Confessions of a Serial Dater (9 page)

“Well, that’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it?” Elaine says brightly as she places a hand on his arm. At that moment I could almost kiss Harry for flirting with me, rather than with Elaine. Almost.

“Look, here’s my phone number,” Harry says, reaching into his jacket pocket and handing me his card. Which under the circumstances is rather presumptive of him. “If you ever feel like going out for a drink, or for dinner—”

“Oh, but didn’t I tell you?” Elaine jumps right back in.
“Silly me, I must have forgotten, but Rosie’s practically engaged, aren’t you, darling?” Elaine smiles her little cat smile of satisfaction. “Speaking of which, where
is
your lovely man?”

“Oh, things were getting far too serious,” I tell her, all nonchalant. Because I’m suspecting that the whole point of this encounter is to embarrass me in front of my family, friends and Jonathan. “I decided to cool it a bit. You know, take a break from each other, see how I felt come the New Year.”

“But you seemed so happy together.” Elaine is nonplussed. “I mean, he’s such a lovely man.”

“Well, if you’re that interested, I’d be happy to pass him on to you. Just let me know if you’d like his number.” No, I have no intention of doing so, but it is worth a shot just to see the expression on her face.
Take that, Elaine,
I think.

“Well, I, for one, am rejoicing,” Harry says, and Elaine scowls even more.

“Don’t get too rejoyceful,” I warn him. “It doesn’t mean that I’m even vaguely interested in picking up where we left off.”

“No, she certainly isn’t,” is Carmen’s opening line as she and Jess finally reach me on their rescue mission.

“The cavalry to the rescue.” Harry inclines his head. “Hello, ladies. How are you both?”

“Dandy and fine,” Carmen tells him airily. “And don’t bother with the charm, we’re immune.”

“Yes, I remember that aspect of your personality,” Harry says. “Still manless, Carmen?”

“Oh, didn’t Rosie tell you?” Carmen’s voice is deceptively sweet. “We decided to ditch our men and form a lesbian ménage à trois,” she adds.

“No,” Elaine squeaks, then laughs her tinkly little laugh. “You are too funny.”

“You think I’m joking? Come, oh, Sapphic sisterhood,”
Carmen says, sliding an arm around me and Jess. “Have fun, you two,” she says, winking at Harry and Elaine. And then, “Oh, I forgot, you already did that.”

“Naughty,” I say, breathless with laughter.

“Yeah, but it was worth it just to see their faces.”

“Are you alright?” Jess asks me. “It was awful, awful of her to do that to you.”

“We didn’t notice him until a couple of minutes ago,” Carmen says.

“I’m fine, truly,” I say. Although my stomach is still wobbling a bit. “It was just a bit of a shock, seeing him after all these years.”

And as we reach the corner, where Philip is deep in conversation with Flora and a tall, handsome man, my stomach starts to wobble some more. At least, I think he’s handsome, because I can only see the back of his head.

“Here she is,” Flora booms. “Dreadful business,” she adds just to me, under her breath. “I wonder, sometimes, how we can be related to Elaine. But anyway, you’re here now. Darling,” she touches her tall, dark doctor on the arm. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

I hold my breath as he turns around.

“You must be Rosie,” he booms, his eyes crinkling nicely in his pleasant face. “Flora’s told me all about you. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

Not a sardonic eyebrow in sight. Whew.

And as he looks back adoringly to Flora, the way he really
looks
at her as if she is the only woman on the face of the planet, I can’t help it. I suddenly imagine “Sweet Mystery of Life, at Last I’ve Found You,” playing in the background.

“I really like Ned,” I say two hours later, as Jess, Carmen, Philip and I watch him charming Auntie Lizzy and Uncle
Gregory. He’s completely perfect for Flora. In fact, he’s like a male version of her. I think this time she really has got it right.

“He’s perfect for her, perfect,” Jess says, smiling. “Especially the way he looks at her. You can just tell he loves her,” she adds a bit wistfully.

