Cloudy with a Chance of Love (8 page)

‘No,' she said, ‘it's you. Don't give up hope. The night is yet young. You'll meet someone tonight – I can feel it in my water.'

‘You and your water!' I said affectionately, rolling my eyes.

‘My water has never been wrong,' nodded Sam. ‘Trust me.'

Macca – no shoes – strode on over holding a large rosé, and a lemonade for me.

‘Thank you,' we said in unison.

‘No problem, ladies,' he said in a deep voice. ‘I look forward to seeing you both at the tables, shortly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go for a wazz. The old pipework's not what it used to be.'

I pretended to swoon and said, in a Scarlett O'Hara southern drawl, ‘I do de
clare
, what a
dashing
young man! Romance is surely not dead!'

‘Ha, ha, Daryl, you crack me up.'

‘Well, really!' I said. ‘A “wazz”? I'm not going to meet anyone here tonight.
Neither
of us are going to meet anyone here tonight.'

‘Daryl,' said Sam sternly. ‘There are probably
lots
of great men in here.'

‘Really?' I said petulantly. ‘Well I can't see any of them.'

‘That's because you're not looking properly. You have to see past the outfits. The dodgy make-up and wigs. The… love-handles and gammy legs. They're all right here, Daryl. You just need to open your eyes to them!' She gestured round her, with a sweeping hand, while my eyes rolled so much they probably resembled a fruit machine. ‘Stop it Daryl! Your glass needs to be half full, not half empty! Open your heart!' I looked at our glasses. Her glass of rosé was nearly all gone. I had barely sipped my lemonade. I really should be getting drunk to get through this tonight. Why had I brought my bloody car?

‘I know I said I wanted to date,' I whined, ‘but it's all so overwhelming. What am I supposed to say to all these men?''

‘Nothing, until Round Three…' said Sam. ‘Look, just chat, be your lovely funny self. Do what comes naturally and don't worry about
flirting
. If it's in the stars, it's in the stars. He'll come your way.'

‘
If you build it, they will come
?'

‘Something like that.'

‘And how come it's not written in
your
stars tonight? Why is it only going to be me that meets someone?'

‘It's not hot enough in here – they're being a bit over-zealous with the air-con.'

I laughed.

‘Enjoy yourself,' said Sam. ‘Try and get into it.'

I thought back to my four resolutions in front of the fountain at Trafalgar Square. Enjoy my freedom was one of them; I'd forgotten that. I
should
try and enjoy myself.

‘Okay, for you, Sam, I'm going to try and get into it.'

‘Fabulous!'

I didn't really want to mime at these men, stare into their eyes, marry them and have Speed Date babies, even if that
was
still biologically possible, but for Sam I'd give it a go.

Suddenly a horrible klaxon thing sounded. Nigel was standing back at the mike, with the stance of an old time singer. He looked like he might break into a croon at any second, like Tony Bennett. Isobel was at his side, beaming and stuffing her cleavage into her dress with a gloved hand. ‘Singles!' he boomed. ‘Please take a seat and let's find you your destiny!'

Sam grinned. I groaned. Here goes nothing, I thought. I plastered a great big smile on my face and walked over to the tables.

Chapter Six

I suffered a Freddie Mercury, a Frank Sinatra and an Elvis all in the space of nine minutes. It should possibly be re-named speed
hating
, as they were all bloody awful, and god knows what they were trying to mime to me. As far as I could determine, Freddie liked croquet and decaf tea, Frank worked as a butcher and was very good at charming old ladies with a nice bit of brisket and Elvis had some sort of problem with his bottom. Elvis
did
mime singing into a microphone, at one point, but he was probably just some bloke from Tooting who worked down the local chip shop and occasionally went to karaoke.

My next suitor was Ozzy Osbourne. Even as he approached my table he had his phone surgically attached to one hand while the other swiped people. Tinder, I bet. Once he sat down, he half-heartedly mimed emptying bins, but his eyes kept either glazing over or glancing to the next table where Katy Perry was pouting and flicking her hair. He looked like he couldn't wait to get over there and I was happy for him to move on, too. There was no connection between us whatsoever. I'd never liked men with shaggy hair and heavy eyeliner. We sat there in silence for the remaining minute, with Ozzy looking at the neighbouring table from between squinted, heavily kohled eyes, and Katy looking back at him, in between miming to her suitor that she was a lap dancer.

