"I’m sorry," I say. "I’m really not here to talk about me. Besides, what’s so good about accounting?"
"I’m a valued member of my team. I’m up for a promotion next month. What are your promotion opportunities like? You graduate from painting a flower to painting a tree or something?"
"Aren’t you about retirement age? What good is a promotion to you?" That’s right, Mac. Get him on the age thing, where it really hurts.
He laughs. A horrible, fake laugh that is directed at me. "Yeah," he scoffs. "We both know how young I look. Even you, Miss Nail Technician, can’t deny that I look forty at the oldest. I have good genes."
"Yes, but horrible fingernails," I cast them a disgusting look.
"Like anyone cares about fingernails. I bet you’ve never been on a date where a guy has taken one look at you and gone, ‘Wow, look at those fingernails.’"
"Actually, I have—"
"Yeah, but you’re a nail technician."
"And you’re an asshole. Thank you for your time."
I get up to leave.
"Stupid Jane Austen bitch," he calls after me.
Jane Austen bitch? I assume he means that chivalry is something from Jane Austen’s time, but I’m not staying to find out.
I look around for a waitress and catch Holly’s eye. She winks at me (but somehow manages it with her mouth closed, unlike Mr. Accountant over there.) I take the wink to mean that Andy will be getting a dose of laxative tonight.
CHAPTER 15
"Hello?" I pick up the phone when it rings.
"Hi, can I speak to Mackenzie Atkinson, please?"
"Speaking."
"Hi, this is David. You left a message replying to my personal ad. Sorry I haven’t got back to you sooner, I’ve been out of the country on business. Are you still looking for a date for your mother?"
Ah, this is Guy Number Two—"Divorced male, 55, WLTM an outgoing 45-55 year old lady who loves animals and spending time outdoors."—the one that sounded most promising. I can definitely give him a chance, especially as he has a legitimate excuse as to why it’s been two weeks since I left my message for him.
"Hi," I say. "Good to hear from you."
"You too. I was worried that I’d left it too late."
"No, no. Not at all."
He sounds nice on the phone, and we arrange to meet two nights later at Belisana.
I think it must be a sign from fate when we arrive at exactly the same time. I’m standing behind him in the queue to get in, and when he gets up to the hostess and gives my name, she recognises me by now and just points behind her. We laugh about it for a while. Is it overly optimistic of me to believe that fate is on my side with this one? After all the idiots, shouldn’t one be nice? Even normal would do. I’ll even settle for just non-mutant at this point.
"I like your hair," David says as we sit down. "Very lively."
"Thank you," I say. "I’ve never heard lively before. Messy or curly, yes. But not lively."
He smiles. Nice smile. Real teeth. Always a bonus. I wonder if Phil has had his veneers put on yet.
"So, what do you do for a living, Mackenzie?" He asks me.
"I’m a nail technician," I say.
"Wow. Cool."
Wow, cool? Well, that’s an improvement on the Andy guy.
"How about you?" I ask.
"I’m a police officer. That’s where I’ve been for the past two weeks—away on a training course. In Belgium."
"That sounds interesting."
"Yes." He smiles. "Yes, it was quite."
"Did you get many responses to your ad?"
"Nope, just you. Apparently divorced men are out of fashion these days."
I laugh. Sense of humour—point one.
"I don’t believe that," I say. "I thought your ad sounded great."
"That’s good to know. So, Mac, tell me about your mum."
"Eleanor," I correct him, thinking she’d be devastated if she thought of men calling her a mother. "She’ll be fifty in June, and she loves animals and the outdoors, just like you. I think you’d get on really well."
And I really do. Unless he makes some vast, unforgivable mistake during the next half hour, he’s in there.
"So, David?" I say to Mum when she gets back from that date the following night.
"No."
"Just no?"
"Just no."
"But he likes animals and outdoorsy stuff. And he looks a bit like Mel Gibson with more hair."
"No. Thanks, but no."
