This wasn’t in my plan. ‘Sure, I suppose…’
Rose fastens a fresh piece of paper which seems to be laid out like a checklist into her clipboard, and writes my name at the top. ‘Okay. Question One. Any history of cancer in your family?’
Huh?
‘No, I don’t…’
‘Heart disease?’
‘No.’
‘Are you a drug user?’
‘Apart from Neurofen? No.’
Rose ignores my admittedly poor attempt at humour.
‘Ever had a homosexual experience?’
I think about this one carefully. ‘Well, there was one time when this guy I’d never met before tried to buy me a drink. Does that count?’
‘Do you smoke?’
‘Yes, but I’m trying to give it…’
Rose’s face falls. ‘Ah. Bad for the sperm count. What underwear do you favour? Boxers or briefs?’
I’m just about to answer when I get an uneasy feeling. ‘What’s this all about?’
Rose puts her clipboard down and cups her hand to her ear. ‘That ticking sound? Can you hear it?’
I listen carefully, but can’t detect a thing. ‘Nope.’
‘It’s my biological clock.’
‘Ding!’
That’s me—not Emily’s bell, and I leap to my feet in shock.
And this is the high point of my evening, as the rest of the ‘dates’ pass by in a blur of enquiries about my financial status to what car I drive. I’m supposed to be a professional interviewer but these girls knock spots off me. One of them talks so much and so quickly I fear she’s taken the ‘speed’ aspect of the night literally, and I zone out, listening in instead to Dan’s ‘enough about you, let’s talk about me’ approach at the next-door table. Amazingly, and yet not surprisingly given the competition, he seems to get away with it.
When finally, after what seems like a lot more than twenty times three minutes, we finish, Emily herds us back into the side room. She collects our tick sheets as she does so, telling us to call her on Monday to find out who our ‘matches’ are. I’ve ticked three, just to be polite, but can’t say I hold out much hope of any reciprocal interest, although that’s probably for the best given my motivation for being here in the first place. As eye-opening as the evening’s been, it fundamentally tells me nothing that I really want to know.
All the glasses of free wine seem to have disappeared, so Dan and I do likewise and head back to the Admiral Jim.
‘Thought there were a couple of nice ones there,’ he says.
‘You think?’
Dan nods. ‘Especially that one who thought you were a perv. She had a real couple of nice ones.’
‘How many did you tick?’
‘None.’
‘None?’
He shrugs. ‘Didn’t need to.’
‘But if you haven’t ticked them, then Emily can’t put them in touch with you.’
Dan puts his hand into his pocket and removes a number of scraps of paper, on which are scribbled various names and phone numbers.
‘Beat the system, you see.’
‘And are you going to call any of them?’
He shrugs again. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Although…’ he says, picking out one and screwing up the rest. ‘That Emily was quite cute.’
I look at him disbelievingly. ‘You go speed dating and end up getting the number of the organizer?’
Dan puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘Well, you’ve either got it, or you don’t.’
And sadly, he’s right. Based on tonight’s performance, I don’t got it.
11.15 a.m.
On Dan’s insistence, and although I’m pretty sure what the outcome will be, I call Emily to find out how many ‘ticks’ I got. When she starts off by saying ‘Well, it’s not all about the number of ticks,’ my suspicions are confirmed, but just as I’m expecting her to give me a big fat zero, she actually says ‘one’, and although I apparently didn’t tick her, she’s given one of the girls—Caroline—my email address.
I search through my slightly alcohol-muddled memory of the evening, trying to recall which one she was, before remembering I’d made notes on them all, so I anxiously scan my list, skimming over the words ‘psycho’ and ‘bunny-boiler’ until I come to her name. Caroline: seemed a little distracted, works in admin, drives a silver Ford Fiesta, likes country pubs.
It’s not much to go on, and while I seem to remember that she was actually quite pretty, in truth I forget about it for the rest of the morning. Natasha has already phoned to say she’s not coming in, and by mid-afternoon, just as I’m contemplating snoozing on my desk, I’m surprised by the ‘ping’ of an email appearing in my inbox.
I’m even more astonished to see that its from Caroline, saying how much she enjoyed meeting me, and wondering whether I’d like to meet up some time. So astonished, in fact, that I go to see Dan for advice.
Dan sighs exasperatedly. ‘Go out with her, of course.’
‘But I’m not looking to—’ I make the speech marks sign with my fingers—‘“go out” with anyone.’
