Single White Failure

by G. J. H. Sibson

  ‘You were flirting with me, across the room, from the moment you walked in, weren’t you?’ the merciless hussy says.

  Clearly, she isn’t going to make this easy for me. I tell her that, yes, I spotted her almost immediately. And that I thought she was reciprocating in the flirting antics. At this she laughs, and says that she was.

  ‘I think it’s important that when you fancy someone, you let them know. Life’s too short not to act on these things.’

  I mutter something to the effect that I agree completely, hence why I came over and introduced myself.

  ‘But you have a boyfriend, well more than that by the sounds of things, a fiancée,’ I allude to the barrier that prevents us acting on this flirting.

  ‘Yes, I do, but as I just said, I have six months while he’s not here, and I want to have some fun.’

  Now call me old fashioned, but you just don’t cheat on your other half, whom you have been with for nearly a decade. Especially when the poor bastard has been sent to war that day. He’s risking his life for Queen and country, he may well die. And the thing that is keeping him warm at night, keeping him sane as he sits holed-up in some godforsaken place, with a bunch of goatherds for company, is the very thing that is offering to ‘open sesame’ for the first random bloke she meets in a bar, the very day of his departure. If I’m being honest, the image of the Major in his dress uniform had been annoying me a few moments earlier, but now I feel quite gutted for the bloke. Granted, not quite gutted enough to pass off any invitation from his girlfriend to sample her lip gloss flavour of choice, but there is a tinge of guilt nevertheless.

  ‘You know, you really are my type. You are everything that I go for in a man, and it’s rare that you click like we did, the moment you walked in. I know you felt it too!’

  Clearly, she’s not feeling even the remotest twinge of guilt. And she is right. Of course she is, she’s not the type of lass who is ever wrong, and if she is, you keep shtum.

  Blow me if she doesn’t lean up from her perch and, placing one hand on my cheek, envelopes my lips with hers. Her wet tongue convinces my lips to open, it darts into my mouth and makes contact with mine. It’s a brief kiss, but a good one. As she pulls away, I look towards the other side of the bar to see Abbie shaking her head in humorous disgust. The rest of her work colleagues are looking on in disbelief; Isabel has gone from Miss Perfect to Miss Perfidious.

  The crowd give up on the bar and drag us along to the place next door, which has a dancefloor. Isabel won’t let me out of her grasp, not that there is anywhere else I would sooner be. I still feel slightly guilty. But I try and repress it. I have been telling myself, ‘It’s her boyfriend, I owe this guy nothing, it’s her choice, she’s the one who owes him the loyalty, not me.’ It still feels wrong.

  In the club we form a group with Abbie and some of her workmates to dance to some bump n’ grind tunes. Both my hands are planted firmly on Isabel’s derrière. Her buttocks, like two badgers in a sack, jaunt along to the music. Intermittently one of us leans in for a snog. It’s not remotely romantic. As I position myself for one of my bouts of tonsil hockey, she pulls my ear towards her lips. She whispers, ‘You know, I’m very good at Yoga?’

  I say that I don’t. Then I add that I’m not very supple.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she retorts. ‘I’m flexible enough for the both of us.’

  The crazy bint then unhooks her arms from around my neck and, bending backwards at her waist, goes into what I believe yoga enthusiasts colloquially call the ‘crab.’ Her hands are behind her head, she is on all fours, but upside down, if you see what I mean? And then, with impressive control, she comes out of the crab. She returns to an upright position, before jumping up in the air, opening her legs, in a scissor-like movement, and lands on the floor in a splits. Now that, in itself, is quite a skill. But it’s not the type of thing you want to see your woman do in a popular London nightspot to S Club 7’s ‘Reach’. Sorry, someone else’s woman. Nevertheless.

  I’m not an especially self-conscious guy, on the whole. However, this is one of those moments, when you want a chasm the size of the Grand Canyon to open up and swallow you. But I should know by now that nothing ever swallows on request. After dancing with Isabel, I can now empathise with the poor girl you see in a club whose drunk boyfriend thinks he can break dance or body pop to Van Morrison.

