Kismetology (9 page)

"Nail technician," I say, not really wanting to
talk about me, and definitely not wanting to talk about work.

"How do you expect to be treated as an equal when you
do a stupid, girly job like that?"

"Excuse me, it is not a stupid, girly job. It is
a—"

He interrupts me. "Painting silly little flowers on
women’s nails is a good, validating job?"

"I’m sorry," I say. "I’m really not here to
talk about me. Besides, what’s so good about accounting?"

"I’m a valued member of my team. I’m up for a promotion
next month. What are your promotion opportunities like? You graduate from
painting a flower to painting a tree or something?"

"Aren’t you about retirement age? What good is a
promotion to you?" That’s right, Mac. Get him on the age thing, where it
really hurts.

He laughs. A horrible, fake laugh that is directed at me.
"Yeah," he scoffs. "We both know how young I look. Even you,
Miss Nail Technician, can’t deny that I look forty at the oldest. I have good
genes."

"Yes, but horrible fingernails," I cast them a
disgusting look.

"Like anyone cares about fingernails. I bet you’ve
never been on a date where a guy has taken one look at you and gone, ‘Wow, look
at those fingernails.’"

"Actually, I have—"

"Yeah, but you’re a nail technician."

"And you’re an asshole. Thank you for your time."

I get up to leave.

"Stupid Jane Austen bitch," he calls after me.

Jane Austen bitch
? I assume he means that chivalry is
something from Jane Austen’s time, but I’m not staying to find out.

I look around for a waitress and catch Holly’s eye. She
winks at me (but somehow manages it with her mouth closed, unlike Mr.
Accountant over there.) I take the wink to mean that Andy will be getting a
dose of laxative tonight.

CHAPTER 15

"Hello?" I pick up the
phone when it rings.

"Hi, can I speak to Mackenzie Atkinson, please?"

"Speaking."

"Hi, this is David. You left a message replying to my
personal ad. Sorry I haven’t got back to you sooner, I’ve been out of the
country on business. Are you still looking for a date for your mother?"

Ah, this is Guy Number Two—"
Divorced male, 55, WLTM
an outgoing 45-55 year old lady who loves animals and spending time outdoors.
"—the
one that sounded most promising. I can definitely give him a chance, especially
as he has a legitimate excuse as to why it’s been two weeks since I left my
message for him.

"Hi," I say. "Good to hear from you."

"You too. I was worried that I’d left it too
late."

"No, no. Not at all."

He sounds nice on the phone, and we arrange to meet two
nights later at Belisana.

I think it must be a sign from fate when we arrive at
exactly the same time. I’m standing behind him in the queue to get in, and when
he gets up to the hostess and gives my name, she recognises me by now and just
points behind her. We laugh about it for a while. Is it overly optimistic of me
to believe that fate is on my side with this one? After all the idiots,
shouldn’t one be nice? Even normal would do. I’ll even settle for just
non-mutant at this point.

"I like your hair," David says as we sit down.
"Very lively."

"Thank you," I say. "I’ve never heard lively
before. Messy or curly, yes. But not lively."

He smiles. Nice smile. Real teeth. Always a bonus. I wonder
if Phil has had his veneers put on yet.

"So, what do you do for a living, Mackenzie?" He
asks me.

"I’m a nail technician," I say.

"Wow. Cool."

Wow, cool
? Well, that’s an improvement on the Andy
guy.

"How about you?" I ask.

"I’m a police officer. That’s where I’ve been for the
past two weeks—away on a training course. In Belgium."

"That sounds interesting."

"Yes." He smiles. "Yes, it was quite."

"Did you get many responses to your ad?"

"Nope, just you. Apparently divorced men are out of
fashion these days."

I laugh. Sense of humour—point one.

"I don’t believe that," I say. "I thought
your ad sounded great."

"That’s good to know. So, Mac, tell me about your
mum."

"Eleanor," I correct him, thinking she’d be
devastated if she thought of men calling her a mother. "She’ll be fifty in
June, and she loves animals and the outdoors, just like you. I think you’d get
on really well."

And I really do. Unless he makes some vast, unforgivable
mistake during the next half hour, he’s in there.

