The List (25 page)

‘Of course they will, silly!' said Lucy when I phoned her, ‘You're now sexually emancipated warrior-girl. You can have anyone you want.'

‘Sure, I'm better in bed, so these challenges will either prove very useful or give me ridiculously high expectations. What if I feel cheated when my next boyfriend refuses to have sex while hanging off a cliff, just because I decide I want to try it?'

‘Stop worrying. There are plenty of men who're just as adventurous as you are. Oliver isn't the only one. You'll be fighting them off.'

‘And where am I expected to meet all these men? It's like a meat market when we go out to bars; everyone's just looking for a shag.'

‘Online! If a guy spends money on a dating site, surely he's looking for more than just sex? Everyone's doing it these days.'

‘My, that's logical. You could be right.'

I like the sound of this. Internet dating it is. This could be fun!

Sunday July 24th

Internet dating is truly frightening. For the first time I'm putting up real photographs, giving real details about myself and hoping that I don't sound like a twat. Hazel helped me pick some pictures:

‘You look nice in this one.'

‘Bugger off. I look like a horse.'

‘A happy horse though.'

‘Oh great. How about I put: “Horse-faced girl would like to meet man with ridiculously curly hair, for fun conversation and deep and meaningful sex. Must be accepting of my outrageous bed-head, stupid mates and recent shag partner who will make fun of you regardless.”'

‘I'd reply to that.'

‘Ugh. Fetch me seventeen cats and a subscription to
Spinster Weekly
. This is going to be tough.'

Monday July 25th

Back to work today, and I had a mountain of emails to go through and calls to return. I'm starting to regret not taking two weeks off instead. Two of the emails were from Alex, who obviously didn't know I was on holiday, and I deleted them without reading, otherwise I'd have been tempted to reply, ‘GET IT RIGHT UP YOU, FUCKFACE' in 72pt Comic Sans.

Stopped off and got a pizza on the way home and settled down in front of the laptop, eager to browse through all the profiles of single, professional men in my area who are
obviously too busy saving lives or hand-rearing kittens to have found a girlfriend the normal way.

10 p.m
. Jesus, it's slim pickings on these dating sites! For the money they charge I want Josh Groban and his magnificent hair to be on there. Strangely enough, the profiles I saw before joining seem to have disappeared and been replaced with men who think it's a good idea to stand proudly in front of their cars, like they've just invented a time machine. And why do so many of them put, ‘If you want to know about me, just ask'? That's just lazy! They're meant to be wooing me with their charm and wit, not leaving me to do all the bloody work. Saying that, the last wooing I was privy to was when my dad dressed as a ghost one Halloween.

Tuesday July 26th

The messages from suitable bachelors have begun trickling in …

Nope.

What computer would that be then? How many computers do you have, Neo, and why is one reserved for pictures, hopefully showing a full set of teeth?

This is getting ridiculous.

Wednesday July 27th

Frank was hovering around our desks this afternoon, trying to motivate us to make target by offering a bottle of wine for each advert sold. Thirteen ads later, he called time on his costly mistake and shuffled off to the supermarket.

While he was out I checked my emails and was thrilled to see that someone decent emailed me. I say ‘decent'; he can spell – which is a start.

As I clicked on his profile I prepared myself for him to have a face like a Hobbit's foot, but surprisingly he's handsome, with only a hint of beard. It seems I found a good one! I emailed him back to tell him I'm free on Sunday before sending Lucy his picture to show off.

She phoned straight away. ‘His picture looks photo-shopped. He's not real. He's far too symmetrical.'

‘What? That must be him. Why on earth would anyone
agree to meet, knowing they've put a fake picture up?'

‘Maybe he hopes his personality will be enough to make you forget he's a big fake-faced liar.'

‘Go away. I love him.'

Saturday July 30th

I received another email from Alan, saying how much he's looking forward to our date tomorrow. I called Lucy for advice on what to wear.

‘Wear that red flowery skirt. The one I borrowed ages ago and got toothpaste on.'

‘That doesn't fit me any more and we both know that wasn't toothpaste.'

‘Ha. Fine. The dark blue dress with the white collar then. You look pretty in that. Where is Mr Symmetrical taking you?'

‘Red Onion. Apparently he's gluten intolerant and they have a special menu. I'm not complaining; their seafood is amazing.'

‘Gluten intolerance isn't real and neither is his face.'

‘Shh. I'm really excited – this is a much more normal way to pass the time than looking at cock photos and planning my next challenge.'

‘I dunno, there's a lot to be said for looking at—'

‘I'm going now.'

‘OK, have fun and just remember not to feed him any bread.'

‘He's not a duck. Thanks for your help. Speak soon.'

I'm a tad nervous. I hope neither of us is disappointed.

Sunday July 31st

6 p.m
. Half an hour in the shower was longer than I intended but that still leaves ninety minutes – plenty of time to get ready for the date with my new husband.

6.30 p.m
. I pour a gin and have a fag, then dry my hair. Lots of volume needed so I dry it upside down and emerge looking like I've been assaulted. So then I need to spend twenty minutes flattening it, followed by a further ten minutes back-combing and wishing for baldness.

7 p.m
. Half an hour to go and I lay out my outfit. The only question when deciding on clothes is ‘Will he want to shag me if I wear this?' I then ponder if men really think they have any say in whether they get sex on a date. If I'm going to sleep with him, then all underwear must match and of course be clean. If not, then it doesn't matter a jot and I won't even shave my legs. I then remember I haven't actually shaved my legs. I decide to at least give myself the option to sleep with Alan and grab my razor. I take off my dressing gown and became aware of my alarmingly untidy pubic region. The song ‘Monster' by The Automatic starts playing in my head.

