Kismetology

by Jaimie Admans

  CHAPTER 18

  Alex, the one who’d left a message last night is early. Or I’m late. That would be more like it. The hostess leads me over to the table where he’s seated. Oh. Well, that’s weird. I think he must’ve sent his son.

  "Hi," I say cautiously.

  "Hey, are you Mackenzie?"

  I nod. "And you are?"

  "Alex. We spoke on the phone."

  "Alex," I repeat. "You’re Alex?"

  "Indeed I am."

  "But you’re… young."

  "Yes, you don’t mind do you? I thought your mother would like a toyboy."

  "Are you kidding me?" I say. I haven’t even sat down yet and I’m seething. I’m suddenly so mad that the proverbial red haze has descended across the entire restaurant.

  "Didn’t my ad explicitly state that I wanted someone forty-five to sixty, tops? And you’re what, thirty?"

  "Twenty-seven."

  "Twenty-seven. I'm older than you, and you expect me to set you up on a date with my mother?"

  "Chill, sweetums. An older woman always digs a younger guy. I’m doing you a favour, love. Now sit down and I’ll get you something to drink."

  "Are you serious? You’re two years younger than I am, and you expect to get a date with me or my mother?"

  Who does this guy think he is? Like I don’t have men messing me around enough, I get a child, literally, a twenty-seven year old child who evidently can’t read, responding to my ad and treating this whole thing like it’s some kind of big joke, when obviously it’s not. "I’ve never met anyone so arrogant in all my life." I wave my arms around to emphasise my point.

  "Whoa. Calm down, bitch. It was just a suggestion. Spark up the old granny’s love life, y’know."

  "What’s going on, Mac?" Dan asks, coming over. "Are you okay?"

  He has Max with him, obviously all the commotion I’m making has attracted them both. But I’m seriously pissed off.

  "Oh yeah, I’m fine," I say, waving my arms around some more. "But this," I point at him. "This, this is Alex. You know, Alex, the one I spoke to on the phone last night and thought he sounded young. As it turns out, he is." I let out a borderline hysterical laugh. "Look at him. Twenty-seven. Twenty-fucking-seven, he is, Dan. And he thinks that Eleanor would like a toyboy." I’m raging now, and I don’t care. "How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to take this seriously if half the men in Bristol think I’m a big joke?"

  "Shh, baby, calm down," Dan says, trying to wrap his arms around me.

  "Don’t ‘baby’ me," I yell at him. "What do you think I am, some kind of dog?"

  He holds up his hands. "So you met an asshole, so what?"

  "Hey!" Alex chimes in from the chair where he’s still sitting down.

  "You can shut up," I tell him quickly. "Who the hell do you think you are? Don’t talk to my boyfriend like that."

  "Your boyfriend works in the restaurant where you’re taking me on a date?"

  "I’m not taking you anywhere. You’re a horrible, horrible, little man. I hope you choke on your oysters." I don’t know where that came from because there are no oysters anywhere to be seen, but since Max is the fish guy, I’ll put it down to that. I look around for something to chuck at Alex. I wish there was a jug of water or something nearby, because it would look lovely cascading down his Armani jacket. Why do men that age go around with huge designer labels on their fronts? Do they really think it impresses women? Dimwits.

  I spy a glass of wine on the table next to me. The old man and woman occupying the table have stopped eating and are staring at me in horror. "Sorry," I say to them as I pick up her glass of red wine before anyone can stop me and tip it over Alex’s head.

  "There, that’s better," I say, thanking the woman as I place the empty glass back on her table.

  "Okay," Dan says in his domineering voice. "You," he points at Alex, "are paying for any damage, and then you’re barred from this restaurant."

  "But—" Alex goes to protest, but Dan leans forward wearing his most threatening face.

  "Or," Dan snarls. "We can take it outside."

  "Fine," Alex holds up his hands. "Fine. Crazy bitch."

  "Don’t call my girlfriend a bitch." Dan steps towards him. "Apologise now, or I’m going to get my meat cleaver."

  "Fine, sorry," Alex says huffily and stomps away.