Nigel sounded the klaxon and Ozzy stood up. He didn't even bother to say goodbye and practically sprinted to lap dancing Ms Perry and her mimed pole. I had an urge to stick two fingers up behind his back, then I remembered I'd have to face him again in two more rounds. Oh good god. I wished I could have buzzed him off somehow. The next two rounds would be a complete waste of time if all the men were like him.

The next guy had come as Elton John: rainbow, heart-shaped glasses; badly-fitting toupee; mad hands. He didn't stop miming; I couldn't get a mime in. In that two minutes and with not a single word said, I found out he lived in Twickenham, that he worked as a fork-lift driver, that he had three children and a red setter, and enjoyed puzzles and playing scrabble. The wackiness and the excellent miming aside, he seemed very dull. There was no spark there, and his grin was quite inane. I was dreading looking into his eyes during the next round as I knew he'd just pull silly faces.

And so it went on. A succession of not very attractive frogs and certainly none worth kissing: Boy George, Michael Jackson and Kanye West (gold camouflage trousers, anyone?) all came and went, with underwhelming effect. Adam Ant was, as suspected, a sex pest. I found out later he'd mimed ‘having it away' so many times he'd got himself thrown out before he even reached my table. Then there was the Paul McCartney fellow (bell ringer, apparently), a Bruno Mars who told me by the medium of mime that he worked in a pie shop, and a David Bowie, circa ‘Modern Love', who wasn't quite pulling off the yellow suit – he was as wide as he was tall.

They came and they went. I didn't fancy kissing any of them. Not even just to see. Only one was slightly intriguing; a Mick Jagger lounge lizard who mimed reciting poetry and smoking. I looked forward to seeing him again – he was surprisingly good looking and a little bit sexy – everyone else was an obvious no hoper.

The klaxon was once again the clanging bell of doom. The first round was over and I was already exhausted. Nigel appeared again, looking slightly unsteady, to announce the second. He actually said ‘Take it away!' and I braced myself for the dreaded ‘staring'.

The first guy I got, Michael Jackson II, kept winking at ten second intervals. He hadn't quite got the brief. I actually found the non-stop staring really difficult; it was like that hideous game you play when you're kids. I could never do it. My eyeballs always hurt after five seconds – the eye equivalent of a stitch – and I'd blink more than ever. Playing it with your brother was bad enough, playing it with a complete stranger was totally freaking me out. The second guy… oh god help me, it was Elton again, and he now looked even more of a nutter. The staring brought out a random twitch at the side of his nose. He looked like he was wincing at a constant bad egg smell or that he was a very sensitive bunny rabbit. I wanted to focus on something else, like his chest hair, but that was against the rules. The eyes it was. It was unbearable.

Ozzy was next. He looked as enchanted as I was. He stared at me in quite a hostile manner for the first minute and nodded off for the second. I looked across at Sam. She was on the table by the door opposite someone who looked like Rod Stewart, and had another full glass of wine in front of her. She winked at me and I shrugged in return.

The klaxon sounded. It was time for Mr Osbourne to move on. I nudged his elbow with my hand. He blinked his kohled eyes, mumbled, ‘See you' and meandered off.

Fourth starer was Kanye. He didn't blink once. I felt like I was going into a trance. He was like the snake singing ‘Trust in Me' from the Jungle Book – I thought the whites of my eyes would turn into spirals and I'd fall away in a dead faint.

Finally, it was over and Kanye loped off to scare Katy Perry half to death. It really wasn't going very well, so far. None of these men were for me; there was no one here I liked. I was incredulous at the thought someone could waltz into my life in four days' time. How ridiculous!

Oh, hang on, I thought, things could be looking up. Mick Jagger was slouching up to the table. I liked his style and didn't think he'd even come in fancy dress. He wore a louche, undone paisley scarf over a navy velvet jacket
extremely
well; his skinny jeans and pointy boots were just the right side of flamboyant. He sat down with a waft of aftershave and a lopsided grin, Nigel's klaxon went off, and we began looking into each other's eyes. It was really intense – quite sexy. Ooh, he could be interesting. His eyes were really dark and broody, his eyebrows all dense and quizzical and he looked like he was not only undressing me with his eyes but tethering me to a willow tree and whipping me lightly with peacock feathers. By the time the klaxon sounded I was quivering slightly and praying that when I spoke to him in the next round he'd have a voice like a rumbling Heathcliff and not disappoint with an unmanly helium squeak.

