Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  It takes half an hour to shower and make myself look presentable. A dab of cologne and I’m as ready as I’m ever likely to be.

  Knowing I’ll be sinking a few pints, I leave the car at home and make my way towards the town centre on foot. I walk at a brisk pace to stave off the cold and arrive at The White Swan five minutes before Danny is due — not ideal as I've only got a few quid in my pocket.

  Unsurprising for a Monday in January, the pub is quiet. A few hardy souls are loitering alone at the bar and only two of the tables are occupied; both by twenty-something couples silently jabbing their phone screens in lieu of conversation.

  Half a lager in hand, I secure a table as far from the bar as is possible.

  Without even thinking about it, I pull out my phone and swipe the screen. I’m about to check my Facebook page when a voice yells my name. I look up to see Danny gesturing the universal sign for a drink. An affirmative signal is returned.

  A minute later he saunters over with two pints. Dressed in jeans and a black denim jacket, Danny looks effortlessly stylish as always. Just to prove some people have all the luck in the genetics lottery, Danny’s paternal grandparents were from Naples, so he’s also got the whole Mediterranean vibe going on. His sense of humour, however, is unmistakably British.

  “What’s up, mate? You’ve got the face of a man who’s forgotten how to wank.”

  “There’s no chance I’ll forget. Trust me.”

  “Maybe it won’t matter after tonight.”

  He passes me a pint of Peroni — his lager of choice. I don’t mind the taste; I'm not so keen on the associated hangover it never fails to deliver.

  “Come on then,” he says, taking a seat. “Is it just your finances getting you down?”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  His smile vanishes in an instant.

  “But you’ve got it under control, right?”

  Danny can switch off his laddish persona like most people switch off a kettle. It would be easy to assume he’s all white teeth and designer stubble but beneath the swarthy facade he’s a decent guy and a good friend. When I went through my break-up with Gemma, and the subsequent mental health issues, Danny stood by me when all my other friends distanced themselves.

  “It’s all good, mate — thanks for asking.”

  “Glad to hear it, but if … you know …”

  “I know.”

  The topic of conversation is closed as we both take a gulp of lager.

  “Anyway, tell me about Kayla. What am I letting myself in for?”

  “She’s fit, mate — trust me.”

  “How did this even come about?”

  “So, when I popped into the gym on Friday, the receptionist gave me a free ticket for a Zumba class — kind of a trial to encourage more men apparently.”

  “Zumba?”

  “Like aerobics but more hard core. Think of two-dozen sweaty women in tight fitting gym pants.”

  “And they invited you along? Christ, that’s like a rabbit inviting a fox over for dinner.”

  I ponder my analogy for a second.

  That doesn’t work … unless the fox ends up having sex with the rabbit multiple times. I’m no David Attenborough but I’m sure foxes don’t generally mate with rabbits. Can you imagine the offspring?

  Danny rolls his eyes.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Can you tell?”

  “You’re waffling.”

  “Sorry. Carry on.”

  “Right, well, I go along and five minutes into it I get cramp. Luckily enough, this stunner next to me comes to the rescue.”

  “Kayla?”

  “Err, no. Charlotte.”

  “Of course. Where does Kayla come into it?”

  “Afterwards, I treated Charlotte to a rye-grass smoothie, you know, to show my gratitude, and I casually asked what her plans were for tonight. As it turns out, she and her best mate Kayla were due to go speed dating.”

  “And you suggested meeting up with us instead?”

  “Charlotte seemed keen, mate.”

  “But what about Kayla?”

  “She’s cool with it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, positive.”

  I’m not convinced. It seems my date had intended to spend the evening picking from a veritable buffet of potential suitors. Now she’s being offered a solitary sausage on a stick.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I mumble.

  “You’ve got a bad feeling about everything. Lighten up.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Give it a rest,” he frowns. “Or I’ll start reeling out the clichés.”

  “Please don’t.”

  He edges his chair a little closer to mine.

  “In all seriousness, mate, you’ve got to break this cycle.”

  “What cycle?”

  “The cycle of gloom. You’re fed up because you can’t get yourself a decent girlfriend, but who wants to date a guy harbouring more woes than an episode of EastEnders?”

  “I’m not that bad, am I?”

  “You are at the moment, and you need to drop it before the girls arrive.”

  “Alright. Point taken.”

  He slaps me on the shoulder.

  “Good man. And just remember: positivity breeds positivity.”

  “You said no clichés.”

  “I lied.”

  Danny then extracts his wallet and hands me two twenty-pound notes.

  “This isn’t a loan,” he says.

  “Eh?”

  “You work every bit as hard as I do, so it’s only fair I share my bonus.”

  Gratitude and shame jostle for position.

  “I appreciate it, mate. I really do.”

  “Just make sure it proves money well spent. I want you to enjoy this evening.”

  Now able to stand a round, I empty my glass. I’m about to get up when two women approach our table.

  “Evening, ladies,” Danny purrs, getting to his feet.

