by Matt Dunn
Chapter 6
It’s Saturday. And another Single Saturday, to be specific. With a sigh, I reach across to switch off the alarm clock before climbing across the empty side of my double bed and making my way wearily into the bathroom. Single Saturdays suck.
And I hate Single Saturdays because Single Saturdays are always the same. Wake up sometime around eight, which is the same time as during the week–not counting the days that Magda disturbs me at some unholy hour–and seeing as there’s no one to spend the morning in bed with, get up straight away, chuck some clothes on, and stroll out to Tesco Metro to buy the paper and a pain au chocolat before heading straight back home for breakfast and my usual pathetic attempt at the crossword.
At around ten-thirty, I’ll change into my workout gear and head over to the gym, in the vain hope that my Single Saturday might magically turn into a Couple Saturday. Because single guys don’t go to the gym on Saturdays for a workout. We go because we hope that we’ll bump into this gorgeous single girl who’s stuck in the same lonely routine as us, and we’ll get chatting, and maybe one of us will suggest a coffee, or a drink, or even dinner.
But, of course, there are never any gorgeous single girls at the gym on a Saturday morning. They’ve all been snapped up, or they’ve snapped up someone themselves. So, instead, I’ll spend an hour mixing it up between the free weights and the machines while watching some obscure sport on the TV screens dotted around the room, but always keeping one eye on who’s coming in through the door, just in case…
Then it’s back home again for lunch, because no one likes going out to eat on their own, particularly on a weekend. And because I can’t face traipsing round the shops on a Saturday either, mainly because I’d have to keep pushing past all the loved-up couples who jam the town centre at the weekend, lunch is invariably followed by an afternoon in front of the football with a beer or two. Why do women think that we men are obsessed with watching sport on TV? Because for a long period of our lives, when we’re not engaged in–or having much luck with–the pursuit of them, it’s the only thing we’ve got to do.
What freedom, I used to think. I can do whatever I want. I’ve got no commitments. No need to be somewhere at some specific time, or to do anything I don’t want to do simply because my girlfriend might fancy it. But, nowadays, I’ve grown tired of it. Tired of constantly being on the lookout for someone who might be girlfriend material. Tired of not being able to meet a woman without summing her up, giving her marks out of ten, wondering whether she’s single, flirting with her if she is–and even sometimes if she isn’t. And tired of going through the same motions, time and time again, only to watch the relationship fail because we probably weren’t right for each other in the first place, and only got together because we hated the idea of Single Saturdays more.
And the reason it’s tiring is because there’s a real pressure on us single guys. Every time we meet a woman, the stress starts. If we think she’s attractive, then we can’t possibly relate to her as a normal human being. There’s always this hidden–in some cases, not so hidden–agenda of wondering if we should ask her out, and more importantly, wondering what our chances of success would be if we did. We can’t help thinking of every single woman we meet as a sex object, because quite frankly, that’s exactly what they are to us. Even if we don’t think they’re attractive, we still feel duty bound to flirt just a little because if we’re half decent then we won’t want to hurt their feelings. And because women hardly ever, in fact never, ask us men out, we know we’re safe to do that.
All of it–the sexy car, the nice flat, the gym membership, making sure I’m dressed well, even the long runs in the evening–they’re not really to make me feel better. They’re all to do with attracting the opposite sex. And they’re tiring too.
Couple Saturdays are better. Couple Saturdays might involve breakfast in bed, or a lazy stroll along the river followed by a pub lunch. Couple Saturdays can mean plans for the evening, rather than a night with just the remote control for company. Maybe even dinner for two, followed by breakfast in bed, with one of you still wearing last night’s clothes, if you’re lucky. But Couple Saturdays aren’t perfect. Couple Saturdays can contain awkward silences. ‘What shall we do?’ conservations. ‘Where shall we go?’ discussions. And ‘Where are we going?’ arguments.
