I woke up the next morning with a sore head and a sinking feeling in my stomach. It might have partly been the whole bottle of Chablis I’d consumed but it was probably more likely that my Friday night had made me want to forget all about going out on Saturday. In fact, it made me want to forget about dating altogether; my wife was maybe not so wise after all.
Despite my misgivings, once my hangover had cleared I decided to give it one more go. In reality it was easier to go out than to try and explain to Pauline why I didn’t need her child-minding services any more.
After a day spent running after Amy, I dropped her off at Pauline’s flat and headed into town. It was overcast and dull, which accurately reflected my mood. I did not expect anyone to show up this time as ‘Psycho Ellen’ – as I now thought of her – had only made the effort due to the fact I resembled her ex. I decided to wait about half an hour then head home for a quiet evening on my own, Amy was going to stay over at Pauline’s and sleep in Lindsay’s old room.
This happened occasionally and I knew from Pauline that although she enjoyed having her granddaughter overnight, it was sometimes difficult for her emotionally. It was the only time I ever got to glimpse Pauline’s pain. She would perch on the edge of the bed and watch her beautiful granddaughter sleeping, and chastise herself for crying, knowing that little Amy was the only blood connection left to her daughter.
Sitting in Lindsay’s old room always wrung out her emotions. It had changed little since Lindsay had left all those years ago. The posters of Will Smith and Savage Garden were long gone of course. Pauline had not kept the room unchanged for any sentimental reason, it was more that, as a spare room, she’d not had the motivation to make any alterations.
Lindsay had occasionally slept in her old bed and even moved back in for a few months after graduating from university. Lindsay and Amy had even slept there for two nights once when I was in London at a conference. That was of course before she became ill.
In my opinion Pauline had not cried enough for her daughter; she kept busy and that was her way of dealing with it. It was probably the only time in her life she had bottled anything up. Once or twice I had sat with her, playing the part of a silent companion, as bittersweet memories floated around the musty old bedroom like dust motes.
I think she now understood why I had decided to sell the house Lindsay and I had bought together – the memories had been too painful to deal with. She had been a little shocked when I’d cleared out all her daughter’s clothes and shoes only a week after the funeral, but now realized that had simply been my defence mechanism kicking in.
I know she worried about me; she worried about Amy. Pauline was a champion worrier; she could have worried for Britain. If such an Olympic event existed she would have been in with a shout for the gold.
My mother-in-law wasn’t stupid. She knew I was up to something. She would know as well why I wasn’t telling her much.
Pauline had welcomed the involvement in our lives. It had definitely given her a sense of purpose and undoubtedly helped her deal with her daughter’s death. But could that go on for ever?
If I did eventually meet someone new, what would that mean to her? I wasn’t sure, or what her role would be if that happened. They were big questions and I didn’t have any big answers. One thing I knew for sure was that parents were not emotionally designed to outlive their children.
I pulled myself from my thoughts and hopped off the bus as it stopped almost outside the door to the pub. I entered with trepidation and discomfort, recalling the previous evening’s exploits.
I made my way to the bar and discovered that the bar stool at the end was already occupied by a pretty blonde. The rest of the seats were available and there was no row of platinums tonight.
I decided to take a seat three down from the girl which allowed me a clear view of the entrance. I kept an eye out for anyone who resembled a nutcase, which would signify that my date for the evening had arrived. There was, of course, always the outside chance that multiple nutcases would show up and what I would have done then is anyone’s guess.
I ordered a beer and waited. After about twenty minutes I had given up hope that anyone was going to show and I was relieved. I could fall back on my preferred plan B and have a quiet evening to myself at home. I would then have fulfilled Lindsay’s request and my conscience would be clear.
I drained my glass and was just about to leave when the girl at the end of the bar jumped down from her stool and walked over.
‘I don’t suppose you’re Andy, are you?’
My heart sank. The nutcase was here waiting for me all the time – it was an ambush.
I had the briefest opportunity to extricate myself and say ‘No sorry, I’m Colin, I don’t know anyone called Andy. . . .’ But I didn’t. Instead the nice part of me said, ‘Yes, sorry I didn’t realize. . . .’
She held out her hand and smiled. ‘I’m Terry.’
Of course it had to be her; I wondered if she had a willy. ‘Good to meet you, Terry, I’m sorry,’ – I was determined to finish my apology – ‘I didn’t realize that was you sitting there, I just thought you were waiting for someone.’
‘I was.’
‘Well, yeah, I know that now, but . . . oh never mind, it was a crazy idea. Thank you for coming.’ Duh, there it was again, the air of mystery gone.
