The Serial Dater

by Rachel Cavanagh

  He nods back.

  Again I’m glad of meeting late and for having work in the morning, as I feel I’m going to need an excuse to get away. I decide to make some small talk to chivvy the evening along. “I thought you lived in Wellingborough from your profile name.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because of the Welly reference.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the town’s called that sometimes.”

  “I didn’t know that.” His monotone voice is drilling through my skull like Woody the Woodpecker except not so colourful. He leans across and whispers. “My name’s Welland.”

  “Is that a local surname?” I ask.

  “You misunderstand me. My first name is Welland.”

  “That’s unusual.” I try to sound enthused.

  “My parents used to live near the river, and they were steam rally enthusiasts. They wanted something unusual to go with my surname.”

  “Which is?” I expect him to say something from one extreme to another, like Smith or Zardfar, but it’s neither.

  “Yates. As in the pub chain.”

  I assume no relation. He looks older than his age, maybe even mid-forties, but is wearing a flat cap and everything about him is brown. I like brown; I wear a great deal of taupe, chocolate or khaki, but he’s not even gone for the country beige look, but a dull Angela’s Ashes era.

  Instead of going round the houses and asking about his taste in music, or commenting on the obviously appalling weather, I go for the jugular. “Do you smoke?”

  “Oh yes,” he says quite proudly, his face showing emotion for the first time. “I have a great collection of pipes.”

  I can imagine them all lined up above the hearth in his little stone cottage.

  “I can pop next door and get some if you like,” he chirps.

  “No, but thank you.”

  He looks at what’s left of his pint of beer and then at my near-full Baileys. “You not driving then?”

  “I am, but…”

  He tuts. “Should never drink and drive. Especially not around these country roads. Most accidents happen on country roads. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”

  I think there’s more cream in Baileys than whisky, but I would normally agree. “I’ve eaten a lot today, so that should soak it up. It’s such a grotty evening that I wanted something…”

  I stop explaining as he’s shaking his head. I wonder whether the thirty-five in his profile stands for his year of birth rather than his age, so do some digging.

  “Do you have any siblings?” He looks puzzled, so I help him out. “I have a brother.”

  “Sister, Winema.”

  Trying not to laugh, I say, “Older or younger?”

  “Older.”

  “By much?”

  “Two years.”

  “Same as me and my brother. He’s thirty-two.”

  I wait for either his or the sister’s age, but it’s not forthcoming. I decide it doesn’t matter, but I like to satisfy my curiosity, so I keep digging. “Are your parents still alive?”

  “Just my dad.”

  “And he is…?”

  “In a nursing home.”

  “That’s a shame. He can’t be very old.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  I can see Welland’s not the smartest pipe in the rack, and I’m seriously getting nowhere fast, so decide to switch tack. “What kind of music do you like?”

  “Anything really.”

  “Like…?”

  “Anything except soul… or rock… or that modern pop rubbish. You can’t hear the words and they keep repeating…”

  I’ve lost interest in doing all the work. “Is there anything you want to ask me?” This is beginning to feel like a job interview. And for a job I know I don’t want. I’ll look at HR Chloë in a new light.

  “Um.”

  “Have you had your profile up for long?”

  “A week. You’re the first. My sister said I should be careful but…”

  “Yes, you should. There are a lot of weirdos out there – not just the men.” This last bit comes out unexpectedly.

  “She said there are a lot of tarts who’ll want to take advantage of me.”

  The conversation thereafter is not only dead, but cremated. We sit in uncomfortable silence. He stares at me, while I look around the bar at everyone else having a good time. Faced with more silence, I decide to bottle out, and look at my watch.

  “Oh dear, is that the time,” I say with the conviction of a bad amateur dramatist. “I’ve got to get home and put my PVC mini skirt and fishnets on for my next date. Time waits for no woman, you know.”