  Dan rubs my shoulders. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah." I nod. "Sorry, I don’t know what came over me." I look around at the chair Alex pushed over in his rush to get out, currently lying in a puddle of red wine on the floor. "Sorry everyone," I say loudly to the other customers.

  "Men are useless twats," someone says in the background, and someone else contributes a "hear, hear."

  I smile.

  "Mac, come with me," Dan says.

  I follow him out to the kitchen. "Sorry," I say again. "This is just so frustrating."

  "I know," he says, and hugs me tight to him. "But it’ll get better. You’ll find someone great, I know you will."

  "I thought I was the one who had faith in this?"

  "Well, if your perseverance isn’t enough to convince me, then I don’t know what is."

  "Sorry about the mess," I say, suddenly fearing that he’s going to ban me from the premises.

  "Don’t worry," he says, obviously seeing straight through me. "All I could see was that guy in the wrong. You’re welcome here any time."

  You see? Being the girlfriend of the head chef rocks.

  CHAPTER 19

  After that little incident I don’t want to meet another guy ever again in my entire life, but there are messages waiting in my personal mailbox from the dating page, and they need responding to. I have to carry on. Or put up with a lifetime of plants killed by dog pee.

  "You can’t just give up, Mac," Dan says when we’re curled up on the sofa that night.

  "I know," I groan. "But it’s useless. There are two more messages in the mailbox, and one of them sounds like the missing link between the caveman and the monkey."

  "The other one?"

  I shrug. "Sounds like an old man."

  "How old?"

  "Well, today I met a twenty-seven year old, if I respond to this guy, I might be meeting a ninety-seven year old."

  Dan laughs.

  "Seriously, what is it with these guys who can’t read? Forty-five to sixty means forty-five to sixty, not nineteen to a hundred and two."

  "You should give them both the benefit of the doubt. Forget about being polite and nice to them. Take them to Belisana, if they’re useless, tell them that, then get up and walk out. Stop wasting your time talking to men you know aren’t gonna make the grade within the first five seconds. That way you won’t waste your evening on the missing link."

  I nod. Deciding to take his advice, I bite the bullet and dial the phone number of the missing link, seeing as I’m doing this first come first served. Besides, the other guy might have died of old age before I get around to replying to his message, and that would be one less date for me to go on.

  Missing Link doesn’t sound quite as inane on the phone, so I arrange for a seven o’clock dinner at Belisana the following night. Getting right back on the horse and all that. Or is that closing the stable door after the horse has bolted?

  The first thing I notice about him is that he’s the right age. At least, he’s not twenty-seven. This is a plus, and already puts him way ahead of the last date on the leader board.

  "Hi," he says. "I’m Len."

  "Mackenzie. Nice to meet you."

  He sits down without shaking my hand. This is good because his hands look kind of gnarly, and there is an unconfirmed substance lurking under his fingernails. Ugh. Bad hands are my number one off putter. Plus? He’s going on a pseudo date. He should be trying to impress me. Is it really too much to ask that a man be able to run a nail brush across the tips of his fingers? Even an exfoliating soap would do the trick.

  "So," he says, smiling so his yellow teeth stick out past his bottom
lip. Oh dear.

  "Your mother wants to date a stud like me, does she?"

  I pause. Is he being serious or should I laugh because he’s obviously making a joke? Stud? Yeah. Try toad. He has about the same number of warts.

  "So, what do you do for a living?" I ask, trying to avoid the stud question completely.

  "I’m on the dole," he announces proudly.

  "Really?"

  "Uh huh. Cool, huh? I get paid for sitting on my bum all day. Let the government cough up my paycheque."

  Again, I’m not sure whether he’s trying to be funny or is tragically deluded.

  "What do you want to order?" I ask, tapping the menu.

  "I don’t know. I don’t usually eat anywhere as expensive as this. I like a nice McDonalds."

