The Serial Dater

by Rachel Cavanagh

  Silence ensues and I still resist weather. “Have you ever seen A Fish Called Wanda?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Jamie Lee Curtis is turned on by Kevin Kline speaking Italian and then John Cleese speaking Russian.”

  “Yes, I know the film.”

  But not seen it. How picky can you get? I take a large mouthful of my drink and will him to do the same, so I can get another one and keep plying him until he goes to the toilet and I can escape. Dirty trick, I know, but I’ve had my fill of sneaking out with the guy still in sight.

  I’ve nearly finished my drink and he’s not started his. This isn’t fair. I’m going to have to go to the ladies if I have another one.

  When he finally decides to speak, he tells me he doesn’t normally ‘do’ women over a size ten, but thought he’d make an exception in my case because my profile sounded interesting and that he’d have bought me a gym membership if I looked like a good bet. I can tell by his reaction so far that I don’t. He’s not wrong.

  As a barmaid walks round clearing the empty plates (they do lovely food here) and glasses (not ours – I’m still eking mine out and Harry’s had about a millimetre of his), she approaches our table and picks up speed as she sees Harry. She smiles broadly, but reduces pace and enthusiasm when she sees his thunderous look. She veers away from our table and walks back to the bar.

  When she’s not quite out of earshot, he says loudly that she looked like a fat (presumably a size twelve plus) girl running for a piece of cake. If Donna had been here to hear him comparing himself to Death by Chocolate she probably would have belted him, and I’m tempted to, but just glare. I needn’t have bothered as he’s too busy looking around the bar, perhaps to check that no one he knows can see him, or maybe there’s a supermodel he might be able to escape me for.

  I’m tempted to do him a favour and leave, but I persevere. Why should I put him out of his misery? I’m so glad I don’t as I’d have missed the best bit.

  I’m taking my last dribble of drink when a family of four sit down at the table nearest to us, on the other side of the fire.

  Harry glares at them. He seems to have a limited range of facial expressions, and could learn a thing or two from Donna.

  “Do you have children?” I ask. I remember he’s divorced.

  “God, no.”

  That explains the glaring.

  With the exception of our strained conversation, everything’s fine until the boy, aged about six or seven, plays up.

  The expression on Harry’s face gets even gloomier.

  Then their pink-enveloped baby starts crying. That, it would appear, is the final straw.

  Rather than lean or walk over to the parents and have a quiet word, he lunges at the children and shouts at them to behave and shut up. This actually works as he stuns them into silence.

  For about ten seconds.

  The baby then bawls at the top of her voice, and the boy screams as if his favourite toy has just been crushed by a bulldozer. Although knowing most boys (Karen’s got three and another of my neighbours has four), he’d probably love to see a bulldozer up close.

  The parents are glaring back at us and I’m trying a ‘he’s nothing to do with me’ expression, but seeing as I’m sitting opposite him, it doesn’t hold much weight.

  The family then gather up their things and with still-screaming children in tow, move to another table at the opposite side of the pub.

  “Good,” Harry grumbles. “Let them go and annoy someone else.”

  I’m tempted to say something like ‘this is a family pub’, but see it’s futile. Instead I push my empty glass towards him and say, “Thanks for the drink, but I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to be babysitting my sister’s eight children.”

  I don’t have a sister; and just the one niece, Lola, but he’s not to know that.

  I do love it when I can shut my front door and have an evening to do with as I wish.

  Harry will be on his way to the hotel and is probably grumbling about the waste of time. I thought it was hilarious to see a man who loves himself so much behaving like that. Younger than the boy with the proverbial crushed toy, younger than Moon on the Square Keith’s shoes, and I think even the Chinese and pink-wrapped babies had more maturity.

  I, on the other hand, have my second date of the night, with the sofa, a bottle of Asti and a good book. Elliot, get ready to rock ‘n’ roll.

  Chapter 14 – Rick at the Cock

  I love Sundays. There’s a car boot sale at a local pub car park and the weather’s good, so I decide to walk.