Which is why what I want are Family Saturdays. Because compared to Single Saturdays, Family Saturdays are a walk in the park. Family Saturdays are fun. Family Saturdays are all play and no work. Because on Family Saturdays, you’ve always got someone to play with. Tom might moan at being woken up at six a.m. by the twins jumping on his bed, but, I tell you, he’s got it easy, compared to what I’ve got to look forward to: a blind date in a coffee shop with a desperate woman, arranged by my best friend’s wife because she feels sorry for me. As I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I realize that this is probably the lowest I’ve felt in a long, long time.
I used to love weekends when I was a kid. I’d done my penance, spending an uncomfortable week at school, and now I had two whole days to relax; forty-eight hours to enjoy myself, and not be bullied by the other kids about how I didn’t have a dad. I’d get up early on Saturday morning, wanting to stretch out the whole weekend, making the most of every second before that feeling of dread would start to creep up on me late on Sunday afternoon. And every Sunday night, I’d lie awake, fearing that the coming Monday morning was going to be just as bad as every previous Monday morning. Sure, there were a few other kids at school whose parents were divorced. But at least they saw their dads occasionally. At least they knew where their dads lived. And what they looked like.
Fortunately, this Saturday, there’s less time to feel sorry for myself. After a quick breakfast and an even quicker trip to B&Q, I spend the morning redecorating the spare room. And although this really just entails filling a couple of black bin bags with half a ton of old clothes for the charity shop, dismantling my pool table, and removing the ‘arty’ Athena prints from the walls, it still takes me the best part of two hours, particularly when I unearth my collection of Claudia Schiffer calendars at the back of the wardrobe. I flick through several months in pleasant reminiscence before binning Claudia, then give the room a quick coat of magnolia emulsion–not knowing whether to paint it pink or blue at this stage, of course–and push the sofa bed against one wall, so there’ll be enough space for the baby’s cot.
I finish off by fitting child locks onto the cupboards in the kitchen, and before taking a quick break for lunch, log on to NewFlames to see whether I’ve got any interest. I’m a little depressed when I see that my inbox is empty, but as I’m flicking through the gallery of new members–who seem to be mostly out-of-focus camera phone junkies or twice my age–a flashing icon in the shape of an eye suddenly appears at the top of the screen.
I look at the menu on the left, and feel a sudden surge of excitement: NewFlames has an Instant Messenger option where members can ‘talk’, and someone wants to talk to me! I have to stop myself from punching the air in celebration, but, as the chat screen loads, I’m hit by a sudden feeling of anxiety in the pit of my stomach, which immediately strikes me as ridiculous. It’s not as if I’m going up to some stranger in a bar to try and talk to them–quite the opposite, in fact. They’re coming over to talk to me.
I roll my cursor over the icon, and the eye winks at me–a nice touch, I decide–and as I click on it, a message appears at the top of the screen. ‘Sandra wants to talk to you,’ it says, ‘do you want to talk to her? Y/N’. Underneath the message is a small thumbnail, which opens a photograph in a new window.
For a moment, I can’t believe my luck–Sandra’s gorgeous! Long dark hair, a cute nose, perfect teeth–in fact, she looks like she’s had this picture taken professionally, and I don’t mean by one of those scary makeover-type photographers. My first thought is that maybe she’s a model, but just as this occurs to me, I dismiss it as ridiculous. What on earth would someone who looks like her be doin
g on a site like this? But then I remember the calendars I found earlier, and an interview I read with the lovely Ms Schiffer in GQ, where she’d been complaining that men never asked her out because they felt too intimidated by her looks. Well, maybe that’s why Sandra’s on NewFlames–because she’s not meeting men the normal way. And let’s face it–looking at the kind of losers other supermodels go out with, who can blame her?
I quickly scroll down through Sandra’s profile. She’s twenty-five, and lives in London, apparently, and although she doesn’t say a lot more about herself, she is quite stunning. Stunning enough for me to ignore the lack of other information on her profile, anyway. And as I stare at her picture, I suddenly feel embarrassed about the quality of my photo. Still, I think, looking at Sandra’s perfect features, it seems to have done the trick. I hurriedly hit Y, nearly pressing the 7 key by mistake in my urgency, and a dialogue box appears. There’s one word in it–‘Hi.’
