Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (12 page)

‘I don’t think that’s really true . . .’

‘You know, Alisssss, we must do coffee. I’ve been meaning to have a little tête-à-tête with you, matchmaker to matchmaker.’

‘Oh?’ Alice replied in astonishment. ‘Well, yes . . . that would be very nice.’ Nice? It sounded terrifying! What on earth could Sheryl want to talk to her about?

‘Well, that’s settled. I’ll get Sienna to arrange it. But it needs to be hush-hush; no telling Audrey. She’d only come along and ruin our fun.’ Sheryl burst into peals of laughter.

‘Um . . .’ said Alice. Much as she disliked Audrey, she was uncomfortable with the idea of going behind her back.

‘Well, I must run.’ Sheryl was already clip-clopping away. ‘So lovely to bump into you and your little friend. I’ll look forward to that coffee. Don’t let me down, Alissss.’

‘I won’t . . . Sheryl,’ Alice called out awkwardly. But Sheryl and her breasts had already been swallowed up by the crowd.

Ginny let out a low whistle.

‘What on earth was that?!’

‘That was Sheryl Toogood,’ Alice mumbled, still peering at the spot where Sheryl had disappeared. ‘She runs another dating agency – Love Birds. Audrey can’t stand her.’ Why had Sheryl come to talk to her? She hadn’t realized Sheryl even knew her name.

‘I can see why!’ Ginny laughed. ‘What a snake! The way she was gripping your arm . . . She was like a boa constrictor and you were lunch.’

Alice shuddered at the thought of Sheryl slowly squeezing the life out of her, smiling with her glossy red lips. What had Sheryl wanted? And why did she want to meet up?

‘Still, she was right about one thing,’ Ginny continued.

‘What?’

‘About you being the powerhouse at Table For Two! See?’ She nudged her friend. ‘That’s why you’re going to the ball. Everyone knows you’re a brilliant matchmaker. And that’s why she wants coffee with you. You’re hot property!’

Alice stared thoughtfully in Sheryl’s direction. That wasn’t it. But what on earth was Sheryl playing at? She was too tipsy to work it out. But she was sober enough to know something wasn’t right.

It was Saturday night and the bar was heaving with punters. Lou loved Saturday; no other night was like it. Work stresses were long forgotten and everyone was dressed up and determined to have fun. Heads swivelled as everyone weighed up who to try their luck with first. Lou loved the nakedness of it. On Saturday night the whole world was on the pull, the bar was sticky with hormones, and the customers would be three-deep, all vying for her attention. Saturday nights made her feel powerful. No girl in the world got as much attention as a flirty barmaid on a Saturday night.

Lou was already several hours of pint-pulling and eyelash-batting into her shift and it was time for her break. Tony had the night off and was dragging himself around the city’s lap-dancing bars with his mates. He’d doubtless be back at closing time, hoping for an illicit nightcap of X-rated exertions before he returned home to the sterile charms of Suze. Lou smiled. Tony was nothing if not predictable.

Normally Lou spent her break on the pavement, chainsmoking her way through three or four cigarettes in quick
succession. But Tony’s absence was an opportunity for a more gentrified fag break, so she poured herself a spritzer and made her way to his office. The roar of the bar muffled as the door swung closed behind her. She leaned back in his chair, put her feet on his desk and lit her first cigarette. She eyed the ‘
It’s against the law to smoke on these premises
‘ notice that hung above his desk and exhaled extravagantly.

Her eye fell on the security camera that was trained on the bar area. It showed a sea of bodies all clambering in the direction of the beer pumps. It was a scrum out there, she thought; a delicious, orgiastic scrum intent on nothing more complicated than booze and sex. She felt a sudden surge of fondness for her fellow man. This is what it’s all about, she thought as she sipped her spritzer and drew on her cigarette. This is what it all boils down to: drinking until you’re uninhibited enough to do your mating dance and bag a shag for the night. Because Saturday nights are just long-drawn-out mating dances – Mother Nature at her purest; the one night a week dedicated solely to the procreation of the species. Men were so simple, she thought. You only had to dance the mating dance and they were yours.

