"Oh yes, it’s stressful but very rewarding."
"Do you have children of your own?"
"No," he smiles. "I work with more than enough."
I nod. "I get that."
"So, Mackenzie—pretty name, by the way—are you religious at all?"
"No," I say, thinking that is quite a strange question to ask within two minutes of meeting someone.
"I could help you, you know. Jesus saves. You just have to talk to me and Jesus will save your soul."
Oh no. "You’re not a… You are, aren’t you? Are you a… God botherer?" I spit the last two words out. "And you seemed so normal."
He looks pointedly at my left hand. "Unmarried, I see. I hope you don’t have promiscuous sex. Sex before marriage is a sin, you know. But at least I got to you early. It’s not too late. I can save your soul. You wouldn’t want to go to purgatory, would you?"
"You know what?" I say. "Personally, I would very much like to go home. But I have a client who I would like you to meet. She’s a sinner like no other. Oh, you’ll have a field day trying to save her soul. Can I get your contact number? I’ll give you a ring and set up a date."
He gives me his phone number. "I’d really like to talk to you about how good God is, and all the things He can do for you if you just believe."
"Yeah. You know, I think you should just write me off as unsaveable. You concentrate your efforts on the client I’m going to set you up with. Now she needs to hear a lot of your God is Good garbage."
"It is not garbage," he splutters.
"Did I just say garbage? I’m sorry, I meant fabulous teachings, of course."
He doesn’t look convinced.
"Besides, I have a question for you. What makes you think God is a man? Isn’t he supposed to be a woman?"
"I have never heard anything so preposterous," Noel says, sitting up straight in his chair. "Of course God is a man. The idea, the very idea is just… pfft. Outrageous. Unheard of. Absurd. Who on earth says that He, our wonderful lord above, is a female?"
Oh yes, there is nothing more fun than winding up the Jesus freak. "Jay and Silent Bob," I admit sheepishly.
"Jay and who?"
Thankfully I am saved by the bell from having to answer this one. Thank the lord.
Number Nine: Noel—God botherer.
I smell number eight from approximately two tables down. This one obviously doesn’t grasp the concept of less is more when it comes to cologne. I mean, I’m a Joop for Men girl all the way, but not all the way across the other side of the room. This guy must have quite a lot of money, because he’s obviously taken a bath in very expensive aftershave.
"Hi," he says, smiling as he sits down. "How are you?"
I would reply. I really would. I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but I’m kind of choking on the smell. It’s one of those smells that gets you right in the back of the throat and makes you feel like you’ve swallowed the aftershave, not just smelt it.
"I’m fine," I grate out. "Mackenzie, pleased to meet you."
He leans forward to reach for my hand and kiss it. This is quite possibly the worst thing he can do, because it brings the smell even closer to me.
"Fran," he says. "It’s Frank really, but Fran seems to be the cool variation you kids are wearing these days."
I want to tell him two things: a) anyone called Fran these days is pretty much because they are named Fran and not because it’s a shortened version of Frank, and b) nobody wears a name. But I can’t tell him either of those things, because I can’t breathe.
"I’m sorry," I manage to choke out eventually. "But you have to move your chair back. It’s nothing personal, but I think I may be allergic to your cologne."
"Oh my god, I’m so sorry," he says, blushing bright red as he shoves the chair back so hard it overbalances and lands him on his ass on the floorboards.
"Is that better?" He asks, jumping up and dusting himself off.
I nod. I can’t speak exactly. My eyes are watering, as I glance around the room to see if any of the other women he’s been to have had the same problem with him. All eyes have turned to our table thanks to the clatter of Fran and chair hitting the deck, and a few women nod sympathetically in my direction. Obviously they did.
With Fran sitting a few metres in front of the table, away from me, my breathing starts to even out again and I can form words through my throat again.
"I don’t mean to offend you," I say. "But you really need to use less cologne next time."
