How to Get a (Love) Life (7 page)

‘Do you want them someday? Children?’ Caroline pressed.

‘Yes, of course, um … with the right person,’ I said vaguely. Caroline dropped her head to type something and then looked up at me.

‘And how about smokers?’ she asked. ‘You don’t seem the type to like smokers, but I’m just curious …’

‘Children smokers or smokers in general?’ I quipped.

‘Smokers as a group. Forget children, just smokers, smoking, how do you feel about them on the whole?’

‘Look, Caroline I have no idea why you want to discover every little thing about me on this dreary Monday morning, but I know you are up to something. With regards to smoking,
I
don’t like it, but I don’t mind if others want to partake of a cigarette or two. Happy?’ I finished, scowling at her.

‘In your home?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Do you mind if they smoke in your home?’ she went on.

I sighed.

‘Caroline, are you organising some kind of Smokers Anonymous get together in my home? Because, yes. I do mind. I don’t want smokers in my flat.’

‘Right, phew, good, thought so.’ She tapped at her keyboard once more.

‘Okay,’ I frowned. ‘What do you keep typing?’

‘Nothing,’ Caroline replied, eyes darting left then right.

‘You’re lying!’

‘It’s a …’ She clicked on her mouse again. ‘A …’

‘Yeeeeesss?’

‘A press release.’

‘A press release for what?’

‘Oh, um …’ She closed her eyes. ‘A press release for a new … a new … Oh fine.’ She crumpled. ‘Fine it’s not a press release, Poirot, it’s a little something I am doing for you. A
favour
if you must know. It was supposed to be a surprise.’

‘What favour?’ I asked, reckoning that this favour might not be favourable at all.

We both jumped as James wordlessly swept past us and out of the office. I shook my head and turned my attention back to Caroline. ‘Explain yourself?’ I hissed.

Caroline tutted. ‘Alright, Alright! I might have signed you up to that dating website I showed you.’

‘Nooo.’ I put my head in my hands.

‘Look, Nic, you don’t have to do anything about it, but take a look, see who’s on there. Some of the fellas are gorgeous.’

‘Hmm …’ I groaned, unconvinced.

‘Honestly, if I was ten years younger,’ she sighed dreamily. ‘Look, I’ll send you the link and you can just have a little look at who is out there. I’ve made you sound great. Not that you’re not, but well, you sound great, because you are great, oh, Nic, just look at it.’

‘Fine, fine, fine, fine,’ I said, lifting my hands in surrender, ‘I will look at it, but—’

Before I could finish my sentence, James erupted back through the office door, a determined expression on his face and clutching a hammer in his right hand.

‘Everything all right in here?’ he asked, seeing our startled faces.

‘Er … yes. Lovely,’ Caroline said.

‘Great, just great,’ I added, the two of us worriedly eyeing the hammer.

‘Good, good,’ James said, stalking through to his office and slamming the door behind him. A sudden flash of light went off to my right.

‘Smile!’ Caroline said, springing up by my desk. ‘It’s for your profile on the site.’

I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the bright light from where it had imprinted on my retinas. A few moments later Caroline said, ‘Sent!’

I slumped into my chair. So, Nicola Brown was now on the internet. On a dating website. This whole process was frightening. Was it weird to be so blatant about my quest to find a date? The fact that millions of other people did it every day didn’t really make me feel any better.

My email pinged as a new message popped up. ‘Welcome to Find Me A Mate! Nicola Brown.’

The two hippos were kissing. I put my head back in my hands. Oh God.

From James’ office, I heard the sound of a vase smashing.

Chapter Nine

Single girl WLTM real man in the flesh. Not internet weirdo who says he is athletic and 30 and is, in fact, 55 and medically obese.

