Love @ First Site (9 page)

The siren wails into life and, immediately, the sound of animated conversation fills the room.

James and I sit there for a few moments, verbally impotent and exchanging nervous glances. "I guess it's probably your first time at this too," I say eventually.

"Yes." He smiles but doesn't elaborate.

Tick tock, tick tock. It's amazing how long ninety seconds can seem when you're not having fun. Either side of us, couples are exchanging information with Broadband speed, but James is clearly a second-class male.

"So what do you do for a living?" I lean forward slightly, feigning interest.

He shifts uncomfortably on the bench. "I'm a student."

"Of anything in particular?" God he's hard work.

"IT."

Says it all really. I'm sitting opposite a man who spends most of his day conversing with a computer. With a keyboard in front of him, he's probably got a lot to say. Without it, he's to witty banter what Simon Cowell is to diplomatic relations. The siren sounds, no longer a hideously invasive noise but sweet music to my ears.

"Nice to meet you." I smile as he shuffles along to his next unsuspecting victim.

He's rapidly replaced by a dark-haired, brown-eyed man who, whilst not conventionally handsome, is quite attractive with a warm smile. His badge reads "Carl."

There's the siren again. "Hi," he says and shakes my hand. "I'm Carl, I'm thirty-five, and I work in advertising. I like the basic things in life like long walks and Sunday lunches, and I hate pretentious foreign films. What about you?"

Taken aback by this bonsai approach, I widen my eyes slightly and take a deep breath, preparing to rise to the challenge. "I'm Jess." I tap my badge. "I'm thirty-four, work in television, hate long walks, and love foreign films. But I'm with you on the Sunday lunches." He laughs and I find myself feeling quite attracted to him. My spirits rise slightly, heartened that maybe this speed-dating business isn't going to be such a damp squib after all.

With a sudden bolt of courage I didn't know I could muster, I reach into my pocket and take out one of my calling cards. "So if you fancy sharing a roast one Sunday, here's my card." I hand it over and feel encouraged when he quickly accepts it, stuffing it into his shirt pocket.

He places his elbows on the table and leans forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. "So . . ." His voice is low. "What's your favorite sexual position?"

At first, I'm not sure if I have heard him correctly above the din. But his leering expression suggests I have.

Both appalled and angry in equal measures, with one swift flick of my hand I reach into his shirt pocket and retrieve my card. "Forget it," I snap. "You're not my kind of guy."

Seemingly unperturbed, he leans back and folds his arms, staring at me defiantly. "Look, love, sex is one of the most wonderful experiences money can buy. We're both here because we want a shag, so why not just be honest about it? All this coy Jane Austen bollocks is immensely tiresome."

Before I could answer, the siren sounded and he was gone, clearly relieved to be moving on to passions new.

Although indignant at his presumption that I was lurking in the same murky shallows as he, it set me thinking. Why
had
I come along tonight? And what message was I giving out by doing so?

I could see the advantages. People with busy lives, maybe lacking small talk skills, could come here in the full knowledge that everyone in the room was amenable to being asked out. It's open season, and no one is in a relationship or married. Not that they're admitting anyway.

But the downside is that, for me, it strips away the mystique of the sexual arena, of chatting someone up when you're unsure whether they're looking for a relationship. Here, you
know
that they are. The only mystery is whether they want it to be meaningful or meaningless.

I crane my neck to peer at Madeleine, sitting about six places up from me. She has her ever-diminishing pile of cards laid out in front of her, an expectant look on her face as her next "date" shuffles into place.

I turn back to find myself face-to-face with a leering Pee Wee Herman look-alike, a canary yellow sweater slung over his narrow shoulders. My heart sinks.

The siren sounds and, as far as one can tell in ninety seconds, he turns out to be very pleasant and really rather funny. But I can't get past the sweater and the side parting, so my cards stay firmly in my pocket.

