Confessions of a Serial Dater Page 8

  “I have to say, though, I always did like a nice doctor,” Charlie sighs, and I think of Dr. Love and his sardonic eyebrow and sigh too. “It’s the white jacket and stethoscope thing they have going on. Flora, you’re so lucky to work in a hospital.”

  “I know.” Flora’s face lights up in a huge smile, and then she flushes. Which is strange, because Flora frequently complains that it’s difficult to meet men at St. Charles’ Hospital, where she is a high-up administrator, because they are either (a) her subordinates, which is a no-no, or (b) married or gay.

  “You know, you’ve got to admire Rosie’s doctor,” Philip says. “I’d never have the nerve to pick up a stranger like that. I think I need to get out more.”

  I hadn’t really thought about Philip and girls. I mean, he’s nice and attractive, in a big-bear kind of way. And he has had girlfriends in the past, but thinking about it, not for a long time. It must get lonely, ministering to the flock and not having anyone to minister to you.

  “I just don’t get the opportunity to meet girls,” Philip adds. “I think the dog collar puts them off. You know, not exactly sexy, is it?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be put off by a dog collar if I liked a man,” Jess tells him.

  “Wouldn’t you? Oh, I say, that’s very nice of you, dear girl,” Philip beams at her.

  “It’s the worst time of year to be on your own, though,” Charlie says, and I worry that he’s going to get all introspective and depressed like he did last Christmas.

  “You’re not on your own,” I say. “You have all of us. Well, Philip, Flora and me, at any rate. Carmen and Jess have significant others, but that’s only two out of six. Only thirty-three percent, when you think about it logically.”

  “Actually, make that fifty percent,” Flora says, blushing.

  “You’ve met someone? When? Who is he?” Although I’m delighted for Flora, who obviously has met someone, I can’t help but feel a little pang.

  “Well,” she says, pausing and glancing around at us before leaping in. “He’s a doctor. I met him at a conference in September.” And although she’s grinning like an idiot, I feel another little pang of jealousy.

  “And you’ve kept it to yourself since then? Come on. Spill,” Carmen commands her. “Just please don’t tell us he’s separated.”

  “Actually, he’s divorced. I know, I know.” Flora holds up her hand before we can say anything. “But this time it’s different. I think he might be The One.”

  “But why didn’t you tell us?” This is amazing.

  “I didn’t want to tempt fate. You know—after my disasters with James, and then Lucian. And I wasn’t sure if I should say anything today, especially after your news—”

  “I’m delighted for you,” I tell her, because I am. How horrible is it of me to be jealous of my own cousin?

  “Details, please,” Charlie says, edging closer in his eagerness. “And don’t leave out a thing. Taking special note to tell us all about his bedside manner.”

  “Well.” Flora pauses again, looks around at us again, then plunges in. “I’m bringing him to Auntie Pat’s party on Christmas Eve, so I’ve got to tell you sometime soon. You are all coming to that, aren’t you?”

  “What is that all about?” Carmen frowns. “I’d almost forgotten, Rosie—blame it on my alcohol-saturated brain if you like, but I had the most weird telephone conversation with Elaine.”

  “Me, too,” Jess nods. “She’s invited us to the family party. Me and Aster, I mean, which is nice because she’s never even met Aster.”

  “Which is completely fucking odd, don’t you mean, because Elaine never does anything nice,” Carmen interrupts her. “Tell me, you three know her better than anyone.” Carmen looks at me, Flora and Philip. “Why has she invited us? And don’t say it’s to celebrate her forthcoming bundle of joy, because I’m not buying that.”

  “Er—the season of goodwill?” Philip says.

  “Or to make mischief. I still haven’t forgotten Rosie’s twenty-first.” Thanks, Carmen, for reminding me of that, I think. “Sorry, Rosie—I didn’t mean to remind you about that fucking—”

  “So, about Flora’s new chap.” Philip is so sensitive to people’s feelings. I flash him a grateful smile. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “It’s lovely news, lovely news,” Jess clasps her hands together. “We’re definitely coming to the party now, because we’re all dying to meet him, aren’t we?”

