The Serial Dater

by Rachel Cavanagh

  I drag myself out of bed and, remembering William’s ‘bright and early’ comment on Saturday, fly around the house like a mad thing. It’s already a quarter to eight, twenty minutes later than normal, and I’d like to be early today. Fat chance.

  Showered, dressed and breakfasted, I only have to get lunch ready. I look at the clock and it’s bang on half eight. Five minutes. I can do it.

  Ursula’s walking up her path as I’m sprinting down mine.

  “Morning, Izzy.”

  “Morning. You’ve been working all time?”

  She shakes her head. “A quick callout. I’m rostered on again at one, so going back to bed for a while.”

  “Can I join you?” I blurt out before realising what I’ve said. “I mean…”

  She laughs. “I know what you mean. You had a nice time, at the Greyhound?”

  I grimace. “Let’s just say I got plenty of reading done when I got home. I should know better than to read a suspense novel after dark.”

  She laughs again and walks to her front door. “Have a good day.”

  “Thanks, have a good sleep.”

  I arrive with a couple of minutes to spare. There was no sign of Mike when I went past the security office, but Donna’s already at her desk slaving away.

  I look over at William’s office and he’s not there either, but Janine’s back from sick leave, so I log on to my computer and wander over.

  “Morning, Janine. Are you feeling better?”

  “Much, thanks,” the M distinctly like a B.

  “Sounds like it. Are you sure you should be back already?”

  “Oh yes, I’m fine. It sounds worse than it is. Besides, I’ve got so much work to do I’d never see my desk if I left it much longer.”

  I think of my fairly empty workload and empathise. On reflection I could have offered my assistance to William, in Janice’s absence, and earned some brownie points, but too late now. “If there’s anything I can do…”

  “Thanks, but I came in early, so I’ve got a pretty clear idea of what needs to be done.”

  “Where’s William?”

  “He had to take Baby to the vet. Phoned me on his mobile while he was waiting to go in, which probably didn’t go down well. Did you know Chloë’s sister is the receptionist there?”

  “Chloë did mention that, yes. I hope it’s not bad news. He’s so attached to her.”

  “I’m sure she’s a great receptionist, but…”

  “I didn’t mean… ha.”

  “Baby is like a child to him.”

  I think of Natasha’s fictional baby again and my heart goes out to them both. I offer to make Janine a drink and she nods furiously.

  With two reports to write up today, I need to be more sparing with my prose and am looking forward to writing about Mr Nerd and Mr Synthetic.

  I hang fire logging on to tallgirlnn1, although I’d love there to be a message from Charles. Armed with my gnat’s pee tea, I get cracking on today’s article. I want a lunch break because I need to buy some fruit from the market. I’m way behind on my five-a-day fruit and veg and feel the need for a big dose of vitamins. Besides, I like throwing grapes at Donna – we call it our ‘feeding time at the zoo’. When William’s out of course. So…

  What did I learn from last night? That some people are too ready to take others at face value and usually think the worst.

  I met N for a movie on Saturday evening and, as we were early, we had a drink and a snack first. As N had cycled to the cinema, he was wearing an outfit that I shall just say was rather ‘loud’. It was a warm evening, so his attire was in keeping with the season, but perhaps not so with the occasion. He said his car had broken down (big brownie points for getting home, changing, and still getting there before me), so his clothes obviously needed to be comfortable, though I still don’t know how he cycled in sandals.

  As I walked towards him, I noticed everyone staring and laughing (he was blissfully oblivious). Most of us, myself included, worry what other people think of them, so it’s so liberating and refreshing to spend time with someone who doesn’t care about the ‘little things’. Every morning I stand in front of my wardrobe, then my mirror, wanting to look my best. Of course it makes me feel good, but I don’t do it only for me. While I spend less time than most getting ready for work or an evening out, I want people – my colleagues, friends, complete strangers – to look at me and think that I didn’t just roll out of bed.

