"Yeah. You know, I think you should just write me off
as unsaveable. You concentrate your efforts on the client I’m going to set you
up with. Now
she
needs to hear a lot of your God is Good garbage."
"It is not garbage," he splutters.
"Did I just say garbage? I’m sorry, I meant fabulous
teachings, of course."
He doesn’t look convinced.
"Besides, I have a question for you. What makes you
think God is a man? Isn’t
he
supposed to be a woman?"
"I have never heard anything so preposterous,"
Noel says, sitting up straight in his chair. "Of course God is a man. The
idea, the very idea is just… pfft. Outrageous. Unheard of. Absurd. Who on earth
says that He, our wonderful lord above, is a female?"
Oh yes, there is nothing more fun than winding up the Jesus
freak. "
Jay and Silent Bob
," I admit sheepishly.
"Jay and who?"
Thankfully I am saved by the bell from having to answer this
one. Thank the lord.
Number Nine: Noel—God botherer
.
I smell number eight from approximately two tables down.
This one obviously doesn’t grasp the concept of less is more when it comes to
cologne. I mean, I’m a
Joop for Men
girl all the way, but not all the
way across the other side of the room. This guy must have quite a lot of money,
because he’s obviously taken a bath in very expensive aftershave.
"Hi," he says, smiling as he sits down. "How
are you?"
I would reply. I really would. I’m not trying to be rude or
anything, but I’m kind of choking on the smell. It’s one of those smells that
gets you right in the back of the throat and makes you feel like you’ve
swallowed the aftershave, not just smelt it.
"I’m fine," I grate out. "Mackenzie, pleased
to meet you."
He leans forward to reach for my hand and kiss it. This is
quite possibly the worst thing he can do, because it brings the smell even
closer to me.
"Fran," he says. "It’s Frank really, but Fran
seems to be the cool variation you kids are wearing these days."
I want to tell him two things: a) anyone called Fran these
days is pretty much because they are named Fran and not because it’s a
shortened version of Frank, and b) nobody
wears
a name. But I can’t tell
him either of those things, because I can’t breathe.
"I’m sorry," I manage to choke out eventually.
"But you have to move your chair back. It’s nothing personal, but I think
I may be allergic to your cologne."
"Oh my god, I’m so sorry," he says, blushing
bright red as he shoves the chair back so hard it overbalances and lands him on
his ass on the floorboards.
"Is that better?" He asks, jumping up and dusting
himself off.
I nod. I can’t speak exactly. My eyes are watering, as I
glance around the room to see if any of the other women he’s been to have had
the same problem with him. All eyes have turned to our table thanks to the
clatter of Fran and chair hitting the deck, and a few women nod sympathetically
in my direction. Obviously they did.
With Fran sitting a few metres in front of the table, away
from me, my breathing starts to even out again and I can form words through my
throat again.
"I don’t mean to offend you," I say. "But you
really need to use less cologne next time."
"I’m sorry," he says. "I didn’t realise the
effect it would have on people."
I feel kind of bad for him actually, but it doesn’t stop me
being extremely glad when the bell rings and he can move on to the poor,
unsuspecting woman at the next table.
Number eight: Fran—enough Joop to fumigate a small army
.
Number seven is all smiles when he arrives. He walks like he
is out of place here, and he’s scrawny with gelled-back hair and thick glasses.
"Bonjour! Bonsoir!" He says. "Je M'appelle
Gregoire."
"Pardon me?"
"Comment vous appelez-vous?"
I shrug.
"Parlez-vous français?"
"Um… No?"
He stares at me. I stare back at him. Five minutes later,
the bell rings.
Number seven: Gregoire—doesn’t speak English.
It has to be said that so far this is going really
well, isn’t it? This was a really bright idea of Jenni’s, and an even brighter
one of mine to agree to coming with her.
At least guy number six speaks English. This puts him way
ahead of number seven on the leader board.
"Hello," he says quietly. "I’m Norman."
He says it so quietly that I have to lean forward to hear
him.
"I’m Mackenzie," I say, a little louder than
intended.
"You’re very young," he whispers.
