Roy is not a great name, actually, but he looks nice in his profile and would be handsome too if he shaved off his funny little goatee, which I can get him to do if he ends up being my boyfriend. I have this little scenario in my head. Me and him (minus the goatee) at dinner with Ella and Ben, having a great time. And Kelly too, with some yet-to-meet boyfriend, if only she would make the effort.
It’s my first date with Roy tonight. I’m dressed a bit more hippy than usual as his profile seems a bit ‘out there’. I have a strange bag made entirely of beige fur that I bought years ago in a moment of pre-menstrual madness. But it kind of goes with the spirit of the goatee and the ‘out there’. Until I get him to shave it off. I’m waiting for Roy in the back room bar at one of the local pubs. The one I don’t go to very often, in case I see anyone I know. My palms seem to be sweating. Ew.
Kelly
Tonight I’m Jen’s secret date spy, discreetly tucked away in the corner with a book (Elizabeth Berg, The Pull of The Moon – this month’s book club choice) some tapas, and a large glass of very necessary white wine. The idea is that whatever she thinks of him, I can provide a second opinion. Because so far, of any of the men she has dated in Sydney, any sane person’s second opinion would have been ‘definitely not’.
So, she is in one corner and I’m in another, trying not to laugh or catch her eye. I need a distraction. I know – not that I’d ever do this Internet stuff - but what would my profile be?
Kelly, forty-one, works as a PA for a firm of architects, has big cloud of hair that loved the eighties. Married an idiot and stayed married to him for far too long. Do you mention you were married? Has Jen? Feels like I would be putting myself up on eBay. How horrible. Oh, look, here he is – Jen’s date arriving to exam his potential purchase.
Bloody hell - the goatee is huge – almost ZZ Top-esque! Far bigger than on the picture she showed me on the website. It must be an old picture, or it grows very quickly. I have honestly never seen a bigger beard in real life. Fortunately, he is quite loud so I can hear him.
“Hi, Jen!” he says. “What the fuck is that?” He points at Jen’s weird furry bag. “It looks like my nut sack!”
Jen has that crestfallen expression she makes that makes me want to cry. ZZ Top man is chortling away at his own joke.
Oh dear. ZZ opens with the sort of thing most men would say after ten pints, and only then if they knew you well. Why would any man think that was an appropriate first date guffaw? And why doesn’t Jen say, “What a revolting thing to say.” (i.e. stand up for herself) or, “Actually, it’s Armani.” (be funny like she usually is). No, instead we get her masking the sad face with an attentive one. Now she’s smiling at him like she really thinks he’s funny. I know what she’s doing. She’s removed the beard and blanked out his opening line and his tardiness at going to the bar. She wants to believe he could work. Because for Jen, the only thing she thinks will make her life work, make her truly happy, is finding a bloke, despite her vast experience indicating the exact opposite. It’s truly baffling. Try wasting too many years of your life on the “we’re not talking” Wednesdays and the dreary DIY weekends of a faltering marriage – you don’t hanker for another man in your life in a hurry. Jen has a boyfriend-shaped box she would do almost anything to fill. She looks way too impressed by her date for me to hope that my date sitting duties are going to end any time soon. Time for another glass of wine. Bloody hell, what a waste of an evening. Ah – maybe not – I think he may be leaving.
Jen
I think our date is over. He shuffles a bit and says, “I have to go now.”
Why do I feel rejected despite being relieved? He is so odd and I couldn’t imagine kissing him. How would I know where his lips are?
“I have to go to the Bay Run.”
The Bay Run is our local part of Sydney Harbour foreshore. It’s a 7km running/walking track. He doesn’t look the type to be running at night. Or during the day, for that matter.
“I have to bury my crystals.”
Oh, God. He pulls three stones out of his pocket. One is pale pink, one pale green, and one is black and tan stripes.
“I need to re-energise them in the earth. Tomorrow I’ll dig them up again. Is that girl over there choking?”
“I think she’s fine,” I tell him, glaring at Kelly spluttering over her tapas.
Josie
Dinner tonight with Frank. And Ella and Ben. God, I’m lucky. Kelly put a drunken status update on Facebook last night. “At Retro with Jen, re-energising our inner crystals!” Whatever that means. I am so lucky. I have a gorgeous boyfriend and no need to go to ghastly places like the Retro looking for a bloke. I have great hair. I have just finished straightening its lovely long silky brownness. Couldn’t help glancing over to my laptop as I did it. There is the picture of Kelly and Jen from last night with Kelly’s big poufy hair filling most of the available space, and Jen, with her Ellen de Generes type hair, nestled next to her. Goodness knows what was so funny. They look like they’re both about to explode they’re laughing so much. It’s such a shame they don’t have boyfriends. Like I say, I’m so lucky to have Frank. Two couples going to dinner is a better way to spend time in your late thirties. And definitely in your early forties as Kelly and Jen are.
My gorgeous Frank’s family are from the Lebanon. He’s about 5’ 10”. Full head of hair, with just a touch of sexy George Clooney-esque grey. When did all the available men go bald? Thank goodness mine has hair. And rich green eyes. And an amazing eye for good clothes.
As Frank says, some men (and women) have the knack of picking out what looks good. Some men (and women) don’t. But he helps me a lot, which is great. Frank would never let me go out in something which isn’t flattering. I’m slim, but a little too heavy in the hips and bum and he’s so good at steering me in the right direction to cover the bad bits. Sort of like my own Gok, but without the “Ooh, your curves are gorgeous!” stuff. Because they’re not, are they? As Frank says, “curves” is just a fibbing way of saying “fat”.
Frank would never be so patronizing. He just tells me when it’s time to go to the gym more often. It’s great having someone so honest. Someone who really cares about the way I look. We’ve been together for five years now, and it’s great he still makes the effort for me. And, of course, I do for him.
Frank has a big, big family so we don’t see each other as much as I would like. But it’s fine, of course. He’s the youngest of seven (seven!) and if one of his brothers is a bit down and needs a catch up over a beer on a night I’m due to see him I don’t feel let down. Frank is always there for his family and I love that about him. I don’t have much to do with mine, so it’s wonderful that he is so close to his.
He is honest about family things, though. He doesn’t want kids. I always thought I would one day, and his handsome family produce the most beautiful children. They’re always there, running around and having great fun at the clan gatherings. The babies are always so adorable, gurgling away, being passed from one relative to another. But it is true what he says. It’s okay when you can hand them back as they start to drool on your good clothes. And then, “Look at Ella,” he says. “Look how she’s gone downhill since Charlie came along.”
Ella and I met in London years ago. Pre-Charlie, she had a great figure and wore beautiful clothes. Frank didn’t know her then of course, but he looks at the photos of those days gone by and says, “Wow, she was hot back then!” Now, she’s not. This might sound bitchy coming from a friend, but nowadays she frumps around in Target (Frank can always spot chain store) and, well, she really needs to get to the gym.
God, I sound horrible. Ella is lovely. I