Page 98 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
Someone calls, “Mum!” from inside. “Let’s not have this conversation right now,” I plead. I don’t want to say something Imight regret when I don’t even know what it is that I want. “Thank you again for the beautiful flowers.”
He reaches for my hand as I turn away and says quietly, “This is real. You know that, right?”
I nod but then pull away and go inside. Leaning my back against the door, I fight the urge to go back out, to call after him, but I don’t know what I could say that would make our lives line up.
Google searches:
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Chapter 32
If I had to imaginea location where I might find love again, a setting that inspired hope, romance, and magic, it would not be the Drunk Prophet on Westgate Street. Doing something like speed dating with a friend could be a funny story; alone, it would feel mildly tragic. Having concluded that all my friends are married or live too far away, I then remembered Loretta’s offer to be my wingwoman. I left a message on her machine, and she called me back a few hours later saying, “Sign me up, chickie!”
Loretta meets me outside the Drunk Prophet. As soon as I see her, I’m so glad I invited her. She’s wearing a red dress, a sequined leather jacket, and a bright blue headscarf.
“So what are we doing exactly?” she asks as we walk down the dingy steps of the basement venue. “You know, don’t tell me. I like surprises.”
We are given name badges and clipboards by a woman wearing a purple beret, corduroy dungarees, smudged lipstick, and a badge that reads, “Betty.” She’s attractive, in that kooky way more admired by women than men.
“Hi, Betty,” says Loretta.
“First-timers?” she asks us.
“Yes,” I say, furnishing her with the most enthusiastic smile I can muster.
“You get a drinks voucher included,” she tells me. “Dutch courage.”
“Can I just say, I don’t know many people who can pull off a beret,” Loretta tells Betty. “Especially outside of France. But you, darling, you pull it off with aplomb.”
“Thank you!” Betty glows with pleasure, then hands us both two extra drinks tokens. “Here you go, have a great night.”
“Can I? You have a smudge,” Loretta asks, pulling a tissue from her bag. Betty nods in bemusement, and Loretta fixes her lips. Inside, there are a few people milling about, but we’re some of the first arrivals.
“Don’t be offended, Anna, but I think you’ve undercooked it outfit-wise,” Loretta says, looking down at my jeans, sweatshirt, and scraped-back hair. All the other women here are wearing dresses or sparkly tops with big earrings. “Come on, let me do a zhuzh.”
“A zhuzh?”
“A zhuzh!”
She guides me to the ladies’ and opens her enormous handbag, pulling out a selection of hair ties, clips, and scarves. “Can I?” she asks, eyes gleaming with excitement at the prospect of a makeover.
“Sure, why not.” I shrug. She gets me to take off my sweatshirt and fashions a halter top with a paisley blue silk headscarf. It looks pretty, but it reveals far more cleavage than I’m used to.
“I can’t go out there like this!” I protest, putting a hand over my chest and reaching to get my sweater back.
“When you’ve got the goods, you might as well flaunt them,” she says, then adds with a sigh, “I used to have fantastic breasts.” I let go of the sweatshirt, resigned. It’s impossible to argue with that.
She takes down my hair, brushes it into a side parting and adds a few clips, then gets out a red lipstick. I know I can’t pull off red lips, but I let her apply it. She’s enjoying herself, and I’m never going to see any of these people again.
When we emerge from the ladies’, the room has filled, and Betty is tapping her glass to make an announcement. “Welcome, everyone! Welcome to our thirteenth microdating event. So lovely to see so many of our regulars here and some new faces too.”
Taking in the gathering, I realize I’m on the younger end of the spectrum. The age range was thirty-five to fifty-five, but most people here look to be in their fifties. “Each microdate will last three minutes,” Betty continues. “Please don’t tell your date whether you rate them or not, just fill in your ticks afterward. When you hand in your card at the end, if you’ve ticked one another, we’ll e-mail you each other’s contact details. If you tick someone who doesn’t tick you, they’ll never know. Oh, and if you tick no one, then you get a free ticket to next month’s session. The bar is open. Any questions?” No one has any questions. “Fab. Then ready, steady, date!”
The back room has been arranged into twelve small tables, each with two chairs. I sit down at one and pull out my score chart. A balding man in his fifties sits down opposite and holds out a hand to introduce himself.
