by Dana Piazzi
Yeah. I could just see it in my mind’s eye. Doc Martinez would be a real hoot.
As expected, Doc proved to be a real disappointment. He dropped me off at the cafeteria and came back half an hour later to say that he was going into surgery to remove a kid’s appendix. I said I’d wait and ended up pulling out my tablet to make notes on a new story idea.
A doctor who treated sick kids, who managed to find a balance between work life and a new romance with a woman he met at a charity fundraiser. I planned to call it Doctor Faithful, and eventually did a few months later. My story was way more interesting than my actual date. Which I can prove by admitting that I don’t even remember how long I sat there, in that cafeteria, alone. All I remember is having Doc Martinez finally slump into a seat across from me, with a tray loaded with food, what felt like hours later.
He talked and talked and talked about his surgery while he ate, not allowing me any time to get a word in, until he finished up, pecked me on the cheek, and said:
“Great date. I’ll call you.” Before rushing off to do his ‘rounds’.
Which, all in all, I took as code for:
“You would make a fantastic girlfriend for me, but I’d make a lousy boyfriend for you. But hey, you’re a great gal and I’ll probably never see you again. So good life and ta-ta for now.”
Actually, that would probably have been preferable for me. At least then he would have been honest.
So, lonely old me had to hoof it out into the cold night air, call a taxi to get me home, and stop off along the way for take-out. I had been prepared to wait a while for Doc Martinez to finish his job. He was dealing with kids, after all, and I appreciated the time and care it took. But it wasn’t until I got home and discovered that I’d been there nearly four hours, that the real anger hit me. I sat myself down to my laptop, pulled up Google, and did a little digging. The removal of an appendix, even with complications, should have taken only an hour, max. So what the heck was he doing with his extra three hours?
It was about that time that I wiped Doc Martinez off my radar for good. No way was a guy getting a second chance after he left me hanging for three hours with no reasonable excuse. He didn’t even buy me dinner. I was not pleased, and that’s putting it mildly. All I could do was get Heathcliffe and I ready for bed and hope that date number two fared even just a little better.
Date #2 – Bashful Dash
Dash at least had the courtesy of showing up on time, with a bouquet of roses no less. He was five minutes early and everything was going well for him, as I gazed out my window to clock his arrival. Nicely dressed, in an off grey suit, his hair slicked back and looking pretty good for a second date. He was about three inches taller than Doc Martinez, who had been the same height as me. Where Doc had shaggy dark hair, befitting a hassled doctor, Dash was immaculately put together. His hair was a light brown, gelled back into a clean side part, and his clothes were wrinkle free.
What counted against him was the flashy sports car and the way he continued to check his watch every two seconds, as he buzzed time and again, to be let into my apartment building.
I literally groaned in frustration as I made my way over to the buzzer and pushed the intercom button. I tried to be polite and pretend that I hadn’t been snooping on him.
“Khloe? It’s Dash. I’m waiting outside. Hop out when you’re ready,” he called into the intercom, before I could so much as say hello, or that I’d be right down.
Strike two was noted and logged. I was not a girl who liked to be rushed, or have that harassed tone shoved down the intercom at me. And he sounded harassed. Like his being early meant that I was late. Strike three was that he didn’t even seem interested in meeting me inside, or coming up to my door like a real gentleman would. Three strikes and I wasn’t even out the door.
I double checked everything in the mirror and made my way out the apartment and downstairs. Dash flashed a smile I’d seen somewhere before, but couldn’t place and thrust the roses at me.
“Karen said red roses were kind of your thing.” He winked at me. I looked down at the roses in my hand, pale pink at best, and gave him my best fake smile and tried not to give that wide eyed, raised eyebrow look that Libby claimed I had. One that, apparently, screamed ‘Save me’. Dash wasn’t that bad. Yet. “Hop into the car and we’ll get going,” he insisted, placing his hand far too low on the base of my spine for me to be comfortable with. I slid to the side and to the front to get his hand off my ass and stepped over to the car.
