Perhaps Sam's Mum was right after all? Where was the harm in joining a local club or society? He could meet people,with a shared common interest, and in a fairly none-threatening environment. He started listing all his hobbies and interests.
1. Walking (uphill and down dale type of walking) not everyday stuff.
2. Films (ones with directors and actors I admire)
3. Photography
4. Fine dining
He stopped writing and had a serious flashback. This was almost identical to his personal profile in all of those wretched dating sites. He remembered staring at the little empty box wondering how best to fill it. The prompts didn’t exactly help either.
Try to be spontaneous. Sell yourself (in no more than 400 characters.)
He’d felt inadequate and under pressure all at the same time. Reading other victims offerings didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. Apparently, a ‘fun loving’ female wasn’t someone who spent their days in a perpetual state of glee rushing from one hilarious activity to another with selfless abandon. For some reason, Sam thought of voluptuous clowns on trampolines, bouncy castles and water chutes - none of which he’d had the opportunity to try. Fun loving also had an easy, slutty connotation, which certain women would immediately distance themselves from.
I love to have fun, but not in an uncomplicated sex kind of way!
This confused Sam even more. He wondered why website moderators didn’t ban the use of the phrase altogether, unless it was accompanied by a full and detailed explanation of the type of ‘fun’ they loved to partake of. Another phrase that irritated him was ‘I have a great circle of friends’ which Sam translated as ‘I’m alone in a tiny, damp flat with more cats than I can count’.
Then there were the women who’d recently emerged from a bad relationship; damaged and bitter as gall dipped in acid. They underlined, highlighted or capitalised all the things they would not tolerate in a man (again)
NO LIARS
NO SEX ADDICTS
NO SHREKS CLAIMING TO BE GEORGE FRIGGIN CLOONY’S
NO PETROL HEADS
AND ABSOLUTELY NO TIME WASTERS!
Sam concluded that such women had no intention of dating. They just saw the site as a succession of vengeful kicks to the male genitalia.
After filling in all the required fields in the questionnaire Sam’s index finger had hovered over the send button like a despot with second thoughts. He pictured lines of vultures with women’s faces all waiting for his pulse of digitised nonsense to knock them off their perches. Janice from Barnsley was the first candidate. She sent an ice breaker 45 minutes later:
Hi Sam. You look nice. Is the photo recent? I can’t stand men who publish their school photo lol. Anyway, just thought I’d say hi xx
Sam immediately clicked on Janice’s thumbnail image and thought it a bit odd that both boa constrictors were in focus, but Janice’s face was all fuzzy. When he asked for a picture minus the snakes she never replied. Apparently, Lol’s and xx’s were de rigueur on dating sites. Sam preferred to be actually funny than just stick a lol at the end of a sentence. Xx’s only really bothered him if there were more than 10. Some correspondents included more xx’s than words which made Sam wonder if they had Parkinson’s or epilepsy. He only felt comfortable leaving single x’s on the third or fourth email.
IM’s (instant messages) stressed him the most. These rapid fire conversations were quite dangerous as they never gave him time to compose a scintillating reply or lie through his teeth. Colleen from Scunthorpe had started sexting him, whether under the influence of drugs, alcohol or a group of girls all shouting ‘go on, I dare you!”. She even sent him a picture of her full bosomed torso with a brief message underneath
‘Go on then’ perplexed Sam. Was it simply a case of quid pro quo, or did she want him to up the ante? She re-sent it a couple of minutes later, just as he was positioning his mobile on the mantelpiece at chest height. While he employed the services of Photoshop to darken his greying chest hairs she sent a third message
Sucker!
This turned Sam off dating sites for a few days. He decided that most of the genuine lonely hearts were being swamped by hoards of mendacious women who merely wanted to insult, embarrass or tease the gullible and vulnerable. After about a week of wondering who, if anyone had ‘viewed’ his profile he went back on-line determined not to be dragged into any more no-hope scenarios. Surprisingly, 40 women had looked at his profile, of which ten had indicated they wished to meet him. He clicked on the shortlist and set about whittling these down to a more manageable two or three.
Once he’d blocked Colleen from Scunthorpe and discounted four for no pictures, he was left with five. Of these five, two fitted the ‘recently divorced but up for it’ profile so that left three possibles. The first, Tracy from Stoke said she loved Indie films and had a passion for metaphysical poetry. The only downside was her love of Formula 1 racing which she devoted three paragraphs and several pit-side pictures to. Formula 1 was anathema to Sam. This stemmed from a private nursing job he’d taken a few years before, looking after Frank Williams. While all the screaming fans waved their tiny flags from the grandstands he sat alone in one of the rest rooms plugged into his personal hi-fi
Kath a.k.a Sugarbabe47 from Buxton seemed nice enough. To test the water he swallowed hard and started chatting with her. Kath chatted a lot. She liked cooking and loved food. Her profile pic was three years old but she assured Sam that since then Weight Watchers had worked its magic on her. Before long they were texting and Instant Messaging like crazy. Kath was very adept at proper texting while Sam preferred normal syntax. She used all the lingo, a lot of which Sam didn’t fully understand, but for every one of her LMAO’s and LOL’s he sent double the amount back. A week later she suggested they meet up for coffee at her local cafe in Buxton.
