Who is This Girl?

My boyfriend of five years and I broke up. Laurence and Verity, the fabulous two-some who had stuck it out, finally split.

           We originally believed we were meant to be. Opposites attract, but we set ourselves up for World War 3. Laurence was my type; handsome and confident, never a hair out of place. Male perfection. Never will I be taken in again.

           The minor things drove me crazy. The way to squeeze a toothpaste tube is from the end and replace the lid. He screwed it, alright - twisted to death with the top half off and toothpaste oozing out. 

           I have healthy food choices. Laurence began to avoid eating the meals I prepared. He rang, “Hi, Hun. Takeaways tonight, don’t bother about me.” This became a habit. Then he stopped ringing.

           I believed in romance; he quit the moment we moved in together. Five years later, I discussed marriage and a family. You’d think I’d asked him to sell his car, a Mazda MX 5 - a snazzy two-seater, slung so low you require steel underpants to drive it. Not any use if we had a baby, but he doesn’t need to worry because we are no longer a couple!

           In our last awful disagreement, we spoke about life goals. The little things irritating me paled into insignificance when we confronted how incompatible our lives had become - had been all along. Very different from his, “Whatever you want, Luv, you’re the boss.” 

           I moved in with my best friend, Marie. She welcomed the extra cash. I had a small, cozy room. My life didn’t alter. Working, coming home, having dinner, and sleeping. Despite her busy social life, we ate more meals together than Laurence and I had for a long time. She worried about me. I wanted to get over Laurence, the past wasted five years, and find myself.

           Most evenings, I curl up on the sofa with a book. I work in an office doing secretarial work, plus, for my two Bosses. Many offices occupy our floor. We workers meet at the cafeteria for lunch. Company employment plays havoc with ones' mental state. After, I like to be transported to suspenseful locations by the law enforcers I read about. The hero solves the who-dun-it side of a murder, or theft, amidst red herrings and plot twists. I should have been a criminal investigator.

 “Verity, I'm concerned about you. You need to start going out. I'm organizing a treasure hunt.” 

“No, Marie! No time to dig for treasure. Or are you suggesting I should read pirate stories?”

“Not a regular treasure hunt. It’s to find Mr. Right.”

“Oh, pl-eaze, I’ve sworn off men.”

“It’s been over six months. You need help. I put your picture in an online ad to unearth some gems - you are beautiful and photogenic."

“How could you! Why didn’t you ask?”

“If I asked, you would’ve disagreed.”

“No stunners! Laurence’s perfect face masked a self-absorbed man. What did you say about me?”

“A 26-year-old woman wants to meet someone for fun times. but ultimately long-term, with a man who shares her values and outlook.”

“Sounds ok. Show me the photo.” . . . “Oh, Marie! No makeup on? Hideous clothes!”

“Immaterial! You're avoiding the hunks, so why be dolled up? You’re being a hypocrite. I deleted the unsuitable. Here’s the line up.”

           Photos of ten young men stared at me from the screen. “Delete those three please. They’re too good-looking.”

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“Their looks, blind you. Like gold-plating, you can’t see the brass beneath.”

“We needn’t respond to those . . . Make up a questionnaire to unearth the inner man. Their answers will reveal the hidden sparklers.”

“Sounds like blind dating.”

“Not precisely. You’ve met them online. Arrange to meet them over a meal. Pick an eatery and introduce yourself to each one over the week. Go Dutch, to be fair. They can quiz you. Then study your notes and eliminate the dross from the gold.”

“You want me to do all that? Oh, brother.” 

“You need to do this. Come up with some questions. You know what you want to know. I'll organize the rest.”

“Guess I’ll have to work out a list.” . . .

30 questions later: 

“1. What do you believe is your best quality? . . .

17. How do you show people that you love them in public? In private? . . .

21. Do you want a wife and children sometime? . . .

22. What is the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done? . . .

26. What is the best pickup line you have used? etc.”

           Brief replies meant a man who didn’t enjoy opening up. The answers would reveal the treasure of his mind and heart. Conversation with a casual banter indicated ease and, hopefully, honesty.

           She liked my list, formatted on two pages with space for quick notes. She printed seven copies.

           A restaurant called ‘Healthy Cravings’, right near our upstairs flat, sounded great. It was reasonably priced, with a varied menu, BYO if desired, and licensed. It had been newly renovated, which gave it a modern touch. 

           I booked tables for two over the seven nights. The loose booking time of 7 pm catered for if one of us ran late.

           Marie decided to stay home in the evenings so that, to keep my number confidential, she could message me if necessary. Afterwards, we could talk about what happened.

MONDAY.

           A young accountant named Brian Johnstone arrived on time. A pleasant boy-next-door type, but anxious about answering.

           I had dressed professionally and touched up my makeup. My skin is fair, I have green eyes and long black hair, which I wore out, making me look young for 26 years. Brian gazed at me like you would a movie star. . .

           It wasn’t until I asked him question 21 about marriage and children that I made my decision. 

“Yes, I think I would like to be married. Kids can be expensive.”

Yes, for an accountant, you’d have to count the cost, I thought.

