“Do you mean William?”
Yes, Marion, I mean William. “Yes, Marion.”
“Vet.”
“Nothing wrong, I hope.”
She ignores my half question. “Anything else?”
“No, thanks, Marion.”
And with that she cuts me off.
I sit and stare at my computer screen and occasionally look over at Donna. Finally we both look up at the same time and I mouth the word “Mike”. She blushes then puts a finger up to her lips and I signal ‘okay’. She should know I’m rubbish at keeping secrets.
I’m reading the next message when William comes stumbling by. I’m sure I hear sobbing, but he may only have a cold. He tunnel visions into his office, ignoring Keith who’s walking two steps behind him with a piece of paper in his hand, trying to attract William’s attention.
William slams his office door, nearly hitting Keith on the nose, and disappears out of view behind his desk. Keith peers through the glass, but there’s a loud roar and he scuttles away. Good news it’s clearly not.
There’s still no sign of life when I’ve finished checking tallgirlnn1’s emails. With Felix lined up for tonight, Robert tomorrow, and Nigel for Saturday night, I pray that my usual ‘pulling’ nights will be enjoyable or I’m going to have to think about having Sunday night off and making up half of Monday’s column. I’m giving myself the proverbial pat on the back when a message comes in from CXW69. What is it with that magic number? Are men’s brains seriously only in one place? Figuring that two out of three men can’t be that shallow, I click on his profile and find they are – he was born in 1975. He writes ever so eloquently though, so I have high hopes of an interesting date.
I’m writing a reply when Chloë from HR appears behind my right shoulder. “Shit, Chloë, you woke me up!”
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Do you want some gossip?”
“Of course.” I’m also whispering. “You should know me by now.”
“It’s about William.”
“And you’re telling me before Donna?’
“She’s nearer his office, so I figure I can hide better here.”
“Go on, dish the dirt.”
“It’s aspergillosis.”
“William’s got aspergillosis?” I ask a little too loudly.
“Shhh…. You know what it is?”
“Not a clue.”
“Liver damage from eating fungally toxic peanuts.”
“How do you know that?”
“My sister, Berni.”
“She’s a nurse?”
“Receptionist.”
“So how does she know that William’s got this asper…?”
“Aspergillosis. And no, William doesn’t have it.”
“But I thought you said…”
“No, Baby’s got it.”
“He’s got children?”
“Baby, his African Grey. His parrot.”
“Of course.” It seems like a long time getting there, but I finally cotton on to where this conversation is going, and why I may or may not have heard sobbing. I knew he had a bird but it had almost become a bit of a myth because he’s, normally, such a private person. I almost daren’t ask the next question but I’m curious. “Is it fatal?”
“It can be, but it depends whether they treat it in time.”
“Oh, God.”
“In floods of tears apparently, when he left. He had his arms around the cage as if he’d lost her already.”
“Her? Baby’s a she?”
“She is, yes.”
I feel sorry for him and can understand why he’s so upset. I remember losing our dogs as I grew up and it was horrible. As far as we know, Baby’s all he has and that must be twenty times worse. I dread to think what he’d be like if the bird did actually die.
Chloë walks back down the corridor to her office and I pluck up the courage to go to William’s.
As I look through the clear top half of his door, I see that he’s head-down on the desk. For all I know, he could have keeled over with a heart attack and he’s getting rigor mortis, but as I open the door he looks up. His eyes are almost as red as Mike’s doughnuts. He doesn’t say a thing. I shut the door behind me and step forward.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?’ I whisper. “I’ll make it like Janine does.”
He sniffs and nods, a vague smile looming.
I don’t know whether I should say I know why he’s so upset. I stay silent for now and leave, closing the door quietly, and go to the kitchen. I figure he’ll tell me if he wants to, though I don’t hold my breath.
I return a couple of minutes later and, as I pass her desk, Donna smiles at me, clearly oblivious to William’s woe.
