Love @ First Site (8 page)

I walk across the canteen to the exit, and just before I reach the double doors, I turn back to look at her. She's staring at the tabletop, deep in thought and, presumably, lost in her problems again.

What with everything she's going through, my infrequent pangs of loneliness pale into insignificance. So I wasted a few hours with a pair of ne'er-do-wells and ended up paying the bill . . . so what?

Galvanized by this, I decide to give Madeleine a call and see if she fancies a spot of old-fashioned wine-bar trawling tonight. It can be a scientific experiment into old dating tactics versus the new.

Eight

I
have absolutely no idea how I got myself into this. OK, I do. Basically, I allowed Madeleine to bully me into it during one of our long, late phone chats last night, during which I filled her in on Larry--he of the macramed vests and wicker shoes, a man who lights up a room when he leaves it.

"He probably just needs a damn good shag," was her verdict. And she's probably right, but I'm not the woman who's going to offer it. I don't date outside my species.

Anyway, the upshot of our conversation was that Madeleine thinks the way I'm meeting potential dates is far too time-consuming. Given that I have now wasted well over four hours on two men who were both totally unsuitable, she has a point.

So here I am walking into a vast bar on the Kings Road, desperately scouring the crowd for Madeleine before we venture to the private function rooms downstairs for . . . wait for it . . . a speed-dating event.

Yes, we really
have
stooped that low. I could tell you that it's vital research for an item on the show, or pretend that's it just a laugh between friends, one more hilarious anecdote in the rich comedic tapestry of life. But I'd be lying. Transparently and pathetically.

I am here because, lurking among the battery hen lines of men, I valiantly hope that someone will leap out at me. Not literally of course, but in a sparky, good chemistry kind of way.

On a more basic level, Madeleine's here because she wants someone to have regular, no-strings-attached sex with. The same Madeleine, I might add, who has so far steadfastly failed to go on the Internet dates she promised she would as part of our deal.

"Here I am!" She's waving at me from a high stool positioned at one end of the bar. She's flanked on either side by two men in suits.

"This is my friend Jess," she says as I approach. "Jess, this is Paul . . ." She curves her hand one way towards the smaller of the two men, then curls it back in the direction of the taller one . . . "and this is Dave. They're something big in the City."

"Really?" I keep my voice as flat as possible, having already made the swift decision that neither of Little and Large is my cup of tea.

"Yes. They think we should give the speed dating a miss and stay up here with them." She lets out the tinkling laugh I've heard so often when Madeleine has been on the prowl in the past.

"Really," I say again.

"Do you say anything except 'really'?" says the taller one, giving his friend a smug smile.

"Rarely."

"That's posh speak for really," says Madeleine. There's that tinkling laugh again.

"Are we going?" I deliberately turn my back on our social carbuncles and jerk my head towards the staircase in the far corner.

Madeleine has known me long enough to recognize a certain look in my eye that says I've reached the end of my tether and won't be persuaded otherwise.

"OK, OK." She hops off the stool and smoothes down her corduroy miniskirt. "Sorry guys, gotta go." She follows me across the bar towards the stairs. "Did you have to be
quite
so rude?"

"Sorry Mads, but I'm not as good at all that small talk as you and they looked a right pair of shifty sods. Besides, I'm rather nervous about this." I nod towards a sign at the top of the stairs that reads "Private: Extreme Speed-dating Event."

"Fear not." She links her arm through mine, her two new best friends already forgotten. "I'll look after you. Come on."

As we descend the stairs, my brain computes the extra, unexpected word it read on the blackboard and I stop in my tracks. "Hang on--what's
extreme
speed dating?"

Madeleine makes a casual waving gesture with her left hand. "Oh, it's just a more concentrated form of speed dating, that's all." She starts to descend the stairs, but I stay stock still.

"Concentrated? Explain . . ." I feel a pang of uncertainty.

Grabbing my forearm, she physically tugs me down two more stairs. "Bigger and better than most," she says vaguely but firmly. "Come on, don't be a baby."