Contact: Box No. 90002

I got home that evening feeling ready to tackle the task ahead: Find me a mate
my
way. Caroline’s efforts had prompted me into further action. I needed to continue with my plans, claw back some control. I settled myself onto my lovely squishy sofa and forced my mind back to past relationships. I reached into the shoebox of letters I’d retrieved earlier from the top shelf of my wardrobe. Squirreling through the pile of papers, I pulled out one particularly dog-eared photo from my last year of university. There we were. The two of us. Even without the photograph, I was able to recall every detail in my mind. I remembered the day it was taken. His arm was slung over my shoulders, his warm smile directed towards the camera. I was beside him, blissfully content, relaxed, my body melting into his. He’d just asked me to move in with him after graduation. Exactly a month later he’d left me. I was distraught. To make matters worse I’d only just scraped a third-class degree after three years of studying and having always been top in my year. It was then that I vowed not to ever let another man mess up my life. Of course I’d had the odd evening out, the odd date, but nothing that ever came to anything. I was completely closed off. Protecting myself from hurt had been my grand plan. And it had worked. It had worked so well that now, seven years later, I was sitting alone in my flat wondering where the girl in the picture had gone; the girl brimming with confidence, with a wide grin and glowing skin, shiny dark hair flowing over her shoulders, the girl completely at home amidst the buzz of university life, surrounded by friends. My throat felt thick as I traced her outline with my finger. She had been me. She was still me. I felt determined to find her again.

With renewed energy, I got up and rummaged through the drawer of my desk, pulled out my address book, practically blew the cobwebs from its surface and took a deep breath. This was it. The summary of past relationships, friendships, people that had fallen by the wayside. People I’d let go. I smoothed my hand over the cover. Right. I flipped to A, pen poised. There was Suzie Allen at the top, a friend from university who used to sleepwalk, then there was Bob Arkman, a handy electrician who’d moved away from the area and, oh, there was Jon Allen who I’d once gone out with for the weekend to learn clay pigeon shooting. Taking the highlighter I’d purchased for this exact job, I highlighted Jon Allen. The first possibility. Aside from the clay pigeon shooting I remembered little about Jon. I’d worked with him briefly in London and he had once sent me a Christmas card with penguins kissing. Now that I came to think of it – a promising start.

But I had 25 other letters of the alphabet to check through. I opened a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and got to work.

The entire bottle of wine, three raspberry yoghurts, and a peach later, I had my list.

NICOLA’S LIST

Jon Allen – Clay pigeon guy, 1 Christmas card (penguins kissing – suggestive?)

Fred Davies – Think he lives in Liverpool. (Consider long-distance relationships at later date?)

Edward Gough – One kiss circa 1995, possibly his parent’s address (double check this).

Paul Kleiner – German, so would need to rely a lot on mime, but might have better grasp of English language by now?

Clive Reegan – Had long-term girlfriend, but once laughed at a joke I made in a seminar, a good guy.

Steve Thompson – Played in jazz band of old firm. Hot. Wore a Swatch.

Jake Young – Old university flatmate. Have seen him use sink as toilet, not sure can move on from that.

By the end of the list I reckoned Jon Allen was not a bad bet at all, but I was encouraged to see a couple of other possibilities there too. Step One, tick.

Chapter Ten

Tuesday in the office was unbearable. In the morning Caroline spent hours staring at me, denying she was staring at me, or staring at me from behind other objects. In the afternoon when I finally told her to PLEASE STOP STARING AT ME, she asked me numerous questions: what was I going to wear for the date that night? Was I nervous? Wasn’t I glad I was getting
out there
? The last phrase was delivered with a very gung-ho voice and when we left the office at the end of the day she gave me a hearty slap on the back, as if she were sending me to the front line.

I scuttled out into the cold, wet night and headed to the coffee shop opposite our office until it was time for the date. I was meeting Andrew in the Café Rouge at the top of Park Street. It would only take me two minutes to walk there, so I had plenty of time to compose myself beforehand. Most of the shops were shut for the night, though the glow of their window displays were a warming contrast to the darkness outside. I pushed open the coffee shop door, headed straight to the counter and ordered an espresso, before taking a seat in the corner.

I was particularly dreading the start of the date; did we hug, kiss or shake hands? Then how long would we have to spend lumbering through the inevitable small talk and coping with lengthy awkward pauses? How early on would I be forced to comment on the décor of the restaurant, him on the general ambience? And what was the right food for the occasion? I’d been on one date at university and ordered the spaghetti bolognese – student budget – and had spent the entire evening unwittingly talking through a little moustache of tomato sauce. I started to panic. Dinner was quite a commitment. What if we decided we didn’t like the look of each other on sight? What if, over the starter, we discovered we had conflicting world views and there was simply no hope of compatibility? Did we then throw down our soup spoons, split the bill and wander off into the night?

