Confessions of a Serial Dater

by Michelle Cunnah

  I mean, it’s not like Maxie’s going to throw a secret party while she’s out and invite all the neighborhood felines for a mouse fest, is it? God, I can just see it now. The house will be trashed with cigarette butts and empty beer cans on account of all the carousing cats. The police will have to break it up, because the hip-hop music will be too loud….

  But Mrs. G-S is paying very well. God, it’s only ten in the morning, and already I have a pounding headache.

  There aren’t many people available with full degrees, or almost full degrees, like Karen, to cat-sit in June, and Grace, the other perfect candidate, the ex-fluffer, is already fixed up. Literally.

  She and Clarke, apparently, took a real shine to each other at Ned and Flora’s wedding last month. Not that they showed it at the wedding, because they were attending with Philip and me, and therefore it would have been unkind on Grace’s part and unprofessional on Clarke’s, since I’d paid him.

  It happened shortly after the wedding, when they bumped into each other in a supermarket in Islington, because, it seems, they lived just around the corner from each other. And, according to Grace, who told me because she wanted to make sure she wasn’t stepping on my toes, whilst swapping special offer information, they also swapped telephone numbers.

  Anyway, talk about thunderbolts of lightning—they decided to get married almost immediately. They’re currently honeymooning in Brighton. Which is why Grace can’t cat-sit dear Maxie.

  Philip said not to bother finding him another “girlfriend” for the vicarage garden party he’s throwing in July, on account of not wanting to appear too flighty with the church hobnobs. Poor Philip. I think he was quite keen on Grace.

  “Let me check through my files and get back to you,” I tell Mrs. G-S, envisioning me spending five days in her mansion. “If I can’t find anyone else, then, of course, I’ll be very happy to step in myself.” I make a mental note to pack tea bags.

  “Thank you, Miss Mayford,” Mrs. G-S says, startling me, because she’s prudent with praise. “You did an excellent job with him over New Year. He really took to you.”

  And then my phone rings again, immediately, and as I pick it up there’s a knock at my door, and I’m more than surprised when an unfamiliar brunette wearing glasses sticks her head around it. Actually, she looks familiar….

  “Hello, hello, can I come in?” Jess asks, and I nod, smiling, although mentally sighing, because this probably means that the condom factory has let her go. I don’t know what else I’ve got that would suit her. Really, I’m drying up, here. On the bright side, there are only three more weeks to go before she gets the next installment of her trust fund, and therefore only three weeks until her life can go back to normal.

  I wonder about the change of image, too, as she breezes across the room in her sensible, loose black pants and sensible, loose black shirt.

  “Dr. Miller thinks it would be a good idea for me to get a job,” is Mum’s opening comment. “Just part time. Just two or three hours in the afternoons, I was thinking. That way I’ll have plenty of time to get ready, and such. Somewhere within walking distance, because you know how I hate traveling on the Underground, and taxis there and back every day just wouldn’t be cost effective.”

  “Well—” It’s great that she’s improving. Luke was right about his doctor friend. And in the month since Mum started seeing him twice a week, she’s really come along. The nonaddictive prescription has also kicked in, which helps, too.

  “And maybe not every afternoon,” Mum jumps right back into her soliloquy. Before I can tell her that job beggars cannot be choosers, and that sometimes one has to adapt oneself to whatever the company stipulates, she’s off again.

  “Three or four afternoons would be good. But not Fridays, because I’ve joined a widow and widowers support group, and they meet on Friday evenings, and I need to get my hair done before I go. Dr. Miller says it’s good to have a schedule, see, so Friday afternoons I’ve scheduled a regular wash and blow-dry.”

  “Right,” I say. “Got all that.”

  “So what have you got?”

  “I’ll check and get back to you later. Is that alright?”

  “Well, shouldn’t you set up an interview for me?”

  “But I haven’t checked what we’ve got yet,” I explain patiently.

  “No, I meant with you. I’m supposed to come for an interview, aren’t I? How about now?”

  But I know her, why on earth would I need to interview her?

