Kismetology (23 page)

"Can’t you just ask her?"

"She won’t tell me. I’m still not entirely convinced
that it's not my father."

"Wow," Jenni says. "That is dedication. It’s like
my dad. He fell for some woman whose divorce case he worked on years ago, and
he’s never forgotten her, even though he’s never even seen her since. He still
thinks about her all the time."

"So it’s not that uncommon then?" I ask. "You
know, to have someone who you love even through any amount of time and
obstacles."

"Yeah," Jenni says. "It’s kind of sad to
think that they’ve both left love behind, and will probably never meet the
person that they love again."

"Don’t be so pessimistic," I say. "I’m working
on finding my mum’s mystery man, you should work on finding your dad’s mystery
woman."

"That’d put you out of a job."

"Well, tell me what you can find out, and then I’ll
start looking. Maybe I should give up the idea of being a matchmaker and become
a private detective for lost love instead."

"I don’t know anything," Jenni says. "Only
that he was married to my mother at the time and he shouldn’t have been falling
in love with divorced clients."

"Yikes." I agree. "But still, love is love.
It obviously wasn’t meant to be with Jeff and your mother, otherwise he
wouldn’t have fallen for another woman."

"You really believe that?"

"Yes. Take Dan and me. If Dan was really
The One
,
if he was the be all and end all, if this was
it
, would I really be
looking around at other men, wishing I was dating them for myself, but my own
age obviously, and doubting every move Dan and I make together?"

"I don’t know," Jenni says. "But we are
getting way too sappy here."

I nod in agreement.

"So, back to this speed dating thing," she says.
"Will you come with me?"

I shrug. Why not? I’m desperate enough to try anything. And
maybe I could meet someone else to be my new guinea pig. If Jeff is still hung
up on another woman, then I’m going to have exactly the same problem finding him
a date as I have my mother.

"I’m in," I say.

"Good, because spaces were limited so I booked two
tickets."

"That was presumptuous."

"Ah, but I was right, wasn’t I?"

I sigh. "I’ll come," I say. "But you do
realise that we’re going to have to be in different rooms. Unless you want to
date fifty-year-olds, that is. And I guarantee you that men don’t get any
better as they get older."

"That’s fine," she says. "I just don’t want
to walk in on my own. I don’t want to be the pathetic single girl."

"There is nothing pathetic about being a single
girl," I say. "In fact, I kind of wish that I was one myself."

"You’ll work it out with Dan," Jenni says.

I shrug. "Maybe, maybe not." I think for a minute.
"That’s bad, isn’t it? I should be definite and sure of myself and be
saying things like ‘
Yes! We WILL work it out
’, not things like ‘
Uh,
perhaps we will, perhaps we won’t
.’" I wave my hand around
nonchalantly to illustrate my point. "And do you know what the worst part
is?" I continue. "I really don’t care. I love Dan, but I’m not madly
in
love with him. It’s not like
can’t live without you
love, it’s just kind
of there. And he’s expecting marriage and babies eventually, he must be, and I
just don’t want that with him."

"So break up with him then,"

"I can’t," I admit. "My mother would never
let me hear the end of it."

"And that’s the only reason to sustain the
relationship?"

"That’s pathetic, isn’t it?" I say. "It’s not
exactly the
only
reason though. I mean, we moved in together, we signed
a year's lease, and we’ve been dating for two years, and, well… I don’t
know."

"You need to break up with him."

"I know." I agree. "Especially as I look
forward to dates with fifty-year-old men more than I look forward to a night in
with my own boyfriend. At least fifty-year-old men are unpredictable, even if
they do occasionally have porn DVDs in their pockets. Dan just does the same
thing every night—in from work, boots up on the coffee table, and TV remote in
his hand for the channel surfing to commence. We never even eat together
anymore—by the time he gets home, he’s already eaten in work, and I’ve either
been on a date or ordered a takeaway by myself. The whole thing is driving me
crazy."