  Oh wow. This guy just exudes class. But then again, if he’s on the dole, he probably can’t afford to eat somewhere like Belisana. I couldn’t afford it very often, if it wasn’t for the fact that Dan works here. I briefly wonder if I should cut this Len a break and tell him it’s on the house, but then I think better of it. I don’t want him ordering one of everything off the menu just to put in a doggy bag and eat for his lunch the rest of the week. Dan would kill me. So I keep my mouth shut. If he offers to pay then I’ll tell him not to bother. But from the way he’s salivating over the menu, I doubt he’s going to get that far. I swear I see drool on his chin.

  "What’s a breaded calamari?" He asks me.

  "It’s squid in breadcrumbs." I think that I should be more sympathetic towards him. I mean, it’s (probably) not his fault that he is on the dole. He would (probably) get a job if he could. I only know what calamari is because my boyfriend is a chef. I decide to be a bit softer on him.

  "You’d probably enjoy the mixed fish grill," I say.

  "Wooo-ah. Would you look at the price on that? Just for a piece of fish that I could go out and catch myself in the river?"

  I shrug. "It’s what they charge these days."

  "I guess I’ll go for that then. Can I share your dessert?"

  "Don’t worry about it," I say, trying that new softer outlook for size. "I’ll get an extra one for you." Now I feel bad for not telling him the whole thing is on the house.

  "Okay, cool."

  Thank you? No? Okay, cool. Okay, yeah. You’re a real charmer, you are. But no. I’m being sympathetic.

  "Do they accept change here?"

  "Change?" I ask, wondering what he means. Maybe he wants to go change into a Superman costume in a phone box. Or was that Wonder Woman? He wouldn’t fit in either anyway. The costume or the phone box. No room for a beer belly.

  "Y’know, change. Cash change."

  Cash change… Oh hell. Oh no. He’s not going to… Oh, yes he is. He bends over to a carrier bag that I’ve just noticed under his chair. He pulls it up between his legs like he has difficulty lifting it and thumps it down onto the table between us, knocking the single rose in a vase over. It makes such a thunking sound that the couple at the next table cast us a displeased look. I almost can’t bear to look, but I already know what’s in there. The jangling is a dead giveaway. How embarrassing. He’s not going to sit here and count it out, is he?

  Sure enough, I was right about the bag. I look inside nervously and, yes, it is full of coppers. All one pence and two pence pieces. So many that it’s nearly overflowing.

  "Damn," I say. "How much is in there?"

  "About twenty quid."

  "Twenty quid?" I ask disbelievingly.

  "I haven’t really counted it."

  "Twenty quid won’t get you far in a place like this," I say without really thinking about it.

  "It won’t?"

  I shake my head.

  "Shit. I left my chequebook at home, and I’m not allowed a credit card. And the bank is shut now so I can’t go in and get money out on my overdraft."

  "Don’t worry about it," I say, trying to be nice. "I’ll take care of it. I know the boss."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, sure. It’s no problem."

  But it is a problem, isn’t it, Len? I mean, who takes a woman on a date to a posh restaurant with a bag of copper pennies to pay? I do try, but to my surprise I find that I can’t really be angry with him. If it wasn’t for Jenni getting me my job, no matter how much I hate it, I could very well be in the same position as Len is in right now. And I most definitely wouldn’t be eating here if I actually had to pay for it. And if I had let him choose the restaurant, or even asked whether he minded Belisana, maybe he would’ve said no, and taken me somewhere more his scene. Granted, we’d probably be eating in Burger King right now, but still.

  "Order what you want," I tell him.

  "Thanks," he says.

  I’m still reluctant to tell him it’s free for us, because I don’t want to seem like I’m taking advantage of Dan, so I decide to leave it as it is. He can order his dinner and a nice dessert, and then he can go home and tell his mates about the great restaurant he ate in that didn’t serve fries and supersized drinks.

  CHAPTER 20

  Len obviously wasn’t going to get a date with my mum. I mean, I put up with him for the entirety of a whole hour, but that was only because I felt sorry for him. Next on the hit list is Old Guy. I speak to him on the phone and arrange a meeting the following night. I don’t like to blatantly come out and ask his age, but I prepare myself for a fright when I see him in person. The fright never comes. Old Guy is actually fifty-eight. He has a rough, gravelly voice, which may be the reason I thought he was a hundred years old.

