Man of the Month Club

by Jackie Clune

  “What do you think?” said Jules, spinning around in a smart black suit with a hideous elasticized pouch where the fly should have been.

  “Perfect,” said Amy, not looking at all.

  . 6 .

  Dad! Cesca’s nose is bleeding!” It was the second time that day.

  “Well, just get some tissue and hold it until I can stop,” said Joe, trying to find a place to pull over. It wasn’t easy in Soho. The girls insisted on Leicester Square for every movie trip—they liked the crowds, the big screens, and the obscene buckets of popcorn, and didn’t care one bit that it cost Joe an arm and a leg to park. And to top it all, Francesca’s bloody nose had started again. Joe spotted a loading bay and swung into the curb. Cesca sat triumphantly in the back cupping a large pool of blood in both hands, watching with rapt attention as it splash, splash, splashed onto the newly cleaned upholstery.

  “Oh, Cesca! Why didn’t you say earlier!” shouted Joe, scrabbling around for a tissue.

  There were never any when he needed them.

  “I thought it was going to stop,” said Cesca unconvincingly. The truth was she was absolutely fascinated by bodily fluids, especially her own.

  “I haven’t got any tissues—quick, just pull your T-shirt up and hold it there.”

  “Urgh, gross, Dad—it’s my new Busted T-shirt—I don’t want to get blood on it.”

  “You don’t mind getting blood all over the car!”

  “ ’Course not—the car’s yours,” said Cesca with childish logic.

  “There’s a bar there, Daddy—get some from the toilets!” shouted Laura, delighted by the sudden drama.

  Joe jumped out of the car and ran into the bar. It was just after midday, and the Australian barman was setting up for the day.

  “Sorry, mate, we’re not open yet.” He scowled.

  “I know—I just need some tissue.”

  “Sorry, mate, the toilets are for customers’ use only.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Sorry, mate—rules.”

  “Well, OK, I’ll have an espresso then,” said Joe, rummaging for some coins.

  “Sorry, mate—we’re not open yet.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake—it’s after twelve!”

  “Is it?” asked the barman without a flicker of interest.

  “Oh, forget it!” said Joe, turning on his heel and grabbing a fistful of linen napkins he’d spied on the bar.

  “Oi!” shouted the barman after him.

  “Thank you!” shouted Joe, reaching the door and trying to work out if he should push or pull. A large, hand-written poster was obscuring the handle. Joe took in its content: “Speed dating with QuickMatch—here, 7:30, Monday.” The words burned into his eyes.

  “I’ll bring them back on Monday!” shouted Joe over his shoulder.

  Well, why the hell not? he thought. Things couldn’t get any worse.

  . 7 .

  From her vantage point across the street, Amy could see everyone who went in and out of Bar Soho in Frith Street. She was playing a great guessing game of “Who’s going downstairs for speed dating and who’s just out for a drink?” with herself, usually getting it very wrong. All the young, attractive men were stopping short of the stairs to the lower level and ordering drinks at the bar after joining large groups. All the balding, paunchy, sartorially challenged men were making a beeline for the room downstairs. Conversely, every woman who entered the bar looked glamorous and capable—and they all headed straight for the speed dating. It wasn’t at all what Amy had been led to believe the clientele would be like. The company’s website, QuickMatch.com, had claimed that the age range was strictly twenty-eight to forty, and that only the very best applicants were selected for the evening’s fun. This ragbag of men was hardly select. Most of them looked as though they hadn’t even made any effort for the evening. About seventy-five percent were in suits—obviously, they’d come straight from the office—and the rest were dressed in what looked like Marks and Spencer chinos and sports casuals. Amy shuddered. How could she sleep with a man in a polo shirt? Why was it always like this—the available women in the world were mostly highly evolved and at least averagely attractive, while the flotsam men were dull, hairy-eared dorks? In fact, a couple of the women had been downright gorgeous. She couldn’t believe it when she saw the tops of their shiny blond heads bobbing downstairs. She thought about going home, not even bothering to go in. If any decent men did turn up, the leggy blondes would nab them straightaway. What was the point? She finished her espresso and played with the fifty pence piece change. Heads she’d go in, tails home. Heads. Best of three. Tails. This last one was the decider. Heads again. Shit. She’d have to go in now.

