by Matt Dunn
In the end, he'd decided not to try. 'Just be yourself' had been the advice on LondonDate's website, and Calum had decided to take it, so he'd been honest up front when filling in his profile, telling anyone reading it that if they were expecting some hunky, gorgeous outdoors-type then they were going to be disappointed. Trouble was, Calum being himself had only led to a series of disastrous dates, and despite reassurance on LondonDate's forums that it was more about chemistry than looks, Calum had learned that in actual fact, for most people, chemistry was down to looks. And that was where he fell flat on his slightly-less-chiselled-than-he'd-have-liked face.
It wasn't that he was ugly, rather that he was ordinary, and in the super-competitive world of internet dating, where the judging was so superficial, someone who'd never been super anything didn't stand a chance. So with his self-imposed deadline inching ever closer, Calum had taken the radical decision to become, well, 'Calum'. Six foot one. Athletic build – though in truth, and despite the effort he'd been putting in at the gym recently, more of a shot-putter than, say, a hundred-meter runner. At least 'a software professional' was true (he'd thought it sounded better than saying he worked in telesales) – Calum did work for a software company, and he had been told he was very professional (he wouldn't have been made the office fire safety 'responsible person' if he wasn't), so putting the two together wasn't exactly a lie. Whereas 'into adventure sports' was. The closest thing to an adventure sport Calum had ever done was when he'd taken a wrong turn and accidentally jogged through the estate round the corner from the flat in Balham where he lived, and been chased by a scarily fast group of pre-teen hoodies. He'd just about escaped with his iPod. If not his dignity.
He shook his head at the memory as he pulled his shoes on, and made a mental note to do some research when he had a quiet moment in the office, just in case Emma decided to quiz him on the finer points of bungee-jumping or white-water rafting later, though thinking about it, he could probably just make stuff up. She was more into long walks in the country, and Mad Men, and roaring log fires and dogs – although when he'd quizzed her, she didn't actually live in the country, or have a dog, or a log fire, so he guessed that made them kind of even. Still (and unlike almost all the other single women his age he'd ever met) at least Emma had said she much preferred dogs to cats. And given Calum's cat allergy, he couldn't help seeing that as a sign.
He'd met her within five minutes of changing his profile – well, 'met', in the online sense – but tonight they were actually meeting. In the flesh. Quite a lot of it, on Calum's side. And while it seemed a little strange to him to have their first date on Valentine's Day, Emma had insisted on it, telling him the fact he could spend this evening with her would prove he was single - unlike most of the other men she'd met on the site, apparently. And even though he'd been initially (and unreasonably) jealous at the thought of her dating anyone else before him, strangely Calum had taken heart from this. If she'd gone out with a number of other men, he reasoned, then she must be a looker. Not that he knew, though, seeing as there hadn't been a photograph on her profile, and she'd subsequently refused to send him one. When he'd asked her why, she'd told him looks weren't important, insisting it was what was inside that counted, and while Calum knew he could have taken that as a clue that maybe she was no oil painting, he'd been more worried she was referring to him. Then again, he'd reminded himself, she'd been the one who'd made the first contact, and he'd had a photo up, and it had actually been of him, and of his face, so she must have liked what she'd seen. Though Calum still found that hard to believe.