At first Sam thought this was a bad idea. He felt ok doing these low-risk cyber exchanges where the worst thing that could happen was a misintentioned comment or an internet hissy fit. An actual face to face filled him with dread because of his deep-seated desperation issues. He’d also created a safe, cosy image of a short, buxom lady who sat in her large leather armchair doing cryptic crosswords and researching recipes. She was blond with rosy cheeks and a kind motherly face. He liked to think she had a Persian cat on her lap most of the time and stroked it as she chatted to him.
What if she didn’t like me? What if the second she laid eyes on me she knew the chatty, confident cyber-me was all artifice and lies!
This was one of the many drawbacks of living alone - No one to reassure you; no one to give you feedback or bring you down to earth with a double dose of reality. Most of all there was no one to give you a hug when all else failed. Sam desperately needed someone to offer a little outsiders perspective - But who? He could phone his Dad? He’d still be up, forcing himself to stay awake until his night sedation (whisky) had kicked in. After all, a half-pissed Dad was better than no Dad at all. Sam dialled the number on his ancient bedside phone and waited.
“Hello, Dad?” The voice on the end of the phone was a bit slurry.
“Sam? Hello son. What’s up? Are you all right?” In the background Sam could hear a group of violins ramping up the tension in a late night horror film.
“I know it’s late, but could I ask your advice about something?” There was a slight pause while his Dad took the whisky tumbler off his chest and placed it on a flat surface.
“Er, yeah. If its food related though, I’d leave it for your Mum, in the morning?”
“No it’s not food. I, I’ve met this woman.”
“Is she rich?”
“Dunno. Well, the thing is I said I’d meet her in Buxton, for a coffee.”
“I thought you said you’d already met her?”
“I have, on-line. Doesn’t that count?”
“Gotta be careful son. She could be a twenty stone agoraphobic mummy’s boy, or a twelve year old girl. What’s she look like?
“Ok, ordinary. She’s not a super-model if that’s what you mean.”
“We’ve been chatting on line for a few weeks and she says she wants to meet me, in the flesh.”
“Go for it. If I were you though, I’d have a back-up plan.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Well, if she’s a troll or a manic depressive you need some sort of rapid exit strategy. One of the guys down the club met this girl on-line. Everything seemed fine and dandy until they met. She was huge. Not just regular huge - sofa in a dress huge. Anyway, before he met her he asked one of his mates to ring him after ten minutes to see if he wanted out.
“Did it work?”
“Yeah, He told the troll he had an emergency at home and left. I could be your wing man if you want?”
“Erm, ok. I’m meeting her at 10am on Thursday.”
“I’ll ring you at 10:30. You never know she might be kosher”
“Thanks Dad. Love to Mum. Goodnight.”
Sam replaced the receiver slowly, as though he was returning a baby bird to its nest. He turned off the light and let the sounds of the cars lull him to sleep.
The next morning he texted Kath to confirm he was still on for Thursday. She joked about wearing a red carnation and Sam had to stop himself saying that he’d be easy to spot with a look of desperation tinged with terror. He spent the next three hours scouring his wardrobe for suitable attire. He settled for a shortlist of three outfits which he paraded before his parents when they came for their weekly snoop later that day.
His Zoolander impression left them cold as neither one of them had seen it nor particularly wanted to. His Mum was a bit of a prude when it came to films and Sam often joked about her propensity for innocuous animated classics such as Snow White and The Lion King. He gave up trying to educate her when she explained that the world was a violent, unholy place and she needed her regular dose of harmless escapism to cope with it all.
She convinced him to go with the sports jacket, flowery shirt and designer jeans ensemble assisted by an elbow-in-the-ribs ‘lovely’ from his Father. Before returning to his grey leisure suit he did a little twirl in front of the long bedroom mirror and thought he looked a little too James May and not enough James Bond for his liking.
The Met Office website had assured Sam that Thursday would be bright and cold with a slight risk of rain, late in the day. Thursday had other ideas. The weather was (to quote his mother) ‘proper lighthouse weather’ consisting of horizontal rain/sleet and gale force winds. As he didn’t possess a smart raincoat he was forced to don his lime green cagoule with detachable rain hood. There was no celebratory twirl this time, just a resigned sideways sigh in the small hall mirror before he set off for his rendezvous with Kath. Sam chased the retreating storm over to Buxton. The clouds were so low, like a slow pilgrimage of ghosts, their dripping mantles trailing rain in their wake.
