Love @ First Site (6 page)

"Darling! How very . . . black," my mother falters, scanning my outfit up and down. She leans forward and sniffs my shoulder. "Do I smell smoke?"

A dilemma. Do I let her think, incorrectly, that I have puffed my way through twenty fags on the journey down? Or do I tell her the truth, that her daughter is such a slovenly disgrace that she's still wearing last night's clothes?

As she's Chief Constable of the fashion police, it's difficult to gauge which scenario will prompt the greater disapproval.

"I wore it last night to Richard's party and ended up staying there. So it was this or his Carmen Miranda Mardi Gras outfit." The sleepover lie is inspired, I think.

But mother seems unimpressed. "Jess, you simply
cannot
sit through lunch in yesterday's clothes."

I open my mouth to protest that I had only worn them for a couple of hours the night before, but she doesn't let me speak.

"No buts. Go upstairs to the little wardrobe in the spare room. There's a clean outfit there I keep for such emergencies."

World famine, motorway pileups, droughts, monsoons--all bona fide "emergencies." In Mum's world, add faintly unkempt daughters to the list.

By the time Olivia arrives twenty minutes later, I'm sitting at the lunch table in a pale pink twinset with tiny, embroidered flowers around the neckline and a beige, A-line skirt. The "emergency" shoes were too small, so I'm still wearing my black stilettos with strict instructions from Mother to keep them firmly wedged under the table.

"Ah, the emergency outfit," smiles Olivia, once Mum is out of earshot. "What have you done to deserve that?"

"I turned up in last night's clothes." I sniff sullenly.

"Good one. I had to wear it once when Matthew spilled orange juice down my front just before Mum's lunch guests arrived."

She sits down opposite me. "So, the sleepover. Anyone nice?"

I raise my eyes heavenward. "I wish. I was at Richard and Lars's for their first anniversary party." I lower my voice even more. "I didn't actually stay. I just fell back into the same clothes this morning and they smelled of smoke . . . so, bingo!" I tug the twinset.

Mum arrives back in the room, clutching a steaming tureen of vegetables. "Where
is
your father? I sent him for some fresh strawberries about an hour ago."

On cue, Dad's highly polished old blue Bentley purrs past the window, the tires crunching on the gravel drive. It was a sound that evoked memories of my childhood, waiting for him to return home from work and feeling butterflies of excitement when he arrived.

Olivia and I walk to the door to greet him.

"My darling girls!" he exclaims, enveloping us both in a double hug. "How delightful to see you." He proffers two punnets of strawberries at Mum as she breezes past.

My father, Alan, is a tiny bit bonkers, but we love him dearly. By day, he's chairman of GBHome, one of those giant furniture companies that always has a sale on. He started at the bottom, put his motto "Don't work in a shop unless you like smiling" to good use, and worked his way up.

By night and weekends, he's an inventor. Not a very successful one, I might add, but it made for a fun childhood throughout which we tested various inventions of varying success. My favorite was a pair of slippers with mops as soles, perfect for doubling up as floor cleaners.

The highlight of my father's life had been when his car-drink-holder-cum-ashtray was accepted and featured in the Innovations catalogue. It sold only a couple of dozen, but Dad didn't care. In his mind, he'd won the jackpot.

"Remind me to show you my latest invention after lunch," he says, and Olivia and I share a secret, fond smile.

"Oooh, what is it?" I enthuse.

He goes pink with pleasure. "You'll have to wait and see."

Mum reemerges from the kitchen with a vast joint of lamb and places it in front of Dad. "There we are, Alan. Carve away." She plants a little kiss on the top of his head.

Placing an arm around the curve of her back, he pulls her towards him and gives a little squeeze. "Well done, dear. I'm sure it'll be delicious as always."

Watching them, I feel a warm swell of nostalgia for the family lunch we religiously share every Sunday, come rain or shine. It is a house rule that no one is to make any plans that would jeopardize the sacrosanct gathering, the glue of our family life. Around this table, we catch up properly on each other's week, who is doing what, who is up, who is down and, most importantly of all, who needs a bit of family TLC.

"So." Dad starts carving. "First things first. How are my gorgeous grandchildren?"

Olivia smiles. "Emily's got a tummy bug, but apart from that, they're both fine."

Dad turns his head towards me and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

I shrug. "Sorry, no grandchildren to report on. But little old me is just fine, thanks."