"I’m here on behalf of someone else," I say, my
voice dropping unintentionally. I sound like a foghorn when speaking in my
normal voice next to him. I briefly wonder if he has a hearing aid in or
something and doesn’t want to damage it. He looks kind of old and doddery.
Definitely at the tail end of his fifties. Unless he’s sneaked into the wrong
group—that’s more likely, I think.
"Ah, right," he says.
God, this is getting repetitive. Who the hell thought it was
a good idea to meet twenty different men in two hours and have to have the same
conversation with each one of them?
"So, what do you do for work, Norman?" I whisper.
"I’m retired," he says. "But I like to boat.
I like to build boats with my son."
"Oh right," I say. "What type?"
"I like to build little radio-controlled ones so I can
take my grandson to the park and watch him play with them on the pond, and my
son and I make real, big boats together to sail. Do you know anything about
sailing?"
I shake my head.
"It’s very good fun…"
I tune out of what he’s saying to think for a minute. It
scares me to think about what this guy’s idea of fun might be. I actually feel
quite sorry for him. Until I realise that he is currently talking to
himself—well, I’m not listening—and he’s gone off on a big tangent about
sailing and boats. Actually, I come to realise, I’m glad that I don’t have to
spend more than five minutes with these guys. Maybe this whole speed dating
thing isn’t such a bad idea after all.
Norman continues speaking while I stare at the Biro in my
hand and wonder how hard it would be to lobotomise myself with it.
Number six: Norman—died three years ago
.
Number five is next. I noticed him at the next table while
Norman was rambling, and hoped that by some miracle of the universe he would
skip my table. No such luck, unfortunately. Ladies, if you ever wanted to date
Harry Enfield’s character Wayne Slob, now is your chance. Here is a
look-a-like, right here in the flesh. Flesh of which there is way too much
showing.
"Hey, heh, heh, heh," he says when he arrives at
my table.
I assume this means "hello", so I say, "Hi,
I’m Mackenzie."
"Never heard that name before, love. Nice one."
"Thanks," I say, inwardly cringing. His jumper has
ridden up, exposing stretch marks on his beer belly that are really not
pleasant to look at. Said jumper is also ripped in two places, and has a couple
of unidentifiable stains down the front. He’s rolled his sleeves up to reveal
arms so hairy that I can’t see any skin on them. One sleeve is falling down
again.
"You’re hot," he says, spitting saliva from his
mouth. "I’d do you. Fancy a quick one in my car? It’s only outside."
"No, thanks," I say. "You’re just way too
charming for me."
"I know, love. I know."
You see? Wayne Slob personified.
Number five: Wayne Slob—enough said
.
The rest of the five minute dates aren’t worth mentioning. I
just have one thing to say on the subject. I know they say that you should be
yourself on dates, but here’s a memo to all men: if you’re an arrogant jerk,
you might want to be someone else for a while.
Jenni is waiting for me in the foyer when we finally finish.
"Hi, I’m number seventeen," I say, walking up to
her.
She laughs. "Number five, pleased to meet you."
"So, was that as much fun as you thought it’d be?"
I ask.
"Oh no," she says. "It was horrible. Very
impersonal."
"You can say that again."
"How about you? Did you find anyone for your
mother?"
"It depends on whether she’d like to date Frankenstein,
a werewolf or a Jesus freak."
Jenni laughs.
"Did you find any possibilities?" I ask her.
"Hell, no. It was like they numbered them perfectly.
Each one was systematically worse than the one before. By the time I got to
number twenty he was speaking in grunts and trying to cook woolly mammoth on a
fire lit with two rocks."
"I think I met that guy for a date last week."
She laughs again.
"You know you owe me for this, right? How could you
drag me along on a night like this?"
"Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad. I bet you got some
contact info from some. Here, let me see."
She takes my sheet out of my hands and reads through it.
"Hmm. Mac, you got contact info for all of them! Look, you’ve got twenty
phone numbers and email addresses here, and you’re telling me it was an
unsuccessful night? What are you talking about? Now I just wish I’d thought to
put my snarky comments down as well."
