Kismetology (8 page)

"Really? That’s wonderful. I thought you were going to
turn me down for being too much of a snob."

Perceptive and rich. And yes, I’m questioning my motives for
saying yes. This guy has positive and negative points, and I have to admit that
there is a very, very slight possibility—and I mean, like, a one in a million
chance—that I have been seduced by money. I, Mackenzie Atkinson, have been
charmed and lured by the promise of fish eggs by the lake on horseback. Or
something. It sounds better than saying "by the smell of little green
bills", because seriously, who actually likes the smell of money? Not me,
but I wouldn’t be opposed to the smell of expensive perfume it can buy. And the
personal ad did say that he wanted someone to share his wealth (and his years)
with. I’d forgotten that part about the years. You see? He’s a sweetheart. A
very, very magnificently rich sweetheart.

We arrange for the date with Mum to take place tomorrow
night. He says he’s taking her to a French restaurant. I briefly wonder if this
French restaurant might actually be in France, but he confirms that no, it is
in a very posh little village on the outskirts of Bristol. Shame. And they can
go to see a show of her choosing afterwards, and he’s sending a car to pick her
up. This is like something out of a movie, and I pretty much wish that I was
going on this date instead of her. I wonder if Joel has ever thought about
being a sugar daddy.

I’m not serious, of course. But I must make sure my mother
owns suitable attire for a night in the company of a millionaire (a few times
over, by the sound of it.)

When he goes to motion for the cheque, I tell him not to.

"No, I promised it was my treat."

"Yeah, but my boyfriend works here, so the whole thing
is on the house," I admit. "I just wanted to see if you were the type
who expected a woman to pay for her own meal."

"Ah, so Eleanor likes the chivalrous type, then?"

I nod.

"For the record, Mackenzie, no, I never ever expect a lady
to pay, no matter who asked who out."

I smile. "That’s good to know."

"So, who’s your boyfriend? He’s not the chef, is
he?"

"He might be."

"Oh no." Joel hides his face in his hands.
"Oh no. I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I’m sure he knows his elbow
from his armpit perfectly well. And the meal was delicious. Please tell him
that."

"I will."

"Wow, how embarrassing," he continues.

"Don’t worry about it," I say.

After all, Eleanor doesn’t like Dan, you don’t like
Dan—you’ll be a match made in heaven. Or Harrods. Whichever is nearer.

"A millionaire?" Mum asks excitedly. "A
millionaire? What am I supposed to do with a millionaire?"

"Eat caviar, drink champagne, ride on horses or in
limousines?"

"But a millionaire?" She asks again. "Where
on earth did you find him?"

Thankfully this is a rhetorical question and I don’t need to
answer it. Okay, so I haven’t quite told her that I’m on the personal ad trail
yet.

"Mum, you have to hurry," I say instead. "The
car will be here any minute."

Right on queue, the phone rings. I pick up, and a very posh
sounding man on the other end announces the car is in fact waiting outside. I
thank him and hang up. I’m about to call Mum again when she appears in the
doorway.

Mum—sorry, Eleanor—looks lovely by the time she gets
downstairs. She’s dressed all in black, with a little bit of sparkle on her
top. She looks very refined. Perfect for a millionaire’s wife. Did I just say
wife? I meant date, of course.

"You can’t keep a millionaire waiting," I tell
her.

"Do I look all right?"

"You look lovely. Like a woman ready to date a man with
a huge amount of money."

"Good," she smiles. "See you later."

She’s already out the door. And that car is not the
limousine I had pictured. It’s nice enough, I suppose. All black and imposing
with it’s shaded windows, but stretch limo it is not.

"No," Mum says when she knocks on our door later
that night.

"No?"

"No. We’re incompatible."

"How can anyone be incompatible with a
millionaire?"

"I felt like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
. I don’t
know what spoon goes where, or in what order to use the forks. I felt
completely out of place. I can’t date him."

"Didn’t he try to make you feel more comfortable?"

"Yes, he was very nice about it, but we’re two
completely different classes of people."

"Does class even matter?"

"To that degree, yes. The man has more money than he
knows what to do with. And he doesn’t like Cats."