Two hours later, wearied by disappointment and repetition, I let out a huge sigh of relief when the loudspeaker crackles into life again to announce the end of the speed-dating session.

"If you'd like to make your way through to the celebrity room, the next part of the evening will commence," it boomed.

I was by Madeleine's side in a nanosecond. "Celebrity room. What the bloody hell's that?" I'm not sure I can take any more ritual humiliation.

"We all get given an envelope with a famous name in it, and we have to walk around searching for our other half. Great fun!" says Madeleine.

"Mine's bound to say Snow White," I mutter. "I've already met every one of the seven bloody dwarves tonight, except Happy."

Madeleine pulls a face that suggests she's going to ignore my negativity. "Look!" She opens her hand to reveal three cards. "I've handed out twenty-two cards so far. What about you?"

"Three," I reply meekly. "And I'm not even convinced I want to hear from those again."

True, I'd handed two out to men I was pretty halfhearted about, but the third I had passed over in undue haste to a devastatingly handsome man called Guy. He was a trainee doctor (mother would be pleased), keen sportsman, and seemingly all-round good catch. Consequently, by the time he reached me, his top pocket was bulging with the cards of available women, including, no doubt, my dear chum Madeleine.

She links her arm through mine. "Come on, Billy No Dates, let's go see if the celebrity room yields fruit for you."

A set of stairs in the corner snakes down to yet another spacious room, only slightly smaller than the last. As we and hundreds of others file in, we're each asked to take a folded piece of white paper from either of two wire baskets positioned each side of the door.

"Only one each . . . only one each . . . only one each," a bored-looking woman drones repetitively as we shuffle past.

A few steps into the room, Madeleine unfolds hers. "Scooby Doo," she reads aloud. "Which presumably means I'm looking for Shaggy."

"How appropriate," I drawl, tentatively opening my piece of paper. "Jordan." I look baffled for a moment. "The supermodel?"

"Yes," replies Madeleine. "Though I'm rather stumped as to who the other half is. God knows, it could be anyone."

The irony of one of the most flat-chested women in the world picking out one of the most pneumatic is not lost on me, and I fully expect to be the butt of several unoriginal jokes for the rest of the evening.

"Excuse me?" I approach a perma-smile woman sitting behind a desk just inside the door and show her my piece of paper. "Can you tell me who my other half is?"

Furtively, as if guarding a state secret, she pulls out a drawer and starts running her finger down the hundreds of names printed on several sheets of paper. "Jordan, Jordan, Jordan . . ." she chants in a singsong voice. "Let's see . . . ah yes, Dwight Yorke! You're looking for Dwight Yorke."

"Thanks." I smile halfheartedly at her and return to Madeleine's side. "Apparently, I'm looking for a bloke called Dwight Yorke," I repeat, with all the enthusiasm of someone entering the dentist's surgery for root canal work.

"He's a football player in the States--halfback for the New York Giants," says Madeleine brightly. "Come on, let's start searching."

I resist her attempt to drag me off, digging my heels into the floor. "Hang on, this could take hours. There are so many people."

"Yes, but the idea is that you get to meet lots of others whilst asking them if they're your celebrity match or not. We met only about half the men here in that extreme speed-dating session, so this is the ideal chance to check out the rest."

It takes me forty-five minutes and at least 150 more unsatisfactory encounters until I locate my Dwight Yorke, otherwise known as "Neil." With delicious irony, he's white, about five foot six inches tall, with ginger hair and the physique of a pipe cleaner.

After a paltry five minutes of small talk for the sake of politeness, I use the age-old girly excuse of wanting the restroom, uttering those three words so often used for dismissal in the dating arena--"See you later"--meaning, of course, "I hope I never clap eyes on you again."

In the murky half light, it takes me at least another ten minutes to find Madeleine amongst the throng. Not least because she is partially obscured by the man pressing her against a wall and snogging her face off.

Tapping them both on the shoulder, I wait patiently whilst they extract their tongues from each other's mouth.

