Kismetology (12 page)

I add in Mum's hobbies and interests first, and then the
likes and dislikes—one word answers are easy.

Eventually, my ad reads something like this:

Hi, I’m Mackenzie, and this may seem like a strange
request, but I’m looking for a guy to date my mother. She’s friendly, bubbly
and vivacious. She loves animals, walking and swimming and teaches yoga.
Eleanor is forty-nine years old, and I’d like her to meet a genuine man of the
age forty-five to sixty. If you fit the bill, please contact me for more
details and a potential meeting.

I’m worried that I still sound too businesslike, but really,
what other way is there to deal with men? They need it laid out in front of
them, like a business proposition. I briefly wonder if we wouldn’t all be
better off we approached love like we would a business transaction. Maybe I
should continue with my "job interview dates" rather than trying to
be friendly and make useless conversations with men who make reptiles seem like
attractive company.

I can’t decide whether I should search the site for suitable
men myself, or if I should wait on some responses to my own profile. I think
I’ll wait. I mean, I suppose I should get the hang of the whole thing first. I’m
not even sure how you respond to profiles you like. I think you email through
the site, so you don’t have to give them your real email address in case
they’re creeps or spam fiends.

If waiting is the way to go, then I don’t have to wait long.
That very night there is a message when I log in to the site. It is from
BigDaddy123.

"
Hi Mackenzie. I’m Chip. I’m fifty-one, a lawyer,
and an animal lover. You mother sounds lovely, and I would love to arrange a
meeting. Check out my profile and see if you think I sound good.
"

I check the profile, and honestly, although his username
could be better, Chip doesn’t sound bad or good. I decide that this is probably
a good thing, and think I should give him a chance. His photo looks attractive
enough. Not that I’m focusing on looks, but looks are looks. And it’s good that
men on here have photographs, unlike the ones in the newspaper. I mean, at
least I can tell if a guy is the age he says he is. Unless he’s posted a
picture of George Clooney or his grandpa or something. I email Chip back and
tell him to be at Belisana the next night.

The first thought that hits me is that maybe I should have
been tipped off by his name. Seriously, who is really called Chip these days?
Apart from a teacup in Disney’s
Beauty and the Beast
. The second is the
white suit. White. He looks like something out of
Saturday Night Fever
,
but nowhere near as good looking as the young John Travolta.

"Hello," he says, not getting up when I walk over
to him. "I’m Chip." He winks at me. Winks. Not shakes hands. Not
stands up. Winks. He has on an orange shirt, underneath the white suit of
course, no tie, and I briefly wonder if he is maybe on his way to a fancy dress
party or something. I’m not sure which would be preferable—the fact that he
might actually dress like this, or the fact that he squeezed me in to his tight
schedule (hopefully not as tight as his pants) on his way somewhere else.
Either one, I am not impressed.

I sit down and try to make conversation with him. At least,
I would try, but so far he is engrossed in the newspaper that he is reading,
holding it up in front of his face so that I can’t see him above the tie-less
neck. I look around, thinking that maybe I am on some kind of candid camera
show, and Dan has sent me this guy as a joke. Where is Dom Joly when you need
him?

Eventually Chip makes a big show of folding the newspaper up
and setting it down on the table, huffing and puffing as he goes, as if I have
interrupted something vital and interesting that he was doing. I suppose this
is the part of the date where I should tip a jug of water, or better yet, the
old faithful red wine, over his white suit and leave the restaurant, but the
truth is that I’ve come straight from work, and I’m starving. I want to eat. I
suppose I could abandon Chip, and go and snag something from Dan in the
kitchen, but I’m not supposed to do that. I know as well as Dan does that
non-staff aren't meant to be in the kitchen, even though I do go in there on
occasion. Like to escape a really bad date. Like this one.

Chip grins at me. "Does your mother look like
you?"

I have no idea whether this should be taken as a compliment
or a pervy remark, but I say, "Not really, no."

"Shame."

Creep.