  His lower jaw drops and in his mouth I see the remnants of his beer and what looks like tobacco. Like the rest of him, it’s not a pretty sight. He lifts his head slightly to say something, but it’s clear nothing’s forthcoming, so he resumes his docile position.

  I drive home via an all-night garage where I buy a huge slab of fruit and nut chocolate to munch in the car. One thing we women are also renowned for is comfort eating, and while I don’t feel I need comforting, it tastes fecking awesome.

  Chapter 30 – Stevie at the Fishmarket Café

  What did I learn from Saturday night? That my mobile phone has a calculator on it.

  I didn’t need it, but I could have lent it to V, my date for the evening. At least this one turned up, but conversation was as easy as creating the Bayeux Tapestry. A fair chunk of the evening was spent with him chatting to a groupie, so I made another semi-rapid departure. The rest, and most enjoyable parts, were devouring a home-made (pub-made) burger and chips and, I must admit quite cruelly (though without being obvious), watching V trying to work out his (fifty per cent) share of the £20.14 bill.

  Figuring my dig is unlikely to get through the William sensor, I save him the bother and delete it (which is a shame because I like it). I may be that cruel, but I don’t want my readers to know, so I put a more positive spin on it and come up with the old ‘incompatibility’ chestnut.

  What did I learn from Sunday night? To not take life too seriously. I’d never been in the Swan and Helmet before and it’s a typical British pub. Despite it looking like an intimidating corner building, I received a very warm welcome from the staff and my date, U, was apologetically late (which he needn’t have been as he had pre-warned me he might be). What he made up for in manners and looks, he sadly lacked in moderation.

  Instead of fabric chairs, the pub could have done with a black leather couch and a timer, so I could be told when my session with Doctor U was up. It’s a shame because he is very nearly ‘my type’ and for someone else he would be ideal, but I left feeling as if my brain had gone ten rounds with Albert Einstein. That said, I’m not knocking intelligence; Mr Einstein would be a welcome dinner guest given the chance, and it’s very clear U has oodles of it, but given the choice of Einstein or the Wizard of Oz’s scarecrow, I know which I’d rather have.

  I’ve always been rather fond of the scarecrow, but scrub the last bit as I again get into mean mode.

  What did I learn from Monday night? That you’re never too young to be old. W was the epitome of a pipe and slippers man (and owned both – which, thankfully, I was spared). Again, our conversation was hard work and I felt from the moment I walked through the door that I was under scrutiny – initially from everyone in the pub as I’d got caught in the rain and made rather a grand entrance, but Mr Stuffy didn’t let up.

  His sister, who I’m pleased to report wasn’t there in body, appeared to be equally opinionated when her thoughts were relayed to me by W. I was tarred with the judgemental brush that seemed to run in his weirdly named family, but didn’t see the point in attempting to convince him that it didn’t apply to me. Before we’d even got to a second round of drinks, I left the pub implying I was off to do what all we women apparently are good at. I won’t tell you what, but suffice to say, it’s known as one of the oldest professions.

  I then remind the read
ers that my usual column will reappear later in the week and to let me know of any topics they wish covered. Some of the requests I get whenever I say this are often too weird to review, but it brightens my day.

  Something’s been bugging me for the last few days, so I aim for the desk of the office’s leading gossip queen. “Hi, Donna.”

  “Hey, Izzy.” She’s engrossed and doesn’t look up.

  “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Sure. Fire away,” she says, still looking at the paperwork.

  “It’s Marion. She seems in a better mood recently. Any idea why?”

  Donna takes a deep breath and looks up at me with her eyes wide, like she’s about to have PKR eye surgery. “I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

  I sit on the corner of her desk and lean in. “Proper gossip?”

  She puts her left-hand fingertips over her mouth and through them whispers, “I can’t really say.”

  “Donna.”

  Without removing her fingers she says, “Okay.” It rarely takes much. “She’s seeing someone.”

  “But she’s married, isn’t she?”