  Whilst I am doing the Timberlake with the unfaithful extra to the contortionist act at the Moscow State Circus, Ed is having an equally bizarre encounter with a girl who promised so much. He had decided that bars were no longer his scene. Bars and clubs are good to frequent with your buddies but they aren’t the place to find a girl. Well, obviously, you can find a girl in your average city watering hole but there is a high probability of picking up a bunny boiler. It’s a bit like playing Russian roulette with a barrel full of slugs. I mean, how do you know if she’s a crisp crunchy Golden Delicious or the rotter in the apple cart. Ed believed that where he had been going wrong was with his impulsiveness. Stopping girls in the street, at the supermarket or in a bar was no longer the solution. He doesn’t know anything about them, their history. He would need to check out the filly’s pedigree in future before making any commitment. And so it was that Ed found himself introduced to Louise, a friend of a friend of a friend. She is an educated girl whose charm had taken her to places that her peers only dreamt of through the storyboards in Heat. She had poise, elegance and sophistication tattooed on her left buttock. They had met over dinner, placed carefully next to each other by their attached friends. Ed had been instantly attracted to this statuesque girl with phoenix red hair. She is as manly as a woman can be whilst retaining an utmost feminine quality. Her voice is constantly tuned in the right key.

  On their first meeting everything had seemed… delightful. But, after several months of single life in London, Ed had now grown to exercise caution. It is when things appear so good that you need to be at your most vigilant. Like the old Japanese proverb, as soon as the garden has reached perfection, a mighty wind blows in the seeds of weeds and the blossom falls from the trees. When you are least expecting it, beauty has been replaced with ugliness.

  Seeing their mission near accomplished, the other dinner guests had bored of the pair’s incessant chattering, like a pair of woodpeckers hammering away at the usual subjects that one talks about at dinner parties. The extraordinary thing is that this girl agrees with everything that Ed says, she is even finishing his sentences for him. It’s not unusual for people to agree, but in Ed’s case it is rarer to find a kindred ideologist in a woman. He verges somewhat on the English stoic; back to basics conservatism and family values ideals that are so wonderfully British of the 1950s but lost in today’s world, not to mention in the City. Louise, however, seemed all for it. Acting the gentleman, his faux bastard persona now fully in remission, Ed had thanked Louise for a stimulating evening and asked if he could take her to the opera the following Tuesday, preceded by dinner at the Caprice. Ed might be tighter than your average Mallard’s rusty nail hole but when a girl arrives on the scene his frugal disposition withers away.

  I am still in the club with Isabel, who is bending over to show me the crab for the umpteenth time, I find myself apologising to the other punters who had been expecting to dance rather than being a member of the audience at a freakshow. I feel like Tom Cruise taking Dustin Hoffman out on the town. If only I was about to slink into one of those plush red seats at the Royal Opera House, with the curtain about to come up on La Cenerentola. That lucky bastard Ed is bound to be having a much better night than me – nice nosh and a normal girl, and I have always been partial to a bit of Rossini. Little did I know the surprise that was awaiting Edward as he was herded into the slaughter house, led by the carrot dangling in front of his Bottomesque nose.

  Ed met Louise at Covent Garden tube station around six. As one of the most popular places to meet for an evening out in London, it also has to be one of the best places to conduct that addictive sport of
‘people watching’. It is the premier social muster station in the capital, drawing all kinds of colourful characters. If I arrange to meet someone at Covent Garden, I never mind getting there early, to gaze upon the other people, lost in their own worlds. You see them searching for that familiar face amongst the endless tide of tourists, lovers, would-be lovers and entertainers pouring out through the barriers. Like meerkats on the African plains, they stand precariously on their tiptoes, to peer over shoulders and through the coppice of bodies. When they finally spot the subject of their rendezvous, they fall out of their pensive trance and, usually wearing a large smile, they wade through the swelling crowd. During the preceding few minutes you have been second guessing who will be paired with whom.

