by Matt Dunn
‘What about these?’
Dan scrutinizes the label. ‘“Anti-fit”? Well, they should suit you, then.’
I snatch them off him and disappear into the changing room, emerging red-faced a few seconds later to look for a larger size.
When I eventually manage to squeeze into a pair, I parade up and down in front of the mirror. ‘What do you think?’
Dan looks at me critically. ‘Honest answer?’
Uh-oh. ‘Please.’
‘They make you look deformed.’
‘Bugger off!’
‘No, honestly. Look.’ He pulls out his digital camera, walks behind me, snaps a photo and then shows me the picture on the screen. From behind, I look like my legs are distended, with my knees and crotch approximately two-thirds lower than where they should be. I take them off quickly.
By the time Dan’s on his third glass, we’ve settled for a couple of pairs of trousers, one pair of combats, one pair of trendy jeans, two jackets, and a selection of interchangeable shirts and tops that should give me the combination of outfits we’d been aiming for. And then lastly, as I rifle through the rail at the back of the store, a Paul Smith suit catches my eye.
From the moment I put it on, I can sense something’s different. It’s a million miles away from my traditional, shapeless Marks and Spencer work suits. The jacket, with its brightly coloured lining, hugs my new, slimmer physique, making me look even broader at the shoulders. The trousers seem to fit and flatter, and there’s not even the slightest bit of straining at the waistband. And even though it costs more than all my other suits combined, I love it. Even Dan seems impressed when I emerge, grinning, from the changing room.
As I carry my bags out of the shop, I’ve parted with the best part of seven hundred pounds, but I don’t care. Because judging by what I’ve just seen in the mirror, I think I’m finally starting to get it.
We walk back into the centre of town, and I turn to face Dan. ‘What’s next?’
He thinks for a minute. ‘Boots.’
‘Cowboy? Chelsea? Desert?’
Dan shakes his head. ‘Nope. The Chemist’s.’
12.21 p.m.
We’re in Boots, standing in the aisle ominously marked ‘Men’s Grooming’, where Dan is holding up a tube of something expensive.
‘What kind of skin have you got?’
‘What kinds are there?’
‘Greasy? Dry? Sensitive? What d’you reckon?’
‘Thick, I’d think, from years of putting up with your insults. And anyway, how on earth do I know if I’ve got sensitive skin?’
Dan gives me the tube to hold and then slaps both my cheeks.
‘Ow. What was that for?’
‘Did it hurt?’
‘Yes, it hurt!’
‘Then you’ve got sensitive skin.’
He snatches the tube back from me and throws it into my basket. I take it out again, and study the label.
‘What do I need moisturizer for, anyway?’
Dan looks at me as if I’ve asked the stupidest question ever. ‘To moisturize, dummy.’
‘But why do I need to moisturize?’
‘Otherwise you’ll be too dry after exfoliating.’
‘So why don’t I just not exfoliate? Then I won’t need to moisturize.’
‘Ah,’ says Dan. ‘But if you don’t exfoliate then you won’t get rid of that build up of…’
‘Of moisturizer from the day before?’
‘Now you’re just being awkward.’
‘But this stuff’s just for women, surely. Why on earth do men have to moisturize?’
Dan rolls his eyes, not for the first time today. ‘Because men have skin too.’
We make our way further along the skin-care section, before Dan stops and studies the shelves.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’m going to let you into a little secret here. How do you think I maintain my healthy colour?’
I look at Dan’s slightly orange-tinted skin. ‘Eat a lot of carrots?’
He shakes his head, picks up a brown-coloured bottle, and studies it reverentially.
‘Two words: fake tan.’
‘Fake tan? What on earth do I need fake tan for?’
‘Think about it. Jane’s been away for three months, basking in the mountain sunshine, whilst you’ve been stuck under the grey English skies. You’ll look comparatively blue next to her unless you do something about it.’
‘Well, why don’t I just go and have a sunbed or something?’