Aster couldn’t make it because Asteroid Attack was, it seems, booked for a private rave in Chelmsford at the last minute. Jess was a lot disappointed, because she won’t see Aster until New Year’s Eve. He’s heading to his parents’ house for Christmas, followed by a brief, yet unexpected, sojourn to Amsterdam with his friends. But without Jess.

Personally, I want to break both of his legs for letting her down, but it’s the band’s first paid gig, so also want to actively encourage him. Plus, if I were rich, I would bribe him to stay in Amsterdam and away from Jess forever.

“Yes,” I say, watching the way Ned’s hand is never far away from Flora’s arm. He can’t seem to stop touching her. “The highlight was the point where Elaine tried to lure him away for the grand tour of the house, and he insisted that Flora go, too. Did you see her face?”

It was actually quite funny. Elaine really worked the charm, but Ned, it would seem, is immune. She’s not having much luck with men tonight; Harry took off shortly after our brief encounter, and he made a point of reminding me to call him. Elaine was not pleased when I flirted back at him and said I might just do that. Not that I’m going to, because I have more sense, but it was worth it to see the look on Elaine’s face.

“I foresee wedding bells in the not-too-distant future,” Carmen says a bit bitterly. “Which is lovely for them,” she adds, trying for upbeat, “but not for everyone.”

She’s worrying too much about the implication of the tropical fish and Paul’s desire for stability.

“What could be more stable than living together?” Carmen asks us again, rhetorically. “What does he mean, he wants more commitment? They don’t come any more committed than me. My God, I mean, I’m raising his fish, aren’t I?”

Paul couldn’t make it to the party because he had another emergency photo shoot. Yes, on Christmas Eve. Apparently, his photographer friend is still sick, couldn’t make a swanky, executive party, and asked Paul if he’d do it in his stead.

Carmen says it’s a lot of money, but she’s not very pleased at being boyfriendless on Christmas Eve.

I’m pretty unhappy to be generally boyfriendless.

“It will all sort itself out, you’ll see,” Philip tells her. And then, “Well, I must go and ready myself for the midnight service. I don’t expect there will be many there, but one can only live in hope. Don’t suppose you three want to come and, you know, be my congregation?”

“That sounds lovely,” I tell him, because it does. A bit of quiet, serene peace and Christmas carols would be very welcome after the week I’ve had. “But I can’t. I have to get Mum and Gran home. Especially Gran,” I add, because Gran has had a very good time with Auntie Pat’s buffet and hot punch, and is weebling just a bit.

If we stay much longer she will take control of Auntie Pat’s baby grand piano and treat us all to some Old Time Music Hall songs. She’s quite a nifty piano player, and she sings very enthusiastically, but her songs tend toward the bawdy.

“Count me in,” Carmen says, which is a surprise, because she’s not a church kind of person. “This has got to be one of my worst Christmases so far, and I could do with a bit of spiritual nurturing.”

“Me, too,” Flora tells him, and Philip beams.

“Really?”

“Go on, then,” I tell them glumly. “Desert the sinking ship.”

“Poor darling,” Carmen hugs me. “You’ve had a shit time just recently.” And then, “Let’s do something special for New Year. Just the gang—I want to spend it with only the people I really love. And Charlie, if he’s not working a gig. You, too, Phil—you don’t have to work, do you?”

“Er, no. That would be wonderful,” he says.

“I’d love that,” Jess says, and Philip beams at her again. “But that does include boyfriends, doesn’t it?”

Before Carmen can say something nasty about Aster, and before Jess can see Philip’s smile slip, Auntie Pat calls for a hush for Elaine’s Christmas message. I thought they’d forgotten, but it seems that we must be tortured.

“Dearly beloved friends and family,” Elaine says serenely as her blond head shines like a halo in the lamplight. “Thank you for taking the time to spend this evening with us to celebrate the coming of the Lord, and, of course, my own special news.”

“God, she sounds like the bloody Madonna,” Carmen whispers in my ear.

I hope this isn’t going to take long.

“I’m not going to make a long speech,” she says.

Thank God.

“I just wanted to wish you all a very Merry Christmas.”