Trying to overcome my stage fright, I think fast. How to respond to Sandra’s opening gambit? What to say that conveys my cool, man-about-town attitude, yet also implies that I’m the sensitive, caring type who, coincidentally, is desperate to settle down and have a baby? After an anxious thirty seconds, ‘Hi yourself’ is the best I can come up with.
‘I’m Sandra,’ replies Sandra, which I guess is a bit unnecessary, since I already know that. Still, maybe she’s a little nervous too. And what’s wrong with introducing yourself the traditional way?
‘Will,’ I type, staring at her photo again, still not quite believing my luck.
There’s a pause and then ‘Will what?’ appears on the screen.
I type ‘Will you have my baby?’ and then hurriedly delete it. ‘Will Jackson.’
‘Nice to meet you, Will Jackson,’ comes the reply.
‘And you,’ I type.
‘Thank you,’ she replies.
Er…‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Don’t mention what?’
Ah. It’s not quite as easy as I thought, this instant ‘chat’. If we were in a bar, I could easily offer to buy her a drink at this point, thus giving us both a little time apart to digest our initial impressions of each other, and consider what our next topic of conversation is going to be. And as I think about how to steer the exchange round to finding out a little more about her, I’m starting to get worried that I haven’t replied for a while. I don’t want her to get bored and go off me. But what on earth do I say?
‘You’re very pretty’ I type, then delete it. She’s probably heard that a hundred times before. I need to be original. But how? ‘Do you come here often?’ even seems corny when it’s typed, let alone spoken. I settle for ‘How are you finding NewFlames?’ and hit ‘return’, but when she doesn’t reply, I start to worry that my brilliant conversational dexterity has flummoxed her.
I look back at the message I’ve just sent. Was it rude in some way? Might it have annoyed her, that I should be prying into her activities on the site? Does she think that I’m insinuating something? Or has she just found someone else to chat to? I click back onto her profile, which tells me she’s still online. But what do I do now? I can’t send her another message before she’s even replied to my last one, as I don’t want to appear needy, or impatient.
Just as I’m about to give up, her reply finally arrives. ‘Will Jackson, I am sorry, I must go now. Can we speak later?’
Later when? Later today? Later this week? I type each of these phrases, and then delete each of them in turn. ‘Okay,’ I type quickly. ‘Nice “talking” to you.’
I hit ‘return’, pleased with the inverted commas I’ve put around the word ‘talking’. But if Sandra’s impressed with my grammatical stab at humour, she doesn’t say.
‘Perhaps we can meet up some time?’ comes the reply.
What? Meet up? Result! I look at her photograph one more time, and type ‘Yes,’ perhaps even a little faster than Instant Messenger can cope with. ‘When?’
There’s no answer from Sandra, and I stare at the screen, willing her to respond, until about thirty seconds later the doorbell rings, and I almost fall out of my chair in shock.
I walk nervously into the hallway and press the intercom buzzer, and Tom’s voice leaps out of the speaker. With an equal mixture of disappointment and relief, I buzz him in.
‘Hello, mate,’ I say, a little surprised at seeing him on what is, after all, a Family Saturday. ‘Barbara given you the day off?’
Tom walks in through the doorway and deposits what appears to be an old copy of the Guardian and an industrial-size bar of Dairy Milk on the coffee table. ‘The twins are at a birthday party. Again. One of about thirty every year we have to take them to. And that means thirty presents, times two, of course, because they can’t just give one between them.’ He sighs. ‘I’ll tell you, Will, open a toy shop. You’ll make a fortune.’
‘Why don’t you just say you can’t make it?’
‘And risk Jack and Ellie becoming the class outcasts? No way. Besides, it’s some new kid–Archie somebody-or-other–who Ellie’s taken a shine to, so Barbara felt it was important.’ Tom shakes his head. ‘Playground politics. It makes corporate life seem like a piece of piss.’
‘And you’d know that how, exactly?’
Tom ignores me, and plonks himself down on the sofa. ‘I’ve left Barbara there with them. There’re only so many screaming kids I can handle in a room at one time.’