  Once inside the bar, Amy toyed with the idea of stopping upstairs. There were about twenty or so guys who she could imagine creating beautiful babies with; the only problem was that most of them looked young enough to be her son. She didn’t fancy her chances against the lithe young things that were now shimmying in through the door, and it would just seem wrong somehow. She had always imagined herself to be young and coquettish, and had never had any problems picking up younger men. But these days it had started to feel a bit sordid. Fine when you’re thirty-five, but almost forty? Wasn’t that a bit sad really? A bit “there’s life in the old girl yet?” No. Amy would do just as she had planned and go downstairs. She comforted herself with the fact that at the very least, she would come away with some great anecdotes. She took a deep breath and headed down. Things were just about to start. Small, numbered interview tables lined three of the four walls. A sweaty-looking woman who looked about twenty had a microphone in one hand and a school bell in the other.

  “Right good evening, ladies and gents, I’m Susan, and welcome to QuickMatch! So you probably know how it goes—I see a few familiar faces here tonight, a few regulars!—but for the QuickMatch virgins amongst you, here’s how it works. Girls stay put tonight—find a numbered table, girls, and sit there waiting for each Prince Charming to make his way to you. You, if you could start there,” said the woman, pointing Amy in the direction of the first table, “and the rest pop yourselves at a table each. Boys, pop on your number badge, then you’ll go round all the tables clockwise until you get back to the number you started at. You get three minutes, and you’ll know when it’s up ’cause I’ll do this—”

  The sweaty woman rang the school bell with gusto. Amy’s ears rang for minutes afterward, and the crowd tittered with nervous excitement.

  “When you hear that sound, you move on. I don’t care if the woman you are sitting in front of is just about to tell you the secret of multiple orgasms, I don’t care if she’s getting out photos of her victory parade after winning Miss Nude Pole Dancer 2004, when you hear the bell, guys, you move on. OK? And a quick word about questions—try not to go for the obvious: ‘Where do you live? What do you do for a living? What are your hobbies?’ Boring!”

  Amy mentally noted the amount of crestfallen male faces around the room. Clearly, they would now be dumbstruck.

  “Now, when you like someone, you tick their number—just try to do it discreetly!—and if you both tick each other, we’ll send you e-mail addresses and then it’s up to you. That’s the official line, anyway. Most people just hang out in the bar after and hook up that way. And I can assure you this does work—we’ve just heard of our first QuickMatch engagement!”

  A cheer went up. There was no denying it—the atmosphere was as exciting as the Friday-night school disco Amy used to frequent, despite the fact that most of the men seemed to have crept under the QuickMatch age radar—they were mostly at least forty.

  “OK, so guys, get yourself a starting point; ladies, reapply the lippy; here we go!” She rang the bell to signal the first three-minute “date,” and Amy sat down at the corner table she’d been allocated.

  “Unlucky for some!” said an eager-looking man in his early forties as he plonked himself down in front of her, clutching his date card.

  “Sorry
?” said Amy.

  “Thirteen—my badge number—unlucky for some! And you are?” he asked, grinning.

  “Amy. Hello,” she said with as little enthusiasm as possible without being blatantly rude.

  “Gary.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Gary,” she lied. He had only three teeth on the bottom row, and she could smell his sour breath from four feet away.

  “Very important question—do you like motorbikes?”

  “Motorbikes? They’re OK. I’ve never had one, but I’ve been on one a couple of times.”

  “Excellent!” said Gary, ostentatiously ticking her box on his card. It seemed to be more than enough information upon which to make his perfect-match decision.

  “Right,” said Amy, not really having any desire to find out anything more about Gary. The halitosis and the fact that he was dentally challenged were enough to be going on with. There was no way he would make a suitable inseminator.

  “Do you want to ask me anything? Go on—you can ask me anything at all!” said Gary, clearly having the best time of his life. It was obvious that most of the men here, far from being limited by the three-minute format, were reveling in the undivided attention of some lovely women.

