Love @ First Site (4 page)

"Maybe one of the thirty-seven will rise to the challenge." I'm trying to sound positive. I follow Olivia through to the kitchen at the back of the house.

"Any of them look promising?" She looks at me questioningly.

"I haven't looked at them yet. It's a bit difficult at work. I've just looked at some of the ads placed by men on the general Web site. They're quite a mixed bag."

"Well, once you've got the kids to bed, don't forget Michael's computer is upstairs. You can peruse your thirty-seven potential soul mates without fear of being rumbled."

I smile appreciatively. "I might well do that."

"Ready?" Michael reappears, clutching a large black-leather overnight bag, his jacket slung over his arm.

Five minutes later, I'm standing at the door with Matthew and Emily, waving them off. Neither of the children seems the slightest bit perturbed at seeing their parents disappearing off into the sunset, and I feel a warm flush of love for them as I realize it's because I'm here. If it had been Juanita, their cleaning lady and erstwhile babysitter, Emily would no doubt have attached herself to Olivia's leg and been dragged up the garden path screaming like a banshee.

But "Aunty Jess" is the next best thing to Mum and Dad--in fact, sometimes she's even better because she indulges them that little bit more. Tonight, the night I have my future to think of, is no exception.

"Aunty Jess, can I watch my
Spiderman
DVD?" pleads Matthew, as soon as his parents are out of earshot. He grabs hold of my forearm and squeezes it. "Pleeeeeeeaaaase!"

"Me want to see
Anstay,
" says Emily, referring to the Disney cartoon
Anastasia
that she's seen at least twenty times already.

Luckily, thanks to Michael's sizable salary as a heart consultant at Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, theirs is a two-DVD-player household. So after their bath, I plonk them down with a mug of cocoa each, watching the film of their choice in separate rooms.

Once I know they're engrossed, I sneak upstairs to Michael's study and settle myself down in front of his computer.

Waiting for it to load, then make that torturous, squealy noise as it dials up AOL, I sit and gaze around the small room that would normally accommodate a single bed. The desk is old-fashioned mahogany with a red leather top and brass drop handles on the drawers.

The computer and its accessories take up most of the available space, but there's a little corner left for a framed picture of Michael and Olivia on their wedding day.

I remember it well. I was twenty-seven and maid of honor, a title that only served to hammer home that I had no proper relationship of my own to speak of.

It was pre-Nathan, and I was having a rather patchy fling with Greg, an Australian surfer dude who floated in and out on the tide of life. He was gorgeous and said very little, which I initially took to mean he was from the "less is more"school of thought. Then I realized it was simply because he had absolutely nothing to say. In fact, he was so unutterably thick that light bent round him.

I didn't invite him to my sister's wedding, mainly because I couldn't rely on him to turn up, but also because I knew he'd be way out of his depth with the other guests. And that included the four-year-old twin bridesmaids who were Michael's nieces.

So I went on my own and endured an entire day of looking a fright in tartan (Michael's Scottish) and being asked by just about every other guest if I was going to be next up the aisle. By the end of the day, I was thinking of wordlessly handing everyone a press release that read: "No, I haven't got a rewarding, fulfilling relationship like my sister Olivia. I am the emotional runt of the family, the lost cause."

"You've got mail." The computerized female voice stirs me from my trance and I stare at the screen. The thirty-seven e-mails have now mushroomed to forty-eight. I double click on the first one.

Hi, I'm Simon . . .

I magnify his picture to discover he's very handsome with dark blond hair and a tanned face. It's clearly been taken on a beach somewhere, in that dusk sunshine that's always so flattering. It's the first one, and it looks promising. Not a bad start.

"Shit!" I glance at my watch and leap up. It's 10 p.m. and I've forgotten all about Matthew and Emily watching their films.

I creep into Michael and Olivia's room and Emily is fast asleep in the middle of the bed, her empty mug still clasped in her chubby little hand. The television has clicked off DVD onto ITV, and
News at Ten
is just starting. I switch it off and pull the covers over Emily's bare legs. I'll sneak in next to her later.

Downstairs, Matthew is still watching
Spiderman
, obviously second time around.

"Come on, you. Bed." I flick off the machine and ruffle his hair. "Don't you dare tell Mum and Dad I let you stay up this late. It's our little secret."

"OK." He smiles, a mischievous glint in his dark blue eyes. "But only if you read me a bedtime story."

"Oooh, you're ruthless. You're going to go far, you are." I tuck him into bed and grab a Spiderman comic from his bookshelf. I start to read, an Oscar-winning performance even if I say so myself, with all the dramatic "Pows!" and "Bams!" in their right place. But by the end of the third page, Matthew's mouth has fallen open and he's emitting tiny, butterfly snores. Flicking off the bedside light, I sit in the half glow for a while, just listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing and studying his motionless face.

