by Mike Gayle
‘Five years. We met on the internet. We both love horror films and we used to talk about them all day to each other on a forum. Then we just started talking about other stuff and then one day we decided to meet up and that was it. She moved down from Sheffield the week after.’
‘And your kid? Boy or girl?’
‘A girl, Shona, she’s a cracker. In fact that’s why I came in here today: someone told me it was good for kids’ books.’
‘It is.’ I lead him over to the children’s section and help him pick out a few things. Between us we choose The Very Hungry Caterpillar, The Gruffalo and a Charlie and Lola story, which he carries over to the till.
‘What’s the damage?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’ I hand him the books in a bag.
‘You can do that?
‘Consider it my present to Shona.’
‘Cheers.’ He holds out his hand and I shake it firmly.
‘Good to see you, mate,’ I reply.
‘Who was that?’ asks Gerry, as I open the till and slip some coins from my pocket into the drawer.
‘Just an old mate who seems to have his life more sorted than I ever will.’
Instead of heading to Annabel’s with Gerry at lunchtime I nip out for a sandwich from the Sainsbury’s Local across the road and eat it sitting at the desk in the stockroom thinking about my encounter with my old schoolmate. He’d met the love of his life through the internet; might it be possible that I could too?
Keeping an eye out in case Gerry returns from lunch early I log on to Lauren’s dating website and begin the registration process. The easy bit is outlining the sort of women I’m hoping to meet. The most difficult is the ‘about me’ section and I can’t seem to write anything here that doesn’t make me cringe. It’s not a natural thing to do, sum up your entire personality in a witty paragraph, and even attempting to do so is alarmingly sobering. Thwarted, I consider giving up but then it occurs to me that if I swallow my pride and involve Gerry in the process I’d have access to the man whose words have literally moved thousands to tears. Surely he could write something that didn’t make me sound like a closet serial killer.
‘You want me to write your profile for you?’
I stare at him. He’s enjoying torturing me. ‘Only if you’re not going to make a big deal out of it.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ he says, pushing me out of the chair. He cracks his knuckles before hitting the keyboard in a flurry of activity. I look over his shoulder but he tells me in language that causes Anne to reprimand him sharply from her position behind the counter to stay away. Fifteen minutes pass before he beckons me over to the screen.
He gets up and stretches. ‘This, my friend, is a masterpiece of understated genius and when you score off the back of this you will owe me a pint or two by way of a thank-you.’
I take his seat, peer at the screen and read the following:
Hi, I’m Matt and here are my cards on the table:
1. I’m recently separated.
2. But I did like being married.
3. I recently resigned from a well-paid job.
4. But I love working hard.
5. I’m looking for a new beginning.
6. And I’d love it if it could be with you.
Gerry watches for my reaction and when my face cracks and a grin appears, we both start to chuckle.
‘It’s genius,’ I say, patting him on the back. ‘Absolute genius. Moving without being mawkish . . . and yet funny, and honest too – and full of integrity. Have you done this before?’
‘Never. I just let the songwriter in me out for a minute. Granted, it might scare away a few of the fluffier ones and some will read the marriage stuff and assume quite rightly that you’re damaged goods but the rest of them – the free spirits – I reckon they will flock your way. Have you got a photo?’
‘Only the one that you used for my photo ID.’
‘Even better. You look seriously trustworthy in that photo.’
I upload the photo to the site, double-check my entry, press return and it’s done. My profile has gone live: I am officially internet-dating.
27
The way this particular dating site works is that every time I log in, a box in the corner of my screen tells me a) who’s looked at my profile and b) how many direct messages I have. On my first day I get a resounding fifteen ‘looks’ and no messages; on the second day I get seven ‘looks’ and zero messages; and then on the third day seventeen ‘looks’, but still no messages. I am baffled by why I am doing OK on the ‘look’ front but so appallingly on the ‘message’ front where I assume the real action takes place. It’s only when Gerry concludes: ‘They’re birds aren’t they? They’re waiting for you to make the first move!’ that it even occurs to me that my ‘lookees’ might be waiting for me to direct-message them. Focusing my attention on my three favourite profiles I channel the spirit of Gerry and contact: Lou_bee_Loo (a forty-one-year-old nurse), Flirtythirty_GH (a thirty-nine-year-old teacher) and NewtoBrum76 (a thirtysomething graphic designer).
