Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (19 page)

‘So, is that a “yes”?’

‘Yes! No! Oh, I don’t know.’ Ginny sighed. ‘Look, Alice, you’ve got to do what’s right for you. You’re a brilliant matchmaker whose talent is being ignored by a bitch of a boss with the social skills of a third-world dictator. You can stay where you are and keep getting trodden on, or you can jump ship and get your talent recognized by a
new
bitch of a boss with the morals of an alley cat. The choice is yours, but it’s pretty obvious to anyone who’s ever met you which one you’re going to choose.’

‘I choose the clients,’ Alice said simply. ‘Which means I choose Audrey. At least she’s honest.’ She didn’t want to contemplate the lurking fear that Audrey might not be. She didn’t even want to air the suggestion out loud.

‘Bang goes the greenhouse,’ warned Ginny.

‘Bang goes the greenhouse,’ Alice repeated solemnly.

Lou almost didn’t pick up the phone. It was 11.30 p.m. and she couldn’t be bothered to do small talk with anyone beyond ten o’clock at night. Unless the small talk was in a bar with a bloke and might end in a shag. But if she was wrapped in a blanket, knocking back a bottle of red and chain-scoffing Mars bars in front of a late-night TV programme about an ill-fated, surgically enhanced Italian porn star who swapped a life in blue movies for the world of politics, then small talk was definitely off the agenda.

But the ringing was very persistent.

It had to be Kate.

Without tearing her eyes from the TV Lou groped for the phone.

‘I’ve just had the second worst night of my life!’

It
was
Kate.

‘Obviously
nothing
could be worse than my date at The Privet with Sebastian. But tonight was a close second.’

Above the breathy panting on the TV Lou could hear Kate was short of breath too. She was obviously in a rush to impart gossip.

‘So, I had my date with Michael tonight. You know, the owner of that internet start-up company?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Lou had long since discovered that phone calls with Kate often required minimum input from herself. Sometimes she could go for half an hour without uttering anything that would qualify as a full Oxford-English-Dictionary-recognized word.

‘Well, after my date with Sebastian, Alice suggested I pick the venue this time. So I told him to meet me at Luigi’s.’

Lou topped up her glass. It was clearly going to be a classic Kate call: a minute-by-minute account of her night.

‘So there I was, at 8.30 p.m.,
as agreed
. No sign of him. So I waited. And waited. You’ll never guess what time he turned up!’

‘Ummm,’ Lou hummed, her mouth full of wine.

‘Nine o’clock!’ Kate retorted angrily. ‘Nine o’bloody clock! The cheek of him! He was lucky I was still there! I’d felt such an idiot sitting on my own, everyone thinking I’d been stood up – me included!’

Lou tutted. The Italian porn star was meeting a white-coated specialist who was telling her that, for medical reasons, her fourth breast enlargement had to be her last. Lou goggled at her mammoth breasts. They looked like spacehoppers with nipples. She was mental if she wanted them bigger.

‘So, he eventually turns up and witters some excuse about work being busy and it being hard to get away. I mean, tell me something I don’t know!
My
work’s busy.
I
find it hard to get away. It doesn’t mean
I’m
thirty minutes late. “And
besides,” I said, “aren’t you the boss? Can’t you just delegate, or something?” Except obviously I said it much nicer than that, because I don’t want him to think I’m one of those women who gets stressed about everything. And he just looks at me with this sad little smile, and then his Blackberry rings and he
only bloody takes the phone call
! At five past nine! When he’s just turned up . . .
late
... for a date!’

‘Bastard,’ Lou muttered automatically. The porn star was going for more surgery regardless.

‘So I sat there, trying to smile and look relaxed, and he eventually gets off the phone and buys me a drink. And we’re just starting to talk about what he does for a living and the phone rings again . . .
and he takes it
! We’re twenty minutes into the date and already he’s spent ten on the phone!’

Lou tsked and took a large bite of Mars bar.

‘Anyway, after that we eventually get to talk a bit, and he’s really nice, you know. Handsome, although tired-looking. And clearly he’s very clever because his business is doing really well. So I think, well, maybe I’ll let him off being late and taking the calls because he’s obviously got ambition and is going places. So I went to the loo to check my hair but when I get back he’s got his laptop out and is fiddling around with some spreadsheet. Apparently he’d just had an idea to add to a presentation he’s giving tomorrow, and if he didn’t add it in at that very moment he’d forget it. So I sat there and watched him tapping keys. And the next thing I know he’s answering his emails too. He keeps apologizing, saying that this is the price of owning
your own company, but meanwhile I’m sitting there like an idiot, staring at the lid of his computer and wondering when our date is actually going to begin.’

