The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘Beautiful, is she?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Smart and confident and classy?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Experienced with men?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘And these men swarming all over her never call her the next day?’

  ‘I … She … They … Hmm …’ She frowned, like she was trying to pull up memories. ‘Maybe it’s that she doesn’t always take their calls.’

  ‘Ah, now that’s quite different.’

  ***

  David could tell the moment the implication sank in because her eyes bugged out. ‘That means they just don’t call me the next day. Or even the day after that. Or in Craig’s case, four days after! Well if that doesn’t totally … totally … Oh! And those dimples of yours are not helping me feel better about it.’

  ‘You’ve really got it in for my dimples tonight. Most girls like them.’

  ‘I’m not most girls,’ she said darkly.

  ‘You don’t like them?’

  ‘Not tonight, I don’t.’ She looked at him. ‘And there they go again! Indenting, in that infuriating way.’

  ‘So tell me, bluebell, dimples aside, are you sticking with me, or are you going to sack me as your adviser and hire Erica the paragon of feminine pulchritude?’

  She pursed her lips for a long, thoughtful moment. And then she said slowly, ‘Erica’s advice usually ends with her saying there are plenty of fish in the sea, so get out my rod and reel.’

  ‘Good advice, if you’re angling for a cyclothone.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A cyclothone. The most common fish in the sea. They’re everywhere. But you see, I don’t think you want an everywhere fish, bluebell. You want something like a Fan Caulofrino Fin Fish—very hard to find, but once it’s attached to a female, it’s hers for life.’

  ‘Hers for life,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I like that. It’s exactly what I want. Someone for life.’

  ‘And now that you’ve let me compare your future husband to a truly hideous-looking fish, I think it’s time we talked about the negs.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The negs. You’ve heard of guys negging girls, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’ll bet it’s been done to you, even if you didn’t know it was happening. Guys do it all the time to good-looking girls, trying to take them down a peg or two in the hope of getting laid.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Actually, it’s pathetic, but it seems to work.’

  ‘Example?’

  He put his sketchpad down. ‘Say we’re in a bar …’ Walking towards her. ‘And I come over to you.’ Stopping in front of her. ‘I’m nervous as hell, because you’re a ten and I’m barely scraping a seven on a good day. So I might look at your hair.’ Looking at her hair. ‘And I nod, as though to say, Not bad. Not good mind you, but not bad. You’re starting to think there’s something wrong with your hair. But then, I say, “Nice,” and you’re feeling better. Maybe even starting to preen. Until I add, “You’re doing the two-tone hair on purpose, right? Blonde with black roots? I didn’t know the 1980s Blondie thing was back in fashion, but you go girl.”

  ‘And voila! You’ve been negged. You’re going to speak to me, and it’s not because I gushed about your pretty blonde hair, but because I rearranged our relative social values. I’ve indicated you’re not that special. I’m saying that even though twenty other guys have been kissing your tush all night, I’m not going to. I’m not responding like all those other guys—therefore I have a power those other guys don’t. You want to know why I’m not tripping over my tongue for you. You’re wondering how you’re going to get me kissing your tush like everyone else.’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not wondering if my dark roots are showing, since I’m a natural blonde.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll tell me that … but that still means you’re talking to me, doesn’t it?’ And then he smiled, and his eyes dipped to just below where the ruching of her dress finished, low on her belly. ‘Natural blonde, huh?’

  She looked where he was looking and her mouth dropped open. ‘Oh. My. God.’

  Up came his eyes, brimming with silent laughter. ‘See? The conversation is begun, whichever way you want to play it.’

  ‘I need to see this in action.’

  ‘Any nightclub, any bar, any weekend, you’ll see it. And the thing is Sarah, you can turn the tables and do it yourself. In fact, I want you to do it. To try it, at least.’

  But she was shaking her head vehemently. ‘Sorry, I can’t see myself talking about a guy’s pubic hair, even tangentially. Not going to happen. I need another example.’