  He is the perfect gentleman. I have my chair pulled out for me, and when I go to shake his hand, he takes mine and kisses it instead. Points for effort. Okay, so if someone my age had done that to me, I’d have run away screaming, but with Old Guy it’s kind of sweet. I guess it’s probably appropriate for someone of that generation, and I can see my mum melting on the spot when he does it to her. In fact, I should probably rename him Not Quite So Old Guy. Or Nick, seeing as that’s his name.

  "Nicholas," he says. "But call me Nick, it makes me sound younger."

  I smile. I hear "call me Eleanor, Mum is for old people" in my head, and think that maybe I have found a match.

  "So what do you do, Nick?" I ask.

  "I’m a doctor," he says. "A GP. How about you?"

  I wonder if the whole possibly coming home with deadly diseases every day aspect would put Mum off.

  "I’m a nail technician," I say.

  "That’s intriguing," he says. "I bet you see some horrible fungi and infections in that line of work. I’ve always thought anybody who worked in that industry should be on par with doctors and nurses."

  Okay. Points for the on par comment. Subtracting said points for bringing up fungus at the dinner table.

  Nick smiles, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sorry, I should talk about something else while we’re eating."

  Points re-added for being perceptive.

  "What do you like to do?" I ask him. "For fun?" I worry that I still seem too businesslike, but this guy is a good possibility so far.

  "I like to go driving, and I love to walk and play golf."

  What is it about golf lately? This is the second golfer I’ve met. This one doesn’t have a personalised golf course in his backyard though. Probably.

  "Do you like animals?"

  He nods. "I would love to have a dog of my own, but I work nine to five and sometimes an emergency or two outside hours, I don’t think it would be fair of me to have a pet and not give it the proper attention it deserves."

  "Eleanor has a Yorkie," I say.

  "Oh, the little ones? They’re very cute."

  Okay, now I’m just waiting for the catch. The fatal flaw. In a minute he’s going to tell me that he’s a bigamist and has ten wives scattered around the country or something.

  "So," I say, wanting to get the truth out now. "How come a catch like you is still single?"

  "I was married," he admits. "But we were very young, too young e
vidently, and we ended up getting divorced. It just fizzled out. She was always working, I was always working, and the only time we saw each other ended up being at the school parent meetings."

  And there it is. "You have kids?"

  "Just one. She’s about your age. Thirty-one in August."

  I’m about to protest that I am not thirty-one, or in any vicinity of that age, but he continues talking.

  "She lives in Paris now, she’s married but refuses to give me any grandkids. We only see each other at Christmas, and for occasional summer holidays. She’s busy working for some fashion designer or other. I forget the name."

  Okay, so I know Eleanor doesn't want to date men with kids, but I wonder if it’s really that big a deal. I mean, she lives in Paris. Paris, France. And he never sees her. Practically never anyway. And she’s older than me, with a husband and a life of her own. It’s not like she’s going to be some spoilt little brat who’s going to play the wicked stepmother card. And how cool would it be to have a stepsister who lives in Paris and is some sort of major fashion designer. Or can at least get me a discount on one’s advance ranges. Did I mention that I would love a holiday in Paris?

  I suddenly feel very Carrie Bradshaw. It’s like I am talking to Aleksandr Petrovsky. Without the Russian part, obviously. And he’s a doctor, not an artist. I can picture myself being the American Girl in Paris. But British, instead. And Dan could play Mr Big, and come storming through hotel lobbies to find me. But he’d need to be six inches taller and I’d have to buy him a long, black coat, and hope it made him look like Mr Big, and not Angel.

  Okay, so it’s not me I’m trying to find a date for. But Mum could do the Paris thing just as easily. I could just tag along for the ride.

  Okay, enough, I tell myself. No getting caught up in the superficial things like with Joel the Millionaire. If the doctor is getting a date, it’s because he’s a nice, compatible guy. Not because he has connections to the most elite European city.

  And he actually is a very nice guy, and he is getting a date. He tells me to get Mum to choose the restaurant, and he’ll pick her up the following night at nine. That’s all well and good, but there is one thing I have to do first.