I sigh in frustration. He was my last option, and honestly, the responses haven’t really been promising enough to go through it all again with different ads.
"Mum, I don’t think you’re really trying here. Are you even giving these men a chance?"
"He said he doesn’t like little yappy dogs."
"Oh." Definitely a no go there, then. Why didn’t I ask him if he had any preference as to breeds of dog that were acceptable? Or perhaps I should’ve been tipped off by the fact he said he owned two Dobermans.
"Okay," I say. "A deal breaker is a deal breaker. I’ll find someone else."
"Someone who likes Baby. You should take a photo along to show them."
"I don’t think so," I say, horrified by the mere thought of presenting a photo of my mother’s Yorkie in the middle of a dinner date.
"Suit yourself. But don’t expect me to like a man who won’t like my Baby."
"I wouldn’t dream of it." If she notices my sarcasm, she doesn’t say anything.
CHAPTER 16
Out of all the personal ads I responded too, the only one who didn't call back was Cruise Guy—the Norah Jones fan. I find five out of six responses a pretty good average, which is why I am even contemplating the madness that I am right now. I have the phone in my hand, and I’m about to call in my very own advert. It can’t hurt to try, right? How bad can it be?
"Date my mother! Seeking a 45-60 yr old male to date my 49 yr old, animal-loving mother. She’s fun, friendly, and loves outdoor activities."
Okay, so it’s not perfect, but it’ll do. Let’s see if we get any responses. There is one thing that worries me though: Would men really jump through that many hoops just to meet a woman? And how desperate would they have to be to do so? Does it mean that they’re so repulsive they’ve been unable to get a date the normal way and are resulting to desperate measures?
The ad comes out in Thursday’s newspaper, and I wait with baited breath. I flick straight to the dating page, and wow, would you look at that. We’re the third ad down the list in the first column of Women Seeking Men. Prime positioning. That should generate some replies.
Sure enough, when I call in to my message box after work on Thursday night, there is a grand total of one message. Oh. That’s quite disappointing. But maybe all single men are in work today, and they won’t read the paper until they get home. Yeah. That’s better. I listen to my message.
"Hi, this is Jim. I saw your ad in the paper and think it’s lovely that you’re placing personal ads on your mother’s behalf. She sounds great. I’d love to meet her."
Even though he sounds a little nervous on the message, I think that may be an endearing quality. Or maybe I’m just getting really desperate for Mum to find a guy she likes. If I don’t come up with the goods soon, she might give up on me. Jim has left his phone number and I give him a call straight away.
Because it’s not me that I’m finding a date for, I don’t waste a lot of time on the phone. If it was for me, I’d get to know them a bit first before arranging to meet, but I figure that it’s at Belisana, it’s safe and the waitresses will do something horrible if the guy is an asshole, it’s easier just to go meet the guy. You can tell a lot more about someone in person, anyway.
Like the person I’m meeting the following night at Belisana.
He’s there before me, but I know I’m on time, which makes him super on time. Enthusiasm is good, so I’m impressed. He stands up to greet me, and superficially, he’s pretty mu
ch exactly what I want. He’s tall and slim, with very sparkly blue eyes. I guess he’s around the early fifties age group. I didn’t ask him how old he was. I figure that if it’s not polite to ask a woman her age, then it probably isn’t polite to ask a man either. He has a mass of wavy, grey hair though. Okay, I know my mother wants blond, but there can’t be that many naturally blond, fifty-something men left in the world. If there are then they don’t congregate in Bristol.
"You must be Jim." I shake his hand as he holds it out.
"Yes." He smiles. "You’re Mackenzie?"
I nod.
"What a pretty name."
"Thank you."
"This is a nice place," he says as he picks up a menu. "I’ve never been here before."
"So, Jim. Tell me about yourself. What do you do for work? What are your hobbies?" I hope I don’t sound too abrupt. I don’t mean to, but these dates are proving fruitless, and if the guy is going to turn out to be the biggest prat in the world, then I’d rather know now.
