THE DATING GAME
SUSAN BUCHANAN
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First published in 2012 by Susan Buchanan
Copyright © 2012 Susan Buchanan
Susan Buchanan has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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Table of Contents
THE DATING GAME
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Note from the Author
Excerpt: SIGN OF THE TIMES
Dedication
For Dylan, Declan and Rhys
Acknowledgments
Thanks go to Fi Broon for editing
Brad Covey for cover design
http://www.bradcovey.com
Yvonne Betancourt for eBook Formatting
http://www.ebook-format.com
Julia Gibbs for proofreading
http://www.facebook.com/proofreaderjulia
Susan Louineau, Melanie Hudson, Terry, Tracie Banister and Laura Cowan, for being fabulous beta readers. Last but not least, my Twitter family for their constant support
THE DATING GAME
Chapter One
‘You are not setting me up with anyone ever again!’ Gill McFadden said, clattering her wine glass on the table. ‘It has been a disaster every time. I should have seen this one coming, too.’
‘Oh come on, Gill, they’ve not been that bad,’ said her best friend, Debbie.
‘Yes, they have,’ Gill said grimly.
‘Let’s just start with last night’s fiasco, Graham, shall we?’ sighed Gill, who then took a gulp of her Pinot Grigio, as if to give her strength for the tirade she was about to unleash. Lisa and Angela, making up the remainder completing the quartet of friends that evening, exchanged a glance. They knew they were about to get an ear-bashing.
‘How did you describe Graham to me, Lisa?’ When Lisa didn’t reply, her answer stuck in her throat, Gill continued, smoothing a strand of her lustrous chestnut hair behind her ear.
‘OK, let me remind you. You assured me I would get on well with Graham as we were almost the same age and he had no baggage. I think you said he was a workaholic like me, but also liked going to the gym, so pretty fit, in both senses of the word. Oh, and he liked reading and foreign films. Am I close?’ At silent assent from her friends, Gill went on, ‘what you didn’t tell me was that he’s five feet four, so three inches shorter than me, and in the heels I had on last night, make that seven, and that he has the personality of a gnat!’ Drawing breath and getting back into her stride, Gill counted out on her fingers for emphasis. ‘He talked about the gym all night. He didn’t once ask anything about me, apart from if I was a member at a gym, as he looked me up and down. I now know more about pectorals, abdominals, protein shakes, and the pros and cons of taking steroids, than I ever thought possible.’
Gill tried to glare at her friends, but Lisa was looking at the ceiling, Angela at her shoes and Debbie had found the Guinness beer mat on the table fascinating.
‘And, yes, he is divorced, but he’d only been married two minutes and then got divorced. What does that say about his attitude to commitment?’ Not waiting for an answer, by now not expecting one either, Gill carried on.
‘Then, there’s his favourite book, or rather lack of. The last novel he read was The Da Vinci Code and before that a text prescribed for O’ Grade English! How does that make him interested in books?’
A particularly keen reader herself, Gill couldn’t fathom how anyone couldn’t read a book a month at least.
‘And his love of foreign films? He looked a bit of a perv, so yes, if they’re Swedish and include the words, “Yes baby, give it to me harder!”’
Debbie snorted. She couldn’t help it. That set off Angela, and as Lisa started howling, tears running down her face, before long even Gill saw the funny side of it and her face visibly relaxed. Then she was laughing, protesting between gulps for air, ‘It’s not funny. How would you have liked it? I’ve barely been out for months, as you know. What a waste of a night. Here was me trying to talk to him about Aldo Giovanni and Fellini and all he knew about foreign film was Borat!’ The giggles from Debbie, and the fact that Angela had to get up and run to the loo at Olympic speed, attracted the attention of the vigilant barista,
‘Everything all right, ladies?’
‘No, I think we can quite categorically say, everything’s all wrong,’ Gill managed to squeak. ‘But we’ll be fine, thanks.’
As the barman shrugged and walked away, Lisa said, ‘What about him?’
‘What?’ asked Gill, ‘Brett?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s barely out of nappies.’
‘No, he’s not. He’s about twenty-five.’
‘Yes and much as I would enjoy the stamina of a twenty-five year old, I would probably have as much in common with him as the workaholic, iron pumping bore you set me up with last night. No, I think I’m much better off on my own.’
‘You can’t give up, you’re only thirty-seven,’ Debbie put in her tuppenceworth.
‘Yes, I can. I’ve had enough, really.’
‘There must be another way,’ agreed Lisa, as she readjusted her charm bracelet, which had snagged on the fine hairs of her arm.
‘I don’t think so. We did have one thing in common, Graham and I. Like me, he works a lot and didn’t I get to hear about that, too.