“My mother doesn’t want to become a grandmother,” he said.

I restrained myself from belittling him. My head nodded in an agreeable façade, while inside I screamed, “Mummy’s boy! No Verity. Don’t even think about it.”

           I paid for the meal because he couldn’t find his bankcard. Brian needed an innocent girl-next-door type to settle down with. Meeting me had been his most spontaneous decision. Question 17, about how he showed love, left him flustered. I already had one long-term relationship under my belt and could see a problem.

           Later, I told Marie about my evening, and she said, "Wonderful that he was so well mannered for your first hunt. The clues are useful."

 “I want to tell you about Terry the waiter. Cheeky but cute. Immaculate dark hair, tanned, a gold earring in his left ear, lovely hands, and he got nothing wrong, despite being run-off-his-feet all evening. But he watched my every move as if he knew me. He caught my eye and winked at me.”

“Verity, you must have been watching him! Ask him if he wants to be candidate number eight?”

“Marie! No cool-looking dudes!"

“Seems you are deciding your next relationship based on your one with Laurence. You are letting your ex dictate your future boyfriend!” 

I refused to budge.

 TUESDAY.

           Marie forwarded a message that Andy Grayson was running late. My clean-cut waiter brought me a Pinot Gris. Only a few sat at their tables, and he asked if he could sit down. He came across as genuine and I didn’t have the heart to brush him off. I looked into his eyes and felt like a silly schoolgirl stood up on her first date. Somehow, I managed to project a calm exterior.

“Mr. Grayson is a tad late. We’ll order when he arrives.”

“Are you conducting job interviews? You’re dressed for it.”

“No. My flat mate, Marie, set me up with a week’s worth of blind dates. She wants me to find Mr. Right.” 

Trust me to volunteer this information!  I just felt comfortable with him.

He observed my quiz. “More of an interview than a date.” His eyes brimmed with mirth.

“My friend insisted on this. A hunt to learn facts about each young man in a short time.”

“Sounds hilarious. What does this say about you though? Highly organized? Prim and proper? Crosses every ‘t’? Not interested in love?”

I shook my head. It seemed he judged the external to a ‘t’. His infectious smile rattled me.

“I’ll tell you how it went at the end of the week.”

“My name is Terry Alvares, and it’s a date!” He smirked as if he had invented the best pickup line.

“What? It won’t be.”

“Of course, it will. None of this going Dutch, either. How can you resist my dashing visage?”

My eyes flashed. “Easily. Do you think that’s your best quality?” 

It turned out, this conversation saved me from the date from hell. 

           Mr. Andy Grayson rushed in and plonked down. “Sorry to have left you waiting, my dear. I’ll pay for your next poison.”

“Poison?” 

“Another wine. This one's finished. I prefer scotch on ice. Hey, Garcon!” He called to Terry and waved his arm around.

Terry rolled his eyes at me. He clearly did not like Andy.

"No thanks, Andy. No need."  

“Nonsense, it’s the least I can do, sweetie.” 

I excused myself to use the bathroom. Two drinks had arrived before my return.”

He gave thorough but arrogant answers, then talked incessantly about himself, building, and architecture. I sipped my drink slowly.

           Then I couldn't keep my eyes open . . . 

and when I woke up . . .

           I lay in an unfamiliar bed. A queen-sized one in a small room. Most of my clothes were on and I had slept alone. What a relief. The pillow and sheets had a faint scent of washing powder and man’s aftershave.

           I sat up and glanced around. Pink hues streamed in through the curtains. My watch read seven fifteen AM. The door opened. Terry stood in the doorway, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. I gaped.

“You’re awake! Good morning, you must have drunk a bit before you came in yesterday! You fell dead asleep. You mentioned blind dates, but when Mr. Grayson called you his girlfriend, said you were sleepy from drinking, and he’d take you home, I told him to leave and informed the manager. I wanted to ring Marie, but I don’t know your phone’s password, or where you live. I brought you back here.”

“Good Grief! Marie will be frantic. I only drank two wines all evening.”

“Don’t fret. She rang up and I explained you were safe. Apparently, you told her all about me so she wasn’t the least bit worried. I told her you’d stay the night with me. . . I slept on the sofa.”

I wanted to hit myself. “I hope you told her I didn’t know a thing about it!”

“Didn’t you? You clung to me and said you loved me. I rather fancied having a lovely woman in my bed . . .” His eyes twinkled.

“What a liar! I wouldn't.”

“Wouldn't what? Well, I’m no saint but you called me, Laurence. I stopped short of impersonating him. Can't be as gallant as me. Not sure who you thought you were kissing.”

Tears ran down my cheeks. “This is all Marie’s fault. How could she match me with someone who spiked my drink? I’m the victim here. Laurence is my ex. I hate him!” 

Terry put his hand on my shoulder. “I understand how you feel.”

“Really? You don’t know me at all.” 

He sat beside me on the bed. “My last partner couldn’t cope with my busy life and dumped me. It broke my heart, but I’ve moved on and don’t hate her anymore.”

“Have you a girlfriend now?”

“I’m in deep trouble here, if I have! I’m in the right place emotionally if I met the right girl . . .”

