Ten Dates

by Emily James

  My anger heightens and I whisper a cuss. “Look, please just keep the noise and the mess to a minimum!” I shove the T-shirt in his hand and spin on my heel to walk away. He seems to have no recollection of his singing karaoke show outside of my door last night. I bet he remembers Twenty alright though.

  “Hey Four...”

  My face swings back too keenly.

  “Nice legs!”

  I narrow my eyes and curse, “Sexist Pig!”

  I turn my face back to the direction I am heading and a small smile creeps on my face. Yes, my legs do look good today. I take bigger strides just to show them off.

  Please, God, let tonight’s date be nice.

  Chapter 5

  I KNOW I’M OVER-DRESSED when I walk into the Brit and notice I’m the only person not wearing some type of polyester sports attire.

  The bar is wall-to-wall television screens playing every sport known to mankind. The patrons are all dressed in football kits in every colour of the rainbow. Most of them are holding beers and pay me no attention what-so-ever as they yell and call out to whichever TV screen they’re supporting.

  What was Melinda thinking, setting this up as a date?

  I scan the room for someone in a hat. I have three options. An elderly chap in a peek cap sits in the corner of the bar, clutching his unlit pipe in one hand and a mug of beer in the other.

  It can’t be him; she wouldn’t do that to me, surely.

  On the other side of the room is a guy closer to my own age, maybe a few years younger. He has a bright red football shirt on; he's thrashing his arms around and growling obscenities at the ref. His face is bright red too; it also matches the red cups on his two-cupped hat that’s feeding beer straight into his mouth.

  I’m dying.

  Please, no.

  “Hey Joanie.” A light finger taps me on my arm. “Thought I’d better come say hello before you balked from the building.”

  “Matt?” I squint, checking it really is him. I haven’t seen Matthew Deer since I left school. He was captain of the football team and way out of my league back then. He’s carrying a baseball hat with his team’s football logo on it. The relief is so acute I feel a smile light up my face. He’s aged well, slightly thinner in the hair department than I remember but still, he’s got to be six-foot-four and built like a Russian shot putter. He still works out, judging by the network of veins popping out of his enormous biceps.

  “It’s good to see you.” Matt leans in for a hug, and I oblige by awkwardly holding him against me for a second. I look back at his square jaw and childlike wondering eyes.

  “Shall we take a seat? Game starts at half-past and this place will fill up quick.”

  “Sure,” I agree. This might not be so bad. At least we should have things to talk about, people in common at least.

  “I’ll get us both a beer,” Matt offers, and I tell him just a Coke for me since I brought the car.

  We’re off to a good start. On my first date with Chris, I bought the drinks, the food, and paid the tip. The complete opposite of Chris, that’s what I’m looking for.

  Matt returns and we settle into an easy discussion about where we’re at following school. He tells me all about his job at the football stadium. Sometimes he gets cheap tickets and the length of the grass absolutely cannot be longer than five centimetres on match day. I listen with rapt interest nodding and agreeing with his energetic account of what it’s like to be responsible for whether the game is a success or a failure. After all, if the pitch is not mowed to absolute precision, who will they hold to account? Matt, that’s who.

  “So you work in a real office, wow, what’s that like?” he asks.

  I start to tell him, over the noise of the punters singing match games and being abusive to the ref on TV, that I work in accounts at Dean and Molver. Matt looks mildly interested before he checks his watch and holds up his hand to pause me.

  “The game is just about to start. Do you want another drink?”

  As nice as it is of him to offer me another drink, I can’t help but think if this is his level of attention now, where will we be in ten years time when the kids have the pox and I’ve broken my leg walking the dog because Matt’s too busy at the football.

  “Actually Matt, I’ve got a headache coming on so I think I’ll just go home. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Oh. You sure?”

  “Yeah. It was good to see you though. Enjoy the game.”

  We say our goodbyes and I leave the bar feeling more dejected than ever. If Matt is a sample of the available offerings, I’d better start researching whether Siamese or Persian’s live the longest.

