A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger (9 page)

Hi Shelli [
I smirked
]

I'm Mervyn, your Welsh lover, a woman like you needs a man in every port, right, so I reckon you should pick me for your Welsh port love, ive just finished reading psychology at Bangor and I got a first [
You stinking liar! I sniggered
] and just in case your wondering i got a massive cock and baby i just want to put it up your tight frustrated little –

‘
MERVYN!' I yelled. ‘GOOD GOD!'

I heard Sam get out of bed and held my breath, hoping he would just ignore me.

He didn't. ‘Chas? What the hell's going on? Are you OK?' he asked, walking into my room without knocking. Apart from his reading glasses he was naked, his manhood cradled in his hands.

‘Oh, my God! Get out! You horrible boy!'

Sam didn't move. My eyes were carefully averted but I could see that he was doing a little rearranging while he waited for an answer. Yuk.

I sighed. ‘Sorry for the yelling, Bowes. I couldn't sleep so I logged on to
love.com
and this kid just sent my new client a message about taking her up the … and then … urgh, I don't think I can even bring myself to repeat it.'

Sam was chuckling. ‘I like his style.'

‘You're disgusting. I'm sorry I woke you up, Sam, but please feel free to go back to bed. And take your privates with you.'

Sam shuffled off and I covered my face with a pillow to avoid having to look at his naked backside as he left. He had been wonderfully kind looking after me, but there were limits. Perhaps he'd move in with Yvonne soon. After all, they were engaged …

Aha! See? You
are
nice. You're not like Shelley! You're
niiiice.
You can't throw Sam out even though he's disgusting and wrong and rearranges his balls in front of you! Nice Charley! Soft! Kind!

Pathetic, said another voice. I chose to ignore it.

‘Well, I think I won't reply to Mervyn,' I muttered briskly. Was this what it was like on the Internet dating
scene if you were twenty-two? Cocks and bums at first approach?

I clicked on to Shelley's next victim, William, thirty-six, London. On the photo alone, I was far more impressed by this choice. William was really very handsome. He was wearing a sort of rolled-over thick-ribbed jumper, which, on a fashion victim like Sam, would have seemed unbearably pretentious but on classically handsome William, who wore it with a strong chin of dark, noble stubble, was rather dashing. It made him look like a Farringdon architect with large hands and not a … Oh dear, a doctor.

William was a doctor. An ENT surgeon at that. I had an unhealthy love for doctors. Now interested, I began to scroll through his profile.

Shelley Cartwright certainly wasn't wrong with this one. He had written:

Oh blooming heck, an entire box looms ahead of me. Did anyone else find this horribly difficult? I feel like I should write something extremely clever and pepper in references to the Balzac novel I'm reading and the eclectic collection of music I own but really I haven't got the energy. Is it OK to be honest? Because, really, I'm not here to spend months being all clever and dating a million women, I'm just looking for the rhubarb to my crumble. The jelly to my ice-cream. The spotted to my dick.

Sorry. Knob gags probably aren't going to impress anyone, if they even get through the
love.com
filter. But you get the general idea.

As for what I'm looking for … just a nice girl. That's the long and short of it.

After a few seconds I realized I was smiling at William's profile. Actually grinning, childishly, into his eyes. I often wrote to attractive men on behalf of clients but there was something about William that was just … lovely.

Briefly I entertained the idea of joining
love.com
myself in the hope of maybe scoring a date with him. I liked this stubbly doctor. His eyes (calm, brown), his smile (lips slightly upturned as if someone had just made a knob gag in a silent library) and his hair (classic man style but with just the tiniest hint of disorder) – mmm. He was rather divine, I thought, in a Sean Connery accent. He even looked like a grown-up. But a fun one.

I imagined what it would be like to wake up on a Sunday morning with William. The stubble would be there; the jumper would not. He'd be tall and warm and calm, and would wake up, then drift out for a while, to return with organic wholegrain bread and poached eggs. He would have a bottom like two perfectly baked muffins. He would not go off to work and I would not run off to the dog shelter. We'd probably roast a guinea fowl later on.

I frowned and pinched myself hard on the boob.
This, Charlotte Lambert, is not how one gets started with a new client.
But within seconds I was back with William, grinning helplessly at his face.

Fancy a client's love interest
, I texted Hailey. It was Wednesday night, one thirty a.m. They'd had a big dinner at Hibs tonight and I knew she'd be striding around a sea of stripped-down chipboard tables, throwing wine-splattered tablecloths into a huge pile and having the
craic
with the bar staff. Knowing Hailey she would probably have deactivated the smoke detectors so they could puff their way through clear-up.

No
, she replied immediately.
Leave him alone
.