  “How about tomorrow morning?” I sigh, because it’s going to be one of those days. I can just tell.

  “How about tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Okay.”

  And after I hang up with Mum, I turn to Jess, who has ensconced herself in the seat opposite me.

  “Jess. Lovely to see you,” I say brightly. What I don’t say is, Why are you not at work?

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here, and not at work,” she says, her smile failing. “I got fired. I’m just no good at anything. I can’t even test condoms. I’m unemployable. Completely unemployable,” she adds, shaking her newly brunette head.

  “That’s a different look for you,” I say, trying for upbeat.

  “I’m trying for pensive and intelligent,” she tells me from behind the clear, prescription-free lenses. “What do you think?” she asks, getting to her feet and holding out her arms as she rotates three hundred and sixty degrees.

  “Well—” It’s a bit frumpy, but she’s so serious that I don’t have the heart to tell her.

  “It’s a bit frumpy, but I thought it would make a nice change. Having everyone take me seriously. You know?”

  “We do—” take you seriously, I begin, but she doesn’t give me the chance to finish.

  “Grace is very attractive, isn’t she?” Jess utterly confounds me by changing the subject.

  “Um, yes, yes she is.” Grace is a brunette who wears glasses, I think, as I try to follow Jess’s line of thought.

  “I haven’t seen her or Philip since the wedding. I expect they’ve been too busy to come to the Saturday-night dinners. She seems just like the right kind of woman for Philip. She’ll make a great vicar’s wife.” Jess frowns and sits back in the chair.

  And I have A Great Idea.

  “She dumped Philip just after the wedding and married Clarke. Remember Clarke?”

  “Really?” Jess asks, brightening. And then, “I expect Philip’s suffering from a broken heart, then, which is why he hasn’t come to any of the Saturday-night dinners.”

  This is ve-ry interesting.

  “Actually, Philip’s not upset—he’s just been busy,” I tell her, channeling Amélie in my quest to help Philip and Jess. “And he and Grace were, and still are, I think, just good friends.” Which is not the full truth, but sometimes it’s good to be a bit judicious with it—no need for Jess to find out about the financial arrangement.

  “Oh. Really?”

  “Actually, I think he’s lonely,” I say, digging in my point just a bit deeper, because I’ve always thought he had a soft spot for Jess. “Such a shame,” I shake my head. “I think he’d love to find the right woman and settle down.”

  “That’s nice,” Jess says brightly. And then, “I’m knitting him a sweater for his birthday. You are coming on Saturday night, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I’m definitely not going to miss this Saturday night—partly because it is in honor of Philip’s birthday, and partly because if it involves Jess making a move on Philip, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  “Anyway, what have you got for me? It’s only for a few more weeks,” Jess reminds me.

  I sigh, and Jess sighs with me. But defeat is not something we admit to at Odd Jobs. And I have Another Great Idea.

  “How do you feel about cat-sitting?”

  And after Jess goes off to meet dear Maxie and Mrs. G-S (who is delighted at the thought of Lady Etherington’s daughter as a companion for Maxie, plus she
is also delighted that Jess has a degree in art), and as I am mentally congratulating myself for my triumph at having (a) rescued myself from five days of only Maxie for company, and (b) fanned the flames of young love, thereby possibly solving Philip’s woman issue in more ways than one, I’m not expecting Colin’s news.

  “Have you got five?” he asks me in his deadpan voice. “Only my mother’s moved into a nursing home and the house is in her name. It’s got to be sold to pay for the home.”

  “Of course,” I say, because it’s a while since he’s had one of his depressions, and he sounds depressed.

  “I’m not depressed, if that’s what you’re thinking. Mum really has gone into a home, and the house really does have to be sold. In fact, the contracts are being exchanged next Monday.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Colin,” I say, meaning it. How awful.

  “It’s the bloody government I blame,” he tells me but then doesn’t say why. “I’m only telling you because I’ll need time off to go looking for some disgusting, poky bedsit in some terrible area, because that’s all I’ll be able to afford.”

