Kismetology Read online

  "I reckon they’re all fake," Dan says. "I don’t think anyone places personal ads these days, so the paper makes them up."

  "Really?"

  "Come on, Mac. Would you really like to meet a ‘Hugh Hefner wannabe, seeks Playgirls for frisky fun, pool parties and three-or-more-somes’?"

  "Well, not personally, but maybe there are girls out there who have always wanted to be Playboy bunnies, and some old dude with a Jacuzzi mat in his bath is as close as they’re going to get."

  "Nah. They’re all faked."

  "I guess we’ll find out when we respond to some."

  "Which one are you going to respond to, the Chubby Charmer, or the ‘Previously gay forty-nine-year-old who wants a butch female for serious relationship’?

  "How can you be ‘previously gay’? Is that even possible?"

  "I have no idea."

  By the early afternoon we’ve sorted out the good from the bad, the ugly, the uglier and the downright creepy.

  Some of my favourite creepy guy ads:

  "Toyboy, 30, seeks older woman of 50+ to worship."

  "Knight in shining armour. Ride into the sunset with me if you are 45-50 and like drinking beer." Because beer is so very romantic.

  "Paul is a 67 yr. old bachelor who likes talking about himself in the third person and WLTM YOU. Yes, you." Mac is a twenty-nine year old who thinks sixty-seven year olds should know better.

  "Nine inches (when flaccid) WLTM any age female with a large vagina and a high sex drive." Eww. Just eww.

  "Gorgeous Brad-a-like, 70, seeks 50 or younger female with Angelina Jolie’s lips." There are seventy-year-old Brad-a-likes?

  "Open minded male seeks petite female. Size 12 and above need not apply." Yeah. He’s so open-minded that he wouldn’t be seen dead with any woman with an average UK waist size. In fact, I’m kind of tempted to take my size sixteen self and arrange to meet him, just to see his reaction.

  "I’m the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Young looking, slim, 50 year old with smashing personality seeks fabulous female to spoil rotten." No need to be modest about it.

  "Intelligent, 6ft, 60 year old, WLTM an aticulate female for witty banter, fun and maybe more." Look, he’s so intelligent he can’t spell articulate.

  Well, I for one don’t know where to begin with those dazzling choices. But seriously, what man actually believes women respond to that kind of approach? Who went around telling men that if you announce your penis size to the world women will throw themselves at you? And perhaps more worryingly—is this what’s left? Is that lousy selection up there as good as it gets? Am I on a mission for nothing here, and the best guy I’m ever going to find for my mother is a beer-drinking knight, or a chubby snake-like charmer? Or perhaps Hugh Hefner’s British counterpart?

  However, all is not lost. Dan has helped me weed out some decent sounding men. Well, semi-decent sounding, anyway. Actually, Dan mainly spent the afternoon guffawing at stupid ads, while I was trying to find an okay-ish man. It does leave you wondering how okay-ish men have to be to place a singles ad in the first place, but, well, I have some box numbers to call. Six, to be exact. Out of the stack of papers I bought, I have unearthed six men who may or may not add up. Now I just have the unenviable task of thinking up the best way to explain what I’m trying to do via the answerphone message you have to leave when responding.

  After Dan leaves for work that afternoon, I rehearse a little in my head before picking up the phone, dialling the premium rate number, and entering the personal number of the advert.

  I’m through to the answer machine of Guy Number One:

  "Sincere, honest male. Young fifty. Very sexy. Tall, fun, and good looking." Okay, so I have to wonder how "sincere and honest" he is to describe himself as very sexy, tall, fun and good looking, and I’m not entirely sure what "young fifty" means—you’re either fifty or you’re not, right? But hey, the pickings are slim.

  "Hello," I say to the machine. "My name is Mackenzie Atkinson, and while this might seem like a strange request, I’m looking for a date for my mother. She’s about your age, very pretty, and fits the profile you wanted. If you’re interested in meeting to discuss this further, please call me back." I leave my phone number and hang up. Was that too businesslike? It was, wasn’t it? And the part about fitting the profile was obviously made up because this dude didn’t mention what kind of woman he wanted to meet.

