by Matt Dunn
‘I’m getting the faintest whiff of double standards,’ says Ash. ‘On the one hand, you’re saying that you need someone to be sexually compatible with, and on the other, you’re saying that if you meet someone and sparks fly from the off, you’re going to think bad of her if she wants to jump your bones the first time you see her.’
‘Well, yes,’ I say, realizing for the first time that perhaps it does sound a little absurd. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
Ash shakes his head. ‘This, my friend, is your problem. You’re too specific.’
‘I’m not. I just want . . .’
Ash holds his hand up to silence me. ‘Yes, you are. You’ve got such a preconceived idea of what this perfect woman should be like that you’ve managed to convince yourself that anyone who deviates even slightly from it isn’t going to cut the mustard.’
‘What does that mean – “cut the mustard”? I mean, surely mustard doesn’t need cutting . . .’
‘Stop changing the subject, Ben. This is something you need to sort out. And fast. Otherwise all of this work your mum and dad are putting in isn’t going to amount to anything.’
‘Sorry, Ash. Yes. You’re right. I’ll try and be a bit more open-minded.’
‘Good. Now, what’s this first one called?’
‘Lisa,’ I say, handing him the crib sheet my dad’s prepared for me, with Lisa’s photograph paperclipped to the back.
‘Not bad,’ says Ash, handing me back the Polaroid, then scanning quickly through her details. ‘Although the “hobbies” thing might worry me a little.’
‘Hobbies?’ I can’t help but laugh at my dad’s quaint description. ‘Who says “hobbies” any more? And why? What’s she put?’
‘Well, “tennis”, which is a good thing, because you like tennis.’
‘Thanks, Ash. That hadn’t occurred to me.’
‘And “shopping”, which maybe isn’t so good.’
‘It could be worse. After all, for some of the women I’ve gone out with, shopping has been more of a profession than a hobby.’
‘Yes, but it’s the next item that’s a little, well, strange.’
I take the page back from him, and scan through it until I find the appropriate section. ‘Cats. What’s wrong with that?’
Ash clears his throat. ‘A little strange to mention that as a hobby, don’t you think?’
I fold the piece of paper in quarters and slip it into my shirt pocket. ‘It’s probably just the way my dad asked the question.’
‘Suit yourself,’ says Ash. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And remember. Relax. Be natural. And don’t forget, you’re the one in charge here. She has to see that you mean business. You’re committed. And ready to settle down.’
‘Okay, Ash. I know what I’m doing. I have been out with women before, you know?’
‘And look where that’s got you,’ he says, following me out through the front door.
Chapter 15
When I get to The Cottage, Lisa’s already waiting, nursing a glass of white wine at a table in the corner. It’s a pleasant surprise that she actually looks better than her picture, and I find myself hoping that she feels the same way about me.
‘I see you’ve brought my résumé,’ says Lisa, pointing to the piece of paper sticking out of my pocket, which unfortunately has the word ‘Lisa’ clearly visible on it.
‘What – this?’ I crumple it into a ball, and drop it into the ashtray.
‘What does it say?’ she asks, picking it up and smoothing it out on the table.
‘Oh, nothing. Just some facts and figures my dad jotted down. Where you work, what you did at school, and, er, the fact that you like cats.’
‘Oh yes. Doesn’t everybody?’ says Lisa, in a tone that dares me to disagree with her.
‘Of course,’ I say. In truth, I hate the things, but Lisa is rather attractive.
‘Although Mike – that’s my previous boyfriend – suddenly developed an allergy.’
‘To you?’
‘No, to cats.’ She smiles. ‘So I had to get rid of him.’
‘Your cat?’ I say, making a mental note to tell Ash his fears were unfounded.
‘No,’ says Lisa, as if I’ve just accused her of the most heinous crime imaginable. ‘Mike.’
I’m pretty sure she’s joking, but something about the look on her face makes me decide not to ask any further, so instead I ask her about her job, and then she asks me about what I do, and she listens intently, and as the evening progresses, we seem to be getting on really well. Lisa appears to be at the same stage in life that I am, and to be honest, by the time she asks me to walk her home, I’ve forgotten all about Ash’s warning. Until, that is, we get back to her place.
