With a chuckle she thrusts the cotton bud up.
9
Speed dating
‘Hi Max, what are you doing tomorrow night?’ It’s Abbie, calling from work.
‘I was going to chill out at home, why?’
‘Forget it, you’re coming out with me,’ she declares, and I can tell by her tone that she won’t take no for an answer. Following my recent spate of late nights, I fancy a couple of evenings relaxing in the comfort of my own home, but I know it’s futile putting up a struggle. Perhaps, it could be fun.
‘There’s a friend of mine having a barbecue at his place up the road, he has some news I think you’ll find interesting.’
Abbie forms part of this interesting group of female friends who take it upon themselves to find you a woman as soon as you become single. Abbie is a little less theatrical in her efforts than Pippa. The moment some of them had learnt that I had called it off with Jessica, they were calling me up to arrange blind dates with their friends. It isn’t this Jewish mother syndrome that shocked me initially, rather the brutality they employ in their matchmaking. Often they were setting me up with some of their oldest friends. At first, I was expecting all kinds of pep talks about how I should be a gentleman etc. Incredibly it was the total opposite, more often than not they’d say things like, ‘All I’m doing is making the initial introduction, what you do with her is up to you.’
As it happens, on this occasion, it isn’t a blind date.
‘You haven’t met this friend of mine before, his name’s Gary,’ she starts.
‘Right.’
‘There’s a barbecue at his place, you’re invited,’ she continues. ‘He’s a TV producer, you’ll get on well, I’m sure he’d be entertained by your recent dating horrors.’
The stooge of the party, great.
We turn up to a plush dockside apartment the following evening. A tall guy with dark hair greets us at the door. He’s wearing a white Ralph Lauren shirt, tucked into faded blue denims which are slightly on the tight side – far too much on show. This is Gary.
‘High Max, come in, grab yourself a beer, we’re all on the terrace.’
Gary’s a proper Londoner, originally from Blackheath. A Malboro Red hangs from corner of his mouth. He’s the type of person who has lots of nervous energy, constantly fidgeting like a Peckham Market salesman. I’ve got my semi-cold bottle of cheap Belgian beer from the fridge and now I’m standing next to Gary on his terrace, keeping him company as he fails to get the charcoal lit.
‘So, Gary, Abbie was telling me that you’re a TV producer…’
‘That’s right, at least, I hope so!’ he says burning his fingers rather than igniting the fire-lighter. I give him that vacant-attentive-listener look, willing him to tell all. He gives up on the barbecue.
‘Well,’ he starts, an excitement has appeared in his voice, ‘we do mostly reality television. I work for Lion TV, have you heard of us?’
I haven’t.
‘Yeah, I think so,’ I say.
‘Cool, what have you seen?’
‘Well, that thing, you know, I think it was on last year, you know…’
Gary isn’t helping me out, he’s letting me dig myself deeper. The fire-brick he was trying to light lets out a high-pitched whine, as if in sympathy. I take a swig from my beer.
‘Right,’ he says, clearly not giving a shit about whether I‘ve heard of them or not, ‘well, our next project is a look at relationships; marriage, divorce, cohabiting… dating.’
He says the last word with a subtle emphasis, as if it’s supposed to mean something to me, like an arcane codeword passed between spies. I look at him vacantly.
Gary starts telling me about his own dating experiences, and his failed marriage. Apparently, it had given him the idea for the TV show.
‘The dating episode is proving the hardest to sort out,’ he says coyly. ‘We’re looking at all the different ways people go about dating and finding a date.’
I’m not really listening, I’m too concerned about the lack of half-cooked chicken drumsticks and sausages done to the point of resembling fox turds. I’m starving.
‘You ever tried Speed Dating, Max?’
‘Hmmm?’ I snap out of my daydream about coleslaw and stale bridge rolls.
‘Speed Dating? Oh, er, no I haven‘t. Not sure it’s my cup of tea – always thought it sounds like a cross between crazy golf and Blind Date.’
‘Rubbish,’ he smiles, ‘you should give it a go… great laugh. We’ve actually got a Speed Dating event soon, Abbie’s coming along, you should too.’
