As I got undressed I was already feeling more relaxed than I had in ages. I lay on the table and covered myself with a white sheet before pressing the buzzer next to me.
She came in and began. I remember her massaging my legs and arms, but when she got to my back I must have passed out as the next thing I remember is waking up in a tiny little patch of my own drool. I apologized but she just laughed.
‘Don’t be silly, it’s very common. Do you have sinus problems?’
‘Oh God, was I snoring?’
‘Yes. We do Hopi ear candling here. You might have an ear-wax build-up. It’ll help.’
So for an additional £10 she stuck beeswax tubes in my ears and set them on fire. The sensation was actually very relaxing, like a fizzing in my ear, but as I had a candle burning into my skull, I thought better of having another nap.
When she’d finished both sides she offered to show me the mountain of ear-wax which had been sucked out of my ears, but I declined because YUCK. Despite the snoring, I left the salon feeling refreshed, calm and like a normal human being again.
This evening was spent on the internet, reading about Zionism, how to bleed my radiators and looking at old photographs of Christian Slater, which took me back to being fifteen, when I used to practically mount the posters of him I had on my wall while hating boys my own age. At that age I never doubted for a second that I’d find the man of my dreams and live happily ever after. I never doubted I’d be happy. Seventeen years later I doubt it every single day. I think I’ve been broken-hearted for so long I’ve forgotten how to function properly. Oliver was right; I am weird. Not ‘let me see the contents of your sandwich’ or ‘look at my giant leg’ weird, just a tad unconventional. I’ll just have to hope that someone out there finds me endearing.
‘Of course they will, silly!’ said Lucy when I phoned her, ‘You’re now sexually emancipated warrior-girl. You can have anyone you want.’
‘Sure, I’m better in bed, so these challenges will either prove very useful or give me ridiculously high expectations. What if I feel cheated when my next boyfriend refuses to have sex while hanging off a cliff, just because I decide I want to try it?’
‘Stop worrying. There are plenty of men who’re just as adventurous as you are. Oliver isn’t the only one. You’ll be fighting them off.’
‘And where am I expected to meet all these men? It’s like a meat market when we go out to bars; everyone’s just looking for a shag.’
‘Online! If a guy spends money on a dating site, surely he’s looking for more than just sex? Everyone’s doing it these days.’
‘My, that’s logical. You could be right.’
I like the sound of this. Internet dating it is. This could be fun!
Sunday July 24th
Internet dating is truly frightening. For the first time I’m putting up real photographs, giving real details about myself and hoping that I don’t sound like a twat. Hazel helped me pick some pictures:
‘You look nice in this one.’
‘Bugger off. I look like a horse.’
‘A happy horse though.’
‘Oh great. How about I put: “Horse-faced girl would like to meet man with ridiculously curly hair, for fun conversation and deep and meaningful sex. Must be accepting of my outrageous bed-head, stupid mates and recent shag partner who will make fun of you regardless.”’
‘I’d reply to that.’
‘Ugh. Fetch me seventeen cats and a subscription to Spinster Weekly. This is going to be tough.’
Monday July 25th
Back to work today, and I had a mountain of emails to go through and calls to return. I’m starting to regret not taking two weeks off instead. Two of the emails were from Alex, who obviously didn’t know I was on holiday, and I deleted them without reading, otherwise I’d have been tempted to reply, ‘GET IT RIGHT UP YOU, FUCKFACE’ in 72pt Comic Sans.
Stopped off and got a pizza on the way home and settled down in front of the laptop, eager to browse through all the profiles of single, professional men in my area who are obviously too busy saving lives or hand-rearing kittens to have found a girlfriend the normal way.
10 p.m. Jesus, it’s slim pickings on these dating sites! For the money they charge I want Josh Groban and his magnificent hair to be on there. Strangely enough, the profiles I saw before joining seem to have disappeared and been replaced with men who think it’s a good idea to stand proudly in front of their cars, like they’ve just invented a time machine. And why do so many of them put, ‘If you want to know about me, just ask’? That’s just lazy! They’re meant to be wooing me with their charm and wit, not leaving me to do all the bloody work. Saying that, the last wooing I was privy to was when my dad dressed as a ghost one Halloween.