  I’m not sure of the etiquette when it comes to these things. Should I wait to see if I get a response from that guy, or should I leave my message for the other five guys as well?

  I decide to call the other five men’s machines as well. Can’t hurt to try, right? And I don’t want them to be snapped up while I’m waiting around for some guy to respond. The more I read Guy Number One’s profile, the worse I think he sounds, anyway.

  Number two is an improvement:

  "Divorced male, 55, WLTM an outgoing 45-55 year old lady who loves animals and spending time outdoors."

  Promising, huh?

  I leave my message for him and move on to the next four.

  "59 year old male, enjoys cruises and weekend breaks. Come away with me?"

  If he knows Norah Jones songs, maybe he’s not too bad.

  "Attractive, youthful, 60 year old with GSOH. Would like to meet a loyal and friendly female for fun and more."

  I did have to wonder whether the "attractive" and "youthful" parts are an illustration of the GSOH, but Eleanor certainly ticks the "loyal and friendly female" box, so I think he might be worth a go.

  "60 year old, very, very rich male. WLTM a kind and caring woman who I can share my wealth and my years with." Not the sort I would usually go for. It does leave you wondering why he didn’t just print his bank balance out and put that in instead, but I like the "share my years with" part. Very sweet. So I leave him a message too.

  And the final choice:

  "Youthful 50 year old with all my own hair, WLTM a fun, fearless female for days out and nights in." The hair bit makes me laugh, and any days out or nights in for Mum would be mother-free days and nights for Dan and me as well.

  And there you have it. The grand total of almost a whole day of looking through newspapers like a professional matchmaker.

  CHAPTER 11

  The first guy to respond is "youthful 50 year old with all my own hair." Otherwise known as Phil. He calls me within an hour of my message, and we arrange a nine p.m. meeting at Belisana the following night.

  Once again, I manage to be late thanks to the unforgiving traffic. Seriously, where is everyone going at nine o’clock on a Sunday night? Shouldn’t they all be home watching Songs of Praise or something?

  The hostess leads me to the table Dan seems to have designated as mine. It’s in direct sight of the kitchen, so I’m sure that Dan is keeping an eye out in case some old boy tries anything. Knowing that Dan is probably watching is comforting and disturbing in equal measures. But at least I feel marginally safer than I would if I were alone with a stranger twice my age in somewhere I didn’t know.

  "Hello," Phil says, standing up from the table when I arrive. He holds his hand out and I shake it.

  "I’m Phil," he shakes my hand vigorously. "Mackenzie, right?"

  "Call me Mac," I say. "It’s nice to meet you."

  He’s quite short, I notice. And he has dark hair and dark eyes. But you can’t have it all.

  "You too. Can I get you something to drink?"

  "Just water, thanks."

  "Me too." He smiles at me. Hmm, nice dentures. Seriously. If those are real teeth then I’ll eat my scarf.

  He signals Holly, one of the waitresses over. "Two waters, please. And may we see a menu?"

  She nods politely and leaves.

  "So, you’re after a date for your mother? That is unusual. How did that come about, then?"

  "She’s been very lonely lately. I just moved in with my boyfriend, so Eleanor is on her own again, and I thought it would be nice for her to meet some men, you know, have some mal
e company." I have learnt that the number one rule when trying to find a date for your mother is that it is not a good idea to mention to potential date candidates that the reason you want your mother to date him is so that she’ll have someone else’s life to interfere in, other than your own.

  "Ah, I get it. Nudge nudge, wink wink, huh?"

  I shrug, not really knowing what he’s talking about. Nudge and wink nothing, mate.

  "So, shall we order?" I ask, picking up one of the menus that the waitress has just placed on the table.

  "Sure, have you been here before? Any recommendations?"

  Is that a nice way of saying "your plan is busted, I know your boyfriend is head chef" or is he just making conversation?