  “Absolutely. And if Elaine causes any fucking problems, like trying to sneak off with your bloke so she can give him a blow—”

  “So what is he like?” I ask brightly, partly to stop Carmen from putting her foot in it any more than she has, and partly because I am working hard on my enthusiasm and trying not to think of my tall, dark, handsome obstetrician. Or Jonathan, of course…

  “Well. His name is Edward, but everyone calls him Ned. He’s thirty-two—”

  Right around the same age as Dr. Love, I think.

  “And I know it’s a cliché,” Flora laughs, “but he’s tall, dark and handsome—”

  Dr. Love, Dr. Love, Dr. Love…

  “He’s charming and funny—”

  Check. Check.

  “And he’s an obstetrician. At St. Mary’s Hospital.”

  My God.

  7

  The Season of Goodwill

  Rosie’s Confession:

  I hate Christmas. Well, this one, anyway…

  Bah, humbug!

  Christmas Eve. Four days since Jonathan’s breakup voice mail message, and I still keep expecting him to call….

  I mean, you would call someone if you broke up with them via voice mail, wouldn’t you? Just in case they didn’t get your message, because we all know that voice mail isn’t one hundred percent reliable, and if the person didn’t get your message in the first place, then they wouldn’t even know you’d broken up with them. Oh, telephone…

  “Let me put a hypothetical scenario to you,” Carmen says, and I can just tell from the succinct punch of her voice that she is twirling her hair. Which, as we know, means she’s either pissed off about something or thinking deeply about something.

  “Just suppose. Just suppose that you spent months hinting frequently and at length to your boyfriend that what you really would absolutely love, what you really, absolutely would adore as a secret, surprise gift for Christmas was a romantic weekend in Paris. Or similar. I mean it doesn’t have to be Paris, think a minibreak anywhere romantic, anywhere at all, because spending quality time together would be lovely, and said boyfriend seems to spend all his time working these days—” She finally pauses for air. “Are you still there?”

  “Absolutely.” Pissed off, then, I think, wishing that I actually still had a, you know, actual boyfriend.

  “And just suppose. Just suppose he totally, utterly misses the whole bloody point and buys you tropical fish instead. I mean, what the fuck was he thinking?”

  Interesting choice of gift. And then something else occurs to me.

  “Someone’s obviously been sneaking around looking for their secret Christmas gifts. Carmen,” I say, exasperated. “The whole point of secret gifts is the actual secret part. I thought you wanted a surprise.”

  “I do, but not this kind of surprise. And I didn’t go looking, I just—accidentally overheard Paul on the phone to the pet store when he sneaked off downstairs to make a secret call. Besides,” she sniffs, “I suspected he’d fuck up, somehow, and I wanted to be prepared. You know, take out my disappointment on someone else so I can practice being excited when Paul actually gives the bloody fish to me. I mean, I did want some spontaneity in my life, and here I am bloody complaining because he’s spontaneously bought me tropical fish. And I don’t want to hurt his feelings…”

  This is one of the things I love about Carmen. She might be all mouth, but she does care about her friends and hurting their feelings. But it’s nice to get any kind of gift, and I’ve always thought that tropical fish were very, you kno
w, calming and pretty.

  “Well, tropical fish are very calming and pretty,” I soothe her. “And I—”

  “Yes, yes, but don’t you see? It’s the first step on the slippery slope to—to—staid coupledom,” Carmen leaps right back in. “I mean, it’s a commitment.”

  “Carmen, it’s only fish.” I think she’s overreacting just a bit.

  “Yes, but you know what it means, don’t you?”

  And I’m trying—I’m really trying…

  “Um—don’t forget the fish food with the weekly shopping?”

  “It means we’re tied to the house. How can we go on a bloody minibreak, or vacation, when we have—dependents.”

  “This is why you have friends,” I tell her, keeping my tone smooth and soothing. I know she likes to think of herself as a bit of a free spirit, but taking care of fish isn’t exactly rocket science, is it? “It’s simple,” I add. “You book a minibreak, then you ask me to drop by your house and feed your fish while you’re away. Problem solved.”