I can’t help but think that the Speed Dating concept must have been originally designed by men because all it does is create a contrived environment for something that guys had been doing for years, the Rating Ritual. This sounds to me like a forum for assessing potential bed-mates within the first two minutes of meeting. I mean, what can you actually tell about a stranger in two minutes, in a totally contrived situation? You will only be able to judge the girl (or guy) sitting opposite you on looks. Are they hot, or not?
But how many times have you heard a woman say, ‘I didn’t find him that attractive when I first met him but he really made me laugh, he’s so intelligent, he always has my best interests at heart, we love doing the same things, he’s so caring.’ The list goes on and on. The one certain thing is that it is virtually impossible to see evidence of these traits in a two-minute interview.
There is, however, ample time to check her form; boobs are big, excellent; short skirt, long legs; fat, definitely a no-no; BOBFOC (Body-Off-Baywatch-Face-Off-Crimewatch), shag once and leave. You get the picture. So this was a place I could go to where the girls would be single and looking, and I would be totally justified in basing my attraction purely on aesthetics, as the girls will probably be doing exactly the same. This sounds like man’s territory. Perfect.
‘So does that mean you’ll help, Max?’ Gary asks, turning the sausages on the now flaming barbecue. ‘We need friends to come along and make up the numbers.’
Foolishly, I agree to go along to the Speed Dating event. Besides, how bad could it be, a few cameras filming a bunch of twenty-somethings in a bar, right?
‘Great,’ says Gary. ‘So how did you say you know Abbie?’ And that was that.
‘Hello, Mr Hunter?’ It is 9.45 am, I am sitting at my desk at work, trying to figure out how to deflect media attention away from a client who is about to get rear-ended. I am partaking in my daily breakfast of blueberry muffin and strong grande cappuccino.
‘Yes, hello how can I help you?’
‘My name is Selena, I’m calling from the BBC.’ The voice at the end of the phone was firm yet vibrant, betraying hints of south American roots.
‘Oh no,’ I think to myself, ‘the Beeb must have heard about my client already, how’s it got out so fast?’
‘Look, I’m afraid I really can’t comment…’ I say firmly.
‘Sorry?’ Selena says, somewhat bemused. ‘I’m a researcher for a new programme on dating,’ she explains, ‘I was given your details by Gary,’ her voice pitches at the end as if she is seeking my confirmation, like annoying LA school kids do in American sitcoms.
The scales fall from my eyes, I suddenly realise what she is getting at – Reality-TV-Gary’s Speed Dating extravaganza. But why is she calling me? The fear factor sets in.
‘I understand that you are going to the Speed Dating event this Friday and that you have kindly agreed to be filmed by us as part of our new documentary.’
‘Well, I er.’
I suppose, strictly speaking, it’s true. I had agreed to go and I knew that there would be a camera team milling around. But I thought I was just having a night out with Abbie. The idea of cameras documenting my chatting up potential mates in some perverted anthro-socio study and broadcasting it to the nation is far from appealing. And yet, I could tell that there was more to come, much more. What had this fool Gary signed me up to. Clearly, he had used his friendship
with Abbie to fulfil some hidden agenda. I have been set up.
‘That’s great,’ Selena bamboozles on. ‘I’m just giving you a call to run over what we’ll be doing on the evening itself. As you know the event is being held at the Red Cube in Leicester Square. We’re going to take you to another location beforehand, probably a super swish pad in Tower Hill for a pre-Speed Dating interview. This will be your opportunity to tell us what expectations you have from the evening, what dating in London is like in general and if you think alternative dating works, blah blah blah. Then we’ll head over to Leicester Square. We’ll do a sequence of shots of all the girls taking part, and then you’ll be filmed doing your stuff, chatting up the girls for two minutes apiece. Then, when you have gone through all the girls, we’ll take you back to the first location and do a post-Speed Dating interview. You’ll be able to tell us how you think it went, which girls you liked, whether your expectations were fulfilled and then you’ll be told which, if any, of the girls selected you. Hello Mr Hunter?’
