Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (9 page)

She turned to Cassandra. Cassandra was well enough bred and a keen horsewoman, but had a tendency towards
bandy-leggedness. A bit too Zara Phillips and not enough Middleton sister. But all in all, not too bad a sort.

Then there was Hilary. Hilary had been her very first member of staff and knew almost as much about Table For Two as she did. She’d been to the ball several times, pre-children, when she still had a waist. But she was eight months gone now, and an assault on the eyes. She couldn’t possibly take her.

And finally there was Alice, who was staring out of the window in her customary dreamy manner. Alice had been at Table For Two for donkeys’ years and still hadn’t been to the ball. Bianca and Cassandra had both been – Bianca twice – even though they’d worked at Table For Two for far less time. Audrey sighed. It was no use; she knew it would have to be Alice. She just hoped she wouldn’t embarrass her. She was bound to turn up in some sackcloth-and-ashes outfit and stick out like a sore thumb. She could just imagine Sheryl raising her eyebrow. And Barry Chambers was bound to crack a joke. She’s an albatross around my neck, that girl, Audrey thought bitterly.

She opened her office door and summoned her in. Alice jumped in her seat, knocking her papers to the floor. Audrey watched as she scrambled to pick them up. Her eyes fell on Alice’s feet. What was that ugly, clumpy footwear she had on? Was it . . . Was it a pair of
clogs
? Audrey stared in horrified disbelief. Words failed her. She returned to her office and sat down heavily.

Well, Alice would have to buck up her ideas and her appearance if she was going to come to the Dating
Practitioners’ Society annual ball, Audrey thought angrily. She groped in her handbag for her chequebook. Hang the post; she’d get Alice to take the cheque round to Love Birds straightaway. On second thoughts . . . Maybe Alice and her footwear should be confined to the office; best not give Sheryl any more ammunition. Just because she was event organizer this year – the power was clearly going to her head. Audrey’s own head was throbbing viciously. She touched her brow and winced.

Yes, it was definitely one of those days.

Kate was resisting the urge to break into her emergency Kit Kat.

She’d never been a believer in the adage that rules were there to be broken (unless the rules were for a diet, in which case all bets were off), but as she slaved over her Table For Two ‘All About You’ form she began to wonder whether honesty really was the best policy.

Kate had always been great at passing stuff. She had a formula: work hard, revise diligently, get top marks at the end. But this was something else. There were no crib notes on how to pass a dating agency questionnaire, and every question asked led to a million more. Even something simple like ‘What kind of music do you like?’ was a minefield. Should she fess up to a list of ballads and cheesy big-night-out tunes, or should she plump for something more credible – an obscure Mercury Prize nominee? Which looked best? Did ‘fun’ translate into ‘bimbo’, and ‘arty’ into ‘bore’? What kind of music did men
want
her to like? This wasn’t a questionnaire at all; it was a deadly game of dating Russian roulette.

She grabbed her phone.

‘Am I spontaneous?’ she demanded the moment Lou picked up.

‘Is it in the schedule?’ Lou flashed back. It was 8.30 and the bar sounded hectic behind her.

‘I can do spur of the moment! What about that time we got drunk in the pub next to the station and ended up partying in Edinburgh?’

‘That was ten years ago; I rest my case. That’s six pounds twenty, mate.’

‘What about my favourite book . . . ? Do you think it sounds better to say
Wolf Hall
or
The Blair Years
?’

‘Are you doing your dating agency form, by any chance? Christ, just put the
Kama Sutra
. Nobody’ll say no to that. D’you want it on the rocks, gorgeous, or as nature intended?’

‘This is so hard! I mean, what do men want you to put?’

‘The
Top Gear
Annual? I dunno, Kate. You joined the agency; you work it out.’

Kate put down the phone and frowned. One of the reasons she’d joined Table For Two was precisely to avoid this kind of form. She hated them. They cast you in iron and forced you to lie. She’d never told Lou, but she
had
tried online dating sites before – though she’d never got further than the profile questionnaires. It wasn’t
just
their limiting multiple-choice answers, it was where the forms went when you’d finished that put her off. She didn’t want her profile uploaded into some cyberspace catalogue of the unpullable. Anyone could log in and judge her: clients, exes, old schoolmates . . .
Julian
. It was humiliating. And then there were
the questionnaires themselves. It was bad enough to be asked your income and your views on politics . . . but your age? Your exercise regime? Your
weight
? And even if she shaved off a stone and said twenty-something, she still had to tick her body shape. Was she skinny, athletic, curvy or cuddly? Skinny and athletic were obviously out; but was cuddly just code for obese? And did curvy mean Kelly-Brook-voluptuous or lard-lady dressed in a tent? Why couldn’t they just put in a box for a passable size 12 on top but needing work down below? Didn’t they know that by ticking curvy she might be limiting herself to the heavyweights and the feeders?