  “Of course, Colin. You must take as much time as you like,” I tell him, ignoring my ringing phone. “And if there’s anything I can help with, just let me know,” I add supportively.

  “I shan’t be offended or anything if you want to ignore me for a few minutes and take that call,” Colin deadpans on.

  So I pick up.

  “Rosie, it’s me.” It’s Jonathan. “How are you?”

  Well, knock me down with a feather. But I’m oddly happy to hear his voice.

  “I’m great,” I tell him. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I’m good, you know. How’s your mum?”

  “Much better. Improving daily.” I’m a bit puzzled that he’s called me about Mum, though.

  “Look,” he adds, without any preamble. “I told you I was no good at this stuff, so I’m just going to spit it out. Samantha and I broke up. Seeing you last month made me realize how much I miss your company, and I’d love to take you out to dinner. What do you say? No strings attached.”

  “You’ve got a spare bedroom, haven’t you?” Colin pauses at my office door. “How do you feel about a lodger? Only, you did offer to help and I’m a bit stuck,” he says, and I’m barely listening to him. It’s hard to concentrate on two conversations at the same time.

  “Yes, I’d love that,” I find myself saying, because, well, I would love that. I can’t remember the last time I was taken out to dinner by an attractive man. In fact, the last time was with Jonathan.

  “Great,” Colin tells me. “I really appreciate it, Rosie. It won’t be for long. I hope. When can I move in?”

  “Great,” Jonathan tells me. “Which night are you free?”

  “Um, how about Sunday?”

  “I thought that was your admin night?”

  “I can be flexible.” See, this is the new me. I can bend my schedule a bit.

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up at, say, seven-thirty?”

  “I’ll need a spare key,” Colin says. “I’ll come around about six, if that’s alright.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “See you then,” Jonathan says, hanging up.

  And then it hits me.

  Oh, God. I can’t believe that I’ve just agreed to let Colin move in with me, however inadvertently. But in my good humor, I can afford to help my fellow men.

  Today is turning out to be rather a good day, after all.

  At least it is until six-thirty in the evening.

  As I step out of Paddington Station and into the hustle and bustle of Praed Street, and wonder in which part of the cluster of buildings that constitutes St. Mary’s Hospital I might find the Lindo Wing, and also worrying that finding the Lindo Wing might also involve bumping into Luke, I’m more than a bit surprised to see Charlie and Lewis coming out of one of the doors.

  “Hey, you two.” I dash across to them, bouquet of flowers in hand. “Thank God. I had visions of trekking around forever. Did you find her?”

  “Oh, Rosie, hi,” Lewis says, a baffled, horrified expression on his face.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” Charlie says, equally baffled and horrified.

  “Of course I’m here,” I say, waving the bouquet. “I might not like her, but she is my cousin, and although I’d rather be at cookery class because it’s chocolate mousse tonight, I thought I should pop by and pay a duty visit—” I break off.

  Because I’ve just remembered something. Charlie wasn’t in the office when I got the call from Mum. He left early this afternoon because, so he said, he had to go to Vauxhall to see a drag queen about a gig.

  So, therefore, Charlie doesn’t know that Elaine went into labor early this morning…

  “Elaine had her baby three and a half weeks early. She had a little girl, five pounds two ounces, just before lunchtime. Baby and mother are fine, which is a relief, but they might keep her in hospital for a little while. But as I said, they’re both fine,” I babble cheerfully.

  I’m trying to distract myself.

  Vauxhall is nowhere near Paddington.

  So Charlie and Lewis must be visiting someone else, but why wouldn’t Charlie just have told me? Or maybe one of them is sick—I cut off that thought.

  “Well, that’s lovely. Isn’t that lovely, Lewis?”

  “Oh, yes. Babies—adorable creatures.”

  “Um, everything alright?” I ask, not wanting to borrow trouble.

  “We were just, hahahaha, you know, visiting a sick friend,” Charlie says in a rush, pinning an overly bright smile on his face. “Yes, um, after I got back from Vauxhall, I had a message from, oh, remember our friend June from the Horse and Feathers? Well, we thought we’d better drop by and say hello, and here we are,” he says, and the smile falls from his face.

