‘Max, for God’s sake, it will be good fun, besides you have to try everything at least once.’
I snigger.
‘Except that,’ she looks at me like an older sister might look at her disgusting little brother who just farted, ‘I’m never trying that.’
Working together, we have got to know each other’s sense of humour too well and our jokes are probably too crude for our own good.
‘But, isn’t it a bit, well, sad?’ I ask, returning to the subject of our impending night of schmoozing with other singletons.
‘No, it’s not sad, that’s just your prejudice. You think it’s sad, because society said it was sad. Now it’s chic.’
‘I never thought I’d resort to this,’ I mutter to myself.
‘Stop being such a bore!’
‘Have you told anyone you’re going?’ I ask.
‘No, of course not, don’t be bloody stupid. Have you?’
‘No.’
The bar is underground and, unhelpfully, it is dimly lit. But without a shadow of a doubt there are Jamie and Kevin the legal clerks, with their mates Ian, Geoff and ‘Mad-for-it’ Mikey the computer programmers. Oh well, I guess it might be easier for me to score in this place.
As we enter the bar, the organisers check us in. They tick off our usernames from the endless list of participants. I try to mutter ‘Castleman’ several times, hoping that the gathering queue don’t hear. But the guy with the clipboard is either deaf or he is enjoying watching me squirm with embarrassment. In the end I shout out CASTLEMAN, to a barrage of sniggers. Then a couple of organisers, who are all wearing Single No More t-shirts, lead us through to another room. They line us up and, in turn, place us in front of a white wall, as if we are about to face a Mexican firing squad. It’s almost as bad, they take a Polaroid photo of me.
‘Take this photo,’ the girl with the camera says, ‘and place it on the big wall in the main bar under the little sticker that has your username on it.’ I look at her quizzically. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Max’
‘No, your username?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ and I snatch the Polaroid before she can probe me further.
As I get into the bar, I see Jones looking for her spot on the girls’ side of the wall. I go to the part of the wall designated ‘C’ and quickly find the small space reserved for ‘Castleman’. All the participants have been given business cards with our username and Single No More email address printed on them.
‘It’s simple Max,’ Jones explains, to my utter disbelief, ‘if you see a picture of a girl you like, you put your card in the plastic wallet dangling under their photo. They will, hopefully, do the same to you. Enjoy.’
My God, this really is like something out of Logan’s Run.
We agree to split up and survey the photos for potential matches.
It’s a matter of minutes before Jones is instantly targeted by one of the techy nerds in green chinos, faded black cotton roll neck and olive green jacket. The foppy blond haired chap introduces himself as the Rt. Hon. James Johnson. Apparently, Jones is privileged as she is only the third person he has ever told of his title. He meant in his life but I have a feeling it might be in the course of the evening – he has clearly read Toby Young’s book one time too many. Foolishly, I decide to leave her with the pretend-peer and grab a drink at the bar.
Within seconds the cougars have spotted their prey, out in the open, alone and vulnerable, ready to bring down. ‘Cougar’ is the name us young bucks at university had given to older women who feast on the flesh of adolescent males. Not quite the MILF that is Stiffler’s mum, rather something less appealing – the mutton dressed as lamb species. Saga-louts. And, most worrying of all, you have little chance of fending off an attack.
In this instance, there are three of them. The pack have me encircled, there is no way out, I have to make conversation.
‘’Ello, you’re a bit of a cutey ain’chya!’ says the one on my right with peroxide highlights and four-inch nail extensions. ‘’Ere, anyone eva told’ya you look like Jewd Law’ah?’ the old hag adds.
‘Well, er, I suppose, perhaps once or twice…’
I suddenly realise one of them is holding my arse. Oh God, she’s seeing if I am ripe for the picking. They just don’t give a shit, these cougars, they have no shame. They just stand there, mojitos in hand, sipping stupidly with that inane ‘So what ya gonna do now love?’ look on their gormless faces.
‘So wot’s ya username?’ asks the one with the chunky Tiffany’s Heart Tag necklace and matching bracelet (she probably has a fucking Tiffany’s coil fitted).