I spent five minutes in the loo of the coffee shop, which earned me a raised eyebrow from the owner. I wondered if they had CCTV … I hoped not; I must have looked ridiculous, doing those five minutes of deep-breathing exercises while intently staring at my own reflection in the mirror. I checked my make-up, straightened my crisp pale-pink shirt, paid the bill and headed to Café Rouge. My stomach plunged as I saw Andrew already sitting at a table in the window of the restaurant. Well, I assumed it was Andrew, simply due to the fact that he was the only lone man waiting in there. He was studying a newspaper with a slight frown on his face. I couldn’t get a good look at him. He glanced up as I pushed open the door, cast aside the paper and stood up to greet me – I noticed he was a tad on the short side, but at least he was punctual. I liked that.

Stooping a fraction, I held out my hand. ‘Andrew?’

‘Nicola,’ he said, shaking it. ‘You look just like your photo. Actually better.’ Then he smiled. I felt relief sweep through me. He seemed relatively normal, his handshake was an appropriate pressure, he’d demonstrated an ability to make eye contact and pronounce my name: all positives. ‘I reserved us a table,’ he said, indicating a small, candlelit table on the left-hand side of the room.

‘Great!’ I smiled, as a skinny waiter appeared and took my coat. ‘Thanks!’

Okay. Phew.
This is all going to be fine
.

I unrolled the napkin and placed it carefully on my lap. Andrew sat down, handed me a menu and we both scanned it, wondering who was going to get the conversation going. Andrew did the honours with a polite, ‘This looks good.’

I nodded my head and agreed with a hearty, ‘Doesn’t it?’

Then we lapsed into silence once more.

Fortunately, the waiter appeared and after a vague pretence at perusing the wine list, Andrew ordered the House White.

‘Very good, Sir.’ I just knew the he wanted to roll his eyes.

When the waiter departed, Andrew turned his attention to me. ‘So, Nicola, this is a little strange but I’m glad we’re both here.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m not exactly a serial dater.’

‘Me neither,’ I said, pleased that he’d broken the ice.

We chatted fairly amiably for the next few minutes and sank easily into a few of our favourite Caroline-related anecdotes. The story about her family’s week in France camping in torrential rain, ha ha ha, a friend’s wedding in Manchester where Caroline had fallen into a fountain taking their photo, ha ha ha. This wasn’t too difficult. It was actually going well!

Andrew seemed to find my stories interesting. He wasn’t checking his fingernails, looking over my shoulder, examining his reflection in a spoon – so I couldn’t be doing too dreadfully. I started to relax into it.

We moved into fresh conversational terrain: where we both lived, where we were brought up, our hobbies, and what we would do with a million pounds (I’d panicked and plumped for establishing a turtle sanctuary). Andrew worked as a teacher at a local secondary school that I’d heard of, and I even managed to comment on some maths genius that had left there with ten A*’s last August and had appeared in
The Telegraph
.

‘So, what made you become a teacher?’ I asked, resting my elbows on the table.

‘Oh, I had a horrible passion for my subject – I teach Geography. I was always nose-deep in an encyclopaedia when I was younger – obsessed with volcanoes and earthquakes. I suppose teaching seemed the natural course for me.’

‘Why not a PHD or, I don’t know, a lecturer?’

‘That’s a great question, Nicola,’ Andrew said, sipping his wine. I smiled to myself, imagining just what he was like in the classroom. ‘I was pretty unsure about becoming a school teacher initially – I’m not particularly confident – but I knew I wanted a good excuse to talk about all the things that had fascinated me as a child, and a teacher seemed the obvious choice. I figured the pupils would be sweet little smaller versions of me.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do it,’ I said shaking my head at him. ‘I’d hate having to stand up and talk to a whole class of teenagers about, well, anything.’

The waiter appeared before Andrew could reply. He placed a mushroom risotto in front of me and my mouth watered at the smell.
I could get used to dating in nice restaurants
. Andrew had ordered chicken with a cheese sauce and a creamy-looking mashed potato. He ordered some more wine, and after my first bite of delicious risotto, I picked up our conversation.