“I’m going to get a drink!” I shout to Village People number seven who nods and turns to his neighbour who resembles a very short Cher. Again, I’m proud of myself for not crumpling into hysterics.
I order my usual Southern Comfort and lemonade and see a list of cocktails behind the bar. Not having to drive opens up a whole new world and I’m a little overwhelmed by it all. I down my drink in two massive gulps and slam the empty glass down on the bar like I’ve seen in movie drinking competitions. I’m on a roll.
“Same again?” a voice behind me asks. It’s Cher Mk 2. Knowing there’s no possibility of him hitting on me, I nod, mouth still full of gulp. I swallow the drink and hold my hand up. “Can I try one of these cocktails?”
“Sure, love,” he says in a very broad Scottish accent.
I look at the list and don’t know where to start.
“The Spanish Screw is very nice. Very mellow, slips down your throat a treat.” And he winks.
“What’s it got in it?” I ask, although at this point as long as it’s alcohol, it’ll do.
“Sangria and Anis del Mono, mainly.”
“I know Sangria, what’s the other one?”
“It literally means ‘the monkey’s Anisette’.”
“I’m not sure if I’d like anything that comes from a monkey.”
He laughs. “It’s aniseed.”
Sangria and aniseed isn’t a combo I’d put together, but if the Chinese can make sweet and sour tasty, why not try this? “Why not!” I shout in his left ear.
He turns to the barman, who’s as tall as VP7, and leans over the bar to take his order.
“Two Spanish Screws please.”
The barman winks and wiggles to the cocktail shaker. It looks far too staged to be real and I’m pretty sure he’s straight, but Aunt Agnes could tell me. The customers clearly love the barman and I’m having the time of my life. We all watch as he replicates a one-man version of the Tom Cruise and Bryan Brown iconic Cocktail scene and everyone’s clapping and whooping. The guy (I think he’s male although I can’t be sure) Edgar was talking to jumps on the bar and gyrates in time with the music, which is ‘I believe’ by Cher, so her ‘twin’ next to me is euphoric.
I thank Cher Mk 2 for the drink, but he’s engrossed in conversation with VP7. Edgar, in the meantime, is on the dance floor with his new companion. They’re entwined like ivy and it’s like an explosion in a Dulux factory.
The rush of sugary alcohol and body heat gets to me, so I go outside. Opening the door there’s a distinct contrast between the noise inside and near silence from the town centre. We’re just one street away from the market square, but it’s as if we’re the only people alive.
VP7 meets me as I come back in.
“We were wondering where you’d gone.”
“Sorry, needed a breather.”
He’s on the arm of someone equally gorgeous but slightly shorter, and once again the music takes over.
“We got you a drink!” he shouts, struggling to be heard over George Michael’s ‘Outside’.
The drink looks like Edgar’s outfit though I suspect is far more deadly. “Thanks, what is it?”
“A Rainbow.”
“What’s it got in it?”
VP’s companion butts in. “Vodka, Aftershock, blue and red, Banana liqueur, Blue Curaçao, Crème de Menthe, soda water, lemonade, sour mix and ice.”
“You know your stuff.”
“He works here,” VP says proudly.
It’s at times like this I wish I wasn’t straight, and didn’t have work to go to.
I may regret this in the morning, I think as I down another Rainbow, but I’m too happy to care and too oblivious to notice the familiar taxi driver who’s waiting in the foyer tapping his foot… not in time to the music.
Chapter 25 – Garth at The Rover
What did I learn from last night? That whatever the ‘date’ throws at you, have fun. After a major misunderstanding (I wasn’t a gay man), E3 decided to do his own thing, leaving me to fend for myself. It turns out I didn’t have to fend for long as friendly hands clamped on mine and dragged me onto the dance floor where I boogied the night away to songs I’d long since forgotten and couldn’t name (sober or otherwise), in between trying cocktails I’d also never heard of.
The venue is a little corner of paradise, tucked away in a town centre side street. From the moment I stepped over the threshold I was welcomed as a long-lost friend and instantly felt like part of the furniture. It goes to show there are small groups of people who forget their troubles, lack of finances or the jobs they hate and give the night everything they have, and, if the people I met are anything to go by, that’s a big deal.
Because the ‘date’ didn’t materialise, the rest of this article will be about reader feedback and a couple of technical suggestions surrounding editing and uploading a photo to your profile. After last night’s experience, it may have been wise to ask for a photograph beforehand, but if we had, we probably wouldn’t have met and after having such a great time, I can’t wait to do it all again.
Today’s two ticks: Don’t think you’ve seen everything and Do try new things, people and places.
I leave it like that for now, as every keyboard stroke drills into my brain. Even the office lights hurt and they’re not particularly bright. At the best of times I’m a bit of a SAD case, especially in winter, when the office seems depressing. I wish I’d brought my sunglasses, but I know that’s a big no-no from Karen because it’s too ‘celeb’ and only the über cool get away with wearing them indoors. Apart from a Mike disguise, Donna frowns on sunglasses unless they’re super high quality and always tuts whenever we walk past a pound shop with people trying them on, looking in the tiny mirrors or asking their friends if they look okay. Donna would love to tell them, but she’s far too polite. I’m too chicken.
