Around the World in 80 Dates (24 page)

As soon as I had heard Garry's voice, I sank down onto the bed, a huge smile taking up my entire face. God, he sounded gorgeous: American accent, voice gravelly from the desert dust and lack of sleep. Ummmmmm.

And I did.

I curled up on my bed in Missoula; he lay on the bed in his roadside trailer somewhere between Reno and Seattle. And we talked and talked. For two hours we talked about the Deities in the base of the Pyramid; the Booth of Bad Advice telling people not to apply sunscreen and drink less water; we talked about what our Costco friends had been up to after I left…. We talked about my continuing to date and what that meant for us. He was supportive and understanding, leaving me reassured that I was doing the right thing. And we also talked about Seattle and the time we would have together in his city.

Meeting in the desert had been magical and dramatic; it had been larger than life, like something out of a film. But now, as we talked and laughed and teased each other over the phone, I realized we could have met at a bus stop or a bar or on a blind date and I still would have found Garry intriguing and entertaining. It wasn't the Playa or BRC that had captivated me: It was him.

You know, I blame Hector for putting Carpenters lyrics into my head, but I had the strongest feeling that Garry and I…
had only just begun.

Garry's folks' boat in the Bay area

If you're having one of those days when happy people make you want to randomly punch strangers, feel free to skip the next few pages.

I was excited but extremely nervous when I arrived at Seattle airport two days later. One look at Garry told me he was just as nervous, though, and I immediately felt relieved: It wasn't just me that needed a little time for romance reacclimation.

But we had too much to talk about and got on too well to stay self-conscious for long, and the days that followed (…I warned you this was coming) were complete and utter bliss.

I'd never been to Seattle, and although I expected an interesting city, I hadn't expected such a beautiful setting. Seattle is actually a rash of islands, with the city sitting on a lick of land between Puget Sound and Lake Washington. Mountains run around three-quarters of the horizon like a mandarin collar: the Olympic Mountains to the west, Mount Rainier to the south, and the Cascades to the east.

Although a native Californian, Garry had lived in Seattle for seven years and made an excellent guide. He took me to all the funky areas, buying me drinks in the coolest bars, waiting outside as I ran riot in the clothing boutiques and cosmetic stores in Fremont and West Seattle.

At Ballard Locks, we made up stupid stories about each of the salmon trying to work out how to use the fish ladder. The sun was hot as we walked along Lincoln Beach holding hands, constantly stopping because we were laughing or kissing.

Incidentally, I know this sounds sugary and sentimental, but I want to make it absolutely clear that we weren't one of those slobbery, big-tongue-action-in-public, “hey, get a room!” couples. We were electrified with newly minted romance—it pinged out of us like static from nylon sheets—and we couldn't get enough of it or each other.

Garry had a comfortable house in a quiet, forested area overlooking Puget Sound. He was an incredible cook and happiest when creating impressive gourmet meals as I perched on a stool with a glass of wine, chatting or rifling through his CD collection. Other than perhaps toast or spaghetti, I'd never had a man cook for me before. Once Garry finally managed to persuade me that he enjoyed making barbecued pizza with red onion, pesto, and goat cheese or baked snapper with chili and mango salsa and I didn't need to keep offering to help, I was surprised by how much I liked it.

It did take some getting used to, though. Garry was clearly someone who liked to be a gentleman: He insisted on paying for everything, holding open doors, giving me his jacket if I was cold, and generally being kind and considerate. As much as it thrilled and amazed me (I felt like I'd picked the best ride at the Relationship Theme Park), I struggled with it, a little at first and more so as time went on.

It was really the
paying for things
part. Although I knew Garry enjoyed treating me, I was extremely conscious of not wanting to take advantage of him or cruise along on his generosity. Plus, I had little experience of being treated this way: I had my own money and expected to contribute. I genuinely didn't know how to deal with it. So I kept trying to pick up the bills and Garry kept saying no.

On the third night, it came to a head.

We'd spent a lovely afternoon wandering around the touristy but entertaining Pike Place Market, and were now having early evening drinks at Anthony's on Belltown Harbor. As the sun set, we drank martinis and watched a sleek, chic, sixty something couple confidently moor their boat (elegant, opulent, and the size of a small city), looking every inch like an advertisement for the wonders of Viagra.

Garry looked up as the waitress came to take our food order. “Jen, I know you don't like oysters,” he said, prodding tentatively at the minefield of my dietary foibles, “but they're so good here, why don't you try one?”

I hate oysters. They have a hellish texture and aren't even vaguely filling; eating them has always seemed a pointless exercise in combining the traumatic with the superfluous. He asked so sweetly, though, so two cocktails later our perky waitress (“Ohmigosh, are you Briddish? Oh, man, I just love your accent!”) brought us half a dozen Kumamoto oysters, served on a bed of pink champagne and cracked-pepper sorbet. Garry showed me how to fork a tiny amount of sorbet onto the oyster, and top it with a squeeze of fresh lemon.

I was determined not to think as I popped the oyster into my mouth and chewed gingerly. The rich, creamy, salty flavor filled my mouth and wrapped itself around my taste buds. I was amazed to find I loved it. And glad. Not just that Garry had talked me into trying them, but also that for once I'd been undogmatic enough to say yes. But when the bill came, things took a sudden turn. As we tussled as usual over who was paying, Garry suddenly sat back, thought for a moment, and then took my hand in his. “Jen,” he said slowly. “I know you're used to paying your way and that's why you keep offering to pick up the tab. But here's the thing: You're only here for a few days and you're my girlfriend; can you please just accept that I want to take care of you and let me do it?” He looked both firm and sincere, but I was too scared to say anything for fear I'd burst into tears. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me in my whole life.