"Okay, straight down to business." He laughs. "I get that. Okay, well, I’m a fireman. It’s a crazy job, but so rewarding."
My ears prick up at that. I love a man in uniform, and you can’t beat a fireman’s uniform. Even if the guy in question is fifty-something. Not that I’m looking for me or am even the slightest bit attracted to him, but stick a guy—any guy—in a fire fighter uniform and he’ll look attractive even if he’s ninety.
I feel like a bit of a pervert to even be having these thoughts. What’s the opposite of a cradle snatcher? A wheelchair snatcher? Or a Zimmer frame snatcher?
"Hobbies?" I ask. "Interests?"
I can hear myself talking and I know I sound a little bit too much like I’m conducting a job interview. I feel like I should be shuffling papers on a desk and wearing a business suit. Maybe I should just ask every guy I meet to come into my office and bring a CV and two references with him. Okay, so I don’t have an office, and "nail bar" doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. But these guys are getting tiring, and I don’t want to sit here for an hour and chat to them if it’s obvious they’re not suitable within the first five minutes. Or five seconds in the worst case scenario.
"I like to fish. And I like to garden. And I have a horrible confession to make." He leans forward so I’ll listen to him.
Oh no. He’s some sort of perverted freak who likes sado-masochism clubs or something, isn’t he?
"I like to watch soaps."
Watch soaps. It takes a while for his words to register in my brain. Soaps. Is that some kind of double meaning that implies he likes shoving bars of soap into places that weren’t designed to accommodate soap?
"You know, like Emmerdale, Eastenders," he continues.
"Oh!" I’m relieved. "Those kind of soaps."
"What kind did you think I meant?"
Well, how am I supposed to know what kind he meant? He could’ve been some sort of soap spotter. Like a train spotter, but with bars of soap. He could’ve been going around Tesco ticking off bars of soap as they pass by. Really there are many different ways to interpret "I like to watch soaps."
Or maybe I really am cracking up.
"I thought… Never mind. Soaps. That’s brilliant," I say. And it is. A man who likes watching soaps? A rare find. He’s just won himself a date with Eleanor. Well, provided he behaves himself for the rest of the date. I begin to relax a little. I mean, really, how bad can a guy who’s a fan of The Dingles be?
"So tell me about your mother."
"Eleanor," I correct him. "She’s been lonely lately, and I just thought it would be a great idea if I could find her a nice guy to date. But she’s a lovely lady. She likes walking and swimming, and she loves her animals. You do like dogs, don’t you?"
"Yep, I have a Springer Spaniel."
"Eleanor has a Yorkie, is that all right?"
"All right? Am I supposed to have an objection?"
I shrug. "Well, the last guy wasn’t so accommodating."
"The last guy? Have you been doing this long?"
"No, I just want to make sure that the guy is good enough for my mother. Nothing personal or anything, but she hasn’t dated for a long time, and I don’t want to be setting her up with The World’s Greatest Moron."
"So, this is kind of like a job interview. Do I pass the test?"
"Actually, I’m pretty sure you do. If you watch Eastenders, then I’m pretty sure I won’t find better than you."
"Whew. That’s good to know."
"When are you free to meet?"
"Anytime. Just name the place."
We arrange a time and place. He’s taking her to an Italian restaurant in town, tomorrow night at eight.
CHAPTER 17
When I get home there is a message from another guy called Alex. I decide to not call him back until after tomorrow night, when I find out whether Eleanor’s date with Fireman Jim is a yay or a nay.
"It’s strange seeing you on dates with all these men," Dan says when he gets home that night. "I think I’m a little jealous."
"Jealous of creepy men twice your age?" I ask. "Aww, I’m touched."
He smiles. "It’s just that I never seem to take you out anywhere, you know. Because I work in a restaurant, I don’t want to spend my nights off sitting in one. It feels like ages since we went on a date."
It is ages since we went on a date, but I don’t tell him that. "I’m kind of up to my eyeballs in dates right now, Dan," I say instead. "I like curling up on the sofa with you. Who wants more than that?"
