Raven (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

At this point my escapades took an ethnic turn. I'd been receiving copious attention from a 56-year-old Indian architect called Jabir, who was divorced with three grown children. He bombarded me with messages that were way over-the-top effusive, jasmine-scented and sickly sweet: ‘Hello beautiful young lady, sweetheart and delicious one.' And the next day: ‘Hello again, you clever little angel with beautiful eyes. How are you on this fine sunny day?' And the next: ‘What are you doing on this gorgeous day, my gorgeous dear friend? Had lunch yet? Anything yummy? XXXX.' And all this before we had even met.

His profile narrative said all the right things about how trustworthy and responsible he was, warm-hearted and considerate, etc. The usual spiel. And his picture showed a presentable, well-dressed man with swept-back dark hair, smiling broadly for the camera. So despite his tiresome Bollywood-style effusions, and in the interests of multiculturalism, I agreed to have dinner with him, choosing my favourite Indian restaurant in north London. He seemed pleasant enough, and it would be a new experience for me. I'd never had a date with an Indian fella.

We had arranged to meet at the restaurant at 7.30 p.m. But at 6 p.m. on the evening in question Jabir texted me to ask whether our date was for 6.30 or 7.30. I answered that it was 7.30. ‘Well,' he replied, ‘I am there already.' There already? What would he do at the restaurant on his own for an hour and a half? He didn't seem very organised. I told him I couldn't get there before 7.30. ‘Okay, see you in a while you gorgeous crocodile!' he texted.

But when I turned up, on the dot, I was perturbed to see that he wasn't there at all. I sat down to wait. After five minutes I dashed off an irate text. A further five minutes later he arrived at last in a fluster. It turned out that he had been waiting across the road in McDonald's, drinking tea and sitting by the window, ostensibly keeping an eye on the restaurant entrance for my arrival. Which he had failed to notice.

Clearly this would never do.

Wearing a shiny brown suit, Jabir took his seat opposite me and I could tell straight away he was not in jolly Bollywood mood. And if his brusque manner towards the waiting staff was anything to go by, he was not as ‘warm-hearted and considerate' as he had painted himself. To be frank, he was also more ropey-looking than on his photo. His hair had thinned, he appeared haggard, and in place of the attractive smile with its even rows of white teeth, there was a dark, decaying hole on one side where a tooth should have been. I suspected this sight would put me off my food and was tempted to get up and leave. But there was enough of the old Ms Softie in me to stay, albeit with sinking heart.

On the upside, he had dropped the earlier toe-curling, gushy tone of his messages.

Being an Indian, I had assumed Jabir was Hindu. But it transpired that he was Muslim. We started discussing current affairs and various socio-political issues, and had opposing views on every single one of them. Put simply, he blamed George W. Bush for virtually all the ills of the world. And I didn't. This was never going to be a meeting of minds. But I didn't want an all-out row.

So I changed tack and asked about his dating experiences, and right away things became more interesting. He had been on the site for eight months, he said, and met a number of women, all in their fifties. Most, he said, were ‘desperate for physical intimacy, sex, TLC'.

One woman, who as it happened was Jewish, came out with an overt sexual proposal on their first date: ‘She asked me what is my favourite position in bed, and are there any special kinky things I like. But I didn't accept her invitation. I said “Miriam, this talk is unbecoming to a nice lady like you.” Unfortunately I had given her my phone number and she called me a few times in the middle of the night. Thank god I didn't give her my address or she would have showed up at my door.'

Other women he dated, he said, were just ‘very stupid. They wanted to talk about silly things, but knew nothing of world events. If I said to them, “I wonder whether Kim Jong-un will start a world war,” they looked at me blankly with no clue what I am talking about.' I started warming to the guy, a little.

Then he recounted the story of the stunning 25-year-old blonde on the site who one day winked and messaged him warmly. He responded in kind, immediately smitten. (I could easily imagine it: ‘Hello gorgeous, beautiful, angelic-looking young lady, delicious, yummy yummy, how are you today and what's for lunch? XXXX.') She was foreign and a little vague when asked about her background, but he guessed she was Eastern European. Once they had exchanged mobile numbers her messages became more ‘sexually suggestive' and he got hot under the collar, reckoning his luck was in. They set up a rendezvous at a big shopping centre on the northern outskirts of London.