And then I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
And then finally just as I’m wondering if I should cast my net wider I get the following message:
From Newtobrum76: Dear Matt, thanks for your lovely message the other day. Sorry I didn’t get back to you straight away but it’s been absolute madness at work. Could I get your number and text you some time soon? Have a great day, Abi.
Message from me: Hi, Abi! Here’s my number! Just thought you ought to know that there’s a typo on my profile. Where it says that my favourite film is Fellini’s 8½ it should actually read – anything with Jason Statham in it. Cheers, Matt.
Message from Abi: Hi Matt, Funny you should say that! Where my profile says ‘I love theatre and classical music’ it should actually read ‘I love everything Katherine Heigl has ever done and the music of Abba.:—)
We carry on like this for the rest of the week with barely a couple of hours going by without one of us texting the other, but whenever I suggest meeting up she always finds a way to sidestep the issue. If it had been any other lifetime I’d have given up by now but the truth is I’m loving the diversion, plus if her profile photo is anything to go by she’s actually pretty damn hot.
‘So what’s with all this texting?’ asks my sister the following Sunday as my parents lead her husband and the kids into the living room having demolished one of Mum’s legendary Sunday dinners. ‘You’ve barely stopped looking at your phone the entire time we’ve been here.’
‘It’s complicated,’ I say.
Yvonne isn’t fooled for a second: ‘It’s a woman isn’t it? What’s she like?’
‘Nice.’
‘Nice?’ Yvonne looks at me like I’m mad. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So why are you saying she’s nice?’
‘Because she is nice.’
‘So why do I sense there’s a problem? She’s not married is she?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘There is none . . . other than the fact that I haven’t actually met her yet.’
‘How can you not have—?’ Yvonne stops herself quickly, lowers her voice and whispers. ‘This is an internet date, isn’t it?’
I wince. ‘Don’t say a word to anyone!’
‘Oh, come on, Matt!’ says Yvonne, ‘It’s the twenty-first century! Everyone internet-dates! In fact it’s good to know that there are nice guys getting in on it. Have you got a photo?’
I show Yvonne Abi’s profile on my phone. It’s the first time I’ve shown anyone what she looks like and while I’m keen to get another opinion I’m apprehensive in case I’ve missed something obviously off-putting about her like the fact that she’s got a horn growing from the middle of her forehead or a tattoo of her favourite singer running down her neck.
‘She’s absolutely gorgeous!’ says Yvonne.
/> I let out a huge sigh of relief. ‘I really landed on my feet with this one.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ says Yvonne, grinning. ‘If anyone’s landed on their feet it’s her.’
Once my sister and her family have gone I escape to my room to text Abi:
Message from me: Sorry for the text silence this afternoon. Had family around. x
Message from her: [Two minutes later] No worries! Family is important to me too even if you do want to strangle them sometimes! Hope it went well. X
Message from me: [one and a half minutes later] It was fine. My nephews think I am the coolest uncle ever. X
Message from her: [One minute later] My nieces think I’m great too. We should compare notes some time.
Message from me: [Ten seconds later] How about this weekend? Maybe Friday night? X
Message from her: [Thirty seconds later] Would love to but have a ‘thing’. How about Saturday afternoon?
Message from me: [Ten seconds later] Sounds great. Where?
Message from her: [Thirty seconds later] The café at the MAC is always good for people-watching. See you there at 2 p.m.?
Message from me: [Eight seconds later] Definitely! X
Message from her: [Eight seconds later] See you there!!!
Bingo. So there it is. It may have cost me a couple of callused thumbs but finally I have my first real live date with a complete stranger in over seven years.
