“No, I mean, you’re seeing him again.”
“Yes, tonight.”
“Oooh. Serious.”
“He’s got a busy week, so…”
“Look out, Janine’s coming.”
Donna scuttles back to her desk and Janine walks past with a smile in my direction.
“Morning, Izzy.”
“Morning, Janine.”
She keeps walking and disappears into the kitchen.
With Donna safely installed at her desk and Janine heading back to her domain with a coffee in each hand, I fetch a drink for Donna and me, and leave hers on her desk. She’s on the phone, so just smiles and nods. It sounds like she’s progressing well with the glasses project.
I log into the tallgirlnn1 account and am surprised there are only three messages. Having been offline for the weekend, I had hoped for more, but at least they’re useful ones.
Much to my relief, QuincyJ has emailed to say the Derbyshire drama has been averted (something very dull, he says) and he’ll be there ‘by hook or by crook’. I love these old English sayings. I reply that I’m pleased and look forward to seeing him. In fact I’m more than pleased as it would have left me one man short and I would have had to either make up someone or do a general column about ‘my experiences so far’ and meet two another day.
Vance’s message is just to say he’s fine for Saturday. He was supposed to be going away, but he’s rather skint, so I’m a good excuse to stay. I’m glad I have my uses.
The other is from a guy called UlverTheIrish. It’s a quick intro email, as if he’s checking I’m still available. Assuming he’s Irish, I do a Google search on Irish pubs in Northampton. We agree on Sunday and the Swan and Helmet on Clare Street ‘as I’ve never been’ (which is true).
With that done, I’m back to the nerdy bit of the article. I’m finding it more difficult to think of original things today, but reader feedback is coming in thick and fast, so kills a chunk of the morning. I therefore decide to take a different tack and comment on some of them. It’s rapidly turning into an agony column, so I email Keith to warn him, but promise to end each piece with a reference to him being the best place to go for real advice and he’s pleased.
It’s lunchtime before I know it and Donna announces she needs to hit the town and do some research. She has twenty-twenty vision, so I’m the perfect candidate. My glasses are only a few weeks old (bought as a ‘treat’), but they’re not to know that, are they (she says)?
“Are you just doing glasses or are you covering contact lenses too?”
“Izzy, that’s a brilliant idea! It’ll be an extra gold star from William. He likes initiative.”
That’s very true. Anything above and beyond the call of duty is back-patting as far as he’s concerned. And after this month, I’ll have earned some of that.
She’s done a yell.com search and there are over twenty opticians in Northampton. Fortunately only eight are in the town centre, but that’s still too many to do in a lunch break, so we agree on two a day with Friday off. “There’s a cross-section of national chains and independents,” she says. “I’ll be doing the same sort of number online, so that’s bound to be plenty. The article’s only going to run for a week or so. Are you sure you don’t mind coming with me and using up your lunch breaks?”
“Of course not. It’ll be fun putting them through their paces.”
“Oh yes,” she says, rubbing her hands. I can see that, like me with my project, this isn’t work to her, but something to get her teeth into.
We start with the nearest two, a national (Vision Express for contact lenses only – me being a glasses customer there) and an independent (for both) in the Grosvenor Centre and they’re pretty much the same. The service is good in both, although the independent does feel less clinical, but you can’t beat hygiene. The prices are what you’d expect – I’m as blind as a mole without my glasses and don’t go for the Mr Magoo look, so get a quote for ultra-thin. There’s a maze of free this and half-price that, and neither of the shops has a price list as such (I suppose because their offers change so often), so we have to memorise the options then plonk on a bench on one of the centre’s walkways to jot them down.
When we’re done, we pop to a juice bar where Donna orders a mixed veg smoothie (which has never appealed to me, but she assures me is delicious) and I go for a mixed fruit, which looks and tastes gorgeous.
Drinking as we walk, we head back to the office and Donna’s looking at the notes.
“I can’t believe they’re so expensive,” she says.
“I have got a ridiculously high prescription.”
“Yes, I know, but over three hundred pounds and that’s including free second frames.”
“Which is why they have to last a couple of years or so.”
“Two years? That’s a hundred and fifty a year.”
“I know. A cheapie gym membership.”
“Jeez.”
She does make me laugh. “But they’re essential,” I continue. “You’ve got to look after your eyes.”
“I know, but they must play on that, even to some extent.”
“The equipment and set-up must cost a bomb.”
“Which is why online is so much cheaper.”
“Exactly. Lower overheads.”
“But probably poorer quality.”
“That, Detective Clarke, is what you’re going to find out.”
“I’m not sure how – I’m not planning on ordering any.”
“William must expect you to spend something. Can you get freebies somehow, like I do with my gadgets?”
“I suppose so, however, it wouldn’t be an exposé, would it.”
“I guess. I don’t always give good reviews. Just as well you’re not doing the world of laser surgery.”
Her eyes widen.
“You’d not thought of that?”
“Ooh, no. It’s got to be covered, hasn’t it?”
“It is very popular.”
