I once again arrange for him to come by our house before picking Eleanor up. I immediately present him with a bunch of peonies. Well, they got a second date the last time, why won’t it work again?
"You have to impress her." I lecture him. "Don’t let her know that I gave you the flowers, but she’s going to suspect something if you don’t tell her that you asked me what her favourites were. Call her as soon as you get home tonight and tell her that you had a nice time on the date and you’d love to do it again sometime. If you really want to make an impact on her, tell her she looks young, and you’re surprised she’s forty-nine and not thirty-nine. And make sure you tell her you love cats, and little dogs. She’ll just love that. Good luck!" I wave him off with a pat on the back. Bonus points for the nice car he’s driving as well.
"You did what?" I yell at my mother when she comes home from the date with Barry.
"I told you—"
"Don’t put that… that… that thing down on my floor!" I yell. "It’s already killed one plant."
"He’s not an it, he’s a him. And he’s my Baby."
"I don’t care if he’s a flying giraffe, how could you have taken him on a date with you?" I am nearly spitting the words out in horror. "Dressed as a dinosaur, no less." I glare at the dog, even though I know it isn't his fault.
"It's not just any old dinosaur, it's a Triceratops outfit. And I did tell you to show them a photo, Mackenzie, and you said no. How am I supposed to know if I can date a man if he doesn’t get along with my dog? Introducing them up front is the best way."
"But Barry was taking you to a really nice restaurant tonight. They don’t allow dogs in really nice restaurants."
"I know. We went and sat outside Starbucks instead. It was very nice. I even had a doughnut."
"You could have been having a three course meal by candlelight, and you opt for a skinny latte and a doughnut, all because of a damn dog?"
"He’s not just a damn dog, Mackenzie. This is my—"
"Let me guess," I interrupt. "Your Baby?"
"My Baby."
I sigh, knowing that I am losing this battle.
"So, aside from the dog part, how did it go? What did Barry say to you bringing a dog on your first date?"
"Oh, he was very nice about it. He didn’t mind at all."
"Well, that’s something," I reluctantly admit. "When will you be seeing him again?"
"I won’t."
Oh, for god’s sake. "You won’t? I thought you said he was very nice about it?"
"He was."
"So? Why no more dates?"
"Baby doesn’t like him."
"Baby doesn’t like him." I repeat the sentence very slowly, as if repeating it might make it seem more real. "Did Baby tell you that?" I ask, incredulously.
"No. He just bit him."
"He bit him?"
"Oh, not much. Just his shoe. And a bit of trouser leg. And he maybe had a little bit of ankle as well, but Barry was very nice about it."
I throw my hands up in the air and walk across the kitchen. I want to bang my head against a brick wall. I am not only trying to find a date in the useless sea of never ending freaks, but now I am hindered by a dog as well. I’m blocked in from all sides. It’s like fate is telling me that this just isn’t meant to be.
"Mum, you can’t keep doing this."
"Please call me Eleanor, Mac. Don’t you think I feel old enough?"
I ignore the question. "Fine. Eleanor. You can’t keep doing this. You’re not trying. You have to give these men more of a chance."
"I am giving them a chance. But I can’t keep dating them if Baby doesn’t like them. He actually growled at Barry."
"He growls at everyone."
"Not at everyone. He doesn’t growl at people he likes."
"He growls at me all the time."
"Well, he hardly ever gets to see you anymore. He probably thinks you’re a stranger."
"I wish I were," I say under my breath.
"I heard that."
I sigh. "I’m serious, Mu—Eleanor. These guys are good catches in amongst a sea of pillocks that you don’t even want to hear about. I’m not just setting you up with anyone who comes along. I’m working really hard to make sure they’re your type and that they’re compatible. They’re not just any old guys, they’re the cream of the crop." I stop myself there, that very thought making me extremely depressed indeed. Is that really it? Are guys who are cat people, and guys who have more money than sense and absolutely no chemistry with my mother really as good as it gets? Maybe I should just give up now, resign myself to the fact that my mum is always going to interfere in my life and put up a bed in the spare room so she has somewhere comfortable to sleep while she does it.