Good advice.

I looked back at the screen. A glowing blue bubble had popped up in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. ‘Someone has added you to their Favourites!' it said. I clicked through.

It was William, Favouriting me back. William thought I was hot! He was interested!

Just as quickly, I remembered. William did not think
I
was hot. He thought Shelley was hot. I bristled.
Why?
Shelley was hard and cold! I was warm and funny! Or at least it was my ambition to become warm and funny! Was it her ambition? No! Damn Shelley cocking Cartwright! Damn her!

Another bubble popped up. ‘Someone has sent you a message!'

To my astonishment, I registered my pulse speeding up. I looked across the room at the mirror. ‘Are you actually hoping this is William?' I asked myself.

‘Yes. What of it?' I snapped.

I clicked through. It was William.

Hello! Thanks for favouriting me. Are you sure? I just spent the day with my hand up an elderly man's nose. Understand if you wish to withdraw the interest now. I liked your capable businessy photo, though, so thought I'd hit you up.

(Hit you up? Apparently I am eighteen years old. Are we in fact on Facebook?)

I tried not to smile but it was hopeless. William wasn't just handsome, he was funny. And maybe even quite
sweet. I couldn't let him go on a date with brisk Shelley! He was right up my street! Good looks, sense of humour,
doctor
… Boom! My holy trinity! He didn't have that utterly devilish sexuality that John had, but, realistically, that had got me all of nowhere. And in fairness I didn't actually know him: there was nothing to say that beneath the sheets he wasn't hotter than … My mind drew a blank. Than a hot dog, or something.

I read his email again. What seemed clear was that William wasn't the kind of guy to drag you off for a randy fuck in a cupboard full of mops, then change his mind and hook up with a married multi-trillionairess soon after. He was similarly unlikely to sit flirting on your hospital bed, kissing you ON THE MOUTH, then driving to the airport to meet his new fiancée. No. William would sit on your bed, hold your hand and kiss you until you passed out before he resumed his ward rounds. The nurses would be in love with him, the patients even more so, but he'd have eyes only for one woman …

SHELLEY. Damn her. I looked at her profile again. She was frostier than the rock-hard beefburger in the back of my freezer. Pretty, definitely. But frozen. I was strongly tempted to send an early reply on her behalf, simply copying and pasting her dismissive statement about being ‘far too busy to mess around looking for love on the Internet'. But it was probably a bit early in the development of First Date Aid to start defecating on my own doorstep.

I sighed, knowing what I had to do. I had to help Shelley find love. And if it was love with William, the perfect, handsome, definitely-my-cup-of-tea doctor, then that was absolutely that and there would be no argument.

I was, after all, Charley Lambert, the Scottish Amazon. I might be too incapacitated to change the face of the pharmaceutical industry at the moment, but that didn't stop me taking over the world by other means. First Date Aid was going places and no one, not even lovely William, could threaten that.

I sneaked a quick look at him before going to sleep. And watched in the third person as my hand went to the mouse, hit reply and started typing him a message.

‘So, yes, I thought that William was such a good opportunity for you that I replied to him straight away,' I said breezily. ‘We had a few emails and I think he'll be an excellent choice for your date slot on the 26th of September.'

‘I see,' Shelley barked. ‘Can we get on with this, please? I've got four minutes.'

It was safe to say that I didn't much like Shelley Cartwright. According to her, she was currently in Executive Boardroom 2305 in the Smithson International headquarters. I imagined the scene: a frustrated, smart woman who looked rather like me, scowling out at the sci-fi sprawl of London's Canary Wharf. Stressed, busy and embarrassed.

I imagined having to do the same. I would be standing in the executive boardroom at Salutech, gazing across the relentless flow of the A1 to Fort Kinnard's unappealing sprawl. Also stressed, also busy and also embarrassed. I didn't blame Shelley for feeling so uncomfortable, but I wouldn't be so damned rude.

‘Of course we can be brief,' I said brightly. ‘Perhaps we could start with your dating history. Have you been on your own for ages?'
You twat, Charley
, I thought, feeling Shelley's hackles rise.

‘I've been single for five years,' she said curtly. I imagined an angry red blush spreading across her businesslike
face. ‘This is because of my job. I don't think it's a relevant point.'

‘It's just so I can answer questions correctly on your behalf,' I replied. ‘Some men ask that sort of stuff early on.'

‘Well, they're not for me,' Shelley snapped. ‘Bad manners.'

In spite of my mounting irritation, I smiled. That was exactly the sort of thing I'd say. ‘There are lots of men with bad manners out there,' I agreed. ‘I'll do my best to filter them out.' I cleared my throat. ‘Well, the first man on your list, Stuart, sounds like he's in the same sort of place as you. Busy, but genuinely looking for someone.'