As Madeleine has organized this, I have had no insight whatsoever into what to expect. She even paid my entrance fee as a belated birthday present.

As the stairs turn a corner and lead down into a vast reception area, I see five "greeters"sitting behind a desk. Above their heads is a sign that reads "If you haven't yet paid your $75 entrance fee, we accept checks and all major credit cards."

"Seventy-five dollars!" I splutter. "They can't be serious."

Madeleine puts a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. "Jess, this is going to be a serious night out. There's free drink and various fun events going on. It's not cheap."

Various fun events
. Words that turn my pang of uncertainty into a thumping dread.

We shuffle towards the desk behind a queue of five or six others, waiting in line to register.

"Name." The greeter doesn't even look up. Some greeting. "Jessica Monroe," I say, rather wishing I'd asked Madeleine to use a pseudonym.

"Monroe, Monroe, Monroe . . ." she says loudly, moving a red talon down the list of names in front of her. "Ah, here we are!"

Reaching down by her side, she produces a plastic identity tag with a piece of red ribbon attached. Taking a blank sticker, she scrawls "Jess Munro," presses it onto the tag, and hands it to me.

"You've spelt my name wrong," I say. "It's M-O-N-R-O-E."

She looks at me as if I'm the pettiest person ever to have walked the planet. "It really doesn't matter. It's the number in the top right-hand corner that's important."

I glance down and see the number 435. I resist the temptation to sweep my hand across the table of labels screeching "I'm a name, not a number."

"Four thirty-five. Is that how many people are here?" I whimper.

With a blatant are-you-still-here expression, she hands me a pack of calling cards and sighs. "There are just over five hundred of you actually. Have a good night."

Summarily dismissed, I move to one side and wait for Madeleine to join me. Taking a closer look at the cards, they have "Frisson"--the name of the event, as well as the company that orchestrates it--written across the top, followed by two empty boxes: one marked "First name," the other "number." There is also a special Frisson number, so anyone you like the look of can text you, quoting your special number. Across the bottom is printed "Strictly no mobile phone numbers to be handed out."

Madeleine, or number 436 on the dating menu, rushes up, her eyes shining with expectation. "Two hundred fifty blokes to choose from!" she gushes.

"Yeah, and two hundred forty-eight other women all after any decent ones," I mutter.

"God, you are so
negative
," she admonishes. "Repeat after me: We are the most attractive women here and shall conquer all."

"And then we woke up," I reply, following her through to the next room in the labyrinthine building.

Here, we are met by the saccharine smiles of various waiters and waitresses, all dressed in black T-shirts with
Frisson
emblazoned across the front in silver lettering. They are brandishing trays with a selection of red or white wine, orange juice or sparkling water. Both Madeleine and I lunge with undue haste at a glass of white.

On the far side of the room is a vast wall covered in Polaroid photographs, each with a plastic wallet attached to one side.

"Smile!" A balding man steps out of the shadows and fires a camera flash in my face, causing me to screw up my eyes in alarm.

Those few vital seconds of my discomfort are enough warning for Madeleine to compose herself and strike a supermodel pose when it's her go. Turning her best side to the camera, she gives a pout that makes Posh Spice's mouth look like a rip in a paper bag. Still scowling from shock, I turn to look at the rest of the rogue's gallery. "So what's this then?" I ask Madeleine.

"It's our Wonderwall," says a member of staff lurking nearby with a smile. "Take a look, and if you see anyone you fancy, just put one of your calling cards in the plastic wallet alongside."

"Hmmmm, suspect your wallet might be empty at the end of the night," says Madeleine, peering at a Polaroid the photographer has just pinned on the patch of wall in front of her.

"What?" Scowling, I take a couple of steps to the side to take a look, then recoil in horror. "Oh my God, I look like the Queen Mum."

"On a bad day," says Madeleine, relentlessly grinding coarse sea salt into my wound.

"Can you take another one please?" I turn to the photographer and smile in what I hope is an endearing way.