This could be my opportunity to bore them stupid with stories of my college days. ‘That’ll send them packing,’ I think.
‘Castleman,’ I say, with pride.
Their fake tan faces cringe to the point of resembling sun-dried tomatoes. The harpy in the middle screeches, ‘Oh, yaw vat arrogant wanka wot said ’ee lived in a castle!’
With a sneer and a look of utter disgust, it was decided that I am not to their liking. Wrong kind of meat. And, as soon as the pack had descended, it dispersed. They return to prowling. But wait a minute, even though I’m repulsed by these old dolly birds, I am concerned that they have turned me down. That they had thought my username and ‘funny fact’ were shit. If they think that, then the attractive younger girls are bound to think I am a stuck-up twunt. Bollocks.
Still, seeing Jones fight off Lord Lucan on the other side of the bar makes me chuckle and spurs me on to make the most of the evening. I saunter over to a blonde girl and her voluptuous Asian friend.
‘Hi, my names, er… Castleman.’
They start giggling. ‘Yes, yes I’m the arse who said he lived in a castle.’ And yes, that noise you can hear is me crashing and burning. They stifle their laughs.
‘Really, er… great name,’ the blonde girl says sarcastically.
‘I know, I can see now that it was a crap choice. So what are your usernames?’
‘I’m Wondergirl69,’ says the blonde.
‘And I’m ExoticPrincess,’ the Asian girl says smiling sweetly.
I am about to laugh but I have a feeling that they won’t see any funny side to their names as I can with my own useless attempt. I nod enthusiastically instead.
Within a few minutes we’ve forgotten about the hilarities of the introductions and we’re getting along admirably.
‘Actually,’ ExoticPrincess says suddenly, ‘I spotted you as soon as you came in, were we at med school together?’
‘Ding dong,’ says the Leslie Philips in my head. Is that a line, or is she being genuine?
‘I don’t think so, I studied history and now I work in PR,’ I tell her. She shrugs it off. ‘But, I do feel as if I recognise you from somewhere,’ I lie.
As it transpires, we do live near each other in Angel. Perhaps she had seen me on the tube and misplaced my face.
‘So ExoticPrincess, what’s your real name?’ I ask.
‘It’s Lakshmi.’
‘Nice name!’
Next thing I know, there’s a hand on my arm. Lakshmi seems really nice, I feel refreshed. We talk for a while about travel, food and city life.
‘So what do you do, Lakshmi?’
‘As I said, I went to med school in Bombay and London. I qualified as a paediatrician. Part of my job involves voluntary work out in India and Africa. I’m the director of a charity, which promotes understanding on childbirth and infant mortality.’
Now I am incredibly impressed. Attractive, intelligent and caring. What every man is looking for in a girlfriend. She also comes across as being really level-headed; but there must be something wrong with her, why else is she at a singles event? Oh yeah, so am I.
Lakshmi does seem like the sort of girl I could take to a cocktail party and leave her from the start to mingle on her own. And you know what, at the end of the evening everyone would be enthralled by this eastern delight, even the other women. She might just
past the ultimate girl test.
Tasting success, I get her number and arrange to meet her for a drink at a restaurant near where we live. There is this great Thai place on the high street that would be the perfect venue. I am always quite conscious that the first date should be pretty laidback, a kind of ‘get to know each other’ chat, to see if you both actually get on.
About half an hour before we are supposed to meet, I get a call from Lakshmi asking if we should have dinner together as well? Bugger. It’s not really what I had in mind. Although she seems lovely, I just feel that dinner is a bit too much for the first date. It’s a commitment to a long, and often expensive, evening. And at this stage, I still don’t know if we will really hit it off. Dinner should be reserved for date number two. The perfect thing with coffee, or drinks, is that if you really hit it off you can always move on to dinner or call the night to a close, think about stuff and have dinner next time.
‘Actually, I had a big working lunch, sorry I’m really not hungry,’ I lie.