  "I’ve never tried it, but I’ve heard great things about the poached salmon."

  "I was just thinking that, it sounds nice. And salmon is very good for you, you know."

  I nod like I’ve eaten fish in the past decade.

  "I’ll have the vegetable pasta," I say to the waitress Phil has beckoned over.

  She sets a jug of water down on the table and leaves with our orders.

  "So, tell me about you," I ask him. "How do you like to spend your time?"

  "Well, I’m an optician, so I spend a lot of time looking into people’s eyes." He laughs at himself.

  I mentally roll my eyes. "And you like days out and nights in?"

  "Yes. There’s nothing nicer than curling up under a duvet on the settee with a bowl of popcorn, a glass of wine, and a good movie…"

  Promising.

  "…Especially after coming in from a day of white water rafting."

  I nearly spit out the water I’m drinking. And I thought he was normal.

  "You like dangerous sports," I say. It is not a question. It is a statement.

  "Yes," he replies. "The adrenaline rush is incredible. Is your mother into things like that?"

  "Eleanor. And no, she isn’t. The most daring she ever gets is walking her dog when it’s hail stoning."

  "Oh." He seems disappointed.

  Don’t worry, mate, I think. You’re not her type.

  The waitress arrives with our food.

  "Ooh, this looks good," Phil says, licking his lips. Probably to hold his dentures in.

  Of course it looks good, the guy who cooked it is a master chef. Okay, so actually it was probably Max who cooked it seeing as he’s the fish guy, but who cares.

  We’re both a few bites in when Phil starts talking again.

  "Do you like my hairline?"

  "Huh?"

  "I had my forehead removed and my scalp pulled down. Looks good, huh?"

  Yuck!

  "Ouch," I say, wincing involuntarily. "That must’ve hurt."

  "No, not really."

  "Yeah, right," I say. "Looks great."

  "Do you really think so? Did you notice straight away? I always wanted a young person’s opinion on it."

  Put me off my dinner, why don’t you? I try to fight the urge to vomit by sipping water.

  "It looks fine," I say eventually. "I would never have known unless you’d told me." And I really wish you hadn’t. What the hell happened to growing old gracefully?

  "Thank you," he says, smiling. He seems genuinely pleased. The poor, deluded sod.

  "You’re welcome."

  I take another bite. Urgh. Why is anyone brought up to believe that it’s good manners to talk about cosmetic surgery at the dinner table?

  "I’ve had other things done as well," Phil is saying happily. "Can you guess what they are? Go on, take a guess."

  "I really have no idea."

  "Go on. Just guess."

  "I wouldn’t like to."

  "Just one guess?"

  "Your teeth?"

  "My teeth?"

  I shrug. How am I supposed to know?

  "Do you think my teeth look bad?"

  "Well, no offence but," I say, using one of my most hated sayings, but I’ve gone way past the point of caring, "they don’t look very real."

  "They don’t?"

  I shake my head.

  "But they are. They’re all my own. Do you think I should have them done?"

  "No, no, they look fine. I was just saying something off the top of my head."

  Holy crap, those teeth are real? I’ve never seen natural teeth look that unnatural.

  "You do, don’t you? You think they look bad."

  "They’re fine," I say. "So, what have you had done?" I want to change the subject quickly, and as much as I despise the topic, he seems to like chatting about cosmetic surgery.

  "I’m going to phone my dentist first thing in the morning, I’ll get him to file them all down and put veneers on. Do you think that’ll work?"

  I wince at the mere thought. "You know, they really do look fine as they are. You shouldn’t have anything done to them."

  "No, no, you’ve said it now. I appreciate your honesty. Most people just tell me everything looks nice even though I’m convinced it doesn’t."

  "So, what else have you had done?" I ask, trying to veer away from dentistry in general. Plus I’ve pretty much given up on finishing this meal without my stomach revolting, so he may as well tell me what he’s done to himself before dessert arrives.