“This is a beaut,” I lied, never having had much interest in fancy sports cars. Dash beamed like I’d given him a couple hundred quid.
“Yeah, Layla is my baby,” he claimed, patting the bonnet and walking around to the driver’s door. I gave him three strikes for the last five minutes; the grope, not even attempting to open my door, and the whole naming his car thing. I like a guy to try, or just think about it. In my book, chivalry is not dead yet. Clearly, it wasn’t even in Dash’s rear view to consider it.
I could tell before we reached the bar that Dash was a model who worked for Karen. It was also pretty clear, by the time we got our table, that he was actually using a lot of false bravado to cover his nerves. When the busty waitress came over with our drinks and spent nearly five minutes flirting with him, he got a little shy and started blushing. It was the blushing that reeled me in.
“Honey, the drinks are good enough. Thanks.” I cut into her monologue about how ill-fitting her tank top was on her well-endowed frame. Dash was literally turning into a beetroot right before my eyes, and let out a sigh of relief when my glare sent the flirt away.
“Sorry. I guess I ran out of courage.” He chuckled lightly, before reaching for the whiskey and soda he’d ordered. I could see his hand was shaking, so I put my hand over his and gave him a gentle smile that I hoped wouldn’t make him nervous.
“You don’t need Dutch courage. And you don’t have to play a part. Just talk to me,” I insisted, sitting back in my seat and getting comfortable. I knew by then that I could talk to sweet old Bashful Dash all night and not get bored. Sure enough, he told me about how he grew up in the country and was raised to be a simple lad by two doting parents. Then he was spotted by a talent scout when he was sixteen and taken to the big city to be a modelling star. Which he was.
And I could see why. He was stunningly beautiful.
“Karen says you’re a writer?” he asked, including me in the conversation for the umpteenth time. I picked another fry off the plate of food we’d ordered and explained how I was a city girl through and through, how Karen and I had known each other for forever, and what my work involved. Dash listened the way no one had in a long time, but he still blushed when I brought up the delicate subjects. “So, you’re mostly…um…R-rated?” he asked politely. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“There’s a fair amount of kink and erotica in my stories sometimes, yeah. But not all of them. I’ve actually published a few YA novels. Young adult,” I explained upon seeing his confusion with my acronyms, yet again. I kept slipping into novel talk, forgetting he knew nothing about my world.
By the time another two hours had passed and we’d talked and eaten and danced together, Dash drove me back to my apartment and walked me up all three flights.
“So tell me, Dash, just why did Karen pick you to go out with me? I’m sensing that I’m not really your type,” I admitted, as I unlocked my door and went inside. Dash followed, since we’d already agreed on it. He needed a strong coffee to drown out the taste of the onions he’d ordered with dinner. He never had taken his whiskey and soda; he’d sent it back and exchanged it for a diet coke the minute he knew he didn’t have to put on a performance for me. Or rather…you know what I mean.
“To be honest, Khloe, I don’t know. If you promise not to take offence, I’ll admit that you’re a little older than I’d prefer.” He smiled as he sank onto my sofa and relaxed. I laughed, since that much I had figured out already. The kid was barely twenty four,
and I was already into my twenty seventh year. “I’m kind of a sucker for younger girls, like twenty-ish. There’s this girl at the agency. She works in reception and she’s got the most beautiful green eyes.” He sighed wistfully, and I knew I had a friend for life. I poured out a strong coffee for both of us and sat down beside him.
“So why don’t you ask her out?” I wondered, genuinely intrigued by this sweet boy. He shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. He barely jumped at all when Heathcliffe bounded onto his knee and yapped at him. He just stuck his hand out and rubbed his ear with a smile.
“She’s dating this other model, Trace. He’s a lot more confident than I am. But I thought maybe if I came out with you, it might make her jealous,” he admitted, his baby blues gazing innocently over his coffee cup at me. I knew, at that exact moment, that I had to do something to get this boy the girl he wanted so badly.