  When I reach my car, I dial Melinda. “Matt flipping Deer. Seriously? I could have picked a better suitor in the cleaning cupboard at work. Somewhere between the dish soap and wet rags! You know the date was at a bar, to watch the football. I hate football. No more, Melinda. No more dates without me vetting them first.”

  “What? Oh, yeah your date. You finished already?” She sounds quieter than usual. Her normally strong voice is devoid of its usual confidence. I’m about to check if she is okay when she continues. “Okay, okay, so he wasn’t your type. I’m uploading the data into the algorithm. The next one will be better I promise. You’ve got to admit he is pretty to look at.”

  I soften; she is just trying to help.

  “Pretty dim, yes. Look, why don’t we meet for coffee? Stop this nonsense and have a proper chat. It feels like ages since we’ve properly caught up.”

  “Can’t, I’ve got too much on. Besides, Mikey is at his weeklong intense cookery class at the community centre. It wouldn’t be fair if you gave up now, and the next guy is so much better. I put Matt first because he was at least familiar. I thought it would break you in gently.”

  “I’m not a horse!” I tell Melinda. “Surely this is a disaster idea. Can’t I just meet someone the organic way?”

  “Well you could, but I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to tell you this, I noticed that Chris has changed his status to engaged. Joanie, I’m sorry.”

  Fire boils the liquid that encases my brain and I’m ready to explode.

  “He did what?”

  “It’s the blonde. It’ll never last, babe. I was so angry I left five bad reviews on his crap app from every device in the house. I’m trying to find his address to send him a parcel of Ed’s vomit from this morning. He won’t get away with this!”

  I try to respond but I’m dumb struck. He’s known her just a few days and he already proposed. We were together three years. Am I so unlovable?

  “Joanie, you there? Don’t you dare internalize this. Whoever she is, she doesn’t even know what a lowlife loser he is. This is not about you. You are kind, funny, and beautiful and you will find someone deserving of you. Right now, you need to find your war face. Screw him; you had a lucky escape. You hear me?”

  I wonder if that is what Melinda is doing. Putting on her war face, seeing lawyers and preparing for the battle that is divorce.

  “Thanks. It’s been a long day. I think I am going to go home and take a bubble bath. I’m okay, really I am. I’m putting on my angry face right now.”

  “Good. I’ll email you the details for tomorrow’s date. Love you.”

  She hangs up.

  I select my angriest playlist and flip the car into reverse. I’m not sure whether the other road users can sense my rage, but the roads are clear and I get home in record time. When I approach my usual space, the one I can see from my kitchen window, a red haze fills my vision. Someone has parked in my usual space. A matte black muscle car with tires the width of a tractor’s sits smugly in my spot.

  I drive around the small area, where twenty parking spaces are neatly drawn out to find that there is not one single space available. In the spot next to mine, where the owner of apartment six would normally park, is a shiny, mean-looking Harley Davidson motorcycle.

  In my heart of hearts, I know it’s not a visitor’s car. It’s Six’s c
ar. I want to ram it with my own. I wonder if I did, would Six run out and I could mow him down too? I don’t do it. I like my VW beetle and it would be a shame to dent her on the basis of one selfish resident.

  When I get inside my apartment, I switch on my laptop and pull up a new group email, which I address to the generic Owners Society. We use it for building related issues like the annual BBQ, and for the attention of the person whose dog keeps urinating in the downstairs hall.

  I start typing as politely as I can, though the rage projects through my fingers, and I use the search and find function to remove several words starting with F.

  To whom it may concern,

  The parking space adjacent to the storage bins is and has always been the earmarked spot for apartment FOUR.

  Imagine my dismay to find that not only has someone taken my space today, but it seems ALL of the available spaces have been taken. As I’m sure you are all aware, the owner’s handbook states that there is enough parking spaces for ONE car each. Therefore, I would politely request that the car be removed, with immediate effect, and is never again put in my space. As it is, it was raining and I had to walk two blocks from Merson Street and my suede boots are now ruined!