Although I didn't actually give birth to him and Emily, I can't imagine loving them any more than I do. This scenario--married life with two or three children and all the angst, hard work, and sacrifice it entails--is absolutely, 100 percent what I want.

Kara has always said she doesn't want children, which is probably a good thing rather than pass on her grumpy cow chromosome. She says she's too selfish and wants to carry on having a nice car and foreign holidays, as if they were somehow mutually exclusive from parenthood.

It always amazes me how people think a tiny seven-pound bundle is going to control your life, issuing orders from its high chair, banning vacations and insisting that only a sensible, family estate car will do. What utter silliness.

Sure, it's probably easier to holiday in Britain and drive a roomy tank, but if you want to fly off to Barbados and drive a two-seater sports car, you can. And there's not a damn thing little Junior can do about it.

Once, when Olivia was bit squiffy from too many gin and tonics, she confided in me that, although she would never admit it to anyone else, she felt slightly superior to women who chose not to have children. She said she pitied them for not ever being able to know the strength of love between a mother and her child.

"I loved my carefree, single years," she murmured. "But if they stretched on endlessly without contrast, they would seem very empty indeed."

I knew what she meant. At thirty-four, I'm bored sick of my single, selfish life.
I
want that contrast Olivia spoke so passionately about, but the big question is, am I going to get it? And from whom?

Occasionally, a woman I work with tells me how envious she is of me and my uncomplicated existence. She has three lovely children and a solid, if unremarkable, marriage, but said she longs to do what she wants, when she wants.

"No, I envy
you,"
I replied.

"Yeah, right," she said ruefully, before wandering off to the local grocery store to get her family's tea.

Some women genuinely enjoy life without the major responsibility of incumbents. But I'm not one of them. I can only liken it to craving a slice of chocolate cake when, say, family life is chocolate free. A day at a health spa with your girlfriends, swigging champagne and not worrying about getting home or having a hangover in the morning--
that's
your slice of chocolate cake.

But imagine being able to have it whenever you want. Huge, unlimited, stodgy slices of it. See? Loses its appeal, doesn't it? Well, that's the prolonged single life for me. Unappealing.

I kiss Matthew on the forehead and creep out of his bedroom, edging back down the stairs to the mezzanine level, where Michael's study is. Shutting down the computer, I fold up the piece of paper with twelve names written down--the dozen potentials chosen from forty-eight replies.

Stuffing it into my jeans pocket, I sigh as I watch the power drain from the screen. I want family life and it doesn't seem to be coming my way via the usual routes. So I'll just have to take matters into my own hands.

Tomorrow, I'll whittle the twelve names down to three and arrange my first foray into cyberdating.

Four

Hi, I'm Simon. I'm 35, of athletic build, and have a black belt in judo. I'm about to get my pilot's license, but to fund my passion for flying I have to work occasionally as an account manager for a West End advertising agency. But don't tell my mother that's what I do, she thinks I'm the doorman in a brothel! The woman of my dreams will be equally adventurous, but most of all, great fun.

I
thought Saturday lunch was good place to start. Broad daylight, informal, as long or, more importantly, as short as I like.

It's a surprisingly warm, sunny day for late May, and I have arranged to meet Simon at Buona Sera, a lively Italian restaurant down a small side street in Covent Garden. I have already told him, via e-mail, that I have a hair appointment at 2:30 p.m. A complete lie, of course, but I figure that if he turns out to be loathsome, then I need a good ploy to get away. And if we hit it off, then it's a good ploy to leave him wanting more. I'm a genius.

Being a Taurus and obsessive about punctuality, I get there slightly early and settle myself outside in the sunshine. Taking the seat with the best view of the entrance, I figure I'll also get a good few seconds advance warning of what I've let myself in for. So far, only an elderly couple and a lone woman have arrived after me.

Ten minutes later, I have read the menu so many times I could sweep the category in
Jeopardy.
Glancing around in frustration, I look across the street and notice a man standing motionless, staring in my direction. It looks vaguely like the man in the photograph, but I can't be sure.

He walks across the road towards me. "Hi, are you Jess?"

Wow. Now he's come into sharp focus, I can see the Web site picture doesn't do him any justice. He looks like a young Harrison Ford, what Madeleine and I would describe as an "NGR," "no gin required."

In answer to his question, I nod mutely.

"Hi, I'm Simon." He extends his hand for me to shake, but looks utterly ill at ease. Probably because, up to now, he thinks he's about to have lunch with Helen Keller.

I flash him my best smile. "Nice to meet you."

Nope. That hasn't loosened him up. His eyes darting nervously around him, he finally directs his gaze somewhere over my right shoulder.

