Around the World in 80 Dates (35 page)

Plus friends in London had (not unreasonably) lost track of my travels and assumed I was at home:

There were also the rest of the Dates:

Talking to some people about my long-divorced ex-husband, to others about what was going on at a company I didn't work for anymore, and to another set arranging a social life in a country I'd just left or was yet to arrive in was a real juggling act. Every group felt or assumed I was
around
and available because technology made it so easy for them to get hold of me.

I could never have contemplated organizing this journey without modern technology, from emailing the Soul Mate Job Description around and recruiting ranks of Date Wranglers to setting up the Dates themselves and carrying all their details and emails with me on my laptop. It also made researching dates possible, as well as booking flights and hotels, and of course doing all this when on the road via email, cell-phone calls, and text. Modern technology had made this journey possible.

But technology is just a tool. And one that didn't seem to be working for me and Garry at the moment. Although we communicated constantly—texting, emailing, and leaving messages on each other's home and cell phones—all the technology in the world didn't seem able to connect us.

We wanted to be together. Trying to find a brief space to share in each other's ever-changing time zones and schedules was a constant battle. All we seemed able to share was our frustration.

Garry said simply in a text.

And I knew it to be true.

It was late when I read the text. I was packed and ready to fly to Sydney early the next morning, but I lay awake for a long time after I got the message. For the first time I felt really scared. What if Garry forgot me? What if he forgot what I was like and why we were so good together? Forgot why it was worth putting up with this. Forgot why he'd agreed to be boyfriend to a girl living in England and currently traveling across Australia dating other men.

What was I doing to him? And to us? I had no answer, only a sense of dread.

I was happy to arrive in Sydney. As ever, I hoped the change of scene would, if not improve the situation with Garry, at least distract me from it. Not that we really had a
situation,
more an intangible and unsettling sense of being dislocated and drifting. It was hard to put my finger on it and—now that the demands of my long journey were starting to take their toll—I couldn't work out if it was just me being overtired, the inevitable powering down that couples default to when apart, or something more serious altogether.

I didn't know, so I got back to what I did know: dating.

Early the next morning I dated
Terry (Date #73),
commander of the Sydney Harbour Police. Terry was a charismatic, fascinating man, who was clearly loved and respected at the station. (“Morning, boss,” everyone chimed as we walked from his office to the quay.) He asked one of his men to take us in a patrol boat from the police headquarters over to Balmoral, a slight delay as they tried to hide a dead body they'd fished out of the water moments before I arrived.

It was exhilarating to motor through the harbor (at least I'd been
expecting
a boat on this date). The sun gleamed on the water that sprayed out behind us as we cut through the water past the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge.

Disembarking in Balmoral, we walked across the beach and into the ultra-chic Bathers' Pavilion for brunch.

It was great to walk anywhere with Terry: He looked fabulous in uniform, and people touched their caps or just smiled. He was lovely to talk with, a really nice man. He'd carried out close protection for all the big politicians who visited (he'd been out with Prince Harry just the day before) and had me wide-eyed and rapt at his stories. Divorced, he talked about how being a policeman was very hard on relationships. We agreed, inevitably, that sometimes it's easier just to stick to your work.

Terry and his sergeant dropped me at the Rushcutters Bay Yacht Club, which was a short walk from my hotel in Darlinghurst. Waving them off, I switched on my phone and a message popped up from my next date, Nathan.

Nathan (Date #74)
taught Bikram yoga: the Indian discipline of yoga in a room heated to 100 degrees (the idea being that it relaxes your muscles, releasing trapped toxins and allowing you to efficiently sweat them out). I'd been put in touch with Nathan through my friend Kate at the Australian Tourist Commission in Sydney.

Our date was tonight, but in his message Nathan suggested I come to his class that afternoon, then we could go straight on to our date afterward.

Unfortunately, I'd had my phone switched off. Date Protocol: I felt it was bad form to take a phone call from your next Date while the current one was still in progress—and now it was already afternoon. I stuck out my arm and hailed a cab downtown.

 

I arrived at the Bikram center with five minutes to spare. As I dashed up the steps, I caught sight of a completely gorgeous man disappearing into a room, steam already condensing madly on the windows. He was followed by a group of star struck women (and a couple of men). If that was Nathan, I could see why the class was so popular…and why the classroom was hot and steamy (I'm always happy to embrace my
inner shallow
).

But I'd been in such a rush I hadn't given any thought to what I was going to wear. The bra I had on was okay, but no way was anyone going to see me going lotus wearing a thong.

