Love @ First Site (3 page)

His remark may have punctured my ego somewhat, but inside I am reluctantly admitting that he has a point. My persistently single state indicates that maybe I have been going about dating in the wrong way, that maybe it
is
time for change.

Possibly suspecting a slight thaw in my chill, he warms to the theme. "There are literally thousands and thousands of them online, just waiting to be plucked. Darling, even
you
stand a chance with those odds."

"Cheers." I smile sarcastically. "I'm still not doing it."

Richard pours me more wine, presumably in the hope it will help weaken my resolve. "Take a look, at least. That won't do any harm. You can log on and scroll through the potential dates. Just think--your very own hunk superstore, and they won't even know you're there."

"Hmmm. The best I can offer is that I'll think about it." Put like that, I don't know what else to say.

Madeleine hones into view, her eyes crossed with frustration. "God, how do you put up with
her."

"Ah, Kara," I smile, following her glance. "Yes, she's quite a girl, isn't she? Who's she been spitting bile about now?"

Madeleine casts a furtive eye over her shoulder. "I was talking about dancing, and she said, 'Bit old for that, aren't you?' Fucking cheek! She barely knows me."

"Oh that never stops her. Everyone is entitled to her opinion." I steal a crafty puff of Richard's cigarette while my censorious sister is looking the other way. "The only thing that cheats Kara out of the last word is an echo."

"And she's got such an innocent, harmless look about her," continues Madeleine. "As if butter wouldn't melt."

"Yes, the face of a saint." Richard nods. "Trouble is, it's a bloody Saint Bernard. I just feel sorry for that poor sod of a boyfriend. Talk about under the thumb."

"Nah. Dan's easygoing, but he's no pushover," I say. "I'm sure he stands up to her, he's just too polite to do it in public."

"Anyway." Madeleine looks at Richard but jerks her head towards me. "Have you persuaded her yet?"

"Persuaded me to do what?" Then it sinks in and I let out a low groan. "Oh God, you're not on about that wretched Internet thing again?"

"Go
on
, it'll be a laugh if nothing else," says Madeleine. "What have you got to lose?"

"My dignity?" I retort. Then a thought strikes me. "I tell you what, I'll do it if you do."

Of course, as a woman who makes Mae West look positively virginal, Madeleine is quite simply the worst person I could have thrown out this challenge to.

She shrugs. "Absolutely fine by me. But I'm not the one looking for a serious relationship. I'm happy with the occasional fling with whoever life throws at me."

"She's so discerning." Richard smiles sarcastically. "Anyway, she says she'll do it too, so that's it now, you
have
to go ahead with it."

My heart doesn't just sink, it's got concrete boots on. "OK, three dates, no more," I say resignedly. "But if none of them turn out to be Mr. Right, then it's back to the old method of trawling wine bars and late-night bus stops."

"Fantastic!" Richard slaps his thigh D'Artagnan style. "All for fun, and fun for all!"

Three

O
h God. I have just logged onto my computer, and I have thirty-seven e-mails from total and utter strangers. The jaw-dropping, knuckle-scraping, head-hanging shame of it.

But also, deep down, I have to admit to feeling a slight thrill too. I don't know them, they don't know me, and best of all, they have absolutely no way of making contact other than through e-mail. Much better than standing by the bar, fending off the approaches of Mr. Never-in-a-Thousand-Years. Unless, of course, I reply and grant them the honor of knowing my phone number.

Yet I can call up their dating ad, along with thousands of others, and pore over their photographs and personal details. Even more astonishingly, I can read the answers to the kind of gallingly intrusive questions it would usually take at
least
two or three traditional dates to even dare broach. Such as "How much do you earn, and do you want to have children?"

There's something rather addictive about cutting through the crap so comprehensively and finding out if you're singing from the same song sheet before the band even strikes the first chord.

It's 8:30 a.m. and I have deliberately come into the office early, leaving myself free to browse through the sex supermarket without fear of being ridiculed by any nosy work colleagues. I decide to leave the thirty-seven replies to my ad until later, and take a cyberstroll through the general site first.

A form pops up asking my requirements, as if I were simply buying a car. I can tap in my preferred requirements, such as hair color, height, and religion, and up comes a list of all the men who fit my specifications. How very Third Reich.

I decide to hedge my bets and keep it vague, asking for someone between the ages of thirty and forty-five who lives within twenty-five miles of London. The machine makes a faint grinding noise as it searches.

"Shit!" I exclaim out loud as it tells me I have 3,456 matches. Each has a passport-sized photograph they have provided, alongside their brief description of themselves. It instructs you to click on their picture to get further information.

"Bob764" catches my eye and I double click right on the bridge of his nose. The photograph enlarges and, although slightly blurred, I can see he has rather striking blue eyes and an attractive grin.

