Read Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Online
Authors: Nick Spalding
There was even one pair walking a dog. One of those
poxy
little
Chihuahua
things. That’s just not fair. Who the hell walks a dog at
at night? Is the sodding thing nocturnal?
I stumble back into my house, lock the door and sit down in the lounge to watch a bit of Saturday night television.
The first programme that pops onto the screen when I turn on the Sky box is Dating In The Dark.
Luckily I’m still quite drunk, so my aim is off and the remote control thankfully misses the telly.
I regret my outburst – and the broken remote control - ten minutes later when Four Weddings comes on and I have no way to turn the bastard thing off.
It’s a good job I went to bed before
Snog
, Marry, Avoid? started, otherwise the next day’s paper would have carried the story of my late night homicidal rampage through the streets, killing anyone who looked remotely like they were in a relationship.
…or walking a fucking
Chihuahua
.
Sunday, August 14th
Dear Mum,
The sunburn has finally faded and stopped hurting as much.
I now look like a human being again, instead of a boiled lobster.
It was a fantastic holiday, but boy have I paid for not taking the Italian sun seriously…
Still, two weeks soaking up the Tuscan heat was just what I needed after the year I’ve had so far.
The shop is just about making a turn back into the black thanks to the new deal I’ve struck with the wholesalers, and getting Tilly in as an assistant has been a Godsend. I was sad that Tim had to leave, but I won’t lie when I say that paying Tilly a lower wage has really helped balance the books - and kept me sane.
My series of dating disasters put me on the back foot as well – particularly the fajita episode with Jamie Newman.
There were a couple of times I almost texted him to say hello, but as my finger hovered over the send button, I had flashbacks to thunderous stair farts and pedal bins - and hit delete instead.
The anniversary is always hard, Mum.
No matter how many years pass, I still dread July 17
th
. It never gets easier without you here.
When Charlie suggested the trip with her to
Italy
I was ecstatic. She’s a lovely girl and becoming a real friend as well as a housemate.
Her cousin’s villa was gorgeous, right out of a romantic novel.
Despite the crispy lobster complexion I walked around with for the fortnight after coming home, I can safely say it was one of the most relaxing weeks of my life.
So content was I when I returned I even agreed to go out with Martin, the blonde, attractive salesmen from the wholesalers I’m now working with.
It was completely out of the blue.
We were doing a stock check at the warehouse and discussing a potential increase in the amount of truffles on my monthly order, when he straight up asked me if I’d like to go for a drink.
I never even knew he was single!
I said yes (much to my surprise) and we had a very enjoyable lunch date at one of the local bistros in the shopping centre a few days later.
The second date was just as pleasant, this time for a couple of hours in the pub just down the road from me.
It was only when we hit the third that things unravelled spectacularly... resulting in a
very
unexpected development, it has to be said.
I’m not the kind of girl who believes in things like fate, but after Friday night I may have to re-evaluate.
In a change of pace Martin suggests we hit the town together and visit some of the clubs dotted around the city centre.
I’m pretty keen on this idea as I don’t think my mortal soul can stand yet another quiet country pub or coffee house.
Instead, we meet at The Frog And Figment - one of the popular bars in the part of the city frequented by the hip, happening young people.
I freely admit to being someone who happened about eight years ago, but I’m willing to revisit the hectic Friday nights of my youth just this once.
We both turn up in taxis, so we can drink without fear of subsequent criminal proceedings.
Martin certainly seems in the mood to let his hair down and has downed two Jack Daniels before I’ve even got halfway through my first vodka.
‘It’s good to be out on a Friday night, isn’t it?’ he shouts at me over the Lady Gaga spilling from the enormous speakers mounted close to the ceiling.
‘Yeah, sure is!’ I reply enthusiastically, trying to get into the spirit of things.
‘Rock ‘n roll baby!’ Martin shouts, knocks back the tequila shot he’s just bought and loudly claps his hands together.
It appears Martin becomes a somewhat different proposition once he’s got a couple of drinks inside him…
He was quite a straight-laced, quiet guy on our previous two dates, so I’m rather surprised to find myself in the company of a guy who says things like ‘
rock ‘n roll baby
’ with no trace of irony when approaching the legal limit.
Still, it’s been ages since I let my hair down and Martin is a good looking guy, so I decide to forgive him some alcohol induced exuberance and try my best to catch up in the inebriation stakes.