Mum spoons carrots onto my plate and looks at me pensively. I know what's coming.

"Any man on the horizon?" she asks casually, belying what I know is the razor-sharp intention beneath.

"Nope." I pop a new potato into my mouth with the sole purpose of disabling my jaw for further comment. I wasn't accounting for Olivia.

"But things might pick up soon, eh?" she says, giving me an encouraging smile.

Mum's eyes shoot up from her plate. "Oh?"

The potato is hotter than I thought, and I'm throwing it around my mouth, trying to make a "shut up" noise at the same time. To no avail.

"Yes," Olivia plows on. "She's joined an Internet dating service."

A deathly silence descends, as if she's just announced I'm now transsexual and changing my name to Josh.

After a few seconds, Mum glares at me direct. "Is that true?"

A large lump of gristly lamb has wedged in my throat and I swill it down with water, rapidly gathering my thoughts at the same time.

"Not strictly. Kara put an ad on the Internet without my knowledge. For my birthday . . ." I add as an afterthought.

"I see." Mum visibly relaxes a little. "So I presume you just had it removed," she says, as if my potential love life is simply a troublesome carbuncle.

At this point, I could simply lie and say yes, and that, blessedly, would be the end of the matter. But I find myself feeling faintly annoyed at her blatant disapproval.

"No. Everyone persuaded me I should at least go on a couple of dates to try it out. Including
Olivia
," I say pointedly.

"Olivia!" admonishes Mum. "Fancy encouraging your sister to resort to something so desperate."

An apologetic-looking Olivia opens her mouth to reply, but I power in first, propelled by sheer indignation.

"It's not desperate!" I say firmly. "It's entirely normal in this day and age."

Mum looks doubtful. It's clear she views the whole idea of women advertising for men immensely distasteful.

"But darling . . ." Her tone is conciliatory. "Surely the men on there are just pitiful creatures that no one else wants? The kind who live lonely lives, who could die in their little bedsits and not be found until they were eaten by maggots and a neighbor noticed the smell." She has always been one to overdramatize.

We are all momentarily stunned by this gory analogy, simply looking on silently, our noses faintly wrinkled at the thought. Dad pushes the remainder of his food to one side of the plate.

"I mean, Jess, sweetie, they could even be ax murderers," she plows on.

Enough already. I feel my back stiffen with annoyance. "Am
I
pitiful?" I demand.

"No, of course not," she replies in syrupy tones. Dad shakes his head reassuringly in support.

"Am
I
unwanted?"

"Of course not." She's tutting now for extra effect.

"An ax murderer then?" I scowl.

"Now you're just being silly."

"Well,
I'm
advertising on the Web site, so it figures there will be some nice, normal men as well."

Mum looks doubtful but says nothing, clearly knowing better than to interrupt such an impassioned protest.

"People go on the Internet because they're just too busy to socialize much," I continue. "Not because they're desperate saddos."

I stop speaking and look around the table for some moral support, but all I see are pitying expressions.

"I read an article the other day that said twenty thousand people
per month
are joining Internet dating sites. They can't all be psychos. In fact, I met a really great man on my first date." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I could kick myself.

"Really?" I can virtually see the bit clamped between my mother's teeth. "Jessie, that's wonderful news. Tell us more."

Even Olivia leans forward with an eager expression and I remember she knows absolutely nothing about this.

I shrug, biding time for a hasty backtrack. "Nothing much to tell really. He was very nice and we had a lovely time, but there wasn't a spark there so I doubt we'll be seeing each other again."

"Oh." Mum pushes out her bottom lip in disappointment. "That seems a bit of a hasty conclusion. After all, the spark might come later."

"She's right, you know." Olivia looks at me imploringly. "Michael and I didn't hit it off immediately. It took a good couple of dates before we really clicked."

I turn my shoulders slightly, so my face is obscured from the parentals, and pull a pained expression, silently urging her to shut up. She complies immediately, her mouth clamped in a firm line.

Dad rarely gets involved in our girly ding-dongs, usually preferring to sink behind a newspaper and let us all get on with it. But I can see his brow furrowing in anticipation of what he's about to say.

"Do be careful though, Jess." His face is deadly serious. "I know Mum exaggerates, but it's true that people can pretend to be anything they like behind the anonymity of a computer screen."