"So, you’re a lawyer?" I say brightly. Too
brightly. I wonder if he’ll notice. Where the hell is Holly with our orders?

"I am." Obviously he didn’t notice that I was way
too sprightly to be serious. I wonder if this conversation will lead any
further.

Obviously not.

"What field do you work in?"

"Environmental."

"What does that involve?"

"Nothing much."

Jesus Christ. Has this guy ever heard of conversation? You
know, you say one thing, and then the other person says something back and
expands on it. One word answers do not a conversation make.

"So, are you going anywhere nice tonight?"

"I’m sorry?"

"Are you going anywhere nice tonight?" I repeat.
"Dressed like that, I mean. I thought you might be going somewhere."

"Why? Do you wanna go somewhere with me, baby?"

"Ugh."

"What? You don’t like Chip’s clothing choices?"

"Dude, you’re wearing a white suit and an orange shirt.
You’re seriously telling me you’re not going on to a fancy dress party?"

At least he has the decency to look offended.

"Why do you want to insult me like that?" He asks.
A look of hurt comes over his face, and I briefly consider that maybe I went
too far. But seriously, look at this guy. His skin is as thick as the soles of
his platform boots.

"I’m sorry," I say. "But you’re meant to be
on a date with me. You’re meant to impress me so that I set you up with my
mother, who, on the internet, you seemed to think was your type. So far you’ve
been rude, inattentive, and a complete and utter pervert. Why should I be
worried about offending you? When I came in here, you winked at me—winked, mind
you—refused to look at me because you were so engrossed in your reading, and
answered all my attempts at conversation with one worded grunts. Seriously, I
hope you are offended. Maybe you could look in the mirror before leaving the
house next time."

"You bitches are crazy." He gets up to leave.

"Buy trousers a size bigger next time!" I call
after him.

CHAPTER 22

When I get home, I log in to
Cupid-Waits.com and consider cancelling my subscription. If men like Chip are
the best the internet has to offer then it can go and offer them to someone
else. Someone who likes The BeeGees, for instance.

There are three more messages in my inbox on the site. If
curiosity killed the cat then it’s definitely gotten the better of me. I can’t
stop myself from checking them.

Message number one:

TO: Kenzie1983

FROM: Mindassa69

"
Fancy a threesome
?"

Ugh! I don’t even dignify that one with a response.

Second message:

TO: Kenzie1983

FROM: PoolShark23

"
Which one is you and which one is your mother
?"
I a) assume he means in the photograph, and b) hope that the answer should be
obvious. He doesn’t deserve a response either.

Third message:

TO: Kenzie1983

FROM: IPullYou20

"
Your mother isn’t even involved here, is she? I reckon
you’ve lopped a few years off your age, and are really looking for a date for
yourself! Doesn’t matter though. I’ll date you
." Um, yeah, because
that’s a far more likely scenario.

Fourth message:

TO: Kenzie1983

FROM: OldBaz

"
Hi, I’m Barry. If you are for real, then I think it
is a lovely thing you are doing for your mother. She sounds perfect for me.
Check my profile and see what you think. It would be great to hear from you,
Mackenzie. Take care, Barry. xxx
."

There is something about Barry’s message that reads as very
awkward. I think he might be nervous. But I check out his profile anyway. He
sounds fairly decent. He lists DIY as a hobby, and says that he loves his cats.
There’s something very masculine about a guy who can admit to being a cat
person. His photo is nice as well. He has a big smile and nice looking blue
eyes. He lists himself as being six foot three, which unquestionably counts as
tall, and his hair, although thinning on top, is most definitely blond. Undeniably
my mum’s type.

I send Barry a quick reply, and he emails back agreeing to
meet in Belisana tomorrow night. I think he sounds promising. Put it this way,
he didn’t ask for a threesome, so he already has a head start on any other
takers.

When I arrive at Belisana, I am pleased to see that Barry
looks just like the photo he has posted on the website. And, unlike certain
previous dates, he is not wearing Seventies clothing. In fact, he looks quite
normal, and I am hopeful before I even reach the table.