That’s it? I can’t believe Auntie Pat made such a performance about Elaine’s speech and that’s it.

“Christmas is a time of joy, and birth, and giving thanks, but we should also spare a thought for those less fortunate than ourselves—”

“Watch out, Phil,” Carmen says under her breath. “I think she’s after your job.”

“Such as the starving, sick and lonely,” Elaine goes on. “I know how it feels to be alone,” she continues, almost tragically. “And I just wanted to add to my cousin Rosie, whose
boyfriend tragically broke up with her just before the festive season, that life does go on, and I’m sure she’ll find inner peace if only she places her trust in God.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Carmen says under her breath as all eyes fall on me. “Sorry, Phil—but I think I may have to kill your cousin.”

Not if I get to her first,
I think as I see Mum’s face. I hadn’t actually gotten around to telling her about Jonathan yet.

“Thank you, Elaine,” I say, rising to the occasion as I also raise my glass of punch. I’ve had quite a lot of this very alcoholic punch and am feeling quite brave, as well as enormously pissed off. “It’s very sweet of you to worry about me. So I ask you all to raise your glasses and wish Elaine peace, happiness, and a reconciliation with the father of her child—whoever he might be.”

There is a sudden, embarrassed silence as people absorb the words that they have all been thinking yet have not dared to utter.

“Friends,” Ned steps into the breach. “At least I feel that you’re my friends after the warm welcome you’ve all given to me this evening, so I hope you won’t feel I’m being too presumptuous by asking you to share in my joy. Flora has just made me the happiest man in the world by agreeing to marry me.”

It is New Year’s Eve.

I have a bottle of champagne, luxury Belgian chocolates, luxury caviar, strawberries and a selection of books written by such wonderful authors as J. K. Rowling and Stephen King.

I also have a selection of completely unliterary movies such as
The Little Mermaid
and
The Lion King
at my complete disposal via the touch of the remote control.

I also have a date, but it has to be said, not quite the date I was hoping for…

Instead of my lovely friends, who are all carousing somewhere in Trafalgar Square, for company, I have Maximillion d’Or, beloved, adored, prizewinning colorpoint red point Persian cat.

I’m giving him a taste of popular, rather than classical, culture as a New Year’s treat, but somehow I don’t think he’ll tell on me to Mrs. G-S.

Ex-fluffer Grace has a very slight cold, and although she felt fit enough to cope with the highly untaxing job of caring for dear Maxie, Mrs. Granville-Seymour just couldn’t bear risking his health. Although I didn’t think that cats could catch colds from humans…

I take a long swallow of my third glass of excellent champagne. And, in my tipsy haze, as Big Ben approaches two minutes to midnight, I have A Brilliant Idea. Dear Jonathan. I miss him so much. I bet he’s missing me, too…I bet he’s too embarrassed to call me and is also miserable and lonely…

I reach for the telephone and punch in Jonathan’s number. And hang up the moment I get switched to voice mail.

He obviously isn’t home brooding about our failed relationship, then. He’s probably out with a hot new woman with small feet.

“Happy New Year, Rosie,” I toast myself sadly as I watch the seething mass of people in Trafalgar Square laughing and cheering and kissing as Big Ben strikes midnight.

Maxie opens an eye, then flops back to sleep.

The label on the champagne bottle warns me not to operate heavy machinery or drive a vehicle while under the influence, which is a shame, because I was just sitting here thinking that I might trim Mrs. Granville-Seymour’s bushes
with one of those Swedish chain saws, whilst also driving her BMW.

Oh, well.

I’ll just have another little glass, then…

“That’s got to be the most pathetic excuse for a list of New Year’s resolutions I’ve ever seen,” Carmen tells me just over six weeks later, on Valentine’s Day afternoon, as we sip coffee in the back room of her vintage clothes store in Pem-bridge Road.

I snatch it back from her because I think it’s pretty good.

