Confessions of a Serial Dater Page 9

  I lay my head on my desk in the hope of some kind of inspiration, until there is a knock on my office door.

  “I’ve got a failed sex kitten in the front office,” Colin tells me in his monotone voice.

  Due to the special nature of our agency I’m not exactly surprised. However, I’m also wondering if Colin has finally cracked.

  “Says she wants a new job with low responsibilities and no sex.”

  Colin’s monotone delivery is not deliberate. He says it’s a reflection of his monotone personality, which is why he kept getting “released” from jobs before he came to us.

  Poor Colin. He suffers so from lack of self-esteem. I mean, he’s very interesting when you get to know him. And he has a real knack for fitting the right people to the right job.

  But sometimes, entirely due to his monotone voice and beige clothes, Colin does tend to fade into the background a bit. We all tend to forget he’s there. I feel guilty about this because I don’t mean to hurt his feelings.

  On infrequent occasions, to compensate for his lack of intonation (and to shake us up a bit), he sprinkles his sentences with unignorable words.

  “Says she’s had enough of porn flicks and having to arouse all those penises.”

  Because “porn flicks” and “penises” are extremely unignorable words, aren’t they? This is obviously a cry for help.

  “Come in and sit down, Colin,” I say, because it’s not Colin’s fault that he’s so lonely and has to say strange things in order to get people to actually hear him. I mean, if I was forty-six and lived with an aging, deaf, demanding mother, I might get lonely and depressed from time to time.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I ask, because I don’t want Colin to think I am only going to spare him five minutes before carelessly giving him the brush-off. “Tell me all about it,” I tell him in my best I’m-here-for-you voice.

  “This is not a cry for help,” Colin deadpans at me. “I’m not due for another depression until next month. I really do have a failed sex kitten in the front office. She’s a fluffer. I’ve never heard of a fluffer before, but she says it’s her job to, you know, warm up the male actors before the performance.”

  God, why me? Why today? I think as I also wonder if she likes cats.

  “She’s got a degree in French and German, if that’s of any help,” Colin adds.

  An hour later, as I send Grace (who seems lovely and normal) off to visit with dear Maxie and Mrs. G-S, I am mentally congratulating myself for such a brilliant stroke of genius!

  All Grace needs to do is charm Mrs. G-S, make a fuss of Maxie, and remember not to mention her involvement with the porn industry, and all will be well.

  Of course, we’ll have to wait for the final decision until after the background checks come back in on Grace, but I’m confident that this will work out. I have a feeling…

  Strangely, I’m already missing having a Mrs. Granville-Seymour problem to work on, because it’s quiet again, just like it has been all week.

  So, of course, this means that I have a lot of time to (a) miss Jonathan, (b) daydream about Dr. Love, because I can’t stop daydreaming now that I’ve discovered how to—it’s a complete nightmare and I wish it would cease—and (c) obsess that Flora’s doctor and my Dr. Love are one and the same.

  At least Mum hasn’t been panicking about anything much this week. Or so I thought until about two minutes ago, when the phone rang, and it was Mum.

  Today’s crisis, it would seem, is grand theft.

  “Honestly, what is the state of the nation coming to when the constabulary is no longer interested in a domestic burglary?” is Mum’s opening line.

  I’m actually glad to hear from her, because she’s just interrupted a rather annoying daydream in which Dr. Love saves me from certain death. Yes, I know, a cliché. But I can’t seem to avoid them.

  Picture this: I am walking along the canal at Camden. A hit-and-snatch thief has just grabbed my handbag, and in the process of the struggle (I’m not about to let a thief get away with that, daydream or no daydream), I successfully kick the thief where it hurts and yank my bag back from him.

  Unfortunately, the momentum of him letting go of the bag propels me backward into the canal, and I hit my head on the way down, and am therefore rendered unconscious.

  Dr. Love, who just happens to be passing, has seen the whole thing (and is now in love with me, because I am such a kick-ass, feisty, and also beautiful gal), and he dives in and heroically rescues me from the murky waters.

  He has just given me the kiss of life.