It’s the smell that gets me at first – mainly because the house is pitch black as we walk inside – and I’m about to ask Lisa whether there’s a problem with her drains, when I stop myself, as it’s hardly the most silver-tongued thing to say. But then, when I feel something brush past my ankle, it’s all I can do not to scream out like a girl.
‘What was that?’
‘What was what?’ says Lisa, leading me by the hand along the dark hallway and into the lounge.
‘Something just brushed past my leg.’
Lisa laughs. ‘Oh, they’re just being friendly.’
I’m a little alarmed at her choice of the word ‘they’. ‘Who are?’
When Lisa flicks the light on, I get my answer, and my first instinct is to jump in the air and grab for the lampshade, because the room is full of cats. What looks like hundreds of them, in fact, on the sofa, lying on the carpet, walking along one of the bookshelves, and even climbing up the curtains. And though the actual number’s probably nearer twenty, that’s still nineteen more than most normal people should have.
‘My cats,’ she says, rather unnecessarily.
Oh my God. This isn’t a hobby. It’s an obsession. ‘Do you, like, run a cattery, or something?’ I say, wanting her to answer ‘yes’, and to say that these don’t all belong to her. But instead, Lisa just laughs.
‘No. I get them all through my work with SNIP.’
I almost don’t want to ask. ‘SNIP?’
‘Yes. It’s a charity I’ve set up. “Stop Neutering Innocent Pets”. Isn’t it awful how when some people get a pet, the first thing they do is have its bits cut off. I mean, how would you like it?’
‘Er, not at all.’
‘Poor babies.’ Lisa smiles affectionately down at the mewing felines as if they’re her children. ‘I mean, it’s treating them like . . .’
‘Animals?’
‘Exactly,’ says Lisa, unaware of the irony.
‘So what does SNIP actually do?’ I ask, although I’ve got a fair idea of what the answer’s going to be.
‘Well, we give homes to cats who are about to be neutered. Don’t we?’ she says, addressing one of the fleabitten creatures, then picking it up off the armchair and giving it a huge kiss on the lips. That is, if cats have lips. ‘Like little Monty here.’
‘Is that, you know, hygienic?’
‘Oh yes. Don’t worry. Cats can’t normally catch anything from us humans.’
‘No, I meant the other way . . . Never mind,’ I say, trying to surreptitiously kick a couple of the more mobile ones who have decided to rub themselves against my shins. ‘I thought that these charities normally gave them to other people’s homes. Not their own.’
‘We do,’ says Lisa, putting Monty back down on the chair. ‘But occasionally one comes into us that I just can’t resist.’
‘Oh.’ More than occasionally, it seems to me. ‘Right.’
Lisa nods towards the sofa. ‘Do you want to sit down?’
My first answer should be ‘Where?’, given that each of the cushions seems to be already occupied by something furry. Plus, I’m wearing my best jeans, and don’t want to spend the next few days trying to remove all the cat hairs. ‘That’s okay,’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘I’d better be going s
oon, anyway. I mean, it is our first date, and all that.’ And quite possibly our last.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay?’
‘I’d better not,’ I say, edging backwards slowly, as Lisa advances towards me. She’s obviously after a kiss, but as attractive as she is, I can’t quite bring myself to put my mouth where little Monty has just had his furry gob. The only escape route that appears to be feline-free is round behind the sofa, but as I start to head that way, I hear a crunch, then possibly the worst smell I’ve ever experienced starts to permeate in through my nostrils.
‘Ben,’ says Lisa, although a little too late. ‘Not there . . .’
I look down in horror, to discover that I seem to be walking through the world’s largest cat litter tray. And although that in itself might not have been a problem, because cats usually bury their, er, business, it is actually about twenty litter trays arranged into a rectangle to make one big one, and what I’ve done is step on the edge of a couple of them, thus catapulting the grit – and what was obviously underneath it – onto my jeans, and even into my shoes.