I went careening over to the woman sitting at the reception (so far, yoga was proving anything but relaxing) to see if they had a spare pair of shorts I could borrow. No, but “go to Gowers on the corner,” she told me shortly, looking with disapproval at her watch, “they're real cheap and you'll pick up some shorts for nothing. Once the class has started, you can't go in, though, so quick, go, go,” she shooed.

I raced across the street to Gowers, but all I could find cheap was a nasty pair of men's gray Y-fronts. I held the packet at arm's length and examined it speculatively. Nathan was gorgeous and these men's briefs were ugly, ugly, ugly. But I'd never wear them again and they were only nine dollars, so sod it, I was in a hurry, I shoved some cash at the sales clerk and dashed back to the center. In the changing rooms I ripped the knickers out of the packaging, and, without stopping to inspect them, shoved them on, pulled my top off, grabbed my bags, and bolted for the yoga room.

I got to the doors just as they were locking them. There wasn't time to introduce myself, so I quickly walked into the class, past mats full of limbering ladies to a free spot at the front of the class, and sat down.

Nathan stood before us, lithe and muscled to the point of being edible. As he walked us through the first positions, I attempted to bend my upper body down over my extended thighs. As I strained downward, I caught sight of my pants for the first time. The thick gray flannel was so stiff that the Y flap at the front was poking straight out in a disturbingly suggestive manner. Embarrassed and trying not to draw attention to it, I quickly reached down and pushed the flap back into place.

But it was having none of it and sprang straight out again, veering purposefully like the rudder on a sailboat.

It was horrible. I tried another tack: Leaning into my stretch, I surreptitiously attempted to pin the protruding piece of material flat with my elbow. But it was impossible to concentrate on both this and the yoga, and the front of the pants sprang straight out again, wagging from side to side, like the tail of a dog happy to see you.

The room was as hot as a furnace by now, and soon the pants were thoroughly soaked in my sweat, turning the dark gray flannel an even darker gray—apart from the flap at the front, which, since it wasn't in contact with my body, remained free from sweat and light gray, sticking out in lewd shamelessness.

After what seemed like an eternity, the class ended. And—all credit to me—I was brave enough to stay behind and introduce myself to Nathan. But as I hadn't thought to bring a towel for the shower or any clean clothes, our date ended up too
yin and yang
for comfort: He was serene and self-aware, I was sweaty and self-conscious. I stayed for one drink, then went back to the hotel, lay on the bed, and watched
When Harry Met Sally
on TV, using biscotti as spoons to eat a tub of ice cream.

Flyboy Gene swept me off my feet
in Blenheim, New Zealand

New Zealand was the last leg of my journey and involved a complicated itinerary of dates dotted around the two islands. It was very much an all-singing, all-dancing grand finale—one last blaze of dating glory—rather than the gentle coast to the finish line that would have been more sensible to aim for.

I was dating Frank in Auckland, then flying into Blenheim for Chris's mystery date, and two more flights, a four-hour train journey, and a two-and-a-half-hour bus journey would put me into Middlemarch, where I was dating their Bachelor of the Year (“He's as good at changing diapers as he is at changing tires,” one of the female judges had observed approvingly). Then it was a three-hour bus journey into Queenstown to
speak your weight
Date David.

And I was waiting to hear back from Justin, another Queenstown date who was currently leading a rafting trip somewhere around Wanaka but had promised to
take you to Paradise and back when you get here.
(According to my guidebook, Paradise was a trail.) Whatever time I could meet Justin would decide when I'd fly back into Auckland, meet Nick, my eightieth and final date, and from there catch the plane back to London.

I really hoped there'd be time to visit Garry on the way back to London.

We hadn't managed to speak for three days now. After months of staying up till 3 a.m. or waking up at 6 a.m. for a common chink of time across the time zones and the phone satellites, we were both exhausted. It was a struggle to find energy to put into our schedules and conversations, as well as keeping up with the demands of the lives we led separately.

I trusted Garry (which felt good: I was glad Kelly hadn't destroyed my ability to believe in faithfulness) and I'm pretty sure he trusted me. Neither of us lacked the desire or commitment to make this work, but we'd been apart longer than we'd ever been together and logistics didn't seem to be favoring us.

Dammit, I was going to call him. I looked at my watch, did some mental gymnastics—2 a.m. his time, the poor love would have just arrived in Texas—and dialed his number. I heard the connections leap across the satellites before getting through to…his voice mail. I drooped disappointedly, but tried not to let it come across in my voice: “Hello, love, this is your wandering girlfriend. I've just got to Auckland. I'm staying at the Hilton, you've got the number—give me a call and tell me what the weather's doing in Texas when you've got a moment. I miss you.”

