28 March (part 2)
It’s 5.59pm so I’m in M&S at Fulham Broadway killing some time before my date. Then the call comes in. He’s just woken up. He’s apologetic, been travelling all night, from Thailand and will be here in ten minutes. I believe him. Not the ten minutes part, but the rest.
I go to the restaurant. Aziz. It’s empty. I know the cafe next door. Also called Aziz. I’ve been there many times. The last time with Jessica. I walk into the cafe and they place me by the window. I order mint tea for two. We can always move next door if that is where he meant. I text him to tell him I’m in the cafe. It’s lively in here and he will think I’m not expecting dinner.
Soon afterwards I’m looking out of the window and spot a guy crossing the road. He catches my eye. It’s him! Not as attractive as the photo but not bad. He walks in. We both smile broadly. He comes over and we kiss each other hello on both cheeks.
He’s only fifteen minutes late.
‘Some people wouldn’t even have called,’ I say. ’That’s really quick.’
‘It wasn’t a planned nap. I woke up dead on six.’
‘Good timing.’
‘I thought I’d just have a few minutes at five.’
‘At five?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s late if we’re meeting at six.’
‘I can go to sleep for a few minutes.’
‘Wow, you’re lucky.’
‘My body clock.’
‘It’s good!’
‘I know.’
‘Bang on six.’
He is groomed. Clean. Expensively dressed. Cashmere jumper. Leather jacket. Nice watch. Is it a Rolex? An entrepreneur. Yep, another one. Financial products. I fantasize about bumping into The Entrepreneur with this one on my arm. I bet he drives a flash car.
‘I’m Jewish.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. Are you Jewish?’
‘No. I attract Jewish men.’
‘You’re dark. Mediterranean looks.’
‘My Jewish girlfriend can’t believe it.’
As predicted. He makes he announcement within the first twenty minutes of our date.
I’m not sure about this guy. We’re chatting happily but I’m not warming to him. He wants kids.
‘My own. Not someone else’s.’
Good.
He asks me about my flat.
‘Do you live by yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re own place?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t stand Jewish girls. The North London twang.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They all the sound the same. North London princesses. They are all interested in money but could never make it themselves.’
I want to be looked after!
Then he regales the moles story.
‘I’d rather someone who was plain but with nothing… rather than a gorgeous girl with something… I’ve had my moles removed. I can’t bear moles.’
One word. Chandler.
I smile politely. Feeling uncomfortable. Inadequate. Offended. I have moles. He hits the nail on the head.
‘Not that I’m good looking… classic case of an unattractive man’s high standards!’ At least the self awareness redeems him slightly.
I find myself smiling a lot. Not saying much for the moment. He goes on to describe various from his ‘catalogue’ of bad dating stories.
One girl didn’t text to say ‘thank you’ after he had taken her out for dinner. Really? I never do that. I say ‘thank you’ at the time. I expect men to text me to thank me and to check I got home safely. What a weirdo.
Another girl. A librarian type. Came over all frisky after she’d had a drink.
‘Don’t!’ I call out as he starts to describe exactly what she said she wanted him to do to her. ’Was it vulgar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mmm.’
‘This sweet bookish girl… she had never uttered a profanity before.’
I nod.
‘You don’t have brother’s do you?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘I can tell.’
‘How?’
‘If you’d had brother’s you would have wanted to know exactly what she’d said.’
My sister’s wise words are ringing in my ears. ’People treat you the way you allow them to treat you.’ I don’t want him to talk in a disrepectful way about women. It’s offensive to me. Not in a feminist way. Well, maybe it is. But in a putting me on a pedestal kind of way. If a man respects a woman he wouldn’t dream of talking this way in front of her. I’m pleased with myself.
‘What happened to your wife?’ I ask. The question I’ve been dying to ask.
‘I killed her,’ he jokes.
I smile. Gosh, I’m all smiles tonight.
‘We married young. Became different people.’
I give the London look. The not quite a smile acknowledgement nod.
‘My ex wife… it’s only since we split I realised… when I talk to her it’s like a dagger going through me. Her voice.’