"So forget what your mum thinks and do what’s right for
you."

"But then I have to move back home."

"Which is the lesser of two evils?"

"I should never have said yes to moving in with him
when I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, and now I have to pay the price. I’ve
made my bed and I should lie in it."

Jenni shrugs. "That doesn't sound very fair to either
of you."

"It doesn't matter," I say. "I do have
feelings for him. And the absolute last thing I want is to be single at the
moment. I have enough on my plate without dealing with a break up too."

CHAPTER 39

"You’re going where?" Dan
asks, looking up from his usual spot on the sofa.

"Speed dating. Jenni really wants me to go with
her."

"I don’t like to tell you this, babe, but you have a
boyfriend."

"Ha ha. I know." I kiss him quickly on the cheek.
"I don’t even know if they’re going to let me in, seeing as I’m trying to
get in with the fifty to sixty age group, and I’m obviously not fifty to sixty
myself."

"Just flash a business card and hope for the
best."

"I will."

"And don’t bring any strange men home with you."

"I won’t."

"And be careful. You’re not at Belisana, and I won’t be
there to look out for you."

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something like "
fat
lot of good you did me when you were there
," but I don’t.

"Who are you, anyway? My father?" I ask instead.

"Just your loving boyfriend who cares about you, even
when you’re dating other men."

"Like I said before, you should tell me now if you’re
feeling threatened by other men."

"I’m not," he says. "But you and Jenni going
out together on a jaunt to pick up men is a little worrying."

"Dan, I’m only picking up men for business."

Dan bursts out laughing.

Oh. I didn’t realise how bad that sounded. Oops. "Oh,
not like that," I say. "You know what I meant."

Dan nods while still laughing.

"Besides, if I was going to pick up men then I’d go
into the twenties room."

"I’m sure. Just take care of yourself, all right?"

"All right. And you make sure you get to bed on time,
and plug your electric blanket in, and don’t put your Zimmer frame where people
can trip over it. And don’t forget to turn your pacemaker on."

"Very funny."

"Well, quit acting like my grandfather then. I’ll be
careful, I won’t have sex in an alleyway with a stranger, and I’ll be home
before midnight."

"Hey Mac, you know I love you, right?"

"Love you too," I mumble.

"There you are!" Jenni says when I rush up to her
where she is waiting outside the building. "I thought you weren’t gonna
come."

"Sorry." I pant. "It seems to be my god-given
talent to find the longest, slowest traffic jam in the city at any given
moment."

Jenni laughs. "Shall we go inside?"

I nod. "It’s freezing out here."

We walk into the foyer of the building, hand our tickets to
the doorman, but it’s even scarier in here than I thought it would be. The
place is teeming with people. Men and women of every age are all gathered
together in the foyer, nursing hot cups of tea and coffee, waiting for the
Klaxon to sound. Or for someone to announce that the festivities are about to
begin, anyway. Seeing as I was so late, we don’t have to wait long. A tall
woman dressed in a business suit stands at the front of the room and demands
that we all divide by age groups and follow the person assigned to our group.

"See you later," I say to Jenni.

"Good luck," she says back, before sprinting off
to the other side of the room to join the sensible people our own age. I head
to the front to find the leader of the fifties group.

The leader turns out to be a fifty-something man himself,
dressed in light jeans and a green shirt with a big cardboard sign that reads
"50" in big letters around his neck.

"Hi." I sidle up to him innocently. "I hope
you don’t mind, but I’m just letting you know that I’ll be joining the fifties
group myself, seeing as I’m looking for a date for someone else, not
myself."

He stares at me distastefully. "That’s not really
allowed."

I hand him a business card. One of my funky business cards
that I got twenty of printed up for free in a special offer online. I didn’t
dare to get more than twenty in case the whole thing doesn’t work out.

"Kismetology." He begins reading aloud.
"What’s that then?"

"I’m a professional matchmaker," I say.
"That’s the name of my business."