"Sorry," he sniffs. "They cost a lot of money, and if I did it for you, everyone would want another go."

"I'll pay you the extra."

"Sorry, haven't got time," he says over his shoulder, on his way to destroy the self-esteem of some other poor, unexpecting sod.

"Your parents are brother and sister, right?" I shout at his retreating back.

"Don't worry, you might get the sympathy vote," adds Madeleine, smiling with satisfaction at the Polaroid of herself looking gorgeous. "Come on, you'll just have to wow them all in person."

She grabs hold of my arm and pulls me towards a set of double doors off to the right. Pushing them open, a wall of noise hits us as we walk through into a vast room the size of four tennis courts. At one end, there are several long, refectory-style tables with pink and blue benches alongside, but the three hundred or so people already here are standing in the empty section of the room. The room reverberates with the hum of nervous small talk, and they're all clutching a drink, wearing their badge, and smiling as if their love lives depended on it.

"Let's work that room, baby!" Madeleine squeezes my arm, her eyes dancing with pure excitement. I simply feel terrified as I trail pathetically behind her, ever the reluctant bridesmaid.

"Hi fellas!" Bold as you like, Madeleine breezes up to two men huddled together on the edge of the crowd. Both are clutching half pints of lager.

I smile nervously at them both, and quickly establish that neither rock my boat. One--"Tom"--is too squat and shifty looking, and the other--"Gareth"--is clearly a rugby freak. My idea of hell. A rather swift conclusion considering neither of them has yet uttered anything other than their name, but hey, dating is a brutal business.

My hasty dismissal sets me thinking that maybe this speed-dating lark does have its appeal. After all, the squatness of Tom Thumb, as I am now silently referring to him, wouldn't have come across on a photo, and I may have wasted yet more of my life meeting him for lunch. Here, I can establish immediately that I don't find him in the slightest bit attractive.

Madeleine, however, has other ideas and hands him one of her calling cards.

"Pleasure meeting you!" she trills, placing a hand in the small of my back and steering me away from them. "One down, twenty-four cards to go," she shouts in my ear.

I pull a face. "Madeleine, he's so short he's in danger of scraping his chin on the floor."

"Darling, we're all the same size lying down," she replies, pushing me towards a handsome waiter with a full tray of drinks.

Grabbing two full glasses and replacing them with our empties, Madeleine hands me one and smiles seductively at the waiter. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her hand withdrawing from his back pocket.

"What were you
doing
?" I hiss, as we walk away.

"Giving him one of my cards. He's one of the most handsome men in here," she says matter-of-factly.

"Aren't you peaking a little early?" I say testily. "The cards are supposed to last us all night."

"Oh bore bore, snore snore." She makes a little snorting noise. "You can be Little Miss Cautious if you like, but I prefer to be generous with my potential affection."

"Obviously," I reply sarcastically, but it's lost under the ear-splitting sound of a siren noise that prompts me to wince.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" A voice crackles over the loudspeaker. "Let's get ready to rumble!"

A Frisson virgin, I have absolutely no idea what that means. But there are plenty who do and a wave of pressure builds up from behind, propelling us towards the tables. The urge to make a sheep noise is overwhelming.

The room has filled up more by now, and everyone starts to sit down on the benches in a remarkably orderly fashion. Men sit along the blue benches, whilst we take our place opposite them on the pink ones. No gender stereotyping here then.

"And remember, no verbal intercourse . . ." the disembodied voice pauses to allow feeble laughter for his unutterably feeble joke ". . . until the siren sounds again."

A rather mousy young man shuffles into place opposite me and smiles. His badge says "James." We sit there for a few awkward moments, both looking anywhere but at each other, neither daring to speak a word.

"Right." It's the loudspeaker again. "For those of you who are new to this, here are the rules. This is
extreme
speed dating, so rather than three minutes you each have ninety seconds to make an impression. If you like what you see and hear, hand over a card. When the siren sounds, the men move one place to their right. The women stay where they are. Let's go!"