Confessions of a Serial Dater

by Michelle Cunnah

  “Hmmff,” I say again, as the huge amount of pastry and cream in my mouth threatens to choke me.

  “Rosie’s agency is doing very well,” Jonathan says very loyally as my face burns, and I gag as I try, ineffectually, to swallow some of the profiterole.

  I think I’m going to be sick. I really think I am going to be sick…either that, or I will be in need of the Heimlich maneuver.

  The handsome stranger raises a questioning do-you-need-help? sardonic eyebrow at me and looks poised to stand and come over. He looks a bit worried. But I am getting worried, too—especially as no one at my table has realized that I might be in danger of expiring on the spot. James Bond to the rescue, I think, as he gets to his feet and as my eyes start to bulge.

  “Yes, but it’s only a second income,” Sidney sneers. “But you’ll be giving it up when the little ones come along. I’ve always said that working mothers are a drain on society—”

  And it’s then, at that moment, that the too-big mouthful of profiterole completely overwhelms me, and I crazily think of turtles. As I start to gag even more, I grab desperately for my napkin and hold it to my face. Just in time to cough and splutter out the whole, sodden, chocolatey mass.

  The sudden silence that envelops our table is painful, despite the noise of the thirty or so other tables in the ballroom. Our fellow diners are flashing Jonathan faux sympathetic smiles whilst mentally congratulating themselves on having such a well-behaved partner or spouse.

  I am mortified. And relieved to be alive.

  I cannot believe I have just coughed up the contents of my mouth in front of these people.

  “Er, sorry everyone.” Jonathan jumps to his feet. “I think Rosie needs some fresh air.” Jonathan tugs at my elbow. “I’m always telling her not to bite off more than she can chew, ha, ha, ha,” Jonathan continues, and I flush with humiliation. And a little bit of annoyance.

  As Jonathan hustles me away from the table, and I hobble along in my too-tight shoes, I am wretched and wishing I were anywhere but here.

  And as we pass the neighboring table, the handsome stranger is smiling sympathetically at me again. This time, instead of winking, he gives me a discreet thumbs-up.

  Kindly meant, but my embarrassment is now complete…

  “But what were you thinking, stuffing the whole thing in your mouth?” is Jonathan’s opening sentence as we reach the hotel foyer. Not the right choice of words.

  I bristle a bit more, because I am the injured party and am in sore need of some sympathy and understanding. And my feet hurt.

  “It was the only thing I could think of to stop myself from telling your boss what an obnoxious prick he is,” I say without thinking.

  “Rosie.” Jonathan’s eyes widen in shock, because I’m not usually so blunt. At least, not with him. “That’s a…a bit strong.”

  “Well, Horrible Boss has that kind of effect on me,” I say, sinking into one of the lush, overstuffed sofas.

  “You must remember not to call him that in public,” Jonathan hisses as he quickly checks out the surrounding area for eavesdroppers.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him, leaning my head into the sofa’s comfort. “Everyone’s too busy fawning over him to bother spying on us. And believe me,” I say, as I try to flex my toes a bit, “I could think of a lot worse things to call him. Doesn’t he ever get to you?” Thank God I can take the weight off my feet!

  “Look, I know he can be a bit difficult,” Jonathan says as he sits down next to me and takes my hand, “but he really doesn’t mean half of what he says. He just blusters a bit.”

  I am not that easily mollified.

  “And what were you thinking, apologizing for me like that? Bit off more than I could chew? You made me sound like a complete idiot.” Tired and depressed by my long, disastrous day, my voice wobbles and I am unexpectedly close to tears.

  “I’m sorry, darling.” Jonathan’s arm is around me in an instant, and I lean into his reassuring warmth, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin and cologne. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just—you know how très important this promotion is to me.”

  I worry, sometimes, that his promotion is more important to him than I am.

  “Not more than you, naturellement,” Jonathan adds, dropping a swift kiss on the top of my head. “But it’s only for ce soir, after all. It’s not like you have to even socialize with Sidney that souvent…”

  He does have a point. I lift my head from his chest and look into his sweet, worried face.