"I’m sorry," he says. "I didn’t realise the effect it would have on people."
I feel kind of bad for him actually, but it doesn’t stop me being extremely glad when the bell rings and he can move on to the poor, unsuspecting woman at the next table.
Number eight: Fran—enough Joop to fumigate a small army.
Number seven is all smiles when he arrives. He walks like he is out of place here, and he’s scrawny with gelled-back hair and thick glasses.
"Bonjour! Bonsoir!" He says. "Je M'appelle Gregoire."
"Pardon me?"
"Comment vous appelez-vous?"
I shrug.
"Parlez-vous français?"
"Um… No?"
He stares at me. I stare back at him. Five minutes later, the bell rings.
Number seven: Gregoire—doesn’t speak English.
It has to be said that so far this is going really well, isn’t it? This was a really bright idea of Jenni’s, and an even brighter one of mine to agree to coming with her.
At least guy number six speaks English. This puts him way ahead of number seven on the leader board.
"Hello," he says quietly. "I’m Norman."
He says it so quietly that I have to lean forward to hear him.
"I’m Mackenzie," I say, a little louder than intended.
"You’re very young," he whispers.
"I’m here on behalf of someone else," I say, my voice dropping unintentionally. I sound like a foghorn when speaking in my normal voice next to him. I briefly wonder if he has a hearing aid in or something and doesn’t want to damage it. He looks kind of old and doddery. Definitely at the tail end of his fifties. Unless he’s sneaked into the wrong group—that’s more likely, I think.
"Ah, right," he says.
God, this is getting repetitive. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to meet twenty different men in two hours and have to have the same conversation with each one of them?
"So, what do you do for work, Norman?" I whisper.
"I’m retired," he says. "But I like to boat. I like to build boats with my son."
"Oh right," I say. "What type?"
"I like to build little radio-controlled ones so I can take my grandson to the park and watch him play with them on the pond, and my son and I make real, big boats together to sail. Do you know anything about sailing?"
I shake my head.
"It’s very good fun…"
I tune out of what he’s saying to think for a minute. It scares me to think about what this guy’s idea of fun might be. I actually feel quite sorry for him. Until I realise that he is currently talking to himself—well, I’m not listening—and he’s gone off on a big tangent about sailing and boats. Actually, I come to realise, I’m glad that I don’t have to spend more than five minutes with these guys. Maybe this whole speed dating thing isn’t such a bad idea after all.
Norman continues speaking while I stare at the Biro in my hand and wonder how hard it would be to lobotomise myself with it.
Number six: Norman—died three years ago.
Number five is next. I noticed him at the next table while Norman was rambling, and hoped that by some miracle of the universe he would skip my table. No such luck, unfortunately. Ladies, if you ever wanted to date Harry Enfield’s character Wayne Slob, now is your chance. Here is a look-a-like, right here in the flesh. Flesh of which there is way too much showing.
"Hey, heh, heh, heh," he says when he arrives at my table.
I assume this means "hello",
so I say, "Hi, I’m Mackenzie."
"Never heard that name before, love. Nice one."
"Thanks," I say, inwardly cringing. His jumper has ridden up, exposing stretch marks on his beer belly that are really not pleasant to look at. Said jumper is also ripped in two places, and has a couple of unidentifiable stains down the front. He’s rolled his sleeves up to reveal arms so hairy that I can’t see any skin on them. One sleeve is falling down again.
"You’re hot," he says, spitting saliva from his mouth. "I’d do you. Fancy a quick one in my car? It’s only outside."
"No, thanks," I say. "You’re just way too charming for me."
"I know, love. I know."
You see? Wayne Slob personified.
Number five: Wayne Slob—enough said.
The rest of the five minute dates aren’t worth mentioning. I just have one thing to say on the subject. I know they say that you should be yourself on dates, but here’s a memo to all men: if you’re an arrogant jerk, you might want to be someone else for a while.