Yes, they can pretend to be single whilst they're probably married, I think forlornly. A depression descends again.

"Point taken, Dad. I'll be very careful, I promise. I'll meet them only in public places and they'll have no idea where I live." I smile reassuringly and stand up to start gathering the plates, hoping it will move the conversation on.

When I return from the kitchen, they all stop talking and look guilty. Clearly my unconventional social life is troubling them, but I'm not about to reopen the subject for yet more debate.

"So, Dad," I say breezily, "what's this invention you're so keen to show us?"

An hour later, after dutifully enthusing over Dad's swivel car DVD holder, Olivia and I pull out of the driveway in convoy, waving at the parentals standing cozily in their doorway.

I have barely reached the main road when my mobile trills its distinctive "Dancing Queen" ring tone. The caller ID says "BigSis."

"How can I miss you when you won't go away?" I quip.

"Very funny. I want to know all about that sparkless date. What really happened?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yep."

"He
was
great and lovely. But I left out the bit about him doing a disappearing act through the kitchen."

"You're kidding!"

"Sadly not."

"Why did he leave?"

"Richard thinks it's because he's married and saw someone he knew."

"No! The
bastard
."

"Precisely." I stop at some traffic lights and glance to my right to see a picture-perfect family sitting alongside me in a Mercedes estate car. There's a boy of about four or five who looks like Little Lord Fauntleroy and an angelic baby girl straight from a Pampers ad. The parents are sharing an animated conversation, both laughing heartily.

I let out a long sigh. "Still, two more dates to go. One of those might look like Brad Pitt--though knowing my luck it'll be his long lost brother Cess."

Olivia laughs, then her voice turns serious. "Maybe these dates aren't such a good idea after all. As Dad says, they can pretend to be one thing whilst being someone completely different."

"They can do that in wine bars too," I reply. "Besides, too late now. I'm leaping straight back onto the horse after my nasty fall. I've got another date lined up for tomorrow night."

Six

Hello, I'm Larry, and I graduated with a degree in electronic engineering from Cambridge. I often work late into the night trying to unravel the mysteries of microprocessors, but I'm seeking a lovely lady to persuade me there are better ways to spend one's evenings.

B
ruised by my experience over lunch with "Simon," or whoever he may be, this time I'm playing it safe and opting for just a coffee by way of introduction. That way, I can make a quick assessment of his suitability without wasting another few hours of my life.

We have arranged to meet outside Niketown on Oxford Circus, chosen by me as somewhere highly public and therefore anonymous.

But I soon realize it's a mistake as the crowds pour through the entrance area, some to shop, others taking a shortcut from the tube exit to bustling Oxford Street. My head swivels from left to right like a Wimbledon spectator, not very subtly trying to spot Larry before he sees me.

My eyes rest on a disheveled white man with short dreadlocks and a scruffy anorak, looking furtively down the street. Please God, no. He suddenly looks across at me and I rapidly glance away, wondering whether to make a run for it.

After several seconds of inaction, I sneak a look at him again and am overwhelmed with relief to see his attention has turned to his frayed shoulder bag. His hand reaches inside and he pulls out a rolled-up stack of fliers. Panic over.

A hand taps my shoulder. Panic back.

I turn round to find what I presume is Larry smiling anxiously at me. I say I presume because, although the hair is the same sandy color as in the photo he e-mailed me, the rest of his features don't ring any bells at all.

"Hi." His voice is cracked and squeaky, like a twelve-year-old boy on the change. Perhaps it's nerves, I think benevolently.

"Hi." I smile. It's a false one, but he probably doesn't know that. "I presume you're Larry?"

"You presume right. Are you Jess? It's just that you don't look anything like your photo."

I gasp audibly. "Excuse me? My photo is one hundred percent genuine, if a little out of focus. Which is more than I can say for yours."

He looks slightly taken aback. "It's definitely me. I was on holiday in Greece at the time, so I was quite brown. Maybe that's what threw you."

Yes, particularly as I'm now looking straight into the face of Casper the Unfriendly Ghost. Since the photo was taken, I doubt this man has even seen daylight, never mind sunlight. His features are so woolly he looks like someone's knitted him.

"So let's get that coffee then," I say, inwardly thanking my lucky stars I hadn't suggested lunch. I have decided on sight that I don't find him physically attractive, and I doubt his personality is going to change my opinion.