Tuesday July 26th
The messages from suitable bachelors have begun trickling in …
Hello Phoebe, you’ve received a message from John!
Hi. My names John and I liked the look of yo pic. Nice mouth. Mail me bak.
Nope.
Hello Phoebe, you’ve received a message from Paul!
I’ve never done this before but I thought what the hell you only live once and I’m shy until you get to know me but then I’m not. I also have better pictures but not on this computer. I’m into gaming and football and gadgets and wearing my black leather coat when I am out.
What computer would that be then? How many computers do you have, Neo, and why is one reserved for pictures, hopefully showing a full set of teeth?
This is getting ridiculous.
Wednesday July 27th
Frank was hovering around our desks this afternoon, trying to motivate us to make target by offering a bottle of wine for each advert sold. Thirteen ads later, he called time on his costly mistake and shuffled off to the supermarket.
While he was out I checked my emails and was thrilled to see that someone decent emailed me. I say ‘decent’; he can spell – which is a start.
Hello! I’m Alan. This is the part where I try to appear cool and fail miserably, so I’ll be quick. I’d love to meet for drinks/dinner/coffee and embarrass myself in person if you’re free any night this week?
As I clicked on his profile I prepared myself for him to have a face like a Hobbit’s foot, but surprisingly he’s handsome, with only a hint of beard. It seems I found a good one! I emailed him back to tell him I’m free on Sunday before sending Lucy his picture to show off.
She phoned straight away. ‘His picture looks photo-shopped. He’s not real. He’s far too symmetrical.’
‘What? That must be him. Why on earth would anyone agree to meet, knowing they’ve put a fake picture up?’
‘Maybe he hopes his personality will be enough to make you forget he’s a big fake-faced liar.’
‘Go away. I love him.’
Saturday July 30th
I received another email from Alan, saying how much he’s looking forward to our date tomorrow. I called Lucy for advice on what to wear.
‘Wear that red flowery skirt. The one I borrowed ages ago and got toothpaste on.’
‘That doesn’t fit me any more and we both know that wasn’t toothpaste.’
‘Ha. Fine. The dark blue dress with the white collar then. You look pretty in that. Where is Mr Symmetrical taking you?’
‘Red Onion. Apparently he’s gluten intolerant and they have a special menu. I’m not complaining; their seafood is amazing.’
‘Gluten intolerance isn’t real and neither is his face.’
‘Shh. I’m really excited – this is a much more normal way to pass the time than looking at cock photos and planning my next challenge.’
‘I dunno, there’s a lot to be said for looking at—’
‘I’m going now.’
‘OK, have fun and just remember not to feed him any bread.’
‘He’s not a duck. Thanks for your help. Speak soon.’
I’m a tad nervous. I hope neither of us is disappointed.
Sunday July 31st
<
br /> 6 p.m. Half an hour in the shower was longer than I intended but that still leaves ninety minutes – plenty of time to get ready for the date with my new husband.
6.30 p.m. I pour a gin and have a fag, then dry my hair. Lots of volume needed so I dry it upside down and emerge looking like I’ve been assaulted. So then I need to spend twenty minutes flattening it, followed by a further ten minutes back-combing and wishing for baldness.
7 p.m. Half an hour to go and I lay out my outfit. The only question when deciding on clothes is ‘Will he want to shag me if I wear this?’ I then ponder if men really think they have any say in whether they get sex on a date. If I’m going to sleep with him, then all underwear must match and of course be clean. If not, then it doesn’t matter a jot and I won’t even shave my legs. I then remember I haven’t actually shaved my legs. I decide to at least give myself the option to sleep with Alan and grab my razor. I take off my dressing gown and became aware of my alarmingly untidy pubic region. The song ‘Monster’ by The Automatic starts playing in my head.
