Cloudy with a Chance of Love

by Fiona Collins

  ‘Did you?’ I matched him flirty tone to flirty tone. This was going well.

  ‘Yes. Four phone numbers and the promise of a blow job. Quite an impressive strike rate, even for me.’ My heart sank. My boobs subsided. Oh no. He was a pervy lothario. I should have known he was too good to be true.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see.’ I dropped the flirt and went for world-weary. ‘So you’re here to gain more notches on your bedpost?’

  ‘A few more can never hurt. I’ve got a way to go before it completely disintegrates.’ He chuckled, low and long. I was going off him more by the minute. ‘Would you like to partake?’

  ‘Partake?’

  ‘In my love. There’s plenty to go around.’

  ‘In your love,’ I repeated, dumbfounded. ‘And I’m sure there is. Though I bet they’re queuing up.’

  ‘They are. Care to join? You’ve got some curves I’d love to get a handle on.’

  I hurriedly pulled my top up. I’d zip it up to my neck if I could. The damn cheek of him! It was outrageous. It was more outrageous that his sleazy tactics obviously worked. I had a feeling a lot of women were powerless to his dubious charms. Poor devils.

  ‘The queue? No thank you. I would like to decline your love, thanks all the same.’ He suddenly looked revolting in my eyes. Pathetic.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You’re one of those. You’re looking for a deep and meaningful…’

  ‘Relationship. No, not at all. And I’m certainly not looking for someone like you.’

  ‘Too bad.’ Mr Sex-Mad-Speed-Dating-Perv was smirking at me, despite my rebuttal. ‘You have some serious curves for an older woman.’

  ‘You’ve already said that. Repetition is incredibly boring. And you have some almighty nerve for an out-and-out creep.’

  ‘Touché.’

  Touché? That didn’t even make sense! ‘What?’

  ‘Farewell.’

  That did.

  ‘See you, wouldn’t want to be you,’ I said, childishly and stood up. Mick was my last man. That was it. I looked round for Sam as the final klaxon sounded and everyone scraped back chairs and rose to their feet. Some people couldn’t wait to get away from their last table partner; others stayed hovering and chatting away. A lot were a combination of both: one trying to edge away, the other trying to make them stay. I marched away from Mick, who was already casting his roving eye around for fresh prey, and stood at the edge of the room.

  I sighed. Sam was nowhere to be seen – had she pulled? I desperately, desperately wanted to go home and put on my dressing gown and my slipper socks and eat cake. I wouldn’t even care if Will caught me in the act. In fact, I could even invite him round for cake – I had that chocolate cheesecake in the freezer I could stick in the microwave. I bet he’d still be up. I could tell him all about tonight and how awful it was and we’d have a good old laugh about it, then we’d laugh together about that Save the Whale poster and how funny it was when he’d seen me coming back from the skip and…

  Ugh. I was being stupid. Will wouldn’t want to come round my house for cheesecake and a chat at this time of night! I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. He was my neighbour. Yes, it would be nice having a man to just have a normal conversation with again – no agenda, no game playing, no danger of getting hurt – and we could be casual friends, possibly, who would talk on the drive and help each other with neighbourly stuff and give each other a hand with the odd bit of decorating, but we wouldn’t be having cosy, late-night chats over cheesecake where we’d share confidences and laughter. The fact that he was just a nice man to have a normal conversation with should be enough to deter me. Why ruin that? Inviting a man round late at night was dangerous territory, and I was so not interested in getting into anything untoward with this man – it would be a total disaster and I was being a complete twit.

  I looked around for Sam again. Tonight had not gone well, had it? In fact, it had been bloody awful. My first foray back into the world of dating, after all these years, had been a giant disappointment. I was so not ready for all this.

  Chapter Seven

  People shuffled on the dancefloor to Take That. Bruno Mars was swaying in the centre, his eyes closed. Ozzy had struck lucky, he had his arms round a giggling Ginger Spice, complete with Union Jack dress, and was singing in the poor woman’s ear. Elton was grappling with Britney. And there was Sam, jiggling like Olivia Newton-John at the end of Grease and swigging from a glass of something that must hold at least four hundred calories. It would be a manic burst of sit ups and a set of burpees before bed tonight for her, I knew, but I was happy she was enjoying herself. I smiled as I watched her; we could stay for a bit longer. And I was very happy that I wasn’t counting calories. Food was coming round now on trays carried by Jedward. I grabbed a duck wrap and dipped it into plum sauce; all this unsuccessful dating had made me ravenous.