After making a huge mug of tea, I see there are three tallgirlnn1 messages, but none that warrant a reply, so I block them and trawl again. I’m on the last-but-one page of my search when I spot a couple of guys who look like fun. After last night, I want to keep that theme going, despite the hangover from hell.
WellyY35 is only a bit older than me, and he’s ticked the ‘adventurous’ and ‘fun’ boxes, so I type a short reply introducing ‘myself’.
Next is StevieBoy who, with a profile name like that, has got to be a laugh. His profile is so packed with information it takes ages to read, which suits me fine as it’s black script on a white background and with the screen zoomed in three times, the writing is large enough to find its way through the fog that’s called my brain. I scroll down the mouse so I’m almost silent. The office is pretty dead too, and I’m relaxing when Donna comes over.
She takes one look at my face and whispers, “Good morning.”
I nod, which is also quite painful. I should have known better than to drink so much on a ‘school’ night, but, as is often the way, you don’t think about that when you’re having fun.
“Did you have a good time last night?” she continues, still whispering.
I nod again, this time more slowly. “Have you seen Duncan recently?” I know this is a stupid question because she’s even more ecstatic than normal.
“Uh huh,” is all I get from her, but she’s still beaming. “I want to know about your night first.”
We walk (well, Donna springs like Zebedee) into the kitchen to get refills, and I give her a rundown. I know I’m whispering, but my head relays it as shouting to my brain, so a synopsis is all I can manage.
I’ve recovered somewhat by lunchtime and we cover the last two opticians on Abington Street. This time we try on sunglasses, and I’m tempted to keep them on, but the assistant wants to check the fit of nearly all the glasses on display (which is a challenge in itself as I have a wide nose) and I lose my rag.
Seeing that I’ve had enough, Donna thanks the assistant, who was convinced she’s got a sale, and we scarper.
Fortunately the sales guy in the
independent optician’s doesn’t appear to work on commission. When he hands me his business card, I can see he’s the owner, which surprises me as he looks about twelve (now I know I’m getting old). Of all the shops we’ve visited though, this is the one I’d give my business to; I prefer to support local companies rather than chains. The shop is packed and I realise how many people wear glasses. Some are more Andy Pandy than Andy Warhol, but no doubt Mr ‘Almost Young Enough to be My Son’ will kit them out.
After a quick trip to Boots for two low-fat meal deals (one for Donna because it’s ‘research’, and the other for me because I consumed enough calories last night to sink a battleship, and have to redeem myself one way or the other) and a detour via their first floor glasses department, we return to the office.
There’s no sign of Marion as we walk through reception. She’s been temporarily replaced by Mike who, amazingly, isn’t eating.
I smile at him, but Donna ignores him. He pays no attention to me, but smiles in Donna’s direction, then realises he’s wasting his time.
“Did you see that, Donna?”
“What?”
“Mike wasn’t eating.”
“He’s not allowed.”
“What?”
“Not while he’s on reception. Marion won’t tolerate it.”
That’s Marion all over. Toleration is not her forté.
Speak of the devil. The ladies’ door slams shut behind her and she strides along the corridor towards us. I feel like giving her a high five for putting Mike in his place, but that would be like shaking hands with said devil, so I resist.
She looks in our direction, but instead of returning our semi-sincere smiles, she grunts and keeps walking. That’s more like it.
I spend the next hour or so finishing the article and put it in William’s tray. There’s no sign of him, and Janine is typing away.
“Hi, Janine.”
She pulls out her earphones and the audiotape stops. “Hey, Izzy. How are things?”
“Bit of a night, last night, but recovering well, thanks.”
“The articles are really good.”
“Thank you. I didn’t realise you read them.”
“Most of them – William’s unofficial subeditor, you might say.”
Janine’s clever, so that’s high praise indeed. If she wasn’t such a good assistant, I wouldn’t be surprised if William were to give her the sub job. I smile and go back to my desk. Mmm, sub job.
Five o’clock finally arrives and after a supermarket shop, I’m back in front of my wardrobe.
Being opposite the Saints Rugby Club, I don’t imagine The Rover to be pretentious, so it’s casual all the way.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the car park. It’s packed and I circle it with no joy, ending up a couple of streets away. I’m five minutes late by the time I get there, and am still swearing at myself as I walk in.
The place is packed with a plethora of football shirts, shorts and scruffy trainers, and I half expect to see Mr Sports Fanatic, but there’s no one I think could be Garth. I stand in the doorway for ages and don’t have a clue how I’m supposed to recognise him. The noise is deafening and I’m oblivious of blocking the doorway until there’s a tap on my shoulder.
I turn round and there are two Saints players looming over me. I recognise them from our back pages – that and a huge team poster over the desk near Donna’s: the desk belonging to Andy, our sports journo.
My legs are threatening to give way, my jaw drops open, and I can almost feel drool seeping.
The blond one, no doubt Andy would throttle me for not knowing his name, is the first to speak. “Coming or going?”
“Coming,” I say, and giggle like a two-year-old. The guys smile. I mouth “Sorry” and step back, right into the path of a guy carrying a triangle of three full pint glasses.