I start to panic, feeling like I’ve blundered into a minefield, and can’t quite work out where to step next. At least I won’t have to worry about fending Lisa off, I suppose, imagining that the smell must be doing that already. But when I look up, she seems quite unperturbed by the whole thing.
‘Here,’ she says, shooing a couple of cats out of the way, before kneeling on the sofa, and reaching over to unbuckle my belt. ‘Let’s get you out of those trousers.’
For a moment, it doesn’t occur to me that she might just be wanting to help me with my predicament, rather than trying to take the evening to the next level. ‘No, that’s okay,’ I say, staggering backwards to get out of range of her hands, which somehow have already managed to unzip my fly, then stepping in another of the trays with a soggy crunch. By now, the stench is making me retch, and yet Lisa seems oblivious to it.
As I finally reach dry carpet, my jeans around my ankles, I hear a voice from the sofa. ‘Is it just me,’ says Lisa, my belt in her hands, and a strange look on her face, ‘or is this a real turn-on?’
‘Er . . .’ Yes, it is just you, I want to shout. In fact, I doubt I could get a hard-on if Michelle Pfeiffer walked into the room wearing her Catwoman outfit. And that’s an image that’s never failed to work for me in the past.
‘Come on,’ she says, starting to undo her blouse.
‘I can’t. I . . .’ What on earth do I say? It’s obvious that Lisa’s serious, and that she wants us to have sex right here – and in front of all these cats. And as attractive as she is, who knows what they’ll do? I don’t want to risk a sudden swipe of sharp-nailed claw just as I’m reaching the crucial moment, and besides, I smell bad. ‘I stink.’
‘You can’t be that bad,’ she says.
‘No, not at sex. I mean . . . I just can’t.’
I glance across towards the door, wondering whether I should make a run for it, but I’m too worried about leaving a trail of cat poo on Lisa’s carpet. Assuming it is a carpet, and not just a large rug that she’s spun from the hair of these animals.
‘Why not?’
It’s a fair question, I suppose. What excuse can a man ever make for not having sex? I mean, women can use anything – from the standard ‘time of the month’, to having a headache, but we men can always perform. Just not when we’re covered in cat excrement. And then, out of the blue, it strikes me. ‘I haven’t got anything to, you know, put on,’ I say, suddenly inspired by my encounter with Seema the other day, and the large unopened box of condoms on my bedside table.
‘That’s okay,’ says Lisa matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve got some upstairs. Shall I go and fetch them?’
I don’t like to tell her that the only thing I want to wear in this house is a flea-collar. But at least it’ll give me a way out. ‘Er, okay.’
‘Great,’ says Lisa, jumping up off the sofa. ‘Back in a sex.’ She laughs. ‘I mean, sec.’
As Lisa disappears upstairs, I hurriedly pull my trousers back up and make my escape, struggling to close the front door behind me without letting any of the furry little buggers escape. But it’s not until I’m walking back home, trying hard to ignore the pungent odour that’s coming from my shoes, that I remember I’ve forgotten my belt. For a moment, I consider going back and trying to find it, but chances are, it’s somewhere under that huge pile of cats on the sofa, and the thought of fighting my way through them, let alone trying to fight Lisa off, is more than I can bear.
This is why I hate dating. And much as I’d like to blame my dad for his lack of ‘research’, I can’t.
Because in reality, if it wasn’t for me, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
Chapter 16
It’s the following evening, and following several long, hot showers and a trip to the shops for a new pair of trainers and a belt, I’m in the pub – again – sitting opposite a girl called Dawn. She’s the daughter of Barbara and Martin, two of my mum’s friends who own the pound shop next door to You’ve Been Framed, and while she’s not exactly the kind of girl I’d look twice at in a club, she’s actually quite pretty in a girl-next-door way. Although I suppose that description really depends on whether your neighbours are Mr and Mrs Moss and their daughter Kate. Or not.
