Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (10 page)

‘Thanks for coming tonight Laura!’ the girl says, plastering an enormous and completely fake smile across her face. ‘My name’s Natasha and I’ll be your host. Please enjoy the bar area until the other attendees arrive.’

She says
attendees
, but I hear
losers
.

‘Once everybody has settled in I’ll issue further instructions.’ Now it’s starting to sound like we’re about to embark on some kind of top secret mission into enemy territory.

‘Okay… thanks,’ I reply and walk over to ask the bored barman for a Smirnoff Ice.

‘Hello there,’ a male voice says from behind me. Without turning round I know this guy will be greasy. I can tell from his tone of voice.

I take a swig of Smirnoff, re-arrange my face into an expression of pleasant neutrality and turn round.

…yep, greasy as hell.

It looks like you could squeeze his hair and cook chips with what drips off.

‘Hello,’ I say, knowing I’m going to be stuck in a conversation with this bloke until somebody else shows up and saves me.

‘I’m Angelo.’

Of course you are. With a white cotton suit and slicked back hair, what other name could you possibly have?

‘Laura.’

‘That’s a beautiful name, Laura. It means goddess, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it just means laurel shrub.’

In fact I know it does. When I was a kid I once sat with some friends looking up what our names meant. They called me shrub-a-dub for weeks.

‘Ah, I am sure it means goddess. Maybe it is Hebrew I am thinking of.’

This is obviously Angelo’s go-to chat up line.

I’m sure every woman on the planet has a name that means goddess in one ancient language or another as far as he’s concerned. I’d love to see what he makes of someone called Helga.

‘No idea. I was named after my grandmother,’ I add.

‘And a beautiful lady I’m sure she was as well.’

The rest of the Smirnoff Ice gets downed in one fast swallow.

‘Would you like another drink, Laura?’

‘Double vodka and coke please,’ I tell Angelo, safe in the knowledge I’ll be getting a taxi home due to my Ford
Ka’s
engine exploding last week.

Angelo takes a thin black wallet out of his white trousers and calls the barman over.

I’m barely into the evening and I’m already being wooed by a greasy Italian who couldn’t be more stereotypical if he spoke like Super Mario and twirled a pizza in one hand.

I bet he wouldn’t be quite so interested in me if he knew I was suffering from itchy piles. It was taking all my concentration at this point not to start scratching my backside.

Mind you, if Angelo won’t take the hint and go away soon, I might just start doing it anyway. It doesn’t matter how much of a goddess he thinks I am, I can’t see him staying around if I start working at my bottom with one finger like a dog with fleas.

I don’t need to resort to such drastic measures as at this moment three other women walk into the bar.

They’ve obviously come together – strength in numbers and all that. With hindsight I should have done the same thing. I could have dragged Elise along if nothing else.

At least one of these women is a rather stunning dark haired beauty, wearing an unfortunate ensemble of floral headscarf and gypsy skirt.

Angelo’s clocked her and I can see him trying to decide whether he should carry on chatting up the skinny blonde who keeps jiggling about on the spot, or go over and charm the Latin lovely with the deep brown eyes.

‘It was nice to meet you Laura. I look forward to our date,’ he says and makes a move to leave. I am entirely unsurprised.

‘And you Angelo.’

He saunters off towards his next victim and I am left blissfully alone with my second alcoholic drink and itchy rear end.

More people start to trickle in.

My nerves get worse as each one enters.

I order another double vodka, hoping it will calm them… and make the men look more attractive into the bargain.

I notice quite a good looking guy walk in bearing the number 13 on his badge. I’m put off by his name though. I really can’t see myself being Laura Artichoke any time in the near future.

By the time the rabidly upbeat Natasha issues us with instructions to go through to the dating area, I’ve got a real buzz on from the vodka.

There’s a card on one of the tables with a number 5 on it, so I sit down, hoping the hard wooden chair isn’t going to cause my embarrassing complaint too much grief.

Hah! Chance would be a fine thing.

I’m not two minutes into the first date - with a guy who won’t shut up about how much he loves pianos - when my bum starts to itch worse than it has at any point thus far. My eye starts to twitch as the irritation mounts.

What the hell do I do now?

I’m pretty drunk from the vodka, so my powers of reasoning have deserted me. I simply have
no idea
how to get myself out of this situation.

