Around the World in 80 Dates (17 page)

Meanwhile, there seemed to be a strange new phenomenon at home. As word of my homecoming had spread throughout my group, old boyfriends and The Ones Who Could Have Been were getting in touch. To try to rewrite history?

And Would-Be Dates (WBDs) were trying to use me to settle professional-rivalry scores.

The Date Wranglers were having a bit of a moment, too. Hannah rang from Budapest to ask if I thought I was going to get on with the friend she'd set me up with in Bangkok. I quite understood why she was having second thoughts, but what could I tell her? That I'd never met him, but she knew both of us and so was clearly the only person who could make that judgment call?

Posh PR Emma had set me up with Jake, her friend who worked as an A-list photographer in Vegas. Newly divorced, he lived a larger-than-showbiz life: gold bath fixtures and his last two ex-wives' implants in the fridge (cold eye-masks for reducing puffiness before a photo shoot). He sounded extraordinary. But so far his emails had been a little disappointing, more blank than bling.

Out with Jo, I mentioned my concerns about Jake and she shrieked, “Oh, God, Jennifer, he's Emma's pet project. She set me up with him too, and he's DULL, DULL, DULL. You think he'll have all these really interesting stories and he doesn't: He's just really, really boring.”

I don't want to sound unkind, but I wasn't the dating arm of the Samaritans. I was looking to meet my Soul Mate and it was important I didn't get rerouted into other people's dating agendas. I know that sounds mean, but I just didn't have the energy to spare. I learned this the hard way when Paul asked me to go down to the pub.

It had been a long and trying day: trying to firm up the hotel in Vegas, work out if a tattooist two hours north of San Francisco was worth the drive, and get the New York Fire Department to take me just a little more seriously. (
“Like I tell all of you ladies calling to date our boys, put it in writing.”
) The dating website that based your matches on which books you read just highlighted that men and women read different books; thankfully, the site that based your matches on what you liked to watch on TV was looking more promising.

Paul rang to say that a group of our friends was going down to the pub and did I want to go? I was frazzled but thought I could do with a break, so agreed. When I arrived an hour later, Paul was the only one there.

“Oh, are we early?” I asked as I plonked myself down at the table.

“No,” he replied cheerfully. I was confused but thought I must have misheard him. While Paul was at the bar buying me a drink, my phone chirped. Jo was texting me:

Let me know how it goes.

How what goes?

Paul came back from the bar and we settled down and chatted for about half an hour. He was unusually attentive, also quite tense. “Is everything okay?” I asked him, concerned he might be having a bad time about something and wanted to talk about it. “Yes,” he replied anxiously, “I'm just pleased to see you.”

It was then that it dawned on me. “Paul, are we on a date?” I asked, trying to sound conversational. He nodded and squeezed my hand.

I could have killed him.

He was a nice guy but there was no way I would have agreed to go on a date with him, especially at the moment when I was dated to the max. And he'd tricked me into it by pretending our other friends would be there—probably knowing it was the only way he'd get me to say yes. We walked to the railway station together at the end of the evening, and I had to execute an advanced Quick Peck and Hug maneuver to avoid his persistent advances.

Back in my little flat, I thought how good it had been to spend time at home. But by involving all my friends in my Soul Mate quest, I'd made my home life too chaotic. And if I stayed here any longer, things would only get more complicated and out of control. My two weeks were up anyway. And in my upside-down fairy-tale world, I'd really enjoyed it: working quietly, eating nothing but toast, and living in worn-out old T-shirts and frayed jeans every day. But now the clock was striking midnight and it was time to squeeze those glass slippers back onto my feet and whirl and twirl across America, in search of my Prince.

Date #52—All shook up
in Vegas, USA

Weird, bloated stomach; indecisive and easily confused; tired and craving sugar…jet lag is the PMS of travelers, without the payoff of knowing you're not pregnant.

But I was in L.A., low-fat, low-sugar capital of the world, and I was determined that it would be the inspiration for a new healthy me. I was going to get back in shape, eat properly, and start working out again. I'd feel and look better, as well as having more energy for my quest.

I was staying at the Best Western on Sunset Strip, much nicer than it sounds and incredibly central, especially as my first date was with a comedian called Lowell, across the road at the Comedy Store. My friend Lizzy had given me his number but suggested I catch his show tonight and ring him tomorrow if I liked him. I knew my Date Wranglers well enough by now to know I'd live to regret not taking their advice when it was offered.

It was open-mike night at the Comedy Store: twenty-four comedians each with three minutes to be funny. Such rapid turnover meant that the audience never got to know or care about the comedian, but looked for quick laughs instead. Faced with such performance pressure, most comedians lost first their confidence and then their audience, whose wandering attention made them chat and heckle.

Watching the audience smell the blood of a dying comedian, then finish him off with brutal indifference, was a chilling sight, like seeing a gladiator fighting for his life in front of a jaded mob.