He parked the car in his favourite free spot, down a side road next to the Pavilion Gardens. The rain had stopped so he took off the Day-Glo obscenity and folded it over his arm. He chose the slightly longer walk through the park, to gather his thoughts and do a spot of deep breathing. While Sam rehearsed his lines and reviewed his relationship to date, his more nervous alter-ego walked on ahead mumbling like a drunk and fluffing his lines.
At the park entrance he stopped and wondered if he should just text Kath with an apology. She was bound to see through him.
“Oh fuck it!” he announced and walked across the road and into the café. He spotted Kath straight away, sitting in her bright red coat, shaking the rain from her blue and yellow plastic brolly. As he snaked through the tightly packed tables and chairs he wondered if Weight Watchers had a ‘no thin- no fee’ clause in their contract. Kath stopped shaking and smiled nervously.
“You came then? Lousy weather”
“I know. You been waiting long?” Sam could see by the six empty coffee cups she’d either stayed overnight or the waitress had forgotten to clear.
“D’you want another?”
“No, no I’m fine with this thanks.” She held up the large cup with both hands like a budding Oliver Twist. Sam ordered his large latte and sat down opposite, taking in the homemade heart tattoo on her right wrist as well as the closely bitten nails flecked with pink varnish.
“Do you live in Buxton?” A millisecond after asking he remembered she did and bit his lip.
“Yeah, just round the corner actually. This is my local haunt. Coffee’s good anyway.” His coffee arrived and Sam was tempted to clink cups and say cheers. He settled for a loud slurp and a frothy tash. She was right; the coffee was good if a bit strong.
“You’re right. The coffee is good.” Was this how it was going to be? He felt like someone at a team building event being asked to deliver a 10 minute lecture on the coffee bean.
“Are you working today?” said Sam, feeling his enthusiasm draining away with each mouthful of coffee.
“I’m always at work.” She patted her swollen Filofax and took another noisy swig of coffee. Sam had a brief flashback concerning his ex and her unwavering determination to tut or comment every time he made any noise whatsoever whilst eating or drinking. He remembered how an argument had sprung up when Sam refused to back down, saying ‘everybody makes some noise when they drink. You must be a freak!”
“You’re back then?” said Kath waving her hand in front of Sam’s face.
“Sorry. You’ll have to excuse me. I do drift off now and again”. He felt a sudden buzz in his trouser pocket and jumped up.
“You all right?” Sam showed her his vibrating mobile, grinning like a simpleton and mimed ‘excuse me.’ He walked over to the door and took the call.
“Hello.”
“Hi Son. Is it thumbs up or down?”
“Oh dear. Is she all right?”
“Never mind. Plenty more fish…” Sam ended the call before his Dad could finish and popped the phone back in his pocket. He checked his reflection in the side of the coffee machine and rifled through his memories for something suitably traumatic. The random selection threw out a phone call from his Dad informing him that his Sister had been killed in a road accident near their house. Sam re-checked his face in the polished stainless steel. Even though the creased metal surface distorted his features he could still vaguely make out a look of dazed disbelief. This would have to do. He took a deep breath, turned round and walked back to the table.
Kath was busy checking her texts. As he gripped his chair with both hands she looked up.
“What’s up? Is it bad news?”
“Erm yeah. Mum’s not well. It’s, it’s a long standing thing” He managed to stop himself from saying chemo or relapse. He felt like an actor auditioning for the lead in some crappy ‘B’ Movie about a middle-aged widower coming to terms with grief and separation. Sam had assured the casting director he needed to save his tears for the next big scene where he explained to his three children that Mummy had gone to a better place.
“It was nice to meet you Kath.”
“And you Sam.” He turned to leave and she called after him
“Wait! I’m leaving as well. Some crisis at the shop.” Sam paid for all the coffees and wasn’t sure whether to kiss or shake hands. Kath beat him to it, pulling him down to her height, planting a big wet one on both cheeks. She smelled of garlic and imperial Leather and Sam wondered if these were shop freebies. He felt a draft of cool air at the back of his neck and heard the doorbell chime. Not a modern synthesised beep, one of those ancient ‘Open all hours’ affairs. He fought the urge to smile and say ‘saved by the bell’.
“I think someone’s trying to get your attention.” Said Kath, pointing behind him. Sam turned round and felt his jaw drop at least three inches.
“Hello stranger. Your Dad’s been trying to ring you. I told him you’re probably in a black spot. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?”
“Hi. Hi Mum”