  There was a bench up against the side of the room. I plonked myself on it, polished off the duck wrap and then eased my shoe off my right foot.

  ‘I’d put that away, if I were you. You never know if there are foot fetishists in tonight.’

  I stuffed my foot back in my shoe, mortified. Of course I was wearing my customary ruby red nail varnish but my foot looked all pinched and a bit swollen. It was autumn, my feet were not supposed to be out on display.

  ‘Well, I certainly don’t want to give anyone any fodder,’ I said, looking up. ‘There’s probably all sorts in here.’

  I found myself looking into a pair of very green eyes under a curtain of tousled, curly-ish blonde hair. There was a man sitting next to me – a smile on his face, a beer in his hand. My first thought was ‘young farmer’. My second was that he looked like a boy in a man’s body. He looked… cheeky. Like a kind of grown-up, very good looking version of the Milky Bar Kid.

  I’d never considered blond men before. I’d always liked men with dark hair. There were always men like Don Draper, George Clooney, Robbie Williams and Hugh Jackman to drool over. Loads of them. I’d never needed to venture into blond. Jeff was dark too, before he went light grey. A penchant for blond, Blue Lagoon-type man-boys had passed me by (I suddenly remembered their sartorial cousin, Gabby’s Cherubs in Chinos), as well as rural types who look like they should be in dungarees with a piece of straw hanging from their mouths.

  ‘Are you a farmer?’ I blurted out. I didn’t want to say ‘young’. It was hard to pinpoint his age. He could be thirties, he could be forties.

  ‘No, landscape gardener. Are you a nurse?’

  ‘No, why? Do I look like a nurse?’ Did I look like a caring, maternal and compassionate individual, who should be wearing sensible shoes and a pocket watch?

  ‘No, but it’s just as random a question.’

  ‘Touché,’ I laughed. That’s how to use the word, Mick.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a weather presenter. Court FM.’

  ‘Cool! That’s so cool. I’ll have to check you out. So, do I look like a farmer?’

  ‘You kind of do,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘I have been told that before, actually,’ he admitted. ‘Or the Milky Bar Kid.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything…’

  He gave a wide cheeky grin. Aw, he was forty-something. His eyes went all crinkly when he laughed. A fan-shaped lattice of wrinkles spread from each eye and, strangely, they made him look more attractive. A tinge of undeniable maturity improved his boyish looks.

  ‘I left the waistcoat and the holster at home,’ he said. ‘They can be distracting.’

  ‘Well, it is fancy dress,’ I said. ‘You would have blended right in.’

  ‘All my musical heroes in the same room,’ he said, shaking his head in mock-wonderment. ‘I never thought I’d see David Bowie and Ginger Spice bonding over a plate of cashew nuts and a Jägerbomb.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I said, with a smile. ‘How come I didn’t meet you in the bear pit?’ I definitely hadn’t encountered him. I would’ve remembered him if I had. He w
ould have stood out like a firebrand amongst coals. Or a young farmer against a sea of middle-aged dress-ups.

  ‘I got here late. I came to meet a mate. She’s really into this kind of thing but doesn’t like coming on her own. I was an unofficial plus one.’ He shook his bottle lightly and took a sip. ‘I joined the last round for a laugh, but missed a couple of tables as I went to the bar. From the general standard I didn’t think I was missing much.’

  ‘Charming!’ I said. ‘Well, you missed me! I hope you didn’t see me further down the line and think “Good god, I’m buggering off!”’

  ‘Ha, no of course not! If I’d seen you I would have waited my turn and then whisked you off to the bar!’

  I blushed and looked down, then glanced up at his face. His eyes were crinkling like crazy and I noticed he had very white, very even teeth and some freckles on his nose. With his blond curls and wide smile he was really very nice looking.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, for want of anything else to say. ‘I get what you mean about the general standard, though,’ I said, jokingly. ‘The pickings are slim to non-existent.’