  I open my eyes, and our gazes lock.

  “Sweet Mystery of Life, at Last I’ve Found You,” is once again playing in the background (I definitely need to imagine a better soundtrack).

  And although I am wet and murky, it’s in a beautiful, disheveled kind of way. And as I am transported to the hospital to be checked out for canal germs, Dr. Love holds my hand in the ambulance.

  I’m kept in overnight for observation, and Dr. Love pops in to see me in between Mrs. Woodbridge’s contractions.

  True love springs eternal between us, and when I am released the next day, Dr. Love is awaiting me with his car, a huge bouquet of flowers, and a magnum of champagne…

  And as we drive off into the sunset to live happily ever after (because my daydreams tend toward the romantic rather than the erotic, which is a bit disappointing), Mum says, “Granny Elsie will be devastated if she notices. What are we going to do?”

  “Sorry, Mum? Rewind that. What, exactly, happened? Are you telling me the house has been burgled? Did you call the police?”

  “No, no. The house is fine. Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”

  “Sorry—the line was fuzzy,” I lie. Really, this daydreaming nonsense will have to stop.

  “I said that Gertrude is missing. She’s been stolen from the front garden, and the police aren’t interested.”

  Gertrude is another of Granny Elsie’s garden gnomes.

  “Mum, I’m sure they want to help, but you know, limited resources and everything.”

  “But Granny Elsie’s had Gertrude for ten years. This is a serious matter.”

  “Well, on a sentimental level…” I mean, the theft of a garden gnome is hardly as important as, say, some thief breaking in and stealing all of little Jimmy and Suzie’s presents from under the Christmas tree, is it?

  “She’s practically an antique,” Mum wails, building up for a good, rollicking panic. “What are we going to do?” she asks again, but what she really means is, what am I going to do?

  “Okay, calm do—”

  “Granny will be heartbroken. Heartbroken. Granddad Smith bought it for her for their fiftieth wedding anniversary.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Just remind me exactly what she looks like.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling, she’s your grandmother—you’ve been seeing her several times a week for your entire life.”

  “I meant Gertrude, Mum.” It’s only eleven-fifteen, and I already feel a headache coming on.

  Mum gives me a refresher on Gertrude, detail by excruciating detail, and I wonder why she’s so completely familiar with a garden gnome. But at least it will give me something to do for the rest of the day, which I plan to spend checking out garden gnomes on the Internet.

  Unfortunately, by eleven-thirty I have located a Gertrude clone, complete with fishing rod and red skirt, and have ordered and paid for her by express courier delivery.

  And after I call Mum to give her the good news, and after she reminds me that I have to be at her house at seven sharp because she and Granny Elsie are expecting me to take a taxi with them to the party (because they can’t manage in the taxi without me), I now have nothing else to do.

  So, of course, I begin to obsess about tonight’s party again and slide into another daydream about Flora’s doctor…

  I am wearing my formfitting, “fuck me” black dress. My makeup, as usual in my daydreams, is immaculate. My elega
nt, small feet are encased in the sexiest “fuck me” shoes you have ever seen. My hair swings like a bell around my face.

  I enter Auntie Pat’s drawing room, unaware that my heart is about to be shattered in two.

  Flora and Ned have their backs to me, but something about Ned is totally familiar.

  “Rosie,” Flora booms as she spots me. “Come and meet Ned, my fiancé.” Fiancé? That was quick work. And as he turns, my stomach clenches, my heart thuds, and I break out in a nervous sweat. Even my fingertips break out in a nervous sweat.

  It’s my mysterious doctor.

  “Sweet Mystery of Life, at Last I’ve Found You,” annoyingly cranks up in the background again, only to come to a screeching halt as I realize that telling Flora that her doctor is also my mystery doctor will ruin her life while presenting me with yet another unpalatable dilemma.

  Dr. Ned kissed me passionately while engaged to Flora. Do I tell her, or should I let it go? Will he cheat on her, or was last Friday night a one-time slipup?

  “Stop obsessing,” Charlie tells me, poking his head around the corner of my office door.

