Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (20 page)

I don’t know that you’ll ever be called on to use this piece of advice constructively, but you can’t say I didn’t warn you.

Right then… third date time!

Usually, these are pretty easy to arrange. By this point you’ve generally established a mutual interest in one another and the third meet up is really just an excuse to get the two of you together in an environment conducive to
snogging
.

Unfortunately, my situation with Laura was somewhat unique.

This was indeed the third date, but given the disaster of the second I felt a bit more effort was required on my part to make sure that she fully forgave ‘The Fajita Debacle’.

This meant spending a decent sum of money on an interesting and exciting activity that would bring us closer together – but one that wouldn’t scare her off by being too overtly romantic.

Now, you may already be thinking of ideas for such an activity…

Perhaps a nice bike ride in the country, followed by drinks and a meal in a pub sounds like a good idea?

How about a show in
London
? A musical, possibly?

Or how about something more unusual, but potentially rewarding, like a pottery class? After all, it worked for Patrick
Swayze
in Ghost, didn’t it?

You may be considering all these things and more, but please don’t forget for one second that I am a
colossal
idiot.

In my infinite wisdom I decide we should spend an evening go-
karting
.

Yes, you read that correctly:
go-
karting
.

I panicked, you see.

The weather wasn’t nice enough for riding a bike, I wouldn’t know a good musical if it bit me on the arse and then sang about it, and if I attempted pottery I would inevitably end up producing a giant ceramic phallus.

About a week beforehand I’d been chatting to somebody at work. They’d mentioned how much fun last year’s works outing to the local go-kart track had been.

It sounded like a brilliant idea to me, so I rang and booked two places on an open session.

You’ll be
completely
unsurprised to learn that Laura was less keen about the whole thing.

‘Go-
karting
?’ she says. I can tell by her tone of voice that it isn’t her cup of tea.

I grimly plough on, because once I’ve got an idea in my head, it’s very hard to dislodge, no matter how hard you smack it. ‘Yeah! It should be great fun.’

‘Er… okay,’ she says, trying to sound positive. ‘It’s different I guess.’

The doubt in her voice makes me wince.

I give her the details of where to meet and I hang up to begin some hardcore hand-wringing.

This is another one of Jamie Newman’s legendary dating gambles.

As the last one ended up with me having to buy a new bin for the kitchen, I’m not altogether confident it’ll pay off.

We meet outside ‘Go-
Karting
For Fun’ on Friday night. I only managed to get us booked in at
nine thirty
, so this will be a pretty short date, whether it goes well or not.

Laura looks nervous.

As do I.

I’m guessing it’s for very different reasons.

‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ she tells me.

‘Neither have I. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh?’

‘Hmmm.’

She follows me in to the building and we walk over to the cash desk, the drone of kart engines filling the enormous metal warehouse.

‘Hi,’ I say to the race director standing behind the counter. He’s about the same age as me and is wearing the expression of a man who knows that things went horribly wrong at some point, but can’t quite remember when.

‘Can I help?’ he says, hoping I’ll say no.

‘Yeah. I booked an hour for two people. Name of Newman?’

The guy picks up a pen and asks us to sign in. We write our names down on a sheet of paper that contains several paragraphs of small print – no doubt designed to absolve the company of any blame should either one of us get decapitated while out on track.

He then points out the changing room just along the way and we head off to get into our racing overalls.

Unlike the type Formula One drivers wear, these look like oversized baby grows. I’ve never worn a ‘
onesie
’ before so this is a new experience for me.

Laura gives me a non-descript look as she stands up and folds her arms over the expansive material.

‘I don’t feel much like Lewis Hamilton,’ she remarks. ‘Well… maybe when he was two years old.’ She sticks her thumb in her mouth and crosses her eyes.

‘These things aren’t flattering, are they?’ I say, doing a couple of quick squats.

Laura joins in the impromptu exercise routine, and before long we’re both laughing our heads off doing squats and lunges in our enormous overalls.

We then add helmets to the ensemble, which makes us both look like those bobble-head toys people stick on their dashboards. I start wobbling my head around like a maniac while continuing to do expansive lunges, making Laura actually snort a couple of times with laughter.

‘Ready to go, are you?’ the race director says, poking his head through the doorway and looking at us both like we’re lunatics. Laura and I sober up fast.

‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Roger that!’

Quite why I’ve started talking like a fighter pilot is beyond me. It seems appropriate though, what with the helmet and everything.

The director favours me with a withering look and turns to leave. Laura and I trail in his wake like naughty children. She starts wailing like a toddler (thankfully muffled by her helmet) and waddling as we make our way onto the track. I follow suit, much to the disgust of the surly looking marshals who are stood around waiting for us to bloody well get on with it.

There follows a mind numbing ten minute safety lecture, delivered in a monotonous tone of voice by our bored host.

Then
finally
, the fun begins…

In the next hour (which I had to pay an obscene amount of money for I should add) I learn a lot more about Laura McIntyre than I would have had we done something more prosaic like bike riding. I can thoroughly recommend a bit of competition laced with mild danger to show you a person’s real character.

We’re barely out of the pits before Laura is bumping into me from behind, telling me to get a move on. All trace of the nerves she’d displayed when we arrived had well and truly disappeared.

‘Come on slow coach!’ she shouts and moves out to overtake me as I sedately take the hairpin.

Given that I was still trying to make up for giving her food poisoning, I should probably have let Laura run rings around me.

I am a heterosexual male however - and am therefore incapable of letting a woman get the better of me while sat in a mechanically propelled device. To do so would let down my entire gender.

With red mist descending, I take off after my date - sorry, my
opponent
- with the pride of the male species at stake.

The next forty five minutes of my life are humiliating to the point of absurdity.

Laura laps me.

Twelve
times.

It appears I’ve untapped some hitherto unknown talent for motor racing in Laura McIntyre that puts my hack-sawing at the wheel to utter shame.

She’s frankly brilliant.

While I spin the kart almost every time I try to take a corner with any speed, she’s on and off the gas with expert timing, hitting all the apexes perfectly.

When presented with some competition, Laura becomes an altogether different person… one I wouldn’t like to meet in a dark alley.

Every time she comes haring past to put me another lap down, I’m treated to an insult or abusive gesture, each one more obscene than the last:

Lap one: A mocking wave.

Lap two: ‘Speed up Jamie!’

Lap three: ‘Put your bloody foot down!’

Lap four: Pokes her tongue out.

Lap five: ‘‘My granny’s faster than you!’

Lap six: ‘You suck!’

Lap seven: Middle finger.

Lap eight: ‘Twat!’

Lap nine: ‘You’re my bitch!’

Lap ten: Wanker sign.

Lap eleven: Double wanker sign.

Lap twelve: Double wanker sign. Tongue poked out. ‘You’re fucking crap!’

By the time the buzzer goes to signal the end of our session I’m feeling so emasculated I might as well be wearing a dress and lipstick.

As I trundle into the pits, she jumps out of her kart and starts to do a bizarre victory dance. This alternates between wiggling her arse at me and jumping round like
Zebedee
, singing about how much of a loser I am.

I stand there and watch her do this with a rueful smile on her face.

I should be feeling terrible.

I should be feeling embarrassed.

But I’m pretty sure what I’m actually doing is falling in love.

Here’s this beautiful girl - who was prepared to give me a second chance after I’d nearly killed her – so completely at ease that she can make herself look a complete
pillock
in front of a man she’s met three times and a bunch of bored race marshals.

Hell, I even enjoyed the trash talk while we were on the track.

I’ve never met anyone quite like her. She’s amazing!

…oh fuck me, I’m in trouble.

Laura continues to berate me about my driving skills as we get rid of the overalls and helmets.

We head out of the building over to our cars and Laura starts questioning other aspects of my manhood, including my general sporting prowess, my physical strength and even my skills in the bedroom.

I get the feeling she’s getting her own back for the embarrassment of the fajita incident and I’m (more or less) happy to let her rant.

Besides, she’s very funny and I can’t help but laugh.

‘Now, would you like some tips before you drive home, Jamie?’ she says as I open my car door. ‘We wouldn’t want you crashing the second you pull out of this car park, would we?’

‘Ha ha. You’re not doing much for my self esteem here, woman.’

Laura affects a quite hideous expression of misery. ‘
Ooooh
. Is
wittle
Jamie feeling bad about himself?’ she says in the silliest baby voice I’ve ever heard.