  “Well, let’s see . . . no, no, I think you’re a pretty simple kind of guy. I mean, in a good way! I think I can see what kind of man you are. I hate asking questions,” she lied.

  “OK, well, let me tell you a bit about myself,” said Gary, undaunted. He proceeded to embark on a pitiful attempt at self-promotion that included such cringe-making information as his bank balance (“Let’s just say you wouldn’t go short of anything with me!”), the number of long train journeys he’d taken (and their collective mileage), not forgetting his school sports day achievements circa 1972. In some men, this sort of quasi-autism was charming. Not in Gary. After what seemed like an eternity, the bell rang mercifully.

  “Well, I’d love to chat some more, but I have to move on now, Amy. Hope to see you soon!” he said chirpily, blissfully unaware of his personality bypass.

  “Yes, bye,” said Amy, placing a dark cross next to Gary’s number.

  “Hello,” said the next man to sit down in front of Amy. He was about thirty, wearing a baseball cap and skater-boy clothes. Something about him made Amy immediately uncomfortable.

  “Hello. I’m Amy,” she said, offering her hand.

  “Tony,” said the man, shaking her hand so limply it felt sarcastic.

  “Do you come here often?” said Amy, attempting a joky cliché to get things started.

  “Yeah. I’ve been every month. Bit crap tonight,” mumbled Tony.

  Charming. This was going from bad to worse.

  “Really? Why’s that?” asked Amy, determined to at least give him enough rope to hang himself.

  “All a bit old.”

  Ouch. Lucky for Amy, she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in him.

  “Still, you must have met some nice girls over the months? How does it work out for you—what’s your average?”

  “None.”

  “None? Oh, I can’t believe that, Tony—a virile young man like yourself getting no matches?”

  “Oh, they tick me but I don’t tick them.”

  “Oh, so the ones you like don’t tick you?”

  Tony looked at Amy as if she were simple.

  “No—I haven’t ticked anyone yet.”

  “Blimey—you must be either very picky or very shy.”

  “Picky. I’ve got standards. Very high standards.” Tony jiggled one leg constantly. He lit a cigarette and cast a bored glance around the room.

  “Well, I won’t waste any more of your time, Tony—I’m obviously too old and unattractive to meet your ‘very high standards,’ so why don’t you just pop off to the bar for a couple of minutes?” said Amy. She wasn’t cross—he was clearly a moron—but she was damned if she was going to babysit him until the bell rang.

  “Can’t. Have to wait until the bell goes before you move. Looks bad on you if I go early. Might put other blokes off,” said Tony, pulling hard on his fag.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me—I can look after myself.”

  But Tony stayed put. Whether it was the pressure of the evening, the strain of the past few months, or ovulation hormones she didn’t know, but something inside Amy snapped. Who did this idiot think he was? What was he expecting, with his slumped attitude, his dandruff, and his complete lack of charm? Beyonce wiggling her bottom at him provocatively? Britney puckering up for a big kiss? Kylie grinding her hot pants in his face? No, Kylie was probably too old.

  “No, really, why don’t you go and have a drink. I think I’d rather suck my own vomit through a straw than spend another moment in your presence.” Amy’s cheeks burned with indignation, but still Tony sat, gazing dispassionately at her from beneath his baseball cap.

  So they sat in silence for the next two minutes while all around them the hubbub of couples talking, laughing, flirting filled the air. Amy noticed that even Gary—now sitting opposite a rock chick with a Harley Davidson tattoo up one arm—seemed to have struck lucky. She let her eyes wander around the room. Over in the far corner near the door, a woman sat alone. Obviously, they were one man short tonight—that would explain the oddball men they’d “selected.” She was blonde, pretty, and looked sparky enough. She sat chewing the edge of her card, waiting for the bell to ring. Amy wished she could swap places and have the luxury of a moment’s solitude. The woman looked so serene among all the hustle and noise. Then the woman’s face changed suddenly—her mouth shot into a practiced rictus grin, and she flicked her hair flirtatiously out of her eyes. A man was now standing at her table, jacket over one arm, obviously making a big, humorous apology for being late.