7.10 p.m. I grab hair-removal lotion and as there’s no time for any sort of landscaping I decide to get rid of the lot and shave my legs while it’s working. One leg done and my lady parts are starting to nip. Nippy I can handle, but halfway through the second leg, I’m in the shower, shouting ‘FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET THIS FUCKING STUFF OFF ME!’
7.15 p.m. Fifteen minutes to go and I’ve given my bits third-degree burns and can’t sit down.
7.25 p.m. I’ve cancelled with Alan and I’m sitting on some frozen veg. Veg for my vag. Oh God, I’m never going to find a boyfriend.
I had to lie to Alan and say I’d suddenly become unwell and I hoped we could reschedule. Obviously he thought I’d changed my mind, and although he pretended to be fine about the whole thing, I imagined him drawing a Hitler moustache on my profile picture and moving on to someone else.
Oliver texted to say he was home early (hooray!) but seemed miffed that I had planned a date for the evening of his return. I wouldn’t be able to do anything with him anyway given my current disability. I can’t even sit on the couch properly, never mind anything else. God, this stings like crazy. Who the hell decided that it was more attractive for women to be hairless? I don’t remember being asked. One minute we all have The Joy of Sex-style bushes and the next we’re hair-free and sticking bloody jewels and glitter all over our fannies. I despair.
AUGUST
Monday August 1st
I’ve rearranged my date with Alan for tomorrow. Of course I didn’t tell him what had actually happened, but luckily my downstairs disaster area feels a million times better. I swear I’d rather be bushy than attempt that again. Oliver’s coming over on Wednesday – apparently he’s bringing me a present. It had better not be his penis – I’m not sure I could stand being prodded or poked down there just yet. I thought he was going to start convulsing he laughed so hard down the phone when I told him.
‘Ha ha, have you got a little bandage on it?’
‘Shut it and tell me tales of Chicago,’ I said, quickly changing the subject.
‘Hmm. Was all right. Mostly work, although I did meet a woman there.’
‘There are lots of women in Chicago, I’d imagine. Be specific.’
‘Her name is Ruth, she’s a model from London and she’s coming up to see me in a couple of days.’
‘A model, huh? From London? Did you have beautiful people sex then?’
‘No, she was heading home the day after we met, but we really hit it off. Been doing the sexting thing for a while now.’
‘Spare me those details. So she’s flying up from London? This is quite sudden, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. You’re dating, why shouldn’t I?’
‘Fair point. Actually, this could work out well. Maybe we can double-date and—’
‘Not a chance. I’m keeping her to myself. Right, I’m going now, still jet-lagged.’
Click.
Hmph. Why did he have to mention she was a model? I’m telling him one of my dates is something really impressive like a spaceman. Or Jesus.
Tuesday August 2nd
I took a taxi home after work to give myself plenty of time to get ready for my second attempt at a date with Alan. The plan was still the same: wear the blue dress, meet for dinner at Red Onion and be charmingly irresistible to the man with the perfectly proportioned face.
I arrived at the restaurant and Alan was waiting for me outside, nervously shuffling his feet in his brown loafers. At first I wasn’t entirely sure it was him; this guy was almost bald compared to the man in the photo and his face was a lot thinner. I recognized his perfect teeth when he smiled, but it quickly became apparent that the photo he’d put on his profile was at least ten years old. This guy was in his late forties. I mean, why would you do that if you actually intend to meet up with someone in a place that has working lights? Why don’t I listen to my friends?
Desperately trying not to look like a shallow bastard, I kissed him hello on the cheek and followed him into the restaurant, determined to have a nice evening regardless.
We were seated in the mezzanine and ordered drinks while we looked over the menu. The restaurant was dimly lit, cosy and just busy enough to give it some atmosphere.
‘Sea bass is excellent here,’ I said with a smile. ‘Any thoughts on what you’re having?’
‘Steak and skinny fries.’ He nodded, rolling up the sleeves on his black shirt. ‘You look lovely this evening.’
‘Thank you.’ I blushed. ‘How kind. You also scrub up well.’ And he did. Sure he might have been older than I expected, but by the time the food arrived and we began to eat, I began to think maybe all was not lost. That’s when I glanced at his plate: his full, pathetically picked at, main-course-filled plate.