Riveting. I might be a workaholic, but at least I‘m not a bore about it. Am I?’ Gill searched her friends’ eyes for confirmation when they didn’t answer.
‘No, no,’ Lisa added hurriedly. ‘You never talk about your work,’ at which point the three friends dissolved into laughter again.
‘I don’t talk about it all the time,’ said Gill.
‘No of course you don’t,’ Lisa didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm in her voice.
‘Just ninety percent of the time,’ said Debbie.
‘I’m not that bad,’ said Gill.
‘Yes, you are,’ broke in Debbie, ‘and that’s why we need to find you a good bloke.’
‘Well, that’s not going to happen. Maybe I should just throw myself even more into my work.’
‘Oh that would be just great. Then you will have so much more free time,’ dead-panned Lisa.
‘Gill, you already work from seven in the morning until eight or nine at night, at least five days a week and you’re always on your laptop at the weekend. There’s got to be more to life. You’re meant to work to live, not the other way round.’
‘Really? Well thank you Miss Ross for that illuminating insight, but I think I’ll just try and find more people jobs. I’m obviously far better at that than I am at finding a partner.’
Chapter Two
Gill was fed up. Last night’s conversation with the girls had left her feeling unsettled. How come her friends ended up with guys they really loved and she didn’t? Well, apart from Angela. She’d met a man, fallen in love, moved in with him, been with him seven years and had his baby. Then he moved out. He needed space. What a cliché. You would have thought he’d want to stay quite close to his ten-month-old son, but no, four hundred and sixty miles away in Brighton was close enough apparently. Naturally Angela had set the CSA on him, given that he’d only visited twice since he moved out and on one of those occasions he’d even had the audacity to ask for a loan, instead of actually paying his child’s maintenance. At least she didn’t have that complication in her life, thought Gill, suppressing a shudder. Happy with most of her life, the one area which wasn’t going to plan seemed to be the search for a partner with whom she could share it.
As she tried to sort out a load of washing, Gill wondered where she was going wrong. Of course she was a bit of a workaholic, she knew that. But, there were lots of driven individuals out there these days. She knew she wasn’t alone in that. Surely she could find a like-minded workaholic like herself? They couldn’t all be married off.
With a sigh, Gill tried to think back to the last date she’d been on which had actually shown any promise. Not this year. Last year? Oh yes, Debbie’s cousin’s friend, who turned out to be married.
Colin was the last successful date she had been on. But their tastes were too different and he worked away a lot. Not just down the road either; Dubai to be precise. Good old Colin. Not the cheeky chappie she’d been led to believe, quite the opposite. Wonder what he’s doing these days, thought Gill. Maybe I could call him up? Nah. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?
Yes, definitely sad, her relentless alter ego agreed.
Oh shut up, you!
Before Colin, there was Clive. Again that had looked hopeful. They’d gone to a Lightning Storm gig at King Tuts together, but it had all gone downhill when instead of being the Sales Director she’d assumed, he’d turned out to be a Funeral Director. He’d chosen to omit the word funeral when they had first met. Urgh! The very thought made her stomach churn. But she could have got past that, maybe, but not the lying. She didn’t do liars.
As Gill ironed her work trousers, she mused once again over how best to meet men. Ironic when you thought about it. She met men every day, in her capacity as a recruitment consultant, and had fancied loads of them. But it wouldn’t be professional and Gill never mixed her personal and professional lives.
After Angela had split from her other half, she and Gill had even tried speed dating, just for a laugh. It had been a bit of fun, even if it felt a little forced. Gill preferred things to be straightforward and had felt a tad uncomfortable. By the end of the evening she’d been given two phone numbers, but hadn’t called either. Was it really any worse, though, than letting your friends set you up with their colleagues, friends you didn’t have in common, extended family members and well, pretty much, anything with a pulse? Probably not. But, as she’d sat there with her cards which held various pieces of information about the potential dates, it had felt all wrong. Clinical. Where was the romance? That’s not to say there might not have been any, if she’d had the guts to call one of the interested parties. Anyway, it was all in the past. For now, Gill had decided she was a man-free zone. Give herself three months of steering clear of them, but not in a ‘cross the road to avoid them’ kind of way. No blind dates. No ‘chance’ encounters engineered by her friends. No making up the numbers at dinner parties. It was time to make a stand.
Gill stood waiting for the bus from Shawlands to the city centre. Her initiative from last month had been to become greener and of course, she couldn’t hack the traffic over the Kingston Bridge every day. At least on the bus she could read, work or listen to her iPod, or even, as she often did, have a snooze.
Finally the familiar bendy bus pulled into the bus stop and after assisting an elderly lady in before her, (Gill thought good manners cost little), she boarded the bus, flashing her monthly pass at the driver.