  Yours,

  Four

  I feel better after my rant. I put the laptop on the sofa and venture into the kitchen and pour a glass of wine. While running a bath, the ping of an incoming message sounds from my laptop.

  Two emails: One from Melinda and one from Six.

  Dear Four,

  Please do not get your knickers in a twist. It is just a car. I think you’ll find that, while the handbook points out that there are enough spaces, it doesn’t suggest you have your own. Besides, Two doesn’t own a car. He said I am welcome to use his space for my motorcycle.

  The spaces are not numbered, so I have no idea who took the last space.

  Regards,

  Six

  I fume a reply:

  No, Six. You are right. They are not numbered, but they are in fact, designated. Please do not do this again.

  Four

  When an hour goes by without a retort, I relax and am finally able to enjoy my bath and wine.

  There! That showed him. No one messes with Joanie Fox anymore!

  Chapter 6

  AS SOON AS I WAKE, I start to read Melinda’s itinerary for tonight’s date.

  You will meet Brett at eight p.m. at the Dizzying Heights Bistro at the top of Pleasure Point. Wear your petrol blue dress with your skyscraper heels. I’ve ordered a taxi to pick you up at seven-forty-five so you can have a glass of wine and relax.

  I scan the column marked additional information. Brett Tomlin is a thirty-two year old investment banker. He drives a blue BMW and has a cat named Barry. On weekends, Brett volunteers at his mother’s cat shelter and he likes to go sailing.

  I have to admit that on paper, this one looks good. Being kind to animals, helpful to his mother, and healthy pastimes are all bonuses. It has to be better than riding a motorcycle, pissing off your neighbours and parking in other people’s spaces!

  The date location compensates for my earlier reluctance, and I feel flips of excitement in my tummy. Dizzying Heights has been open six months now and has been impossible to get reservations at. I should know, Chris had been desperate for a meet with the owner, who he had heard was some big-shot businessman.

  Dizzying Heights is located at the top of a local beauty spot, where lovers come to kiss and the depressed come to jump. It overlooks the sea, which is just a fifteen-minute walk from here.

  Melinda did good.

  After a pleasant day at work, I’m able to put thoughts of Chris and his new fiancée to the back of my mind, I ate a wholesome lunch and got an express manicure in my lunch hour in preparation for tonight.

  As I pull up to my apartment building, I’m feeling better than ever. Even the grey sky can’t dampen my mood. I reverse into my space in one fluid manoeuvre and am impressed with my skilful parking. The foyer door glides open with only the slightest of shoves and I sniff the air. It is a cold assault of my nostrils, with only the freshness of the damp air outside. No woody scent of Six or floral assault of Twenty.

  I’m feeling so chipper, I practically skip down the hall to my apartment.

  After showering and putting on my petrol blue dress, as instructed by Mel, I add a few curls to my hair to add some volume and leave it loose. I set it with a spray of lacquer and put on my make-up, opting for a deep red lip and a nude eye. My lips look full and plump, and I wonder if my date will be kiss worthy.

  At seven-thirty, my silver clutch bag is packed and my cashmere shrug is wrapped around my shoulders. The wind howls against my window to remind me it’s Baltic outside, but I decide I don’t care. As a precaution, I slip my umbrella under my arm because my massive parker coat would totally ruin the Sex Siren vibe that I’m going for. I just hope Brett Tomlin is worthy of all this effort.

  After checking the peephole, I step out into the corridor and walk to the frigid foyer. My taxi should be here soon. There are heavy footsteps on the carpet behind me, and I swing my head around to check the source of my distraction. Six looms in front of me. He’s wearing a bright white button down shirt, a smart black trouser, and carrying the matching suit jacket over his right arm. He stops beside me, his head cocked to one side, a slight curve to his lips.

  “Four.”

  I nod in acknowledgement. “Six.”