"My comments are true. Seriously, number fourteen was
only missing a pair of bolts in his neck. He looked just like Lurch from
The
Addams Family
. I did give my contact number to a few though. You never
know. I suppose I thought that I’ve met so many horrible men, they’d probably
get on great with other horrible men. Or women. It would be like balancing out
the scales. But I did get everyone’s contact number for a reason—I had an idea
in there, Jen."
"An idea that we’ve missed out on all the good men?
Because that was what I was thinking."
"No, an idea that I’m sitting there thinking how lucky
I am to have Dan, and if my mother had to date these losers too, maybe she’d
realise how lucky she was to have Ron."
"Yeah, if you say so," Jenni says.
"You don’t think so?"
"So what, you’re going to set your mother up on bad
dates, just so she may or may not realise how good the good ones were?"
I shrug. "Yeah, why not?"
"Is this the same fate that awaits my father?"
"No," I say. "I’m hoping that he’ll be a
little easier to find a nice woman for. I did look around in there, but most of
them were giving me the evil eye because I’m twenty-odd years younger than
them. They thought I was out to steal their dates."
"You were."
"Yeah, but not for myself, that’s the important
bit."
Jenni laughs. "You’re insane."
"I know," I say. "Come on, we should go
before Dan thinks I’ve run off with an eighty-year-old."
"Oh, so you’re on a curfew now?"
"No, not at all. I just realised how lucky I am to have
a boyfriend, even if he’s not perfect."
CHAPTER 40
"Oh, I’m glad you’re
home," Dan says, as soon as I get in the door.
"Why? What’s wrong?"
"Not much," he replies. "Just that I’ve been
over at your mum’s house all night trying to fix her bloody refrigerator."
"Why? What’s wrong with her fridge?"
"It’s heating up."
"So, what, it’s got personality affective disorder? It
thinks it’s a microwave?"
Dan laughs. "Something like that."
"Did you fix it?"
"I dunno. I whacked it a few times, played with the
thermostat, but I don’t know the first thing about fridges. Your mother, on the
other hand, thinks I am a professional repair man and should be spoken to as
such."
"Oh, I’m sorry, Dan." I flop down on the sofa
beside him.
"I told her to call a professional in the morning,
silly old bat. She hates me three hundred and sixty-five days a year until she
thinks I can fix something that she won’t have to pay for."
"Sorry, babe," I say. "You should have just
told her you were busy."
"Yeah, and then she’d love me even more."
I shrug.
"So, how was your night? Meet anyone good?"
"Not good, as such, but meeting them gave me a great
idea."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah. You know how you were saying that we
shouldn’t give up on Ron just yet? Well, I had an idea. If I set Mum up on
dates with the most pathetic, horrible men I can find, she’ll realise what a
catch Ron was and go back to him. Good idea, no?"
"You really think that’ll work?"
"Well, while I was meeting those idiots tonight, I
realised how lucky I am to have you."
"Like you didn’t know that anyway."
"Ha ha." I hand him my contact info sheet, along
with all the names, addresses and phone numbers I got.
"Wow. They sound good," he says as he reads
through it.
"Don’t they just? I thought I’d set Mum up with the God
botherer and the guy who likes to watch women urinate for sure. And quite
possibly The Stud. I’d like to set her up with the one who only spoke French,
but I’m not sure I could get him to understand me. Plus she’d probably guess
that something was going on if the guy didn’t even speak the same language as
us."
Dan nods.
"You know, I’m so tired of all this dating crap, and I
haven’t even started looking for Jeff yet."
"And you want to do this full time?"
"Oh come on, not every client is going to be as
difficult as my mother."
"You hope."
"Shit!" I jump up from bed. "What was
that?"
Dan is still fast asleep so I push his shoulder. "Dan,
did you hear that?"
"What?" He grumbles.
"Dan, get up." I shove him.
"God, what, babe? It’s the middle of the night."
I check my watch. It’s just after three.
Bang, bang, bang, bang
.
"Oh my god, I think someone’s knocking on our door,
Dan." I kick his legs because he’s rolled over and gone back to sleep.
"Dan, wake up!" I practically yell. "Who’d be knocking on our
door at three a.m.? It must be a burglar."