I lean forwards slightly, scrutinizing him. Could he be the one? Could I really, in all seriousness, meet the man I might spend the rest of my life with by way of a computer? And even if I did, what would we say when someone asked how we met? I'd rather say our eyes met over the condom counter at the drugstore than fess up to the truth.

Another, "Crespo," is very handsome but rather off-puttingly suggests he's a man who could fulfill a girl's greatest fantasy. I toy with the idea of asking him to fix my roof for nothing.

"Hmmm, he's tasty."

I jump out of my skin, rapidly hit the "close" button and swivel round in my chair. "Oh, thank fuck, it's you!" I press the palm of my hand against my chest, waiting for my raging pulse to subside. "What on earth are you doing in so early? Is the end of the world nigh?"

"I was going to ask you the same," says Tabitha. "But now I know why. I have to call Australia to research that piece on Lizard Island, and I'm buggered if I'm using my home phone to do it."

She plonks her handbag on the desk next to me and sits down. She nods towards my computer. "I hope you're going to put him on your list of potential dates. He looks just your type."

"What do you mean,
my type
?" I scowl, mortally wounded by the thought that I might be predictable in some way.

"Oh, you know. The romantic, penniless-poet type. The one who could be the next Dylan Thomas . . . if only someone would recognize his potential."

She's absolutely spot on, of course, and my laughable relationship history backs this up. There have been a succession of short-lived poetic ne'er-do-wells in my life and one giant, musical one to whom I gave the best years of my thighs.

After five years of giving him endless emotional and financial support whilst he tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to get a recording deal, he left me just over a year ago for a twenty-something Trustafarian with a small brain and a large fortune.

Nathan, he was called, or Satan as Richard refers to him. Even now, I can only just bring myself to say his name. But Tab's right. Unfortunately, being kicked in the teeth by Mr. Futon Potato hasn't dulled my appetite for airy-fairy "creative" types.

"Sod Australia. I'll get them out of bed later," says Tab, pulling her chair closer to my screen. "Let's have a look at some more."

We spend the next half an hour engrossed in what unfolds before us on the flickering screen, oohing and aahing in equal measures at some of the seemingly high-caliber men offering themselves up, laughing like drains at the low-caliber barrel-scrapers. All human life is here, from seventeen-year-old spotty youths right up to a couple of octogenarians.

"Look at this one!" I shriek, double clicking on "Alf, 74." His ad reads: "I'm 5' 5'' but used to be 5' 7''. I can remember Mondays to Thursdays, so if you can remember Fridays to Sundays, then let's put our heads together for some action."

"Well at least he's got a sense of humor," laughs Tab. "I might even give him a go myself."

I pull a suck-a-lemon face. "What does 'action' mean? Do you think he's referring to sex? Look at him, poor love, he'd have to bring along an eighteen-year-old and a set of jumper cables."

A door creaks open in the distance and footsteps come towards us. Seeing it's Janice, our executive producer, I hastily click the "sign out"option on the screen.

"Bloody hell, are you two on a sponsored work-in for charity?" Sarcasm is just one of the services she offers. She looks at the clock. "I don't normally see either of you for at least another hour."

"I've been making calls to Oz on the Lizard Island piece," lies Tab with consummate ease. "Jess stayed at mine last night, so came in early with me."

I simply smile in mute agreement, not trusting myself to say anything. Janice has always intimidated me.

"Good." She smiles thinly, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Feel free to come in early to the office any time you like."

"This isn't an office. It's hell with fluorescent lighting," mutters Tab to her retreating back.

Once Janice has disappeared into her walnut-clad corner lair, I wait a few moments, then retrieve the notebook I'd hastily stuffed into the top drawer of my desk as she loomed.

"That's a good morning's work there," smiles Tab, tapping the cover with a plum-colored talon. "I have a strong feeling the future Mr. Monroe may be among them."

I
t's 6 p.m. and I'm sprinting, well, more lolloping really, towards the station, my overstuffed handbag on one arm, an overnight bag on the other.

It's Olivia and Michael's seventh wedding anniversary today and he's booked the honeymoon suite at the Dorchester for them. Rather than fork out for a babysitter overnight and have all the worry of the children possibly waking up and being upset by the presence of an almost stranger, I said I'd happily stay over.

It's absolutely no bother for me; in fact, I really relish my own little slice of what I see as an idyllic family life from time to time. I can fantasize that one day I, too, will be living in domestic bliss with a man I adore and our two beautiful children.