“Why are you telling me?”

“You hate your ex. You couldn’t let anyone into your life right now.”

“It’s all Marie’s idea. I’m having second thoughts about it.”

“I kept an eye on you. It worried me sick when that moron went to take you away. He took out a wad of notes, paid for you both, but I knew about your arrangement, even though you covered for Mr. Johnstone on Monday. The whole thing seemed off. I wanted to take you to your home and did my best. I’m so sorry.”

           I sobbed in relief, over what may have happened, and over what had happened. 

“I googled the name Andy Grayson and checked on Facebook,” he said. “He doesn't exist. Please investigate the others, Verity.”

He sat down, hugged me until I stopped crying, and kissed my forehead.

“There now, dry your eyes. Go have a shower. I'll give you a container for a urine sample which I'll drop in somewhere. Important to check what was in your drink. After breakfast, we'll go to your flat so you can change, then off to your work. I’ll turn up at my class late.”

“Your class?” I felt embarrassed.

“Yes, I go to Law School. The job at the restaurant pays my expenses.”

“To be a lawyer?”

“Not a lawyer, as such. I despise defending the guilty, and if my clients were innocent, I’d be worried about proving it. Being a D.A. with criminals going to prison is better.”

“Not just a pretty face,” I said.

He laughed. “At this stage, I’m not sure if your soggy face is pretty or not.”

I don’t recall what possessed me, but I grabbed a pillow and whacked him.

           While I used the bathroom, he busied himself in the kitchen. The ensuite looked pristine. No towels on the floor. A fresh, folded towel for me. The toothpaste had its lid on. After my shower, I felt better.

           Breakfast had been all laid out. Bacon, eggs, cereal, milk, yogurt, fruit, toast and toppings, coffee, and tea. Trying to impress. I settled for coffee, some cereal with fruit, and a slice of toast.

“Thank you so much, Terry.”

He tidied the kitchen, picked up his pack and jacket, and we left. Impressive. 

Stop thinking about how organized he is, I thought.

           Marie hadn’t left the flat yet. She glanced from me to Terry and back at me, looking suspicious.

“Splendid to meet you, Marie. You live so close to the restaurant!” 

“Marie, what's that face? Andy probably gave me a Micky! If you’d rung sooner, Terry could have carried me back here. I slept well but I'm still wasted. Will be going to work. Just dashed in to change. Please check if the other five guys are ok.”

           I escaped into my bedroom. . .

           Terry stood with his back to me when I came out with makeup on, fresh office attire, and my hair in a bun. 

"Sunday evening's date cancelled. I've asked Terry to investigate the credentials of the other four guys and gave him your cell number so he can confirm them,” said Marie.

I shook my head in horror. I did not wish to involve him.

He turned around, and I smiled. “Break your neck!” 

           He pulled up in front of the building where I work and came round to my side to open the door. Some of the ladies from our floor walked by and turned to ogle Terry. Just like women used to stare at Laurence.

“Bye, see you this evening,” he said. Of course, he’d see me. Date number three had been lined up. It sounded like we were together! I waved and didn’t bother to explain the truth to the gossipmongers.

 WEDNESDAY.

           I arrived at the restaurant before Mr. Stewart Forbes. He checked out ok. Terry wore smart black attire with a crisp white shirt and smiled his infectious smile.

“Hi, Verity. Sunday is my night off. I can be your seventh date.”

“Mm, guess I ought to oblige, but please do me a favor."

“Anything, my dear.”

“Ask another waiter to serve us. I'm embarrassed about what happened. You’ll be sussing the guy out. It complicates things.”

“On one condition. Let me walk you home after. Safety first.”

“Thank you, Terry.”

           The last four dates were over. I didn’t want to see them again. Terry was next. Marie loved him. She believed my overnight stay at his hadn’t been a rescue and that I’d faked the drama to stay with him. As if!

 SUNDAY.

           He arrived early with a bunch of flowers. "I thought you might bale, so I came to fetch you." 

“I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m just tired. No makeup on and I’m not dressed up yet.”

“You look yourself, dazzlingly unpretentious. It’s fine.”

           The other restaurant workers fussed over us.

He said, "It's my turn to go out with the gorgeous girl who’s dated many different men this week."

So embarrassing!

He ordered me a pinot gris and, himself, a pinot noir. “Verity, I have a confession.” 

“You silvered my drink the other night?” 

“Goodness! Is that what you thought?”

“No, you don’t fit the profile. Do tell.”

“Your first night, you probably noticed me watching and winking. I recognized you.”

“You’ve answered question 26 about the best pickup line?”

“No, I have seen you before. . . I replied to the ad Marie put in with your photo. I couldn’t believe you hadn’t chosen me as a person-of-interest. Did Marie reject me?”

“I discarded the best three - too handsome.”

“Should I get my face made ugly?”

“No need for that. I’m not over Laurence. It’s true. I've never even cried about our breakup, and I let him dictate the looks of a future boyfriend. I’m so sorry. I like you, Terry.”

Terry sighed. “Please, be my girlfriend, Verity.”

“Yes, Terry. I will.”