"I know you are, Mackenzie," she sighs. "But my Baby is important to me, and any guy has to get along with him."
I feel my resolve softening. Honestly, I’m tired and I don’t feel like fighting anymore, and I certainly don’t feel like dating anymore. But I can’t give up yet. I know I can’t.
Especially as I bought an entire year’s subscription to Cupid-Waits.com.
CHAPTER 24
Okay, so putting up a profile and sitting on my hands didn’t bring in any results. It’s time to get serious. It’s time to get proactive. I’ll search the site myself.
"Wow," Dan says, looking over my shoulder at the profile on screen. "Forty-five? He’s hoping, isn’t he?"
"You don’t think he’s forty-five?"
"Look at him. He’s sixty if he’s a day."
I laugh. "I was going to email him, he sounds nice."
"If he thinks he can get away with being forty-five then he’s obviously delusional."
"Okay, what about this one then?"
Dan reads it out. "I’m a shy fifty-two year old who would love to meet a female who enjoys animals, long walks on the beach, and gardening."
"Does that ‘animals’ mean he likes animals or he’s in to bestiality?"
Dan laughs.
"It might be worth a try, I suppose." I add him to the list of possibilities. "Read this, Dan. Can you believe this guy?"
"I am one of the most romantic and sweet blokes alive. I don’t have to be modest about that. I am a very nice person. I’ll always listen to what you’re saying, as long as I haven’t heard it before. I am a sensitive person. A VERY SENSITIVE PERSON. I’ve been known to cry (when I’m drunk. LOL) I am implicitly trustworthy. TRUSTWORTHY. I am not VIOLENT. It’s not that I can’t be violent, it’s just that I choose not to be. I am such a nice man. I don’t think it’s a bad thing not to be modest about that. Most women say they want a nice man, and here I am, saying that I am a nice man, honestly. I’m also considered very nice looking. And I am TRUSTWORTHY and NON-VIOLENT. You should remember that."
"Is it just me, or is there something incredibly not trustworthy or sensitive about a person who doesn’t believe in modesty and has to shout about it in capital letters?"
Dan is laughing.
Seriously, who told men that women like this kind of bragging? I would never email a guy with an ad like that. Would any woman? Is there any woman on earth who would think that guy is actually being honest? The fact that he says "I am not violent," (in capital letters, no less) would put me off straight away. I mean, it’s a natural assumption that a majority of men aren’t violent anyway. You don’t need to announce it to the world in caps lock. And repeat it. Along with the trustworthy and sensitive parts. It’s a pretty safe bet that any guy who has to tell you he's trustworthy and sensitive numerous times in caps lock probably isn’t either of those things.
"Read this one," Dan says when he’s finished laughing.
"Rock star wannabe seeks Pamela Anderson look-a-like. Blonde hair necessary, or be willing to bleach it. DD cup size and over only."
"Who do these men think they are?" I ask. "Do they think the internet is like a drive through and they can just put their orders in and collect at the other end?"
Some of the prof
iles I’m reading are horrible. I wonder if the men who placed them will soon be hassling Cupid-Waits for their money back because they’ve got no dates. It’s pretty much a given that no woman is ever going to respond to these fine examples.
"No lies. I have long hair, tattoos and a beer belly. I’m a fifty-one year old male. If you like the straightforward approach, then approach me. I won’t bite unless you ask me to." I’m glad he clarified his gender, because I was really beginning to think that he was a long haired, tattooed, beer bellied female.
"I’m a fit and healthy forty year old male, and I would like to find a disabled female to spend the rest of my life with." Doesn’t even justify a comment.
"Fifty seven-year old dad of nine children. I’m looking for a mother to have my tenth child." There you go, a "here’s one I made earlier" family, right out of the box.
