The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (3 page)

And it’s true. Every material aspect of my life is proof that I can sell anything, even a semi-obscene advertising campaign for completely pointless, outrageously overpriced, double-zipped jeans. I have no idea where this gift-of-the-gab came from, but I’ve been doing it long enough to know that I have it. I just wish I were as good at selling other things, like myself.

‘OK,’ I say, with a nod. ‘I just have to work out how to pitch this without scaring them off. And don’t be late with the story-board on Monday. You know what Clarissa is like about punctuality.’

‘Do we still have a date for the private view?’ Darren asks, as I turn to the door.

I nod. ‘You bet,’ I say, glancing back.

‘Can I borrow a pair of these? They’d be perfect,’ he asks, picking up a pair of the jeans.

I shake my head. ‘Absolutely not.’

Knowing Where You’re Going

In this age of virtual-everything, there is something almost old- fashioned, archaic even, about the concept of speed dating. The idea of going to meet ten guys, face to face, in just over an hour, is not only nerve-racking but also somehow a bit quaint. But as
virtual
-dating on the internet seems to bring nothing more than
virtual
boyfriends (rare is the man who turns up to a date, in my experience) – and because my social life in London seems to produce nothing but opportunities for meeting an ever-larger selection of gay men, speed dating it is.

I have to say at this point that I honestly never intended to become such a fag hag. It just somehow happened. I expect a psychotherapist searching for causes would point rather obviously at my brother Waiine’s death, but I honestly don’t think that that’s the reason. It’s simply that I meet a lot of gay guys through work, and, having nothing whatsoever against them, it would be really stupid of me to refuse all the invitations I get to tag along. Because the events they take me to are, almost without exception, more fun than I get in any other area of my life. But tonight isn’t about fun. Not one bit.

When I have fun out with Mark or Darren or my best friend Sarah-Jane, it’s precisely because there are no expectations. Even surfing Meetic can give me
some
hope because the most obsessive-
repulsive
of fuck-ups generally describe themselves as
happy-go-lucky, good-looking
, etc. At least we
both
get to pretend that they really are the way they say they are.

Speed dating, however, generally leaves me feeling suicidal. The guys here sadly
aren’t
hiding behind twenty-year-old photos of Daniel Day-Lewis. They are sitting there, leering at you, in all their revolting splendour.

So by the time I have sat talking to six guys who look like they needed a crane to get out of bed that morning, three who sound like they may have had lobotomies, and generally one, funny, witty hunk who, at the end of the session, inexplicably fails to ask for my phone number, I’m ready for the mortuary. Which is why, whenever I can, I arrange to meet Sarah-Jane for a post- mortem afterwards.

SJ is perfect for this because a) she lives in Brixton, just around the corner from The Office – the bar where the speed dating is held – and, b) has been in the same relationship since fish first crawled onto land and so, like all such people, thrives vicariously on my dating nightmares. She also has what personality profiles call a
sunny disposition
, and, more essentially,
remains
sunnily disposed after a bottle and a half of Chardonnay.

I arrive at The Office about a minute late.

Speed dating, appealing to people with busy schedules and being organised by Nazis with stopwatches, clearly isn’t something one should turn up late to. Everyone glares at me to make sure that I am aware of this.

Thomas, the organiser, sighs and points me to the end of the row. ‘And
you
! You can pay afterwards,’ he says in his best schoolteacher voice.

At the rear of the bar ten tables are lined up. Backs to the wall, facing me, are ten guys. They pretty much fit the previously described mix, only tonight perhaps only five are clinically obese – though on second thoughts, the sixth is definitely border-line. Half of them have beards too, which I’m afraid is a no-go area for me. I don’t spend half my life waxing to end up kissing a bunch of pubes.

I scurry by, trying to discreetly check out the guys
and
the competition, for the most part a similarly comfortable bunch of lassies with their backs to me.

The boys stare at me, some with distaste (presumably at my unspeakable lateness), some with slight leers of interest. All these eyes following me around make me awkward and that awkwardness makes me feel as if I am on a catwalk, which in turn makes the business of putting one foot in front of another seem suddenly terribly complex. This is not helped by the fact that I am wearing my new Jimmy Choos.

And then, two from the end, I see him: dark brown eyes, stubble, neither skinny nor fat, just sort of chunky and sporty, balding . . . Balding is a plus actually – some kind of daddy- complex, I expect. I must go see a shrink one day to find out.

Brown Eyes is wearing a blue, crew-neck jumper over a white shirt, and he’s smiling at me. A good smile, slightly amused.

The smile of course tips the balance and my already floundering feet finally fail, catapulting me forwards. I collapse against an empty chair, pushing it and the table hard into the amply padded tummy of another chunky chappy, who turns out to be my first sparring partner.

I apologise profusely to Barry (yes,
Barry
– I kid you not) and then Thomas shouts, ‘Are we finally ready?’ and the stopwatch starts.

Whilst wiggling my foot under the table in an attempt at untwisting it, I listen to Barry drone on excitedly about how interested he is in computers and how he prefers Windows Vista even though it got a
really
bad press. He talks about Windows for two and a half of his allotted three minutes, and then somehow cleverly links to how much he appreciates
punctuality
in a woman. I spend my own three minutes wishing I were anywhere else whilst trying to sound like a total bitch who is trying really hard
not
to sound like one, but can’t
quite
avoid letting her true total- bitch-nature slip out. I think I manage this pretty well because Barry wrinkles first one, then both of his hairy nostrils at me.