‘You could, assuming you want to add skin cancer to the lung cancer you’re already in danger of. Trust me, fake tan is the way to go. And we’d better get a couple of bottles.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Because where you’re concerned, there’s an awful lot more surface area to cover.’
Dan throws another pot of something into the basket and heads off towards the adjacent aisle. I trail along obediently behind him, and by the time we get to the checkout, I’m struggling to carry my basket.
‘Are you sure I need all this stuff? Isn’t there just like the one product I could buy?’
‘What?’ says Dan. ‘One product. To make you look good to women?’
‘Well, yes.’
Dan thinks about this for a moment. ‘Why, now you come to mention it, yes there is.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I say, pleasantly surprised. ‘And where do we get that from?’
‘The Ferrari garage.’
As he heads off to make sure ‘we’ haven’t forgotten anything, I wait in the queue, and given the nature of my purchases it’s not the best time, perhaps, to bump into Sam. She’s looking as good as usual, dressed in a short leather jacket, and a rather tight pair of jeans.
‘Is this all for Jane when she gets back?’ she asks, peering into my shopping basket.
‘Er, no. It’s for…I mean, yes. I thought I’d stock up. You know. So she can feel right at home.’
Sam picks up a tube of something from my basket and examines it. ‘And she uses “Nivea for Men”, does she?’
‘Oh yes. It’s her favourite.’
Just then, Dan sidles up behind her, staring at Sam’s backside before catching my eye and making an appreciative face. He clears his throat, and she turns around.
‘Hi there,’ he says. ‘What’s your name?’
Sam looks at Dan suspiciously, not realizing he’s with me.
‘Why do you want to know?’
Dan flashes his TV grin. ‘I thought I might get a tattoo. Wanted to make sure I got the spelling right.’
Sam turns to me and makes a face, then smiles pleasantly back at Dan. ‘And that line usually works, does it?’
Dan raises one eyebrow. ‘You tell me.’
She regards him quizzically for a moment, before cutting him dead. ‘Actually, no.’
‘Sam,’ I laugh. ‘Let me introduce my friend Dan to you. Dan, this is Sam. My trainer.’
Dan does a double take. In fact, it’s more of a triple take. ‘You’re Sam? Edward never said…I mean…Hello!’ This last word comes out of his mouth as if he’s suddenly become Leslie Phillips.
Sam holds out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Dan.’
It’s my turn to cringe as Dan grabs her fingers and plants a kiss firmly on the back of her hand.
‘And you’re Ed’s trainer?’
Sam pulls her hand back and wipes it surreptitiously on her jeans. ‘That’s right.’
‘So, do you think you could help me?’ he says. ‘You know—build up the old stamina?’
Sam looks at him levelly for a moment. ‘Oh, I’ve got a feeling you don’t need my help in that department.’
Dan leers back at her. ‘Edward’s told you all about me, has he?’
She thinks for a few seconds. ‘No, actually. He’s only mentioned you in passing. Why?’
‘Well, because, er…’ I rarely see Dan lost for words where a woman is concerned, and I’m enjoying his discomfort.
Sam peers at him cl
osely. ‘You do look familiar, though.’
Dan recovers his composure slightly, switching his TV persona back on. ‘Well, I do get recognized on the street all the time.’
I nod. ‘Usually by angry husbands.’
‘You might have seen me on television,’ he continues. ‘I’m Dan Davis.’
Sam frowns. ‘No, I don’t think that’s it.’
Dan’s newly found confidence falters slightly. ‘Have you ever seen Where There’s a Will?’
Sam shrugs. ‘I don’t think so. What night’s it on?’
‘It’s a daytime programme,’ I say. ‘Eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning.’
‘Oh,’ says Sam. ‘No, I don’t watch daytime TV.’
‘Because of your job?’ asks Dan.
‘No, because I have a life,’ she replies. ‘But I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before. What else have you been on?’
As Dan reels off his admittedly short television résumé, Sam shakes her head, before realization dawns.
‘I’ve got it,’ she exclaims. ‘You go to my waxer, don’t you?’