I missed Lowell's entrance onstage: An Australian impersonator (he'd impersonated a swallow by holding the mike to his throat and swallowing) was asking me if the audience hadn't laughed because they couldn't understand his accent.

Instead of answering, I turned my attention to Lowell, who was a few moments into his act. He had an electric presence: Tall with a tense, sinewy body and short, dirty-blond hair, Lowell spoke with a deep southern drawl. There was nothing languid about him, though; his act was deeply offensive, performed with the furious belligerence of a drunk being bundled into a police van at midnight.

He did what virtually no other comedian had managed, though: He got the attention of the crowd. After telling one of the sickest jokes I have ever heard spoken aloud, his three minutes were up and Lowell stormed offstage to such howls of outrage and abuse that for a moment I wondered if
stage-struck
actually meant someone coming up onstage and punching you.

Although appalled, I actually thought he was a pretty good comedian, but there was no way in the world I was going to date him (and I suspect Lizzy knew this). I drank a beer and watched a few more of the acts, before deciding to call it a night.

Outside in the parking lot, a knot of spent comedians paced in distracted agitation, like a gang of street fighters licking their wounds after a violent clash. Lowell was among them. He didn't know I was Lizzy's friend; still, he caught my eye as I passed. “Thanks for coming,” he called out.

“I admired your act,” I said over my shoulder as I continued to walk.

“Really?” he asked, running to catch up. He walked a couple of paces ahead, then turned to face me. “It gets me right here,” he said, hitting his fist on his chest, arrogant yet clearly stung by the reception he'd just received.

“I thought you were funny,” I told him honestly.

“Really?” he asked again, his need for approval naked and demanding. “I thought it was a disaster.” He looked shocked, whether at his act or the audience's response, I couldn't tell.

“You're original,” I said evenly, “You weren't like the others. You weren't trying to please, you stood out.”

Behind him, the strung-out comedians continued to pace, ebbing and flowing around each other as the adrenaline surge slowly abated. “Will you be coming back?” Lowell asked.

“Maybe.” I shrugged as I walked off. But I knew I wouldn't: Funny was what these men did, not what they were.

Brian wasn't what he appeared either.

When I'd told Ellie about my difficulties in finding a date in L.A., she promised to find me someone and, sure enough, her friend Brian was coming on a TV Date with me.

I wanted to go on a TV Date to test a theory. As I see it, once you get past the initial mutually obsessed and introspective stage of a new romance, it settles into something cozier, and that generally involves staying in and watching a fair amount of TV together. Since L.A. is where most sitcoms are recorded, I thought watching TV on a date—or, to be more specific, sitting in on the recording of a TV program on a date—would be a good way to see if we were compatible.

Sadly, my theory went untested as there were apparently two CBS studios in L.A. and we ended up going to the wrong one.

Brian picked me up from the hotel in his car and we made the short trip over to Fairfax. Tall, with short dark hair, huge blue eyes, and a body gymmed to perfection, my first impression was that he was cute…and gay.

Needless to say, I kept this thought to myself.

When we arrived at CBS and were told we were at the wrong studio, Brian was upset and apologized profusely: “Oh, Jennifer, I am such an idiot. I really wanted to see it, too.”

He looked genuinely disappointed but rallied quickly. He grabbed my hand and we raced from the parking lot to the scariest and most fabulous secondhand clothes shop I'd ever seen. None of the genteel manners of Help the Aged; people pushed carts around the racks, shopping here because they had to.

And in the shop I discovered that Brian wasn't Brian and that he was indeed gay.

The Thrift Store had no changing rooms; instead about twenty mirrors were mounted close together on the long back wall. I modestly disrobed behind a stack of quadraphonic cartridges and a wall of Harold Robbins novels. Brian had no such hang-ups: A pile of clothes at his feet, he unselfconsciously stripped off in front of the mirrors (and a crowd of admiring young men). His stomach was so flat and his muscles so hard that, if lost at sea, you could have flipped him onto his back, gripped his nipples, and surfed to shore on him.

I stared at his buff body and blurted out: “Brian, you have the kind of body gay men would kill for.” Much to the disappointment of his audience, he stopped rippling his washboard stomach and looked sheepishly at me.

He held my gaze for a moment, then said quietly, “You know, don't you?”

“Well…” My voice trailed off and I shrugged awkwardly (which, considering I was balancing on one leg, an apricot satin jumpsuit halfway up the other, was quite an achievement).

We left the clothes in a pile on the floor and went next door for coffee. Brian was a friend of Ellie's, and also a friend of Marc, who apparently was the man I was having coffee with right now.

“Jennifer…” he said with a pained look on his face. “No question, I was going to tell you, I was just waiting for the right moment. You must be really mad at me, huh?” Marc went on to explain how Brian had had to work late, but Marc—his roommate—was a huge fan of one of the actors in the program, and had volunteered to come along instead. “We figured this way, at least you'd have a Date for the night,” Marc (aka Brian) reasoned wretchedly.