  He nods back. I feel his eyes slide over me and his brows lift in what I think is a glint of appreciation. I nibble my lip, nervous and excited that he’s checking me out. Six puts on his jacket and my eyes graze across his cotton-sheathed torso. I gulp a little as I pull the archived memory of Six’s wet chest. His eyes catch mine looking, and he grins a knowing smile. I take a step forward and jut out my chin.

  Six is so childish.

  We both stare out of the floor to ceiling glass doors, watching the rain lash down via the glow of the streetlight.

  Six holds something out in his hand for me to view. It’s a piece of white lined paper that has a pretty, pink print-lace edge across all four corners. Scrawled on the sheet of the notepaper are the words: Check for sex Six!!!

  Recognition sparks a furnace inside my cheeks.

  “I believe this must be yours?”

  Trust Six to be a smug bastard.

  I bet he has something similar on his door.

  “Never seen it before in my life,” I say, snatching it off him and tucking it in my clutch.

  Please taxi, I beg, don’t be your usual tardy self.

  “Hot date tonight then, Four?” The heat of Six’s stare warms my cheeks, but I refuse to look back at him.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know, Six.” I deadpan, continuing to stare at the rain.

  “I hope it’s inside. We’re set for a storm.”

  “That’s none of your business, Six.”

  “Well, I think a storm is everybody’s business, Four. I see the lady isn’t as sweet as her perfume tonight.” There’s a dark humourous vibe to Six’s words.

  My umbrella is difficult to grip in my sweating palms, and the foyer feels like a pressure cooker. If I turn to make eye contact, my make-up might melt and slide right off my face.

  “You’re rather nervous. A first date, perhaps? Or maybe...” I hear Six’s hand scruff against his chin. “Four, are you going on a blind date?”

  A growl sneaks past my teeth as my head shakes of its own volition. How am I so easy to read?

  “No, no I’m not going on a blind date. Not that it is any of your concern. Perhaps you should pay more mind to your own affairs. Where is the delightful Twenty anyway?”

  “Twenty? I’m not sure I know where Twenty is. You’re not, wait, are you jealous, Four?”

  My face lurches at his audacity. “Jealous? Me?” I cough out an almighty laugh. “Why on earth would I be jealous? I hardly know you, and what I do know is that I don’t like you. I don’t like you parking your car in my spa
ce, or you lowering the tone with your drunken displays, and I don’t like being woken up in the middle of the night by the laughing hyena!”

  Six’s eyebrows rise with the corners of his mouth and he nods. “You are quite the peeping Tom, aren’t you? It’s okay. I completely understand. Rest assured, I will keep the noise down in future. Let you get a good night’s rest.”

  Six’s index finger moves cautiously to the underside of my chin as he gently nudges my mouth shut. I jump backwards and am suddenly blinded by the headlights of the oncoming taxi as it swings around the water feature out front, coming to a stop in front of the foyer doors.

  “Goodbye, Six.”

  “See you soon, Four. Enjoy your date.”

  I push the door open and my hair is blasted skyward by the wind.

  “None of your business, Six.”

  What he calls back is impossible to hear clearly because of the sheer velocity of the wind, but it sounded a lot like, “Could be if you wanted it to be, Four.”

  I ARRIVE AT DIZZYING Heights ten minutes late after the taxi driver, a stout man in his fifties, who smelled of coffee and hand rolled cigarettes, took the cautious route away from the coastline. The sky crackled and boomed the whole way. My driver looked nervous as hell to be out in this weather and took the long, tree lined, winding road up to Dizzying Heights at a pace only a few miles above walking speed. When we reached the top, I was awestruck and took longer to take my cash from my purse to admire the skyline. From up here you could see for miles. Our whole town, just a sprinkling of glittering lights down below, and beyond that the sea where a hell-fire storm was thundering above us. When the driver coughed nervously, I paid him and made my way up the stairs into the old stately home that was now an exclusive restaurant and bar.

  Inside, it is decadently styled. The porcelain floors are so mirror-like my thighs clench to prevent flashing the front of house. A huge chandelier hangs from the grand ceiling, which is framed by a double sweeping staircase.