  “Did you see the look on Graham Hurst’s face? You know how hard I’ve worked for this promotion, and how desperate he is to steal it from me,” Jonathan says, his forehead creasing.

  Poor Jonathan. I do understand the importance of getting on in one’s chosen career. I’m pretty much like that with my employment agency. In the beginning, I had to work even longer hours than I do now to get it up and running. I also understand how important it is to have a sympathetic partner. Ivan, my two-years-ago ex, very quickly ran out of patience with me.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I tell him, reaching up a hand to his face, and he turns his cheek and kisses me right on the palm. “It was just after the Mum episode, and the burning toaster incident and everything, I got a bit short-tempered.”

  “Poor baby, you’ve had a jour terrible. You’re such an angel,” Jonathan tells me, pressing another kiss to my palm. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

  How lovely is that? You see, sometimes I worry that we’re not exactly right for each other. But is that just on account of my commitment phobia coming out? Not that I think I have a phobia about commitment….

  “Tell you what we’ll do,” Jonathan tells me. “You stay here. I’m going to get you a nice medicinal brandy, and you’ll feel so much better.”

  “Okay,” I say, happy to take refuge in the foyer for a while. See, Jonathan knows how I feel and is adapting to my needs.

  Before Jonathan, I hadn’t had a boyfriend for two years. Since Ivan, in fact. My friends said that I spent too much time at work to actively avoid looking for Mr. Right. And to avoid missing Ivan. In fact, they also think I actively pushed Ivan away because he was getting too serious. But that’s not true at all. At least, I don’t think it was.

  “Voilà.” Jonathan arrives back, and I smile. I knew I could rely on him. “Now, you take your time to—you know—pull yourself together,” he says as he places my brandy on the coffee table. And then I notice that there is only one brandy glass.

  “Aren’t you having one?”

  “Er, not right now. You don’t mind if I go and do a bit of networking, do you? You’ll be okay here for a few minutes by yourself, won’t you?”

  I’m tempted to make my medicinal brandy last as long as possible to avoid going back to the fund-raiser, but I feel strangely abandoned sitting here by myself.

  Of course, I do understand how important it is to network at these functions—you just never know who you’re going to meet, and let’s face it, the tickets were very expensive. But raising money for children’s charities is such a good cause. Sidney’s sister is some kind of fund-raising guru, and she arranged the whole thing. Bossiness must run in the family…

  Briefly, I consider checking my cell phone for messages. I switched it off when we arrived because my mother has the habit of calling me at all hours of the day, even when I tell her well in advance that I will be incommunicado.

  But I just can’t face any more Mayford family disasters at the moment, of the real or imagined variety. They’ll just have to manage without me for one night. I will check it when I get home. Or tomorrow…

  I could use a lifeline and call a friend, therefore creating the impression that I am not a sad, lonely person on her own but someone who has just escaped the party to make important business calls.

  But Carmen and Paul will be engaged in their usual Friday-night fight and will not appreciate the interruption as they smash plates and generally scream at each other. I don’t
know why they do this, but Carmen says it’s just a form of self-expression. And the sex afterwards is phenomenal. But expensive in terms of crockery.

  Jess will be at Friday-night knitting class. She says it’s all the rage now, and not like some old women sitting together in a circle at all. Apparently, it’s all dragon patterns and skulls and crossbones—the “new” rave party.

  The brandy has helped, it really has. I get to my feet and smooth down my dress. And despite my aching feet, I now feel able to face the rest of the evening, whatever it might bring.

  This thought holds me until I reach our table. It is practically deserted, and I cannot see Jonathan anywhere. Instead, only Cynthia is on hand, so at least it means I will not be sitting alone. This would normally be fine—even if she did want to wax lyrical about her and Graham’s au pair, or new super-deluxe vacation home.