  "I’ve had a facelift. I was forty, you know. Forty when I had a face lift. And I’ve had laser surgery on my eyes. I used to wear," he leans across the table and motions for me to lean closer so he can whisper. I do as he wants. "Glasses," he hisses. "I used to wear glasses."

  Glasses? An optician wearing glasses? How did he ever cope?

  He sits back up straight and winks at me knowingly.

  "Glasses? Really?" I ask because I get the feeling that he wants me to ask.

  He nods. "Unbelievable, huh?"

  Oh, you certainly are, I think. You certainly are.

  "So, do you think I should keep my fake teeth the same colour as these, or should I go whiter?" He grins widely at me, showing all his teeth and then some.

  "Oh, I think those ones are just fine," I say, barely holding back a shudder. "They compliment your skin tone."

  Is now a good time to mention that I really, really, don’t like dentists and generally think anything to do with teeth is better avoided at all costs?

  He grins again, but I think it’s for real this time.

  "Wow," he says. "I’m really glad I met you. But I do have to admit something, though."

  He looks at me for a reaction, but obviously doesn’t get one because he continues, "I hope you won’t be offended or anything, but I don’t think I should meet your mother."

  Don’t worry, Phil. I don’t think you should meet her either.

  "It’s nothing personal," he says. "I just think I should concentrate on my teeth for a while."

  And really, what better words are there to end a date with?

  CHAPTER 12

  After two really bad dates with horrible men, I’m not holding out much hope for the third. Like none at all. The second respondent from the personal ads is "60 year old, very, very rich male. WLTM a kind and caring woman who I can share my wealth and my years with." He had left a message on my machine when I got home from the date with Phil, and in the spirit of "if you fall off the horse, get straight back on," I called him straight away, in the fear that if I didn’t jump right back in there, I never would. It’s only as I’m walking in the door of Belisana on Tuesday night that I realise I completely forgot to ask him his name. But there is a solitary man seated at "my" table, so I assume that I am, as usual, late and he has arrived before me. From a distance, he looks quite promising. He’s skinny and long-legged, with blond highlights in light brown hair, and much younger looking than sixty. Sure enough, the hostess leads me over to that table. He immediately stands up as we approach, and comes around to my side of the table to pull my chair out for me. A promising start.

  "I’m Mackenzie, sorry I’m late."

  "No, no. I’m early."

  Well, if that’s what he wants
to think, who am I to stop him?

  "I’m terribly sorry, but I forgot to ask your name on the phone."

  "Oh." He laughs. "I’m Joel."

  "I always liked that name," I tell him.

  "Thank you."

  He picks up the menu that is already on the table. "So, what’ll you have, Mackenzie? It’s on me, of course."

  "Mac, please."

  "Okay then, Mac. You know, I wish you’d have let me choose the restaurant. I’d have taken you somewhere much nicer than this."

  Points: minus one.

  "Oh, I think this place is just fine. The food is very good here."

  "I’m sure, but have you seen the chef? I don’t think he knows his elbow from his armpit." Joel guffaws at his own joke.

  Points: minus six thousand.

  "Anyway," he continues. "I’d have taken you somewhere much more upmarket, like Harrods. They serve champagne and caviar, you know."

  "Well, I don’t eat caviar, and I’m driving tonight."

  "I could’ve sent a limousine."

  Hmm. Okay… Points: minus five thousand, nine hundred and ninety eight.

  "So, what do you do, Joel?" I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

  "I’m an entrepreneur."

  "Really? So, what does that involve?"

  "Oh, just stock market stuff. It’s very boring, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it."

  Actually, I do. Because if you make all your money pimping drugs, prostitutes or something else overtly illegal, I want to know now.

  "No, really," I lie. "I know a little about the stock market."

  "Oh. Do you have any stocks and shares?"

  "Um, I’m not really sure. My boyfriend handles that side of our finances."

  Okay, so the only shares Dan has are in the poker game he plays with his ex-housemates once a week, but Joel doesn’t need to know that.

  Joel is grinning at me.

  "What?" I ask.