Despite my better judgement and the prospect of needing a translator, I ask him if he’s free next week. I make a note on my Office Angels (it’s so cool having temps and getting free stuff) note block to add a ‘Don’t try this at home’ bit in my next article – I’d have normally taken ages to get to know a guy before meeting them. In fact, the one and only time I had a profile on a popular international dating site, I spent the six months ‘chatting’ to half a dozen men and never met any of them, so that was a bit of a waste of sixty-five pounds, wasn’t it?
I reply to RobbieY69 saying I’m also looking forward to going to the Hilton as it’s been eighteen months since I’d been there last at a work’s Christmas do (where Donna and I got off with two guys from another party, but that’s another story), and I’d heard it had since had a facelift.
There’s a message from Eddie, which has me rather speechless. He says he loves the Aviator, but is currently without a car. He can get a lift there, but could I take him home? He lives in Bellinge (the formerly dodgy Eastern district), so it’s not that far, other than being the wrong direction for me, but he wouldn’t know that because of course I’ve not told him where I live, although the NN1 would give him a clue.
It doesn’t alter the fact that a complete stranger is asking to share my car, which, of course, is a big no-no. I could offer to pay his taxi home, which east-northamptonshire.gov.uk tells me would cost £1.35 a mile (I’m nothing if not methodical. Besides what’s the point in having a technology column and all the software that goes with it, if I don’t use it?), but I wonder why I should. I stare at his message, but decide that as my budget’s in credit and it should be a fun evening, especially as I can quiz him on Bellinge’s improvements, I email him back with the taxi idea.
I’m reading Nigel’s and Charles’s confirmations when I notice my ‘You have messages’ number increase by one. It’s Eddie also confirming, although he feels guilty that I should offer. I say it’s not a problem and the deal is struck.
I sit back in my chair and smile. I have dates lined up to, and including, Monday night, so am well chuffed. I press F5 to refresh my messages back to zero, and it says there’s another one. OMG69 suggests ‘Groove’ at the top of Gold Street, one of the town’s shopping streets. I’ve only ever been in there when it was the Litten Tree, and it was okay. I do a Google search and, in amongst results for barcode manufacturers, there’s dontstayin.com, which I click on. Before me is a screen with wildly coloured side banners that wouldn’t look out of place in a Black Eyed Peas video. As I love the band, I decide that OMG is the ‘business’ (the best euphemism my brain will find – I seriously need to do some homework before Tuesday). I reply that work’s hectic (thirty-one men in thirty-one days isn’t lying) and my only free night is Tuesday, would that be okay?
I go to my work emails and answer one from Donna asking me what I’m doing for lunch. I look up at the clock and it’s just gone twelve forty. I reply ‘Window shopping round the market?’ and look over to see her grin, in her usual comic fashion.
I collect Donna and then my bag. I’ve brought sandwiches in for the fifth day in a row, and am well pleased with myself. I grab them as we walk past the kitchen. They’re a bit too chilled to eat, so I stuff them in my bag and we walk towards reception.
Marion’s at lunch, so Mike’s covering. He cheers as we burst through the double doors. Not at me of course, just at the blonde on my arm. She lets go and runs over to him, kissing the glass that separates them.
Way to go, Donna. Play it cool, just like I taught you.
“I can go shopping on my own if you want to stay here,” I say, not meaning it.
The normal Donna would have said, “It’s only a man. I want to come with you”, but this version says, “Do you mind?”
What can I say to that? ‘Of course I mind. Donna, look at yourself. You’re drooling. Just look at him. He’s got stains down his shirt, his tie’s half undone, he’s a slob.’ But I’m her friend, and she’s happy. “Of course I don’t mind. The shops will be there tomorrow.” (Which of course they will, but so will Mike, so we’ll no doubt be doing this all over again then). “I’ll see you when I get back.”