He waited a long time for her at the agreed meeting place, but she never showed up. Later she rang to apologise: she'd been called away suddenly, her mother had suddenly been taken ill. Any bozo would have seen through that hackneyed pretext. But Jabir believed her: ‘I said, oh please don't worry, that's fine, mothers are very important, one's sick mother must always come first.' Whereupon the beauteous Cossack, or whatever she was, assured him that she was still keen to meet and gave him her new mobile number, urging him to call her soon.

‘A few days later I rang this number and another woman answered. We talked and talked and I realised it was a kind of sexual services number and the woman asked me what kind of service I would like, full-body massage, etc., and she went through a long list and told me how much each one cost. I declined all of them of course, but it was embarrassing and I found it difficult to get off the phone. Eventually, after maybe half an hour, I hung up. And when my phone bill arrived I saw that the call cost me nearly £40.'

I frowned at him, lost for words. Jabir was au fait with world events. He knew all about the war-mongering tendencies of Kim Jong-un. But when it came to scams, there was no greater mug.

He admitted that, on reflection, it wasn't likely that a gorgeous pouting 25-year-old (or in reality, perhaps, some ugly pock-marked con artist from the Caucasus) would throw herself at a middle-aged Indian divorcee living in Pinner.

When dinner was over and he had paid the bill and given me a box of high-quality chocolates as a present (a surprising move which I found quite touching), we made our way outside and he walked me to my car. We said how nice it had been to meet, interesting chat, lovely food and all that, said good-bye and shook hands. We knew we would not meet again.

The next day I texted to thank him for the dinner and wish him happiness for the future. In the end, he had proved to be gentleman. I just hoped he did something about that missing tooth. He had no chance of finding a girlfriend before then. None at all.

*

My multicultural dating continued apace. The day after my dinner with Jabir I had a date with a Turk whose user-name was the über-cheesy HelloToYou. A bespectacled, 34-year-old sales manager, he had been sending me earnest, detailed messages on a regular basis, filling me in on his daily activities, his work, holiday plans, sporting endeavours and opinions on the weather. Too much information, so I ignored most of them.

One of his messages had read: ‘I am looking for a serious, long-term relationship. But I realise that with our age gap it is less likely to be serious and permanent and more likely to be a casual one (at least at the start) but I don't believe that's necessarily a bad thing. As long as we are both single and the chemistry exists, we can see how it goes, share quality time with respect, honesty and dignity. I am not after a one-night stand or a fling, though. Let's meet and see if we are on the same page.'

In the end, after several entreaties (yes, ever the softie) I decided to give him a chance and agreed to meet for a drink. At The Bells. He seemed a well-disposed, if unexciting, bloke. Anyway, it was only a drink at my local.

I found a seat at an outdoor table and waited for HelloToYou, who informed me he'd be a little late as he was held up in traffic. A young black man in a leather jacket sat opposite me, talking and laughing into his mobile. He was telling a mate about a woman he'd recently met. He gave her ‘nine out of ten', as I couldn't help but hear. I glanced at him from time to time. He had an attractive smile.

At last HelloToYou arrived. He was shorter and slighter than I had expected, and even more staid. He bought us drinks and sat down next to me – a little too close perhaps – and we began talking about ourselves and what we hoped to get out of online dating. The black guy, who had by now finished chatting on his mobile, glanced over at us, his interest roused.

I explained that I was taking the dating lightly, not searching for anything too intense, no serious long-term commitment, no, not me. Meanwhile he studied me intensely and seriously, while edging even closer so that our thighs were almost touching. My personal space was disappearing rapidly and I wanted it back. When I glanced up at the black guy, our eyes met and a faint smile flickered across his lips.

My date then launched into a lengthy amplification of his position. He was after a love affair with ‘honesty and trust', whether long or short, it was the quality that mattered, the passion. He found the idea of intimacy between a young man and older woman ‘very sexy', he said. Then he added that he thought I was the right woman for him and we should try it.