I tap lightly on William’s door and he looks up again. I rest his mug on his desk and say, “My article’s coming along nicely,” hoping that the change of subject would take his mind off his troubles. He nods again and I leave the room. I don’t suppose he’ll drink any of it, but at least I’ve shown him that someone cares.
I’ve been back at my desk for less than five minutes when William comes over.
He puts his empty mug on my desk and says frighteningly cheerfully, “Thanks so much for the coffee, I’ll tell Janine she’s got a drink-making rival.” That wasn’t something I’d looked for to add to my CV, but I smile and he returns to his office.
I debate whether I’d put too much coffee in it considering the speed of his recovery and, as I look at his mug on my desk, I wonder whether its placement is a hint for a refill.
I check the clock and it’s gone one. Looking over at Donna at her desk under the clock, I see her pointing to her mouth. Great minds think alike. I’m dying to get the gossip on Mike and swap it for aspergillosis, and can’t wait a minute longer. As I get up from my desk she does likewise, and we sprint for the kitchen like Chariots of Fire meets Baywatch. I’m ahead, so run past the kitchen, then swing round and our run becomes Wuthering Heights’ Cathy and Heathcliff. Donna calls out a high-pitched “Heathcliff”, and I do a low-pitch “Cathy”, and we stumble through the kitchen in fits of laughter.
I grab my sandwich – home-made coronation chicken, which I adore – and have just sat down at our favourite corner table when I remember my article. Had William continued with his self-indulgent morose phase I might have got away with a later deadline, but if the last time I saw him is anything to go by, I don’t stand a chance.
“I can’t stay long,” I say to Donna. “Not started my article yet.”
“I’m a bit behind today too, after last night.”
“Yes! Tell me, tell me. I want to know everything!’ I then think for a second and say, “Not everything, just the censored version.”
She tells me, in uncensored detail, everything that happened between her and the well-laden Mike. She’s just getting to a particularly intimate moment when William walks in and sees her re-enacting the scene. He swiftly turns and walks back to his office. This obviously trumps ‘women’s troubles’ as he doesn’t even get as far as the machine. I vow to make him a drink, but Donna’s gossip is too juicy to miss, so I give her my undivided attention for the next six minutes and twelve seconds, which was, by the sound of it, not far off the entire timescale of their lovemaking.
I tell her what Chloë had told me about William’s parrot, and Donna bursts into tears. I pass her a box of tissues and will William to return, but he doesn’t.
Having finished my coronation chicken, I nip back to my desk and get William’s mug. I make him a replica of my first effort, toning down the coffee a little, just in case.
I take it to his office and he’s looking through his in tray.
“Mine’s not quite there,” I mumble as I place the mug on a coaster.
“You’ve got just under an hour.”
“Can I…?”
“Close the door on the way out, will you?”
That’s the William we know and, sort of, l
ike.
I create a blank document and save it as ‘31 dates art. 0405’, typing in ‘What did I learn from last night?’ Having given this some thought, I’m a bit more clued up than before, which, considering the time I have to do the word count, is just as well.
That men come in all shapes and sizes. While it’s easy to judge a book by its cover and go with our first impressions, it’s worth taking the time to dig a little deeper. There was an advert a few years ago for ‘The Guardian’ (thanks, YouTube!) called ‘The Whole Picture’ which sums up what I mean. You first see a skinhead running towards you, but away from a car – you assume it’s chasing him. The camera angle changes; you’re following him as he approaches a suited gentleman (wearing a hat – those were the days) with a briefcase, so you assume that the ‘thug’ is going to rob him.