  And I know that he’s lying. He’s a terrible liar.

  “You’re a terrible liar,” Lewis tells him, squeezing his arm, and then he smiles. “Which is one of the reasons I love you, but Rosie’s a good friend.”

  “But I thought you didn’t want anyone to—” Charlie begins, and breaks off, which is a shame, because I thought I was about to find out whatever it is that Charlie thinks Lewis doesn’t want me to know.

  On the other hand, what I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?

  God, I am such a coward. I’ll only fret that it’s something terrible if they don’t tell me anyway.

  “Um, whatever it is, if you want to talk about it, then fine. On the other hand, I’ll just mind my own business and never mention it again,” I say, in as much of a rush as Charlie was just now. I know my expression is full of worry, because full of worry is exactly what I am.

  “Rosie, look,” Lewis begins, then smiles at me. “I think we could do with somewhere a bit more private for this.”

  The middle of a busy street isn’t a good place to receive bad news, is it? Because I think that’s exactly the kind of news they have.

  “You’d better visit Elaine first,” Charlie tells me. “Why don’t you come over to my place afterwards. I’ll cook supper. Then we can talk.”

  “Okay.” Oh, I just know this is going to be bad.

  “Rosie—stop frowning—and stop worrying.” Lewis gives my arm a friendly squeeze, and impulsively, I lean across and kiss his cheek.

  “Thank you,” Lewis smiles gently.

  “I’ll see you both in a bit,” I say, also kissing Charlie on the cheek.

  “I think you had a point about unexciting sex,” Carmen tells me, Flora and Jess on Saturday night as she lowers herself rather gingerly into a deck chair on Flora and Ned’s patio.

  “I didn’t say unexciting sex,” I say. “I meant comfort—as in doing it in bed. Don’t put words in my mouth.” Although I wouldn’t mind a bit of any kind of sex, unexciting or not, because it’s been a long time.

  “What happened?” Flora asks her. “Wasn’t the minibreak all you imagined it would be?”

  Paul, who
is currently in charge of the pork chops, has also been, shall we say, rather gingerly sitting down, too, now that I come to think about it.

  In a bid to be more exciting and spontaneous, he conspired with Carmen’s assistant so that he could whisk Carmen away on a spontaneously exciting minibreak in Norfolk.

  Actually, it’s another Amélie coup on my part. Paul and I had a little chat about lack of spontaneity, and how worried he was about not having any, and I suggested a surprise minibreak. But no one else has to know…

  Anyway, they only got back this afternoon, so we haven’t had the chance to catch up yet.

  “Oh, it was exciting, alright. He took me on a surprise picnic this lunchtime—champagne, lovely gourmet food followed by open-air sex,” Carmen tells us, and I’m a bit envious, because that sounds really romantic. Plus, I miss sex…

  “That sounds really romantic,” I tell her. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing—except, in the heat of passion, we rolled over rather vigorously into a patch of nettles.”

  “Ouch,” Flora says and bursts into a long, gusty laugh.

  “Oh. My. God,” I say, and I can’t help it—I’m laughing too, and so is Jess.

  “Traitors,” Carmen tells us, but she is laughing too.

  “What’s so funny?” Ned calls across from his place by the burgers.

  “Yes, don’t feel you have to keep it to yourselves,” Charlie tells us. “I hate to miss a good joke.”

  “Just ask Paul about the picnic,” Flora tells them, a warm gleam in her eye as she looks at her one-month husband. “Hmm, I may have to try that myself,” she says. “But without the nettles part.”

  “Are vicars, you know, allowed to have sex out of wedlock?” Jess asks. Then blushes. “Oh, Flora, I didn’t mean anything by that. Nothing at all.”

  “Dear girl, don’t you worry about a thing,” Flora laughs, then changes the subject because she is very good at making people feel better. “By the way, I love the sweater you made for Philip. It’s just the ticket.”

  “Thank you,” Jess beams, glancing across to Philip, who is helping the men with the barbecue.