"But he has horses. He’s an animal lover."

"Not cats cats,
Cats
the musical."

"Oh."

"I thanked him for the lovely night and told him we
wouldn’t be seeing each other again."

Oh. My fantasy of summers by the lake and limo rides to work
go poof right in front of my eyes. Damn. But I know it is fruitless to argue
with her. If she doesn’t like the guy, she doesn’t like the guy, period.

"Okay," I say reluctantly. "I’ll find you
someone else."

"That’d be nice, Mac. I’m really enjoying being out
like this. I feel young again. And I had a lovely time tonight." She
kisses me on the cheek. "Well, goodnight. I must be getting home to my Baby."

I wave her goodbye and shut the door. Dan is in work, as is
usual for a Wednesday night, so I’m all alone in our house.

I have to admit I’m questioning my motives for setting
Eleanor up with Joel the Millionaire in the first place. Now, see if that had
been me on a date with him tonight, I would’ve tried my hardest to impress the
millionaire. Anybody with that amount of cash is worth trying to get along
with. If you were to marry him, hypothetically speaking of course, but if you
were to marry him, you could give up work for good, and just live the life of
luxury. I mean, I think I’d get bored just sitting around all day with nothing
to do, but I would personally go for any opportunity of getting out of my job.
And if marrying a millionaire was the way to go about it, and if the
opportunity was open for me, I’d go for it.

Damn shame I fell in love with a chef.

CHAPTER 13

The next man to respond to my
message is Guy Number One—"
Sincere, honest male. Young fifty. Very
sexy. Tall, fun, and good looking.
" He’s left it quite late to
respond, and that puts me off somewhat. Has he been waiting for other dates?
Seeing what other women responded to his advert before calling the girl who
wants to set her mother up as a last resort? Enthusiasm is the key here, men. I
don’t want you to leave it until Thursday to leave me a message while I’m in
work. You need to phone back straight away. Never let a girl feel like your
second choice.

But anyway, I’ve arranged to meet Guy Number One—another
nameless guy, because I forgot to ask—Friday night, at the usual venue. Sure,
the dates are a little repetitive, what with same place, same table, same food,
and everything, but it does have its advantages. The food is free, Dan is good
at his job, and I don’t feel so vulnerable being out with a stranger who is
quite often more than twice my age.

When I get there on Friday, I’m early. Such a miracle in
itself that I kinda wish
Mr. Tall, fun, and good looking
was here to
witness it. But then I wouldn’t be early as he’d have been here before me. Oh
well. I get seated at my usual table and wait. And wait. And wait some more.

It’s a half hour later when the hostess finally leads a man
over towards my table. If this is
Mr. Tall, fun, and good looking
, then
he’s missing some vital parts. Like the tall and good looking parts. And from
the surly look on his face, I’ll hedge my bets that he’s missing the fun part
too.

"Hi," I say, standing up. Is it good manners for a
woman to stand up at the table when a man arrives? How about when that man has
kept you waiting thirty long minutes? I remind myself to ask Dan for another
etiquette lesson tonight.

"Yeah," he kind of grunts and sits down without
even acknowledging me.

"Fucking traffic," he says. "I hate this
city."

"Don’t worry," I say. "We all feel like that
sometimes." I debate whether to add the next part that I want to say. But
one look at the frown on his face, and I decide he deserves all the berating I
can get in. "It would’ve been nice if you’d called, though."

"Who do you think I am, love? Fucking Superman? You
fucking women. You’re all the fucking same. Think we owe you something because
we have dicks and you don’t."

"Or maybe because you are a dick." I stand up and
smile at him. "I would say that it’s been nice to meet you, but it really
hasn’t. No wonder you’re placing personal ads with an attitude like that.
Goodnight."

"Fuck you." He calls after me as I leave.

I go round the back and into the side access door to the
kitchen.

"You’re leaving?" Dan says when he sees me.

"I’ve never met such an asshole in my life."

"Hey Mackenzie," Holly the waitress comes in to
the kitchen. "Table seventeen has just ordered a whiskey. Do you want me
to put laxatives in it?"

