Confessions of a Serial Dater

by Michelle Cunnah

  I also have a selection of completely unliterary movies such as The Little Mermaid and The Lion King at my complete disposal via the touch of the remote control.

  I also have a date, but it has to be said, not quite the date I was hoping for…

  Instead of my lovely friends, who are all carousing somewhere in Trafalgar Square, for company, I have Maximillion d’Or, beloved, adored, prizewinning colorpoint red point Persian cat.

  I’m giving him a taste of popular, rather than classical, culture as a New Year’s treat, but somehow I don’t think he’ll tell on me to Mrs. G-S.

  Ex-fluffer Grace has a very slight cold, and although she felt fit enough to cope with the highly untaxing job of caring for dear Maxie, Mrs. Granville-Seymour just couldn’t bear risking his health. Although I didn’t think that cats could catch colds from humans…

  I take a long swallow of my third glass of excellent champagne. And, in my tipsy haze, as Big Ben approaches two minutes to midnight, I have A Brilliant Idea. Dear Jonathan. I miss him so much. I bet he’s missing me, too…I bet he’s too embarrassed to call me and is also miserable and lonely…

  I reach for the telephone and punch in Jonathan’s number. And hang up the moment I get switched to voice mail.

  He obviously isn’t home brooding about our failed relationship, then. He’s probably out with a hot new woman with small feet.

  “Happy New Year, Rosie,” I toast myself sadly as I watch the seething mass of people in Trafalgar Square laughing and cheering and kissing as Big Ben strikes midnight.

  Maxie opens an eye, then flops back to sleep.

  The label on the champagne bottle warns me not to operate heavy machinery or drive a vehicle while under the influence, which is a shame, because I was just sitting here thinking that I might trim Mrs. Granville-Seymour’s bushes with one of those Swedish chain saws, whilst also driving her BMW.

  Oh, well.

  I’ll just have another little glass, then…

  9

  St. Valentine’s Day Disaster

  Rosie’s Confession:

  It is medically proven that a good sex life really helps seniors to stay healthy. It relieves stress, boosts self-esteem and makes them feel younger.

  It’s no wonder, then, that Granny Elsie has a better sex life than I do…

  “That’s got to be the most pathetic excuse for a list of New Year’s resolutions I’ve ever seen,” Carmen tells me just over six weeks later, on Valentine’s Day afternoon, as we sip coffee in the back room of her vintage clothes store in Pem-bridge Road.

  I snatch it back from her because I think it’s pretty good.

  Spring clean entire house. Check.

  Take up horse riding to annoy Elaine. Check.

  Join Jess’s Friday night knitting group. Check.

  Get Mum’s finances back on track. Check.

  Get Mum back on track. Check. Well, nearly…

  Threaten plumber with legal action for botch job on bathroom and resultant leak through kitchen ceiling. Check. Although no response from him has actually been forthcoming…

  I don’t tell Carmen about the seventh resolution, which I resolutely left off the list. Stop daydreaming about Dr. Love is hardly something I want her to know about. I don’t want anyone to know about it, because it’s, well, fucking pathetic, and after nearly two months I should have gotten over such a childish crush.

  The latest daydream, this morning, involved chocolate, and red roses, and romantic dinners. And garden gnomes arranged in the shape of a heart. What kind of daydream is that, I ask you? There was no sex. Plus, the background music still needs some work…

  “Well, it was your idea.” I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered with the list. Actually, I didn’t bother on actual New Year itself, but Carmen says I have to have goals. It’s lovely of her to worry about me, but she needn’t. I’m perfectly happy the way I am.

  “Yes, but giving the plumber short shrift wasn’t what I had in mind—”

  “And if I’m going to have a list at all, it might as well be a list of fairly achievable goals.” Or, in fact, ones that I’ve already achieved.

  “But the whole point, my whole point, is that you need to get out and have fun, meet people. Men, specifically.”

  “Plumbers are generally men,” I point out. Although Greta, at Knit One Purl Jam, is a plumber, and she’s definitely not a man. I’m thinking of asking her advice about my plumber situation. “A lot of men ride horses, too,” I say.

