Love @ First Site (2 page)

I nod silently and unhook my handbag from the back of the chair, relieved this charade is over. I knew from the moment I clapped eyes on him that he wasn't my type, yet dating etiquette propelled me to sit here and see it through to the end.

You may be wondering why I came here at all . . . why I put myself through this experience when I clearly don't have the inclination, or indeed the stomach, for it.

But the fact is, it wasn't my idea. Let me explain . . .

Two

G
ood-bye thirty-three. Hello thirty-four. I can say this quite calmly, so clearly the midlife madness isn't going to strike me down just yet. Maybe next year.

After all, it was thirty-five that did for Julia, my trusty drinking partner from college days. She literally went to bed one night, full of anticipation for our forthcoming eighteen-to-thirty holiday (OK, so we lied on the application form, but doesn't everyone?), then woke up the next morning sobbing that she was on life's giant shelf and was sick of just being taken down and dusted occasionally.

"I want some permanency in my life," she wailed, before canceling our holiday and marrying the first man who crossed her path. Literally. I went to her wedding to the pizza deliveryman, but haven't seen her since.

So here I am, on my way to my "surprise"birthday party, organized by my dear friend and fellow TV producer Tabitha. Except that I know all about it, because my sister Olivia rang to warn me. She knows that I loathe and detest surprises and would be highly likely to walk straight back out again if one is sprung on me.

Instead, I shall arrive at the pub where I'm supposed to be meeting Tab for "a quiet drink," then put on an Oscar-winning performance of shock and delight at seeing the others there too.

As I walk in the door, I crane my neck above the crowds to seek her out. She leaps to her feet as soon as she sees me.

"Hi! Happy birthday!" She envelops me in a hug, then stands back and gives me the once-over. "You look great. Come on, I've booked a quiet table for the two of us through here."

Leading me by the hand, she guides me through to a small, oblong-shaped room with a circular table plonked in the middle of it, rather tellingly laid out for several people and decorated with lots of birthday kitsch from the 99C/ store.

At one end of the room, there's a dark plum velvet curtain, from which a jeweled mule is protruding quite obviously.

"Ta da!" Mule-owner Madeleine emerges from behind the curtain, tugging it back to reveal my other "mystery" guests, all grinning like jackanapes and chorusing "Surprise!"

"Oh my gosh!" Pulling my best Macaulay Culkin expression, I shriek loudly, then start running up and down on the spot for good measure. Seeing Olivia glaring at my pitiful overacting, I stop immediately. "Wow, you guys really fooled me! I had absolutely
no
idea."

There follows an excruciating few seconds where they all burst into a halfhearted chorus of "Happy Birthday," an imbroglio of flat notes, high-pitched wailing, and even a moment's hesitation when they clearly forget who they're singing it for.

"Thanks." I beam insincerely. "Shall we sit down?"

Now the attention has thankfully shifted from me and everyone is jostling for position and opening their napkins, I should take the opportunity to introduce you to a few of the usual suspects.

First of all, there's Madeleine, my social salvation. That's her sitting directly opposite me, fussing over who wants still and who wants sparkling. She's single too and, consequently, we see an inordinate amount of each other in our quest to find the "perfect"man we can then try to change beyond recognition. In the meantime, Madeleine happily indulges in lots of meaningless flings, not least because she's stunning and slim and a lot more successful at attracting men than I am. She thinks it's every man for herself and, as a dancer, her ability to lift her leg onto their shoulders in wine bars helps enormously. Tonight, as usual, she's wearing what I always describe as one of her "nuclear" outfits, with 50 percent fallout. But as she once told me, she never shows her underwear unintentionally.

At the table, she's flanked on either side by Richard and Lars, or Dick and Arse as I affectionately call them. Richard and I met when we were both TV researchers on
Good Morning Britain.
He worked in the showbiz department, whilst I was in "human interest." You know, those "I had one black twin and one white twin" kind of stories which are really just car crash viewing, but we have to pretend we're doing a public service by highlighting this problem and run a phone number saying "If you've had twins that are different colors and would like help, then call this number . . ." blah blah blah.