  The rain has stopped but the streets are still glistening. The cobble stones look as if they have been highly polished. There’s a man in his forties to Ed’s left. He’s rolling up and down on his heels. He’s quite a tall man, he looks educated. The man’s aftershave wafts upwind, overpowering those near him, of which, Ed is one. The man’s head shifts, furtively, from left to right. A girl with short blonde hair and black roots stands between them. She’s sort of slouching, her hands thrust deep into her jean pockets. On the other side of Ed there is a young woman, in her early twenties. Her long dark hair is well conditioned, she looks like she should be in a Timotei advert. Her freshly applied rouge is set off by her alabaster skin. Topiarised eyebrows, sparkling teeth, expectation and nervousness in her eyes. She’s done up to the nines, black trousers and long black coat. She’s clutching a fake LV handbag, with both hands, in front of her. Ed’s head swings to the left, the tall man has started forward, with a jerk. He’s spotted the subject of his meeting. She’s a woman in her late twenties, also well-educated looking. A professional of something-or-other. She looks stunning, that’s not to say that she is beautiful, but she has made the most of herself, and looks good for it. She’s wearing a very short dress, fishnet tights and black FMBs. He grabs her and snogs her.

  ‘A man would never kiss his wife like that,’ Ed thinks to himself, ‘he’s definitely having an affair.’

  Sure enough, pulling away, the man gives another surreptitious glance around the crowd. With his hand at the base of her back he gently guides his companion through the crowd and in the direction of their destination. As he disappears, and Ed’s attention returns to looking for his own date, he notices the attractive girl to his right fidgeting. She’s leaning forward slightly. No, yes, perhaps. She’s chewing her lip.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he thinks, ‘you’ll get lipstick all over your teeth.’

  Yes, definitely, she’s spotted him, or her. She staggers uncertainly forward, still clutching her bag in the same fashion, as if it provides her with some security. A guy of the same age has seen her and is walking towards her, his eyes looking everywhere but at her, until they are up close. He goes to kiss her on the right cheek, she shows him her left and they almost lock lips. They look uncomfortable, yet brimming with excitement all the same. They laugh and correct themselves, and finally manage to exchange kisses. He stands aback, slightly, he’s clearly paying her a compliment. Those pallid cheeks appear to be flushed with a little more colour. They must be on a first date.

  ‘Hello, Edward.’

  The voice comes out of nowhere. Startled he spins around to see Louise standing at his left. He hopes that she wasn’t standing there long, thinking he was perving at some girl. Which, in fairness, would be a justified conclusion, normally. But it just so happened to be innocent, on this occasion. He pulls his attention away from the couple, snaps out of his reverie and remembers why he is at Covent Garden.

  ‘Louise, hi, sorry I was lost in my own world,’ Ed stammers.

  ‘Yes, so I can see.’

  She glances over his shoulder at the young girl, inviting him to explain himself. Ed follows her glance.

  ‘Oh yes, ha ha,’ he laughs nervously. ‘Was just people watching, so interesting.’

  ‘Of course,’ she snaps back, smiling mischievously.

  Hesitantly, but not without enthusiasm, Ed embraces his date and plants a kiss on each cheek. Greeting Louise he must have looked like the girl with the white cheeks, meeting her date, just a few moments ago. Although he needn’t have been so concerned about what Louise thought. He really could have dropped any gentlemanly courtesies and snogged her there and then. But of course he didn’t know that then. If he had known what she was really like, he would have been likely to commandeer one of the herd of rickshaws gathering outside the tube exit and pedal himself all the way back to the King’s Road. Instead the perilous rickshaw ride would wait for later.

  With their arms locked it is difficult to see who is leading whom to the restaurant. They pause by a man dressed as Charlie Chaplin. The only difference in appearance to the real McCoy is the fact he is sprayed silver, from head to toe. Each time a small child places money in the bowler hat he proffers, he pats them on the head.

  ‘Surely this should be illegal,’ Ed thinks to himself.

  There are numerous other street entertainers, but never enough to satisfy the hordes of Italian and South American tourists that gather around them in awe. A fire-eater, a bearded lady and a contortionist (come to think of it my disco dance partner would have been right at home). The happy couple arrive at the illuminated entrance to the Caprice. The autumnal evening is left outside, in preference for the cosy interior of the Michelin starred restaurant. Ed might not be able to answer the maitre d’ in French but Louise doesn’t notice, she is too engrossed in the celebrity soap stars seated at the table next to theirs.