Holy shit, first they want to film me giving my ‘chat’, looking dead cheesy no doubt, and then they’ll tell me on national TV if any of the girls found me attractive. What if none of them do? As if reading my mind Selena pipes up, ‘I’m sure they’ll all pick you,’ she finishes the sentence with a sickly showbiz giggle.
And when I think that it can’t get any worse, she says, ‘Oh, I forgot to mention, we’ll do a follow-up piece a week later once you have been on your one-on-one dates with any of your matches.’
This sounds terrible, it really is reality dating – Blind Date meets Big Brother. And I had been delivered up as the lamb for the slaughter thanks to one of Abbie’s so-called friends. Why could I see myself being cast as a new Nasty Nick. Although I was cursing this idiot Gary inside my head, I feel obliged to agree to this hare-brained scheme. I don’t want to let Abbie down. On top of that, I can’t refuse. It’s one of those occasions when you see something terrible unfolding before your eyes but you stand there frozen, not bothering to step out of its path? A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed, but could I say it? No!
It seems easy now, but try telling a bullish, bombastic researcher ‘No.’ She’s used to dealing with noncommittal members of the public, forcing them into things they really don’t want to do. This isn’t quite the thing I had in mind, when I first agreed. So much for a random camera crew wandering around taking a few shots. I have suddenly been catapulted into the lead role in a fly-on-the-wall documentary on how to be unsuccessful in dating.
You might think that this could be quite a laugh, but I soon realised that it would be pitted with potential nightmare scenarios, most of which are about to come true. Because I had lacked the guts to tell the researcher that I am no longer game and that I had been misinformed by the organiser, Gary, I find myself in an old man’s pub off Leicester Square, shaking like a B-list celeb in rehab. Somewhere along the line I had come up with the ingenious idea of asking Ed and Raj along for support, enticed by the promise of free beer and watching me make an arse of myself. But these are male mates who, in situations like this, prefer only to relish in one’s anguish rather than give any support whatsoever.
‘Don’t worry, buddy,’ says Raj facetiously, ‘I’m sure they’ll all be stunning!’
‘Absolutely, and not at all desperate,’ Ed adds, smirking.
‘Yeah, yeah. Hilarious,’ I retaliate. ‘Shutthefuckup and drink your free beers.’
‘Oh, and we told everyone we know that it’ll be on in a couple of weeks,’ Raj chokes on his pint in laughter.
‘So thoughtful,’ it’s my turn to be facetious. ‘Guys, seriously, I’m going to make such an arse of myself on television that no woman in London will ever want to date me again.’ I feel low.
‘That’s right,’ says Ed, ‘not even the desperate scavenging cougars will be interested. You will be forced into hiding.’ They both laugh again.
‘God, I’m going to make Claire Swires look like an amateur.’
Over the next half an hour, one terrible scenario is trumped by the next, and the two gits only pause to swallow vast quantities of bitter. Before we know it, it’s time to head across Leicester Square and face the cameras.
They have decided to do my initial interview at the club itself, as if I’m about to go straight into the event. I am sat on a small wooden stall in the basement bar. I can barely see the camera a few feet in front of me because of all the high-powered lighting equipment. The producer is a black shadow, to my right of the cameraman.
‘Right, Max,’ he says, ‘we’ll start rolling in just a sec, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, less than enthusiastically.
‘I’ll ask you a series of questions and please answer them as honestly as you can, it’s as simple as that, forget the camera’s even here, we’re like a couple of friends having a chat, cool?’
‘Cool,’ he’s starting to annoy me already.
‘Okay, Bob, and roll camera!’ he says to the other shadow. ‘Max, how long have you been single?’
‘It’s been about seven months or so, since my last serious relationship.’
‘And counting, eh Max?’ he chuckles smugly. Inwardly I want to get up and hit him. ‘And how long did that last?’
‘About three years.’
‘Who finished it?’ he snaps back.
‘Er, me.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really!’ I say, clearly annoyed. ‘Do you have to ask that?’
