Do You Want to Know a Secret? (14 page)

Barbara gets rid of him with one of her level two contemptuous sneers then informs me we’re leaving.

‘But we have a table here. A TABLE! And chairs.’

‘Listen to you, Grandma. Drink up, we’re off. Zero per cent success here.’

‘Thanks so much, but I don’t want your pity. I’ll just sit here and drink all night.’

‘Vick, may I just remind you that, when it’s my turn, I will gladly put my career in your hands, but when it comes to guys, you’re in my house. Now grab your coat, we’re out of here. Quick, gobshite, incoming, two o’clock.’

She yanks me out the door just as a text comes through from Laura, bless her.

ANY LUCK?

Barbara grabs the phone from me and texts her back immediately.

IN FINDING ARSEHOLES, YES.

Laura’s straight back.

KEEP ME POSTED. COULD DO WITH THE DIVERSION. AM HOARSE FROM TRYING TO NAG MY WAY TO A PEACEFUL HOME.

10.15 p.m
.

Things are looking up. Barbara is a great advocate of dating feng shui: change location, change luck. So now we’re in Ron Blacks, a bar not so hip that it hurts, yet there don’t seem to be a lot of wedding bands floating around (told you; I’m lightning quick at checking), so therefore for our purposes, it’s a target-rich environment. Put it like this, like Barbara says, if this place was a singer it would probably be . . . Justin Timberlake. It’s packed so she drags me right into the middle of the throng, muttering something about ‘let the games begin’.

Right then. I grit my teeth the same way you see actors doing in submarine movies, and in I go.

11.15 p.m
.

YES!!! SUCCESS!!! Can barely believe it myself, but brace yourself; I actually got chatting to a perfectly sweet guy who I honestly couldn’t find anything wrong with. OK, maybe not earth-shatteringly handsome, if he was a movie star, he would probably be . . . Philip
Seymour
Hoffmann. You know, that bit older, maybe early forties, slightly chubby, sandy-haired, at first glance not much to look at, but then slowly grows on you then you realize that he could actually be considered sexy. OK, so he mightn’t ever get cast as Bond, but he’s not going to scare small children away, either. Slight Scottish accent too, which only heightens his attractiveness quotient even further. He’s wearing a cardigan, it has to be said, but in a Kurt Cobain way as opposed to the way my dad would. Now of course, the deal is he has to ‘pass’ Barbara and her unsubtle polite chit-chat/interrogation which goes along these lines.

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Ehhh, Eddie.’

‘Age?’

‘Forty-one.’

‘Single?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And not gay?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Looking?’

‘Aren’t we all?’

‘Proper job? I mean you’re not a contortionist or anything?’

‘Ehh, no, I mean yes, I have a permanent, pensionable job. Is that the right answer?’

You’d have to feel a bit sorry for him, the poor guy
must
either feel like he’s in a Second World War movie about the Gestapo and should have a light shining into his eyes, or that he’s on a game show and may be about to win a cash prize any minute.

Anyway, in the space of about three minutes, Barbara manages to find out more about him than I would have over the course of probably about three dates, namely that: a) he’s an accountant who works for CarterSimpson, therefore he passes the ‘must have a few quid’ part of my dating cheat sheet; b) he owns his own home and let it slip that he’s just had renovations done. Another box on the list of criteria successfully ticked. This means he’s therefore unlikely to have issues around the fact that there’s a plasterboard lifter in the bathroom chez moi. Oh yeah and no bath. c) Probably the most crucial of all,
he doesn’t seem to fancy Barbara
, which, actually, is kind of unheard-of. The minute she’s done giving him the third degree, instead of offering to buy her a drink, then slowly but subtly moving into her body space like any fella with a pulse normally does, the miracle happens. He turns back to me and continues the chat. We swap numbers and he says he’ll call and, whaddya know, I actually believe him.

As Barbara drags me out of the bar, no kidding, I feel like breaking into the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’.

Midnight

We had a bit of a row on the way to our next pit stop, on the grounds that I felt she’d severed me from the first interesting SINGLE guy who’d showed the slightest bit of interest in me since, like, Tony Blair left office, but she’s adamant. We’re on a one-drink maximum per establishment and that’s it. Besides, she says, he has my number and if he’s the type of bloke I’m now pursuing, i.e., one that actually wants to be with me, then he’ll call, simple as that. She’s quite right, of course, and this shuts me up. Plus, I remind myself, guys like to do all the running, at least that’s what Miramax Films and just about any movie written by Nora Ephron has taught me. It’s just that, up till Barbara took over ‘project Vicky’, I could never really relax unless I’d practically tattooed my number on to a guy’s hand so he’d REMEMBER to call me and what can I say? Old habits die hard.