7.10 p.m
. I grab hair-removal lotion and as there's no time for any sort of landscaping I decide to get rid of the lot and shave my legs while it's working. One leg done and my lady parts are starting to nip. Nippy I can handle, but halfway
through the second leg, I'm in the shower, shouting ‘FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET THIS FUCKING STUFF OFF ME!'

7.15 p.m
. Fifteen minutes to go and I've given my bits third-degree burns and can't sit down.

7.25 p.m
. I've cancelled with Alan and I'm sitting on some frozen veg. Veg for my vag. Oh God, I'm never going to find a boyfriend.

I had to lie to Alan and say I'd suddenly become unwell and I hoped we could reschedule. Obviously he thought I'd changed my mind, and although he pretended to be fine about the whole thing, I imagined him drawing a Hitler moustache on my profile picture and moving on to someone else.

Oliver texted to say he was home early (hooray!) but seemed miffed that I had planned a date for the evening of his return. I wouldn't be able to do anything with him anyway given my current disability. I can't even sit on the couch properly, never mind anything else. God, this stings like crazy. Who the hell decided that it was more attractive for women to be hairless? I don't remember being asked. One minute we all have
The Joy of Sex
-style bushes and the next we're hair-free and sticking bloody jewels and glitter all over our fannies. I despair.

Monday August 1st

I've rearranged my date with Alan for tomorrow. Of course I didn't tell him what had actually happened, but luckily my downstairs disaster area feels a million times better. I swear I'd rather be bushy than attempt that again. Oliver's coming over on Wednesday – apparently he's bringing me a present. It had better not be his penis – I'm not sure I could stand being prodded or poked down there just yet. I thought he was going to start convulsing he laughed so hard down the phone when I told him.

‘Ha ha, have you got a little bandage on it?'

‘Shut it and tell me tales of Chicago,' I said, quickly changing the subject.

‘Hmm. Was all right. Mostly work, although I did meet a woman there.'

‘There are lots of women in Chicago, I'd imagine. Be specific.'

‘Her name is Ruth, she's a model from London and she's coming up to see me in a couple of days.'

‘A model, huh? From London? Did you have beautiful people sex then?'

‘No, she was heading home the day after we met, but we really hit it off. Been doing the sexting thing for a while now.'

‘Spare me those details. So she's flying up from London? This is quite sudden, isn't it?'

‘Not really. You're dating, why shouldn't I?'

‘Fair point. Actually, this could work out well. Maybe we can double-date and—'

‘Not a chance. I'm keeping her to myself. Right, I'm going now, still jet-lagged.'

Click.

Hmph. Why did he have to mention she was a model? I'm telling him one of my dates is something really impressive like a spaceman. Or Jesus.

Tuesday August 2nd

I took a taxi home after work to give myself plenty of time to get ready for my second attempt at a date with Alan. The plan was still the same: wear the blue dress, meet for dinner at Red Onion and be charmingly irresistible to the man with the perfectly proportioned face.

I arrived at the restaurant and Alan was waiting for me outside, nervously shuffling his feet in his brown loafers. At first I wasn't entirely sure it was him; this guy was almost bald compared to the man in the photo and his face was a lot thinner. I recognized his perfect teeth when he smiled, but it quickly became apparent that the photo he'd put on his profile was at least ten years old. This guy was in his late forties. I mean, why would you do that if you actually
intend to meet up with someone in a place that has working lights? Why don't I listen to my friends?

Desperately trying not to look like a shallow bastard, I kissed him hello on the cheek and followed him into the restaurant, determined to have a nice evening regardless.

We were seated in the mezzanine and ordered drinks while we looked over the menu. The restaurant was dimly lit, cosy and just busy enough to give it some atmosphere.

‘Sea bass is excellent here,' I said with a smile. ‘Any thoughts on what you're having?'

‘Steak and skinny fries.' He nodded, rolling up the sleeves on his black shirt. ‘You look lovely this evening.'

‘Thank you.' I blushed. ‘How kind. You also scrub up well.' And he did. Sure he might have been older than I expected, but by the time the food arrived and we began to eat, I began to think maybe all was not lost. That's when I glanced at his plate: his full, pathetically picked at, main-course-filled plate.

‘Something wrong with your food?'

‘Erm, no, it's nice. Very nice, I just have a small problem with food.'

‘But you ordered off the gluten-free menu …'

‘I did. It's not just that.'

‘No? That's intriguing.' I laughed. ‘Tell me.'

He frowned at me with his old face. ‘Basically I used to be fat so I don't like eating in front of people … or eating in general. I just thought I'd get this out the way right now.'

He had suddenly become very intense and was staring at me, waiting for a response. I just looked at him … and then at the floor … and then at his plate.

‘Wow … Right … So are you going to finish that then?'

So while I ate his fries and waited for God's big Monty Python foot to squash me, I wondered why you'd take someone out for dinner on a first date when you have a food phobia? AND SHARE THIS INFORMATION WITH THAT PERSON?

Luckily I managed to finish the rest of my meal without any further phobias or traumatic childhood events emerging, but for me the date was well and truly over.

‘Fancy a drink somewhere?' he asked, pulling on his leather jacket.

‘I can't, I'm afraid,' I lied. ‘I have to be up early. But thanks for a lovely meal. Was great meeting you.'

‘So, what, that's it?' He laughed in disbelief. ‘Can I see you again?'

‘Probably not. You're a nice guy but I don't see this going anywhere, Alan. Sorry.'

‘It's because I said I used to be fat, isn't it?'

‘Erm, no. It's just—'

‘Oh, save it. You women are all the fucking same,' he snapped. ‘Bitches the lot of you. I'm out of here. Hope you enjoyed your meal.'