Jenni is waiting for me in the foyer when we finally finish.
"Hi, I’m number seventeen," I say, walking up to her.
She laughs. "Number five, pleased to meet you."
"So, was that as much fun as you thought it’d be?" I ask.
"Oh no," she says. "It was horrible. Very impersonal."
"You can say that again."
"How about you? Did you find anyone for your mother?"
"It depends on whether she’d like to date Frankenstein, a werewolf or a Jesus freak."
Jenni laughs.
"Did you find any possibilities?" I ask her.
"Hell, no. It was like they numbered them perfectly. Each one was systematically worse than the one before. By the time I got to number twenty he was speaking in grunts and trying to cook woolly mammoth on a fire lit with two rocks."
"I think I met that guy for a date last week."
She laughs again.
"You know you owe me for this, right? How could you drag me along on a night like this?"
"Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad. I bet you got some contact info from some. Here, let me see."
She takes my sheet out of my hands and reads through it. "Hmm. Mac, you got contact info for all of them! Look, you’ve got twenty phone numbers and email addresses here, and you’re telling me it was an unsuccessful night? What are you talking about? Now I just wish I’d thought to put my snarky comments down as well."
"My comments are true. Seriously, number fourteen was only missing a pair of bolts in his neck. He looked just like Lurch from The Addams Family. I did give my contact number to a few though. You never know. I suppose I thought that I’ve met so many horrible men, they’d probably get on great with other horrible men. Or women. It would be like balancing out the scales. But I did get everyone’s contact number for a reason—I had an idea in there, Jen."
"An idea that we’ve missed out on all the good men? Because that was what I was thinking."
"No, an idea that I’m sitting there thinking how lucky I am to have Dan, and if my mother had to date these losers too, maybe she’d realise how lucky she was to have Ron."
"Yeah, if you say so," Jenni says.
"You don’t think so?"
"So what, you’re going to set your mother up on bad dates, just so she may or may not realise how good the good ones were?"
I shrug. "Yeah, why not?"
"Is this the same fate that awaits my father?"
"No," I say. "I’m hoping that he’ll be a little easier to find a nice woman for. I did look around in there, but most of them were giving me the evil eye because I’m twenty-odd years younger than them. They thought I was out to steal their dates."
"You were."
"Yeah, but not for myself, that’s the important bit."
Jenni laughs. "You’re insane."
"I know," I say. "Come on, we should go before Dan thinks I’ve run off with an eighty-year-old."
"Oh, so you’re on a curfew now?"
"No, not at all. I just realised how lucky I am to have a boyfriend, even if he’s not perfect."
CHAPTER 40
"Oh, I’m glad you’re home," Dan says, as soon as I get in the door.
"Why? What’s wrong?"
"Not much," he replies. "Just that I’ve been over at your mum’s house all night trying to fix her bloody refrigerator."
"Why? What’s wrong with her fridge?"
"It’s heating up."
"So, what, it’s got personality affective disorder? It thinks it’s a microwave?"
Dan laughs. "Something like that."
"Did you fix it?"
"I dunno. I whacked it a few times, played with the thermostat, but I don’t know the first thing about fridges. Your mother, on the other hand, thinks I am a professional repair man and should be spoken to as such."
"Oh, I’m sorry, Dan." I flop down on the sofa beside him.
"I told her to call a professional in the morning, silly old bat. She hates me three hundred and sixty-five days a year until she thinks I can fix something that she won’t have to pay for."
"Sorry, babe," I say. "You should have just told her you were busy."
"Yeah, and then she’d love me even more."
I shrug.
"So, how was your night? Meet anyone good?"
"Not good, as such, but meeting them gave me a great idea."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah. You know how you were saying that we shouldn’t give up on Ron just yet? Well, I had an idea. If I set Mum up on dates with the most pathetic, horrible men I can find, she’ll realise what a catch Ron was and go back to him. Good idea, no?"