Richard has stayed in light entertainment, though he's risen to the lofty heights of a senior producer on the Saturday night game show
Till Divorce Do Us Part
--catchphrase "The bounty after the mutiny"--where warring couples win the glittering prize of an all-expenses-paid decree absolute.

His French boyfriend, Lars, a striking six-foot-three black man, is one of the dancers who high kick their way across the studio floor when the contestants win the chance to live happily ever apart. I met Madeleine through him.

Oh, hang on. Something's happening. My sister Olivia is banging the table.

"Here's to Jess. Happy thirty-fourth birthday. Cheers!" She raises her champagne glass and takes a swig, and everyone follows suit.

"Cheers," I parrot, knocking back a mouthful myself. "This really is terribly nice of you all."

Olivia is my older sister by two years and something of a heroine of mine. Unlike other siblings so close in age, she has never been a thorn in my side. For as long as I can remember, far from being a tormentor, she has always been supportive and caring. Most memorably, when I had nightmares as a child, she would sit and stroke my hair until I drifted back to sleep.

When she left home to go to Bristol University, I was distraught for at least a week, sobbing into my pillow and refusing to be consoled by our mother. Then I met a boy in sixth form and became temporarily obsessed by him instead.

The tinny sound of metal cutlery banging against glass drags me out of my nostalgic thoughts.

"Shall we do presents?" It's Kara, the friend I have known the longest but like the least. We've all got one, haven't we? Inexplicably, we stay in touch with them, like moths to a flame, even though they drive us to distraction most of the time. Men are very emotionless in such situations, unashamedly severing ties with anyone they consider surplus to requirements. But we women hang on in there, making excuses for the excesses of a ghastly friend, loyal to the bitter, drawn-out end, ever hopeful that one day they'll justify our patience.

I can't quite put my finger on what's wrong with my relationship with Kara, but there's definitely an undercurrent of jealousy on her part. It's as if she hangs around only to delight and luxuriate in the bad things that happen to me, and that any happy event in my life is a tangible disappointment.

It wasn't always like that. When we met at sixth form college, she was a formidable ally and fantastic fun. But over the years, her loyalty became questionable and her face increasingly sour. These days, the best way to sum her up is that she's always there when she needs you.

Tonight, she has dragged along her boyfriend, Dan. He's an amiable enough chap who wombles through life doing no one any harm, but for some reason he's been ensnared by Mrs. Danvers. Kara has already told me he will propose by Christmas, but I'm not sure she's told
him
that yet.

Everyone places their presents in a huge pile in front of me and, rather self-consciously, I start to unwrap them with oohs, aahs, and you-shouldn't-haves in all the right places. A beautiful fawn-colored pashmina from Olivia, a Walkman from Richard and Lars, a popcorn maker from Tab and Will, and a suede-covered photo album from Madeleine, with pictures of our various excesses glued inside . . . finally, Kara hands me an envelope.

"This is from all of us, but mostly me." She gives me a thin excuse for a smile.

Oh puh-lease, a bloody gift voucher or book token. How original, I think mutinously. But when I open the envelope, there's a folded piece of paper inside and my brow furrows with curiosity. All eyes are on me as I pull it out and, worryingly, I notice that my sister looks particularly apprehensive.

The first thing I clap eyes on is a photocopy of a rather indistinct head and shoulders photo of me, grinning vacantly like a halfwit. I remember it was taken at my birthday party last year, shortly before I vomited into the wine bar's ice bucket after drinking my own weight in sangria. Classy, huh?

To one side, there's a printed paragraph and I start to read it out loud.

"I am a thirty-four-year-old fun-loving woman interested in meeting someone similar. My friends are baffled that I'm single, so perhaps you're the one to clear up the mystery?" . . . I tail off, my blood freezing in my veins as it dawns what it is.

