slightly-too-exaggerated yawn.

‘You know what, hon?’ I told her, sounding just a tad too high-pitched. ‘It’s been a long day at the end of a very long week. OK if we leave the washing up till tomorrow? I think I fancy an early night.’

‘You’re going to bed?’

‘Ermm … yeah.’

‘What? Now? Before Graham Norton? You never miss Graham Norton on a Friday night.’

‘Ermm, well … is that a problem?’

‘Not if you’re telling me the truth, it’s not,’ she said, black kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed down to two suspicious slits.

‘Course I am!’ I insisted, hopping to my feet and even throwing in a few eye rubs for good measure.

‘And you’re categorically not going into your room to log on to your iPad right now? So you can check whether or not Captain Fantastic has got back to you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

Ahem. But approximately two minutes later, I was back online. And checking. And boy was it worth the wait.

Dear God, I distinctly remember thinking. Was it actually possible to feel like you’d finally met someone with serious potential after such a relatively short space of time? For all of half a second, I debated rushing back out to our living room to waft his latest emails right under Joy’s cynical nose, then realized it mightn’t go down particularly well. And instead, I got straight back to messaging Andy McCoy (Captain).