I am also thoroughly satisfied by my display of self control: I manage to glance at Brown Eyes only twice. When I arrive, Sarah-Jane is frying slices of tofu in her tiny kitchen.

‘They always disintegrate when I do that,’ I tell her as I hang up my coat and cross the room to kiss her on the cheek.

‘You have to get the pan really bloody hot,’ she explains. ‘burn the buggers before they realise what you’re trying to do to them. So how was dating-hell this week?’

‘Oh, not bad,’ I say. ‘Actually it was bloody awful. But there was
one
potential, at least.’

Sarah-Jane nods. ‘There’s some Chardonnay in the fridge,’ she says in response to my own bottle of shop-warm Bordeaux. ‘So tell me, what was it like?’

‘As I say. They were all revolting except this one guy.’

‘What’s his name? And what does he look like? Did you get his phone number?’

‘Well he’s got brown eyes,’ I say, ignoring the first question, ‘balding, sort of chunky, a bit rugby-player-ish. Potentially cuddly.’

I pull the wine from the fridge, a glass from the shelf and pour myself a hefty slosh.

‘Sounds good,’ Sarah-Jane says, fishing strips of browned tofu from the pan and pouring in a bag of stir-fry veg. ‘No beard then?’

‘No beard.’

‘So, shaggable?’

‘Trust you get straight to the point,’ I laugh.

But really it’s what I love about Sarah-Jane. Well, one of the many things I love about her. I take a gulp of wine. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Given the chance . . . definitely.’

She takes a sip from her own glass. ‘What did you say his name was?’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘I didn’t,’ I say.

‘INS?’ she asks.

What with her being a chavvy Essex-girl called Sarah-Jane and my being an equally misnamed daughter of a lawyer from Surrey, we have invented an abbreviation for such situations: INS, or, Inappropriate Name Syndrome.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Definitely INS.’

‘Come on then,’ she prompts. ‘What is it? Dwayne? Barry? Don’t tell me . . .
Winston?
’

I laugh. ‘There
was
a Barry,’ I say. ‘But no. This one’s a Norman.’

She pulls a face. ‘Eeek!’ she says. ‘Norman Bates! Doesn’t live with his mum, does he?’

I nod. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Personally I kept thinking about that
Spitting Image
puppet of Norman Tebbit.’

‘Fucking hell,’ she says. ‘Norman! That’s not good. That’s really not good.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I blame the parents personally. But if there’s anyone who can ignore a bad first name, well, it’s gonna be me really, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ Sarah-Jane says. ‘I s’pose. What’s his surname?’

I shrug. ‘We don’t get that information. Just a phone number.’

‘. . . course. But you got it?’

‘I did,’ I say. ‘There was a Dustin too . . .’

Sarah-Jane winks at me. ‘Now yer talking,’ she says. ‘Always had a thing for Dustins.’

‘Yeah, I thought of you. He was about thirty,’ I say. ‘About thirty
stone
.’

‘You’re such a fattist,’ she laughs. ‘Does that exist? Fattist?’

I shrug. ‘I know . . .’ I say. ‘I’m not in any other area of my life, honest. I mean, if I have to
work
with a porker, I don’t even think about it. But having been on a diet since 1971, I don’t expect to then have to sleep with someone who needs industrial liposuction. Does that make me
horribly
shallow, do you think?’

Sarah-Jane shrugs. ‘Nah, love,’ she says. ‘It’s just, well, I like a bit of padding myself. Anyway, you were
born
in 1971.’

‘Exactly,’ I laugh. ‘But seriously, you didn’t see them – you honestly have no idea. Dustin looked like Ricky Gervais. A
fat
version of Ricky Gervais. Talked a bit like him too.’

‘Now, you see . . . I
like
Ricky Gervais,’ Sarah-Jane says, adding the contents of a sachet of sweet and sour sauce to her mix. ‘I think he’s funny.’

‘Yeah, but not in your bed,’ I laugh.

‘No,’ she agrees. ‘No, I suppose not. Anyway tell me about
Norman.
’ She pulls a face as she says the name.

I shrug. ‘You don’t get a great deal in three minutes, but he does something in mental health, something to do with half way houses.’

‘Probably lives in one,’ Sarah-Jane laughs.

‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I thought that already . . . He has two brothers, lives in Clapham, likes walking and reading and classical music and rugby.’

‘I suppose books and music makes up for rugby,’ Sarah Jane says doubtfully.

‘Well, any more touchy-feely and he’d be gay, and lord knows that’s not what we’re after here.’

‘No,’ Sarah Jane laughs. ‘So when are you seeing him?’

I shrug. ‘When he calls.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘In a week if he hasn’t phoned I suppose I’ll call him.’

Sarah-Jane hands me a plate of food and a fork. ‘Yeah, best not to seem over-keen,’ she says.

‘Exactly.’

‘Though this being a heterosexual man, best not leave it too long either, or he won’t remember who you are. Goldfish memory and all that. Did I tell you that George forgot my birthday again?’

In my taxi home to Primrose Hill, I think somewhat tipsily about SJ and George, and then, as if allowing myself a square of chocolate, I let myself think about Brown Eyes.

I have little fantasies about the two of us living a perfect love affair that worryingly resembles a carbon copy of SJ’s life, for Sarah-Jane, who I have known since college, has it all. Such people really do exist.

She has George (who I believe to be the last of the New Men to be churned out before they gave up and switched back to producing Old Men again). She has lovely supportive parents, a great job promoting Macmillan Cancer Trust, Timotei hair, an overactive thyroid gland (it keeps her weight in check, you see), and utter faith that everything always turns out for the best.