"Do you mind if we eat inside?"

I frown slightly. Because it's a beautifully sunny day, all the other tables outside are now taken, meaning my early arrival had nabbed us a prime piece of real estate. I feel irritated at the thought of having to give it up. "Why?"

He looks perplexed. "Sorry?"

"
Why
do you want to eat inside? It's a gorgeous day." In case he hasn't noticed the blue sky, I gesture towards it.

"I'm not very good in the heat," he says lamely. "I get hay fever and go all blotchy."

"In May? Bit early, isn't it?" I don't bother to hide my incredulity, then shrug. "OK, then. Let's go."

Once inside, he relaxes instantly, his face lighting up with a smile that makes Tom Cruise look like Lurch.

I feel the small butterflies of excitement in my stomach. It's my first date and it's with a man with movie star looks. Suddenly, the Internet I have hitherto shown little interest in is the greatest invention since the push-up bra.

As he peruses the menu on which I am already word perfect, I take the opportunity to scrutinize him closely. He has short, dark blond hair that's slightly spiky at the front and a faint tan that brings out the paler blue in his eyes. I could stare at him all day.

"You're not looking at the menu."

Oh God, he's just caught me gawping at him. I hastily try and make it seem like I was looking over his shoulder, making myself look more ridiculous in the process. "Um, I glanced at it before you got here. I've got a photographic memory," I burble.

"Me too." There's that stomach-lurching smile again. "Trouble is, the lens cap's on most of the time."

He glances back down at the menu for a few seconds, then slams it shut and places his elbows on the table. "So how come someone like you is advertising on the Internet?"

I'm rather taken aback by the directness of the question, but manage not to show it. "I could say the same to you. You're not exactly Quasimodo."

"No, but I've got a hunch we're going to get on."

We groan simultaneously.

"Seriously though," he persists. "Why did you advertise?"

"I didn't as such. My friends did it for me. They thought it would be a fun birthday present." I raise my eyes heavenward.

"Ah, I see." He nods slowly. "Well, I'm glad you decided to give it a go, or we'd never have got the chance to meet." He knocks his water glass against mine. "In the absence of wine, a toast to our first date."

Wine. First date. Pathetic, I know, but I clutch at these as positive signs. Suddenly, I'm regretting my invented hair appointment and wondering if there's a plausible explanation for missing it without him thinking I'm desperately keen.

After ordering our food and some real wine from a waiter whose reluctant demeanor suggests we're interrupting his modeling career, we settle down to learn something about each other.

He tells me he's one of three privately educated brothers, from Tunbridge Wells in Kent, son of a former bank manager and stay-at-home mother.

"When Dad retired, my parents moved to Eastbourne. Apparently, it's the law." He smiles.

I, in turn, tell him about Olivia and my parents. "It's a funny thing, isn't it, getting old?" I say. "My mother still looks great, but she's started recording daytime TV programs, a sure sign that senility is setting in. And no matter where Dad sits, there's always a draft."

"Aren't you a daytime TV producer?" he says, referring to the tantalizing description I gave him in an e-mail. His expression suggests he's rather impressed.

"Sounds glamorous, doesn't it?" I laugh nervously. "It isn't really though. I work for
Good Morning Britain
, fixing up the facial scaffolding for the makeovers."

He purses his lips, accentuating how beautifully defined and kissable they are. "Don't do yourself down. I really like that show. Many a time I end up watching that instead of coming up with an eye-catching design or slogan for the blank sheet of paper in front of me."

"So what sort of designs do you do when you're not absorbed in our flower-arranging and cookery items?"

"I work in the print ad section of GFDS. I'm supposed to come up with groundbreaking newspaper and magazine ads for clients. But eventually, I want to get into making ads for TV and film."

"Ooh, I've heard of that agency. I'm sure we did an item last year on one of its ads; the one with the half-naked supermodel practically having an orgasm because she'd just tasted a new margarine. There were loads of complaints about it."

"Yep. That was mine." He grins. "I'll have you know the orgasm was crucial to the story line. Fortunately, in my line of business, attracting lots of complaints is treated as a huge accolade rather than a sacking offense. At least it gets the product talked about."

The food arrives and he tucks into his chili con carne with a side order of garlic bread. I pick at my salade nicoise, my appetite quelled somewhat by the far more temptingly delicious sight sitting across the table from me.

"Everything all right with the food?" It's the sullen waiter again, noting my full plate.

"Fine, thanks." I pop an olive into my mouth to illustrate my satisfaction. When he's walked off, I poke my tongue out at his retreating back.

Simon laughs. "You're funny." He holds one finger in front of him. "Funny." He holds up another. "Pretty." Then a third. "And successful. Which makes me wonder why you're having to go on dates like this. You must have men crawling all over you."