  ‘Okay. Craig’s fedora—God, the options! But we’ll do an easy one. Something like, “My grandfather always told me gentlemen only wore hats outside—is this a new thing, wearing them indoors?” See? It doesn’t have to be vicious, just something to show him that you’re not going to fawn all over him. Once he knows he has to work to get you, he’s invested. He’ll be plotting to get you out on another date, calculating how soon he can call you.’

  ‘Hmm, I think I get the idea,’ she said, but she sounded doubtful.

  He was close enough to smell her, now. To touch her. To … taste her. What would she do if he licked her, just below one of her ears, where the delicious scent she was wearing would be warm and heady?

  Jesus! Where had that sprung from? No licking allowed.

  He hightailed it back to his sketchbook, flipped to a fresh page, and started drawing hard enough to tear through the page. He rubbed a thumb over the tear, as though that would smooth out his own sudden edge.

  ‘But it seems a terrible way to live, hurling insults at each other,’ she said.

  Time for a fresh page, some lighter pencilling. ‘You don’t live like that—it’s just how you meet. And the goal isn’t to insult someone. It’s just a way of piquing a little interest where you might otherwise have struggled to be noticed. Once you’ve hooked your fish, you can pack away the bait and start to get to know the other person.’ He looked down at his sketch, then back to Sarah. ‘Face me straight on. Yes, good.’

  ‘I just can’t quite believe that tactic could really work.’

  ‘Then I guess I’ll have to prove it to you. What are you doing Saturday night?’

  ‘Having a drink with Erica, and I can’t not go because she’ll smell a rat.’

  ‘Oh, I want you to go! The legendary Erica is the perfect target.’

  ‘Perfect tar—?’ She stopped, looking confused … and then suddenly not. ‘Oh! No! No, you’re not going to neg Erica?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  ‘In front of me?’

  He was sketching again. ‘No point otherwise.’

  ‘It won’t work.’

  ‘If it doesn’t, I’ll buy you a bottle of Passion Pop.’

  ‘Ha ha ha! Anyway, we’ll never know because, I can’t let you try. Not with Erica.’

  He stopped drawing and looked at her. ‘Because …?’

  ‘Because of Lane. Not that Lane is going to be there, but Erica knows who you are and she’ll tell Lane. And I …’ She shrugged, looking sheepish. ‘I still haven’t worked out how to tell Lane what’s happening here.’

  ‘But I’ve never met Erica,’ David said—and then the truth dawned. ‘Wait! Are you telling me I’ve been discussed between the three of you as a potential lover for Lane?’

  ‘Well … yes. But in a highly complimentary way.’

  He started laughing. ‘If I’d known Lane was that interested, I’d have moved faster and nailed her.’

  ‘It’s not funny, you … you …’

  ‘Bastard?’

  ‘Beast.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Animal. Swine, rat, skunk, dog.’

  ‘Going the whole barnyard are we?’

  ‘Brute, monster—’

  ‘Aaand I think we have it covered.�
��

  ‘Maybe you should have moved faster,’ she said hotly. ‘Then I wouldn’t be here now, and Adam wouldn’t be looking so miserable, and I … I … and … ooooohh. You know what? I want to punch you, even though I don’t generally punch people.’

  Could a pixie look fierce? Because that’s what Sarah looked like: a fierce pixie. He wanted to hug her. He threw his sketchpad and pencil onto the coffee table. ‘Come on. Take your best shot. Get it out of your system.’

  ‘I’m not going to punch you. I just want to.’

  ‘So unclench that fist you’ve got going there, champ,’ he said, and almost laughed again as she looked down at it as if she’d never seen her own hand before. ‘Sarah? Sarah! Listen to me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. It’s important.’ He waited until she looked at him—well, glared at him. ‘Lane and me? It’s ancient history, and I’m not the kind of guy who looks back. So you keep me a secret, even though I think it’s stupid, that’s fine by me, no problem. But I swear, if you start getting all violent and tortured over something that did not even come close to happening …? Then not only am I going to go all cubist on your arse, but I am going to make sure your shoes don’t make it into the painting either. Got it?’