  I arrive just before nine and it’s already a hive of activity. I pass a couple walking back to their car carrying an old exercise bike. I can guarantee it’ll get used twice then end up in the shed. I sold mine years ago, but still have a fold-up cross trainer in the dining room and trampoline (with its six feet in a plastic bag) in the shed ‘just in case’. And, of course, they’re used all the time.

  I’m only after books, DVDs and a particular type of Bedford-made porcelain pottery that I like. I soon find a couple of anthologies (I rarely read novels, but the cover of Opaque did it for me) and half a dozen chick flicks. I can’t believe my luck – they’re all from the same stall and I get the lot for a fiver. The next few stalls are mainly tat or children’s toys, although I do spot a great mini theatre I think Lola would adore. She’s always telling me stories when I visit. The thing’s still in its box and even comes with five puppets.

  The stallholder says her children have grown out of it and would five pounds be okay? I usually haggle if I think something’s a bit too expensive, but I know this is a bargain, so calmly say (in a Babe-like ‘that’ll do, pig’ voice), ‘That sounds fine, thanks very much,’ then plod back home with my loot. I should have brought my car.

  As there are still more stalls I’ve not seen, I return – still walking, it’s too nice a day not to – and do another circuit and find, in a box of oddments, a small piece of the pottery I collect. I turn it over and on the bottom is the GP mark, although I know from the colouring grooves round the inside that it’s a piece of Bedford-made POG. I pay the extortionate 20p, find nothing else, so return home again.

  Once back, I dump my goodies in the lounge and head over to the shops on the Kingsley Park Parade, specifically to go to the Co-op to buy some fruit bread.

  Still in bargain mode, I pop into the British Red Cross shop, en route to the Co-op, and am glad I brought a bag for life as I pile up stacks of six-for-a-pound paperbacks on the shop’s counter.

  As I pay for those and a taupe-coloured glass dish – destined to hold sweets on my lounge’s coffee table, I chat with the manager, Christine, who I think is mad for opening on a Sunday, especially when she says she doesn’t have to. Being bibliophiles, we discuss books and, before I know it, I’ve volunteered to help with theirs. I fill in a couple of forms and say I’ll pop in early next month.

  I’m not a fan of the classics but John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men is a thin read (just over 120 pages – I check) so that comes out when I take a window seat at Heather’s, a charming independent café nestled between a florist’s and dry cleaner’s, and below a photocopying shop (yes, we have everything we need here… and could probably even buy a kitchen sink from the DIY shop further along the parade).

  Having ordered a hot chocolate, I tuck the bag of books and bread under the table and am a couple of pages in when my drink arrives. I thank the lady, who I assume to be Heather, and make a mental note to call in again, perhaps often, as I don’t have somewhere that knows me by what I drink. I’ve always envied the characters of Cheers where they are not only known by name, but their favourite tipple – mostly lager, from memory – is waiting for them. I’m not sure I’d want to be that predictable but somewhere in between would be nice.

  I finish my so-delicious-it-must-be-a-thousand-calories hot chocolate, thank Heather, and take my books and bread home, humming a mixture of Adele, Coldplay and Pink Floyd.

&n
bsp; Having made myself some lunch, I put on a DVD and spend a while playing with my car boot ‘toys’ (including the theatre). The Accidental Husband is just finishing when I notice it’s gone four. I’m supposed to be meeting SingleDad5811 in less than an hour, so quickly do the washing-up and go upstairs to decide what to wear.

  The Cock is another family pub, so I know I don’t need to do glam. I’m also figuring that a single father won’t be ultra chic, so go for black jeans, a shades-of-beige top, and brown flat leather shoes.

  I’m looking forward to tonight because anyone with children will have lots to talk about. Donna reckons I’ll end up with someone with children because I don’t want my own, but I can’t see it myself. I wouldn’t mind as long as they’re old enough to leave home by the time we’ve had our third date… that’s me and their father obviously.