It baffles me that women who choose to do that are often regarded as inferior to those who slave away in an office for fourteen hours a day before going back to their empty "home" and heating up a quick microwave meal for one, before falling exhausted into bed and starting the whole soulless process again the next day. I'm all for people doing what they want, but not when they sit in judgment on other people's choices in life, as if they are somehow selling out by opting to concentrate on a successful relationship and parenthood.

To my mind, if you're prepared to study and work hard, and have the gift of the gab, then you can succeed at pretty much any career in life. But achieving a well-balanced, happy home life that takes the concerns of others into account? Well, that's never guaranteed for anyone, however rich, clever, or hardworking you are. Achieving
that
takes maturity, wise choices, and more compromise and emotional plate-spinning than even the best magician could ever aspire to.

My sister Olivia has the perfect life, the one I would give my right arm for but don't even know where to begin to achieve. She and Michael met in Bristol, where he was studying medicine and she was doing a three-year physiotherapy course. She says that as soon as she clapped eyes on him in her local pub, she knew he was "the one."

Our mother always told us we'd know when
he
came along. She'd spin us magical tales about when she first saw Dad, and how it felt as if she'd been struck by a thunderbolt. She often chose to omit the less flowery fact that, at the time, he'd been selling her a two-seater sofa in orange tweed.

As an adult, I now realize the circumstances and their alleged exchange of dialogue would change a little with each telling, as she reinvented history in her starry-eyed pursuit of romance. But as children, Olivia and I had unquestioningly absorbed every word and carried the ideal through to adulthood; a giant expectation we would either fulfill or fail dismally at.

Olivia had hit the jackpot with Michael, but my giant expectation had become a millstone round my neck, weighing me down with the assumption that, unless I feel like I have been struck by no less than Zeus himself, the man I'm dating isn't "the one."

The "experts," as they like to call themselves, always say those from broken homes are disadvantaged when it comes to finding lasting love, because they have no blueprint to work from. But what if you have a blueprint of near-perfection, as drummed into me through my formative years by my mother? What then? Believe me, it can be just as inhibiting.

Olivia and Michael live in a large Victorian house at the end of a long, leafy street in Dulwich village, the place where those who previously occupied Clapham's "Nappy Valley" move to once they have acquired a bit more money. Their main reason for choosing the area was so six-year-old Matthew would be well placed to attend the prestigious Dulwich Elementary, with its spacious playing fields so rare in London.

I open the black metal gate with the "Beware of the Dog" sign left by the previous owners, and rush up to the highly glossed front door in British racing green. Externally, everything about the house is conventional. Olivia's only nod to eccentricity is the tinny electronic doorbell that plays Anita Baker's "Ring My Bell." A mortified Michael disconnects it every time they have a dinner party.

As a computerized Anita warbles on, I peer in through the front window to see Matthew and four-year-old Emily glued to the television and completely ignoring the fact that I am hopping from one foot to another outside. Ah, the bliss of those selfish, guilt-free years. It's such a shame we don't appreciate them at the time.

"Hi!" Michael opens the door, smiling broadly. He looks smart in a black cashmere sweater and black trousers.

"Bloody hell, it's the Milk Tray man!" I tease.

"And this lady loves him." Olivia appears behind him and places her arms round his waist, squeezing tightly. Michael turns and kisses the end of her nose.

"Yeuch." I wrinkle my nose. "Book a room, will you?"

"We have." Michael looks at his watch. "Which reminds me, let's get going so we can make use of it before dinner." He disappears from view into the sitting room, leaving Olivia and me standing in the narrow hall whose walls are covered with family photographs.

"Right!" says Olivia in her best take-charge voice. "The kids are fed. So all that's left is bath, cocoa, and story."

"And what about them?" I quip. I know their routine inside out. "Leave it to me. You go and enjoy yourselves."

"Believe me, we will." Olivia's eyes were shining. "Just think, uninhibited sex without fear of interruption or being overheard by the rugrats," she says, using her pet term for Matthew and Emily.

"
Any
sex would be nice," I say ruefully.

"You'll meet someone soon, pumpkin." She ruffles my hair. "You'll see. It'll happen when you least expect it."

I look doubtful. "Maybe I should take up jogging. At least I'll get to hear heavy breathing again."

Olivia laughs. "An easier option would be to go out on dates. You never bloody do."

"Actually, I've already had thirty-seven e-mails answering that ad the dreaded Kara put on the Internet."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Really? Blimey, talk about instant gratification. In the old days, you had to wait for a bundle to be forwarded on from your PO box number."

I shoot her a cynical look. "As if."

"Yes, I
know
I've been lucky. But luck doesn't keep a marriage going. You have to work at it, particularly once you have kids." She bends down to scoop up one of Emily's headbands discarded on the floor. "It just depends on whether you both rise to the challenge. If it's too one-sided, that's when it doesn't work."