"Mackenzie?" Barry asks, standing up when I
arrive.

"You must be Barry."

He shakes my hand and comes around to pull my chair out for
me. Excellent. This one is off to a flying start, but I still can’t help
checking under his chair for a bag of two pence pieces.

I can see Barry looking me over, so I look up and smile at
him.

"You have a lovely smile," he says.

Usually I would take this as a pervy remark and get my glass
of red wine poised and ready to throw, but the way he says it sounds so genuine
that it actually makes me like him. Or maybe I’m just sorely in need of a
compliment.

"I’ve never eaten here before," Barry is saying.
"But it’s nice and cosy. Any recommendations on the food?"

"I hear the Grilled Lemon Sole is nice."

I wonder if I should take up some kind of advertising for
Dan. Be, like, some sort of salesperson for him. The amount of men that I seem
to be bringing here, I could offer to help Dan out, and earn some of the free
food I’ve been eating, by pushing his Special of the Day or whatever. Dan could
just give me the name of some food that he wants to shift, and I’ll recommend
it to all of my pseudo dates. What better form of advertising is there than
that? I’ll definitely bring it up with him at home later.

"So, have you ever been married, Barry?" I ask,
trying not to sound too much like I’m conducting a job interview.

"Once," he says. "We got divorced ten years
ago. I’ve been on a few dates, but there’s really been no one since my
ex-wife."

"Can I ask why you split up?"

"She wanted children, I didn’t. She was thirty-seven
and time was pushing on, and I just couldn’t imagine being a father. We argued
over it and eventually we split up."

I nod like I understand.

"How about your mother?"

"Yes. She was married to my father for ten years, and then
he just upped and left. She hasn’t really dated anyone since."

"How come you’re the one setting her up?"

I shrug. "I don’t know really. It just seemed like a
good idea at the time. I’d just moved out and she was lonely on her own, so my
boyfriend and I had the crazy idea of finding her some male company."

"That’s very sweet. I think it’s a very nice thing to
do."

"Thank you," I say. "I have had my
doubts."

"If I had a daughter, I’d be honoured to think of her doing
something like that for me. I bet you’ve met some right numbskulls."

"Oh, you can say that again," I laugh.

When we finish our meal, he gets as far as calling a
waitress over to pay the bill before I stop him. "It’s on the house,"
I admit.

"It is? Why?"

"My boyfriend kind of works here."

"He does? What does he do?"

"He’s the chef."

"Oh well, thank goodness I didn’t criticise the food
then."

I smile at him.

"You’re sure it’s on the house? I don’t mind paying at
all, for both of us."

"Nope, totally free."

"Ah, I get it." He winks at me cheekily. "You
were sussing me out, checking if I was going to offer to pay."

"I may have been," I admit. "But you passed
the test with flying colours."

"That’s good," he says. "So, do I pass the
date test? Do I get to meet Eleanor?"

"You most certainly do."

CHAPTER 23

I do have one idea about my next
date. Even though it didn’t work out so well with Saint Nick, the flowers
worked. A bunch of peonies got a second date. And it’s not like buying a bunch
of peonies is that difficult. If a date isn’t the absolute perfect man, the
answer is simple. I just have to make him into one. And Barry can be moulded
and shaped until he becomes
The One Number Two
for my mother.

I once again arrange for him to come by our house before
picking Eleanor up. I immediately present him with a bunch of peonies. Well,
they got a second date the last time, why won’t it work again?

"You have to impress her." I lecture him.
"Don’t let her know that I gave you the flowers, but she’s going to suspect
something if you don’t tell her that you asked me what her favourites were.
Call her as soon as you get home tonight and tell her that you had a nice time
on the date and you’d love to do it again sometime. If you really want to make
an impact on her, tell her she looks young, and you’re surprised she’s
forty-nine and not thirty-nine. And make sure you tell her you love cats, and
little dogs. She’ll just love that. Good luck!" I wave him off with a pat
on the back. Bonus points for the nice car he’s driving as well.