‘You have a nice voice,’ I tell him.
‘So do you. I like a nice voice. Feminine. I like feminine girls with nice voices.’
Nice voices, independence, femininity, no moles, thank you texts. He likes a lot of things.
We have dinner. He orders a salad and the chicken ‘so you can taste it,’ he explains. What is it with men and their food? I’m warming to him. After the false start featuring inappropriate stories I think he’s quite funny. Not my kind of a person but OK. I would have to ‘behave’ all the time with this one. He has such a strange set of expectations. I guess I do too.
‘I have to get back for ten,’ he tells me when we wait for our food. ’A call with my sales director.’
‘OK.’
As if to prove it’s real he makes a call to confirm with the sales director. I don’t doubt him. Not because I’m naively foolish. I can tell this is genuine.
I tell him about that date I cancelled with the guy as we are eating who said he had to let friends in at 10.00pm so would need to leave early on a Saturday night. He didn’t seem to think there was anything strange with this though. Hmm.
I can’t remember how it comes up but we get onto the subject of TV. He’s massively impressed I like Curb. This is definitely a plus for any Jew if you want any pointers. That and seemingly not being Jewish.
‘That’s who you look like!’ I burst out as we have more mint tea.
He smiles.
‘This isn’t going to be complementary is it?’
‘No. You’re much better looking.’
‘Don’t say Alistair McGowan!’
‘No… it’s the tap dancing guy… Record Breakers!’
‘What? Roy Castle?’
‘Roy Castle. That’s it!’
I’m now laughing hysterically. He looks like fucking Roy Castle.
It’s coming up to 10.00pm so we make our way out. He picks up the bill at the till at the door. I say ‘thank you’ as we are leaving.
‘I have never had dinner here. That was absolutely delicious. Only cakes. Thank you.’
‘Would you like a lift.’
‘Oh, yes please.’
‘It’s on the way.’
‘Thank you.’
It’s raining. So I put my umbrella up.
‘You don’t need that,’ he says. Almost scorn in his voice. This really pisses me off. If I want to put my umbrella up I will. I do.
‘Wait til I tell me friend,’ I say. ’Another one.’
We get into his car. It is nice. A nice BMW. A beige colour I think. Don’t ask me any more. It is dark! I don’t know. I’m not up on cars. But I do know this is a nice one.
Driving me home he jokes about getting back to his wife.
‘That call earlier was a great diversion!’ I say.
He laughs.
‘Darling, will you pick up some milk on the way home?’ I go on.
‘She’ll be wondering what’s keeping me.’
He’s not married. Really.
As we pull up outside my flat. I thank him again for the ‘lovely’ meal and for ‘kindly’ driving me home. I lean across to kiss him on the cheek. Just as we had greeted each other a few hours earlier. He cocks his cheek towards me. Clearly worried I’m going in for the mouth. Is he kidding? Did the Jewish comment bomb? I would hate it if someone referred to me as ’Another Catholic.’ I’ve got to watch myself. What is wrong with me? I hate my mother for her rudeness. I’m the same, aren’t I? No. But almost. I have social skills. It could be a plethora of things. This guy is majorly high maintenance. I’m not going to hear from him. My gut is telling me so. Good job I guess. As the CBT counsellor said of me and The Almost One, ‘it’s like fitting a square peg into a round hole.’ I would have like him to ask though.
No comments yet.
Leave a Reply
About
‘When I grow up I’m going to marry a prince, Granny.’
Fast forward 27 years. I’m a hot, successful, kind and affectionate, officially ‘grown up’ girl-about-town. Still in search of The One. It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m in bed. Alone. Tanked up on Valium.
The quest has been active now for the best part of 20 years. I know he’s out there. I just need to find out where and how to find him. Things have got to change.
This is going to be my year. I just know it. So I have decided to document my experiences to amuse more than anything else. In so doing, the creative process may provide some kind of personal enlightenment and help face my demons too. And who knows. The journey may lead me to my prince. And where the chronicles begin.