  Donna shakes her head. “Divorced, but says ‘Mrs’ is more professional.”

  “So who’s she seeing?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Donna!”

  She removes her hand. “All right then.” She’s such a soft touch. Leaning in to meet me, she whispers.

  “No!” I say a little too loudly and she pulls back sharply. “Is she mad? Don’t answer that, of course she is. Oh, that’s soooo funny!” I clap like a child who’s been told it can have the pick of the sweetshop.

  I rush over to Karen’s desk and whisper the news to her. She bursts out laughing, which gets our car guy Gerry curious, so she turns and leans in towards him. He laughs too and if it was a secret before Donna told me, it isn’t now.

  I turn round to Donna and mouth “Sorry,” but she shrugs. We both know she would have spilled sooner or later.

  I do a quick check of tallgirlnn1 and there are four messages. Two are from the remaining dates, StevieBoy and Bully4U, saying they’re looking forward to meeting me. I don’t need the other two (HotStuff and MickyD), but reply in case Stevie or Bully back out. I’m amazed I only lost two all month and am keeping everything crossed that the last two don’t let me down.

  I peer at the computer’s clock and it’s already twelve forty. I’m meeting Stevie at one, so gather my belongings. Donna holds up two crossed fingers as I look over, and I reply with a thumbs up.

  To avoid walking down the non-existent pavement alongside the bus station again, I cut through the Grosvenor Centre and out across the top of the market square.

  The café in the Fishmarket gallery is fairly tiny and Tuesdays after a bank holiday are notoriously quiet in town, so I reckon Stevie shouldn’t be too difficult to miss. And he’s not. In fact he’s the loudest person in there: clothes and personality. The other people consist of the two female staff, and they’re both behind the counter laughing at his every word. At least this isn’t going to be boring.

  According to his profile, Stevie is thirty-eight. I had my reservations about dating another older man after the previous night, but had high hopes from his profile terminology and messages, but how wrong was I?

  “All right, darlin’?”

  I can feel the synchronised swimmer’s smile coming back. Oh yes, there she is.

  I put my hand out to shake his, but he throws his arms around me like I’m a long-lost piece of luggage, and he’s got to claim me so I don’t escape again. I fight for breath as his twenty-plus stones of muscle squeeze all the air out of my lungs. He then realises my impending destruction and relinquishes his grasp.

  I’m glad he speaks next because I don’t think I can.

  “Sorry, darlin’. Gets a bit carried away. How are ya then?”

  “I’m good, thanks. And you?”

  He looks back at the counter staff and smiles in a Mary Poppins ‘Bert the chimney sweep’ kind of way. They giggle and I can tell he’s lapping it up. “I got me a posh bird ’ere.” I’m looking at Eliza Doolittle’s father, except Stevie’s dressed like a teenager.

  “What would you like, darlin’?”

  Through gritted teeth, I ask for a fruit tea and one of the assistants goes to make it and the coffee Stevie’s asked for. Turning to the waitress nearest to me, I ask her, in a normal fashion, what kind of sandwiches they do, and I’m impressed by the long list she reels off. I order, via her rather than him, a ham salad baguette and she goes off to make our lunches (after he’s said he’ll have the same and she’s almost drooled in my fruit tea).

  “Shall we sit somewhere?” I ask, begging this sideshow to end.

  “Sure, darlin’, wherever you like.”

  He pays the other woman, and I smile as she fumbles with the till. “We’ll bring them over,” she says, almost swooning, and I can imagine them arguing over who will do the delivering.

  I walk towards a table at the gallery end, carrying my tea and his coffee while he hovers behind to finish chatting with waitress number two and then they both walk towards me, him carrying my plate, while she carries his. I wonder why he couldn’t carry them both over, but the look they give each other confirms he obviously has a ‘plan b’ if things don’t work out with me. Which I know they won’t.