‘Of course you’re not. Just think of it as a dry run for when Jane gets back. You want to be able to win her over, don’t you? Well what better way than to be able to chat her up from scratch? And this is a chance for some practice.’
‘Great idea. So how do I do that, then?’
Dan leans back in his chair, finally pleased that we’re touching on his one area of expertise.
‘Are you sitting comfortably?’
‘Should I be taking notes?’
‘That might be an idea,’ says Dan, in all seriousness. He sits there, no doubt waiting for me to produce a pen and paper.
‘Just get on with it.’
‘Okay. So what do you know about this woman?’
‘Well, not very much. In fact, I’m not sure I can remember what she looks like. But I’m sure I’ll know her when I see her.’
‘That’s encouraging. What did you write down?’
When I tell him, his face lights up. ‘Brilliant. She likes country pubs. Perfect opportunity for you to mail her back, and tell her you know this fantastic little place just outside Brighton and perhaps she’d like to meet you there for a drink one night this week.’
‘Great. What fantastic little place?’
Dan sighs. ‘You and Jane really didn’t get out much, did you?’
‘So, what next?’
‘Right. You arrange to meet her fairly early in the evening. Say seven o’clock.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because that way she probably hasn’t had time to eat anything in between work and meeting you. And,’ he adds, testing me, ‘that’s good why?’
‘Because if she hasn’t eaten…I can get her drunk quicker?’
Dan considers my answer for a moment. ‘It’s good, but it’s not right. The reason you try and get her to miss dinner is because she’ll then be hungry.’
‘You’re not being disgusting again, are you?’
‘No. Not at all. If she’s hungry, and things seem to be going well, then all you need to do is suggest that the two of you get something to eat, thus turning a casual drink into a dinner date.’
‘Brilliant. And how do I know if things are going well?’
‘In your case, if she hasn’t left.’
As usual, I ignore Dan’s insult. ‘So, after the pub, where would you take them?’
‘Me? Heaven and back, obviously. But you? I’d settle for a restaurant. Italian, probably. Shows just about the right level of sophistication.’
‘Italian?’
‘Yup. And a couple of pointers. Firstly, garlic. Good if she orders it, bad if it’s only you. And always tell them that the spaghetti is very good, even if you’ve never been there before.’
‘Spaghetti? Why?’
‘You can tell a lot about a girl from the way she eats spaghetti. Lip suction, tongue control…’
He makes a noise with his mouth that I guess is supposed to be sexy but reminds me more of Hannibal Lecter in
Silence of the Lambs
.
‘And then, if the meal goes well?’
He grins at me. ‘If the meal goes well? Bingo!’
‘What—on the pier?’
Dan stares at me for a second, then puts his head in his hands.
6.51 p.m.
The inappropriately named Ram Inn is our ‘safe’ venue—Emily advised we always met for the first time at a ‘safe’ venue—a picture-postcard thatched pub built several hundred years ago, and just off the main road between Brighton and Eastbourne.
I park the Volvo and walk nervously over towards the pub, peering in through the window just in case Caroline’s early. I can’t see her, so, mindful of Dan’s advice not to wait inside on my own and risk being stood up in full view, decide to sit in the car until she appears.
I watch the passing traffic until, a few minutes later, Caroline arrives, her silver Ford Fiesta sweeping in off the road with a crunch of gravel, although in truth I might not have recognized her but for the fact that I’d noted down what car she drove.
She parks a space away from the Volvo, possibly worried that something may fall off it and damage her car, but when I get out to meet her, instead of returning what I hope is my best welcoming smile, Caroline looks rather confused.
‘What are you doing here?’
I laugh nervously, thinking she’s making some kind of first-date joke, and decide to play along.
‘Oh, just passing. Thought the pub looked nice. How about you?’
‘I’m meeting someone, actually.’
‘Oh really?’ I say. ‘Me too.’
‘At seven o’clock,’ she adds, glancing at her watch.
‘What a coincidence. Me too.’
‘Oh,’ says Caroline.
We stand there for a few uncomfortable moments as I try to work out what to do next. Is our date not officially allowed to start until the pre-arranged time? Are we supposed to wait until seven o’clock to go into the pub? Or is she just waiting for me to take the lead? This is obviously some sort of game, but I don’t seem to know the rules.
As Caroline looks at her watch for a second time, I give up.