  “Who, me?” I ask, my face flushing with embarrassment. “How are the Kitty Princesses?” I ask, to cunningly change the subject from my red-faced, obsessive self.

  “Karmic, once again, thank fuck. This just arrived for you,” he says, coming into my office and placing a box on my desk. “And I’m completely jealous, because this is obviously a Christmas gift, and no one’s sent any to me.”

  “Don’t get excited,” I tell him, getting excited myself as I slit the tape with my scissors, because the return address on the packaging is from Selfridges on Oxford Street. It’s probably something for Odd Jobs as a thank-you from a grateful client.

  And as I finally wrestle open the box, I gasp.

  It’s a pair of shoes. Pretty, black, kitten-heeled shoes.

  The note inside says, “Kitten-heeled shoes for my own special kitten, love Jonathan XXX.”

  He obviously ordered them before we split up, because the order date is for last Thursday.

  I burst into tears. Last Thursday, my life was so ordered and neat, and now I’m suffering from lust transference and daydreaming about cheating, ratbag doctors.

  “Hey, come here, sweetie,” Charlie says, pulling me into his arms. “Shush, now.” He pushes a tissue into my hand.

  “Sorry,” I sniffle. “It’s silly, but I just didn’t expect to receive anything from him after our breakup.”

  “I know. It’s like getting a gift from someone after they died a few days previously. Spooky.”

  Well, I wouldn’t put it as drastically as that…

  “And looking on the bright side, at least you get a gorgeous pair of shoes as a parting gift.” Charlie lifts one out of the box. “But you’ll have to see if you can exchange them. They’re the wrong size.”

  They are, of course, two sizes too small.

  8

  The Ghost of Boyfriend Past

  Rosie’s Confession:

  The tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body.

  Strongly suspect that cousin Elaine spends hours each day exercising hers, because in her case it is a lethal weapon…

  By the time Mum, Granny Elsie and I arrive at Auntie Pat’s party later that night it is in full swing because, of course, we’re late.

  Late because—apart from my cab arriving a half hour late—when I finally arrived at Mum’s to collect her and Granny Elsie, complete with Christmas gifts and an overnight bag, because it is written in stone that All Single People Must Spend Christmas at Their Parents’ Homes, instead of being ready to leave the house instantly, Mum was peeling enough vegetables to feed Hampstead.

  This is what happened.

  “It’s tradition, darling,” she tells me, adding a millionth potato to a pan of water and wiping her hands on the floral pinafore she’s put on to protect her new dress. “It will only take five minutes.”

  “But the taxi driver’s waiting for us.” Honestly, am I the only one in this family who thinks that punctuality is important? I called her as I was leaving just to make sure she and Granny Elsie were ready. The “coats on” variety of ready. Granny Elsie, naturally, is nowhere to be seen…

  “I’m sure he can wait a few extra minutes,” Mum says as she serenely takes a bag of carrots out of the refrigerator and starts peeling one.

  “But—”

  “Besides, we can always ring for another cab.”

  “Not on Christmas Eve we can’t, because—” the entire population of the city of London is out partying and also requires cabs. And because I knew this, I took care to book the cab in advance. I don’t say any of this, because Mum plays her ace card.

  “But I always prepare the Christmas Day meal on Christmas Eve,” she says, building up for a panic. “You know how I always like to spend Christmas Day with my family, without having to fuss too much in the kitchen. Your father always loved my turkey and special stuffing…oh, it just won’t be the same without him…” she trails off plaintively.

  “Okay,” I sigh. I know I should try to be more patient with her. It is only our second Christmas without him, after all.

  I am an island of peace and serenity, I tell myself.

  “Now if you could just measure a pint of milk for me, we’ll get the custard under way.”

  I clench my teeth. “Right. I’ll just go and beg the cab driver to wait, first, shall I?”

  When I say “beg the cabdriver to wait,” I also mean “bribe him,” due to the laws of low supply (him) and high demand (did I know how many other jobs he was missing out on?). But after I promise him a breathtaking amount of cash, he agrees to wait for ten minutes.