  We’re all wearing masks to some extent. And there are the select few who don’t feel, or are not aware, that they need one. And I say good on them. Let Sunday be no-make-up-slob-around-or-go-to-Sainsbury’s-in-your-pyjamas day. Would the world be a happier place? Not necessarily, but if our little corner of it was, it’d make people like N examples to follow, not be laughed at.

  Last night I met C. He proves my point to a tee. Mr Superficial was everything N wasn’t. He cared about everything he did and wore. He was an offensive man whose surroundings had to be to his liking and we were the ‘little people’.

  Needless to say there’ll be no second date. Our first encounter was cut short due to an unfortunate accident with a Coke-laden lung (mine) and a fake-laden jacket (C’s). Mr Superficial as you can imagine was as impressed with that as with being unable to find a free table, apart from the one we had first sat at, which was en route to the toilets and therefore not suitable for a person such as himself.

  So, following a rude encounter with a delightful couple who’d only decided to stand a little too close to him (not difficult in such a popular pub – we went to the Greyhound at Milton Malsor, by the way – if you’ve never been, you must. But watch out for anyone who wouldn’t look out of place in an episode of ‘Only Fools and Horses’ and drives a tatty Mondeo – sorry, other Mondeo drivers), he declared he’d had enough and stormed out.

  Having done so on the way in, I wondered if he would hit his head on a low beam on his exit, but he ducked before swinging the front door open and huffing out into the night. I expected a dramatic theatrical flick of the head before he left, but he failed his audience. A disappointing end to what could have been a disappointing evening, but I haven’t laughed so much in ages. So, if you’re reading this, C, thank you for being so entertaining.

  I’m convinced that people who are rude and impatient are so because they don’t get enough sleep. Tosh to anyone who says they don’t need eight hours (I need nine). I reckon C probably stays up ’til the early hours staring at himself in the mirror, then gets up early (assuming he has a job to go to – we didn’t get that far in the conversation, in fact we didn’t get anywhere) to put on all his bling (which is probably as fake as his sheepskin, ‘leather’ shoes and whole personality) and prepare his act, before inflicting it on the world for another day.

  So, today’s two items ticked on my shopping list are Don’t be afraid to be yourself and Do look in the mirror, and look deeper than your epidermis. We’re all made up of layers, some of us deeper than others. You need to decide which you’re going to wear on the outside, be proud of it, but subtle too.

  I have a quick reread then print it off and put it on William’s desk. There’s still no sign of him and it’s nearly eleven.

  “Hi, Janine. Have you heard from William?”

  “Not a peep. Doesn’t look good, does it.”

  “Does Chloë know anything?”

  “Haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet.”

  “Do you want me to? I’m off to the kitchen for another drink anyway. Speaking of which, would you like a refill?”

  “Thanks, Izzy. You’re a star. The phone’s been silly busy today, with William out, so I’ve not got very far.”

  “No problem. My article’s done already, so I have a few emails to answer then I’m all yours. After lunch okay? Filing, photocopying, as menial as you like. I’m not proud.”

  Janine throws back her head laughing – the sort of hearty effort that I think I’ve only ever done half a dozen times in my entire life. I ser
iously think she, Donna and I should get together and they can share their secret. It seems to come naturally to them and I’m jealous. I’m sure men find me too… serious. That and my not being a size ten. Men do prefer meat on a woman’s bones (as do I on them – see earlier references to footballers v rugby players; why isn’t rugbyers a word?). They say a man will love you for who you are, but that’s generally tosh too. If we didn’t care about a person’s weight, I’d be on a second or third date with Tim by now, so I guess I’m as shallow as everyone else. After all, weight’s just physical. Manners and personality are a lot harder to change and, to be fair, no one should have to change for anyone but themselves. I have a loft full of ‘small me’ clothes and if I’d seriously wanted to get back into them, I’d have done it before now. Wouldn’t I?