  What I don’t add is that the group I’m currently trotting with is all female. I definitely don’t want to meet any more men. But I have to say I am enjoying my twice-weekly trots around the training circuit. We’ll be ready to actually trot around Hyde Park soon.

  Elaine bought me a course of ten horse-riding lessons for Christmas. Actually, she didn’t buy it for me at all. I remember that it was a gift she received for her birthday, last November, because I was at the party, and I was standing next to her when she opened the gift certificate.

  Although it was an expensive gift (three hundred and forty quid, because I checked), I suspect this was to enhance my grief about Candy, the lost pony, and if I were paranoid, which I’m not, I might also suspect that it was a veiled threat. That the reminder about Candy was also to remind me of what she said to me that day. That no one could love me more than her.

  But that would also be completely fucking psychotic of me. And also pathetic.

  On the other hand, it could just be that she couldn’t take the riding course on account of being pregnant. I worry too much, sometimes…

  Whatever the reason, it has backfired on her, because I’m having fun on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the gals and a gentle mare called Tansy. I’m seriously thinking of keeping up the lessons after the course finishes.

  You know, during the last few weeks I have settled into a very nice manless routine, and I’m a bit ashamed to admit that instead of feeling more shattered by my disaster with Jonathan (from whom I have not heard a peep), instead I am just a bit relieved.

  It’s such a release to be able to be myself without having to be on my best behavior for someone. And I’m not lonely, not really, because who could be lonely with such a lot of things to do? In fact, I’m so busy these days that I haven’t got time for a man—where would he fit in my schedule?

  On Saturday mornings, I have coffee with Carmen and Jess. Afternoons I catch up on shopping and cleaning. Evenings I have dinner with my friends. It’s a new tradition that Flora and Ned started—they invited us all for dinner at Ned’s house (Flora moved in just after Christmas), and we had such a great time that it then became The Thing To Do on Saturdays.

  On Sundays I have lunch with Mum and Gran, spend the afternoon with Mum, because Gran disappears on a date, then I spend the evening catching up on admin and stuff, and maybe watch a movie.

  On Mondays I go to cooking class. I mean, it’s pathetic that a woman of twenty-eight can’t cook, isn’t it? Plus, I want to reciprocate and surprise all my friends by cooking them a meal at my place soon. We’re doing spaghetti sauce next week. Once we get as far as the chocolate mousse, I’m going to have a practice run before I actually invite everyone, because it’s good to have a practice run or two to get it right, isn’t it?

  On Tuesdays, after tea at Mum’s I go riding, and then I’m too tired to do anything except shower and veg in front of the TV.

  On Wednesdays, I have French conversation. I was a bit worried at first that Jonathan would show up for the new term, but then I thought, that’s his problem. I mean, why should I disrupt my French classes just because he dumped me? I mean, if I’m going to be bilingual and delay the onset of dementia, I need to keep it up. At least he had the decency not to. Show up, I mean.

  Thursdays are a repeat of Tuesdays, except I go to the pub for a couple of drinks with my new riding buddies afterwards.

  Fridays is Knit One Purl Jam with Jess and my new knitting buddies.

  So, the myth that all single
women must be in need of a man to make them complete is, in my opinion, exactly that. A complete fucking myth. Of course, I do miss the sex…but that’s why God, in Her wisdom, invented vibrators. Ahem. Enough about that.

  “And this—this knitting thing. Really, Rosie, it’s so ‘grandmother.’ You need a life.”

  Actually, my grandmother’s life is pretty interesting at the moment. It involves a love triangle, and garden gnomes, and cowboys. But even thinking about it is too tiring and makes my head ache, so I don’t mention it to Carmen.

  “Don’t you like my sweater?” I ask instead, the picture of innocence. “Just look at this sweater and tell me that knitting is boring.” I am wearing my knitted-by-Jess sweater. She made us all one for Christmas, and I have to say they’re positively fabulous. Definitely not boring or grandmotherly. Who knew Jess was so talented?