They'd been corresponding for about two weeks, some nights live-chatting into the small hours like old friends (which by then, Calum felt, they almost were) when Emma suggested they meet up, and he'd leapt at the chance. While she still hadn't sent him a picture, she had assured him he wouldn't be disappointed. And given how excited he was they were finally meeting, Calum had been more than happy to take her word for it. He'd offered to book the restaurant, and had known just the place - Old Amsterdam, on Charlotte Street. He walked past it every day on his way to work, and though he'd never eaten there, in a moment of inspiration he'd chosen it because Emma had insisted on 'going Dutch', and while he was well aware that wasn't quite what the phrase meant, at least it would give him an ice-breaker. Start the evening off on a lighter note. Maybe divert her attention away from any inconsistencies she might notice from his profile
He slipped his shirt on carefully, then checked his watch, his stomach already in knots even though there were ten or so hours to go, but despite his feelings of anxiety, Calum couldn't keep the grin off his face. He had a date. A proper, hundred percent bona fide actual real night out with an actual real live woman, and on Valentine's Day to boot! And while he would have preferred not to have gone straight from the office, he didn't have much choice – Emma had insisted on meeting at six, and on neutral ground, which (since she lived in Archway) seemed to point to central London. Though meeting in the centre of town had its advantages - if they found they had nothing in common, then there'd be no harm done, no awkward 'how do I get out of this?' moments, or tricky share-a-cab situations. They could simply bid each other good night, jump on the bus and head off in opposite directions, hopefully getting home before the streets became too chock-a-block with loved-up couples, then they'd make for the safety of their computers, delete each other from their 'favourites', and do their best to forget the evening had ever happened.
Though Calum hoped that wouldn't be the case. He'd had enough of not having a girlfriend, and however bad tonight was, he knew it was better than the alternative. If you were on your own, Valentine's Day was the worst day of the year, given it was impossible to avoid having your single status rammed down your throat. Normally, he'd go to the annual office Anti-Valentine's event that Nathan Field organised (ten-pin bowling this year, so Nathan's email circular had informed him), but for the first time, Calum realised proudly, he'd be able to tell the guys at work he had a date. More importantly, he'd be able to tell himself that. And so what if Emma turned out not to be attractive? Calum knew that beauty was more than skin deep, and besides, he was hardly Brad Pitt himself. Unlike that guy on LondonDate. He finished dressing, popped his glasses on, and after a final glance in the mirror, made his way into the kitchen.
'I'm off, then.'
His mother looked up from the large bowl of Special K she was working her way through and made a long-suffering face, and Calum regarded the half-empty box suspiciously. Given how she seemed to be working her way through a large bowl of Special K whatever time he appeared in the kitchen in the morning, he suspected it wasn't the only one she consumed for breakfast each day, yet he didn't dare suggest that was the reason the diet her doctor had put her on didn't seem to be working. Either that, or she'd secretly refilled the box with Frosties.
'Without shaving?'
'I'll have a shave at work. So I'll be, you know...'
'As smooth as a baby's bottom for your hot date?' His mother laughed. 'You should think about growing a beard. Your father had a beard.'
'Did he?'
'When we first met, he did. With that bright red hair of his, he was quite a sight, I can tell you. As you would be if you grew one.'
'Mum, no-one has a beard nowadays. Not anyone my age, at least. And for the millionth time, my hair's not red. It's...'
'Strawberry blond. I know. Still whatever colour you want to call it, you look very smart today,' she said, and Calum blushed.
'Thanks.'
'Come and give me a hug.'
'Mum, I'm twenty-nine...'
'Yes, but, I might not see you later.'
'It's a first date. We're not eloping.'
'Even so. You're leaving here my little boy, and you might be coming back...' She put her spoon down, and regarded him levelly. 'A man.'
'Mum, please.'
'Your dad would have been proud of you. You know that?'
'For what?'
'Well, for looking a
fter me for all these years when you could have been off sowing your wild oats, for one thing.'
Calum rolled his eyes. 'Chance would have been a fine thing.'
She patted the chair next to her, and Calum sat down obediently. 'Now, I know you were too young for him to ever have a little chat with you. So if there's anything you want to ask...'
'About what?'
She lowered her voice. 'S-E-X.'
Calum almost leapt out of his chair. 'Mum!'
'I'm just saying. I wouldn't want you to get in trouble. Or get some poor innocent girl in trouble.'
'Emma's hardly some poor innocent girl, mum.' He grinned. 'At least, I hope she isn't.'
'Well, as long as one of you knows what you're doing.' She reached up and briefly stroked his cheek with her hand, her eyes searching his face, and for a moment, Calum was transported back to the time when he was ten years old, and she'd woken him up with the same gesture to tell him about the car crash that had killed his dad. 'Hold on,' she said, rummaging in her handbag, before producing a small gift-wrapped box. 'I've got something for you.'