Dan starts to go very red. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘I don’t think so. I never forget a face. Or a hairless pair of legs. Wax Worx. On Middle Street? I’m sure I’ve seen you there.’
As Dan stands there, open-mouthed, Sam winks at me. Mercifully for Dan, it’s our turn at the checkout, and so I tell her I’ll see her on Monday.
‘Yes. See you on Monday, Edward. And nice to meet you, Don.’ She grins at me, and strolls away before Dan can correct her.
As Dan watches her go, he nudges me. ‘You didn’t tell me how fit she was.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘And really strong too, for her size. She can lift—’
‘No, dummy. Fit as in “wa-hey” fit. Not in the cardiovascular sense. Although she does have a great pair of lungs on her.’
‘Please, Dan. She’s my trainer.’
‘So you’re not interested in her?’
‘She’s helping me get Jane back. You remember Jane?’
‘Well then, you won’t mind if I have a crack?’
I think rapidly, trying to formulate my answer. How to say no, without making Dan feel I’d rather not see Sam suffer the usual Davis treatment. Fortunately, the cashier is asking me for my card, which gives me a few extra seconds to work out an answer. By the time I’ve punched in my PIN, I have it.
‘Well, you’re welcome to try, but I’d rather you didn’t, just yet.’
Dan looks at me suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’d like to finish my training first. Last thing I want is for her to desert me in my final week because she’s fallen head over heels for you.’
Dan nods slowly, as if he’s doing me a favour. ‘Fair enough. After you’ve finished.’
‘Oh yes. And one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘You go to a waxer?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ says Dan. ‘And anyway, it’s more of a beauty therapy place really. Manicures, facials…’
‘And hair removal?’
‘All right,’ admits Dan. ‘Hair removal. Don’t forget, my job relies on me looking good, even in close up. These little touches are important. And while we’re on about it…’
‘What?’
‘That’s something else that you might want to think about.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your eyebrows.’
‘My eyebrows?’
‘Or should I say “eyebrow”.’
‘What’s wrong with it…I mean, them?’
Dan stares at my face. ‘You, my friend, have a serious monobrow.’
I look at my reflection in the mirror on the perfume counter. He has a point.
‘What do I do about it? Shave it?’
‘Get it plucked.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘I’m serious. A little grooming never hurt.’
I stare resignedly back at Dan’s face, and notice for the first time just how regular his eyebrows are.
‘And I suppose you know just the place?’
2.50. p.m.
I’m sitting nervously in the reception area at Wax Worx, surrounded by giggling women, and waiting for the appointment that Dan’s made for me. I flick idly through Woman’s Weekly until Joanna, the girl Dan’s recommended, comes out and calls me in. As with all of Dan’s therapists, she’s unusually attractive and, as usual, the first thing she does is asks me how Dan is.
‘Well, I think he’s finally managing to beat the bottle,’ I tell her.
‘Dan? Really? You’d never know.’
‘Happens a lot to these celebrities, apparently. But I can’t really say too much about it. For obvious reasons.’
‘Amazing,’ says Joanna, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you?’
I sit down in the treatment chair. ‘Dan said, well, suggested, that I have a bit of work done to my eyebrow. Eyebrows.’
Joanna peers at my forehead. ‘Ah, yes. I see what he means. There is a touch of the full moon about you.’
She stares closely at me for a moment, as if she’s considering the best place to start, produces a serious-looking pair of tweezers, leans in, and proceeds to pluck.
Surprisingly, it hurts. And not just a little bit. It hurts more than anything I’ve ever done before. It makes the way I feel after a heavy session with Sam seem like a walk in the park, and it’s all I can do not to cry, though the amount my eyes are watering, you wouldn’t know that I wasn’t.
Noticing my discomfort, Joanna tries to reassure me.
‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘I don’t want to get used to it. Ow!’ I shout, as another single hair is pulled smartly out.
‘Just try and relax.’