This proves impossible, given the pace at which Martin is downing shots. You’d think alcohol was about to be made illegal.
‘
Lesss
go to the
Sheeter
Lounge,’ he says about an hour later, draping an arm around me. ‘I
wanna
do some
dancin
!’
The Cheetah Lounge isn’t my favourite place, given the speed dating / piles triumph of a few months ago, but I’m willing to give it a try. ‘Okay!’ I holler over The Kings Of Leon.
‘Great! C’mon then!’ He downs the dregs of his pint (this is one boy not afraid to mix), grabs my hand and drags me towards the exit before I have time to finish my vodka.
It’s gone
by now so the queue to the club is starting to grow.
Martin and I stand with a selection of people younger, better dressed and more excitable than we are.
…actually, scratch that last one as far as Martin is concerned.
One of his legs is jiggling up and down and you can tell he’s dying to get on that dance floor and bust some shapes.
He pays for us both to get in (which my overdraft thanks him for) and we push our way into the already full club.
‘How about El
Cheetos
?’ he suggests. ‘They’re doing cheap tequila all night!’
‘Can we just go to the Jungle Bar instead?’ I respond. I don’t really fancy the Mexican section, having spent an itchy couple of hours in there. Also, Martin appears to have quite the taste for tequila. I don’t think being near a bar selling it for next to nothing would be a good idea.
‘Yeah! Alright! Rock ‘n roll baby!’ he virtually screams and does the hand clap thing again.
To use a phrase like that once can be considered unfortunate, but twice in one evening suggests we might be skirting close to the edges of a catchphrase here, which is a distinct no-no in my book… especially when it’s punctuated with that annoying hand clap.
Still, I’ve downed four vodkas, so I once again put the issue out of my mind as we head to The Jungle Bar and the dance floor Martin is no doubt desperate to shake his booty on.
And boy, does he shake it…
I’ve never seen somebody have an epileptic fit while simultaneously being electrocuted with a cattle prod, but they would still have more co-ordination than poor old drunk Martin.
There’s a strange jerking of the hips going on, accompanied by wild arm flailing that makes him look likes he’s directing air traffic during a hurricane.
As the Pendulum track gets into its stride, my date’s wild undulations achieve dangerous proportions. The other people on the dance floor are now starting to give him a wide berth.
There’s every chance he’s about to head butt his own knee.
‘I’m just getting a drink!’ I shout. ‘Do you want one?’ This should get me away from the blast zone for a while.
Martin takes time out from his erratic thrashing to tell me he wants a
Jägermeister
. ‘Make it a double!’ he adds.
‘Okay!’
‘Rock ‘n roll baby!’ Hand clap.
Oh shit.
So this date’s gone south then.
A third use of the catchphrase, accompanied by a style of dancing that would make Morris Men weep, means I’ve had enough.
I start formulating excuses to leave as I’m waiting for the drinks. I’ve elected to go with a Diet Coke, as I’m going to need all my wits about me.
Mind you, I’m not sure Martin would even notice if I just sloped off without telling him, as caught up as he is in his body popping extravaganza.
Nevertheless, I decide to go with an ‘
I feel sick and need to leave
’ excuse as I carry our drinks back over.
If he pushes it I’ll just tell him it’s period related. That should shut him up.
I hand Martin the drink, and he mercifully stops his one man assault on the art form of dance to take a swig.
‘Phew! I’m really hot!’ he says.
Hmmm… with your hair sticking up, face as red as a baboon’s arse and sweat patches under your arms? I’m not so sure, buddy.
‘Shall we go outside Laura?’
This is actually a pretty good idea. I’m pretty damn sweaty myself and could do with some air. It might also be easier to give Martin my excuses to leave if I don’t have to shout at him over more Lady Gaga.
‘Okay!’ I shriek and lead the way out onto a broad veranda at the back of the club.
The terrace is packed with smokers and clubbers looking for a breath of fresh (hah!) air, but we find a corner to stand in, having squeezed past them.
The cool air is glorious and Martin is starting to resemble a normal human being again now he’s not in sight of a dance floor.
‘You having a good time, Laura?’ he asks.
He’s got such a happy smile on his face that my resolve crumbles. I can’t bring myself to throw out a spurious excuse for leaving.