I think I lost her at ‘don’t mind’ and she’s already on the other side of the reception door sitting on his lap. If William ever went out for lunch, he’d be mortified. The reception area is one that has to ‘maintain the business front at all times. The leaflets must be stacked to perfection, the newspapers (ours) parallel to each other and in date order’ (the latest on the top, as each issue is his baby and he gets prouder every day), and a five feet two (and a half) Health and Beauty columnist sitting on the lap of a twenty-something-stone security guard wouldn’t be his idea of perfection. Or mine. Or anyone else’s other than Donna’s.
I go out to lunch and leave the lovebirds mouth-locked. I’m pleased for her, really I am, and a little jealous, if I’m honest, though not of Mike obviously. By the end of this month I shall have dated over thirty men, but life is about quality, not quantity, and I know which category Mike fits (or should I say squeezes) into.
I spend far too much money in town and come back with five bags of shopping. They call it therapy for a reason; I do feel much better.
There’s no sign of the lovebirds when I walk back through reception. I hadn’t thought to look in the security office beforehand, as I didn’t think I’d been that long, but when I go past Frosty (Marion’s real surname is Frist, but it doesn’t suit her so well. I’ve never met her husband, but I imagine he has a constant backache from being under her thumb), she gives me an icy glare.
The clock above Donna’s desk shows two thirty. Oops. William likes punctuality, but I figure I’ve skipped so many lunch breaks, and ‘worked’ so many evenings, that I’ve earned a particularly long one so don’t feel guilty, especially as there’s no sign of him in his office, but there’s no sign of Donna either.
I’ve just sat down at my desk when Donna wafts past, adjusting her skirt. She winks at me as she heads for her desk. She throws her bag under it, wiggles her mouse to deactivate her screensaver, and then looks over in my direction, doing her Cheshire cat impression which doesn’t match the rest of her. Her normally neat bob is a mess, her blouse buttons mismatched, and I spotted a massive ladder in her tights as she walked by. She types something – I assume her password – into her computer then stands up and peers into William’s office. There’s still no sign of him, so she looks around the office before skipping in my direction.
“Tell you about it later,” she whispers as she almost floats by.
I can’t wait.
I lean forward and my gaze follows her bobbing figure along the corridor until she disappears into the loos. She comes out a few seconds later minus tights, winks at me again and bounces back to her desk.
My life would be so dull without Donna.
We spend the afternoon tied to our desks, tea-less, and I’m just finishing off the review on the grasshopper and am emailing the supplier promising that the article will appear early next month, when a curled fist appears on my desk and knocks furiously.
I look up and it’s Tigger D.
“Can’t wait any longer,” she says. “I need tea. Coming?”
I look up at the clock. “But it’s half four, we’re going home soon.”
“I’m bursting to tell you.”
“About lunchtime?”
She grins.
“Give me two secs, just finishing an email. Put the kettle on and I’ll see you in there.” Needless to say, I can’t wait to hear, blow-by-blow (pardon the pun), every sordid detail of what she got up to in the locked blind-down security office.
A blow-by-blow account is exactly what I get and just as she’s getting to the juicy bit, William walks in. He stares at us, grabs a machine coffee and walks out shaking his head. At least there were no tissues involved this time.
I double-check my tallgirlnn1 emails just in case RobbieY69 has bailed, but there’s nothing from h
im, or anyone else, so I log off, grab my bags and go home.
Marion’s on the phone as I walk by. I smile at her but she pretends not to see me, or is too engrossed in the call. Going past the security office, I see the blind is up and that Mike’s also chatting on the phone. He sees me, smiles like a five-year-old, waves like a two-year-old, and I smile back. I also lift my hand to wave, but do so like a thirty-year-old. Sometimes I wish I could be as uninhibited as him and Donna, but comparing Mike’s current behaviour to that of a couple of days ago, I think there’s hope for me yet.
By the time I get home, I’ve got a few hours before I have to go out again. I skip the shower as I’ve sort of lost interest in Robert already. I’m not a fan of children, but preferring a blind date to seeing his son swimming, even if only a practice session, doesn’t impress me much. As I’m doing the washing-up, I dance around the kitchen using the scrubbing brush as a microphone singing Shania Twain’s late-nineties hit ‘That Don’t Impress Me Much’. I remember the words until I get to the Brad Pitt bit, and hum the rest.