  He steps forward and swaps kisses with the woman I assume to be Charlotte. The other woman glances across at me, and smiles. I can’t be sure but it doesn’t appear to be a strained smile. Perhaps she’s genuinely pleased to meet me.

  Early days, but maybe this evening won’t be the disaster I thought it might.

  4.

  After the briefest of introductions, Danny whisks Charlotte off to the bar to acquire drinks. I’m left with Kayla, but no instruction manual. Danny was bang on the money, though — she’s super cute, in a girl-next-door kind of way.

  She takes a seat opposite me; still smiling. I feel obliged to say something.

  “Sorry you’ve been dragged along this evening.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not a huge fan of speed dating, anyway.”

  “Never tried it myself. I struggle with regular dating — the last thing I need is the Countdown clock echoing in my head.”

  Did that sound negative? Have I contravened Danny’s advice already?

  To my relief Kayla chuckles.

  “I know what you mean.”

  She then slips her coat off and hangs it on the back of the chair. Surely a good sign? I’m told you can tell a lot by how someone dresses, and Kayla has gone for a short, dark-vermilion dress with long-sleeves and a plunging neckline — kind of stylish with a flirtatious edge.

  “Tell me then, Toby,” she continues. “What’s your first impression?”

  “Of you?”

  “No, the wallpaper.”

  My cheeks flush red and she chuckles again.

  “Yes, me.”

  I already like her personality and the aesthetics are definitely on point; a torrent of wavy auburn hair framing a lightly freckled face.

  “My first impression … much like the opening pages of a good book,” I finally reply. “I’m intrigued.”

  It’s a smooth response, even if I say so myself. The glint in Kayla’s eye suggests she’s also pleased with my reply.

  �
��Good answer.”

  “It’s all downhill from this point.”

  Why did you say that? Idiot.

  There’s a fine line between negativity and self-effacing, but I think I’ve strayed too far towards the former. Mercifully, Danny and Charlotte return with a tray of drinks to draw Kayla’s attention elsewhere.

  Once we’re all seated and furnished with a drink, Danny raises a toast to ‘good times’. Judging by the way Charlotte is eyeing him, I suspect Danny is in for good times later. I have no such guarantee but that’s where my friend and I differ — I cannot imagine anything more awkward than having sex with a virtual stranger. Fortunately, or otherwise, fate has protected my modesty by severely limiting the opportunities.

  Despite a nervy start on my part, another round of drinks helps oil the wheels of conversation and the first hour flies past. We may have started the evening as a foursome but we eventually break into two couples at opposite ends of the table and I get to interrogate my date. Her story isn’t too dissimilar to mine in that she broke up with a long-term partner eighteen months ago. Unlike me, she returned home to live with her parents.

  “Don’t you miss the independence?” I ask.

  “Sometimes, but I get on well with Mum and Dad so it’s no great hardship. Besides, it’s a damn sight cheaper living at home so I can at least save a decent chunk of cash every month.”

  “You’re looking to buy your own place?”

  “That’s the plan. I’m also hoping for a promotion at work which will help.”

  With every question and every answer, Kayla edges closer to my idea of the perfect girlfriend: smart, ambitious, funny, and ridiculously cute. But before I count my blessings, the negative side of my brain decides it needs further assurance, and poses a question.

  “Come on then — what is it you’re not telling me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Three pints of Peroni provides the confidence to tell Kayla precisely what I mean.

  “I can’t believe you’ve been single so long so I’m wondering what the catch is.”

  “Ahh, right. Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I’ve been told I snore.”

  “Nothing a pair of earplugs won’t fix. Is that it?”

  She shuffles her chair a little closer and leans in.

  “Everyone has their secrets, Toby. That’s half the fun — unearthing those secrets.”

  Her answer is delivered with a wicked grin.

  “Now I’m definitely intrigued. How might a guy unlock those secrets?”

  “I’d recommend more Prosecco.”

  “That I can do.”

  I call across the table to Danny in the hope he’ll drag his attention away from Charlotte’s tits for a second. Eventually he looks over.

  “Same again?”

  “Sure. I’ll give you a hand.”

  We head to the bar and the inevitable question arrives before I can place our order.

  “So? How’s it going with Kayla?”

  “Way beyond my expectations. She’s amazing.”

  “Told you,” Danny replies with a know-it-all grin. “Charlotte said she’s a fun girl.”

  “And she is. Funny, smart, and you were definitely right on the looks front.”

  “See — nothing to worry about. It’s amazing what happens when you park that negativity.”

  I’m saved from answering as the barman approaches. I give him our order and turn back to Danny.

  “How’s it going with Charlotte, need I ask?”

  “Really well, mate. We might head off in an hour or so, if that’s okay with you?”

  “I don’t mind. Where are you going?”

  “My sock drawer needs rearranging back at the flat. Charlotte offered to help.”

  “I’m guessing that’s a euphemism, otherwise she’s in for an underwhelming end to the evening.”

  “You know me,” he grins.

  I do, and I know he’ll wake up tomorrow to find his sock drawer in the same state of disarray — much like his bedsheets.

  We collect our drinks and head back to the table. Danny gives me a wink before returning his attention to Charlotte.