  I’m five minutes late as I burst through the pub door. Everyone stares at me. I hate being late, even by five minutes. I can’t see anyone who I think SingleDad5811 might look like, so walk towards the bar. The barman raises his eyebrows at me as if to ask me what I want to drink, but I say I’m waiting for someone. With my back to the bar, I look around. No one’s stepped forward, so I assume I’ve beaten him to it.

  After ten minutes of feeling like a lemon, I decide to get a drink. I go for the predicable Coke and am sipping it when SingleDad arrives. I can tell it’s him by his worn-out expression, an expression that changes to ‘sorry’ when he sees me. That and the presence of a little boy clutching his left hand.

  “Hello. So sorry. Babysitting glitch. My sister changed her plans at the last moment, so I called the usual babysitter and she was late. Then my oldest couldn’t find her iPod, the middle one couldn’t find her Pony World DS game and then Zak here said he wanted to come with me. I hope you don’t mind. He wouldn’t have settled if I’d said no.”

  “No problem,” I say hesitantly. “How many children do you have?”

  “Just the three, but they’re five, eight and eleven, so a bit of a handful.”

  Zak is wiping his nose with his left sleeve and my expression must be one of revulsion as SingleDad looks down at his son. “Zak! How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Sorry, Rick.”

  I look gobsmacked at Rick. “He calls you Rick?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you were his father.”

  “I am.”

  “You don’t mind him calling you by your first name?”

  “No, they all do. We’re a very liberated household.”

  I can tell, although liberated isn’t the word I would have chosen.

  “Anyway, I see you have a drink already. Can I get you another or…”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay. I’ll wait until the next round.”

  Rick drags his son to the bar and orders a pint of lager and half of lemonade. He carries the lager and his son, and I take the lemonade and what’s left of my Coke to a table by a fruit machine.

  “So, Rick, are you a full-time dad?”

  “Yes,” he says proudly. “I only rely on outside help at times like this. I have to have a life, don’t I?”

  “It sounds like it’s a very hectic one.”

  “Oh yes, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

  “That’s nice. So many fathers shirk their responsibility.”

  “Don’t they,” he says, shaking his head vigorously. “I’ve been there since the minute they were born.”

  “And your wife?” This, I see, is a conversation killer. In the seconds that remain unspoken, I notice there’s what looks like breakfast splattered down Zac’s t-shirt.

  “Zak, you go and play on the fruit machine.” Rick hands him a few coins and the boy wanders off.

  “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” I say when Zak’s out of earshot.

  “No, it’s okay. If we’re going to be dating, it’s only fair you know.”

  News to me… that we’re dating. Technically this is a first date, but he’s being somewhat presumptuous. Maybe he’s recently single, so I wait to be told.

  “I’ve told everyone she died.”

  “I’m so sorry.” But it hits me what he actually said. He’s told everyone.

  “Oh no, she didn’t die. She left me for… for someone else.”

  I can only say, “Oh,” and wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Won’t they find out it’s not true? What about her funeral?”

  “There wasn’t one.”

  “I guess not, but they’d have expected one, surely.”

  “I said she was working overseas and was eaten by a big animal on safari.”

  “And they believed you?”

  “So far.”

  I’m not sure what to say next, so go with, “When did she leave?”

  “Last week.”

  “Last week? And you’re dating again?”

  “I need to find a new mother, don’t I?”

  Not here, you won’t. “And there’s no chance of her coming back?”

  “Absolutely not. Doesn’t want anything to do with us.”

  “But what if her new man feels guilty, realises his mistake or kicks her out.”

  “There’s no chance of that. She’s not a he.”

  Now I’m confused. “Your wife.”

  “No, the new ‘man’.”

  “Oh… your wife has left you for another woman.” I say it a little too loudly and realise that young ears are listening.

  Zak stops hitting the buttons and picking his nose and comes running back to his father. He starts bawling and I catch, “What was the bad lady saying? Where’s Mummy?”