As far as I’m concerned that’s impossible, given Joanna’s rapid-fire tweezer action. Besides, if you have to try and relax, well, that just makes you more anxious, surely?
Finally, mercifully, Joanna stops plucking, and hands me a mirror. When I look at my forehead, which is a little red, I’m amazed at the difference. The results are, I have to say, quite spectacular.
‘What do you think?’
‘Amazing. I look younger, clearer, less…’
‘Less like a werewolf?’
‘Exactly.’
I stare in horror at the tweezers. ‘I don’t know how you women manage to put up with having your legs done. Or even, you know, your other bits.’
Joanna smiles. ‘You should ask your friend Dan,’ she says. ‘He’ll tell you how it feels.’
For a moment I just stare back at her, thinking she’s joking, before I cotton on.
‘You’re kidding? Dan?’ I point to my crotch. ‘Down there?’
Joanna nods. ‘It’s very popular nowadays. I think the guys believe it makes them look, you know, bigger.’
And for the rest of the afternoon, I can’t get the phrase ‘last turkey in the shop’ out of my mind.
6.35 p.m.
I’m a few minutes late by the time I meet Dan on the corner of Preston Street. As usual, he’s dressed to impress, rather than appropriately given the somewhat nippy spring afternoon.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been? I’ve been freezing my nuts off here.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘What?’
Dan slowly puts two and two together, and goes bright red.
‘Bloody Joanna. I told her not to mention it.’
‘Can I just ask you something?’
‘Er…sure.’
‘Okay. It’s just…why the hell do you pay a woman to pour hot wax all over your tackle?’
Dan grins. ‘You’ve just answered your own question, haven’t you?’
‘Pervert.’
‘It’s the fashion.’
‘The fashion? Where? On nudist beaches?’
‘I’ve told you. I have to look good on TV.’
‘Well,’ I tell him, ‘if th
ere’s ever a programme where you need that particular part to look good, I’m changing channels.’
7.53 p.m.
I’m back at the Metropole Hotel, without Dan this time, for my second, and hopefully last ever, speed-dating night. My hair is Fudged to within an inch of its life, my new smile has been given an extra polish, and I’m dressed in my new Paul Smith suit—without a tie, as per Milo’s recommendation. I feel a little awkward being here, as it’s so close to Jane’s return, but on reflection, it does seem to be the best way to see if I’m ‘ready’.
Emily looks up from her table when I walk into the foyer, her marker pen poised above a sticky label.
‘And you are?’ she asks.
That memorable, eh? ‘Ed…’ I get as far as the first syllable of my name before I stop myself, wondering whether I should be using a false one, but by the time I’ve thought of a different one to ‘Dan’, she’s written the two letters on my name tag, and is already sticking it onto my lapel.
‘Well, Ed,’ she says. ‘Have fun in there.’
As we file into the room, I’m a little alarmed to see some familiar faces sitting expectantly at the tables. Admittedly it’s been a couple of months, plenty of time for any relationships that may have sparked off at my first time here to have been through the date-split cycle, but I suddenly feel like I’m in danger of completely shattering any confidence I may have built up over the past few weeks. These women all rejected me once—what if they do it again?
But as we wait to go to our respective chairs, something definitely feels different. I may be wrong, but a few of my fellow daters seem to be regarding me with suspicion this time, and furthermore, I notice a couple of the girls are actually smiling from behind their clipboards. At me.
I’m just trying to process this information when I spot Melanie, the Fatal Attraction girl from last time, sat in the corner. Oh great—evidently she’s back for another spot of cheering up. I position myself so I’ll get to her last, take a deep breath, and wait for Emily to ring the bell.
And it goes well. The girls seem interested in me. They laugh at my jokes. ‘You obviously work out,’ someone says to me. ‘I like your suit,’ says another. I see a couple of them ‘tick’ me before my time is up, and one girl, Tina, even gives me a slip of paper with her phone number on it. In general, they all seem to be having a good time, and apart from one embarrassing incident when one of them tells me she loves gigs, and I think she means the Manchester United footballer, I have a good time too.