  Mine is bloodred angora, with three-quarter sleeves, semifitted and cropped. It’s very French, which is exactly what Jess was aiming at, because she says I look French. Very Audrey Tautou in the movie Amélie. Actually, I quite like the idea of adopting an Amélie look. I quite like the idea of adopting the Amélie approach to life, too.

  You see, I really think that the way to happiness is to improve the lives of those around me, just like Amélie. That’s the secret of my happiness, apart from such a busy agenda.

  Carmen’s sweater is a lovely mottled turquoise/blue/green roll neck and is completely sexy, in a mediaeval kind of way, and molds her lush curves. Jess really captured our personalities. It’s incredible.

  I don’t have Jess’s skill, but it’s fun to sit around and gossip at Knit One Purl Jam over coffee, with Pearl Jam playing in the background. Kitty, the founder of the group, loves Pearl Jam with a passion.

  “Of course I love the sweaters. I just don’t see what kind of lure there is to spend Friday evenings gossiping over knitting needles and coffee, instead of getting out there and, most importantly, getting laid.”

  “It’s not like that at all,” I say, although truth be told, I do miss sex with an actual, you know, man, rather than a vibrator. “It’s really hip.” Which surprised me at first. “It’s all young, trendy women. It’s fashioned after a knitting group formed by a Manhattan feminist,” I tell her, because even Carmen should approve of that. “We all talk about sex.” Well, the others talk about sex.

  “And you, on account of not having any, live vicariously.” Carmen shakes her head. “It must be seven weeks since you last did it. This is not a healthy situation.”

  “So what did Paul get you for Valentine’s Day?” I ask, moving swiftly away from my non-sex life.

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I got a card. An anonymous one.” Secretly, I was thrilled and surprised to get one at all. It’s pathetic of me, but I was so happy when that red envelope slipped through my letter box onto the hall floor. I suspect it was from Harry, which doesn’t count, but I don’t want to share that with Carmen.

  “That’s a good start,” Carmen says approvingly. And then, “Paul got me red roses, chocolates and a date with a lawyer.”

  “Oh. Um, the date with the lawyer is—unique.”

  “He wants us both to make a will. Says it’s only sensible, seeing as we’re approaching old age,” Carmen adds, eyeing the fish tank in the corner.

  Paul, who is lovely and perfect for Carmen, wants more stability. What he actually means by that, as well as a cut down in the plate throwing, is less sex in odd places. The sex in odd places thing is one of Carmen’s New Year’s resolutions—a quest to remain young, unfettered and spontaneous. But Paul, apparently, likes comfort, now that he’s in his dotage.

  I have to admit, I’m right with him on that front. Carmen’s idea of sex in odd places can be a bit, well, daunting sometimes. The minibreak hasn’t worked out yet, on account of Paul working such long hours and saving extra money for their pension plan. As a compromising alternative, Carmen has plans to get him onto the fire exit stairs at the posh hotel tonight.

  “But at least it beats more tropical fish.” Carmen shakes her head. “He was very disappointed about the fish.”

  It has to be said that the fish experiment didn’t turn out too well, on account of one of them, whom we’ve christened Malevolence, having cannibalistic tendencies and eating all of the others.

  I glance across at the aquarium in the corner. Carmen moved it from the store because, she said, Malevolence was giving customers the evil eye. Actually, I think she’s right…it is a very demonic-looking fish…

  “Well, getting any kind of Valentine’s Day gift is nice,” I tell her, because it is.

  “I know, I know,” she says, shaking her head, then she laughs. “God, I’m beginning to sound like Jess.”

  “Anyway, what’s the big mystery?” I ask her quickly, because talking about Jess will inevitably lead to a diatribe about Aster again. Plenty of time for that tonight. “Why, apart from the additional pleasure of my company, since we already had coffee this morning, was it so vital that I immediately drop everything and hightail it to your wondrous store?”

  “Something came in,” she tells me, riffling through the garment rack. “It just screamed ‘Rosie’ at me, and I think you should wear it tonight.”

  It is a piece of wine-red velvet and wine-red silk. It doesn’t look like much…actually, it looks very Amélie…

  “But I’m sorted,” I resist. But I’m weakening.