1. Spring clean entire house.
   Check.
   
2. Take up horse riding to annoy Elaine.
   Check.
   
3. Join Jess’s Friday night knitting group.
   Check.
   
4. Get Mum’s finances back on track.
   Check.
   
5. Get Mum back on track.
   Check. Well, nearly…
   
6. Threaten plumber with legal action for botch job on bathroom and resultant leak through kitchen ceiling.
   Check. Although no response from him has actually been forthcoming…
   

I don’t tell Carmen about the seventh resolution, which I resolutely left off the list.
Stop daydreaming about Dr. Love
is hardly something I want her to know about. I don’t want
anyone
to know about it, because it’s, well, fucking pathetic, and after nearly two months I should have gotten over such a childish crush.

The latest daydream, this morning, involved chocolate, and red roses, and romantic dinners. And garden gnomes arranged in the shape of a heart. What kind of daydream is that, I ask you? There was no
sex.
Plus, the background music still needs some work…

“Well, it was
your
idea.” I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered with the list. Actually, I
didn’t
bother on actual New Year itself, but Carmen says I have to have goals. It’s lovely of her to worry about me, but she needn’t. I’m perfectly happy the way I am.

“Yes, but giving the plumber short shrift wasn’t what I had in mind—”

“And if I’m going to have a list at all, it might as well be a list of fairly
achievable
goals.” Or, in fact, ones that I’ve already achieved.

“But the whole point,
my
whole point, is that you need to get out and have fun, meet people. Men, specifically.”

“Plumbers are generally men,” I point out. Although Greta, at Knit One Purl Jam, is a plumber, and she’s definitely not a man. I’m thinking of asking her advice about
my
plumber situation. “A lot of men ride horses, too,” I say.

What I don’t add is that the group I’m currently trotting with is all female. I definitely don’t want to meet any more men. But I have to say I am enjoying my twice-weekly trots around the training circuit. We’ll be ready to actually trot around Hyde Park soon.

Elaine bought me a course of ten horse-riding lessons for Christmas. Actually, she didn’t buy it for me at all. I remember that it was a gift she received for her birthday, last November, because I was at the party, and I was standing next to her when she opened the gift certificate.

Although it was an expensive gift (three hundred and forty quid, because I checked), I suspect this was to enhance my grief about Candy, the lost pony, and if I were paranoid, which I’m not, I might also suspect that it was a veiled threat. That the reminder about Candy was also to remind me of what she said to me that day. That no one could love
me
more than
her.

But that would also be completely fucking psychotic of me. And also pathetic.

On the other hand, it could just be that she couldn’t take the riding course on account of being pregnant. I worry too much, sometimes…

Whatever the reason, it has backfired on her, because I’m having fun on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the gals and a gentle mare called Tansy. I’m seriously thinking of keeping up the lessons after the course finishes.

You know, during the last few weeks I have settled into a very nice manless routine, and I’m a bit ashamed to admit that instead of feeling more shattered by my disaster with Jonathan (from whom I have not heard a peep), instead I am just a bit relieved.

It’s such a release to be able to be myself without having to be on my best behavior for someone. And I’m not lonely, not really, because who could be lonely with such a lot of
things to do? In fact, I’m so busy these days that I haven’t got time for a man—where would he fit in my schedule?

On Saturday mornings, I have coffee with Carmen and Jess. Afternoons I catch up on shopping and cleaning. Evenings I have dinner with my friends. It’s a new tradition that Flora and Ned started—they invited us all for dinner at Ned’s house (Flora moved in just after Christmas), and we had such a great time that it then became The Thing To Do on Saturdays.

On Sundays I have lunch with Mum and Gran, spend the afternoon with Mum, because Gran disappears on a date, then I spend the evening catching up on admin and stuff, and maybe watch a movie.

On Mondays I go to cooking class. I mean, it’s pathetic that a woman of twenty-eight can’t cook, isn’t it? Plus, I want to reciprocate and surprise all my friends by cooking them a meal at my place soon. We’re doing spaghetti sauce next week. Once we get as far as the chocolate mousse, I’m going to have a practice run before I actually invite everyone, because it’s good to have a practice run or two to get it right, isn’t it?