How could I tell him that I too found the idea of that kind of intimacy sexy, but that he was far from
my
ideal candidate? For me – as for most people, I believe – physical attraction is a sine qua non. And I didn't fancy him one iota. To boot, his personality was strangely colourless. So I suggested that we could be friends. A lame idea, admittedly, but I felt cornered with nowhere else to go, and anyhow, that approach seemed to work with NiceMan. But he dismissed the suggestion. ‘I'm not sure we're on the same page,' he observed mournfully. Same page? Not even in the same book, mate! I wanted to say.

At this point I looked at the black guy again and he winked at me. Now there's somebody who
is
fanciable and looks like good fun, I thought. Why can't I be having a drink with him?

HelloToYou remarked that the only basis on which he would agree that we positively
weren't
on the same page (that tedious expression again) was if I told him that I felt there was no chemistry between us. That he could accept. So I took the bull by the horns and said, ‘Look, I think you're a nice man and I'm sure the lady you're searching for is out there somewhere. But it's not me, because I don't believe there
is
any chemistry between us.'

He nodded slowly and said ‘Okay.' I felt a welcome wave of relief, like when you take off a bra that's too tight and you can breathe freely again. A few minutes later we stood up and it was good-bye to you, HelloToYou. As I turned to leave I threw one last look at the cool black dude and we smiled at each other conspiratorially. A delicious moment and one I suspected he would soon be sharing with his mate on the mobile. Which was fine by me.

I was beginning to see that internet dating was rather like shopping for clothes in a charity store. It was a good idea, and ploughing through all the weird, odd-smelling stuff was a bit of an adventure, but you were only too aware that finding something you liked was going to be a tough call.

*

The following week I had a date with a Frenchman. This internet dating business was fabulously cosmopolitan, I told myself.

Édouard was in his mid-fifties, another divorcee, urbane and Continental in his manners. He had proposed that we meet to share a bottle of chilled French white at a bar in swinging Notting Hill. It was a warm sunny evening and we sat at an outdoor table in our sunglasses, chatting about our families, past relationships and work (Édouard was in advertising).

Our initial online conversation, a week or so previously, had gone well. ‘I love the name Monica,' he wrote in one message. ‘As I held the hand of a girl named Monica when I was eight years old!'
Oo-la-la
. When I mentioned that I was relaxing and sipping a glass of wine at my desk after a long day's work, he asked: ‘What are you drinking, red or white?'

‘Red, Édouard. A nice little Fleurie. And feeling better already.'

‘Red is good. Although a fine white, Sancerre or Chablis, can “lift me higher”, to put it in a flowery way, without being a writer. Let us reconvene soon to have a glass or two of Sancerre…or Chablis…'

Something of a connoisseur, then, with Gallic charm. And while he was no Alain Delon, the face in his photos was unlikely to frighten the horses. All in all, it boded well. And now here we were, basking in the west London sunshine.

After our wine-drinking we decided to amble off in search of a light supper. We entered a noisy eatery off Portobello Road. It was packed with young trendies and we joked about being the oldest people there.

As we ate our steamed monkfish with sautéed beet greens and sipped a chilled summery rosé, we carried on talking – about our travels and the differences between Continental and British cultures, and then, inevitably, about some of the people we had encountered through internet dating. I can't say I felt a sexual spark between us, but I enjoyed his sophisticated company and our freewheeling conversation.

It was still only 9 p.m. by the time we rose to leave. He walked out of the restaurant in front of me and as I watched him from behind, I noticed for the first time his slightly bow-legged old-man's gait, like someone with gammy knees perhaps, or a dodgy back. Now he really did seem out of place in that hipster hang-out. It might sound shallow, but I knew I could never be romantically involved with someone who walked like that. Sorry!

We said good-bye at a street corner; I was going one way and he the other. We pecked at each other's cheeks, agreed that it had been a lovely evening and that next time we'd go to a restaurant a little more in tune with our own style and generation. I wasn't sure there
would
be a next time, if only because we didn't seem fated to become anything more than casual friends. But that was all right. I reckoned he was the sort of chap I could one day invite over to a drinks party in the garden, to add a French touch to the proceedings.