‘Nightmare,’ said Lou hollowly.

‘So, around ten-ish he finally puts the computer away and we get some more drinks and start to talk. And I’m thinking to myself, well, I can see why you needed to join Table For Two. I asked him how many nights a week he worked late, and he said “all of them”. “But what about girlfriends?” I asked. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I haven’t been very good at keeping them.” Apparently none of them last longer than a couple of weeks; they all get fed up and scarper. Funny that! Anyway, he offered to walk me home, and I thought, why not? He’s very handsome and I’ve always wanted a boyfriend who owns his own business. But the minute we leave, his phone rings, and he’s talking to some bloke called Mo who runs his Japanese office
all the way home
. He doesn’t even hang up when we reach my front door! He just puts Mo on hold! Can you believe it?’

Lou took her cue and exhaled loudly in sympathetic exasperation. The porn star has made it all the way to the Italian parliament where she looks very fetching in a collection of tight suits and schoolmistress glasses. But it’s bad news on the health front. One of her implants has leaked into her bloodstream. Doctors have told her she’s only got months to live, but she’s battling courageously on, keeping her political appointments and not letting the public know how ill she is in case the outcry of sympathy gets in the way of her doing her important political work.

‘And then he leans over, kisses me on the cheek and says, “Great night, let’s do it again soon.” Great night? What planet is this man on? He spent most of the night effectively in the office! It’s no wonder he’s single! He’s got no time for a girlfriend. His girlfriend is his job!’

‘People in glass houses,’ Lou muttered darkly.

‘What?’ Kate was too indignant to hear. ‘I’m going to ring Alice and tell her to have a word with him. He’s never going to find someone unless he switches off his Blackberry. She’s got to help this man. He’s so good-looking but he’s wasting the best years of his life!’

Lou smiled evilly. ‘It’s going well then, Table For Two?’

‘Oi! I don’t want any of your negativity! It’s just a couple of false starts, that’s all. You can’t expect to pick up a tennis racket and serve an ace straight off.’

‘Right.’

It was too late at night for unexpected metaphors. The Italian porn star had kicked the bucket and was being given something akin to a state funeral. Thousands of mourners were filing past her open casket, gazing upon her immaculately made-up face and doubtless wondering how the officials were going to force the coffin lid down over her gigantic knockers.

‘I’ve got complete confidence in Alice,’ Kate protested passionately.

‘Whatever you say,’ Lou agreed blandly, and drained her glass.

Audrey carefully hung her dry-cleaning on the coat rack and closed her front door behind her. She sighed. It had been a pig of a day. Hilary had inconsiderately scheduled a midwife appointment for mid-morning, so Audrey had not only been landed for a few hours with the management of the website and its inevitable accompanying headache, but she’d also compounded her misfortune by picking up a ringing telephone only to discover Maurice Lazenby on the other end. In the words of Cassandra, she’d been well and truly
Mauriced
; forced to endure his latest tales of dating woe for forty endless minutes. The only bright part of the day had been her conversation with Max Higgert, who’d been surprisingly enthusiastic about a potential date with Hayley the veterinary nurse. Audrey still had her doubts about the wisdom of the match. She only hoped Hayley would have the good sense to keep her hand in her lap. Goodness knows what Max would think if he caught a glimpse of her defective digit.

But tonight was not a night for wrestling with the love lives of her clients. There was much to do. The Dating
Practitioners’ Society annual ball was just twenty-four short hours away!

Audrey fussily smoothed down the polythene around her ball gown. The dress was a floor-length petrol blue, generously cut and a long-term faithful. Mid-length sleeves and a sensible neck hid her problem areas of chunky arms and a crêpey chest. Audrey still needed to press her cream stole, but she’d already confirmed her appointment to have her hair set tomorrow lunchtime, and she’d brushed her best suede courts at the weekend.

Still in her coat, she reached for the telephone.

‘Hello, Geraldine? Audrey Cracknell here. I’m just double-checking that everything’s tickety-boo for John Marlowe tomorrow evening . . . I need him at 7.30 prompt. Yes, I know I’ve told you this before . . . Yes, it probably was twice.’

Audrey’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror above the telephone stand, and she pushed her unruly orange hair into place. It never did have any shape or texture. Years ago someone had cruelly remarked upon her follicular similarity to Arthur Scargill. It still rankled.

‘Now, it’s a black-tie event,’ she continued into the telephone, ‘and I’d like John to wear his cornflower blu— Oh, I mentioned that too? Well, jolly good. Better to be safe than sorry . . . Right, well, goodbye.’