Perhaps I should have realised at that point that she may be a little keen but, I suppose, the idea of having found a potentially boringly ‘normal’ woman in London was making me light-headed. I may even be able to have sex again without feeling like a male praying mantis.
A few minutes later I arrive at the Blue Elephant, (despite its name I promise you it’s not a gay biker bar). In the evenings there is often live music to serenade the guests. Tonight there’s a throwback to the seventies playing his Fender.
Lakshmi is already sat at the bar, sipping a vibrant fruit daiquiri. She looks radiant. Having exchanged kisses, a rather overindulgent three times, we snatch up our drinks and she leads the way over to a solitary sofa opposite the bar. It looks like it’s intended for punters waiting for a table but it serves our needs, I guess. The restaurant is full of families and young couples tucking into their chow meins.
During the next couple of hours, we cover all the topics under the sun; ostensibly, all is going very well. We’re not necessarily agreeing on everything but Lakshmi has something to say about every issue, which I really like. an opinion and is able to argue her point with conviction. Good, so far. On things like culture and travel we appear to have the same interests and philosophies. This is too good to be true. And it is.
I really need to learn to listen to my first instincts. This illusion is about to shatter around me. The first thing that alludes me to her total insanity comes about when we broach the subject of politics. I managed to spot quite early on that Lakshmi could be a little socialist to say the least, you know, somewhere to the left of Chairman Mao. Sure enough, it transpires that she’s redder than a post box in the Kremlin. Generally I don’t care what political views a person holds, whether they are communist, fascist or any shade in between if they are able to support their views with considered reason and are open to constructive criticism. The most important thing is that people listen to the beliefs of others and defend their right to hold such beliefs, however morally repugnant they may seem. She finishes her political diatribe on Third World debt and asks, ‘So where would you place yourself politically?’
‘Generally, to the right of centre, with some beliefs being socialist and some further to the right, it depends on the issue.’
I saw her move back sharply into the corner of the settee as soon as the words ‘right of centre’ left my mouth. Her mouth is still wide open in surprise, or is it disgust? Not that I should, but I feel like launching into an apology for my beliefs. I try to make it better, ‘Uh, my friends, though, are of all schools of thought; some are socialist, some are Marxist anti-capitalists and the odd one is even a raging commie but, I suppose, on the whole they tend to be Toryish.’ She’s still in shock. I feel as if I have just confessed to dabbling in sadomasochism or that I have a particularly virulent strain of a highly contagious disease. I suppose some people would say that being a Tory these days equates to the same thing, but nonetheless. The little strumpet leans back, the knitted furrows on her brow show her genuine concern, and bugger me if she doesn’t say, ‘I don’t think I can tell my friends that I’m dating a Tory.’ Whatthefuck? We’re having coffee. Who says we’re dating, I think I have a say in this, that’s why we’re having coffee. Christ, we haven’t even exchanged bodily fluids yet. I feel like an expensive Gucci handbag that she’s thinking of buying but she has just realised that the clasp doesn’t go with her evening dress.
‘I thought you were teasing me,’ she says.
‘Er, no. That is my political stance, as I say it does depend on the issue.’
‘No, I can see you weren’t joking now.’
I feel like saying, ‘These are my personal beliefs that you’re deriding you intolerant bint!’ But I can’t. She then has the audacity to proclaim, ‘Let’s forget about it all now, shall we?’
Am I supposed to be grateful? And with that I watch her positively shake her head, clearing her moral conscience, and force a smile back onto that pretty face. I would swear she’s thinking, ’No get a grip Lakshmi, he’s got a good job, an environmental activist trustafarian would be better, but you’ve looked already and can’t find one.’
I think I decided at this stage that my little Bolshevik was a Kremlin short of a Red Square. As a man, it’s often difficult to be ruthlessly frank as women can be. I would like get up and walk out at that moment but it would be contrary to my upbringing and my social conditioning. A social gravity keeps my bum firmly planted to the sofa. I’ll just have to sit it out to the bitter end of the date. Nob.