Lou took a swig of her spritzer and thought about Kate. Kate had never got the hang of the mating dance. She was too self-conscious. She didn’t get that it was just a few shakes, pouts and struts; that men only needed the smallest whiff of encouragement. Kate was always worried about something: the size of her hips, her garlic breath, the man’s intentions (‘but he’s only after a one-night stand,’ she’d whinge dolefully). But she was missing the point. Nature
wasn’t bothered about getting things ‘just right’. If you thought too hard about attraction it was gone. Lions didn’t pontificate over which member of the pride to fuck.

But now Kate had ducked out of the mating dance entirely, getting so-called professionals to analyse the players and serve her up a mate. It was wrong. It was messing with nature. Attraction was raw and earthy and about the here and now. Even if the here was just here, and the now was right now, and the mate you’d so carefully chosen the night before had scarpered by morning. That was life. You didn’t see jungle animals holding hands and twittering poetry.

Lou took a last glance at the security camera and drained her drink. Her twenty minutes were up; it was time to reenter the jungle. She reached for her make-up bag. The jungle could wait a few more moments. There was no way she was stepping back into battle without another layer of warpaint.

Someone had once told Alice that in order to be beautiful a woman had to suffer. At the time Alice had thought it ridiculous. She was from the tub-of-E45-and-an-early-night school of beauty. All those women who subjected themselves to painful waxing and peeling were mad. But now, having spent her Sunday practising walking in a pair of toe-wrecking, arch-snapping, spine-realigning heels (and still loving them at the end of it), Alice was beginning to understand what that person had meant. And now she was recovering with the aid of her foot spa and a mug of PG.

She sighed and thought – for possibly the thousandth time that day – about the ball. Any ideas she’d had about begging Audrey to take Bianca instead had vanished the moment she’d trotted up to the till at the boutique and handed over her plastic. Now that she had an outfit to wear – and not just any outfit, the greatest outfit of her whole, entire life – she was actually looking forward to it. All day she’d kept opening her wardrobe just to peek at her dress. She’d slip it out and hold it against herself, trying to remember what it had looked like in the full-length mirror.
When it got dark she turned on the lights and left the curtains open so she could see her reflection in the window. Every time she saw herself her breath quickened. Could she really pull this off?

Alice gently moved her feet in the water, letting the bubbles tickle along her soles. Of course, she’d also had at least thirty fantasies this afternoon alone about what would happen if the ball night was also the night her Prince Charming decided to show up (well, that
was
what they’re supposed to do at balls). Obviously everyone in the room would be clamouring for his attention. But he’d only have eyes for Alice, whose hand he’d take and kiss before leading her to the dance floor. It was the full Cinderella moment, except that there was no chance she was leaving one of her new peep-toes behind!

But there was an obvious flaw in this fantasy. Alice already knew the men who’d be at the ball; they were all DIPS members and – if the meetings were anything to go by – they’d all be spending the evening engrossed by Sheryl Toogood’s cleavage. Of course there could be a few other men, but they’d be the ‘plus ones’ of DIPS members and therefore not in the market for over-imaginative, romance-aholic matchmakers, no matter how well shod.

So Alice had had to content herself with the far more problematic fantasy of meeting Prince Charming on the way to the ball. So far the best she’d come up with was that he was her bus driver, or maybe a kind-hearted passenger on his way to help out in a soup kitchen. He’d look up from his battered paperback, readjust his glasses
and be dazzled into a love stupor by the vision of Alice in her ball outfit. It would be a fatal case of love at first sight. It almost worked, she thought as she hugged her knees together and wiggled her much-improved toes in the foot spa. Until he looked down. There was no way Alice would manage tottering to the bus stop in her heels, and even
her
powerful imagination stopped short of the hero scooping up the heroine in a backless dress and grubby trainers.

‘Oh well,’ she thought as she clicked off the foot spa and reached for a towel. She’d just have to meet Mr Perfect another night. It was a shame though. Now that she’d seen herself in heels and a posh frock, even she knew she’d have her work cut out getting Prince Charming struck by a thunderbolt and pledging his undying love whilst she was wearing a cardy.