It’s obviously not the first time this has happened to him as he veers out my way like a contestant on Strictly Come Dancing. I utter another “Sorry” as I try to look around for a spot I can stand without causing any trouble.
I find a corner and hope Garth can see me. It shouldn’t be difficult – I’m the only female on my own. In fact I appear to be the only female in the place.
I’m still here. In my corner. My watch says it’s been ten minutes, but it feels like hours. As it’s been a few days since we arranged this, I wonder whether I’ve got the time wrong, so I decide to give him another half an hour and then scarper. No one’s paying me any attention anyway.
It’s almost nine. I feel like all I need is a dunce’s hat. I spot a gap and am deliberating whether to go for it or go home, when one of the rugby players, a dark-haired one this time, takes pity on me.
“Has he stood you up?” He smoulders.
“Looks like it,” I whimper.
“Wanna come and join us?”
He looks back at his gang, and they’re all equally hot.
I can’t believe my luck.
“So?”
“Yes, please.” Can I sound any more desperate? I try again. “Thank you. That would be great.” I’m not sure that’s any better, but he laughs, so I follow him.
I started the evening knowing nothing about rugby and by the time I leave The Rover, I feel like a walking encyclopaedia. Andy won’t know what’ll hit him tomorrow.
I’m still smiling when I let myself into my house. There was no sign of Garth and I’m glad. For the second dateless night in a row, I’ve had a ball and wouldn’t have changed a thing. Two and a bit hours of raucous hilarity was worth every second of feeling like a lemon.
As I switch off my bedroom light, I can’t help rubbing my right cheek – the one a super-cool Saints player kissed as he handed me his phone number.
Chapter 26 – Innes at the Shipman’s
What did I learn from last night? Not to take phone numbers from married men.
Yep, that’s right. The hot totty was hitched. What did I say before about modern men wearing wedding rings? It should be in their contracts. If I were married to someone like that I’d have his ankle dragging along a ball and chain.
Needless to say, when I got into work I couldn’t wait to tell Andy. After putting names to faces, he added marital status (at my very unsubtle request) and the only one I met last night who wasn’t married or cohabiting, it turns out, is very gay. And of course, he was the cutest one of all. Typical.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m too busy for a man in my life and, after the past twenty-five days, I’ve nearly had my fill of male company. The only men I want to spend my evenings with are Ben and Jerry. I’ve been rather overdosing on Mr Häagen Dazs recently, so Cherry Garcia or Pfish Food for the foreseeable.
Donna’s almost waltzing around the office and I’m having to pull her down from the ceiling every now and then. Things are going well with Duncan and I couldn’t be happier. Really.
Where was I? Oh yes, married men.
Before you get the impression that last night’s date was the married man, he wasn’t. At least I assume he wasn’t as he didn’t turn up. Being surrounded by an army of rugby players and their cronies, I was more than happy to help egg them on with their yards of beer. I was driving so stayed sober, but was feeling the moment by proxy.
So I don’t have a ‘date’ to talk about in today’s article, but last night taught me that, despite Northampton changing almost out of all recognition in the last few years (to a cold soulless town, if you go by the comments on our ‘text talk’ page), somewhere like The Rover is a place to go to. I may have been an exception to the rule, looking like a lost sheep in a deep dark corner of the pub, but I should play that role more often as it was the beginning of a wonderful evening.
And it goes to show that, despite the married man letting the side down, rugby is a gentleman’s sport.
Today’s two ticks: Don’t assume that the night is over if the intended date decides to bottle out, and Do have a good time regardless of whether alcohol is involved.
I’m
struggling for remaining content, so switch over to my work emails and the readers have done me proud. There are twenty-six feedback emails (direct and via our website’s comments box which have been forwarded to me), mostly on the recent articles, but a couple of general ones and three that need redirecting to Aunt Agnes.
These kick off the rest of my article and I deposit it in William’s tray with a big smile.
“Something tickled you, Izzy?”
“Had a couple of good evenings.”
“Another one last night then.”
“Yes, it was very good.”
“So another strong article?”
“Thanks to the readers, yes. It’s all in there.”
“Look forward to it,” he says as he takes it from his tray.
I smile and leave him to it. He rarely asks me to change anything, but there’s always a first time. There’s not a lot to censor with reviews of gadgets, but there have been a few touch-and-go moments during this project, although William seems to have lightened up as the month’s gone on. Reader feedback implies happy customers, perhaps the powers that be have patted his back. Then again, he’s his own master when it comes down to it. The boat’s sailing forward – who are they to rock it?
I detour via Donna’s desk and she’s peering at her screen, engrossed in something optical.
“Hey, Izzy. Busy. I’m confused with all these sites.”
“In what way?”
“There’s too much choice.”
“Then it’s up to Constable Clarke to weed through the mire and give the public a clear choice – the good, bad and the ugly and eek…”
“What?” We both look at the screen.
“That’s hideous.” At the side of the current website is a mid-surgery photo still and it’s not a pretty sight. All of a sudden I don’t feel hungry.
The Serial Dater Page 27