"You really think that’ll work?"
"Well, while I was meeting those idiots tonight, I realised how lucky I am to have you."
"Like you didn’t know that anyway."
"Ha ha." I hand him my contact info sheet, along with all the names, addresses and phone numbers I got.
"Wow. They sound good," he says as he reads through it.
"Don’t they just? I thought I’d set Mum up with the God botherer and the guy who likes to watch women urinate for sure. And quite possibly The Stud. I’d like to set her up with the one who only spoke French, but I’m not sure I could get him to understand me. Plus she’d probably guess that something was going on if the guy didn’t even speak the same language as us."
Dan nods.
"You know, I’m so tired of all this dating crap, and I haven’t even started looking for Jeff yet."
"And you want to do this full time?"
"Oh come on, not every client is going to be as difficult as my mother."
"You hope."
"Shit!" I jump up from bed. "What was that?"
Dan is still fast asleep so I push his shoulder. "Dan, did you hear that?"
"What?" He grumbles.
"Dan, get up." I shove him.
"God, what, babe? It’s the middle of the night."
I check my watch. It’s just after three.
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
"Oh my god, I think someone’s knocking on our door, Dan." I kick his legs because he’s rolled over and gone back to sleep. "Dan, wake up!" I practically yell. "Who’d be knocking on our door at three a.m.? It must be a burglar."
"If it was a burglar, he wouldn’t be knocking."
Good point.
"It’s probably your mother, imagining that the fucking cat is sick again."
"What if it’s a new kind of burglar? A clever kind? A kind that thinks that we won’t think it’s a burglar if he knocks?"
"What, like a new, improved burglar? You think they invent them in factories like processed cheese?"
"I’m serious, Dan."
"Go back to sleep, Mac. You’re having a nightmare."
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
"I’m going to answer it, Dan."
"Take the baseball bat."
I grab said bat on my way out of the room.
; Shit, I’m thinking on my way down the stairs. What if it is a burglar, and when I open the door he’s going to hold me at gunpoint and try to rob us.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
Oh god, now it’s getting more urgent. Maybe he’s getting cold out there and he wants to come in.
I get to the door and try looking through the glass, but the street lamp is out and I can’t see a thing. What if he knows that so he’s struck on a night when he knows we’re vulnerable and we won’t be able to see him outside the door?
I get my baseball bat at the ready and prepare to take my resentment at Dan sending me to do this out on the guy standing outside with a gun. I mean, I like to think of myself as a modern woman, but isn’t it the man’s job to be all protective and beat up potential burglars in the middle of the night?
I brace myself, bat raised in my right hand while I crack the door open the tiniest bit with my left hand.
"Oh thank god. Mac, let me in!"
"Mum?"
I pull the door open wide. There she is. My mother. Standing on our doorstep in her nightie at three in the morning. With Baby under one arm and Pussy in a cat carrier in the other.
"What’s going on?"
"My house is on fire."
"Oh yeah, right. What are you really doing here?"
But then I hear something. It sounds like a… siren.
I lean out the door and look down the street towards her house. "Oh my god."
There are two fire engines outside, and I can see a hosepipe and water being sprayed everywhere.
"Oh my god. What happened? Are you all right?"
"The fridge," she says. "Did Dan tell you I had to get him to come over and fix it? Well, obviously he didn’t. It was heating up. The fireman just said that it had sparked onto a tea towel, that’s what started it."
"Bloody hell." I’m too shocked for words. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, I’m fine. Baby started barking for no reason, and when I went downstairs to see if there was a burglar I could see flames under the kitchen door, so I got the animals and phoned the fire brigade."
"Crikey. Is the damage bad?"
"They don’t know yet. Will you come and talk to them with me?"
"Of course," I say. "Bring the cat and dog in and then we’ll go and have a look. I’m just going to get some shoes and a coat." I run upstairs and hit Dan on the back to wake him up.
Kismetology Page 19