12.30 a.m
.

Incredible, just incredible. Note to self: remember to send Barbara the biggest bunch of flowers tomorrow as a thank you. No, in fact, send two pizzas instead, timed to arrive just before
Oprah
comes on. She’d probably appreciate that gesture far, far more. We’ve barely walked in the door of Pravda, yet another packed, Thursday-night hangout for singles, when, with her trained
eye
, she spots a pair of likely lads over by these Las Vegas-style slot machines in a lovely, dark, thank God-no-one-will-be-able-to-see-all-my-wrinkles-in-this-dim-light corner. I go up to the bar and I’m not messing, by the time I come back with our drinks, she’s already done her twenty questions thing and, with a significant nod, introduces me to both of them. Brilliant, this means they must have passed her stringent quality control tests and I didn’t even have to be there to witness it.

Anyway, the slightly cuter one is called Peter, and if he was played by a Hollywood movie star, it would have to be . . . hmmmmm . . . Ralph Fiennes, definitely. Tall and lean, lovely deep-green eyes, and he looks right at me when we’re shaking hands, always a good sign. The other one is more like an Edward Norton-type with a shaved head, who doesn’t say very much and can’t take his eyes off Barbara.

‘
Peter
here was just telling me that he’s never been to Pravda before,’ Barbara says, palm outstretched as she’s introducing him to me, which in girl-code means, ‘He’s the one I’ve earmarked for you, so whaddya think?’

‘Really? Is that right, ehh, Peter, is it?’ I say, nodding and smiling a bit over-enthusiastically, so what I’m actually communicating back to Barbara, also in girl-code is ‘Yum, yum, yum. Me like.’

‘In fact, Peter was just saying he’s hardly been out at
all
since he broke up with his
girlfriend
, isn’t that right?’

She obligingly points up the second half of this sentence, so again, in girl-code, what she’s actually saying is, ‘single, straight, available’.

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Towards the end, Clare and I hardly ever went out together, it was all staying in watching re-reruns of
Only Fools and Horses
, like you somehow end up doing when you’re in a long-term relationship. I actually forgot places like this existed.’

Barbara and I exchange a fleeting but highly significant look, which in girl-code means: ‘Did you hear that? He just used the phrase “long-term relationship” and he’s
sober
.’

‘Clare liked to stay in a lot then, did she?’ Barbara asks, faux-sympathetically. But in girl-code she’s actually communicating to me, ‘Jesus, his ex must have bored the arse off him.’

‘Yeah, but you know how it is,’ he shrugs, in a not-at-all-feeling-sorry-for-himself way. ‘You know you’ve safely arrived in staid-couple-land when you start looking forward to Saturday nights in front of the TV with a takeaway. That’s the first of about ten signs. I should write a thesis, really.’

I laugh and say, ‘So what’s the second sign?’

‘You mean you don’t know? It’s usually when you find yourself in IKEA on a bank holiday Monday looking for a tenner off towel rails, that’s how you can be
certain
. Well, either that or when you’re pricing decking in Homebase, then worrying that mice might nest underneath it in the winter.’

We all laugh and Barbara, grade A dating wing-woman that she is, steers the friend ever so slightly out of earshot, girl-code for: ‘Right, do your thing and I’ll keep muggins here occupied.’

Honest to God, I don’t know how David Attenborough gets away with making documentaries about dolphins mating, and yet has managed to ignore the subtle yet highly effective workings of girl-code all these years.

It’s noisy and packed but I do manage to have a light and jokey, if brief, chat with Peter, and it turns out he’s been single for over six months, which by my calculation is just the perfect length of time to lapse before you’re really ready to move on and find someone else. Sez me, the girl who hasn’t been in anything really serious since the last pope was alive. Anyway, it turns out he and the ex are in business, they run a language school, so they still do work together. But on the plus side, he seems really cool about this and not on the verge of a nervous breakdown as I would be if I had to keep working with an ex on a day-to-day basis after we broke up. The strain of trying to look fabulous in an ‘I’m SO over you’ manner, day in day out, would probably kill me. The fact that he’s so easy with the whole
situation
I think bodes well; clearly this is a man of great inner strength and maturity. With a hot bod and lovely bulging pecs to boot.