'You shouldn't have.' Calum took the present and tore off the paper. 'Seriously, you shouldn't have,' he said again, staring in disbelief at the packet of condoms in his hand, and his mother laughed.
'If you think this is embarrassing, imagine how I felt buying them. At my age.'
Calum fought to keep the colour from his cheeks, then looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, and wondered idly whether he should wait in for the postman, but what would be the point? Emma wouldn't have sent him a Valentine's card - she didn't have his home address, just like he didn't have hers, as per another recommendation on LondonDate - and if previous years were anything to go by, his chances of receiving one from anybody other than his mother were pretty slim. Not wishing to appear ungrateful, he slipped the condoms into his inside jacket pocket, then picked up his keys from the kitchen table.
'Don't forget to take your tablets,' he said, sliding the ever-present pill box towards her.
'Yes, dear.'
'Call me if you need anything.'
'I will.'
'And don't wait up.'
'I won't. You have fun, you hear?' His mother smiled. 'And don't do anything I wouldn't do.'
'Mum!'
'I'm just saying,' she said again, before turning her attention back to her breakfast.
Calum smiled as he shut the kitchen door behind him, then caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror. Worried his current pallor made him look like an extra from the Twilight films, he considered whether he had time to fit in a tanning session at the gym, but it was February, and he didn't want to look unnaturally bronzed this evening. Besides, knowing his luck (and his Irish heritage) his face would only end up as red as his hair.
He checked his breath in his cupped hand, his wallet for cash, and his briefcase for the foil-wrapped red rose he'd bought on the way home the previous day. With a final run-through of his mental check-list, he picked his gym bag up from its usual spot by the front door, hurried out of the flat, and made his way excitedly towards the bus stop.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen of his Bayswater flat, Nathan Field peeled today's cartoon from the front of his Dilbert calendar - an ironic (he hoped) present he'd received in the office Secret Santa at Christmas - double-checked the date on his iPhone, then he balled the cartoon up without reading it and tossed it angrily into the bin. To tell the truth, he normally found Dilbert amusing, but as far as Nathan was concerned, there was nothing funny about Valentine's Day.
Not that he had a problem with the concept. Nathan was all for celebrating love. What he didn't want to celebrate was Ellie dumping him. And today, as he'd painfully remembered as soon as he'd woken up from a fitful night's sleep, was the third anniversary of that.
Nathan shuddered as he thought back to that fateful night. It hadn't been an ordinary dumping - despite the date, he could have coped with that. This one had been played out loudly in public, surrounded by loved-up couples at his and Ellie's favourite Italian restaurant in Notting Hill, and the end of a two-year, five-month, and fourteen-day relationship. Though that hadn't been the worst of it: Nathan had been down on one knee at the time.
He still had the ring – it had been his grandmother's - hidden inside a pair of reindeer-patterned novelty socks (the previous year's Secret Santa gift) in his underwear drawer, though he doubted he'd ever propose with it again. Not that there was anything wrong with it - Ellie's refusal had somehow tainted the thing, although for a few, desperate moments, he had thought she simply hadn't liked the antique silver-and-diamond combination, before he'd realised something that had been a much harder thing to swallow than the oysters he'd impulsively ordered as a starter. She actually hadn't liked him.
Afterwards, when shock had turned into disbelief, then anger, then tears, Ellie had confessed she'd been planning to leave him for weeks, though if the admission was supposed to make him feel better, it hadn't. Why she'd waited until Valentine's Day of all days was still a mystery to him. As was how she'd found the time to meet the 'someone else' she was leaving him for.
Nathan still didn't know what had gone wrong, though he supposed his job hadn't helped. Ellie worked in the glamorous world of PR - each week she'd have some trendy new nightclub, glitzy restaurant or swanky cocktail bar to promote, whereas 'glamorous' was the last word you'd use to describe his profession. Everyone thought people who worked in technical support were geeks. Nerds. That they probably still lived with their mothers, and spent their evenings satisfying an Angry Birds addiction, or on Facebook, or playing some strange sword-and-sorcery computer game into the small hours in the company of their virtual friends because they didn't have any real ones. Maybe Ellie had simply been ashamed of him. Embarrassed, perhaps, by the prospect of spending the rest of her life explaining to people that her husband was a techie.