Doing a double take at my watch, I realized I was running late for my next date. I threw open my case and rummaged around, desperately trying to find anything I could wear that was clean and presentable.

 

Frank (Date #75)
was actually Posh PR Emma's The One Who Could Have Been from when they'd both lived in Sydney. He and I had missed meeting up there, as he was over here on business. But our stay in Auckland overlapped by one night, so we'd arranged to meet in the hotel bar for a drink.

The bar had extraordinary views across Freeman's Bay and ultimately the South Pacific, and we admired them now as we chatted. We talked about mutual friends; how
Yes, Emma worked too hard
and
Yes, how she absolutely deserved a decent boyfriend.
We also talked about my dating. Since he was obviously interested in Posh PR Emma rather than me, I talked about the situation with Garry. I confided that I was worried that, although we were both working hard at including each other in what we were doing, we still seemed so far apart.

Frank looked sympathetic. “Jen, your schedule sounds exhausting, and from what you've said about Garry, he's working and traveling like crazy too. You just have to accept that that's the way it's going to be for a while; it's very demanding traveling for work, inevitably relationships suffer.”

Frank was head of PR for an upmarket hotel chain. Posh PR Emma had told me he'd got divorced a couple of years ago because he spent so much time on the road. I nodded in agreement; Frank obviously knew what he was talking about.

But even so…“That's true, Frank, but I am trying. I'm still putting energy into our relationship,” I countered a little defensively.

Frank looked at me over the top of his martini glass. “Right, Jennifer,” he said with one raised eyebrow. “You're putting energy into your relationship with Garry. So how is it you're in a bar, in Auckland, out on a date with me?”

He did have a point.

And I don't want to sound like I'm changing the subject here (okay, maybe a little), but he obviously had a thing for Posh PR Emma, and I wondered if I should put aside my dating for a moment and do a little freelance Date Wrangling instead. He talked about her constantly, wanting to know everything going on in her life at the moment. (“Work, Frank,” I told him honestly. “She's in a relationship with her job, like everyone we know.”) I was glad I didn't fancy Frank, but I really liked him, and I think he would have been perfect for Ems. They seemed less like a case of Could Have Been and more one of Still Might Be.

New Zealand is made up of two islands, one above the other. Imaginatively, the top one is called the North Island and the bottom one the South Island. Auckland is two-thirds of the way up the North Island, and I was flying down to Blenheim, which is at the top of the South Island. (Got that? I shall be asking questions later.)

The area I was flying into is called Marlborough, New Zealand's famous wine region, where some of the world's best sauvignon blanc and pinot noir come from. I love Marlborough's Cloudy Bay wine, so when I'd been thinking about where in the world I might find my Soul Mate, coming here had seemed a good idea. Who I would meet here was now down to Chris and his much-hyped
single, well-off, interesting, good company
Date.

Chris was a friend of my friend Susie, who did PR for the New Zealand Tourist Board in London. Chris and his wife Julia ran the Hotel D'Urville, a charismatic property made from a converted bank in the middle of Blenheim and my home for the next two days.

Chris met me straight off the twelve-seater plane at Blenheim's tiny airport and wasted no time planting a big wet kiss on my cheek and enveloping me in a huge hug. With his curly hair, ruddy face, and thick-knit sweater, he looked just like a Cornish fisherman. But Chris was sharp as a tack and very much in demand; he wheeled and dealed via his constantly ringing phone as we drove to the hotel, stopping at a couple of notable wineries on the way.

The town itself wasn't impressive. A wide main street of half-empty shops, Blenheim reminded me of depressed outback farming towns in Australia or the American Midwest. The hotel was fabulous, though: gourmet cuisine and luxurious, themed rooms. I was very happy at the thought of spending some time here. In fact, I'll be honest, I was happy at the thought of getting through whatever Chris had cooked up date-wise and whiling away the rest of my stay by lying in the huge freestanding iron bath in my room, applying a face mask, painting my toenails, and soaking the knots out of my muscles.

So, over dinner that night, as Julia buzzed around the busy restaurant checking all the diners were happy, Chris joked with me about finally meeting my Date tomorrow morning.

I'd long since learned not to react to his teasing, but I did think it was funny that he was displaying all the classic signs of what I now recognized as a Control Dater. This was someone who liked to hold all the cards, enjoying the sense of power over you. Chris did it nicely, but it was still there. And he was a second-generation Date Wrangler, he wasn't even a Date.

While he talked on, a wave of tiredness suddenly washed over me. I'd dated seventy-five men. There were just five more to go.