"No," I tell her. "But feel free to tip it
down his pants."

I turn back to Dan. "If he orders food, sneeze on it or
something."

Dan laughs. "See you at home, babe."

I walk out just in time to see
Mr. Not so tall, fun, or
good looking
, jumping up from his chair and angrily wiping his trousers
off. Hah! Revenge is sweet, and being the girlfriend of head chef is even
sweeter.

CHAPTER 14

What is it with these tardy men?
I’ve pretty much given up on getting any more responses from the messages I
left, when another one calls me back the following Sunday. Sunday! A week and a
day after I got in touch in the first place. It means one of two things—you’ve
had no luck with the other dates you’ve been on, or you’re too busy for dating.
And if you’re too busy for dating, then you’re definitely too busy for being
set up with my mother. But, my options are limited, and I’m just waiting until
Mum starts asking if there are any more men ready yet. What does she think I’m
doing? Creating them from a test tube? Pulling them out of a hat like a white
rabbit? Turning toads into non-princes in my underground laboratory? So I
decide to give this one the benefit of the doubt. It can’t hurt, right? And if
he’s a creep then the waitresses can always put laxatives in his food. (Oh yes,
I’ve filed that information away for safekeeping.) We book a Monday night
dinner at Belisana. I object to being anyone’s last resort, but honestly, I’m
somewhat desperate. I’ll take any resort at all by this point.

This guy is number four—"
Attractive, youthful, 60
year old with GSOH.
" Or Andy, as he tends to be known. Yes, I actually
got his name. That’s a good omen, right?

As usual, I’m late. Andy is already there, seated at
"my" table. I notice straight away that his advert wasn’t a lie. He
actually is very youthful looking, and he’s got short brown hair. He stands up
and smiles when I arrive and I notice his bright blue eyes. Youthful? Check.
Attractive? Check.

"Hi." He smiles at me. "You’re the one named
Mackenzie, right?"

I nod and smile back.
You’re the one named Mackenzie,
right?
We spoke on the phone yesterday, do you have more than one woman to
meet today? I’m coming over to you and saying hello, am I likely to not be the
Mackenzie you were expecting? Should I be this judgemental? Should I be
analysing every sentence that every man says to me? I think the answer is
probably not.

"So, Andy," I say conversationally as I sit down.
"You were late responding."

"Yeah, I was."

Just like that. No sorry. No "I was out of town."
No "My dog/Nana/goldfish died." Not even an "I was busy."

Holly arrives at the table and places a plateful of food in
front of Andy. She smiles at me sympathetically.

"Did you get many responses to your ad?" I ask
him.

"Quite a few, yeah. I’m a catch, right?" He opens
his mouth and winks at me, revealing a gob full of spare ribs. Why do men do
that? Why do they have to open their mouth to close their left eye?

Oh yeah. Such a catch that you’re eating right now? Such a
catch that the waitress has just placed a plate of barbequed spare ribs in
front of you. You couldn’t even wait for me to arrive before ordering?

I spot Dan on his way back into the kitchen and wave at him.

"You know that guy?" Andy says immediately.

"Yeah, he’s my boyfriend."

"Oh. Isn’t it bad manners to wave at your boyfriend when
you’re on a date with me?"

"Isn’t it bad manners to order food before your date
arrives?"

"What does it matter? We’re paying for our own.
Oh." He suddenly looks up at me. "You’re not one of those women who
expect the man to pay are you? One of those bitches who prattle on and on about
equal pay rights and then refuse to pay for their own food?"

I shrug. "No, I’m not one of them, but I consider
chivalry to be good manners."

"Then you won’t mind me treating you like an inferior
who isn’t clever enough to understand the big grown up man talk all night then.
If you want chivalrous, I can do chivalrous, but if you want to be treated like
an equal, you can be expected to be one on all levels."

Is there even a response to that?

"So," I say, in an effort to change the subject.
I’m in half a mind to get up and walk out right now, but maybe he has a point.
Maybe I do expect too much from a man. And I’ve got to give this one a go. I
did walk out of the last date after all. "What do you do for work?"

"I’m an accountant. You?"