‘Shall we just go inside?’
‘Well,’ she says, hesitantly. ‘We’re supposed to meet outside.’
I stamp my feet against the cold. ‘Yes, but not stay outside, surely?’
Caroline glances over towards the pub, which does look rather warm and inviting. ‘You think he might be in there already?’
‘It’s me,’ I say, a little confused myself now.
‘Yes,’ says Caroline, looking anxiously around the car park. ‘From speed dating. You’re the one who was staring at that woman’s chest.’
Ah. So far this really isn’t going as well as I’d hoped. ‘Yes. Well, no, I wasn’t staring, exactly.’
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Edward,’ I reply. ‘We’ve got a date, remember?’
There’s a moment or two of stunned silence, and then a look of horror flashes across her face.
‘
You’re
Edward?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘What?’
‘I must have ticked your box by mistake.’
‘Ah.’ Judging by her face, I obviously don’t tick any of her boxes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought you were someone else. I mean, that someone else was you…’
Great. And three guesses who that must have been.
Caroline still hasn’t locked her car, and I can tell she’s seriously considering getting back into it and driving straight home. I realize that, if I don’t want this evening to be a complete blow out, I have to think on my feet.
‘Well, at least stay for a drink. It’d be a shame to have come out all this way…’
Looking at her expression, I can tell immediately that Caroline wouldn’t think it was a shame at all. More likely, she’d think it’d be more of a shame to waste even an hour of her life with me. But something, maybe even compassion, clicks inside her brain, and she half-smiles.
‘Okay,’ she says, blipping her car shut and walking with me towards the pub. ‘But just the one.’
I open the door for her, and we walk inside, dodging the standard-issue horse-brasses and bunches of dried hops that hang from the low wooden beams.
‘You go and sit down,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll get the drinks.’
Caroline thinks about protesting for a moment, but then I guess reckons that at least she won’t have to waste any money on this evening.
‘Okay.’
‘What would you like?’
‘Just a tomato juice. Please.’
‘Sensible girl.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Because you’re driving? A tomato juice?’
Caroline frowns at me. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
I shrug, and head to the bar, aware that I’ve made a rod for my own back now. If I’ve told her that she’s sensible for not drinking alcohol because she’s driven here, and I’ve obviously driven here too, then does that mean I can’t have any either? I know I’m not supposed to, given my training regime, but at the moment I need something to calm my nerves. I decide to compromise, and order a half of shandy, which gets me a funny look from the landlord, especially when I hurriedly change it to a pint of shandy, reasoning that the bigger my drink, the more time it’ll take me to drink it, and therefore the longer Caroline will have to stay.
As I pull my stomach in, draw myself up to my full height, and carry the drinks over towards where Caroline’s sitting, she looks up from where she’s been staring glumly at her watch and starts to mouth something. I lean forward and quicken my pace in an attempt to hear what she’s trying to say but instead the only thing I manage to catch is the top of my head on the low beam that straddles the ceiling.
I don’t know how long I’m lying, dazed, on the floor, but when I open my eyes I’m met with an upside-down view of the landlord, who’s leaning over me, his expression somewhere between concern and amusement.
‘People are always doing that,’ he says.
‘I’m not surprised,’ I reply, still a little woozy. ‘There should be a sign.’
Wordlessly he nods towards the beam, the centre of which is worn smooth from what can only be generations of unwary patrons smacking their heads. The word ‘duck’ is clearly inscribed on the front.
He helps me up into a sitting position, and I gingerly put my hand up to my skull, where I can already feel a bruise as large as a walnut. There’s something dripping down my face, and when I pull my hand away, it’s soaked red. My first thought is that I’ve cut myself, and it’s bad.
‘Call me an ambulance,’ I say, panicking at the bright ruby stain spreading down my white shirt.
The landlord hands me a bar towel. ‘It’s tomato juice. You’ll live.’
By now, there’s a circle of people stood around where I’m sat, in a puddle of shandy and tomato juice, their looks of concern fading when they realize what’s happened. As the landlord extends a hand to help me up, I wave him away and climb unsteadily to my feet, dabbing myself down with the towel before suddenly remembering why I’m here, or rather, who I’m here with. But when I look over in Caroline’s direction, she’s nowhere to be seen.
As the landlord pours me a conciliatory pint, I peer miserably out through the window, just in time to see a silver Ford Fiesta disappearing at speed from the pub car park.