  I make another coffee for Janine, tea for me, and strong chocolate for Donna. It turns out Chloë’s got the day off, so we’re not enlightened on that score.

  My emails take me nicely up until lunchtime. There’s nothing from Charles; once again, he’s a disappointment. OMG69 (who tells me he’s called Ollie) confirms for nine tomorrow night. Nine? I’m sometimes asleep by nine, but who needs sleep anyway? With any luck I’ll have a reasonably early night tonight, post-ReadyEddie, and save Elliot and Natasha for later in the week.

  A fiver’s worth of five-a-days (and twenty quid on half a dozen DVDs) later, I get a bowl from the kitchen and arrange half the fruit on the left-hand corner of my desk, the other half left in a recyclable bag destined for home. Armed with a grape, I attract Donna’s attention and hold the bowl up for her to pick at whenever she’s passing. She smiles and taps her watch. It’s not like her to be too busy to chat; it must be serious – a Lawrence or Tim perhaps.

  With all my emails checked and replied to, I spend the afternoon helping Janine play catch-up and am halfway through photocopying highly confidential board papers (which make very interesting reading) when Donna comes moping along.

  “Hello. Sorry I haven’t been over. I’ve got so much to do.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where’s the Tigger bounce I know and love?”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s Mike.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “We had a fight.”

  “Oh no. What about?”

  “Nothing really. I commented about how much he eats and he took it personally.”

  “I suppose he would. He does love his food.”

  “I know, but all that fat isn’t good for his glycaemic index levels.”

  I’ve heard of GI from the labels on my Boots-bought sandwiches. “He does eat all the wrong things.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Maybe you could offer to make sandwiches for him?”

  “I did, but he said I was trying to take over his life.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That it’s only because I care. And…”

  I waited. “And?”

  “And I said he was a heart attack waiting to happen.”

  “I’d agree. Is that what tipped him over the edge?”

  “His father died of a heart attack.”

  “Not good.”

  “And now he’s not speaking to me.”

  “I’m sorry. He’ll come round. He must know you’re just concerned.”

  “I’m hoping so. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Do you want me to speak to him?”

  She shakes her head and returns to her desk.

  I check on Donna again before home time and she’s not heard anything from ‘him’. She still has work to do: a big review of hair colorants following a major hoo-ha in several leading nationals. I remember the pictures of a woman’s frazzled scalp and am grateful for my natural highlights. I’ve never been tempted to dye it (apart from an overdose of my mum’s Sun-In in my teens, but that’s another story), despite a friend, who’s a different shade of red every time I see her, urging me to do so. I leave before Donna. William never made it in.

  Mike’s in reception, munching his way through a bag of Bombay mix. I’m not sure whether it’s a step up or down from a doughnut.

  I make myself a bowl of cereal and put on a DVD of another favourite: 27 Dresses. As it ends, I glance at the clock. Oops. I’m meeting ReadyEddie in half an hour, so pull on my jeans, a deep purple close-fitting t-shirt and my white Gap shirt worn loosely over the top. I slip on a pair of black pumps and grab my keys. The Aviator would usually be a fifteen-minute drive, but it’s past a busy supermarket, so I’d rather be a few minutes early and sit in the car park than be in a queue, cursing that I hadn’t left earlier (which I do on a regular basis and am kind of getting fed up with).

  I arrive with ten minutes to spare and I’m getting out of the car when I see an old Volvo estate pull up outside the bar entrance. A man of about my age gets out then leans towards the driver, says something (presumably ‘thanks’) and slams the door. Although I have no plans to eat here tonight, I hope he’s not the chef as he looks like he needs a good wash.

  I zap my car’s remote control and the indicators flash. I walk into the beautiful art deco building and am hit by the interior. I’m not sure what I expected, certainly not high-tech chrome, but this is delightfully charming. By the door there’s a picture of before and after restoration works and an explanation that it was a clubhouse and Officers’ Mess ‘renovated to its former glory’ where you can ‘step back in time to a bygone age of aviation, style and fun’. It’s a promise I hope will be fulfilled, but from the patronage this evening, I somehow find that hard to believe.