As is typical of weeks when you have something to look forward to mine drags like no other week has ever dragged before. Even work, which up to now has always made the days go quickly, seems so sluggish that I have to check that the ‘open’ sign on the door is actually on display. By the time that five o’clock on Friday evening comes around, I’m so desperate not to spend my evening counting down the hours until meeting up with Abi the following afternoon, that when Gerry asks me whether I fancy a quick pint after work I practically leap down his throat in order to say yes and so we head straight to the Fighting Cocks.
‘So,’ says Gerry once we’ve got a couple of pints in front of us, ‘feeling nervous about tomorrow?’
‘No, should I be?’
‘You’ll be fine mate. Sounds to me like it’s pretty much in the bag.’
‘And there speaks someone for whom it is always “in the bag”. You have no idea what it’s like for mere mortals, do you?’
‘And you’d know this how exactly? Because of what you read in the music press when you were a kid?’
‘What? Are you telling me it’s not true?’
Gerry chuckles. ‘It’s like all things isn’t it? It depends how deep you dig. I’m not saying that I haven’t had my fair share of groupies and the like but if you think that everything’s always gone my way you’d be way off the mark.’
‘You’re telling me the great Gerry Hammond has had his heart broken?’
‘Where do you think lines like: “She lifts me up, and puts me down, I’m broken glass inside her now?’’ came from? You can’t make any art unless you’ve had your heart broken a few times. It’s the law.’
‘So who last broke your heart?’
‘Me,’ he replies. ‘I’m so bloody careless you wouldn’t believe it.’
I sense there’s more to the story but even though I press him for the rest of it he just changes the subject and then Kara and her cronies turn up and start talking about a party over in Balsall Heath that one of them has been invited to and Gerry asks me if I fancy going.
‘What are you going to do instead?’ he chides. ‘Go to bed? Come to the party, have a laugh with me, and if it’s terrible, Scout’s honour we’ll leave within the hour.’ He drains his pint. ‘It’s way too early to think about going home and there’s no way I’m spending the night getting trapped in a corner talking about how great the bloody Velvet Underground are with Kara’s mates again.’
It’s after midnight as we finally pile out of the minicab we’d ordered to take us to Balsall Heath.
‘Whose party is it anyway?’ I ask Gerry as we walk up the path of a dilapidated double-fronted Edwardian house that had spent so long being passed down from one miserly landlord to another that it was now a mere ghost of its formerly glorious self.
‘I don’t know for sure,’ he says, raising his voice to be heard over the music coming from the house. ‘Whoever it is she’s a friend of a friend of Kara’s and it’s to celebrate her thirtieth birthday.’ He chuckles. ‘Thirty . . . those were the days. I don’t remember anything about my thirtieth which I’m guessing means I had the best time ever.’
I look at Gerry and feel the urge to ask him something that’s been on my mind for a while. ‘Does it bother you being in your fifties?’
Gerry thinks for a moment. ‘Nah.’
‘You’re not even the slightest bit bothered?’
‘Why should I be?’
‘I’m not saying you should, it’s just . . . I don’t know. Sometimes I find the whole getting older thing a bit weird, especially as I don’t feel any different now to when I was thirty.’
‘That’s the thing though, isn’t it? Inside no one feels any different to the way they felt when they were young. I mean look at me, I might be fifty-one on the outside but mentally I’m twenty-three.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘And you say that like it’s a good thing.’
‘Because it is! Why would I want to be like all the other boring gits my age sitting around in their cardigans talking about the fuel consumption on their executive cars and how their kids are getting on at university? Do you want to be that guy?’
‘I dunno,’ I reply. ‘It doesn’t sound that bad.’
‘So why did you give up your job?’
‘Because it was sucking the life out of me.’
‘And don’t you think that doing the family thing would be the same? Weekends stuck in freezing cold parks entertaining ungrateful hyperactive brats? You’d have to be mad to do it.’ I shrug and Gerry immediately picks up on it. ‘Don’t tell me you actually bought into all that?’
