Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 14

  ‘Yeah, yeah, you’re right,’ I say, trying to motivate myself and not doing a very good job of it. Right now, I’d even give Useless Builder a run for his money in the lethargy stakes.

  ‘Vicky, dating is a numbers game, simple as that. You have to pump up the volume but with guys that are suitable, eligible, acceptable. I want you to be with someone that’s good enough for you, one that really deserves you.’

  ‘I know you do, hon.’ I flash her a grateful smile. Bless her; she really has gone to an awful lot of trouble on my behalf.

  ‘Plus, you hardly need me to remind you that you’re on a strict two-date minimum, and you’re not getting out of it.’

  ‘Yup, got it.’

  ‘So no more going on about Daniel Best.’

  ‘I wasn’t going on about him, was I?’ Was I?

  ‘You were thinking about him, I know by the look of you.’

  I don’t answer, mainly because she’s right. God, I’m inclined to forget just how good Barbara is. That’s the trouble with having friends who’ve known you for decades: they just see through you like you’re a soggy bit of transparent cling-film.

  ‘Furthermore,’ she goes on, ‘can I just point out that you were absolutely delighted with Eager Eddie, up until a billionaire swanned into your office and threw a Snickers bar at you.’

  ‘It wasn’t a Snickers bar, as a matter of fact, it was a . . .’

  ‘Vicky, we’ve discussed this, and as your project manager I’m telling you the guy is bad news. The Daniel Bests of this world just always are. Trust me.’

  I should explain. Needless to say, I told Barbara everything that happened yesterday and her thoughts on the subject of Daniel can be summarized thus.

  Whenever I come out with something like ‘you should just see him, he’s perfect,’ Barbara immediately distrusts my humble opinion on the grounds that anyone that bloody perfect has very little potential for long-range likeability. ‘You get to really know guys like that,’ she said, ‘and there’s always something. He’ll turn out to be married or closet gay or else a Mormon. You mark my words. Wait till you see.’

  Barbara has an innate dislike of seriously wealthy people on the grounds that she feels anyone with that amount of cash must have done some serious back-stabbing just to get to where they are. A mad theory, I know, but fortunately we don’t get to test it out too often as none us know anyone really rich. Which is probably just as well.

  She very forcefully pointed out that for the foreseeable future, Daniel and I are going to be working together, and everyone knows it’s a recipe for disaster to fancy someone you work with, particularly if said guy also happens to be paying you for said job. On this at least we agree.

  While Eager Eddie has left me in absolutely no doubt that tonight is a date, Daniel on the other hand was ‘vague and offhand’ (Barbara’s phrase, not mine) about his ‘let’s catch a movie’ night. And, when I actually come to think about it, he did make it sound like it was a group thing, a big gang, all pals. Nothing one-to-one about it at all, as Barbara has also pointed out to me. About ten times.

  And deep down, she’s right, I know she is.

  His movie night just sounds like a million miles more fun than a coupley dinner with Eager Eddie, that’s all.

  ‘Right then, are you ready for your list of instructions for tonight?’ she says, as we both grab our coats and get ready to go, me in absolutely no rush whatsoever.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘First of all, don’t forget to ask loads of questions. Like you’re interviewing him. Think of yourself as Larry King. Guys love that.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘You know, like where do you see yourself in five years’ time? That’s always a good ice breaker.’

  ‘And if his answer is “in prison” then am I allowed go home?’

  ‘Listen to you, Vicky. If you expect the worst, then that’s what the universe will deliver.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, smirking a bit at the way Barbara now freely refers to ‘the universe’.

  A few short weeks ago, she’d rather have choked.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she says as I slam the hall door shut and we walk to my car, ‘and don’t forget to fake interest in all his answers even if you’re bored. But whatever you do, don’t come on too strong and turn it into an interrogation, guys hate that. Remember, keep it light, act like you’re a Manhattan minx, not an NYPD homicide cop. Oh, and if you are bored, just make a mental list of all his pros and cons.’

  ‘To help me attract what I want in a relationship?’

  ‘No, it’ll just pass the time quicker.’