The final shot is an overview showing both men, but also a pallet of bricks outside a renovation project that’s about to shed its load, and the skinhead pulls the gent back towards the building just in time to be saved from serious injury. The entire advert is less than thirty seconds but has such an impact. While I couldn’t remember what it was selling before checking YouTube (which would normally mean that it’s not doing its job too well) – it has been over twenty years – I remembered how the clip played out. And this is why I mention it. Whether a man is tall or short, fat or thin, he is likely to have a number of layers that are worth peeling back (metaphorically, on the first date, girls!) revealing the real him. Equally you might think about relaxing and letting small amounts of your true personality shine. That may be easier said than done if you’re nervous meeting for the first time, but I have found in the past that if I’d been unable to relax, I’d feel that he’s not seen the real me when he’s said ‘Thanks, but no thanks’. As the dish of the day walks away, my insides are screaming, ‘Wait, that wasn’t me in there, I’m a lovely person really,’ but the damage is already done.
Of course, attraction is a big part of finding a partner, because if you don’t fancy them the first time in bed together, both shaved and smelling lovely, you’re certainly not going to fancy them in x years’ time when shaving was something that you watched on an Australian farming documentary, there are his and hers false teeth in tumblers on his and hers bedside tables, and you smell like… we won’t go there. You may like someone who’s buff, tanned and gorgeous, but that won’t last forever. If his exterior needs a bit of a repaint, that’s just minor cosmetics, but if his interior needs a complete DIY home improvement then that’s a whole Boots superstore. Me, I prefer a rugby player build to footballer. Peter Crouch is probably lovely, but ew, no. No meat. I like a bit of meat, but given the choice of an intelligent, funny rake or thick-as-a-barge buff brickie, the rake would win every time (although I’d still take the brickie’s number for a few jobs I need doing round the house).
So two more things to tick on my ‘dater’s shopping list’: Do – take time to get to know the person beneath the skin (however saggy it may be!) and Don’t – have sweetener in your tea when your body is crying out for full-fat hundred-calories-a-grain sugar.
I look at the clock and it’s five to two. I have a quick skim read and print it off. Not knowing what mood William will be in when I get to his office, I prepare my battle armour (a fresh coffee), but he’s not even there.
I put the coffee on his ‘Newspaper Awards’ coaster, and the paper in the tray, then turn to do a runner. Inches away from my face is William.
“Err…” I say.
“Hi, Izzy. Done?”
I nod.
“Thanks. I’ll have a browse.”
“Okay,” I say, and walk back to my desk, making sure of course that I close the door on my way out.
I have a quick check of my tallgirlnn1 messages and there are a couple more. By the time I’ve read and replied to them, I have dates for Sunday (CXW69) and Monday (ReadyEddie) nights. Needless to say a lot of eye rolling was done when I clicked on ReadyEddie’s profile expecting more of RobbieY69’s smut, but he’s a guy who hates to be late, so that can only be a good thing.
I have plenty of time to kill, so open the package from Geek’s Paradise and play with a wind-up grasshopper. My colleagues are used to strange noises coming from my desk, but this one sounds like a vibrator and, given my current project, I quickly switch it off. I look at the notes it comes with and type in the manufacturer’s website link before watching a two-minute video of the thing in action. Pleased that I’d already muted my computer from my earlier internet trawling, I giggle away as the grasshopper walks its way along a long bench then stops as it gets to a purposely placed wall, flips over and walks its way back to the start. I’ve had a few of Geek’s Paradise freebies before, but none as fun as this, so play the video again before putting the grasshopper back in its package, with accompanying paperwork, and slipping it into my bag. I can’t wait to get home and try it out for real.
After more admin, it’s nearly time to go home when Donna comes bounding over, back to form.
“Who is it tonight?” she asks, her mouth almost drooling at the thought of me getting as much action as her.
“FelixP69.”
She grins.
“He was born in 1969.”
“Where are you going?”
“Jade Pavilion.”
“Great, local.”
“Indeed.”
“To eat?”
“No. Just a couple of drinks.”
“That’s a shame. They do lovely food there.”
“I know, but I’m on William’s budget.”
“You know the answer to that.”
“What?”
“You get Felix to pay.”
“You know I’m a Dutch girl.”
With that, Donna flicks up the sides of her hair and teeters around my desk as if she’s wearing clogs.
“Har, dee, har. We’ll see, but I highly doubt it.”