The man, tall, blond, and rugged looking, turns round with an expression of expectancy. "Are you the Queen?" he says.

"Sorry?"

"I'm Prince Philip. Are you the Queen?"

"No, I'm her friend," I say, pointing my finger at Madeleine, who is hastily smoothing down her hair after her passionate encounter. "I just wanted to let you know I'm leaving now."

"Really?" She looks genuinely surprised. "Didn't you find Dwight Yorke?"

"Yes, unfortunately I did. That's partly why I'm leaving."

"Oh. I didn't find Shaggy, but Prince Philip and I are getting along very nicely, aren't we?" She pouts coquettishly at him and I notice she still has her hand tucked inside his jacket.

"Yeah, well I'll call you tomorrow, OK?" I mumble, turning away from them.

As I reach the door, I look back over my shoulder to see they have resumed normal service, with Madeleine barely visible behind her bulky conquest.

A member of the Royal Family copping off with Scooby Doo. Just about sums the whole evening up really.

Nine

Am I tall? Yes. Dark? Quite. Handsome? You decide! My name is David and I'm looking for someone with whom to enjoy lazy days, long lunches, and fine wines. I'm pretty easygoing, so the main agenda is to just have fun and see how it goes.

I
t's been raining for three days solid now, so I have arranged an indoor rendezvous, outside the Gap in the West One shopping center on Oxford Street. It would be so much easier to drag them to a local venue, but my paranoia is still heightened enough that I don't want them knowing where I live within a two-mile radius.

I live just off Tooting common, but when they ask I simply say Lambeth, the most overpopulated borough of London.

I reach the Gap just a couple of minutes before 1 p.m. and, as usual, I'm the first there. There's only one other person loitering around with that I'm-meeting-someone expression, but he's about 5' 6'' and squat, with stack heels and the worst comb-over since Donald Trump.

This time, rather than waste precious Saturday hours on what may turn out to be yet another disastrous encounter, I have slotted it into my lunch hour before returning to the studio to finish off work on tomorrow's program. Not counting the torturous tube journey there and back, it is my very own version of speed dating.

It's nudging five past one now and there's still no sign. The man opposite smiles tentatively at me and raises his eyes heavenward. He doesn't speak, but the shared viewpoint is clearly, "Bah, latecomers!"

I decide to give it another five minutes, then bugger off back to work via a quick diversion to my favorite shop, Zara.

A minute later, I can see from the corner of my eye that Mr. Squat is looking at me intently, clearly wondering whether to make the most of our mutual abandonment and move in on me. Bollocks, he's walking over.

"Hi." He's standing right next to me, his chin virtually resting on my shoulder.

"Hi." I smile briskly, clutching my handbag closer to me, about to make my excuses and leave.

"Are you Jess?"

His question momentarily winds me. Fuck,
this
is the so-called tall, dark stranger whose handsomeness is my call? Well, ring ring, it's a nerd alert.

"Jess?" I repeat. I'm stalling for time, wondering whether to take him to task under the Trade Descriptions Act or to opt for the other plan slowly forming in my head.

"Yes, I'm waiting for someone called Jess, but I haven't met her before so I'm not completely sure what she looks like." He smiles apologetically. "It's an Internet date."

I adopt the best blank look I can muster. "Jess? Nope, sorry, my name's Olivia."

His face drops. "Oh. You really look like her photo." He narrows his eyes and scrutinizes me, close enough so I get a faint whiff of halitosis.

"I'm afraid I have one of those common faces and lots of people think they've met me before." I shake my head in mock despair, glance at my watch and sigh. "Oh well, it doesn't look like my naughty sister is going to turn up. She's
so
unreliable. Anyway, nice to have met you."

I start to walk away, but he places a hand on my forearm and pulls me back.

"Look, as fate has thrown us together in this way, why don't we make the most of it and get to know each other over a coffee?" He smiles and displays fantastic teeth . . . the
only
thing that's fantastic about him.