"Oh no," he says warningly. "You’re not
scouting for men here. If you want to be a man pimp then go out and join the
prostitutes."

"No, I mean I have one woman in particular, one client,
who I have to find a decent man for. I’m not here on business tonight. This is
strictly on a personal level."

"Hmm," he eyes me suspiciously.

"I won’t cause any problems," I say. "And if
any man objects to having to talk to a twenty-nine-year old, then I’ll
leave."

The leader suddenly bursts into laughter. "I don’t
think any fifty-year-old man is going to complain about talking to a girl half
their age." He carries on laughing. "Okay," he says finally.
"You can go in. But I don’t want to see you handing out these cards. If
you want to solicit business, you can do it in your own time. And make sure you
explain to every man why you’re there, I don’t want any men thinking they have
a shot with you if they really don’t."

"Thank you," I say. "Not single yourself, by
any chance, are you?"

"Married fifteen years," he says. "But thanks
for asking. I must say I’ve never heard of a matchmaker who actually goes on dates
for her clients."

"I just try to figure out whether a man is compatible
or not, the rest is up to the client."

"An interesting approach," he says.

I thank him and quickly rush to my place at the back of the
line before he asks any more questions about my so-called business that doesn’t
actually exist yet. Apart from in my head and on twenty business cards,
obviously.

Each group consists of forty people—twenty men and twenty
women. A few give me a strange look when I stand next to them, and I have to
admit that I feel like the proverbial sore thumb. I’m obviously not a part of
their group, and they might be wondering what I’m doing here. The women
probably think that I’ve come to steal men right from under their noses. And in
a way, I have. Just not for myself.

All the groups are led into different rooms, following one
another like sheep.

The room that opens up in front of us looks like a
supersized game of musical chairs is about to take place. And maybe in a way,
it is. Two rows of ten chairs are set up back to back down the middle of the
room. In front of each chair is a small table and another chair facing it.

"Ladies, sit!" The "50" leader announces
so loudly he may as well have used a megaphone.

We all dutifully traipse to the centre row of chairs, while
the men stand in a gang salivating over who shall be their next meal like a
pack of wolves. Wolves are very much like men, and in some cases, more
attractive.

The leader walks down the room and gives each woman a badge
with a number on it, and a sheet of paper with a pen to write down names and
contact information for any men we wish to meet up with afterwards. Glancing at
the shifty looking group in the corner, I think my answer will be zero. I
glance at my badge. I got number seventeen—my lucky number. Once again, I
glance at the selection of men in the corner. I think it may not be so lucky
anymore. The leader is now giving numbered badges and paper to the men as well.

I can’t help feeling like I’m in the middle of a cattle
market with nineteen other prime cows. The men will walk around, talk to us for
five minutes (if we’re lucky) and then mark us down based on our looks. Then
they’ll bid for us like we’re prime slices of beef. This was a bad idea. I
don’t know why I let Jenni talk me in to this. I could be at home right now
watching a good movie with my boyfriend. Okay, it would probably be a crappy
movie about serial killers, but it would be better than this. And if I was home
right now, I’d actually be hiding out in the kitchen while Dan got increasingly
pissed off and my mum commandeered the sofa and had
Emmerdale
on, but
that’s not the point. It would be better than this.

"Please write your name on the name card provided and
place it on the table in front of you," the "50" leader yells. I
do as he says, feeling more and more like a statistic than a person.

"When I ring the bell, man number one go to woman
number one, man number two to woman number two, and so on until every number is
at a table with a date. When then bell goes again, move on numerically to the
table next to you. Keep doing this when the bell rings until you’re right back
to where you started. Don’t forget to get contact information for any date you
connect with. And…" He rings the bell loudly, and I am taken right back to
my school days at break time.

"Go!" He yells loudly, making me think that if
there is ever an opening for a town crier anywhere, he’d be perfect for the
job. Or he could work at sporting events. He’d save them a fortune on
loudspeakers. They’d never need one again.

Number seventeen sits opposite me.