  I’m dropping Barbara off at a bar in town, where she’s meeting Nathaniel, the barman from the other night, for as she puts it, a margarita, a pizza and another night of passion.

  ‘Two dates with the same guy in less than a week?’ I say in disbelief. ‘Isn’t this, like, going steady for you?’

  ‘Either you can shut up, or I can poke my finger in your eye, your choice.’ She smiles sweetly at me. ‘He’s my f**k buddy and that’s all there is to it. Suits both of us down to the ground. Now can we please change the subject? Hey, did you read Laura’s short story? Wasn’t it fab?’

  We chat on about said story, which really is good, needs very little tweaking, and we both agree, our lovely Laura really has something . . . very different. Her story is just so witty and sharp, just like the lady herself, and as Barbara says, even her telling the story of how Emily got the neighbour’s cat drunk would have you doubled over.

  ‘And it’ll be your turn next, you wait and see,’ I say, pulling the car over to drop her off. ‘Fame and fortune await.’

  ‘One thing at a time,’ she says, hopping out. ‘Now just remember, you’re any man’s fantasy come true, and he’s lucky to be spending a Saturday night with you. And keep in constant text contact with me all night. If things get really dire, just run to the Ladies and text me from there, he’ll never know. Oh, and, worst-case scenario, even if he bores the arse off you and you run screaming out of the place, remember at least you’re getting a free dinner out of it.’

  ‘Where would I be without you, my cynical touchstone?’

  By the time I park and get to the restaurant, Eager . . . sorry, I’ll really have to start calling him just Eddie, is already at the bar waiting for me.

  Right then. Just like Barbara is training me to do, my mind splits down the middle, like a computer screen.

  Pro.

  Just the mere sight of a guy standing waiting at a bar for me on a Saturday night is so heart-meltingly amazing, it almost brings a lump to my throat. Here I am, yes, me, Vicky Harper, dating on a Saturday night, like single people are supposed to, instead of sitting home alone, debating whether to watch Tubridy Tonight or The X Factor. And there he is, actually waiting for me.

  Certainly makes a welcome change from the one particular guy I dated, who’d think nothing of leaving me sitting alone in a pub like Johnny no-mates for up to three-quarters of an hour before he turned up, plastered drunk because he’d been at a match and totally forgot he was even supposed to be meeting me. Then, and I really wish I were joking here, before we even ordered, he slagged off the menu (it was all French cuisine) at the top of his voice and, with the whole restaurant looking at us, suggested we leave and go and get a kebab instead, which was really all he wanted.

  And miles cheaper, as he pointed out.

  Absolutely the last time I let my brothers match me up with one of their boozing buddies. They’re all arseholes and the smartest thing I can do is avoid, avoid, avoid.

  Another Pro.

  OK, so Eag . . . sorry, I mean Eddie, might have gone a bit heavy on the aftershave, but he’s ditched the cardigan, is wearing quite a sharp suit, and all in all I have to give him ten out of ten for making an effort. Meaner people than me might say he was middle-aged with a serious spare tyre going on, but I’m going with the ‘life begins at forty’ option.

  Hand on heart, he does lo
ok really well.

  Con.

  That is, in the same way that Philip Seymour Hoffmann looked really quite well when he was in Capote. Or The Talented Mr Ripley. Nice, non-threatening and cuddly, but kind of reminds me of my dad, in a funny way.

  Pro.

  As we’re shown to our table and we both order, the conversation flows easily, no awkward silences, and so far I haven’t once had the temptation to run to the loo and text Barbara out of either boredom or despair.

  Con.

  OK, now we’re about an hour in and I’ve just realized the reason why conversation is flowing. It’s because he hasn’t once shut up about himself. Honestly. It’s almost like he’s presenting me with his CV, everything, he’s laying it all out, going right back to early childhood. Why his family moved back here from Scotland, where he went to school, why he thinks that particular school would be terrific for when he has a son and if he has a daughter, why he wouldn’t go near the school his sister went to, that there’s another convent school that his friend’s little girl goes to which he feels is far more suitable.