  By the time we’ve finished our sandwiches and chatted about music, films and what we both did at the weekend (I, of course, fabricated mine and I’m pretty sure, by the sound of it, his was just as farfetched – unless Sywell Aerodrome really does have sky diving, rock climbing and off-road aquaplaning facilities; ReadyEddie could tell me), it’s time for me to go back to work.

  “I ’ad a nice time, darlin’. See ya again right?”

  I’d love to say ‘Nah’, but I’m a posh bird, ain’t I, so I let him down gently. “Sorry, no. It wouldn’t work.”

  He shrugs. “Can’t blame a bloke for tryin’.”

  Indeed you can’t. I thank him for lunch and leave him to it. Before I walk round the corner towards the market square exit, I can’t resist looking back. My seat’s already taken by waitress number one, and he’s got his arm round her.

  Feeling like a peeping tom, I can’t help smiling as waitress number two realises what’s going on and storms over to the table. I don’t need to hang around to guess the rest of that scene.

  I manage to keep a straight face when walking back through reception. Marion’s on the phone, head down, writing a note of some description – perhaps a love letter. I wouldn’t put it past her. Work is pretty dull after that. I decide to type up my article in the morning, so with tallgirlnn1 up to date, I reply to the few incoming emails, then wade through two boxes of samples.

  Five o’clock eventually rolls around, and I’m out the door faster than you can say darlin’. Donna’s still slaving away on her opticians project, but she says it’s under control, so I don’t feel guilty. She’ll soon shout if she needs any more help.

  A quick stop at the corner shop for a paper and milk, then I settle in for an evening of reading. After the national newspaper, I read a bit more of Opaque and am thrilled to be nearing the end. Not because I want it to be over, but I’m impatient to know what happens. I’m not quite sad enough to read the ending in advance (never have, never will – some people do before they even buy the book, which I find very strange) and am pleased with myself for reading my first novel in months; I normally prefer short story anthologies, which better suit my impatient brain.

  Sadly, I don’t get far with Elliot as I fall asleep on the sofa and wake up at gone midnight with a stiff neck. The latter of course had nothing to do with mixing some of the milk with the remnants of a bottle of Baileys.

  Chapter 31 – Pete at McNeil, Duffy & Chilson

  I arrive at work to an email from Bully4U asking if he can change venues. I reply, asking what he has in mind, then crack on with my article with everything crossed that the last of the month’s dat
es goes smoothly.

  What did I learn from last night? That mixing Baileys with milk to make it taste like milkshake doesn’t remove the alcohol.

  Date thirty was lunch, so no alcohol was consumed anyway (and the Fishmarket Café doesn’t have a licence) and by the end of the very quick (under an hour) rendezvous, S (a character and a half) had secured two phone numbers – neither being mine. Women seem attracted to a man with confidence and I couldn’t fault S on his. It was oozing so much that it was rather sickly, but if sickly is what you like, he definitely is the man for you.

  I sit back in my chair and struggle for more content. Our conversation was very ordinary (except for the parts where I mentally throttled him for calling me darlin’ every few words) and there’s nothing else to add, so I continue with general feedback about the NorthantsDating site, that tonight will be my last ‘date’, and how much I’ve enjoyed (I find it so easy to lie on paper) the last thirty days. I encourage my newfound readers to keep reading my column once the usual reviews are back in situ and thank everyone for their encouraging emails.

  I stretch it out to the required word length and take the printed version to William.

  He’s coming off the phone as I walk in.

  “Hi, Izzy.”

  “Hello, William.”

  “How are you?”

  “Good thanks. You?”

  “Yes, thanks. And the article?”

  “It’s been an interesting month.”

  “Are you glad it’s coming to an end?”

  I’m not sure what I should say, seeing as he gave me the project in the first place, so I go for diplomacy. “In a way, but it’s been a great experience. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. We’ve had some excellent feedback on it. The bosses are pleased too.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re surprised?”

  “I suppose I don’t think of them having time to read every article.”