  There is a long silence as she absorbs my words.

  “God, I’m sorry, Rosie,” she sighs. “I know I can be a selfish bitch sometimes. You’re right. Thanks for the reality check. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know, fine,” I lie, my voice trembling just a bit.

  “Well, don’t think about Jonathan,” Carmen commands me. “Think about hot doctors instead. Oh, gotta go, a customer just came in.”

  And that, my friends, is the crux of the matter. See, in between thinking about Jonathan, my mind keeps wandering back to Piccadilly Circus…

  I blame Christmas.

  See, it’s a traditionally quiet time in the employment agency field, even for an agency like Charlie’s and mine, which supplies staff for some of the oddest jobs you can think of. Normal people are just too busy going to parties, or shopping, or generally having too much festive fun to think about changing jobs.

  With one or two exceptions to the rule…

  I mean, we did have a flurry of last-minute requests last week from department stores and various other organizations for Santas, elves and fairies, but we’d already anticipated seasonal demand and had several of our regulars lined up, just in case.

  Also, Charlie’s been up to his neck in the final preparations for various drag acts he’s arranged for Christmas extravaganzas, and is currently in a Hammersmith gay bar soothing ruffled Karmic Kitty egos.

  Apparently, Kitty Princess Cherrie of the group Queen KiKi and the Karmic Kitty Princesses (otherwise known as Nigel from Clapham) is convinced that his version of “I Will Survive” is far superior to that of Kitty Princess Jancie’s and wants to switch.

  Kitty Princess Jancie (John from Leeds) is not happy about a last-minute rearrangement, nor does he want to perform Kitty Princess Cherrie’s “I Am Who I Am,” because he hasn’t got the right costume for that particular number, and everyone knows you shouldn’t mess with costume karma.

  This is further complicated by the fact that Queen KiKi (Lionel from Brighton) has decided that as he is the main star of the act he should have special privileges and has demanded a separate dressing room in the tiny backstage area of the Hammersmith pub, plus free drinks from the bar.

  And if he doesn’t get his dressing room and free drinks, his headache will turn into a migraine, and possibly a brain tumor, and he will therefore be unable to perform.

  That’s Charlie’s field, thank God. He arranges drag acts or other performance-related acts for companies, conferences and private functions.

  My personal favorite has got to be the increasingly popular Japanese-style boot camps. We provide professional shouters. People with loud voices to insult their senior managers or students to encourage better performance—can you imagine being paid to yell at people? I may volunteer my own services next time…

  But back to the point. See, because it’s Christmas, things are just too quiet, and it gives me too much time to brood.

  Oh, telephone again. I grab for it, because it might be Jonathan, and…

  “Miss Mayford, she just won’t do,” Mrs. Granville-Seymour booms down the telephone line at me.

  Another exception to current quietness is the job, or should I say honor, of babysitting Maximillion d’Or, a colorpoint red point Persian cat, belonging to Mrs. Hermione Granville-Seymour of Kensington Place.

  “But—” I thought it was all arranged, I don’t quite manage to say.

  Mrs. Granville-Seymour and her lady companion are flying off to Aspen, or similar, for her annual New Year get-together with old school chums, and her current agency just couldn’t provide satisfaction.

  This could be our entrée into the world of rich people’s pets! You wouldn’t believe just how extensive is the need for pet minders, or poop scoopers, or dog walkers in the hallowed halls of the rich within the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. And if we can give satisfaction to “dear Maxie’s” owner, Mrs. Granville-Seymour will talk about us to her rich friends, who will also consider switching to Odd Jobs for their pet-caring needs.

  “I just don’t feel quite right about her now. I just don’t think she’s fully committed to dear Maxie,” Mrs. G-S booms again.

  I’m more than a bit cross about this, because I lined up a selection of perfectly good people with cat experience from whom Mrs. Granville-Seymour could select “dear Maxie’s” perfect carer.