"No thanks." I smile sweetly. "I already have a boyfriend."

OK, so it's an inflatable one bought as a joke by Richard last Christmas, now lying punctured in the bottom of my wardrobe. But it has its uses, not least being able to rid myself of the bad breath munchkin without telling a
full
lie.

I head off to Zara for some serious retail therapy.

Y
ou did
what
?" Olivia tries to look admonishing, but her eyes are smiling. "Jess, that's
terrible
."

It's the following day and we're sitting at her kitchen table, the rain lashing against the window.

"I know, but I couldn't face spending even one hour with someone I found so physically unattractive. I have enough friends, I don't need any more." She's about to interject, but I put my hand up to stop her. "And no, he wasn't someone who would have grown on me. He had no redeeming features whatsoever, except his teeth."

Olivia smiles, then stares out of the window watching the rain cascade down from a piece of loose guttering into a well-placed barrel below. She seems quieter than usual, distracted even.

"You OK?" I inquire as I walk over and flick the kettle on. My question drags her out of her subconscious trance.

"I'm fine," she says with a smile, though I'm still not convinced. Silently, I wonder if everything is on track with her and Michael.

"Where did you say Michael was today?" I pour water into two mugs.

"He's gone to a soccer match with a couple of friends from work." She jerks her head towards the window. "Though looking at the weather, the game could be a bit of a washout."

Placing a mug of black coffee in front of her, I look at the Bob the Builder wall clock that's been there since Matthew had his fixation. "You'd better get ready."

Olivia has asked me to babysit for a few hours because she has a half-day token for The Sanctuary, a health spa in central London, and it's about to run out. She has booked herself a facial, manicure, and pedicure, and I'm here to hold the fort until she or Michael gets back.

"I could do with just going back to bed, to be honest," she sighs. "The bloody neighbors had their stereo blaring again until about two a.m. this morning, then Emily woke up at six."

"Why didn't you bang on their door and complain? That's what I would have done."

"We've tried that before and they told us to go forth and multiply. So Michael's latest tactic is to wait until it stops, give them just enough time to drift off to sleep, then ring them to say how much he enjoyed it." She smiles.

"Genius." I grin, remembering that any official complaint about neighbors now has to be declared and can count against you when you want to sell your property.

"Right, I'll be as quick as I can," says Olivia, taking a few glugs of coffee and getting to her feet.

"Duh. Hardly the point!" I raise my eyes heavenward. "You're supposed to relax and enjoy it. Besides, I'm happy to hang out with Matthew and Emily for six weeks if I have to."

When Olivia had given birth to Matthew, I was so excited that I made virtually daily visits for the first month of his life and quickly became besotted. I marveled at this mini-human and how he fearlessly responded to the world. He grew up almost as accustomed to my face as that of his mother, and when Emily was born it was pretty much the same story.

"Thanks, Jess." Olivia's face looks serious. "You know, sometimes I wonder what I'd do without you."

I glance up at her and she swiftly ducks her head, turns on her heel and heads for the hallway. I couldn't be one hundred percent certain, but there may have been tears in her eyes.

As I watch her retreating up the hallway, I feel a mild flutter of panic. Perhaps my first instinct was right and she and Michael
are
going through a rough patch.

If so, it's simply too much to contemplate. They are my marital utopia, the untouchable, unimpeachable couple smiling beatifically down from the pedestal I have placed them on. If they split up, everything I hold dear will be spun on its axle and messed up.

Every time I even vaguely consider settling for someone just so, as I believe Tab has done, I always think about Olivia and Michael and how fantastic their marriage is. It spurs me on to keep up the eternal quest for something similar.

Having tentatively broached the subject of her welfare earlier and been met with "I'm fine" in reply, I know now is not the time to probe further. But I make a mental note that, if she still seems down the next time I'm alone with her, I'll mention it again.

We've never been a family that brushes things under the carpet or keeps things from each other, so I'm not about to start now.