  Tonight is Flora and Ned’s engagement party. It’s going to be a huge, swanky affair with approximately three hundred people. I had intended to wear my safe black velvet number, on account of not wanting to attract any undue male attention.

  “Just try it on. For me,” Carmen pleads.

  And so I do to humor her, because she does this to me a lot, and I never buy any of the sexy little numbers, because they’re just not for me.

  “Oh. My. God,” I say, when I come out of the changing room to look in the mirror.

  The sweetheart neck enhances my usually adequate cleavage to overabundant proportions, made even more so by the softly molding material. It’s cut in such a clever way that it makes my waist smaller and my hips rounder and more feminine, and wisps of the silk petticoat flirt around my knees. It covers me completely yet at the same time totally uncovers me.

  I love this dress. I’ve never felt so sexy and sirenesque in my entire life. Which is exactly why I’m not going to get it.

  “You have to have this dress,” Carmen orders me.

  “I don’t think—” This is a very dangerous little dress.

  “Don’t think.” She holds up a hand, oddly reminiscent of the way Dr. Love held up a hand and told me not to think two months ago.

  What harm can it do? It’s only one little dress.

  I grin back at Carmen’s reflection in the mirror.

  Fuck it. I’m having it. I can look sexy and hot just for myself.

  The fish gazes malevolently, and I shudder….

  My good humor lasts until I reach home and walk into my kitchen. The bathroom, directly above it, was completely gutted and replaced six months ago, because it was old and desperately needed it.

  I love my new bathroom. It’s all lovely mother-of-pearl tiles, and pale green accessories, and calming. But what I do not love is that the shower has developed a leak, and Brian Hirston & Sons, my plumbers, are ignoring my phone calls.

  So earlier in the week I consulted my lawyer, and he sent them a very strong letter, very strong indeed. Unfortunately, the leak is getting worse, and there is water all over the kitchen floor.

  I mop it up with kitchen towels, cursing all the time under my breath about shoddy workmanship. The amount I’ve paid Brian Hirston & Sons is enough to put at least one of the grandkids through college, and the least they can do is provide a decent service.

  So when my telephone rings I ignore it, because it’s probably Mum with more of Gran and the garden gnome story, and I’ll get it all tonight, anyway. Plus, I’m still mopping water.
And when I check my messages, ten minutes later, I’m even more pissed off. There’s a message from Harry.

  “Hi, Rosie.” His dulcet tones slide over my skin like silk, and I can’t help a little shiver. It’s because of my lack of sex, I think, and this irritates me.

  Harry’s called me a few times since Christmas, but I haven’t told Carmen or Jess. I haven’t told anyone.

  “I’m calling to see what you’re,” he pauses, “wearing. I’m imagining something black, and tiny, and silky, and that I’m sliding my hand down your body,” he adds, and I shiver some more. “Anyway, just wanted to see if you’re free for dinner tomorrow night,” he says, completely changing the tone of his voice from sexy to amused.

  I think he thinks that all this blowing hot and cold is sexy and tempting.

  I cannot imagine why he’s bothering, because I’m always mean to him, but although I have absolutely no interest in meeting up with him—well, maybe only a very little—it’s stress-relieving and refreshing to have someone to be mean to. But I can’t be mean to a voice-mail message.

  Granny Elsie’s theory about being mean to keep them keen certainly seems to be working where Harry’s concerned. Not that I want to keep him keen, of course, but despite the fact that I keep saying, “No, go away and never call me again,” he keeps coming back for more.

  Thinking of Granny Elsie makes me sigh.

  Eight more garden gnomes have gone missing since Christmas. And although the police are upset about it and are taking it seriously, the current theory is that they have either been (a) kidnapped by one of Hampstead’s snootier, gnome-hating residents, or (b) kidnapped by the French.

  I kid you not.

  The first theory—that a posh neighbor kidnapped them—is the copycat theory. It’s happened before. In Brattleby, Lincolnshire, residents in the posh half of the village woke one morning to find that their gardens had been invaded by fourteen garden gnomes, as some kind of retaliation for their garden-gnome snobbery, or so the locals suspect. The case is still open.