  On this occasion, however, it is a disaster. The music has begun, and people are slow dancing to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and Sidney is heading back toward the table from the direction of the men’s room. I know he has spotted me and is thinking that slow dancing with me is next on his agenda, because his squinty eyes are fixed on me. He is a man on a mission.

  It will be hard to refuse him, especially as it will seem churlish of me not to have a Christmas dance with him. But I just can’t face it. Apart from not wanting his hands anywhere near me, I don’t want to ruin things for Jonathan by saying something stupid. I need my own mission to avoid him.

  Before I can consider the consequences of my actions, I grab the arm of the man who is passing me. Anything—anything at all to avoid Horrible Boss.

  “Excuse me,” I say, just a bit hysterically as Sidney gets closer. “I know we’ve never met, and will probably never meet ever again, and I know this is the kind of thing that people do in movies, and not in real life, but would you consider saving a complete stranger from certain disaster and evil wandering hands? It should only take a couple of minutes. I will give you my firstborn.”

  “That’s a rather dramatic offer, but drastic times call for drastic measures,” a pleasant, amused baritone voice replies. “As it happens, you’re in luck. Saving damsels in distress is one of my specialties.”

  And as I look up into my ad hoc rescuer’s face, he raises a sardonic eyebrow at me.

  Oh.

  It’s him.

  2

  Dancing Queen

  Rosie’s Confession:

  Did you know that being fluent in at least two languages could, apparently, help to protect against mental decline in old age?

  I wish I hadn’t given Jonathan that article, though, because the study meant people who speak both languages fluently, rather than one fluently and only a smattering of the other. I wish Jonathan wouldn’t speak French to me in public. I know he doesn’t mean to sound pretentious, but it does make me cringe a bit…

  Escaping Sidney is now the least of my problems, I think, as warning sirens blare in my brain, and I wonder how one man can be so lethally attractive. It’s just so unfair to womankind….

  My traitorous ovaries rejoice as they leap to immediate attention, closely followed by all other traitorous organs. And, in fact, all other traitorous body parts. Even my toes find room to curl.

  And I know that I am standing here with my mouth hanging open in an unattractive manner. Drooling is so—so undignified. I must remember how to speak. Breathing might be good, too. This is only a man. A fellow human being…

  I clear my throat to test my failing vocal cords. Now, there are many witty, amusing things I could say at this point to charm him with my sparkling personality.

  “Oh, it’s you,” which is what actually comes out of my mouth, is not one of them. Not that I want to charm him, of course. Why should I care what he thinks of me? Of course I don’t care…

  “Yes, I think we can be sure that it is, in fact, me,” he says, smiling down at me from at least six feet up.

  His dark, wavy hair flops over his forehead, and I want to reach up and touch it. His teeth are ever so slightly crooked, which is endearing. His eyes crinkle so nicely, and twinkle so…dangerously.

  “I’d love to stop and chat, and get to know you a bit better before I take such a liberty as placing my hands on your person, but I think the root of your distress is about to descend on us,” he says, nodding his head just a little in the direction of Sidney the unstoppable Sherman tank. “We should make your escape now. Do you think you could bear to dance in those shoes? It’s a slow number, and it will involve little actual movement of feet.”

  “Dancing. Yes. Good plan,” I say, babbling like a complete idiot.

  “I apologize for having to put my arm around you in such a familiar way, but I promise not to let my hands wander too far,” he says, and I almost forget to breathe again as he takes one of my hands in his and slides his other around my waist. “Oh, good. Bing Crosby—always a wise choice for any Christmas party, don’t you think?”

  “I, um—” I stutter, groping desperately for a thought. Any thought at all…oh, but he smells lovely. No! Forget that. Not a good thought.

  “You know, you could put your arm around my waist too. I’ve always thought that free-form arms during close dancing are a bit noncommittal.”

  “How can you tell?” I blurt as I tentatively place my arm around him. God, it feels good. Too good. Another bad thought. “About the shoes,” I say, as we start to sway in time to “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.”

  “Ah, that would be because of my medical training.” He smiles even wider. “We doctors have our secret methods of discerning tight-fitting shoes.”