As the sun set across the bay and the early evening crowd strolled across the boardwalk next to us, I felt lost in my emotions. Was he for real? Was this for real? Did Garry have a wife, twenty-seven children, and a job in a lawnmower repair shop in Iowa and that's why he could say and do the things he did? Also, I don't want to sound contrary here, but much as I wanted to make changes to my life, could I allow someone to give what felt to me like so much and not feel weird or diminished by the loss of control?

I looked at Garry, still sitting quietly waiting for my answer. He looked incredibly handsome: those crazy, deep blue eyes fringed by dark lashes so long they made me jealous, his face tanned and smooth from the desert heat. I loved being with him so much: He was funny, generous, a good storyteller, and with just enough self-doubt to make him seem a little vulnerable and utterly lovable.

And he seemed completely smitten with me.

It was no good; I'd held off for as long as anyone could possibly have expected me to. The tears started rolling down my cheeks.

Garry, of course, had no idea what was going on. He just knew he'd challenged me and now I was sitting here silent and in tears. He looked completely mortified. “Oh, God, Jennifer, I didn't mean to upset you,” he said, the anxiety clear in his voice. I sniffled, one hand rifling through my handbag for a tissue, the other still in his. “No, no…” I spluttered between tears. “You haven't upset me at all. Quite the opposite: It's the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me. I'm crying because I'm happy.”

Garry looked unconvinced, but gradually his expression changed from one of horror to one of
never try to understand women
instead. I wiped the last of the tears from my cheeks and gave a wobbly smile. “Thank you, Garry, it's a deal: You're buying.”

 

I extended my ticket so we'd have ten days together in Seattle. I was flying back to London out of San Francisco, so we decided to spend three days on his parents' boat in the Bay Area, too (Anders's floating sauna had begrudgingly opened my mind to the possibility that maybe
some
boats were okay).

As time sped by, real life started to reassert itself. Garry had to go to work, doing audio for the Mariners baseball games on TV, and in theory I was meant to be seeing Ted and Jason.

Turning on my laptop, I spotted emails from both of them among the deluge. I was surprised and happy to see one from Nanc in Vegas as well and I opened it straight away:

I laughed when I read the email: Nanc might have been joking about the background check, but Elizabeth would be completely serious. I was incredibly touched that Nanc and Elizabeth were looking out for me and thought—not for the first time—how many unique and genuinely special people I had met on this trip.

I replied to my old friend Eddie, who'd emailed asking for my phone number in Seattle (another subtle vetting ploy as he could easily have called me on my cell). I then got to the emails from Jason and Ted to check they were still okay to meet up now I had met Garry.

I felt relieved: The last thing I wanted to do was upset anyone. And I was pleased that Jason still wanted to meet up. Although I'd suspected he wasn't The One, I'd enjoyed e-chatting with him—mainly talking about music—and could tell he was a good person.

I'd got Jason through the usual network of relationships maintained via email. Randy was a second-generation Date Wrangler. He knew my friend Paula from the time he worked in Amazon's British office, but before that he worked at their head office in Seattle, which was how he knew Jason. Randy now lived in New York but was still in regular email contact with both Paula and Jason (neither of whom knew each other). When Randy had got my Soul Mate Job Description, he'd emailed Jason, who in turn—as I was in the middle of
A Date for Europe
—emailed me.

The other Seattle date, Ted, was a friend of Posh PR Emma's. He ran a thriving dot-com company and warned me from the start (nearly three months ago) that although he had
no time to email, wait until you get to Seattle, then I'll impress the hell out of you.

Well, here I was in Seattle, though admittedly under different circumstances from those Ted and I had originally anticipated. When I opened the email, instead of impressing, Ted
scared
the hell out of me:

I read it and reread it. The first half was bad; the second half read like some loan small print where the company reserved the right to eat your parents should you miss a payment. Ted had to be joking; he couldn't be serious. But what if he was serious? What if America had become so litigious and work-obsessed, you could be sued for wasting someone's time and emotional energy by falling in love with a third party?

I hit reply, then closed down the empty email about five times, each time wanting to get back to him but each time being at a loss as to what exactly I should say.

In the end, I decided to forward it to Posh PR Emma. Much as I was grateful to the Date Wranglers for all their hard work and support, it was like a dinner party that was a guy short at the last minute. If the guy you brought as a favor went on to get drunk and threw up in the hostess's fish tank, favor or no favor, it was your job to sort out the mess. Whether she liked it or not, Emma was going to have to get Ted's head out of the tank and give him a good talking to.

Meanwhile, Garry was upstairs in his office getting on top of his own life. I could hear his fingers clatter across the keyboard as he emailed and talked on the (constantly ringing) phone. People called to talk about work, catch up after Burning Man, and find out about his new British girlfriend (I heard the term
New British Girlfriend
so many times I started feeling like some political initiative).

He was very sweet, and as he talked I couldn't help but overhear how proud and happy he sounded. Most people were clearly delighted for him, a few less so. When Garry told one woman in particular about us, she was so upset I could hear her reaction (
“NOOOOOO!”
) from where I was sitting down in the kitchen. (“Don't be like that,” Garry reasoned, clearly taken aback by her response.)

But I was soon to meet the female who would pose the biggest challenge to our relationship. She was called Hal, and she was so much a part of Garry's life, she was already in the house.

 

Garry had to work the Mariners baseball game but—worried I'd be bored on my own—suggested I drop him off and keep the truck for the rest of the day.

I was touched and slightly overwhelmed. That he trusted me to drive his huge truck was kind but a bit of a responsibility. That he thought I would make it home without ending up in Vancouver was lovely but possibly expecting too much from my navigational skills. That I would be able to make my way back to where he worked, from the house—twenty minutes of twisting and turning roads, in the dark—felt like madness.