“He’ll be lovely: sleek and dark like Felix the cat.”
“Or he’ll bomb like the 1900 Alabama meteorite!”
“You’ve got such a brain in there, Izzy Mac. We should go to pub quizzes, you’d be great and we’d pick up some intelligent boys.”
“You know how rare they are. Besides, aren’t you spoken for?”
She laughs. “Tell me all about it in the morning.”
“And you, missy.”
Thinking of what Donna said, I have another low-fat meal, this time picking a non-garlicky chicken and lemon risotto, so I’m not too full in case Felix does insist on treating me.
After last night’s rain, it’s been a particularly hot day, so I have a shower while my ‘dinner’ is cooking (turning around on the glass microwave plate).
Showered, I slip on a dressing gown and go downstairs. My bag is hanging over the bottom of the banisters and I dig out the grasshopper. Collecting my dinner, which has cooled down nicely, I go into the lounge. Perched on the edge of my lilac sofa with dinner on a side table, I wind up the grasshopper and am in stitches when it bumps into the edges of the sofa, neighbouring chair and footstool.
As it’s trying to tunnel its way through the corner of the room, I pick it up gently and place it in front of the radiator where it has a long run up to the dividing doors between the lounge and dining room. It goes full pelt before slamming into the woodwork, making a tiny dent in both the door and the toy’s nose. I pick it up and we stare face to face. I can’t help smiling as it looks so cute, deformity and all. I could keep the items I test, but most end up at the local Red Cross shop or further afield. This one isn’t going anywhere.
I lay it on the sofa next to me and put my hands out in front of me, Kung Fu-like, and say to my new housemate, in a distinctly average David Carradine impersonation, “You have failed no one, Grasshopper.” My brother Mark is a film addict; I know the actual quote is ‘You have not failed no one’, but that’s bad English and, like dropping litter, I can’t bring myself to do it.
I look at the clock over the blocked-up firepl
ace and panic. I dash upstairs, throw open the wardrobe doors and pick something pretty (a long maxi dress – I rarely wear dresses), put on the war paint and tie my hair into a ponytail, but figure that to choose somewhere like Jade he’d be a long hair loose kind of guy, so I pull the band out and let it run free.
Felix is exactly as I’d imagined him. Like Tim, he’s nearly as broad as he is tall, which in Felix’s case is about an inch shorter than me, but unlike Tim there isn’t an ounce of fat on him. I’d arrived just before him, so I’m standing at the bar when he walks in. I try to keep a straight face as he comes towards me. It turns out he’s a weightlifter and because his quadriceps (‘thighs’ to ordinary people like me) are so huge, he has to waddle one leg in front of the other, doing a good impression of the Michelin man.
I sit on a stool and his muscles bulge as he lifts his great weight on to his seat. He orders a Mai Tai for himself and I have a Virgin Colada. I spot him winking at the barmaid who I’m surprised has the job, as she’s barely tall enough to see over the counter. I assume he’s just being charming, but it soon transpires that he likes all the women here, bar one.
As we face each other and talk about the usual stuff that first daters do, it’s quite obvious that he’s a regular. Not only does the barmaid keep flirting with him, but so do all the waiting staff, female and male, when they walk past us to get to the kitchen. A waitress, who seems capable of carrying only one item at a time because she goes past so often, is on first name terms with him and I get the feeling that there’s some ‘history’ between them, and not too distant.
I distinctly feel like a spare part and wonder if he’d notice if I slid off the bar stool and slipped away. I say I’m going to the toilet to which I get a vague nod. I’ve been to Jade once before, so remember where I’m going, but he’s not paying attention so it would be no use asking him anyway. I finish my VC, discreetly (though there clearly was no need) grab my clutch purse and walk in the direction of the ladies toilet. Looking sideways so I still have him in my sights, I see he’s chatting to Miss One-Item-at-a-Time Waitress and he hasn’t a clue what I’m up to. I therefore leg it towards the entrance and out to my car.
The Serial Dater Page 6