‘Something wrong with your food?’
‘Erm, no, it’s nice. Very nice, I just have a small problem with food.’
‘But you ordered off the gluten-free menu …’
‘I did. It’s not just that.’
‘No? That’s intriguing.’ I laughed. ‘Tell me.’
He frowned at me with his old face. ‘Basically I used to be fat so I don’t like eating in front of people … or eating in general. I just thought I’d get this out the way right now.’
He had suddenly become very intense and was staring at me, waiting for a response. I just looked at him … and then at the floor … and then at his plate.
‘Wow … Right … So are you going to finish that then?’
So while I ate his fries and waited for God’s big Monty Python foot to squash me, I wondered why you’d take someone out for dinner on a first date when you have a food phobia? AND SHARE THIS INFORMATION WITH THAT PERSON?
Luckily I managed to finish the rest of my meal without any further phobias or traumatic childhood events emerging, but for me the date was well and truly over.
‘Fancy a drink somewhere?’ he asked, pulling on his leather jacket.
‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ I lied. ‘I have to be up early. But thanks for a lovely meal. Was great meeting you.’
‘So, what, that’s it?’ He laughed in disbelief. ‘Can I see you again?’
‘Probably not. You’re a nice guy but I don’t see this going anywhere, Alan. Sorry.’
‘It’s because I said I used to be fat, isn’t it?’
‘Erm, no. It’s just—’
‘Oh, save it. You women are all the fucking same,’ he snapped. ‘Bitches the lot of you. I’m out of here. Hope you enjoyed your meal.’
Stunned, I watched him walk away, but not without shouting, ‘ACTUALLY, I ENJOYED YOUR MEAL MORE, YOU FUCKING ODDBALL!’ I then realized shouting at an unstable man in the street probably wasn’t a good idea and ran up an alley to hide.
I had a text conversation with Lucy on the taxi ride home.
Disaster. Guy was a fruitloop. It WAS his face however. In 2002.
LOL. Never mind. I told you internet dating was a bad idea.
/> If you use LOL again, we’re going to have words. AND THIS WAS YOUR IDEA.
Oh yeah. Never mind eh? One down, 20k unhinged users to go. You’re getting closer to your soulmate. I can feel it.
Ugh, at least I get to see Oliver tomorrow. Damn I’ve missed him.
Wednesday August 3rd
Oliver brought me presents from Chicago. Wise move. A big present which was a bag filled with stolen hotel stuff and a smaller bag which contained a blindfold and a pair of wrist restraints. ‘Nice to see that even when you’re on the other side of the world, you’re still invested in helping me. That’s commitment.’
‘Well, bondage is still on the list, isn’t it?’ He grinned. ‘Unless you’re finished with me now you want a boyfriend who’ll be rubbish in bed but put up with your singing.’
‘What about Ruth? I doubt she’ll be too happy with our arrangement.’
‘I doubt I’ll tell her.’
‘Good, because I intend to see this thing through to the end. And you love my vocal stylings; they’re what get you out of my flat in the morning. Bondage is on, baby! And we still have another role play as well – any ideas?’
‘I’ll think about it, but right now I haven’t had sex in a month so I advise you to remove your jeans this instant before I explode. I warn you. It’s going to be brutal.’
So I did and I thought at one point he was going to devour me. It was like his last meal on death row. He threw my legs over his shoulders and went so deep I could hardly breathe, but it didn’t last long. The second time lasted almost an hour though.
Thursday August 4th
Hugo Beale, the advertising director from London, flew up to Glasgow to meet with Frank today, which meant everyone was on their best behaviour, including Lucy, who made it into work early for once. ‘That man scares me. He smiles at you but you know that behind the smile he’s planning to have you killed.’
It was true. He’s a tall, thin man, well-dressed and charismatic, who has nevertheless been given the nickname ‘Satan’ by his staff in London, whom he scares and bewitches in equal measure.
The List Page 19