On Tuesdays, after tea at Mum’s I go riding, and then I’m too tired to do anything except shower and veg in front of the TV.

On Wednesdays, I have French conversation. I was a bit worried at first that Jonathan would show up for the new term, but then I thought, that’s his problem. I mean, why should I disrupt my French classes just because he dumped me? I mean, if I’m going to be bilingual and delay the onset of dementia, I need to keep it up. At least he had the decency not to. Show up, I mean.

Thursdays are a repeat of Tuesdays, except I go to the pub for a couple of drinks with my new riding buddies afterwards.

Fridays is Knit One Purl Jam with Jess and my new knitting buddies.

So, the myth that all single women must be in need of a man to make them complete is, in my opinion, exactly that. A complete fucking myth. Of course, I do miss the sex…but that’s why God, in Her wisdom, invented vibrators. Ahem. Enough about that.

“And this—this knitting thing. Really, Rosie, it’s so ‘grandmother.’ You need a life.”

Actually, my grandmother’s life is pretty interesting at the moment. It involves a love triangle, and garden gnomes, and cowboys. But even thinking about it is too tiring and makes my head ache, so I don’t mention it to Carmen.

“Don’t you like my sweater?” I ask instead, the picture of innocence. “Just look at this sweater and tell me that knitting is boring.” I am wearing my knitted-by-Jess sweater. She made us all one for Christmas, and I have to say they’re positively fabulous. Definitely not boring or grandmotherly. Who knew Jess was so talented?

Mine is bloodred angora, with three-quarter sleeves, semifitted and cropped. It’s very French, which is exactly what Jess was aiming at, because she says I look French. Very Audrey Tautou in the movie
Amélie.
Actually, I quite like the idea of adopting an Amélie look. I quite like the idea of adopting the Amélie approach to life, too.

You see, I really think that the way to happiness is to improve the lives of those around me, just like Amélie. That’s the secret of my happiness, apart from such a busy agenda.

Carmen’s sweater is a lovely mottled turquoise/blue/green roll neck and is completely sexy, in a mediaeval kind of way, and molds her lush curves. Jess really captured our personalities. It’s incredible.

I don’t have Jess’s skill, but it’s fun to sit around and gossip
at Knit One Purl Jam over coffee, with Pearl Jam playing in the background. Kitty, the founder of the group, loves Pearl Jam with a passion.

“Of course I love the sweaters. I just don’t see what kind of lure there is to spend Friday evenings gossiping over knitting needles and coffee, instead of getting out there and, most importantly, getting laid.”

“It’s not like that at all,” I say, although truth be told, I do miss sex with an actual, you know, man, rather than a vibrator. “It’s really hip.” Which surprised me at first. “It’s all young, trendy women. It’s fashioned after a knitting group formed by a Manhattan feminist,” I tell her, because even Carmen should approve of that. “We all talk about sex.” Well, the others talk about sex.

“And you, on account of not having any, live vicariously.” Carmen shakes her head. “It must be seven weeks since you last did it. This is not a healthy situation.”

“So what did Paul get you for Valentine’s Day?” I ask, moving swiftly away from my non-sex life.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I got a card. An anonymous one.” Secretly, I was thrilled and surprised to get one at all. It’s pathetic of me, but I was so happy when that red envelope slipped through my letter box onto the hall floor. I suspect it was from Harry, which doesn’t count, but I don’t want to share that with Carmen.

“That’s a good start,” Carmen says approvingly. And then, “Paul got me red roses, chocolates and a date with a lawyer.”

“Oh. Um, the date with the lawyer is—unique.”

“He wants us both to make a will. Says it’s only sensible, seeing as we’re approaching old age,” Carmen adds, eyeing the fish tank in the corner.

Paul, who is lovely and perfect for Carmen, wants more stability. What he actually means by that, as well as a cut
down in the plate throwing, is less sex in odd places. The sex in odd places thing is one of Carmen’s New Year’s resolutions—a quest to remain young, unfettered and spontaneous. But Paul, apparently, likes comfort, now that he’s in his dotage.