"So, David?" I say to Mum when she gets back from
that date the following night.

"No."

"Just no?"

"Just no."

"But he likes animals and outdoorsy stuff. And he looks
a bit like Mel Gibson with more hair."

"No. Thanks, but no."

I sigh in frustration. He was my last option, and honestly,
the responses haven’t really been promising enough to go through it all again
with different ads.

"Mum, I don’t think you’re really trying here. Are you
even giving these men a chance?"

"He said he doesn’t like little yappy dogs."

"Oh." Definitely a no go there, then. Why didn’t I
ask him if he had any preference as to breeds of dog that were acceptable? Or
perhaps I should’ve been tipped off by the fact he said he owned two Dobermans.

"Okay," I say. "A deal breaker is a deal
breaker. I’ll find someone else."

"Someone who likes Baby. You should take a photo along
to show them."

"I don’t think so," I say, horrified by the mere
thought of presenting a photo of my mother’s Yorkie in the middle of a dinner
date.

"Suit yourself. But don’t expect me to like a man who
won’t like my Baby."

"I wouldn’t dream of it." If she notices my
sarcasm, she doesn’t say anything.

CHAPTER 16

Out of all the personal ads I
responded too, the only one who didn't call back was
Cruise Guy
—the
Norah Jones fan. I find five out of six responses a pretty good average, which
is why I am even contemplating the madness that I am right now. I have the
phone in my hand, and I’m about to call in my very own advert. It can’t hurt to
try, right? How bad can it be?

"
Date my mother! Seeking a 45-60 yr old male to date
my 49 yr old, animal-loving mother. She’s fun, friendly, and loves outdoor
activities.
"

Okay, so it’s not perfect, but it’ll do. Let’s see if we get
any responses. There is one thing that worries me though: Would men really jump
through that many hoops just to meet a woman? And how desperate would they have
to be to do so? Does it mean that they’re so repulsive they’ve been unable to
get a date the normal way and are resulting to desperate measures?

The ad comes out in Thursday’s newspaper, and I wait with
baited breath. I flick straight to the dating page, and wow, would you look at
that. We’re the third ad down the list in the first column of Women Seeking
Men. Prime positioning. That should generate some replies.

Sure enough, when I call in to my message box after work on
Thursday night, there is a grand total of one message. Oh. That’s quite
disappointing. But maybe all single men are in work today, and they won’t read
the paper until they get home. Yeah. That’s better. I listen to my message.

"
Hi, this is Jim. I saw your ad in the paper and
think it’s lovely that you’re placing personal ads on your mother’s behalf. She
sounds great. I’d love to meet her.
"

Even though he sounds a little nervous on the message, I
think that may be an endearing quality. Or maybe I’m just getting really
desperate for Mum to find a guy she likes. If I don’t come up with the goods
soon, she might give up on me. Jim has left his phone number and I give him a
call straight away.

Because it’s not me that I’m finding a date for, I don’t
waste a lot of time on the phone. If it was for me, I’d get to know them a bit
first before arranging to meet, but I figure that it’s at Belisana, it’s safe
and the waitresses will do something horrible if the guy is an asshole, it’s
easier just to go meet the guy. You can tell a lot more about someone in
person, anyway.

Like the person I’m meeting the following night at Belisana.

He’s there before me, but I know I’m on time, which makes
him super on time. Enthusiasm is good, so I’m impressed. He stands up to greet
me, and superficially, he’s pretty much exactly what I want. He’s tall and
slim, with very sparkly blue eyes. I guess he’s around the early fifties age
group. I didn’t ask him how old he was. I figure that if it’s not polite to ask
a woman her age, then it probably isn’t polite to ask a man either. He has a
mass of wavy, grey hair though. Okay, I know my mother wants blond, but there
can’t be that many naturally blond, fifty-something men left in the world. If
there are then they don’t congregate in Bristol.

"You must be Jim." I shake his hand as he holds it
out.

"Yes." He smiles. "You’re Mackenzie?"

I nod.

"What a pretty name."

"Thank you."

"This is a nice place," he says as he picks up a
menu. "I’ve never been here before."