"I’m too good to be true. Fifty-one, caring, romantic, sensitive, sexy, funny, six foot five. And everything is in proportion, if you know what I mean." Clearly your height is in proportion to your ego.
"My body is the eighth wonder of the world, and the eighth deadly sin put together. I want one lucky female to share it with." I should imagine you’re also the eighth biggest jerk in the country, seeing as I’ve already met the other seven of them.
"I’m Tarzan to your Jane. I want vine swinging, rope climbing, mind blowing sex and more." I wonder if he turns up on dates wearing only a leaf? That is, providing he ever gets any dates, obviously.
"I’m a nineteen year old student, and I want a sixty plus grey haired woman for a serious relationship." Can we all say mother issues?
"I’m forty-five years old, cute, and I want to meet a forty year old, red headed, blue eyed, size ten lady with a C cup size. Nothing else will be considered." They really put those orders in, don’t they?
But there is a light at the end of the internet tunnel. Possibly. There are some semi-decent sounding profiles that I’ve read through and sent messages to.
"Dog lover, fifty-seven. I want to meet a fifty to sixty aged female, to wine, dine and enjoy life with."
"Heart of gold male, fifty-two. I like watching DVDs, musical theatre, and long walks in the countryside. I want a lovely lady of a similar age to share these things with."
"I’m a fifty-six year old farmer seeking a wife. Nice house and lots of land are yours if you are an easy going, animal lover." Apart from bringing back many memories of the primary school song "The Farmer Wants a Wife" this one sounds pretty promising.
"Youthful but mature fifty-year-old, seeks a woman for fun and commitment. Race/age/size/looks unimportant." With all the other ads demanding size tens with DD cups, it’s nice to read one who realises it doesn’t matter.
"Lonely fifty year old, shy at first but easy going and good company, seeks similar female for a serious relationship."
"Worldly male, sixty-three, seeks an outgoing fifty to sixty year old for companionship and company on many trips abroad." Not to sound cruel or anything, but how many trips is that exactly? I mean, if Eleanor is abroad, she’s not going to be popping round at Eastenders time, right?
"Hopeless romantic fifty year old seeking my soul mate. I’m a laid back animal lover with a dry sense of humour, five cats and four dogs." You see? Couldn’t be more perfect if he tried.
Seven. A whole seven possibilities. At least one has got to warrant a second, and possibly even third, date. Haven’t they? Admittedly some sound better than others. Like the hopeless romantic with a large collection of dogs and cats. I hope he emails me back. He sounds good. I have a good feeling about this one.
CHAPTER 25
The first guy responds almost immediately. This is "Dog lover, fifty seven. I want to meet a fifty to sixty year old female, to wine, dine and enjoy life with." I don’t waste any time in setting up a date. I’m getting desperate here, and this one is as promising as any.
The following night I'm in Belisana, and this is the first of a string of dates I’ve got scheduled this week. Five of the seven guys emailed back within a few hours. I have one set for tomorrow night, one on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday are free, then another date on Friday, and the "hopeless romantic" next Saturday. I still have an unexplainable good feeling about him.
But, tonight is "dog lover," bound to go down well with my mum.
"Hello." He smiles and stands up when I reach the table. "I’m Russ."
"Mackenzie," I say, shaking his proffered hand.
He looks a little like Rob Lowe, but older and with more grey hair. I realise that I am not being very successful when it comes to finding men with my mother’s preferred tall and blond looks, but what does she expect me to do? I just have to hope that if the right guy comes along, Mum won’t mind if he doesn’t look like Kevin Costner.
"I like this place," Russ says, as the waitress leaves with our orders. "I’ve been here a few times."
I nod. "It’s very cosy."
"Yeah."
"So," I say. "Have you had many responses to your profile on the website?"
"Two. Three including you."
"And it didn’t work out?"
"One only got as far as email, and even though I did meet the other one, she was witty and very funny online, and as it turned out, dull as dishwater in real life."