I ‘cook’ a full-fat lasagne and decide to put a movie on. I’ve got so many to choose from (working near a market has its uses), but plump for an old favourite: Notting Hill. Despite, or perhaps because of, my current project I feel like watching a love story and am, predictably, in tears by the end. I’m glad I’d forgotten to put any make-up on today, so go to the bathroom where I look up to the ceiling (I’ve heard it’s a good way to stop tears quickly) and dab my face with cold water, after which I apply my warpaint.
The drive to junction 15 takes less than twenty minutes on the A45 ring road and I arrive at the hotel in plenty of time. I reverse into one of two spaces – I’ve always reversed since scraping a car a week after I passed my test by misjudging the angle – and debate whether to sit in my car or have a tour round the refurbished building, and I settle for the latter. I’ve part-opened my door and am about to get out when a brand-new Ionian blue (I Google it later) Jaguar X-Type sweeps into the space next to me, forcing me to close it or lose it.
I growl at the driver through my now-closed door, but decide I don’t want a confrontation to spoil my evening, so let him get out first. He’s about late thirties with short dark hair swimming in hair gel, which reminds me of Tim’s potato skins. This guy’s also quite tall, around six feet I’d say, as his head and shoulders disappear above the top of my car, and of medium build. I can tell he’s got money as it oozes through his perfectly tailored suit.
I’m walking towards the back of his car as he opens the boot and I spot a marine blue leather Louis Vuitton Keepall 45 overnight case in one corner of the vast expanse that is the boot. I sit next to the paper’s fashion columnist, Karen, who’s currently on holiday, hence the empty desk, so know it’s the real thing.
Rather than pull out the whole bag, he removes a wallet from the top and zips the bag back up. Knowing it costs a couple of thousand pounds, I think I wouldn’t leave it in the car, but I’d never be able to afford either. I’d rather have an XK anyway, or a Mercedes SLK and lots of change. Also on our side of the office is Gerry, our motors columnist, and I keep my ears open when it comes to cars. It’s the techno geek in me. I can’t help it. It’s like Keith’s gaydar.
The Jag driver’s wallet would probably cost more than I earn in a week, but it’s a hideous brown-and-black check design. I feel sorry for the cow that had to die for that monstrosity.
As I walk by, Mr Jag winks at me, and with his free hand sweeps back an imaginary stray hair from his potato-skin locks. I imagine a special effects star appearing by his teeth as he reveals a perfect set of pearly whites.
I hear the boot slam behind me, and footsteps, probably made by immaculate Louis Vuitton boots. I stride past reception and to an extension, which I don’t remember being there during the Christmas party. I’m pleased when the footsteps divert into the hotel and I have a peek around the grounds.
It’s about five to eight when I go into the hotel and veer off to the bar. Despite it being a Friday night, there are only a handful of people – five in fact, plus me. On the left is an elderly couple chatting away and looking at menus, which are inches away from their faces. On the right is what looks like a newly married couple as they are inches away from each other’s faces. This leaves one person sitting by the bar: Mr Jag.
I pray (I’m only religious at moments like this) that he isn’t Robert. I walk towards him and he winks. I sigh.
“Izzy?”
“That’s me,” I say, trying to contort my face into a convincing smile.
He offers his well-manicured right hand, and I shake it firmly. I’ve only just met him yet he already makes me want to stand my ground.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“I’m driving, so a soft drink please. Anything fruity.”
That prompts another flash of his pearly whites and I immediately regret the unintended innuendo.
He orders an apple and mango J2O for me and a Bollinger for him. I assume he means a glass, but the barman brings over a bottle and two glasses. I’m about to say something, but the barman puts the bottle on the bar. “Thank you, Mr York, shall I charge it to your account?”
I look at the bottle, then at ‘Mr York’.