“So why spend three hundred pounds on glasses when you could get your eyes lasered and it’s sorted for the rest of your life?”
“Is it, though?”
“What?”
“Forever.”
“I don’t know. There’s more to this than meets the…”
“Ha, ha. Also…”
“There’s more?”
“How do you know by going to the cheapest place for the lasering, like the adverts on TV, that you’re going to get trouble-free vision? Surely it’s better to go somewhere private. I used to work with someone who got it done on the cheap and had real trouble.”
Donna screws up her face. “Really?”
“Yes. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“Ew.”
“Exactly. So it pays to not mess with your eyes. I’d have it done if it was a hundred per cent, but no procedure is that safe.”
“Mmm.” I can almost hear her cogs whirring.
We arrive back at work and Mike’s on duty. Donna walks slightly ahead of me and I catch a half smile as she turns towards him. I give her a gentle shove and she looks forward.
As we walk up the stairs to the main reception, I say, “You’re not over him, are you?”
“I am.”
“Then what was all that about?”
“Just being friendly.”
That’s her trouble, she can’t be anything but. And it’s why everyone’s mad about her.
Marion’s on the phone. She’s moaning about something or someone, so we’re grateful to escape it coming in our direction.
We’ve not been back at our desks long when Donna springs over, waving a piece of paper in her hand.
“Look what I’ve found online!”
“What?”
She plonks it on my desk and I see it’s a printout from the Three Shires and she continues talking. “It says ‘Excimer laser surgery (photo refractive keratectomy or PRK) involves using a laser, which is computer-controlled to reshape the cornea… The surgery is carried out by a consultant opht
halmologist and is designed to treat imperfect vision.’” As she speaks, I’m reading the article and she’s relaying it word for word, with the exception of ‘the clear surface of the eye in front of the pupil’ as she knows that I know what a cornea is, and ‘refractive errors’ because ‘imperfect vision’ speaks for itself.
“Donna?”
“Yes, Izzy.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have photographic memory?”
“Huh?”
“You’ve just repeated this word for word without looking at the text.”
“It’s a skill I have,” she says proudly.
“But you could do so much with it.”
“I suppose so.”
“Donna, you could do anything you wanted to. You could be an actress…”
“I’m doing what I want to do.”
“Really?”
“I love my job. Can’t imagine doing anything else.” And she can’t lie.
I hand her back the piece of paper and she scuttles off to her desk. I spend the afternoon replying to reader emails, including two from irate men who think they’ve met me, which I assure them I haven’t (if I had, they’d have emailed tallgirlnn1, wouldn’t they?).
A skim of tallgirlnn1 reveals two messages: one from UlverTheIrish saying Sunday is fine. He may be late as he’s away for the weekend, but he’ll be there for eight thirty. I’m quite pleased as it’ll mean a quick escape if things don’t go well. I’ve learned over the past three weeks (has it been that long already?) that early dates aren’t wise if I need an ‘I have work tomorrow’ excuse, so eight thirty’s great and I reply accordingly.
The other is from a weirdo called WellHung69. I know what’s coming (pardon the pun) as soon as I see his profile name and, sure enough, he lists everything he’d like to do to me. I make a mental note for future reference elsewhere, but use the familiar block option and don’t even bother with an automated ‘Thanks, but no thanks’.
I’ve just pressed the block button when my Outlook email pings and I switch over to see a message from William. I expect it to be another round robin, but it’s addressed solely to me, and it’s headed ‘tallgirlnn1 project’. I anticipate a Marion-style ear bashing, but I’m pleasantly surprised to see a one-liner, Thanks for today’s piece. How’s it all going? I think he’d be able to tell from my articles, but it’s nice that he’s taken an interest, so I draft a slightly longer reply.
Hi, William. Thanks for your email. I think it’s going well, thank you. I’ve received mostly positive reader feedback and it’s been a very interesting project. Thank you for the opportunity. Perhaps we could have a discussion at month-end and see where, if anywhere, it should be taken from there.
I delete the gushy ‘Thank you for the opportunity’ and click on ‘send’. I gaze into his office, but he’s on the phone. I keep watching for a few seconds and see him look at his screen; he then glances over at me and smiles. I immediately look down at my keyboard with what I hope is an engrossed expression, but I know he saw me, and I feel myself blushing. It’s something I can’t help doing, and it happens rarely, but when I do, I know I go bright red.
There’s one solution: kitchen – cup of tea.
As I flick on the kettle, Donna comes rushing in. “I’ve got an appointment with Three Shires!”
“To have a chat about laser surgery?”
She nods.
“And they don’t mind?”
“They won’t, no.”
“That’s good.”
“They won’t because you’ll be coming with me.”
“Oh?”
“As a potential patient.”
“Erm…”
“William said it’s okay. Sorry, I was too excited.”
“No, it’s fine. When’s it set for?”
“Ten tomorrow morning.”
“Wow, that’s quick.”
“I said we wanted the best.”
“I would.”
“Great, thanks. Can’t stop.” And with that, she disappears back to her desk.