Though Nathan had never fitted the typical profile of one. He was tall, for a start, his hair wasn't greasy, and the only glasses he ever wore were a vintage pair of aviator-style Ray-Bans. He played football twice a week – in person, and not Championship Manager on his Xbox – had his own flat in the almost-Notting-Hill part of Bayswater, rode a Vespa, and had even been described as a 'cool-hunter' by his friend Mark Webster at the office. Though Mark was an accountant, so Nathan had taken that particular compliment with a pinch of salt.
No, Nathan just happened to have an affinity with computers, something he'd discovered when he was at school, so when it had been time to choose a career, technical support had been the obvious choice. Besides the money was good, especially since he'd been promoted to Technical Support Manager (though since he was the only one working in technical support in the Seek Software office, it was more of an honorary title), plus Nathan liked helping people. He just didn't seem to be a very good judge of them. Or (unlike the latest operating systems or software programmes) able to suss out how they worked.
He still found that strange. Very few things flummoxed Nathan in life like Ellie had. He could deal with the trickiest of technical problems, was good with engines, and even cooking (assuming he had a recipe to follow) held no fear for him. And yet, Ellie's barely-audible 'no' that night in that restaurant had knocked his understanding of the opposite sex for six. And ruined every subsequent Valentine's Day for him too.
He knew he could just play it safe. Take the day off and stay at home. Maybe download a couple of mindless martial arts films, order in a takeaway, get drunk on his favourite bottled Mexican lager, and write February 14th off as easily as he'd just thrown away the page from his calendar. But that wasn't in his nature, and besides, people were relying on him today - and not just to fix their computers.
Nathan smiled to himself. That first year, when he'd come up with the idea of an 'Anti-Valentine's' night and arranged an impromptu evening for all the singletons at the office, just two people – Calum Irwin and Mark Webster - had responded to the email he'd circulated. Since then, he'd been sur
prised how popular it had become; last year, they'd nearly reached double figures, and he'd already had nearly a dozen responses for tonight. Including himself, almost half of the twenty-six people who worked at Seek's UK office were single. Though Nathan found that statistic both reassuring and depressing.
And while he suspected many of them were only going this evening on the off-chance they might cop off with some other similarly damaged, disillusioned, lonely (or even just drunk) person, for the rest (if previous years were anything to go by) it would be a pretty fun night, aided by the fact he'd managed to get the bowling alley (obviously grateful for the business on an evening when no-one in their right mind would surprise their date with a romantic ten-pin tryst) to throw in a free cocktail for everyone. And he'd enjoy himself too, he knew, as long as there was no mention of love, or no reminder of money wasted on themed dinners in over-priced restaurants, or on expensive bunches of flowers that began to shrivel up and die as soon as they were presented - just like Nathan's hopes and dreams of a future with Ellie had when he'd presented them to her.
Besides, Anti-Valentine's had become a tradition now. This year, people had been asking him about it almost straight after the office Christmas party. In fact, Nathan had even felt a little pressure to top the previous one, but that hadn't been a bad thing. If anything, it had taken his mind off the actual reason he'd begun organising the event in the first place.
Briefly.
He checked the app he'd used to send invites out for the event on his shiny new iPhone - the management team at Seek had all been given one the previous week - and scrolled through the list of tonight's attendees. Many of them had come last year, but there were a few new names, maybe the victims of recent break-ups, not wanting to spend another night alone at home, stuck in front of the television. And no wonder, he thought, scanning through his phone's menu to check tonight's TV listings - sure enough, the channels were full of romantic comedies, or romantic 'comedies', to be precise. Because if you were single, there was absolutely nothing funny at all about sitting alone at home on Valentine's night watching a film about other people in love.