I have to admit, I’m right with him on that front. Carmen’s idea of sex in odd places can be a bit, well, daunting sometimes. The minibreak hasn’t worked out yet, on account of Paul working such long hours and saving extra money for their pension plan. As a compromising alternative, Carmen has plans to get him onto the fire exit stairs at the posh hotel tonight.

“But at least it beats more tropical fish.” Carmen shakes her head. “He was very disappointed about the fish.”

It has to be said that the fish experiment didn’t turn out too well, on account of one of them, whom we’ve christened Malevolence, having cannibalistic tendencies and eating all of the others.

I glance across at the aquarium in the corner. Carmen moved it from the store because, she said, Malevolence was giving customers the evil eye. Actually, I think she’s right…it is a very demonic-looking fish…

“Well, getting any kind of Valentine’s Day gift is nice,” I tell her, because it is.

“I know, I know,” she says, shaking her head, then she laughs. “God, I’m beginning to sound like Jess.”

“Anyway, what’s the big mystery?” I ask her quickly, because talking about Jess will inevitably lead to a diatribe about Aster again. Plenty of time for that tonight. “Why, apart from the additional pleasure of my company, since we already had coffee this morning, was it so vital that I immediately drop everything and hightail it to your wondrous store?”

“Something came in,” she tells me, riffling through the garment rack. “It just screamed ‘Rosie’ at me, and I think you should wear it tonight.”

It is a piece of wine-red velvet and wine-red silk. It doesn’t look like much…actually, it looks very Amélie…

“But I’m sorted,” I resist. But I’m weakening.

Tonight is Flora and Ned’s engagement party. It’s going to be a huge, swanky affair with approximately three hundred people. I had intended to wear my safe black velvet number, on account of not wanting to attract any undue male attention.

“Just try it on. For me,” Carmen pleads.

And so I do to humor her, because she does this to me a lot, and I never buy any of the sexy little numbers, because they’re just not for me.

“Oh. My. God,” I say, when I come out of the changing room to look in the mirror.

The sweetheart neck enhances my usually adequate cleavage to overabundant proportions, made even more so by the softly molding material. It’s cut in such a clever way that it makes my waist smaller and my hips rounder and more feminine, and wisps of the silk petticoat flirt around my knees. It covers me completely yet at the same time totally uncovers me.

I
love
this dress. I’ve never felt so sexy and sirenesque in my entire life. Which is exactly why I’m not going to get it.

“You have to have this dress,” Carmen orders me.

“I don’t think—” This is a very dangerous little dress.

“Don’t think.” She holds up a hand, oddly reminiscent of the way Dr. Love held up a hand and told me not to think two months ago.

What harm can it do? It’s only one little dress.

I grin back at Carmen’s reflection in the mirror.

Fuck it. I’m having it. I can look sexy and hot just for myself.

The fish gazes malevolently, and I shudder….

My good humor lasts until I reach home and walk into my kitchen. The bathroom, directly above it, was completely gutted and replaced six months ago, because it was old and desperately needed it.

I love my new bathroom. It’s all lovely mother-of-pearl tiles, and pale green accessories, and calming. But what I do not love is that the shower has developed a leak, and Brian Hirston & Sons, my plumbers, are ignoring my phone calls.

So earlier in the week I consulted my lawyer, and he sent them a very strong letter, very strong indeed. Unfortunately, the leak is getting worse, and there is water all over the kitchen floor.

I mop it up with kitchen towels, cursing all the time under my breath about shoddy workmanship. The amount I’ve paid Brian Hirston & Sons is enough to put at least one of the grandkids through college, and the least they can do is provide a decent service.

So when my telephone rings I ignore it, because it’s probably Mum with more of Gran and the garden gnome story, and I’ll get it all tonight, anyway. Plus, I’m still mopping water. And when I check my messages, ten minutes later, I’m even more pissed off. There’s a message from Harry.

“Hi, Rosie.” His dulcet tones slide over my skin like silk, and I can’t help a little shiver. It’s because of my lack of sex, I think, and this irritates me.