“Leave it with me, hun,” I told him, patting his knee as a plan came to mind.
By that point, I had another new story idea, of a brave but innocent model who stepped out of the spotlight and into the darkness to solve the murder of an agency employee The girl he’d always longed for, with dazzling green eyes, would fall madly in love with him as he worked tirelessly with the police to track down the killer.
I also had a new project to wrap my mind around; how to get Dash the girl of his dreams.
Dash and I left each other on good terms that night, and we’re still the best of friends a year later. To save the suspense, I’ll admit that I put a very sneaky plan into action over the next three months.
I drove the poor girl mad with jealousy.
Whenever he was with her, but not working, I would call up and read him the steamiest passages from my novels. Dash, by Karen’s own account, would blush so hard that his green eyed receptionist girl, Kinsey, soon began to suspect he was having a raunchy romance outside of work.
The jealousy took a few weeks to ramp up until she couldn’t take it any longer. I even got to be there, when it exploded full force. She ranted and raved at him for a while, before admitting that she’d broken up with Trace to make herself available, waiting for him to notice her and ask her out. That was when I stepped in and smoothed everything over for Dash, who stood there like a guppy fish, and adorable guppy fish, with nothing to say in his defence.
He was so relieved that he didn’t even care about how things could have ended if I hadn’t stepped in to admit that there was and never had been anything going on between us. Or the trouble that, I will admit, I could have caused.
I’ve been told by the voice over my shoulder that I should also admit that everything I’m recounting to you now is also my fault. Though I’m not entirely sure it is, I’m writing this as proof in case it comes in handy later. I’d like to point out that someone, hovering over my shoulder, should remember that not everything was my fault. I insist that fate decided what was going to happen long before my actions ever came into it.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Chapter 3
Date #3 – Grumpy Jackie
Although I never really found out how old Doc Martinez was, I can safely guess that he was in the very early thirties. He was in the ideal age range if I had to choose a specific one for my perfect boyfriend. Dash was a little on the young side for me, but my third date, Jack Basse, was in the later years, if I’m honest. He was pushing forty five, with a bit of a beer gut, but he did run his own Fortune 500 company and Joy figured that would be appealing enough for first date conversation.
Sadly, she was wrong.
Mr. Fortune 500 honked his horn at me from the street. Strike one. When I left my apartment, quietly fuming about his arrival, he sat in the driver’s seat, gave me that skeazy once-over look, and then curled his upper lip at me.
“I guess you’ll do for tonight,” he claimed.
Not being one to back down from an agreement, I gritted my teeth and got in the car. Five minutes later, I screamed until he pulled over, got out, and walked back to my apartment after the loser moneybags tried to put his hand up my skirt and PAY ME to do disgusting things to him. For my more sensitive blog readers, and the hovering man muttering swear words behind me, I will not dare to explain what he tried to suggest.
Let me just say that ‘Jackie’, as he referred to himself, was a man happy to flaunt his money, his prestige, and his…assets, for want of a better word, to anyone and everyone he pleased. He was also quite happy to threaten a girl’s career if she tried to say no to his whims. Well, let me just say that I said no and my career is doing just fine, Jack. Thanks.
Poor Joy was gutted when I had to tell her how it went that night. I got on the phone to her five minutes after getting into the apartment and narrowly missed my beloved dog when I haphazardly threw my shoe across the room in frustration. I ranted and raved to her about how disgusting ‘Jackie’ was and that she was never to be alone with such a man. Joy couldn’t apologise enough, but it wasn’t her fault he was a skeaze who thought more of himself than other people.
Needless to say, I never saw him again.