  She kept glaring at him, but finally, with a stamp of one foot, capitulated. ‘Okay! Got it! No need to have a coronary.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fine,’ she sniffed.

  ‘And I have a solution for Saturday night, so you can relax about that, too.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ll use a false name. What do you think about Lucas Green? It has a suitably MI5 feel to it. Matches the whole “down low” ethos, don’t you think?’

  She laughed then, and he knew she didn’t want to so it charmed him all the more. ‘For a banker, you’re kind of out there, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do seem to be these days. But then again, I’m only half a banker. So, when and where on Saturday?’

  ‘I’m meeting Erica at six o’clock at Midnight Madness in Newtown—do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, I know it. Unfortunately.’

  ‘Hey, what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Let’s just say it attracts quite a young crowd.’

  ‘Um … yeah! In case you hadn’t noticed, I happen to be young.’

  The simple comment pulled David up short, and he looked at her, really looked at her, absorbing the truth of that. She was young—in years, in appearance, in outlook. Why was it shocking him to acknowledge that when it was the simple truth? ‘Yeah, I guess you are, aren’t you?’ he said, and stuck on a smile he couldn’t quite make himself feel. ‘Okay then, Midnight Madness it is, and I’ll try to repress my old-man shudders.’

  ‘Thank you sooooo much.’

  ‘What time should I arrive?’

  ‘Between six-thirty and seven?’

  ‘Done. Now, lean a little towards me, that way you do.’

  ‘What way?’ she asked, and David could only marvel. She really had no idea.

  ‘Like you’re going to tell me a secret.’

  ‘Like this?’ Leaning.

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘I was just thinking …’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘What you said about Craig. What do I do if he calls me?’

  ‘You tell him you’re not interested. But you’ll be blocking him anyway, so he won’t be able to call.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Then what will you do if he asks you about me?’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re not interested.’

  ‘Are we sure I’m not interested?’

  ‘We’re sure. We don’t date people who wear fedoras inside bars and then don’t call us for four days.’

  She sighed. ‘Good thing I didn’t follow through on my compatibility plan, then.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘I’ve been weighing up the pros and cons of having sex as early as possible in a relationship. Is it something you do yourself? Have sex on the first date?’

  His pencil stopped on the page. One, two, three beats, and then he looked over at her.

  ‘So that’s an affirmative,’ she said—and talk about smug! ‘As I already knew.’

  ‘Whoa! Just— Whoa! In my case, they’re called one-night stands, because I’m not interested in a relationship. Your case is completely different.’

  She shrugged—a little too casually. ‘But it still makes sense to fast-track the easy stuff, if you ask me.’

  ‘Easy stuff? Sex is the easy stuff?’

  ‘Yes. Does the sex work—yes or no? If the answer is no, you can call it quits with minimal time wasted. If the answer is yes, you move on and explore the more emotional areas.’ Another shrug. ‘It’s like snipping off the low-hanging fruit first.’

  ‘Low-hanging—?’ David took a deep breath, and then surprised himself by bursting into laughter again. ‘Remind me to keep the scissors and my low-hanging fruit out of your reach!’

  Sarah’s eyes dropped to the front of his jeans.

  ‘Thank you!’ David said, when she started giggling. ‘Nice to know my genitalia is the source of some amusement to you.’

  ‘I haven’t actually seen it so I can’t say.’ Another giggle. ‘Although I certainly felt it last week in the storeroom.’

  ‘It’s a mystery to me why you haven’t been murdered yet,’ David mused, and when she giggled again said, ‘All right, brat, let’s back up a step. Tell me: did you want to have sex with Craig?’

  ‘I definitely thought about it.’

  ‘So that’s a “no”. Because if you wanted to have sex with him, you would have had it, trust me.’

  ‘But he didn’t call me, which has to mean he wasn’t interested in having sex with me.’