Over the past couple of hours, the would-be Hank Marvin has been dazzling us with his renditions of ‘Blue Hotel’ and ‘Walking in Memphis’. He strikes the opening chord of ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’, and Lakshmi positively whoops with excitement.
‘Ooh I love this song, let’s dance.’
?
Oh-My-God. Is that the sound of my bowels dissolving. Honey, if you haven’t noticed we are in a Goddamnmotherfucking family Thai eatery not Bar Mamba on the Charing Cross Road. I never mind being the first on the dancefloor but this is a Thai restaurant. Everyone else is seated. It’s Hank Marvin. It’s a THAI FUCKING RESTAURANT.
So I get up and dance. Well, I couldn’t refuse, could I? Bar the melodies of the music man, a hush falls over the restaurant. All the other guests are thinking to themselves, ‘What are those two idiots doing?’ That is except for one old bat who has gone soppy eyed and clearly thinks that this is the most romantic gesture she has seen since her husband asked her to feel his one-eyed trouser-snake on the back seat of his Triumph Herald in ’65.
There I am, slow dancing in that last-dance-of-the-night teenage disco style, hoping and begging that none of my neighbours walk past the glass window that runs full length of the restaurant; the window I am dancing in front of. Hank thinks that this is great, he has never been able to muster an applause for his labours up til now, let alone have two people strut their stuff. This is like a mosh pit to this man and he’s playing to the crowd. So the bastard plays the song three times over, extending my agony. And then it happens, she moves in for the kill. It’s that moment when you know what’s coming and there is nothing you can do to stop it. I feel her head rise slightly off my chest, her dancing slows and she looks up with those sultry eyes, inviting me to make a move. I grin inanely. And when I don’t lean in to snog her, she mistakes my lack of enthusiasm for shyness. Before I know it, her tongue is prising open my clammed up lips. The only thing running through my mind is, ‘What the hell’s that smell?’ I realise that she had obviously made herself up when she disappeared to the loo a few moments before suggesting the vertical desire of the horizontal pleasure. She reeks of powder – it’s her foundation makeup. She must have plastered the stuff on. It’s making me choke, I just want to get out of there. Eventually Hank strums his final riff and lets us take our seats.
All has now changed. In the course of that one dance I have become hers. Whereas previously we had been sitting opposite one another,
she is now on top of me. The mad cow is twirling my hair and playing ring-o’ring-a-poses on the palm of my hand. The rest of the diners are still staring in disbelief. I think the staff are worried that I am about to bend her over one of their plaster Thai deity’s and give her a thoroughly good tupping.
Bugger me if she doesn’t ask for another dance. This is taking the piss, I have to leave.
‘You know Max, I think you’ll really like my parents,’ she says out of the blue.
‘Your who, sorry, what?’
‘You’re Christian, aren’t you?’ It’s as if she’s thinking out loud rather than asking me a question directly. But I answer anyway.
‘Erm, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Mmm’
‘What do you mean, “Mmm”?’
‘What do you think about people who convert to a different faith to get married?’
‘Well…’
‘Isn’t that a cute baby over there, Max!’
You’ve never seen a grown man force down a fruit daiquiri so quickly. I drag the waiter over to the table and demand the bill. ‘Hunter my son, it’s time to make your apologies and effect your getaway,’ I tell myself.
‘Lakshmi, I didn’t realise what time it is.’
‘Why, what time is it?’ she asks.
‘Wow, it’s 8.30 already,’ I say, wearing that ‘doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun’ expression.
‘Oh,’ she says, sadly. Despite everything, I feel guilty about my deception when I see that she doesn’t want me to go. I feel like a bastard.
‘Yeah, I have to get some work done before tomorrow. God, I hate these corporate slave drivers.’
Of course, yes, you poor thing. These massive conglomerates and leech-like multinationals shouldn’t make such demands of their workers!’
‘Er, yeah. Quite right. I’m so sorry I have to go. But, let’s do it again some time.’
‘Okay, what about tomorrow?’ she says.
Single White Failure Page 10