I ordered myself another pint of lager and Terry surprisingly wanted the same. Maybe she did possess a penis after all.
Our conversation was stilted to say the least. I asked her what she did for a living.
‘Hairdresser. What about you?’
Dilemma time, do I tell her the long version or the envelope version? I had quickly gauged that Terry wasn’t the sharpest of cookies – which is a saying that doesn’t make much sense if you think about it – so would probably believe either. I made the mistake of giving her the long version and I noticed her eyes glaze over after ten seconds – a new record.
It was so obvious that we were in no way compatible but we both persisted, or rather I persisted. I suddenly discovered that I possessed a unique skill of asking stupid questions combined with an uncanny inability to stop.
‘What do you do for fun?’ I asked, sounding like someone’s elderly dad.
‘Fun? Mmm . . . I don’t know.’
Terry didn’t look like she was having much fun so far, so I decided to ensure that would continue and followed up with an equally bizarre clarifying question. ‘OK, well, given a choice would you rather, go for a long walk on the beach or for a walk in the countryside?’
‘Ehm, well, I don’t like the beach much as the sand gets in between my toes and I suffer from hay fever and actually, I don’t like walking much. So given a choice, neither.’
I continued the interrogation; I couldn’t help myself.
‘What about your family? How many brothers and sisters do you have?’
‘One sister, Fiona.’
‘Is she a hairdresser too?’
‘No, she’s studying.’
‘What’s she studying?’
‘Beauty therapy.’
‘That’s nice. Is she beautiful?’
‘Eh?’
‘Your sister, is she beautiful? Because if she’s studying beauty therapy I think it always helps if you are beautiful,’ I said, offering an opinion on beauty therapists I never knew I had.
‘She’s all right I guess.’
‘Do you have a picture of her?’
‘Eh?’ Terry and Jamie would get on well. They could sit and say ‘Eh’ all night.
‘Can I see a picture of your sister?’
‘Why?’
I had driven myself down a bizarre one-way street with these questions and I could see that Terry had started to get angry. I was surprised it had taken this long.
‘Just to see if she is as beautiful as you said she was.’
‘I didn’t say she was beautiful, I said she was all right.’
‘Well, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’
‘Who says that?’
That stumped me, ‘I don’t know, Shakespeare maybe?’ (Plato actually, as I discovered on Google later.) ‘Look, it’s just a saying.’
‘I’ve never heard it.’
‘You must have, everybody’s heard it.’
‘Well, I haven’t. Who said it again?’
‘I said it.’
‘Yeah . . . so you did. But what has that got to do with my sister?’
‘Well, if you show me a picture of your sister I can decide if she’s beautiful or not.’
‘What is it with my sister? Do you want to go out with her or something? How do you know about my sister anyway?’
‘I don’t know anything about your sister. I only know she’s a beauty therapist because you told me.’
‘She’s not a beauty therapist yet, she’s studying to be one.’
‘Well, all right, she’s a would-be beauty therapist.’
‘She will be one.’
‘Whatever. Do you have a picture of her or not?’
‘Of course. I’ve got loads on my phone, but why should I show you?’
‘So I can see if she’s beautiful or not.’
‘And then you’ll ask her out.’
‘Will I?’
‘I don’t know, probably. You’re a fucking weirdo.’
‘I’m not a weirdo, I’m just trying to see if your sister would make a good beauty therapist or not.’
‘I’m leaving.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I don’t blame you for leaving.’
‘Oh, why? I thought you’d be angry.’
‘Not angry, just sad.’
Terry picked up her belongings. ‘Sad I’m leaving?’
I nodded. ‘A little, but mainly I’m sad that I’m so bad at dating.’
Terry agreed. ‘Yeah it wasn’t a great date, I’ve had worse, but it wasn’t good.’
I couldn’t imagine how anyone could possibly have had a worse date than this. I was dying to ask but was reluctant to reopen the interrogation, or where it might lead to. Terry was about to leave anyway, and I couldn’t resist it. I asked one last question.
‘Terry?’
She turned back with a glimmer of hope on her face. ‘Yeah?’
‘Do you have a cock?’
‘Fuck off.’
I stayed in the bar for half an hour longer. I told myself it was in case another girl turned up that I could be rude to, but in reality it was in case Terry was waiting for me outside with a baseball bat. Eventually, I cautiously left the bar for my quiet evening at home and reflected on the fact that, if I did go on any more dates, I could expect to be either beaten up, arrested or probably both.