"Oh dear."
"Indeed. But I did meet someone last night. A friend of mine had a dinner party, and there was this woman there. I’d never seen her before, but my friend said she’d just moved in across the street from him, so he invited her because she doesn’t know anyone in the area yet."
"Oh right," I say, wondering where this is going. "So, did you talk to her?"
"Briefly. I was a little nervous, but I managed to refill her drink and give her my business card. I offered to give her a tour of Bristol so she didn’t get lost."
"Did she take you up on it?"
"She just smiled and thanked me. I’m not sure she speaks the language very well. I think she was Spanish."
Ah, so he got blown off the night before.
"So, where do you work?" He asks, changing the subject for me.
"I’m a nail technician," I say. "I work at a salon about twenty minutes away."
"The woman at the party had beautiful nails. They were painted red with white bits on them. I think the white bits were meant to be flowers."
"Do you know her name?" I ask, realising that he obviously isn’t done with this topic yet.
"No." He shakes his head sadly. "I never found out."
I nod in a way that I hope is sympathetic.
"How about you?" I ask, trying to get the topic of conversation away from the red-nailed Spanish Seductress. "What do you do for a living?"
"I’m an investment banker. It’s pretty boring though. Everything in my life was boring until last night."
I wonder if this is quite possibly the strangest conversation to ever take place on a date.
I try for a change of topic again. "So, your profile says that you’re a dog lover. Do you have any of your own?"
He shakes his head.
"My mother has one," I say in an attempt to remind him that he is actually on a date here. "A little Yorkshire terrier. Friendly little thing." It will not bite your ankles, honest.
"I wonder if the lady at the party has a dog. She seemed like she might be a dog person. You know that vibe you get from people who love dogs?"
I nod my head, even though I know it wasn't really a question. He’s not concentrating on me anyway. I think he’s kind of forgotten that I’m here.
"Yeah, she seemed like a little dog person," Russ is saying. "She was so beautiful. I can just picture her with a little dog in her handbag.
"Eleanor carries her dog in a handbag."
"Who’s Eleanor?"
I sigh. "My mother. You know, the woman we’re trying to figure out if you’re compatible with."
"Oh yes, right. Sorry."
"Look," I say. "You’re obviously hung up on this Spanish lady."
"Yes." He nods. "It was just like that boom, you know? The thunderbolt. Ka-boom." He smacks his hands together and makes me jump.
"Do you want my advice?" I ask.
"Yes, please."
"Did you get her number?"
He shakes his head.
"You said she moved in across the road from your friend. Why don’t you go there, get your friend to show you which house, go and knock and invite her out for dinner right now?"
"Really? Do you think she’ll go with me?"
"If you don’t ask, you’ll never know."
"What about you? I must be giving you such a bad impression of myself. I really thought your mother sounded great, but I don’t know what’s gotten in to me since I met this woman last night."
"It’s called love at first sight," I say. "But go on, go and find her. Forget about my mother. I hope you’ll be happy."
"You’re good at this. You should charge people for this. I bet you set all your friends up."
"No," I say. "And so far I’m hugely unsuccessful at setting my own mother up."
"I’m sorry," he says. "I really am. I’ve wasted your time tonight."
"Not at all," I say. "Good luck with the Spanish lady, I’m sure you’ll be very happy together."
"Thank you." He kisses my hand as he leaves the table, and I sit there for a while, staring after him. For some reason I can’t be angry with him. I should be. I should be offended by the fact he’d come on a date with me while desperately wishing he was out with someone else, but really, isn’t finding love more important? I know what he means about the thunderbolt but I can't say I've ever felt it, not even with Dan. I’m not about to try to deny anybody else the opportunity to have that love. There’s nothing more rewarding that seeing a couple happy together, and if Russ was hung up on some other woman, there’s no way he’s meeting my mother anyway. I just hope the Spanish Seductress likes him.
Kismetology Page 10