  I walk up to the bar and wait for the barman to serve a smart businessman. I smile at the customer hoping it’s ReadyEddie, and that his profile and messages were some kind of gold diggers’ test, but he smiles weakly and returns to his table with two drinks, one for himself and one for his stunning blonde companion. Alanis Morissette’s Ironic plays in my head.

  The barman asks if I’d like a drink and I say I’m waiting for someone. Almost on cue, the scruffy chap I’d seen earlier comes out of the gents and walks towards me. I can smell him before he gets to me. I smile as he smiles, and hope I can hold my breath for the next hour or so. He puts out his hand, and given where he’s just emerged from, I’m reluctant to shake it. I figure that as no food will be touching my currently clean hands, I’m fairly safe, even do so enthusiastically so he doesn’t suspect.

  As he’s talking to me, I look at him in more detail. He has mousey brown hair that looks as if it’s washed once in a millennium and cut with a pudding bowl… and badly. He resembles a mouse. Not a tame one, but one you see scurrying around hedges and rubbish tips on the TV. There’s never an excuse for lack of hygiene and I feel compelled to say something, if only so no one else has to go through this, but despite my mean thoughts, I’m really not that cruel.

  I buy us two Cokes and we move to a table in the middle of the room so we can ‘find out about each other’.

  One gem he parts with is that he doesn’t ‘currently have a car’ because he’s never had one. He’s slightly older than me, doesn’t drive, and has no intention or inclination to learn. Why would he when he can get lifts or taxis paid for him? He says he’s too poor, but also doesn’t have the intention or inclination to get a job, which is a real shame as he turns out to be a nice guy.

  He’s stuck in a rut and, like a mouse on a wheel, is going nowhere fast. He says he has a computer to keep him in touch with the real world as he doesn’t have a TV in his ‘bedroom’, but also doesn’t watch the news (even online) or read the newspaper (ditto). He says he should get glasses (I did wonder why he was squinting at me), but doesn’t like the National Health ones and I can’t say I blame him.

  I remember owning two pairs when I was a child: blue plastic and pink plastic, and they were hideous. I dare say their freebies have come a long way since then, and it’s his eyesig
ht, but I think me saying anything would be a lost cause. He’s like Lawrence: needs a good mother. This is when he confirms my suspicions that he still lives with his parents and it all slots into place.

  I divulge everything there is to know about me (mostly the tallgirlnn1 version) and he seems impressed. He says he can’t imagine how brave I must have been to not only leave home (I couldn’t wait, and that was nearly ten years ago), but also move area (not a difficult choice given that Northamptonshire prices were a third of those down south). He asks me what it’s like to live alone and I want to say, ‘You should get a job and try it’, but I say it’s great, that you can do whatever you like whenever you like, and hope he’s inspired to do something with his life.

  “I like the sound of that,” he says as if the thought had never occurred to him before, then adds, “but don’t you get scared?”

  “Of what?”

  “You know, at night.”

  “Err, no.”

  “I would be. Those noises. You can imagine all sorts.”

  I wonder at this juncture whether he’s watched Monsters Inc. too often and see him as the child he so clearly is.

  “Have you ever worked?” I ask, surprised at my lack of diplomacy.

  “Oh, yes.”

  Great! I think, until he explains further.

  “I was a paperboy when I was thirteen.”

  I muster some encouragement. “That was independence and fresh air.”

  “Gave it up after a couple of months. Too cold and had to get up early.”

  Okay. “Is there anything you’d like to do?”

  He nods with a little enthusiasm. “I’d like to be a gamer.”

  “As in testing computer games?”

  He nods again and I’m somewhat cheered.

  “But I can’t.”

  I despair. “Why’s that?”

  “I’m no good at it.”

  “But do you not practise?”