‘STOP,’ he yells, ‘Max, just answer the questions, okay? We don’t have much time. Ready Bob, and… roll camera. Max how do you find dating in London?’
‘Well, it’s different to how I expected, I suppose. People don’t really have time to date, as such. It’s very intense.’
‘Had much luck?’
‘Well, er, ha ha, er, I don’t know.’
‘So you think that Speed Dating will solve London’s dating problems, in a world where time is precious?’
‘Perhaps, yes, anyway you’ve got to try everything once, haven’t you?’ I laugh nervously. I can’t see his face, but I can tell he’s looking back at me blankly, like I’m a fool.
I return to the upper part of the Red Cube’s bar, feeling utterly deflated. And the main part of the event hasn’t even happened. I notice that the bar is unusually empty. In the place of the tourists and local party-goers there is camera equipment piled up here and there. A few tables by the bar have been left clear, one of which is occupied by a half-cut Raj and Ed.
I am greeted by an olive-skinned girl in her early twenties who displays all the characteristics of a media studies graduate. She seems fairly efficient, clasping her clipboard and yet she still appears a little meek. Surely this isn’t the hard-nosed, no punch-pulling researcher I had spoken to earlier in the week.
‘Hi I’m Selena.’
Yep, it’s her.
‘We spoke on the phone, I’m Max.’
‘Ah, hi Max,’ she says, ‘thank God you’re here, we were worried you had decided not to come.’ She chuckles, I laugh nervously, and Ed and Raj snigger.
‘Why don’t you get yourselves a drink from the bar, it’s on us, the least we can do,’ she smiles sweetly. ‘We’re just setting up downstairs, when we’re done, myself or the producer, Mike, will come up and get you, okay?’
I turn around, Ed and Raj are already at the bar ordering more beers. I can’t drink, I don’t want to go on camera sozzled. It is likely enough that I’ll make a total Muppet of myself as it is, I don’t need the help Messrs Daniels and Beams to make it worse.
I sit down with my coke in silence. For some reason my mind goes back to Jessica. I am thinking of her progressively less and less. I never regret my decision, my life is so much better. I am considerably happier. But there are occasions when I think of the few happy times that we shared together. This is one of those times of reflection. I think to myself that if I hadn’t left her, I wouldn’t be in this damn dingy bar about to make the biggest m
istake of my life. I am transported to another place, in a Christmas Carol-like outer body experience. In my mind I am floating outside an Islington apartment, peering in through the window at the cosy interior. Inside there is me in a nice knitted lambs’ wool polo neck and cords. A bottle of vino stands half-drunk on the coffee table amongst the remnants of what looks like a delicious pasta concoction. And there she is, a vision of beauty, cuddling up next to me in her Tommy hipster jeans and sloppy American football shirt with that incredible blonde hair tied back off her face. I am watching the TV, laughing, probably at some comedy movie, unaware that she’s looking devotedly up at me, as she leans across and plants a kiss on my cheek.
That is where I could be, could have been right now. Instead, I look over at Ed and Raj, on the way to being plastered. They’re making small animals out of soggy beermats again. I don’t think that I have been nearer to suicide.
Then reality kicks in and I remember that my relationship had never been like that. She was a cow. She’d never just kiss me on the cheek like that. We would have been watching Eastenders or the Hollyoaks omnibus, and all I would have had was moaning and complaining about the consistency of my ragu, which wasn’t to her liking. It would have gone unnoticed that I had slaved over the dinner since getting in from a long day’s work.
It is just that annoying habit that we all can have sometimes, of looking back at a period of one’s life in a more favourable light than it actually deserves.
‘Ah sod it, Raj get me a G&T will you?’
‘That’s the spirit Hunter!’ he says with glee, tanking up the Christian before he faces the lions. It’s while Raj is at the bar, ordering my liquid anaesthetic, that I gain the first glimpse of the female participants. They have just started to arrive. I think it was seeing them that made him get me a double. Even Ed and Raj’s faces went from laughter to shock as one moose followed another to join the rest of the herd.
Single White Failure Page 13