  Pro.

  I give myself a sharp mental kick in the bum. Come on, this is good. Don’t I want a man who plans for the future? And who actually wants children and isn’t afraid to say so? Course I do. Anyway, he’s just doing most of the talking because he’s nervous, most likely, and I should give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Con.

  Oh, dear God, I don’t believe this. He has his kids’ names picked out, he just said it. Lily after his mother for a girl and Ed Junior after him for a boy. All he needs is an identikit wife to step in and complete the picture. The irony is that if a woman came out with something like that on a first date, any normal guy I know would run screaming.

  Any normal guy anyone knows.

  Another Con.

  Right. Another hour’s passed and he hasn’t asked me one single thing about myself, not what my favourite movies/music/TV shows are, not even whether I preferred red or white wine (correct answer: neither, I’m more of a margarita gal), and yet he already seems to have me earmarked as his ‘girlfriend’. Honestly, it’s as if that’s what’s happening, in his head, whether I like it or not. We’re on coffee now, and there’s nothing I couldn’t tell you about his life to date, right down to the view he looks out at from his office window and which football team he supports. And please don’t think I feel guilty about sitting here making a mental list of the guy’s pros and cons; I’m quite sure that he’s doing exactly the same thing about me. And probably thinking that I’m about as interesting, witty and stimulating as a bottle of Heinz ketchup, given that I’ve barely opened my mouth all night.

  No, for once I have to be practical and realistic. Nothing against the guy, I’m sure there’s plenty of women out there who’d only love to have their whole lives mapped out for them, right down to what schools their kids will go to and what their names will be, but . . . not for me. Achingly lonely as my life has been, I prefer it to being with a guy who just doesn’t melt the old butter. In fact, I think that’s probably all that he and I have in common really: we’re just two lonely souls prepared to try each other on for size, and it’s a misfit, and now, whether I like it or not, it’s back to the drawing board.

  * * *

  After what seems like one of the longest nights since the Normandy landings, eventually the bill arrives. I insist on splitting it fifty-fifty, remembering something Barbara said ages ago about how this is the fairest thing to do if you know you really, really don’t want to see the guy again. Otherwise, he’ll only think there’ll be a second date, and it’s just mean. He agrees and I think great, we understand each other, message received loud and clear. Then he insists on walking me to my car, which is parked miles away. Now it’s late Saturday night by now, the city centre is hopping, people falling over drunk, throwing up, weeing in doorways and to be perfectly, selfishly honest, I’m kind of glad not to be walking through town this late at night and alone.

  And then the alarm bells begin to ring.

  It goes something along these lines.

  EAGER EDDIE: ‘So, busy week ahead.’

  ME: ‘Huh? Do you mean with work?’

  EE: ‘No, I meant you and I. Socially. We’ve a lot coming up. You and I.’

  ME: (Thinking fast.) ‘Em, sorry, Eddie, but I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’

  EE: (Patiently.) ‘Vicky, I did text you, several times, about my niece’s birthday party tomorrow, and you didn’t say that you couldn’t make it, in fact you didn’t get back to me at all, so the upshot is, I took that as a yes and told my family to expect you.’

  ME: (Thinking: ‘WHAT?’) ‘Look, Eddie, I think that you might have the wrong idea here . . .’

  EE: ‘Then there’s the work do I told you about, next Thursday in the Four Seasons, then there’s the golf club dinner this day week. Vicky, were you listening to me?’

  ME: (Starting to get a bit impatient by now.) ‘Yes, Eddie, of course I was. You mentioned something about a work do and you told me all about the golf club as well; I just hadn’t quite realized that I was involved in your plans.’ (I actually want to add, ‘I apologize for not being able to read your mind’, but I opt for being polite and dignified instead.)

  EE: (Talking down to me a bit, as if I’m a simple-minded ditz.) ‘Well of course I want you there, I assumed you’d realize that it goes without saying you’re part of my plans, honey . . .’