Who, indeed? I wonder…
"And it’s a bit of a luxury nowadays, isn’t it? Usually we’d have your mother over watching Coronation Street, and suddenly she’s occupied with all these dates," he adds.
"You see? It’s good for something, even if I’m not finding the love of her life."
"Yeah, but she’s already met the love of her life," Dan says. "With your dad. And they broke up. It’s never going to be that easy the second time around."
"Dan, that’s it!" I jump up suddenly, light bulb pinging in my brain. "I’m not looking for the love of her life. I’m looking for the second love of her life. I’m expecting too much. I’m expecting there to be instant chemistry, when maybe at their age they have to work at it more."
"You’re saying old people can’t fall in love?"
"No, but maybe it’s not going to be the same the second time around, and they’re expecting it to be. Look at us, Dan. You and me, with the thunder bolt, and the knowing we had something special here from the first kiss."
"We hated each other for a year."
"Yeah, but after the year, it was pretty special, right? And I can’t imagine it ever being the same again if I was to fall in love with another guy. Can you?"
"I have no plans of falling in love with another guy."
"Oh, stop being awkward. You know what I mean. Love won't be exactly the same the second time as it was the first time."
"I guess…" He answers slowly, like he’s making sure to give the correct answer.
"Right. And what I’m saying is that most of the men Mum’s meeting are divorced as well. They’re all fifty-ish, right? By that time in your life, you’ve generally been in love, and for one reason or another, you’ve lost that love. Surely, nobody can be as open to it as they were the first time round? What if the men I’m choosing are like Mum and they’ve been single for years, and they’re used to living on their own, and they’re just dating because they feel they should do? Or maybe because they don’t want to wake up one morning at seventy and still be alone? Or, possibly, because their kids are pressuring them into it."
"What about widowers?"
"Nah. At least with divorced guys, you know they got divorced for a reason. Whatever reason. They fell out of love with their wives and they split up. With a widower, they’re still in love with the dead wife. They’d still be happily married if something hadn’t have happened to her."
"Unless he killed her."
"I
s this hypothetical?"
"Yeah."
"Then he’d be in jail. I hope. Because I don’t want to be dating axe murderers."
"So, what are you saying?"
"I’m saying that they all have to try harder. Both Mum and the men I set her up with. They have to be prepared to work at it, not just go on one date and say, ‘Meh. It’s not gonna work.’"
"How do you intend to make that happen?"
I shrug. "I don’t know. Just talk to them about it, I guess. Make sure they’re ready for dating."
I don’t have a good feeling about Fireman Jim. How much do I wish his name was Sam, though? Fireman Sam would sound so much better. But I might be wrong about the name, but I’m right about the feeling.
"No," my mum says on the phone that night.
"Okay," I say, already resigned to the fact that this one isn't going to work out. I know she’s losing enthusiasm fast because she didn’t even bother to come round to our house after this date. She’s just phoned up instead. I have to come up with a good guy, and fast.
"Any particular reason why it’s a thumbs down to this one?" I ask.
"He’s a fireman. I could never date a fireman. I’ve seen Ladder 49, where the weirdly named Phoenix guy gets stuck in a burning building. I could never spend every day waiting for that fire chief to tell me my husband had died."
"Oh," I say. "Anything else?"
"No, other than that, he was lovely. I’ve never met a man who enjoys Corrie before."
"Me neither," I sigh wearily. "So, are there any other careers that are off limits?"
"No," she says on the other end of the line. "Just nothing where they risk their lives every day. Yes, I know they’re the heroes of the country, but not to the families who have to bury their bodies. Just no job where he’s going to come home in a coffin at the end of the day."
I nod then realise she can’t see me through the phone. I’m about to admit this when I realise that I might give her the idea of running out to buy a video phone, and we really don’t need that. "Yes," I say instead. "I’ll talk to you in the morning."
Kismetology Page 7