1.30 a.m
.

I’m having such a good time that I’m actually a bit disappointed when Barbara invokes our dating code-phrase, ‘Come on, Vicky, we better call it a night, we both have those early meetings tomorrow.’ Plus, I nearly splutter into my margarita at the thought of Barbara being out of bed before the crack of lunch.

Note to self: we need a new code-phrase that’s a bit more appropriate, and a bit less of an outright lie. Anyway, Barbara’s business here isn’t quite done yet; as we’re finishing up drinks she turns to Peter and says brightly, ‘This was fun, we should do it again some time. Let’s all swap numbers.’

1.45 a.m
.

Me and Barbara are in a taxi now, and as the nippy night air hits me, I realize I’m drunkety-drunk-drunk, unlike her, but then she’s famous for having hollow legs.

‘You, you are my absholute and total, total heroine,’ I slur, hugging her.

‘Perfect time for us to get out of there,’ she says. ‘My guy was really starting to bore me. When he said he was a professional painter I thought he meant he was
something
cool, like an artist, but it turns out he meant apartment blocks. Two coats in one day, he was telling me.’

‘But he has your number now, what’ll you do if he calls?’

‘What I normally do, you dopey innocent. Use him for sex, what else?’

I snort with laughter and tell her about fifty times how much I LOVE love love her and how cool and fab she is. ‘I mean, why shidn’t we do this
years
ago?’ I slur a bit. ‘Two attractive men in one night? Barbara my sharling, you should teach a dating master-class. You should give sheminars. You should be like this dating guru and you should be out there sphreading the word.’

‘And you are completely twisted and I’m making you drink nothing but water at our next stop.’

3.00 a.m
.

Krystal nightclub. You won’t believe this and I can scarcely believe it myself. Me, the man-repeller, the one whose role in life it is to either get stuck at the bar or occupy myself by running to the Ladies to re-apply my make-up a lot while Barbara beats fellas off her with a stick, has just scored the hat trick, yes, you read that correctly, three in a row. Truly this momentous night will be spoken of in awe and wonderment for years to come. Anyhow, here’s what I remember, although it’s a
bit
vague and hazy, the natural effect of a night’s boozing on me.

2.00 a.m
.

We stagger, or rather, I stagger and Barbara just does her sexy, long-legged-glide-thing into Krystal with me still gushing on at her about how fab and sensational she is.

‘Just tell me shis,’ I say. ‘Is tshis like a normal Thursday night out for you? Cos if it shis, I’m coming out with you every Thursday from now till they’re wheeling us in here in bath chairs and we’re both ordering old lady sdrinks, like . . . I dunno, sweet sherry. Harvey’s Brishhtol Cream.’

‘Oh, come on, Vick, you’re fabulous, you’re gorgeous, why wouldn’t any guy want your number? Now cool down, you’re overreacting.’

‘You shthink
this
is an overreaction? Try being inside my head.’

‘When it’s your turn to be project manager, baby, I know you’ll do the same for me and I make you this solemn vow. You’ll be the first person I’ll thank in my Oscar acceptance speech.’

She has my arm in a vice grip now and is steering me towards two empty bar stools.

‘But shere’s a sofa over there!’ I have to shout over the DJ, but then I switch to an exaggerated stage whisper. ‘I
know
, we’ll just rob the reserved shign on it and just pretend we didn’t know.’

‘No, we’re sitting here, you big lush. Chances are if I plonk you on a sofa, you’ll only conk out, and I am
not
carrying you out the door. They
know
me in here.’

Bar stools it is. We plonk down and about two seconds later, the barman is over like a bullet, chatting up Barbara. It’s only after she introduces me and keeps repeating, ‘But Vicky, you must remember Nathaniel, I told you about him LOADS of times,’ that I eventually cop on. This is not just the Barbara-goggle factor in action, that’s not why he’s all over her like a hot snot, I think she’s slept with him and more than once, if memory serves. To cover my tracks I make a big show of saying, ‘Oh, it’s SO nice to meet you, you’re THAT Nathaniel, of course, yeshh, hi!’ As opposed to the other two hundred Nathaniels that we regularly hang around with. For good measure I think I even throw in, ‘He’shh even miles cuter than you shaid, Barbara.’