“So,” he says, “shall we have a drink here or shall we take it up to the room?”
“Sorry?”
“You said in your message you didn’t want dinner?”
“I did, but…”
“I thought we might be more comfortable upstairs. I have an overnight bag in my car in case you want to make a night of it.”
I can’t think of anything worse. Even Tim with stains is appealing right now. “Err…”
“Don’t worry, this one’s for free.”
Charming. I tap my right foot on the floor as I tell myself to stay cool. “I think you might have got the wrong impression…”
“Oh,” he says, “but I thought that meant…”
I laugh. “So you think because your ex-wife has your son all night, that–”
“She’s not my ex-wife.”
“But you said…”
“Did I?”
“Err, yes.”
“No, still married. We’re sort of separated, but still share the same house. We stay together for the sake of little Bobby and we have to share a bed to keep up the façade, but nothing happens.”
I put up my right hand, palm towards his face. “For one thing I don’t believe you, and for another, what kind of man ditches his son for a blind date with someone he assumes is obviously a bimbo, who he thinks will roll over for him?”
“It…” he pauses and grins, “usually works.”
“Nice,” I say. “It’ll be a double bed for one tonight then.” And with that I ignore the J2O, take the bottle of Bollinger, and walk out the door.
I see in the reflection of two huge mirrors on either side of the bar doors that he and the barman are speechless. I grin as I strut out past reception.
Chapter 6 – Nigel at Sixfields
My head hurts. Why did I drink it all?
I remember waking up on the sofa around two a.m. with the TV a black-and-white snowstorm (the Sky box switches itself off at one). I’d slobbered on the cushion, so was sleeping in a wet patch. It’s been a while since I’ve done that. Happy days.
I’d put the empty bottle of Bolly in the sink, just in case it fell over (which, out of the two of us, it wouldn’t be that), then stripped and got into bed.
Opening the curtains, I take a peek outside and squint as it looks like summer’s starting. Knowing I’m still well over the limit, I decide to walk to work. It’s just over a mile, so I might sober up by the time I get there.
Breakfast is less than appealing, so I pack a double bag of sandwiches, feeling decidedly iffy as I spread the crunchy peanut butter and jam on the bread (I’ve run out of cheese). I’ve swapped the Kelly bag for an over-the-shoulder blue and purple ‘fit everything inside’ hobo bag I bought from the market l
ast year and adore.
As I walk down the Kettering Road and round the corner towards Abington Square, I get to the Jaguar garage. There in the front is an Ionian blue X-Type, registration plates out of view. I growl at it and immediately wish I hadn’t as my brain growls back.
I give a subdued wave to Mike as I walk past the security office and he’s still as cheerful as when I saw him last.
As I grab a machine hot chocolate (figuring the machine would be less noisy than the kettle and machine tea is foul), I slump at my desk and lower my head until it touches laminated wood, the movement not dissimilar to the aforementioned Ikea drawer. Even at a millimetre an hour, the impact is deafening. I decide not to do it again.
Then Tigger D descends.
As I metaphorically pick myself off the floor, she takes one look at me and yells, “My God, you look awful!”
“Please don’t shout,” I mumble.
“She’s whispering,” a voice to my right bellows.
I look up and it’s Karen.
“I thought you were on holiday.” The words reverberate around my brain.
“No, I’m back.”
The penny drops. “But it’s Saturday. I know Donna works some Saturdays, but you don’t, do you?”
Karen looks up at Donna and I swing round, immediately wishing I hadn’t.
“It’s Monday, Izzy.”
“What? I’ve lost two days? I’ve missed Nigel and–”
The girls burst out laughing, which doesn’t help my mood.
“Sorry, we couldn’t resist. Donna filled me in on your ‘love life’ and we knew you had plans.”
I clamp my eyes shut as the room spins. I wish I’d stayed in bed. “You’re horrible,” I mutter.
Donna bends down and looks at me sympathetically. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t realise it was that bad. I’ve only come in for an hour or two.”
The Serial Dater Page 8