I'd missed my program and my Date was gay, but I genuinely couldn't have been happier. To go shopping was always a treat, but to be taken shopping by a sweet man who knew where the best designer bargains in L.A. could be found…. in that respect, Marc really was my Soul Mate. Brian/Marc paid for the coffee and we went right back to our shopping. It was a wonderful date.

I read in the in-flight magazine coming over that 74 percent of men know after the first fifteen minutes of a date if they are interested or not.

Fifteen minutes? That long?

Women know instantly if they are interested or not. Like playing a slot machine, in those first, dense dating moments, the tone of voice, content of conversation, appearance, body language, dress sense, height, and general vibe all spin around women's heads until the barrels fall into place. They are then either predominantly cherries (put more money in and keep playing) or lemons (stop playing and leave the machine for someone else).

That's why the theory behind speed-dating—twenty dates, each lasting three minutes—makes so much sense. It might be hard on the men—whether comedians or daters—but women can learn a lot in three L.A. minutes.

My friend Ian cynically accused me of wanting to speed-date just to get my numbers up, but I was genuinely curious. Though it's less convenient than online dating—it's at a set time and you have to travel to a venue—there are real advantages. A face-to-face meeting means you quickly discover if you like someone or not, plus you see straight away if there's any chemistry between you, without feeling obligated or involved. You'll also find out how accurate their profile is—in my early online days I spent two weeks having fabulous e-chats with Martin, before meeting up and disappointedly discovering he was in fact
10 Percent Too Small Martin.

So I went speed-dating.

 

As I arrived at a packed bar in Redondo Beach, organizer Styve (it's L.A.) smiled with pleasure and relief at the sight of me. “Oh, thank goodness, another woman, we're running so short.” I looked around the bar and sure enough, there were five little tables with a harassed-looking woman sitting behind each one, a swarm of impatient men surrounding them, checking to see no one exceeded the allotted three minutes and edging forward in anticipation of their own.

Part of me thought I should feel intimidated by the pressure and the incredible air of competitiveness that permeated the room, but instead I was delighted. L.A. is a social barometer for the rest of the world: Was this the future of dating? Single men outnumbering women five to one?

Styve gave me a badge with my name and a number, pushed a clipboard into my hand, and told me to write down the number of any guy I was interested in. They would email me the results (like some kind of weird dating pregnancy test:
Congratulations, Jennifer, you're going to have a boyfriend
) in a couple of days.

God, I suddenly realized, I hadn't thought up a story; what reason would I give the Dates for being here? I didn't want to tell them about my quest, as that would take the whole three minutes. But if I told the truth—I was here for two days and wanted to meet someone—even in therapy-hungry L.A., that was going to scream “relationship issues.”

As it turned out, I needn't have worried: With so few women and so few minutes, the Dates did all the talking.

Date #30
told me Jesus didn't mind us doing this and asked, which church did I attend?
Date #31
was an analyst of something I didn't catch because he muttered (his username was “no_talking”; I felt like replying “no_kidding”).
Date #32
worked in defense: “I can't tell you anything else until I get you security-cleared.” I asked
Date #33
if he had ever been to one of these events before. “Last night,” he replied. “I'm ready to have children and need to meet my wife.”
Date #34
was German and desperate to talk to another European.
Date #35
was a sweet, lonely Vietnamese man: “I've decided I need to chill out and meet more people. It doesn't have to be dating—I just want some friends.”
Date #36
was a management consultant who talked about how much he enjoyed Nepal. “Why?” I asked. “They floss their teeth in the street,” he replied. I liked
Date #37
, though he shouted at 2 minutes 59 seconds, “I have two children,” as
Date #38
dragged him away from my table by the chair.

I felt slightly overwhelmed by the time I'd completed
Date #50
and couldn't get away fast enough. Like being under the spotlight on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,
I thought there had to be a less stressful way of getting the prize.

As I arrived back at the hotel, Lizzy rang from London to see how it had worked out with Lowell. I told her he was a little too intense for me, but he was completely laid-back compared with some of the speed-daters I'd just met.

We laughed about it and Lizzy commented: “Jennifer, this is the first time I've heard you sound really happy in ages. I was worried it was all beginning to get to you.” I hadn't thought about it, but she was right: I felt excited and alive in a way I never had in Europe.

“For some reason, I found it really hard to get under the skin of the Dates in Europe,” I confessed, realizing for the first time that this was true. “I always felt like an outsider. Maybe because American culture is more like ours or everyone loves my accent here and wants to talk to me…. I feel part of what's going on rather than just a spectator.”

It could also be that, rested from a spell at home and now with quite a few dates under my belt, I was more experienced at handling the “workload.” It had felt incredibly intimidating when I'd started out, but now there seemed to be a natural rhythm and order to events. It was easier to know what to expect and be prepared.