Fortunately she managed to get a seat. One of the many drawbacks of public transport, Gill felt, apart from potentially being subjected to verbal abuse, or sitting on seats the great unwashed had frequented before you, was not getting a seat. If you were lucky, you had a strap above your head to hold onto which, thanks to the heels she was wearing, she could just about reach. That strap was the only safeguard of your survival if the driver chose to swing the bus around corners and catapult you through the window, or on top of other unwitting passengers. Gill also hated when the buses were jam-packed. Every sweaty male seemed to stand beside her, and to be honest it wasn’t her idea of a relaxing journey into the office, nestled in some stranger’s left armpit, holding her breath and wondering if she was the only one who knew what shower gel was. Reaching a free seat, she barely had time to pop her black leather portfolio case onto her lap and push her umbrella between her knees to the floor below, before a grossly overweight man hefted himself into the seat next to her, firmly wedging her between him and the window. Why did it always happen to her? Could she not get a break, just for once? As she tried to exhale without touching him, he turned and smiled at her. Oh great, that was all she needed. Keeping her gaze blank, Gill studied the adverts. An advert proclaiming the arrival of Elaine C Smith in panto – again. Another for the PDSA. One for laser eye surgery. Teeth whitening. A nail bar. A common theme was starting to appear on these later posters, Gill thought. Self-improvement. Obviously advertisers think we’re just a nation of shallow creatures. What was the next one? Happy Ever After – the dating agency for professional people. ‘Short on time? High in qualifications? Half price joining fee – offer ends 30th September. Visit our website below.’
Interesting, thought Gill. Not that I’ll be doing anything about it, but I wonder what they offer that online agencies don’t? Probably just more of the same. Yet, she mentally stored the website, so she could check it out later.
‘Is that quarter to one already?’ Gill asked her assistant, Janice.
‘Seems to be. It has gone in quick.’
‘You’re not kidding. Listen, would you mind nipping over the road and getting us some lunch? My treat,’ Gill added when she saw Janice look pointedly at the rain battering against the windowpanes.
‘Sure, no problem. Can I borrow your brolly?’
‘Yes, it’s in the rack.’
Once Janice left the office, Gill typed Happy Ever After’s website into her browser. A photo of a smiling man in his early fifties greeted her, with twinkling eyes behind designer glasses. As the pages loaded, a very sophist
icated forty-something woman, in a red cocktail dress, diamonds adorning her fingers, earlobes and neck, joined him. Next a gorgeous guy, whom Gill reckoned to be in his mid-thirties, came into view, sporting a tux and a cheeky grin, looking very debonair and akin to Daniel Craig’s version of James Bond. Finally, a model-like girl, possibly in her twenties, in what resembled a debutante ball gown, holding a champagne flute, completed the set. The website was glossy with a sophisticated font, Gill noted. If it had been on paper, it would have been an embossed letterhead.
After scrolling through each page in turn, Gill clicked on Contact: Caroline Morgan – co-founder, followed by the names of several executives. She was quietly impressed by the fact that the founder appeared to meet every single one of her clients before passing them over to an associate for the day-to-day running. However, she was aghast at the cost. Eight hundred pounds joining fee! Oh, wait a minute, there had been a special offer on, hadn’t there?
Gill was just about to act on impulse and ring them up, when Janice burst through the door, awkwardly juggling two lattes and paper bags brimful with muffins and baguettes. Quickly pressing the spacebar, Gill activated her screensaver.
‘It’s torture out there. The town’s mobbed.’
‘Hmm,’ murmured Gill, her thoughts elsewhere. She only really tuned in to Janice when she handed over her latte.
As they tucked into their sandwiches, Gill ran through in her mind what she’d just read online. Happy Ever After’s client base comprised almost a thousand current prospective dates, with an approximate fifty/fifty split between men and women. Their clientele were professional people too busy to find a date in the normal way. So they chose to join an elite club of potential mates. The matching service the agency provided guaranteed you would only be offered profiles of like-minded individuals. Their clients included company directors, lawyers, accountants, stockbrokers, doctors, bankers and wealthy investors, retired early and living off their investments. Some were simply too shy to find a date for themselves and required some help. After the registration fee, it cost thirty pounds a month. Well, that didn’t sound too bad, but the initial joining fee, even if half price, would be hopefully enough to deter time-wasters and the wrong type of clientele. Maybe she’d give it a go. She’d keep it to herself for now. If her friends knew, they’d be all over her like a rash, at the thought of her even considering it. Gill knew they saw her as unlucky in love, the only one amongst them who hadn’t had a serious relationship; no engagement, marriage or kids. They didn’t count Barry. They saw that as more of a blip.
The Dating Game Page 1