  ME: (Interrupting, starting to lose it now, to hell with politeness and dignity. In fact, I think it was the ‘honey’ that did it, and would you blame me?) ‘Eddie, how do I put this? You’re a sweet, lovely guy and (lying through my teeth) I really enjoyed tonight, but I’m just not ready to jump into anything yet. I’m very sorry, but that’s just the way it is, OK?’

  EE: (A bit downbeat.) ‘Oh. Right then. OK. Did I come on a bit too strong? Go on, you can tell me.’

  ME: (Thinking, well, this might give him a useful pointer for the future and if I were in his shoes, hey, I’d want to know.) ‘Honestly?’

  EE: (Smiling.) ‘Hey, I’m a big boy, I can take it.’

  ME: ‘Right, here goes. No offence now, girls love it when guys are attentive and call when they say they will, all of the above, but Eddie, I’m Irish. You have to tone it down a notch.’

  HIM: (Nodding gravely; if he’s a bit stung, he’s certainly not showing it.) ‘Yeah, yeah, OK, I’ve been told that before, and I certainly take your point.’

  ME: ‘What I’m trying to say is, sometimes it’s no harm to let things take their own pace.’

  HIM: (Staring straight ahead.) ‘In what way?’

  ME: (Gently. I mean, if I were in his shoes, I’d appreciate the tip-off, wouldn’t I?) ‘OK, it’s like this. Apart from the night we met, we’ve had one date together and next thing you’re talking about meeting your family, and your niece’s birthday party and bouncy castles, and a big posh do in the Four Seasons, and golf club dos. It’s just all a bit . . .’

  HIM: ‘It’s OK, you needn’t go on, I get it. I came on a bit too strong.’

  We walk on in silence for a bit, with him dragging the pace down and me trying to speed it along, mind you the combination of my high heels and the cobblestones don’t help. Still two more streets before we get to the bloody car park.

  Then he speaks again.

  ‘So I take it you don’t want to come to my friends’ wedding in July?’

  ‘Eddie, I’m so sorry, this is just all happening a bit fast for me.’

  ‘OK, OK, you need time, that’s fine, hey! Cool. Not a problem,’ he says, but in the same upbeat kind of tone that people use when they’ve discovered a way to solve a particularly annoying problem that’s been at them for ages. Oh shit, he’s just not giving up, I think. There was me politely asking him to back off a bit, under the misguided impression that I was doing his future girlfriends a favour, but now I’m beginning to realize he thinks I was referring to him and me and that I might just come round if he only slows i
t down a bit.

  Oh bugger, I wish I could ring Barbara, she’d have this awful, icky, messy situation sorted in about ten seconds. Then I remind myself about the almighty law of attraction and how, just like my famous book says, it just doesn’t come with a pause button. Somehow I attracted this guy into my life, for a reason yet to become clear to me, and now, guess what, here he is. And un-attracting him mightn’t turn out to be as easy as it sounds.

  On we walk, me willing us to go faster, like some kind of missile in sling-backs, him walking at a funereal pace. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the Saturday night crowds start to thicken considerably, and I can’t figure out why, until we turn a corner and I realize.

  Oh shit, I do not believe this.

  Of course, it’s the late-night outdoor movie that Daniel has talked about, and all these crowds are on their way home from it. Part of me is thinking, supposing we bumped into him? I’m half-attracting it and half-dreading it, given the situation I’m in, but as the book keeps on reminding me, the universe doesn’t have a sense of humour. We’re just turning a corner when we walk right into a gang of people, almost knocking each other over.

  I look up, and wouldn’t you know it?

  Daniel Best, with a big gang of his friends.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Butterfly’s next meeting. May.

  IT’S SATURDAY, EXACTLY a week later, and high time the three of us met up again to give each other progress reports. The bad news is that convening in my house is sadly out of the question, on account of Useless Builder, wait for it, actually accomplishing something, even if it is only scraping the stippling off all my ceilings and then plastering them. Don’t get me wrong, I am of course thrilled that he managed to put down the racing pages for long enough to achieve this incredible feat, but the downside is that, apart from my bedroom, there’s not a single square inch of the house that isn’t at sub-zero temperatures, at least for a few days, until the plaster completely dries out.