"Please tell me you haven't already placed this?" I look directly at Kara, who is positively glowing at my discomfort.

"Of course I have!" She smirks. "It's your birthday present!"

I scan the table for signs that this is a joke, but absolutely no one is looking me in the eye except her.

"Get it stopped." I throw the piece of paper across the table and point at her mobile. "Call them
right
now and pull it."

"Can't. It's already on the Internet." She pouts, trying to look apologetic. But I can tell she's extremely pleased with herself.

Taking a deep breath, I hold it for a few seconds. Knowing Olivia inside out, I glance at her quickly and realize that this whole ghastly business isn't a windup. It's 100 percent genuine.

"Did you know about this?" I look at her beseechingly.

"Yes." She nods slowly, wincing with discomfort. "But only when I got here this evening, so there was absolutely nothing I could do about it."

The Exorcist'
s Linda Blair has nothing on the head swivel I use to turn back to Kara.

"How fucking dare you!" I glare at her and it takes all my willpower not to lunge for her scrawny throat. "You had no right to do this, it's
totally
intrusive."

Even she looks taken aback by my sudden outburst. "It's only a bit of fun," she pouts.

Richard turns down the corners of his mouth and stares at the table.

"It might be a bit of fun to you, but that's
my
name on there." I jab my finger at it. "Not yours. I can't
believe
you think I'd find that funny . . . I'm going to put a stop to it first thing in the morning."

H
aving swallowed my meal in large, indigestible lumps of injustice, I knock back yet another glass of house white and close my eyes for a second. When I open them, Richard has sidled into the now empty chair beside me.

"Hi," he smiles sheepishly.

"Low," I reply, with my best disconsolate expression. "I'm at rock bottom and starting to dig."

"Darling, just relax," he drawls.

"Relax?" I scoff. "It's only the tension that's holding me together." The pair of us stare across the table for a few silent seconds, watching Olivia and her husband, Michael, totally engrossed in their conversation, his hand caressing the back of her neck.

"On the one hand," I say, nodding in their direction, "they give me faith. On the other, I despair I'll ever meet anyone I could love that much."

"Of course you will, darling," says Richard in the syrupy, patronizing tone my mother always used to assure me that, provided I did my best, I would pass all my exams. I took her advice but flunked most of them anyway. "But, of course, you won't meet him if you refuse to put yourself out there."

I raise my eyes heavenward. "
Dick
," I say pointedly, a tactic I always use when he's doing or saying something ludicrous, "I'm hardly the hermit woman of Balham. I do go out, you know."

"Yes, but only with me or Tabitha, and we're hardly ideal for attracting heterosexual men. I mean, bless her, but Tab easily hits the danger zone on the mooseometer."

I feel terrible laughing, but do anyway. "Don't be rotten."

"You need a more direct approach," he continues. "And by the way, you live in Tooting."

I scowl for a moment, puzzled by his remark. Not the Tooting bit, he's always ticking me off for pretending to live somewhere slightly posher than I do. No, I'm thrown by the direct approach bit. Then it clicks.

"No. Absolutely not!" I slam my hand so hard on the table that a narrow vase containing a single yellow rose topples over and spills its water. "I flatly refuse to date some anorak-wearing cyberman from the Internet."

Richard pulls a pooh-poohing face. "Why not? Everyone's doing it these days. It's the new sexual revolution, darling, but instead of Woodstock and flower power orgies, it's taking place through your fingertips." He mimics tapping a keyboard.

"Not through
my
fingertips," I whisper, inexplicably checking the ends for any signs of cyberinterference. "I prefer the old-fashioned method of meeting a man."

He places a hand over his mouth and feigns a yawn. "What, endless nights spent propping up a bar in the hope that one of the surrounding men might be single? If they've registered on the Internet, you
know
they're looking for a relationship, so it cuts out all the crap. It's the fast track to fun fun fun."

I wrinkle my nose. "It's just not
me."

"Yeah, yeah, I know" . . . he waves his hand dismissively. "You're unique . . . just like everyone else."