  He nodded. ‘Yep, nothing worth picking. Although I saw one bloke having a good go at his nose.’ I laughed. He was looking at me almost quizzically now. He was really looking at me. A waft of some very nice aftershave reminiscent of Davidoff’s Blue came my way. He took a swig from his beer. ‘You didn’t meet anyone nice then?’

  ‘God, no! The highlights for me were a Tinder-obsessed Ozzy Osbourne and a pervy Mick Jagger. How about you, did you? Amongst the women that you did bother to meet?’

  Despite the fact he was sitting here and not currently getting friendly with anyone on the dancefloor, I was irrationally worried he might say ‘yes’. A silly voice in my head immediately started chanting Let him say no, please let him say no. He was good looking. He looked wholesome. He looked like he ate granola and natural yoghurt. I could see him in a checked shirt and a rugged pair of work boots digging up someone’s garden and then making it beautiful. Oh god, that sounded like a terrible euphemism. Lady garden came to mind. I had to stifle a giggle.

  ‘No,’ he replied, draining the bottle. ‘I only came for the crack. As I said, I came with my friend. She’s had no luck either, by the looks of it.’ He pointed her out. She was a petite blonde (Taylor Swift?) currently being told by Bruno Mars not to touch him, please, as ‘Tainted Love’ reverberated across the dance floor. ‘I am single, though,’ he added – rather pointedly, I thought.

  ‘Is this your first?’ I asked. ‘Speed dating night, I mean.’

  ‘Oh totally, yes. It’s not really my style, this kind of thing. I prefer to meet people I choose to meet, not those plonked in front of me.’

  I felt myself blushing again: did he choose to meet me? Seek me out? Or were his feet hurting too? I looked down at his shoes. They were the kind of work boots I’d imagined, dark brown and a little bit rock star, a little bit John-Boy Walton. They were nice. I appreciated a nice pair of shoes.

  ‘Me too,’ I hazarded. ‘It’s not really my scene either; I came with my friend, Sam. You could say she dragged me here. She’s over there on the dancefloor.’ I pointed in Sam’s direction. She was macarena-ing with a guy in a ponytail (Francis Rossi from Status Quo?).

  ‘Leather legs?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her. Did you go to her table?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, she’s all right. A little intense. She started asking for my star sign and all that. Sorry,’ he said, looking sheepish, ‘she’s your friend.’

  ‘She is intense about all that stuff. It’s just the way she is. She’s really lovely though,’ I said. ‘You should have given her more of a chance.’ I wasn’t sure why I was selling Sam to him, I should be selling myself! What a shame he’d gone to the bar and I’d missed him, on the final round. He would have been a lovely surprise.

  ‘So, there was no one you liked?’ He’d already asked me that. He seemed keen to find out. Why did it matter to him?

  ‘Nope. Although I didn’t exactly come with high hopes in the first place,’ I said.

  ‘I see,’ he nodded, with a smile. He was a bit younger than me, I decided. Early forties, I reckoned.

  ‘I’m Ben, by the way,’ he said and he held out his hand to me. I took it. It was warm and slightly calloused. All that gardening I thought. It made me think of Mellors and Lady Chatterley.

  Ben. It suited him. Ben the landscape gardener. I was pleased to meet him.

  ‘I’m Daryl,’ I said, still holding his hand. I enjoyed the sensation, but there was no electric current coming from it to mine. That’s fine, I thought. Why would there have to be an instant spark? We were only talking.

  ‘Daryl. That’s a nice name.’ It felt like he was trying it out for size. He let go of my hand. ‘Would you like a drink, Daryl?’

  ‘No I’m fine, thank you. I’m driving tonight, anyway. I’m just waiting for Sam, then I’m going home.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. Then he looked me in the eye and grinned. ‘Alone? Or do you want to come back to mine?’

  ‘What? That’s a bit forward!’ I was taken aback. After what Mick Jagger had said to me I was not impressed. Is that the vibes I was giving out? Because I had boobs and a big bum I was ripe and ready for it? Oh no. Was Lovely Ben not so lovely after all?

  ‘I’m only kidding,’ he said. And he laughed out loud. I didn’t know what to think. ‘I’m an idiot.’ He was chuckling. Had he had one beer too many? I suddenly wondered if he was drunk. ‘But it is a shame for us to both go home empty-handed. We haven’t fulfilled the brief. Would you like to go on a date?’