‘And how many is that?’
‘None.’ He looks at his watch. ‘So, anyway, I thought I’d come round and watch the football and drink some of your beer. If that’s okay?’
‘Sure,’ I say, nodding towards the fridge. ‘Help yourself.’
Tom gets up and heads over towards the refrigerator, grabbing a bottle of beer from inside the door. ‘Bottle opener?’
‘Top drawer on the left.’
He grabs the handle and tugs. And tugs. Then tries the cupboard underneath with the same result. ‘Mate, I think your kitchen’s broken,’ he says.
‘Child locks.’ I reach in, release the mechanism, and open the drawer. ‘Fitted them this morning.’
Tom opens his mouth as if to say something, then just takes the bottle opener from me and shakes his head, popping the cap off his bottle and taking a long swig.
‘What’s all this?’ he says, catching sight of the laptop on the kitchen table, where I’m still logged on to NewFlames.
‘I’ve, er, joined a dating site.’
I wait for the ridicule, but, much to my surprise, none comes. ‘Good on you,’ says Tom. ‘Anyone interesting?’
‘Well, unfortunately, you can’t search based on breast size,’ I say, having known Tom long enough to be familiar with what his idea of ‘interesting’ is. ‘I do have a list of matches, but there’s no one on it who really takes my fancy.’
As Tom picks up the laptop and sits down on the sofa, I grab myself a bottle of beer from the fridge and join him. ‘What about her?’ he says, scrolling through my match list, and pointing to a picture of a blonde girl who’s dressed in a rather tight-fitting school uniform, which I’m hoping is a photograph taken at a St Trinian’s fancy-dress party rather than her normal weekday wear. ‘She seems nice.’
I reach across, click on the photo, and skim through her profile. ‘Gemma. Aged nineteen. Oh well.’
Tom looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘She’s nineteen, Tom.’
‘So?’ he says, running the mouse pointer over her breasts, as if to emphasize her finer points. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Tom–I might have said that I love kids. But that doesn’t mean I want to go out with one.’
Tom grins, and turns his attention back to the screen. ‘When was the last time you slept with someone in their teens?’
‘That would be when I was in my teens too.’
He stares wistfully at Gemma’s photo. ‘Remember how it was? All firm, and—’
‘Tom, I’m going to be thirty-
one very soon. And I need someone who’s in the same boat as me, age wise. Someone younger isn’t going to want to commit to a life of child-rearing. Not just yet, anyway.’
Tom shrugs. ‘Seems a shame. Okay,’ he says, scrolling through my list of ‘recently viewed’, before stopping suddenly at Sandra’s photo. ‘What about this one? She’s got nice—’
‘Tom, please,’ I say, snatching the laptop back and shutting the lid, nearly trapping his fingers in the process. ‘I can do without your input at this stage, thanks very much.’
‘Suit yourself,’ says Tom, getting up from the sofa and heading towards the spare room. ‘Game of pool instead?’
‘No!’ I say, jumping up and rushing to block the doorway.
Tom eyes me suspiciously. ‘What’s going on? You haven’t got someone in there?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing. No, it’s just…’
‘Come on,’ says Tom, using his considerable weight advantage to barge past me. ‘Let’s see.’ He pushes open the door, and stops in his tracks, as if he’s not sure he’s gone into the right room. ‘What have you done to the pool room?’
‘It’s now the, er, baby’s room.’
Tom stares at me in disbelief. ‘First the car, then the child locks, and now this? You’ve lost it. Big time.’
I shrug. ‘It’s like I said. I want everything to be right. The fewer changes I have to make at the time, the better. But I still think it’s missing something.’
Tom scratches his head. ‘What? Apart from the pool table.’
‘And a baby, obviously. But it’s just got no child-friendly touches. Or a cot. Which is why you’re coming with me to Mothercare.’
‘Mothercare? On a Saturday?’ Tom swallows hard. ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Beer?’
Tom takes another swig from his bottle. ‘Already got one, thanks.’
‘Lunch?’
‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘Not telling Barbara what you really got up to on your stag night?’