The journey had been incredible and I felt lucky to have had all these experiences, but at the same time it felt like I had been doing nothing but dating forever. Seventy-five dates—that's how many applications of mascara? How many
“oh, you must be”
s? How many life stories confided over drinks and dinners? As I said, there are far worse things in life, but the fact was that going on this many dates had slowly turned into aversion therapy. I never wanted to go on another First Date as long as I lived. If things didn't work out with Garry, I swore, I would go back to London, get 102 cats, and never leave the house again.

 

Trying (and failing) one last time over breakfast the next morning to get a rise out of me, Chris then drove us out to Marlborough Air Club, a private airstrip and hangar on the edge of town.
It would seem the date has something to do with planes,
I thought to myself limply.

We got out of the car and walked toward a tiny hut with a sign over the door identifying it as the reception. A man in pilot's uniform was leaving as I approached, and he stood politely to one side, holding the door open so I could go in. But I wasn't at my most alert and I remained outside so he could come out. We stood gazing at each other, waiting for the other to make a move. Chris pushed past us both. “Come on, kids,” he said mischievously. “That's no way to greet your Date.”

Chris was having fun, that much was clear.

As he marched off into a large aircraft hangar, the man and I looked awkwardly at each other. So this was the mystery Date. He looked nice: about six feet two, broad shoulders, slightly wavy brown hair, and an easy smile. He must have been about my age, with the air of someone sure of himself, but in a capable rather than an arrogant way. There was also something boyish about him; his green eyes crinkled playfully as he smiled, as if we were already sharing a joke. He was smiling now. “You must excuse Chris,” he said with an American accent and a resigned yet affectionate expression that led me to believe he was Chris's friend. “He means well! My name's Gene, by the way. I'm a pilot; I think I'm also your Date?” Gene smiled reassuringly at me. “It's good to meet you.” And with that he held out his hand.

I put out mine and we shook. “My name's Jennifer,” I said, smiling back at him. “I think I'm your Date, too, but I'm afraid that's all I know at this point.” We both laughed.

As it turned out, Chris had kept both
Gene (Date #76)
and me completely in the dark about each other, so rather than being intriguing and exciting, meeting Gene was just a blank. That would have been fine—I had immediately warmed to Gene and we could easily have filled in the spaces by talking to each other now—but Chris had other plans and shouted for us to come over.

He was out on the runway, next to a small vintage plane (a Provost, in case you care). He held out a flying suit (nothing glamorous—shapeless green overalls) for me to wear while tapping his watch theatrically. “Come on, Young Lovers,” he teased, making my toes curl with the inappropriateness of the remark, “it's time for you lovebirds to fly away.”

Obediently, Gene and I clambered into the plane. Checking that I was strapped in securely, Gene then systematically checked the gauges on the panel in front of us, fired up the engines, and off we went, taxiing bumpily down the short runway. I held my breath as the little plane picked up speed, then rose unsteadily into the air, like an old man stiffly getting up from his armchair at bedtime. Slowly climbing up through the clouds, we leveled off after a couple of minutes and headed out across the patchwork fields and valleys of Marlborough.

Gene and I still hadn't said more than ten words to each other, and I felt quite self-conscious to be in such intimate proximity—wedged close to each other in the cockpit, sharing this incredible view—without really knowing more than his name.

But it was a spectacular sight. I craned my neck to look around at the mountains, vineyards, and fast-flowing rivers we were flying above. “I was rafting down that river on the weekend,” Gene shouted into his headset microphone over the thundering of the engines. He looked really happy when he said it, and I immediately wanted to know more: What had the day on the water been like; how often did he do it; could I do it in the short time I had left here; what else did he do in his free time…? But when I tried to answer by shouting back into my microphone, it kept breaking up and Gene couldn't hear me.

So I gave up trying to talk. Sitting back in my seat and looking down into the coves and islands of Marlborough Sound and the shimmering waters of Cloudy Bay, it was wonderful not to speak: I felt like I had been talking forever. I could now speak First Date so fluently I was in danger of suffering from the first-ever recorded case of RSI (Repetitive Speech Injury).

But even as I enjoyed the breathing space and the chance to soak up the views, I felt the first telltale signs of travel sickness suddenly grip me. The smell of the hot engines and the way the small plane banked and bobbed in the air was making my mouth grow dry and my stomach crawl (oh, the irony: not a boat in sight and here I was having my first bout of motion sickness in a long time). Gene must have picked up on the change in my demeanor, and I was extremely grateful that he decided this was a good time to gently and smoothly take the plane back to base.

We touched back down on the runway. And as soon as the engines had been turned off and we could hear each other talk, I congratulated Gene on his flying and thanked him for giving me the chance to enjoy the magnificent scenery from the air. I then scrambled out of the plane as fast as I could and savored the relief of being back on the still, flat earth once more.