  ‘You mean now?’

  ‘No, not now! I really was only joking! Another night. Would you like to go out with me?’ I was even more taken aback. It was a long time since I’d heard those words. ‘Tomorrow night, maybe?’ He looked all young and boyish again.

  I thought about it. Should I? Should I go out with him? I wanted to go on a few dates, didn’t I? And I liked the look of him; he seemed fun. Plus, I’d come on a speed dating night: the whole aim of it was to leave with the promise of a date with a complete stranger. The night wouldn’t be a disaster after all if I left it with a date.

  ‘I’m a nice guy,’ he offered. ‘I promise. Tomorrow night?’

  He did seem a nice guy, apart from that misjudged joke. I could let that one go. And he was asking me out. The sheer novelty value of it should make me say yes.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ll go on a date with you tomorrow night.’

  ‘Okay, awesome!’ His smile was wider than ever. ‘Give me your number and I’ll call you in the morning.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I could never remember my own mobile number. I rummaged in my bag for my phone and he took his out of his back pocket. I read my number from my own list of contacts and he tapped it into his phone. Then, quickly, I gave him my office number as well.

  ‘Cool!’ he said, beaming at me.

  ‘Great!’ I said, smiling back at him. It was almost becoming a repeat of the eye-gazing round. I imagined that Nigel would appear behind us, egging us on. We carried on smiling at each other; it was getting slightly awkward. The arrival of Sam was a very welcome klaxon.

  ‘Well, hello, Daryl! There you are! I’m absolutely whacked.’ She looked rather drunk, too. I recognised that face – smiley, giddy, sozzled. Oh, god love her! ‘It’s crazy out on that dance floor.’ She smiled at Ben. ‘So, what’s going on here?’

  ‘This is Ben,’ I said.

  ‘We’re going on a date,’ he added, with a grin, and raised his empty beer bottle to me.

  ‘Oh fabulous!’ she trilled. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased.’ Please don’t overdo it, Sam, I silently begged her, and please don’t say anything about the ninety-nine percent! She didn’t. She gave Ben a playful tap on the arm and said, ‘Hey, I’m sorry I started asking you about your star sign and all that.’

  She was definitely a little bit drunk, I could tell, but she was sweet when she was drunk.

&nbs
p; ‘No worries,’ said Ben. ‘It’s just not really my thing.’

  ‘Hey, it’s fine. It’s totally fine. I’m sure you and Daryl will have so much more in common. Oh, I’m so excited!’ she yelped, jigging up and down. ‘A date!’

  ‘Yes, and it is only a date,’ I said. ‘Calm down madam!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sam, but she was still beaming. She gave me an exaggerated wink.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Shall we go, Sam? Have you had enough?’

  ‘I certainly have. They’re about to put on a slow record,’ said Sam. ‘I really don’t fancy getting up close and personal with Justin No Snake, who keeps following me around and trying to get his hands on me. I fear he thinks he’s at a school disco and he’s going to make a lunge for me once they slow things down.’

  Ben laughed and I glanced at him again. He was nice, wasn’t he? A nice bloke. And I was going on a date with him. I felt like jigging up and down a bit, too. With a mixture of delight and nerves.

  Sam was right. Sure enough, the strains of The Specials’ ‘Ghost Town’ started wafting over the dancefloor. And sure enough, Justin could be seen, at the edge of it, his hand up to his face like a saluting sailor, searching for Sam. Behind him people were making ‘woo’ type faces and waving their arms around like wayward ghosts.

  Of course, it was Halloween on Thursday. That had come around again quickly. I watched as people either shifted towards each other, half embarrassed, or leapt at each other like desperate meerkats. A few people made an obvious dash for the exits or the toilets. It wasn’t an especially long song, but you wouldn’t want to be in some undesirable’s clutches for the duration. I remember it being very bad form to leave a slow dance halfway through.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow then,’ said Ben, getting up, and I was pleased he was going as I wanted to talk about him. He headed towards the bar, but he kept looking back at us as he walked away. Sam was rifling through her bag for something. He waved. I waved back. Then he was swallowed up into the throng.