  Rick grabs him by his hand, gets up from the table and glares at me.

  I try to look sorry, but it’s not washing with either of them.

  “See what you’ve done!” he hisses, and storms out of the pub.

  Oops.

  Chapter 15 – Speed Dating at the Cock

  Mike’s back from sick leave, although he doesn’t look very sick to me especially given the food he’s still stuffing down his throat.

  Donna’s back to her chirpy self. I’m at my desk but haven’t yet taken off my jacket when she comes over. “Hello! Can’t wait ’til tonight.”

  “Oh good.”

  “You don’t seem too excited.”

  “It’s work and, to be honest, it’s getting to be hard work.”

  “But think of all those lovely men.”

  I am, comparing them to the fourteen I’ve met already and it’s too depressing, but I put on a smile just for her and she skips back to her desk.

  What did I learn from last night? That children provoke many different reactions. Saturday evening was spent in the company of H. We met early as he had to fly to an overseas meeting the following morning (only serious businessmen work on a Sunday – and boy, was he serious). We were in a delightful pub (the Britannia on the Bedford Road), but I got the distinct impression from the off that I wasn’t his cup of tea. Conversation was hard going, thanks to his one-word answers. He was, however, far more vocal on the subject of children – or rather at two excitable children who were with their parents at the next table. His behaviour made them leave and I wasn’t far behind them.

  Mr Sunday Afternoon, however, was the complete opposite. I so wish I could get these two together. No need to buy any fireworks. R2 brought his youngest offspring, who was suffering from a bit of a cold. While I admire single parents, I felt less empathy for R2, who wasn’t exactly being truthful about the ‘loss’ of the children’s mother. Still, that’s something he’s going to have to deal with at some stage. She may have cut them out of her life for now, but it’s very early days, and she is likely to change her mind. Besides, the children will ask questions and will want to go to visit their mother’s grave. When they find out there isn’t one, he may wish he’d been a little more honest.

  Finding new ways of being diplomatic is proving difficult. Fortunately tonight’s event is speed dating, so I shouldn’t ha
ve problems with word count. Donna’s picking me up en route and has promised not to be late. She’s late for everything. Except work, strangely.

  Where is she? It’s just gone seven and she’s not here yet. She’s been here loads of times, so she can’t be lost. I decide to wait outside. It’s not the warmest night of the year, but it’s dry.

  Ten past.

  Donna, where are you?

  “Hi, Ursula. You look nice.”

  “Thanks. And you. Going anywhere special?”

  “Not really, just out with a work colleague. You?”

  “Same, kind of. Meeting some friends,” she says.

  “Have a great time.”

  “Thanks. And you.”

  At last. Donna and her trusted steed (a Ford Focus).

  “Sorry. Sorry. I know we’re cutting it fine.”

  “We are. Never mind. I don’t suppose we’ll be last.”

  Rosie lives up to her name: a wide red-lipped smile and badge on her lapel giving her name with ‘ND Speed Dating’ above it and ‘Soul-Mating’ underneath.

  She ticks off our names and slaps a pink number seven on my chest and eight on Donna’s, before handing us a form and pen each. Rosie then smiles plastically and points us in the direction of the bar to get a drink before we begin, while looking at the clock as if to make a point.

  The place is busy for a Monday and after we order our drinks, Donna whispers, “Have you done this before?”

  “No. You?” I whisper back.

  “Why are you two whispering?” a voice behind me says.

  I turn round and there’s Ursula.

  “Hello, neighbour,” I say, then look at her chest. “I didn’t know you were coming here, number four.”

  “Me, neither, number… seven. How funny, if we’d known we could have shared a car.”

  “We could.”

  “And this is your work colleague… friend?”

  “Hi, I’m Donna.” Donna thrusts out her hand, and Ursula shakes it firmly.

  “This is Ursula, my next-door neighbour. I thought you and Max…”