  ‘Different things, sex and dating,’ he said dismissively. ‘I’ll bet he kissed you goodnight—or at least tried to.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘How did he kiss you?’ David asked and then regretted the question. The idea of messy, sloppy, long-haired Craig with his mouth near Sarah was making him feel queasy.

  ‘What do you mean, how?’

  Oh God. And now he had to get specific with his words? ‘Cheek, mouth, tongue?’ he got out. ‘Did he whisper anything?’ Dear God. ‘Sniff you?’

  ‘Cheek. Then mouth. No tongue. No whispers. No sniffing. And I was wearing Jasmin Noir.’

  Okay, that was too adorable not to enjoy. ‘Jasmin Noir and he didn’t even sniff you? God, what a slow top!’

  ‘Dimples! I can see them! And stop twitching your mouth.’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s funny. So … what did he smell like?’

  She frowned, as though trying to recall, but in the end, shook her head. ‘I don’t think he was wearing any cologne.’

  ‘Now there you’re wrong. Craig drenches himself for a regular day in the office, so I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest he wears at least a hint of Old Spice when he’s on a date.’ Which meant what? Not much of a kiss had occurred—that seemed certain! Good. Craig was the worst possible choice, a huge mistake on David’s part. ‘So … what? Didn’t he get close enough for long enough?’

  ‘Of course he got close enough. I told you, he kissed me.’

  ‘What did he do with his hands? Where did he put them?’

  ‘On my shoulders. Hey!’ As David shook his head, disgusted … and relieved. ‘It was a simple goodnight kiss, not a deep-dive tonsillectomy!’

  ‘And you didn’t like it, did you?’

  ‘It was … all right.’

  ‘Wow. That good, huh?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t bad, anyway.’ She sounded exasperated … but then her eyes narrowed slightly and her tongue came out to tap her top lip for a moment. Next moment, she was depositing her wineglass on the closest table. ‘I’ll show you.’

  And as Sarah started walking towards him, David’s mind went complete
ly blank.

  ***

  Sarah wasn’t sure what she was doing was a good idea, or even why she was doing it, but she was doing it anyway.

  David had gone as still as a statue. He didn’t move even when she took the sketchbook and pencil from his slack hands and put them on the coffee table. She was close enough to smell him now, in a way she couldn’t remember smelling Craig, and concentrated on trying to define what it was about the scent of him that was so alluring. Patchouli … dark rose … brandy cream. Delectable.

  David’s nostrils had flared, like he could smell her, too. Why, oh why, wasn’t she wearing Jasmin Noir? Maybe then, she wouldn’t be kissing him, he’d be kissing her. Wait! What? No! This wasn’t a real kiss. It was a demonstration.

  Demonstration, she repeated in her head as she put her hands on David’s shoulders.

  She raised herself as high as she could on her toes, and brushed her mouth against his cheek. A quick swirl of impressions assaulted her. That wondrously complicated scent. The raspy feel of the stubble on his cheek, against her mouth. The way his shoulders tensed suddenly under her hands. How his body seemed to lock. Her thumping heart. The slap of need low in her belly. A desire to touch her tongue to his skin, slide her hands over his chest.

  She adjusted her stance, subtly bringing her thighs closer together because she wasn’t sure they wouldn’t go in opposite directions if she didn’t take charge of them, then chastely pressed her lips against his. She wanted to sigh, and lean against him, and keep her mouth there. She had to force herself to count in her head—one, two, three, four, which she judged was the length of time Craig’s kiss had taken—then force herself to come down off her toes.

  ‘Like that,’ she said, all breathy. When David only watched, unsmiling, she added, ‘Only if we wanted to be strictly accurate, we’d have to reverse positions. You know, make me the one being kissed.’

  ‘So like this?’ David asked. But he didn’t wait for an answer, simply put his hands, heavy and hard, on her shoulders and leaned down.

  Sarah waited, breath held, her heartbeat kicking up an extra notch. An indistinct plea formed in her head for something, some contact. But he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he put his cheek on hers. Rested it there for a long moment, breathing her in. ‘Not jasmine,’ he said, against her ear. ‘Vanilla.’