I gesture for him to walk with me down to the north end of Regent Street, and as he steps forward he shrinks by three inches before my eyes. I look down to see he's been standing on a step.

Pasty-faced, cheese-paringly critical,
and
a bloody dwarf. Great. I mentally decide to make the coffee an espresso.

Two blocks down, we find a small, independently run coffee shop with a lavish display of gooey cakes in the window, tempting save for the couple of overexcited bluebottles buzzing around them.

I sit down at a table by the open front window, pleased to have a view of passersby to dilute any tedious conversation.

"Isn't that a bit close to the traffic fumes?" he says with an expression of distaste. I don't answer and he lowers himself into the seat opposite me like a man being strapped into the electric chair.

"Now then, what type of coffee would you like?" I pick up the menu and scan the options.

He shakes his head. "None thanks. I don't drink coffee or tea because of the caffeine, and I don't drink alcohol either. I'll probably just have a glass of still water." And there it was. The seemingly innocuous little statement that sealed his doom. Apologies to all teetotalers, but I could never spend the rest of my life with a man who doesn't drink. I would feel as though I were permanently being frowned upon every time I got a bit tipsy, and to me, so many relationship truths are eased out by the lubrication of alcohol. When wine goes in, secrets come out.

Hey ho, now all I have to do is get through the next half an hour with laughing boy.

As he peruses the menu, I take the chance to study him properly. The bronzed, smiling man who beamed out from my computer screen couldn't be further from the squat, pasty-faced creature with a sweaty top lip and mid-length, greasy hair. I doubt he ever cuts it, just gives it an oil change occasionally.

On the plus side, he has kind eyes, but unlike my Nana, who married Granddad "because he had all his own teeth," methinks a little more is needed to sustain a modern relationship.

A smiling waitress approaches our table, notepad in hand. "What can I get you?"

"A glass of still water and an espresso, thanks," I say, silently willing her to bring them quickly and release me from this purgatory.

"Is that all?"

I nod, and she starts to walk away.

"Hang on," says Larry. "I want something to eat."

I contemplate writing "Help me, I'm a prisoner"on a piece of paper and smuggling it into the waitress's hand, such is my desperation. But she's looking at him intently, waiting for his order.

"Are the vegetables in batter cooked in vegetable oil?" he asks. "If so, I'll have those."

The waitress nods and leaves.

"Don't tell me," I say, closing one eye and pointing at him. "Vegetarian, right?"

"Yes. I try to follow a macrobiotic diet too, but it's not easy when you eat out."

I nod, feigning interest in his dreary eating habits whilst mentally logging that he backs up my theory that most vegetarians look like they've crawled out from under a stone. I glance down at his sneakers and note that they're plastic: He's
that
fanatical about it. I suspect he wouldn't even wear a donkey jacket on the grounds it involves an animal in the title.

"So what do you do?" There it is again. The abandon-all-hope-ye-who-enter-here question.

"I'm an engineer." He sniffs self-importantly.

"What, like a mechanic sort of thing?"

He smirks slightly at what he clearly perceives to be my misguided ignorance. "I don't think so. No, I work for British Aerospace, designing engines."

"Oh." I can't think of anything I know less about. "Do you enjoy it?"

"S'alright." He shrugs, then shifts in his chair, seeming to tire of the subject.

I mentally prepare a quick sentence to make my job sound varied and exciting when he asks. But he doesn't.

"Oh my God!" He's staring at the floor with an expression of abject horror.

"What?" I look and feel alarmed, worried that a giant snake has just slithered under my chair. But Larry is staring into my handbag.

"You smoke!" he says accusingly.

Rather thrown by his outburst, I recoil slightly in my seat. "Um, only very occasionally. That pack is a couple of weeks old now."

He looks at me as if I have just admitted to part-time membership in the Ku Klux Klan. "You didn't say that in your ad."

I shrug. "I didn't know it was relevant."

A slight sneer plays on his increasingly moist top lip. "Of
course
it's relevant, especially to someone like me. I could never have a relationship with someone who smokes."

The temptation to stuff all fifteen or so fags in my mouth at once and light them almost overwhelms me. All I can think about is escaping from this dullard.

Feeling and probably looking much like a battered vegetable myself, I breathe an audible sigh of relief when his food homes into view. The end is nigh. Time for a change of subject.