And, to shut him up, I’ll also tell you what my significant other is saying behind my back. If Jack Basse ever so much as says those things to another female and my man hears about it, then any subsequent bruising or breakage requiring medical treatment by ‘Jackie’, will most certainly be his doing. I’ve warned him not to say such things, since he’ll have the cops round here in a millisecond if anything does happen to that man, but he insists. Apparently, the man is a cretin of the worst order and no woman should ever have to put up with him again.
I agree. But secretly I’d love to find a more civilised way of dealing with Grumpy Jackie. One that doesn’t involve dirt, or blood, under my newly manicured nails.
Date #4 – Sleepy Deek
Deek
How can I describe Deek to you? Arabella set me up with him, after buying one of his paintings in the gallery across from her work. She claimed she talked to him for nearly an hour, but after the way our blind date went, I have to think that she might have exaggerated that a little.
You see, the problem with Deek was that he was very, very tired. All the time.
He called me on Wednesday night to say that he would pick me up at four to take me to a gallery showing. So I was dressed smart and ready to go at half three, just to make sure I was ready in time. When he didn’t show by four, I sat my butt down on the sofa and played Candy Crush Saga on my phone. Then I listened to some music and poured myself a glass of wine. I took the dog for a short walk and got back in time to read a chapter of the book I’d written that morning.
Still no Deek.
I tried to call, got no answer. I waited and no one came. By six, I was sitting on the sofa, leg bouncing in irritation as I contemplated getting something cooked for dinner. And typically, as is my luck, the intercom buzzed. There was Deek, wanting to come up to pick me up for our date. I said I’d meet him downstairs, not wanting any more delay by asking him to come up. I raced down to meet him and found him standing up, leaning against the side of my building.
He was snoring.
I gave him a shove and he jumped, before turning to grin at me.
“Wow, you look nice,” he said, cupping my elbow and leaning in to kiss my cheek. Since he was two hours late, I didn’t say thank you, or return the kiss. He seemed to realise, because he flashed a nervous smile and looked around. “Sorry I’m so late. I slept in and then I didn’t have time to swing by and pick you up before the showing. Once I got there, there was no way out again,” Deek apologised, shoving his hands into his pockets, which made me notice his appearance.
His hair was a mess, sticking up all roads, his clothes were creased as if he’d slept in them, and although he looked barely any older than me, he had bags under his eyes large enough to house my entire apartment.
“Did you…lose my number?” I asked, trying to play innocent, even though I was angry.
“Hah. I never even t
hought about that.” He laughed, guiding me over to the pavement. He looked both ways and took my hand, leading me across to the all night café across the road. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe he had been up all night preparing for the gallery showing. There were a million possibilities.
It was only as we sat talking, casually enough to have conversation, over a light meal that I realised what the real problem was. Deek fell asleep at the table, halfway through a sentence. When I woke him up, he laughed at himself and ran a hand through his hair.
“Sorry. Insomnia and my muse don’t get along. She kept me up all night, while my insomnia took a vacation. I’m exhausted,” he told me, as if I didn’t already know.
“Maybe you should go home and get some sleep?” I suggested, thinking I was being nice. Then he sat there, blinking like a deer caught in the headlights.
“I can’t do that. What if inspiration strikes in the middle of the night? No. I’m fine,” he said, trying to talk around one of the biggest yawns I had seen since college, during finals week. It was so infectious that I yawned myself. “Damn. I’m sorry…I’ve dragged you all the way out here and you’re tired. Let’s get you back home to get a kip, eh?” He smiled at me, apparently thinking that my yawn was a sign of my own fatigue.
Right then, I didn’t bother telling him the truth. He walked me back to my apartment and I had to nudge him awake twice as we stood on the pavement, waiting for a safe crossing. He smiled dozily at me and left me at my building doorway without a second glance.
“Girls, what were you thinking?” I asked myself, as I wandered into my apartment and straight into my bedroom. I changed for bed and planted myself on the sofa, beside a curled up Heathcliffe.
So far, the girls had proven my theory right. At the rate they were going, with only three dates left, I was pretty sure I would get my six months of silence without any arguments.