But so far, it seems to be going fairly well. I haven’t offended her or spilled my drink, and we even seem to have some things in common, like a preference for Coronation Street over EastEnders, and an addiction to cheese and onion crisps, which is good, because it means we can share a packet without worrying about crisp-breath if there’s any kissing later. And one particularly positive piece of news is that she’s only got the one cat – a fact I checked up on approximately thirty seconds after she sat down.
While she laughs at my – admittedly bad – jokes, she seems a little shy, which I realize is perhaps understandable given the nature of how we’ve met, and although she’s dressed a little primly, her cardigan buttoned up firmly over her not inconsiderable chest – as the evening goes on, I can see how I might fancy her. The only problem is, the more I flirt, the less Dawn seems to be responding. Every time I say something with the mildest of double entendres, she stares nervously down at the table, and if I were a body language expert – which admittedly I’m not, given the amount of times I’ve misread signals in the past – if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s still here, I’d be worried that tonight was going rapidly downhill.
But maybe this is how it works. Okay, so the lust thing isn’t there, but it might grow into something more serious. Besides, Dawn doesn’t know me from Adam, and simply might not fancy me. And who knows what her relationship history is? Maybe she’s been hurt in the past – and by someone like me – so she might be reluctant to show any signs of interest until she’s sure. Or, at least sure that I’m interested in her.
By eleven o’clock, she’s still nursing the same white wine I bought her at the start of the evening, although that could be because when I answered ‘large’ to the barman’s question, he produced a glass the size of a small bucket and filled it with the best part of the bottle. I’m on my third pint, and desperate to go to the toilet, but given Dawn’s apparent lack of enthusiasm, I’m worried that I can’t get up to go in case she’s not here when I get back.
Normally I’d think that a couple of drinks would loosen us both up, but by the looks of Dawn, an earthquake wouldn’t even do the trick. But if what she’s doing is playing hard to get, then it’s working, because quite frankly I’d cut off my own arm if I thought it would provoke a response. Regretfully, I realize that sometimes it’s much easier when you’re in a club, and both out that evening for the same reason. Here? Well, I’m starting to wonder why she agreed to meet me, especially when – and just as I’m running out of things to talk about – Dawn looks at the clock on the wall and announces she has to leave.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ I say, desperate to prolong the evening, hoping that she’ll say yes
, or at least give me some sign that maybe it’s gone better than average.
Dawn picks up her wine glass and drains the rest of the contents – a pretty impressive feat seeing as there’s still about a third of a bottle in there – then gives me the faintest of smiles. ‘If you like.’
We walk up the High Street in near silence, and as we reach the corner of her road, I desperately try to think what I can do to get some sort of reaction. At this stage, and especially after her ‘if you like’, I don’t know whether I’m expected to kiss her goodnight, or shake her by the hand, although given how reserved she’s been physically, I’m not sure whether even that would be inappropriate.
‘Well, this is me,’ she says, nodding towards a small cottage at the end of the row of houses.
‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘Looks like a house to me.’
Dawn looks at me strangely, either not getting, or more likely, not finding funny my admittedly poor attempt at humour. And while I know that this should be a sign for me to say ‘thank you’ and ‘goodnight’, whether it’s through sheer macho pride, or complete desperation, I’m sure that I want a second date out of her – if only to prove to myself that this one hasn’t been a complete disaster. But just as I’m wondering whether I’ve got the nerve to ask to see her again, and am preparing myself for the inevitable rejection, she smiles – and it’s almost her first proper smile of the evening.
‘Do you want to come in?’
I stare open-mouthed at her for a moment, not quite believing that this has happened against the run of play. And do I want to come in for what? Normally someone adds the words ‘for a coffee’ to the end of that sentence, even though coffee might be the last thing on their mind. When I don’t answer immediately, Dawn looks a little offended, and I have to think on my feet.
‘Of course. I mean, that would be nice. For a coffee, or something.’
‘A coffee.’ She fishes in her handbag for her keys, an amused expression playing across her face. ‘Or something. Sure.’