  It was Joe.

  Amy let out an audible gasp that caught even Tony’s attention.

  “Shit.”

  “What?” said Tony, almost interested.

  “Nothing,” said Amy, not wanting to share anything so dramatic with this retard. Amy watched in horror as Joe sat down and started chatting to the girl. He leaned forward and the girl helped him pin his number badge on, giggling. What the hell was he doing here?

  She felt betrayed, stunned. It was as if she had just caught her husband in bed with another woman. It took a conscious act of will to remind herself that if anyone was responsible for the breakdown in their relationship, it was she. But what was a man like Joe doing in a place like this? She couldn’t believe it. Surely he was above this? With a chill, Amy realized that she was damning herself, too. He could also ask what she was doing here, she who did not want to “get involved.” Her mind racing, Amy tried to calculate how quickly she could get up and get to the door without being noticed. But what if he saw her? He would be sure to get up and speak to her, try to stop her leaving, and have it out with her. She had seen the wounded look in his eyes when he left that morning two months ago, and although she had regathered her strength in the meantime, seeing him now only served to reiterate how dangerously close she was to loving him. This would not do.

  The bell clattered, and there was a screeching of chairs being pushed back on the wooden floor. Tony jumped up and moved on. With a start, Amy realized that although Joe was on the other side of the room, he was due at her table next. There was no escape. He would have to cross the width of the room to get to her, and he was right by the exit. All around her, new couplings had begun. Joe stood and nodded a warm good-bye to the blonde (who was obviously smitten with him) before consulting with Susan. He was clearly confused by the layout. Despite the awfulness of the situation, Amy was transfixed. It was like watching your own car crash—in slo-mo and on a big screen. She watched, frozen in terror, as she saw Susan consult her clipboard, then point to Amy’s table. Joe’s eyes registered the general direction, but he did not seem to register who was awaiting him. He crossed the floor quickly, head down, feeling as out of place as she did. It was only when he had his hand on the back of the chair that he looked at her.
The smile he had prepared froze on his face and everything in the room seemed to stop.

  “Hello,” said Amy quietly.

  “Amy,” was all he could think of to say.

  “Yes. Sorry. Had no idea, obviously, that you would be here.”

  “No, me neither, I mean, I wouldn’t have—” Joe faltered, then straightened his back. A new resolution seemed to fill him, and he sat down stiffly.

  “Don’t feel you have to spend these three minutes with me—I mean, I’d understand if you just want to skip to the next—” stumbled Amy, her mouth going inexplicably dry.

  “That would suit you down to the ground, wouldn’t it? Don’t face things, stick your head down, and move on. God forbid there should be any exchange of feelings. Well, I’m sorry—hang on, am I sorry? No, I’m not sorry, I’m not going to make it that easy for you.”

  “Oh.” Amy felt a scolding coming on. Much as she hated to be told off she found herself aching to hear what he had to say. He looked hot and angry, but something softer illuminated his eyes. Amy realized with a pang that it was hurt.

  “Three minutes. Right. Here goes,” said Joe.

  Amy took a deep breath and held it.

  “At the risk of sounding like a mad, stalking, no-life, I chased you for weeks because when we first met, I felt something akin to what they describe in the movies as an instant and profound attraction to you. And it wasn’t just because you are clearly gorgeous. I thought I saw something in you that I really want in my life. I thought I saw a woman with spirit and charm and energy, but who also wanted to love and be loved. Then, when we finally did get together, I knew I was right, but you rushed off in a cab without leaving so much as your phone number. Then when I tracked you down again, we had a fantastic night together—at least, that’s how it seemed to me—but early the next morning, you sent me packing as if I was some stranger you’d just picked up for a one-night stand. Now maybe that’s all it was to you, and maybe I’m just a stupid, romantic one-woman neo-virgin, but somehow I don’t think so. You know there’s something here between us, which makes your brutal and frankly rude treatment of me even more bizarre. I can only think that you’re scared. And if that’s the case, you’re not half the woman I thought you were.”