The whole thing had been enough to put her off. And OK, so the Table For Two ‘All About You’ form wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, but at least it wasn’t about her body. And at least it would be private.

She struggled through the next few questions before picking up her phone again.

‘OK, so for “What couldn’t you live without?” I’ve put morning espressos and my iPad.’

‘More like Zara and Reiss,’ Lou scoffed.

‘Speaking of which . . . on a scale of one to ten, how wrong is it to put shopping as my hobby?’

‘It’s beyond wrong.’

‘So what
should
I put?’

‘Five-aside and three-in-a-bed? Sorry mate, the Speckled Hen’s off.’

‘Maybe I should put baking – men love women who cook. Just look at Nigella . . .’

‘For fuck’s sake, Kate. Why don’t you go the whole hog and say sock-darning and washing-up?’

Kate ignored her. ‘How would you describe my style?’

‘Certifiable?’

‘I’ve put Danni meets Christina Hendricks. Do you think men will get it?’

‘Yeah, all the gay ones. Look, Kate, it’s heaving down here tonight. It’s wall-to-wall blokes, and they’re all drunk and vulnerable. I’ve got everything from geek-chic to beefcake. Forget all this dating agency rubbish. Get your arse down here and start batting your eyelasles. You’d have to be a nun with halitosis not to pull in here tonight!’

Kate frowned distractedly at her computer.

‘No, I’ve got to finish this form. I promised Alice she’d have it by tomorrow.’

‘Come here and you won’t need the form, or Alice!’

‘I think I’m going to put Ibiza as my favourite holiday destination. It’ll make me sound fun.’

‘Christ, Kate, if you’re going to do this agency bollocks, you might as well tell the truth. You’re not a clubber and you don’t even
like
fun! Put shopping in New York; put facials in an alpine spa; put
a bloody fortnight in Cadbury World
! At least then you might get matched with someone who actually suits you.’

Kate put down the phone and thought. Maybe Lou was right, for once. Not about going to the bar tonight, but about telling the truth. Being honest was frightening, but if she was paying £300 to join the agency and £100 a month, shouldn’t she make sure she got what she wanted? And
besides, wasn’t the whole reason why she was doing this because she no longer had time left to waste? She couldn’t afford to be matched with the wrong kind of man. Every day was yet another day closer to being thirty-five.

She didn’t have time to lie.

She deleted her answers and started again.

If she didn’t share her big news soon she’d burst.

Alice whizzed through the streets, pedalling as hard as she could, the wind making her clothes puff out around her as though she was cycling in a fat suit. Her tyres screeched as she took turns without braking and sleeping policemen at full pelt. Eventually she made it home, whipped out her mobile and dialled Ginny’s number.

‘Hello?’

Alice’s ears were instantly filled with the sound of Scarlet, Ginny’s baby daughter, wailing.

‘Is this a bad time?’

‘It’s always a bad time.’

Scarlet gave a scream that could shatter glass.

‘Guess what? Audrey’s invited me to the Dating Practitioners’ Society annual ball!’ Alice shouted excitedly over the din. ‘I’m going as Table For Two’s “matchmaker in the making”!’

‘About bloody time too!’ Ginny cheered triumphantly. ‘Cinderella’s finally going to the ball – and on the arm of an ugly sister!’

‘I can’t believe it! It means the society think I have potential!’

‘Alice!’ Ginny scolded. ‘You’ve got so much potential it must leak out of your ears at night! I can’t believe Audrey hasn’t taken you before, the miserable witch. But maybe it’ll give you the chance to bond a bit; speak as equals.’

‘Mmmm, maybe,’ Alice said doubtfully. Her spirits sank. She hadn’t thought as far as enforced socializing with her boss; and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell Audrey would suddenly treat her as an equal. Still, at least Audrey’s husband would be there. She always made them sound like the most perfectly matched pair of lovebirds ever to have shared a branch, so they’d be bound to spend the evening glued together. And that meant Alice would get the chance to chat with the other dating professionals. She couldn’t wait!

‘So what are you going to wear?’ Ginny interrupted her thoughts. ‘Is it black tie?’

Alice felt panic prickle in her throat.

‘I didn’t ask. Do you think it’s important? I was just going to wear a skirt and top.’

‘Of course it’s important!’ Ginny laughed. ‘It’s your big chance to be taken seriously. You can’t turn up in a skirt and top if everyone’s in evening dresses. You’ve got to dress appropriately. And yes’ – Ginny laughed as Alice began to protest – ‘. . . that
does
mean you’ve got to wear make-up!
And
heels!
And
get your hair done!’