The remaining contents of an eighties reunion festival, Ringo, Bruce, Bruno and that low rent Michael Bublé later, Nigel announced the third round with two blasts of that bloody klaxon and a balletic twirl. He was staggering around a bit now and laughing wildly at random, while Isobel glared disapprovingly from the wings and waved a grubby gloved finger at him. Finally, I'd get to actually talk to someone, I thought. Bring it on. Let's get this whole charade over with, and as quickly as possible.

Up first to the post was Ozzy and he cut straight to the chase.

‘Do you fancy me?'

‘Do what?'

He acknowledged my surprise. ‘Well, no point beating about the bush, is there?'

He would never be beating or anything else about
my
bush, so I decided to join him in the straight-talking.

‘No, there isn't. And no, I don't fancy you.'

‘Ditto,' he said. ‘You're a bit too fat. Next!' and he made a great show of looking behind him as though Britney bloody Spears was going to be waiting there, ready to fall at his ridiculous feet. Well, actually she was. She had a pina colada in her hand and was swaying slightly, in front of the bar.

‘The klaxon hasn't gone yet,' I said tersely. ‘And I am
not
fat.' Fat! How dare he? At least he could have had the decency to say
curvaceous
. He should pack up his Tinder and go.

‘I'll just go and hover,' he said. He downed the rest of his beer, issued a small belch and went and stood at the next table, where pole-dancing Katy was tittering at Bruno Mars.

At least he was honest, I thought, as I gave a giant sigh. About not fancying me, that was. And I'd been honest with him. I suppose this was the point of speed dating, right? Quick fire. Do you like me, yes or no? Then move on, as quickly as possible. It was very cut throat, and also very antiquated, really. Men move round and round, all proactive, while women wait at the tables like sitting ducks. Still, you could argue I was proactive simply
being there
. I was out. I was open to suggestion. I was not sitting at home with a box set of
Mad Men
and a large portion of chocolate cheesecake.

I smiled ruefully and looked around the room. Some people were laughing, others sat in nervous or cheesed-off stony silence. A few women were furiously hair-flicking. The only people actually roaring with laughter were the hosts. Isobel had got over her disapproval and she and Nigel were now hanging onto each other in convulsions. She had a large glass of something in her hand. He was stroking her wig.

Timberlake, Jackson et al passed through my table on their way to better prospects. None of them were very interesting or at all interested in me. Our conversations were dull, uninspiring and devoid of sparkle. Now I really wanted to go home. I looked around for Sam. She was with a red-faced Boy George and was laughing her head off and flinging her arms around. Sam was having fun, Sam was great; she'd make the best out of anyone. Maybe it was just me who was a miserable old cow. Maybe that's why Jeff had left me.

My Last Man. Oh god, it was him. Mick Jagger. My prospective Heathcliff. God knows why I was calling him that and hoping he'd be that way. I'd read that book; it was bloody awful. Still, I did hope his voice matched his pleasing appearance. Things could be looking up.

He was tall. Really tall. He still looked tall sitting down. He was quite delectable, I decided, but I didn't know if my opinion was a result of the other men being so terrible. I readjusted my cleavage. It was looking a bit uneven. It often does. The ‘v' of my top had veered too far to one side and half a boob was exposed. I sorted myself and it didn't go unnoticed. Mick gave a sexy half smile, his eyebrows raised in a seductive fashion. I blushed under my bronzer and my highlighter. Highlight your face, it makes you look younger, all the magazines said, but I may have overdone it tonight. I'd done nose, chin, cupid's bow, below eyebrows and apples of the cheeks. I looked glowing and illuminated and like I'd been dabbed all over the face with a Pritt Stick. Concentrate, I thought. You've got his complete attention. Okay, let's have it. What
was
his voice going to be like?

‘Hello,' I said, in what I hoped was a highly alluring manner.