"So what films have you been to see recently?" I ask cheerily. "I went to see the new Spielberg movie the other night . . . it was terrific."

He waves his hand dismissively, a piece of battered broccoli falling onto the table. "Commercial nonsense. I don't see any point in going to the cinema unless you're going to be educated by it."

Someone remove the butter knife before I throw myself on it. I'm about to reply that sometimes it's nice to just chill out and have fun in life, when he speaks again, his mouth full of unchewed florets.

"I still can't believe you smoke." He shakes his head to illustrate the fact. "Do you know that every time you light a cigarette you are taking several hours off your life? And quite apart from that, your smoke when passively inhaled by others is the cause of several deaths a year."

I know I shouldn't expend energy on rising to the bait. I know I should just agree with everything he says, promise to stop smoking and get this dirge-filled date the hell over with. But I can't.

"My great-grandmother smoked forty fags a day, ate copious amounts of dairy, drank a tumbler of whisky every night before bed, and lived until she was ninety-seven." I look at him defiantly.

He makes a pooh-poohing face. "A fluke. She was lucky, but just think of all those poor people she killed with her secondhand cigarette smoke."

"Bollocks." OK, so I'm not Jeremy Paxman when it comes to debating, but it's heartfelt. "I read a report the other day that said the so-called dangers of passive smoking have been blown out of all proportion."

"Saw it," he says flatly. "The report was commissioned by a collective from the tobacco industry, rendering it totally invalid." He flicks at a small piece of unidentifiable vegetable lodged in the corner of his mouth, making me feel quite queasy.

"And all the reports saying it's killing innocent bystanders are probably commissioned by people like you, with an agenda to tell the rest of us how to live our lives," I reply indignantly.

He holds his hands in the air. "Hey, if you want to kill yourself by smoking, go right ahead. Just don't kill me in the process."

Don't tempt me, I think mutinously, fantasizing about force-feeding him the steaming, bloodied steak just being served up at the next table. What was a minor irritation on my part has now mushroomed into fist-clenching frustration at this man's infuriating sanctimony.

He's what my father would describe as a wishy-washy liberal but, like so many of them, is anything but. Rather than fight for everyone to have a choice--surely the essence of being "liberal"?--they strut around the place telling the rest of us what we should and shouldn't do with our lives.

He'll be telling me about the repression of black people next, how they're treated like second-class citizens by an "institutionally racist" society. But he won't get the irony of a white, privately educated, middle-class boy preaching to others about the lot of the poor, underprivileged blacks, as if they are somehow too downtrodden or inarticulate to speak for themselves.

To my mind, his pompous assumption that the black community would even want, let alone need, someone like him to speak up for them is racist in itself.

I'm really annoyed now, so I resort to trying to pick a cheap but satisfying argument. "So how old is the photo you posted on the Internet?"

He looks momentarily thrown. "It was taken about ten years ago."

"That explains why it looks nothing like you. Why don't you use a more recent one?"

Shrugging, he takes a tiny sip of water. "That was all I had. It was taken by my ex-girlfriend in the early stages of our relationship and she left it behind when we split up. I don't take photos myself. Don't see the point."

I raise my eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Oh, I
love
looking through old photos and remembering various happy times throughout my life."

He nods sagely, as if my statement has simply confirmed his worst fears. "A lot of people feel that way. They feel there's something missing in their lives, and memories are the glue that holds them together."

That's it. Now even
photographs
can't be pleasurable, and I can't bear this pompous bore a moment longer. I raise my hand in the direction of the waitress. "Can we have the bill, please?"

When it arrives, he picks it up first and I inwardly marvel that, at long last, he has a redeeming feature: generosity.

Pulling out what resembles a child's denim purse from his jeans pocket, he lays the bill in front of him on the table. "I'll pay for my vegetables, you get the drinks. I only had a water."

My face visibly drops. When he starts counting out coppers onto the table, it caves in completely.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. I'll get it." I grab the bill and march to the back of the cafe, desperate to hasten my exit from this godforsaken situation.

When I return, he's still sitting with the handful of coppers in front of him. "Thanks," he says sullenly. "But it was totally unnecessary to swear."

"Wankety wank, wank, wank, WANK!!!" I bellow, before flouncing out onto the street and breaking into a liberated sprint towards the tube station.