  I place my pint on the table, along with a bottle of Prosecco.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” Kayla asks.

  “Not at all. I’m just keen to enjoy every minute of your company, and the bar is such a long way away.”

  “I like a pragmatic man; particularly one bearing wine. Thank you.”

  To show her appreciation, she leans forward and plants a kiss on my cheek. Her perfume is every bit as warm as her lips.

  As she sits back, I catch her eye and my heart skips a beat. I’ve only known this girl a few hours, and it might be fuelled by alcohol, but I can already sense a connection developing. I’m keen to know more about Kayla.

  “Do you want to play truth or dare?” I ask.

  “I’m game.”

  “And you know the rules: you can either give me an honest answer or accept a dare?”

  She pours herself a healthy measure of Prosecco and smiles.

  “Do your worst.”

  “Right, let’s start with something easy. What’s your favourite movie?”

  “I’ll take the question, and my answer is Forrest Gump. Yours?”

  “Love, Actually.”

  “Really? I didn’t have you down as the rom-com type.”

  I’m not, but one of the many dating tips Danny has bestowed over the years is to quote Love, Actually as your favourite movie on the basis he’s never met a woman who didn’t love it.

  “Guess I’m an old romantic at heart,” I reply, unconvincingly. “Um, next question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Biggest turn off?”

  “That’s easy. Small penises.”

  I almost splutter a mouthful of lager across the table.

  “Sorry … what?”

  She remains stony faced for several seconds before a snort of laughter escapes.

  “I’m kidding.”

  “You sod. For the record, though, I don’t have a small penis.”

  “Ohh, you don't?”

  “No. I have a micro-penis,” I reply flatly. “It’s genetic, I’m afraid. I come from a long line of poorly endowed men. Frankly, it’s a miracle I was even conceived.”

  Her expression appears trapped somewhere between dismay and disappointment. It would be cruel to leave her there.

  “Touché.”

  “You bastard,” she shrieks; playfully slapping my leg. “I believed you.”

  We continue to play our game until Danny and Charlotte interrupt us by announcing they’re off. It’s obvious from their body language they wish to continue the evening in more private surroundings. We bid them farewell and Kayla uses the break in play to visit the loo. I watch her skip away and smile to myself; a proper ear-to-ear smile. There was a time — just after I left Uni — when I smiled a lot, but then along came Gemma, and the depression, and all the woes of adulthood. I’ve missed smiling.

  Kayla returns and positions her chair as close to mine as possible.

  “Where were we?” she asks.

  “You were going to answer my question about your biggest regret.”

  “Oh yes. So I was.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s quite boring. Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course, but you could always do a dare if you’d rather not say.”

  “Daring me doesn’t work, Toby. I have no shame.”

  “None at all?”

  "Nope. Life is to be lived and if people don’t like the way I live my life, fuck ‘em.”

  “That’s a refreshing attitude.”

  “It’s who I am and, referring back to one of your earlier questions, my biggest turnoff is boring people. Can’t stand them.”

  I ponder her statement for a second.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m boring.”

  “T
hat remains to be seen,” she declares with a wide-eyed grin. “But so far you’re holding my interest.”

  The smile infers a tongue-in-cheek comment, but it scrapes the surface of my insecurities like fingernails across a blackboard.

  “Best I maintain my A-game then,” I reply with a half-smile.

  “I have every faith you will. Now, my turn to ask a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What’s the capital city of Canada?”

  “Err, Ottawa.”

  “Excellent. You’ve passed another test.”

  “What test?”

  “The general knowledge test. Come with me.”

  She grabs my hand, and her glass. Before I can argue I’m being dragged across the pub.

  “I spotted it on the way back from the toilet,” she says. “I can’t resist a quiz machine.”

  My previous bout of self-doubt dissolves with Kayla’s declaration. There’s no way I’d tell her, on account it’s nerdier than a Dr Who convention, but I was crowned Trivial Pursuits champion at Uni. This is my time to shine.

  I slip a pound coin into the slot, and to an accompaniment of flashing graphics and grating music I prepare for battle.

  The format of the quiz is similar to the TV show, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? but the developers clearly didn’t want to pay a licence fee, settling on a watered-down version and naming it Cash Ladder. Nevertheless, all that stands between us and a forty quid jackpot are fifteen multiple-choice questions.

  I turn to Kayla as the first question pops up. The question is so simple it barely warrants discussion but I don't wish to appear a control freak.

  “Do we need to confer?” I jest.

  “I think we’re okay.”

  Questions two and three are equally inane and we skip through them.

  “Have you noticed something about the questions?” Kayla comments.

  “They’re moronic?”

  “Well, yes, but they’re also Google-proof — you can’t just search for the answer on Google.”

  Question four proves her point. A picture of a middle-aged man flashes up on the screen with the question being: who is this?

  “See. No way of googling that and I have no idea who he is.”

  “It’s clever,” I reply with a wry smile. “But so am I. That’s Gabriel Macht.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He played Harvey Specter in the US show, Suits.”