"So, Jim. Tell me about yourself. What do you do for
work? What are your hobbies?" I hope I don’t sound too abrupt. I don’t
mean to, but these dates are proving fruitless, and if the guy is going to turn
out to be the biggest prat in the world, then I’d rather know now.

"Okay, straight down to business." He laughs.
"I get that. Okay, well, I’m a fireman. It’s a crazy job, but so
rewarding."

My ears prick up at that. I love a man in uniform, and you
can’t beat a fireman’s uniform. Even if the guy in question is fifty-something.
Not that I’m looking for me or am even the slightest bit attracted to him, but
stick a guy—any guy—in a fire fighter uniform and he’ll look attractive even if
he’s ninety.

I feel like a bit of a pervert to even be having these
thoughts. What’s the opposite of a cradle snatcher? A wheelchair snatcher? Or a
Zimmer frame snatcher?

"Hobbies?" I ask. "Interests?"

I can hear myself talking and I know I sound a little bit
too much like I’m conducting a job interview. I feel like I should be shuffling
papers on a desk and wearing a business suit. Maybe I should just ask every guy
I meet to come into my office and bring a CV and two references with him. Okay,
so I don’t have an office, and "nail bar" doesn’t have quite the same
ring to it. But these guys are getting tiring, and I don’t want to sit here for
an hour and chat to them if it’s obvious they’re not suitable within the first
five minutes. Or five seconds in the worst case scenario.

"I like to fish. And I like to garden. And I have a
horrible confession to make." He leans forward so I’ll listen to him.

Oh no. He’s some sort of perverted freak who likes
sado-masochism clubs or something, isn’t he?

"I like to watch soaps."

Watch soaps. It takes a while for his words to register in
my brain. Soaps. Is that some kind of double meaning that implies he likes
shoving bars of soap into places that weren’t designed to accommodate soap?

"You know, like
Emmerdale
,
Eastenders
,"
he continues.

"Oh!" I’m relieved. "Those kind of
soaps."

"What kind did you think I meant?"

Well, how am I supposed to know what kind he meant? He
could’ve been some sort of soap spotter. Like a train spotter, but with bars of
soap. He could’ve been going around Tesco ticking off bars of soap as they pass
by. Really there are many different ways to interpret "
I like to watch
soaps.
"

Or maybe I really am cracking up.

"I thought… Never mind. Soaps. That’s brilliant,"
I say. And it is. A man who likes watching soaps? A rare find. He’s just won himself
a date with Eleanor. Well, provided he behaves himself for the rest of the
date. I begin to relax a little. I mean, really, how bad can a guy who’s a fan
of The Dingles be?

"So tell me about your mother."

"Eleanor," I correct him. "She’s been lonely
lately, and I just thought it would be a great idea if I could find her a nice
guy to date. But she’s a lovely lady. She likes walking and swimming, and she
loves her animals. You do like dogs, don’t you?"

"Yep, I have a Springer Spaniel."

"Eleanor has a Yorkie, is that all right?"

"All right? Am I supposed to have an objection?"

I shrug. "Well, the last guy wasn’t so
accommodating."

"The last guy? Have you been doing this long?"

"No, I just want to make sure that the guy is good
enough for my mother. Nothing personal or anything, but she hasn’t dated for a
long time, and I don’t want to be setting her up with The World’s Greatest
Moron."

"So, this is kind of like a job interview. Do I pass
the test?"

"Actually, I’m pretty sure you do. If you watch
Eastenders
,
then I’m pretty sure I won’t find better than you."

"Whew. That’s good to know."

"When are you free to meet?"

"Anytime. Just name the place."

We arrange a time and place. He’s taking her to an Italian
restaurant in town, tomorrow night at eight.

CHAPTER 17

When I get home there is a message
from another guy called Alex. I decide to not call him back until after
tomorrow night, when I find out whether Eleanor’s date with Fireman Jim is a
yay or a nay.

"It’s strange seeing you on dates with all these
men," Dan says when he gets home that night. "I think I’m a little
jealous."

"Jealous of creepy men twice your age?" I ask.
"Aww, I’m touched."

He smiles. "It’s just that I never seem to take you out
anywhere, you know. Because I work in a restaurant, I don’t want to spend my
nights off sitting in one. It feels like ages since we went on a date."