I feel myself blush, and hope it's an endearing pink flush rather than my usual blotchy puce.

"Hardly," I scoff. "I haven't dated anyone for over a year." Worried that makes me sound like a desperate saddo, I add an afterthought. "Well, not seriously anyway."

He looks thoughtful and finishes chewing a piece of bread. "So, who was your last serious relationship?"

I curl my top lip. "Nathan. Otherwise known as Satan to my friends. He was my five-year mistake."

Simon's eyebrows shoot up. "That's a long time to waste on someone who's wrong for you."

"I know. But it wasn't always bad. It just became particularly unbearable towards the end."

I look up from my virtually untouched salad, but he doesn't seem to be listening. He's staring over my shoulder at the restaurant door, something he seems to have done every time it's opened.

He blinks a few times and turns his attention back to me. "Sorry, I
was
listening. I find sitting near doors very distracting, because although I don't mean to, I always look to see who's coming in."

"I know what you mean," I say reassuringly, although I don't really. With him in front of me, I have absolutely no desire to look anywhere else. "So what about you?"

"Huh?"

"When was your last serious relationship?"

He ponders the question for a moment, rolling the rim of his wineglass along his bottom lip. "Um, it ended about six months ago. We were together for three years."

"I'm sorry to hear that." I'm not sorry at all. In fact, I'm ecstatic. Borderline hysterical even.

"Oh, don't be. It had been in its death throes for some time, then she decided to go and work in Australia."

Could he be any more perfect? Gorgeous, funny, successful, easily capable of holding down a long-term relationship,
and
with an ex-girlfriend who lives on another continent twelve thousand miles away. Thank you, God.

He glances at his watch. "It's two-fifteen. Haven't you got a hair appointment?"

Bugger bugger bugger. Why the hell did I ever say that? Just as the conversation is becoming more intimate, I have to leave for an urgent appointment with my empty flat and afternoon made-for-TV movie.

"I could always cancel," I blurt.

He looks puzzled. "Really? Won't they charge you for not turning up?"

I can hear false, tinkling laughter. It's mine. "Oh no, Mario is really laid back about all that. I've been going to him for years." Mario, what a cliche. My hairdresser is actually called Colin.

"Well, if you think he won't mind . . ." He picks up the wine list. "You make the call and I'll order us another bottle."

My insides on full spin, I dial my home number and leave a message on my own answering machine. "Hi there. It's Jessica Monroe. I have an appointment with Mario at two-thirty, but can you can tell him I can't make it? You will? Oh, thank you so much. Bye!"

I've heard more convincing performances on
Crossroads,
but it doesn't seem to have aroused his suspicion.

"Wine's on its way." He smiles. "I must say, I'm enjoying our lunch very much."

"Me too." I lean towards him a little more. "You're my first cyber date, you know."

"Really? And how lucky you were to hit the jackpot first time." His expression is mischievous and he leans forward and plants a playful kiss on the end of my nose. "Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." At the point of impact, it felt as though a million volts had shot through me. I'm keen, some might say desperate, for him to gravitate towards my mouth.

But the waiter arrives out of the blue with the wine and fills up both our glasses. I wait until he's out of earshot.

"How many dates have you been on?" I ask with as much nonchalance as I can muster.

"Let's see." He holds up his hands and starts flicking his fingers up and down until I can no longer keep count. "Your face!" he laughs. "Just two. You're my third."

Taking a rather large glug of wine for Dutch courage, I swallow hard. "Have you seen either of them again?" Say no. Please say no.

"No. They weren't really my type, to be honest."

My body may seem outwardly still, but my inner spirit is doing handsprings followed by a full stag leap around the restaurant. "So what's your
type
then?"

"You are, actually." He extends his chest across the table and kisses me full on the mouth. He lingers there, clearly waiting for a response, and I can't help myself. Pinch me, pinch me. We are gently smooching and I think I might actually pass out with sheer pleasure. I can't remember a Saturday afternoon as satisfying as this since a teenage Kara tripped up in the precinct whilst trying to impress some bloke with her new cork wedges.

Eventually, for the sake of decorum, I gently pull away. "Yum."

Yum?
Yum?
Jesus Christ, as witty, coquettish bon mots go, that's right up there with "glad," my least favorite word of all time. Memo to self: Must practice and learn Dorothy Parker-esque repartee.

He makes a circling motion on the back of my hand with his forefinger. "As you might have guessed, I'd like to see you again."

"Fine by me." I'm grinning with unadulterated delight, but I can't help myself. Having heard and read so many dating horror stories, I can't believe my luck.

The door behind me creaks open again, but this time he doesn't tear his gaze away from mine. "Good. I'll e-mail you to fix a date. Shall we make it dinner next time?"