I’ll just have to sit here for the next hour while a series of single men are trotted out in front of me, trying my hardest not to squirm back and forth in my seat like a new born puppy.

‘…and that’s when it hit me. I should just buy one myself! What do you think of that?’ says Colin.

I have no idea what he’s on about.

‘Um…’

‘I mean, it’s not as expensive as I thought it would be. Maybe you’d like to see it if I do get one?’

Oh Christ.

…a new car?

…a new house?

…a penis extension?

I try to recall what little I’d picked up about Colin before my piles became all consuming. ‘Good for you Colin. I’m sure it’s a lovely…
piano
.’

‘Yes! Yes it is!’

Thank God for that.

I don’t intend to ever see Colin again, but nobody likes to be rude, do they?

I try a little harder to listen to him for the next two minutes, but when the buzzer sounds I really have no idea who he is beyond his predilection for ivory keyed musical instruments.

Before my next speed date sits down – a tall, chiselled looking individual called William - I shuffle my butt cheeks around a bit, which provides temporary relief.

I’m tempted to lean sideways to see if that helps, but this will look like I’m letting out a fart, which probably wouldn’t be the kind of thing that’d impress a prospective husband.

William turns out to be the kind of guy Graham the mountain biker would get on with like a house on fire. This one’s more into wind surfing than mountain biking, but displays the same idiotic propensity for casual sexism and random shouting.

I’m very relieved when the buzzer goes, because it gets rid of William and means I can seat shuffle again for a few moments.

Swiftly following William is Greg the PCSO, who spends five minutes telling me all about Section 4 of the Harassment Act. As far as conversation topics at a speed dating event go, this must take the brass ring for the most inappropriate. He seems quite disappointed when the buzzer sounds and he’s forced to move away.

To me, the buzzer is becoming the countdown to my salvation. The sooner I hear the eighth and final buzz I know this hell will be temporarily over and I can go to the ladies loo.

Next in line is Tom.

Tom seems like a nice lad, but frankly he could have told me he was a millionaire a-la carte chef, who could breathe through his ears and loved giving sensual massages and it wouldn’t have mattered.

Buzz!

Adam could have shown me a foot long tongue with prehensile abilities, talked about his volunteer work saving the lives of abandoned puppies and African orphans,
and
told me he worked for Smirnoff and I couldn’t have cared less.

Buzz!

Malik
is another nice guy, who I would quite happily have chatted to in less trying circumstances.

Turns out he’s a graphic designer. I’ve been thinking about getting one in to improve the shop’s image so he could’ve been a useful person to know.

What prevents me from handing over my phone number and going out with him again on a night when it doesn’t feel like I’ve got a nest of ants in my underwear, is the fact he stills lives at home with his mother.

I once made the mistake of dating a guy who lived with his parents.

Never again.

The memory of seeing his mother’s face from the doorway between my upturned legs still haunts me to this day.

Buzz!

Just one more… just
one
more…

‘Hello beautiful Laura, who’s name is a shrub.’

I feel like crying.

Angelo proceeds to tell me all about his father’s vineyard, his mother’s singing voice and his own
Maserati
. It’s just as well he loves the sound of his own voice because I’m not contributing much.

Buzz!

‘Let me buy you another drink!’ Angelo cries, before the strident buzzer tone has died.

‘No, no, that’s okay,’ I tell him, getting up from the horrible wooden chair for the first time in an hour with indescribable relief.

‘Please, you are such a good listener and I think we have a real spark together. A drink is the least I can do for such a wonderful conversation partner.’

Seriously?

He calls mono-syllabic responses, a pinched face and a constant jiggle the hallmarks of a great conversationalist?

Before I can protest further though he’s got an arm round me and is propelling me back to the bar.

Now, frankly I blame you for this, Mother.

You always told me that when a charming man offers you a drink you should accept.

So despite the piles, the fact I’m already far drunker than I should be on a school night, and Angelo’s towering narcissism, I stand there for another five minutes necking my second bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

I elect to avoid more vodka for reasons which should be obvious.

I couldn’t bring myself to ask for a soft drink though. Not on a night like this…

Angelo has just started telling me all about the funk band he sings with when my resolve – and my reserve - breaks.

‘I’m sorry Angelo. Would you excuse me? I need to - ’

To what? Whip down my jeans and have a good rummage?

‘I need to… powder my nose.’

I may as well have said ‘
I need to take a big shit
’.