‘So does the second, William,' Shelley said. ‘I think he's my preferred choice.'

I tried to stop my heart sinking. ‘Well, as I said I've already begun emailing him. I think we can confirm a date soon.'

‘I thought you were unable to enter into correspondence unless you'd been fully briefed as to your client's character.'

‘Absolutely, which was why I kept it light. We didn't get into specifics.'

Light?
A mild panic washed around my stomach. I was playing a dangerous game.

‘Very well, Charlotte. The testimonials on your site were excellent. I trust you.'

She'll slice your hands off if she ever finds out what you've done
, I thought.

‘So, just how busy is your life at the moment?' I asked Shelley, trying to hide my fear under a businesslike tone.

‘Very. I leave home at six twenty a.m. and return no earlier than eight thirty p.m.,' she said. ‘I'm currently
taking business Spanish two evenings a week because I'm involved with facilitating an expansion into Central America, and I chair a weekly book club to make sure my brain isn't dominated by business. I run daily and go to the gym when I can. I work most weekends too, unfortunately.'

I grimaced. ‘Wow.'

‘Yes. I have a full life. I find it very satisfying. But I don't think it should inhibit my ability to conduct a relationship,' Shelley continued spiritedly.

I felt like we were discussing her ability to manage a hedge fund. ‘So what sort of thing do you like to do in your free time?'

There was a pause.

‘When I'm not busy it's normally the middle of the night and I'm asleep.' She gave an awkward, empty guffaw.

I sighed. Shelley was a lost cause. And, clearly, so was I. Our schedules were almost identical. Although I was now feeling sad and flat, I turned my brightest client voice back on. ‘Right. Well, let's talk about what you're looking for in a man.'

Twelve hours earlier

01.46 a.m.

Hi William.

Can I ask why you had your hand up someone's nose? I thought ENT surgery was a little more subtle these days.

I don't
think
you've put me off … but it does rather depend on your answer to the above.

Shelley

02.14 a.m.

Sorry, I was being crude. I didn't literally have my hand up someone's nose. I was in fact guiding a fibre-optic cable up someone's nose. There are strange things happening up this nose and it was my job to investigate. Can we stop talking about it now, though? I should never have brought it up. It must sound disgusting. Tell me about your high-powered city job! People like you fascinate me. Do you break balls? (Literally, metaphorically, whatever.) Do you wear suits like that every day? I think you look very nice in it. I used to be frightened of women in suits until I saw your photo.

William

02.45 a.m.

Hello William

My job isn't all that bad. Quite high-powered I suppose, as you say, but I actually love it. As for what I do, it involves a lot of strategic thinking and single-mindedness. A sprinkling of bravery. Not unlike dating, really.

But I'm not fierce! There is nothing to be afraid of. My suit is a coat of armour designed to scare competitors. Not nice men.

S

As soon as I'd despatched this message I felt stupid. Was it too keen to call William a ‘nice man'? I buzzed with nerves as I looked in my outbox and saw that William had already opened the message. Somewhere, down in London, he was reading my words right now. I felt slightly sick. Were my words OK? Was I selling myself well?

‘Argh!' I told my bedroom. ‘This is not your correspondence to worry about! STOP IT.'

03.05

I liked being called a nice man! Although you don't actually know it's true. Yesterday, for instance, I finished a sixteen-hour shift, got on the number 30 bus and DID NOT give my seat up to the old man who got on at the next stop. I'm still tortured by it. He looked so disappointed. But I couldn't, Shelley. I was so tired I could barely sit up straight. Sort of like now. But this rather beguiling bird off the Internet is keeping me awake. You sound very, very busy in your profile. Are you sure you have time to date? I hope so because I'd love to meet up with you some time. I wouldn't stick cables up your nose.

William x

I grinned excitedly and started typing.

03.16

Of course I have time to date! I think it's important to have lots of extra-curriculars – I spend so much time at work that I see it as a duty to myself to do other things too. I want to make sure I'm properly rounded. (Dating is an extra-curricular.)

S

03.29

I agree. When you spend most of your life in the bowels of a London hospital it's important to make sure your brain extends beyond TMJs and craniofacial prostheses (or, I dunno, mergers
and global expansion in your case maybe?). I should try to be more like you, really. Get some extra-curriculars going. Anyway. You didn't reply about meeting up. Was it because I told you about the man on the bus? (Or did I bring up dating too soon? I have no idea how to handle myself in a situation where I'm meant to be in charge. I feel safer when girls just ask me out. It's simpler. Less opportunity to make a dick of myself.) This is the least macho email I've ever sent. Things are going wrong very quickly for me.