  Oh, this is even worse than I thought. Not only is he adorable, and dangerous, and smells lovely, but he also saves lives!

  “Or it could just be the way that I hobbled out of the room after the near-death experience,” I say, just a bit cynically.

  “Well, that shatters my secret methodology,” he laughs down at me, and my heart misses a beat. “The hobbling was a large hint. Why are you wearing shoes that are too small? It’s something that’s been fascinating me all evening.”

  “Trust me, the shoe story is not interesting,” I tell him, because, well, he makes me feel petite. I don’t want to shatter the petite image with my big feet issue. “Do you make a habit of looking closely at women’s shoes? Is this something that the Royal College of Physicians needs to be warned about?”

  “No,” he laughs, and I have to bite my lip so that I don’t sigh at just how good his laugh makes me feel. “As concerned as I might be, in a totally professional capacity, about the state of the health of your toes, they were not my primary concern. Would it be cheesy of me to say that I couldn’t stop myself from watching you because you are by far the most interesting, beautiful woman in the room, and I was wondering how I might escape the boredom of the evening and sweep you away?”

  His words shower me with just the right dose of hypothetical cold water that I need. I am medium sized. My hair is straight, and almost black, and falls to just below my ears. I have a good complexion, and nice blue eyes. I am attractive in a normal kind of way.

  “Cheesy doesn’t begin to describe it,” I say, coming back to earth with a bump. A lump is building in my throat. This guy, whom I immediately christen Dr. Love, has a great line and a charming bedside manner, I’ll bet. But no way, no how, could he think I’m beautiful. Especially when comparing me to his own dinner companion.

  “Well, that’s what I thought. I shall remember to avoid cheesy compliments at all times. You have a very expressive, tactile face,” Dr. Love tells me, and I cringe at my own disappointment. I don’t want him to flirt with me, I definitely don’t, but “expressive, tactile face” just doesn’t hold the same allure as “most interesting, beautiful woman in the room.”

  “What’s that thing with the James Bond sardonic eyebrow?” I ask, just a bit crankily. “I bet it took years in front of a mirror to perfect.”

  “What can I say? Just t
he right amount of sardonic is so hard to achieve.” He raises his eyebrow and laughs. “I can see you’re not impressed.”

  “Sorry. But charming, sardonic eyebrows have no effect on me. Give me a man who can waggle his ears, every time,” I lie, and he throws back his head and laughs even more.

  God, but a man who can laugh at himself is so…endearing. I stop that thought in its tracks. I don’t want him to be charming, or endearing. I want him to be self-obsessed, with an ego the size of London. At least that way I could dislike him.

  “The ear thing I can’t do, but the eyebrow thing is a God-given talent. It drives my mother mad—she says I use it when I’m agreeing with her, but really disagreeing with her.”

  “And do you?”

  “All the time. I’m all for family harmony—not that there’s a great deal of it when we all get together.”

  “Sounds like mine,” I tell him. I want to know more about his family and its harmony. I wonder if he’s married…Before I can stop them, my eyes home in on our entwined hands. I can’t feel a ring, but then it’s the wrong hand for a wedding ring.

  What am I doing? I’ve known this man for five minutes. I don’t care if he’s married. After all, I’m practically engaged myself.

  Oh. In my bedazzled-by-Dr.-Love state, I forgot all about Jonathan. How could I do such a thing? I look over to our table as we sway around again. Jonathan is there, and is scowling across the room at me. I think I should get back to him. At least there’s no sign of Sidney.

  “The wanderer returns,” Dr. Love comments, following my line of vision. “I take it that’s your boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, thought so,” he nods, not smiling anymore. And I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but he sounds just a bit disappointed. Which is ridiculous.

  “I really should be getting back,” I tell him, as Bing Crosby fades out.

  “Which is a shame, because ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ is one of my favorite pieces,” he says, his mouth crinkling in a half smile. “At least you will be safe from Sidney of the wandering hands.”