  And when I get back to the kitchen, Mum has finished the carrots and has her hand up inside the turkey.

  “Mum—” I break off, because I think that I am wasting my breath.

  “It won’t take more than a few minutes, dear,” she says again, as if keeping the cab waiting to stuff the turkey is something people do every day of the week. “It always tastes better when the turkey has time to absorb the flavor from the stuffing.”

  I roll my eyes, but nothing is coming between my mother and her mission.

  “Have a nice little sherry, dear.” Granny Elsie wafts into the kitchen on a cloud of Youth Dew. “It’ll steady your nerves.”

  Honestly, I give up. I really do!

  Peace and serenity, I remind myself again.

  “Thanks, Gran.” I grab the sherry and drink it down in one gulp. “How about another little sherry?” I say, holding out my glass. “Perhaps Mum should have one, too.”

  “Alf took me for a turkey dinner today,” Gran tells me, topping up my glass from the bottle she’s wielding. “I think he’s tryin’ to sweeten me up,” she winks, “you know, for sexual favors and such.”

  This, I truly needed to know.

  “Mother,” Mum sniffs as the taxi driver honks his impatience. “Really.”

  “Mum, we have to go,” I say, draining my second glass. The turkey is now safely stuffed.

  “He wanted to come to the party tonight,” Granny Elsie adds. “Alf, I mean. But I thought that was a bit much. We’ve had three dates this week already and I want to keep ’im keen. And you know that old saying, Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen,” she cackles.

  So that’s where I went wrong with Jonathan, I think sourly. Obviously I wasn’t mean enough.

  “Besides,” Gran adds, “you never know, I might get a better offer at the party.”

  I wonder sometimes how I turned out to be so normal, I think, not wanting to contemplate Gran and her better offers.

  The honking of the taxi horn spurs me to action.

  “Right,” I smile brightly and take the initiative. I cover the turkey with aluminum foil and push it into the refrigerator. I also take the carrots from Mum, cover the pan and place it in the refrigerator, too. “Coats on, everyone.”

  “I think I’d better just pop to the lav b
efore we leave.” Granny Elsie promptly heads toward the stairs. “I don’t want to be caught short.”

  “But can’t you wait? Auntie Pat—” has six bathrooms, I nearly finish saying to the back of her head. I am wasting my breath.

  “Really, cab drivers these days have no manners,” Mum sniffs, drying her hands and taking off her pinafore. “Well, he can jolly well wait while I freshen up my makeup.”

  “Mum, you look fine.” The taxi driver honks his horn again. “Gorgeous, in fact,” I add, because she does. The new, pale green dress really brings out the green in her eyes. Plus, it is silk and looks expensive. But before I can think straight, the taxi honks yet again.

  “I’ll only be a minute, dear.” Mum follows Granny Elsie up the stairs.

  I go outside and prostrate myself in front of the cab, promising even more cash to the now irate driver.

  I should have known that it was going to be one of those evenings…

  And so, because we’re so late, by the time we get to the party, I don’t have time to absorb the first unpleasant shock of the evening without a full audience in attendance.

  We have just been let into the front hall and relieved of our coats by one of the small army of staff that Auntie Pat has hired for the evening.

  “Good evening, Rosemary. Sandra. Elsie,” is Auntie Pat’s dry, disapproving greeting as she, well, greets us at the drawing-room door. “I’m so happy you decided to join us,” she says, making it sound more of an accusation.

  It really irritates Pat that Dad married my mother, who hails from Bethnal Green, an area of London that Aunt Pat considers dreadfully common and depraved.

  “Oh, sorry—we…we had to…” my mother flusters, because in the presence of Pat’s condescension she always gets flustered and confused. It annoys me that Pat feels the need to put her so ill at ease. It used to bug Dad, too.

  “Hi, Auntie Patsy,” I say with false cheer, deliberately not calling her Aunt Patricia, which we all know she muchly prefers. “It’s lovely to see you, too.”

  “Elsie, what an interesting dress,” Pat adds, looking down her patronizing nose at Granny Elsie, because Granny Elsie is also from Bethnal Green.