  Over the starter, they talk about what has happened in their lives during the past week and how amusing it had been to be set up by their friends. Part of the way through the main course (confit of Gressingham duck for him and broiled sea bream for her) they run out of fresh topics, and so revisit those they had discussed at their first meeting. A relaxation sweeps over them, as they bask happily in the one’s total and utter agreement with the other. And that’s how they stay until coffee makes its way to their table, accompanied by a selection of handmade chocolates. Then the chat dries up. A slightly awkward silence dawns. Not that type of silence that is comfortable and to be enjoyed, where you feel so at ease in each other’s company. Not that silence where your fingers find hers, through the debris of napkin rings, discarded baguette and half empty bottle of sparkling Italian mineral water. Those treasured moments gazing stupidly, in an almost bovine kind of way, into each other’s eyes. No, this silence is uncomfortable, where you fumble for something to say. And so they devour the chocolates and swig back the scolding coffee.

  Ed sighs with delight as the bill arrives, it signals the end of the first part of the date. The uncomfortable silence aside, he decides that the date is going okay, so far. Now he can parade her on his arm as they make the short walk to the Royal Opera House. Once the opera begins there’ll be no more awkward silences. Everyone will be silent. No pressure. He knows that this has been a pest, which always plagues his first dates and that from this point on, things always usually go more smoothly.

  Obediently they follow the usher from the oyster bar, in the high-ceilinged regency reception, where they had been drinking Veuve Clicquot. He leads them through the warren of hallways, lit subtly by antique French chandeliers, which give off a dull glow. They emerge into the great opera hall, at the summit of the circle and look down at the base camp that is the stalls. Having convinced two old birds in their pearls and clutching theatre binoculars to move out the way, Ed and Louise ease themselves into the scarlet carpet seats. Louise fidgets, making sure her dress isn’t creased. After a couple of minutes of rearranging, flattening and tugging at her outfit, she pulls out the programme, for which Ed had forked out a small fortune. They feel obliged to pick their way pathologically through the list of players. They read out to each other irrelevant details on the biographies of singers they have never heard of. Sparingly the lights dim and they are plung
ed into an aristocratic darkness. The curtain comes up and a drunken Don Magnifico enters stage left, he is berating his two ugly daughters in Italian verse.

  Ed had erroneously expected to watch this operatic fairy-tale in comparative tranquillity and to enjoy the mere presence of the beautiful girl at his side.

  ‘This is it,’ Ed thinks, ‘I have arrived. I have a job I love, I have a great flat and now I’m sitting in the opera next to a great girl. And, what’s more, I’m more stuffed, from some great nosh, than a teddy at the picnic. What more could I ask for?’

  And, as if to answer Ed’s rhetorical question, Louise suddenly slides her fingers in between his, his hand had been resting invitingly on his knee. Ed is thinking to himself that she must be keen after that little gesture. Now he knows that if he wants to go in for the kill, at the end of the night, he’ll be sure that she will respond. Positively, that is. And this happy state of affairs continues well into the second half. A little time before the finale, at the point where Dandini’s true identity as the faux prince is revealed, it happens. In the middle of Don Ramiro’s search for Cinders, Louise slides her slightly moist hand from underneath Ed’s clammy fingers. She begins to rub. Yes, rub. To rub slowly and firmly along the top of his leg, working boldly towards his inner thigh. Her unabashed eyes don’t leave the stage, not for a moment, not even when Ed whimpered pathetically. And then, as if she is rummaging around for the last biscuit in the barrel, Louise lies the palm of her hand triumphantly on his wedding tackle. Ed lets out another involuntary little whine. She begins to massage his crotch, a bit like she’s kneading dough. Ed has now forgotten all about Prince Don-Thingamabob and his search for Whatshername’s slipper. Louise coolly takes Ed’s hand and drops it into her own lap. What’s he supposed to do, start rubbing as well? It would be like the princess trying to find the proverbial pea, through all those clothes. So he decides to just leave it there, looking vulnerable and lifeless. Louise carries on kneading. It is only the drama of the wedding fanfare that saves Ed from climaxing, there and then. Somehow he manages to harness his excitement, if only temporarily.