I nod. ‘I did . . . for a while, but it was all a bit like a car crash. I took my eye off the road for a split second and the next thing I know I’m being pulled out of the wreckage.’
‘That’s the kind of accident that will be the making of you.’
‘I bloody hope so,’ I sigh, ‘I really do.’
We step inside. There are four young guys in the hallway smoking. They deliberately give us the once-over as if to underline the fact that in addition to being old we’re unwelcome. The hallway smells of dust and old carpet and the music is horrible. I want to go home. I want to be in bed.
We walk into the front room. It’s packed full of people dancing. Kara and her friends are talking in a corner and I follow Gerry over to her but then I feel a tug on my hand and turn round to see a pretty dark-haired girl in a sparkly top and jeans. Only when I adjust my eyes to the light do I see that it’s Elephant-Dung Paper Girl. She leans in towards me and instinctively I lower my head. She presses her lips to my ear: ‘It’s my birthday!’ she says. Before I can respond her arms are round my neck, her tongue is down my throat and all I can think is: ‘Well, I certainly didn’t see that coming.’
28
As I break away from the kiss my head is full of wonder as I think of how little I understand women despite having reached the age of thirty-nine. Every time I think I’ve got them sussed one does something so off the wall, so unexpected that all I can do is scratch my head in a gormless fashion. I know I’ve been off the market for a while but is this really how young women act these days? Do they all just come up to blokes they met once buying elephant-dung stationery sets and start kissing them?
‘Hi,’ I say, holding out my hand in a deliberately formal fashion. ‘I’m Matt and up until a few minutes ago in my head at least you were Elephant-Dung Paper Girl.’
Overcome with embarrassment she ignores my hand and covers her face with those slender fingers of hers. ‘I can’t believe I just did
that.’
‘So that was a first? I’m impressed.’
‘They dared me.’ She glances over to a small group of young women on the opposite side of the room pretending not to look at us.
I look over at them. ‘Do you always do everything they dare you to do?’
‘Never,’ she replies. ‘It must be the cocktails we were drinking earlier . . . or maybe the shots, I don’t know . . . it’s not even my birthday.’ She hangs her head in mock shame. ‘I’m so drunk it’s not even funny. What are you doing here anyway? Who do you know in the house?’
‘I came with that lot over there,’ I say, gesturing to Kara and her friends.
‘She’s not your girlfriend is she? You know, the pretty one. She keeps looking this way.’
I think she’s referring to Kara. ‘Nope, not my girlfriend, but a mate’s. He should be round here somewhere.’ I scan the room for Gerry but he’s nowhere to be seen. ‘His name’s Gerry. You probably know him. He’s the kind of guy everyone knows.’
‘Never heard of him,’ she says and she looks over at Kara again. ‘You’re definitely sure that’s not your girlfriend?’
‘Positive. I couldn’t be more single now if I tried. And anyway, she’s not my type.’
‘And what would your type be exactly?’
‘I used to belong to a pretty broad church but recently I’ve decided to focus purely on women who buy elephant-dung stationery. They’re a select bunch but they really get my motor revving.’
She laughs. ‘What was your name again?’
‘Matt.’
She holds out her hand. ‘Well Matt, I’m Rosa, and I’d really like to get you a drink. Will a beer do? I think there are some in the kitchen.’
‘Beer sounds great. But let me get it. It’s the least I can do after you’ve made me so welcome.’
‘Too late,’ she says, peeling away from me. She stops and points a finger at me in mock menace. ‘Don’t you dare move!’
Rosa doesn’t head to the kitchen. Instead she makes a beeline to her friends on the other side of the room, who erupt in cheers as they throw their arms round her. Through the hugs she sneaks a look in my direction. Her face is the very picture of embarrassment and I begin to wonder if she’ll ever return. But then she breaks away from them and heads towards the kitchen and as she does so I feel a rush of excitement go through me. I have no idea how this night will end but it feels good to be this free.