  Each candidate was required to spend a morning or afternoon getting to know dear Maxie and to learn about his needs. (Talking to him, playing with him, watching TV with him, listening to music with him—the list goes on.)

  Unfortunately, I thought Mrs. G-S had settled on Claire, who is a very nice med student in need of some extra cash over the holidays, and Mrs. G-S is paying very, very well. Unfortunate, because Claire, it seems, wants her fiancé to spend New Year at Mrs. G-S’s with her and dear Maxie (I mean, the cheek of the girl, wanting to see in the New Year with more than just a cat for company), and Mrs. G-S doesn’t want a stranger in her home getting up to, well, whatever she thinks Claire’s fiancé, also a med student, will get up to. Playing doctors, possibly? Oh, I didn’t mean to think about doctors….

  And despite reassurances from Claire that she’s prepared to continue with the arrangement sans her fiancé, Mrs. G-S does not, now, trust her to keep her fiancé at bay.

  And so, on Christmas Eve, Mrs. G-S has decided to change her mind, as is her prerogative, of course, because the client is always right.

  “Dear Maxie just didn’t take to any of the rest of the candidates, and time is running out, Miss Mayford.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Granville-Seymour, I really do,” I soothe her, completely hiding my crossness as I wrack my brain for another possibility.

  But I’ve sent all of my best people to her already. Mrs. G-S is leaving on December thirtieth, which means that I have six days, excluding tomorrow, which is Christmas Day, also excluding the following three days because they incorporate Boxing Day and the weekend, to find a replacement.

  Which means, in effect, that I have this afternoon and next Monday, only, to get someone in place.

  “Let me run through our books, make a few phone calls and get back to you,” I tell her with a sense of impending lost-rich-pet doom.

  “I personally feel that someone of an educationally higher level would be more appropriate,” Mrs. G-S booms, and I’m thinking, Why? Because looking after a cat isn’t exactly brain surgery, is it?

  Oh, I didn’t mean to think about brain surgery, because that, inevitably, reminds me of doctors again…

  “Dear Maxie is such an intelligent darling,” Mrs. G-S continues. “He needs intelligent conversation.”

  But Maxie doesn’t speak English. I mean, how ridiculous is it? Surely the woman isn’t crackers enough to be suggesting that only a degree-level person could possibly handle caring for dear Maxie?

  “I was thinking along the lines of someone with a degree,” Mrs. G-S immediately adds. “Preferably one with a degree in l
iterature. Or a language.”

  I give up! Really, at this point in the conversation I’m waving a mental white flag of defeat.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I tell her, thinking that there isn’t a cat in hell’s chance of fixing this one. Which would be tragic, because it would blemish our, well, unblemished reputation.

  See, when Charlie and I quit our respective jobs two years ago and formed Odd Jobs, we adopted our company ethos: to find exactly the right jobs for the right people. Or the right people for the oddest of jobs. Our guarantee: successful placement for all.

  I don’t think we’ve ever turned anyone away before…except for the company searching for chicken sexers, because it was just too, too horrible to think about. And immoral.

  The reason we turned it down: In order for the large company to capitalize as much as possible on its profits, it wanted to feed and raise only female chicks. Therefore it needed to determine the sex of the chicks as soon as they emerged from their eggs.

  The chicks would be placed on a conveyer belt, and the sexers on either side would check the chicks for tiny testicles. The male chicks’ fate was to be thrown into barrels with hundreds of other male chicks. Result: Chicks would either be squashed by the weight of their brothers or generally be left to die, or be horribly disposed of.

  Euck. I mean, how inhumane is that?

  Anyway, it didn’t even sound legal, so I complained to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Plus I also wrote a strong letter to the Ministry of Agriculture.

  But since we started out, just Charlie and I, we’ve had a good deal of success. So much, that we now have books full of people we can call on for different odd jobs, and we also have three employees to cope with the workload. At least we usually have three employees, but as I said, things are unusually quiet because of the holidays.

  Today it’s just myself, Charlie (when he’s finally settled the Kitty Princesses) and Colin, who is manning the front office and the phones.

  I have to find a carer for Maxie on my own, it seems…