Wx

I hugged myself, unable to stop smiling. I loved un-macho William and his craniofacial prostheses! I loved that he'd asked me out twice in less than two hours!

‘No,' I told myself, less sternly than last time.

03:42

That's OK. I don't like macho men. They're a bit distasteful. And on the subject of distasteful: good God William the ENT surgeon! The poor little old man on the bus? Appalling! Um, I didn't respond to the bit about meeting up because we have known each other for two hours. Can't we carry on this emailing at least a couple more days? I'm rather enjoying it. From Shelley, who is definitely going to bed now

Going to bed, my arse. I'd never been more awake.

04.02

No! Stay awake Shelley. This is much more fun! There is more to me beyond the bad person who wouldn't give up their seat on the bus.
Although, actually, I sometimes wonder if I really am a bit of a shit. No obvious reasons, just a general feeling of Could Do Better. Do you get that?

I'm really pleased you're not too busy to go on a date. Judging by your last reply you're someone who will expect to be taken white-water rafting and hang-gliding, followed by high tea at a 1920s literary salon and a night at the Greenwich observatory learning complex astronomical rules.

I might just shake things up by suggesting we meet up and sit at a table with wine.

Don't even think of going to sleep. I like you. X

As if. I was sitting upright in bed, refreshing Shelley's inbox every twenty seconds.

04.23

Do I think I'm a bad person? No, actually, I don't. I donate money to charity and one of my weekly extra-curriculars involves charity work. Abandoned dogs and cats, specifically. Oh and I would always give up my seat to a little old man. Ha. I suppose I could go on a sedentary date although I have my limits. The Action and Learning date you've outlined sounds far more appealing, Doctor William.

S

Damn Shelley and her instructions, I thought, fighting the urge to type a load of kisses after my casual ‘S'. I
wanted
to kiss William. Both via email and in real life.
It appears
, I thought, looking over at the mirror and seeing my flushed cheeks and slightly wild eyes,
that I have completely lost control of myself
.

The sensation of having completely lost control was not something I'd ever felt particularly comfortable with, yet I was finding this ill-advised exchange deliciously, almost excruciatingly enjoyable.

You have a new message!
advised the dialogue bubble floating up my screen. I felt a sensation of pure, rushing joy. The seconds it took for the message to load were torture.
Bloody hell, Charlotte Lambert, so-called Scottish Amazon, this is no good at all
, I told myself sternly. Then the message loaded and I forgot everything else.

04.41

Now then Shelley. That's not fair. I told you the truth about feeling like I could Maybe Do Better and you threw it back in my face with talk of charitable good deeds and some bollocks about volunteering. Talk to me! You may look beautiful but I do not believe you're perfect.

Come on … x

PS Is your skin really that smooth? It sort of looks like you've been carved from a piece of alabaster.

PPS Er, sorry. It's late. Might be getting a bit carried away. This Internet dating thing is dangerous, isn't it? Are these feelings real? Or are they just some sort of mad online fantasy? After all, you could be an old man.

PPPS I don't really think you're an old man.

I laughed out loud. ‘I'll old-man you, William.' I giggled, hitting reply.

And then I paused. William had just been touchingly honest with me. Would I brush him off with some silly flirting or would I actually think about what he'd just said?
I moved my hands away from the keyboard. Was I perfect? (Clearly not.) Were there things about me that I'd change if I could?
Yes
, I thought, surprising myself.
Yes, actually.
Recognizing myself in Shelley a few hours earlier had made for some uncomfortable realizations. And William had somehow tapped right into them. How was he doing it?

Before I knew it, I was writing again.

05.01

Do I feel like I could do better?

I've never asked myself that question before. Well, I have, but I've always used ‘doing better' in terms of working harder or achieving more. But, now you come to ask, I'm realizing (er, possibly right now) that I'm not very good at sitting with myself. You were bang on when you said I'd probably prefer a date where we do a million things in three hours. I can't stand being still – it sends me insane. That's not good, is it?

So now (where is this coming from?? Argh!) I'm also wondering if maybe I need to let go of my work a bit … It takes up most of my time and mental energy. But how does anyone do that without actually leaving their job?

Oh dear. Can of worms, William. Can of worms.

I pressed send, feeling a bit sick. ‘You're writing on Shelley's behalf,' I told myself half-heartedly. ‘This is for her, not you.' But none of the correspondence so far had had anything to do with Shelley and this was no different. This was 100 per cent me. Not just the surface me, either: I was writing things that I'd never said before. Never thought before. I read back over my last message and felt
even more flummoxed. These observations about my life were not comfortable.