I make her a coffee and drop it off. She’s on the phone again talking lotions and potions, so I don’t stop.
By the time I’ve replied to more reader emails, it’s nearly time to go home. Donna’s on the phone again and it looks like it’s going to be a long one, that’s why I send her an email saying I’ll see her in the morning and hope she enjoys date two with Hunky Dunky.
The White Elephant’s in between casual and smart so I opt for blue Levi 501s and a plain black top. A pair of black slip-on shoes get their first airing for a while and I pull my black Levi jacket off one of the hooks in the hall on the way out.
We’ve arranged to meet outside. When I get there just before eight, QuincyJ’s already there. Although wearing quite casual clothes, he looks ultra-smart and I can tell he has money.
We exchange greetings and he opens the door for me and, unlike Dodge, waits until I’ve gone through. I thank him and walk towards the bar.
“Call me Jamie, by the way. What would you like to drink, Izzy?”
I must look puzzled trying to connect QuincyJ to Jamie because he explains. “I’m a Quincy Jones fan and the J is for Jamie too.”
“Nice. I’d love a Southern Comfort and lemonade with a little ice, if I may.”
“Of course you may.” A great start.
A barman’s waiting so Jamie requests mine, adding a pint of Guinness for himself. When the drinks are ready, he pays with a crisp twenty-pound note and slides the change into his, I would guess, designer jeans pocket. At this stage, I can’t look at the label on his backside without being obvious. Something to look forward to.
I pick a discreet corner table away from the speakers and other clientele. So I can people watch, I sit facing the bar and he sits to my left so he doesn’t have to watch people surfacing from the toilets, a wise move.
I start the conversation. “So how long have you worked down here?”
“A couple of months.”
“And you work in the town centre?”
“I do. For a small practice law firm, but it’s very up and coming. They headhunted me and it’s working out well so far.” For anyone else I’d have said he was bragging, but I get the impression he’s not like that.
“That’s great. It’s so important to have a job you like.”
“And what do you do?”
“I’m a secretary for a training company.”
“Really? What sort of training?”
“Business management, that kind of thing.”
“Great. We’re looking for training courses for our executives. What’s your work number?”
I tell him and he taps it into his BlackBerry. I will him not to try it as I’ve given him our old fax number at the paper. Thankfully, he puts his device back in his pocket and takes a sip of his drink. He’s got a bit of froth on his upper lip, so I point it out to him, not anticipating what would happen next.
“You women are all alike! Point out our failings whenever you can.”
I say, “Hold on a second,” but he storms off to the gents.
By rights, I should leave, but he’s back before I’ve decided.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I had a ridiculously late night last night after a horrendous journey down the M1.”
“Okay.” I’m glad this is work, as I don’t do short-tempered.
He flicks back a stray lock of dark mousey hair and plays with the collar on his blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt. He smiles, but I can tell this isn’t over.
He insists on buying the second round too, which I accept to keep the peace, and he goes to the bar to place the order, returning a few seconds later. “They’re bringing them over, letting the Guinness settle.”
We make polite, but strained, conversation.
A young barmaid brings the drinks over, putting mine in front of me first, then with a quivering hand putting his down. I get the impression she recognises him.
“What do you call that
?” he barks.
“You ordered a pint of Guinness?” she squeaks.
“It looks like foam to me, get me a fresh one.”
I’m astounded but watch her pick up the glass and return to the bar. We’ve not spoken a word by the time she returns.
The original looked pretty good to me, but if I had to say there was a difference, the replacement appears to have a few millimetres less white on it.
“That’s better,” he mumbles.
“Thank you,” I say in a normal tone to the barmaid, who smiles weakly at me before returning to the bar.
He reminds me of Dodge though without the wolf’s clothing.
I can’t help speaking. “Do you always get personal service?”
“I like to get my way.”
I’m tempted to say something sarcastic, but remember Delapré Park and resist. “So, the emergency’s averted.”
“Oh, that. Yes. My wife started a new job today.”
“Your… wife?”
“She wanted me to be around. What’s the big deal?”
He’s a walking cliché: under the thumb at home, so has to be in charge elsewhere. “Oh, nothing,” I say. “I’m relieved it wasn’t a real emergency.”
He grunts and takes a very ungentlemanly swig of his Guinness, but I swiftly find out there’s very little about him that is gentlemanly.
Another silence is followed by another swig, so I drink mine quickly, though more ladylike. We’re both nearly finished when he announces another trip to the gents and I see this as my cue to do a runner.
“Okay,” I say, smile sweetly and watch him walk away, no Levi tag on this one. Delving around in my bag, I fish out my trusty pen and paper and write out a note.
Had to go. I’ve left my husband in charge of our sixteen offspring.
That should do the trick.
Chapter 23 – Jake at the Four Pears
What did I learn from last night? That a wolf can appear in sheep’s or wolf’s clothing. The jacket on this particular book was probably designer-made, but the inside pages were substandard and I would vote to reject the whole thing and return it to the publisher for pulping. After all, he thinks he’s God’s gift, so why not make him one?
The Serial Dater Page 25
