First Dates

Spoiler - There are references to the terrible incident when Heathcliff, in Wuthering Heights, demonstrates his control over Isabella by hanging her Springer Spaniel, Fanny.

***

I couldn’t help myself and let out a long-drawn sigh. These last two months Blanche’s monologue has been on Repeat, at least on a weekly basis. 

We’re at the “To my mind a man is nothing without a spice of the devil in him” part. And, like listening to the words of a repeated and irritating Christmas song in a shopping centre, I can’t help the fast-forward thinking to the next lines: “Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day! I would consent to give my hand only to some wild, fierce, hero”. 

I hope I won’t have to be Wing Girl, to her twittering on in search of a Bad Boy, for very much longer.

I am utterly bored now and scan the room for some other amusement. We eat out together, on these depressing dates, quite often. It’s all too dull and familiar. 

Tonight, we’re at the First Dates restaurant, and it smells SO interesting. There are the usual food aromas. Perfume, too. The recent popularity of Civet and Oud-based scents bring on the desire to do a little wee. I resist. But here, in the First Dates restaurant there’s something else.

There are the usual chewy androstadienone, and silky copulin pheromones. But my, the wash of adrenaline, cortisol, and norepinephrine hormones are making my head spin.  The heat of the cameras condenses the glaze of the Mones on skin. Merlin, the barman, would struggle to mix any intoxicating potion that would match it.

I spy a twinkly pair of crossed ankles hooked on to the base of a bar stool. From them I pick up dihydroxyacetone, some esters and terpenes: fake tan and a dribbled Porn Star Martini, I’d say.

I turn my focus to sounds. When we walked in, there was a man at the bar wearing a ten gallon hat. He claimed to be from Houston, Texas. 

Sliding his eyes over Blanche he’d attempted a conversation. He thought her perfect for him, being as tall as a poplar and poker straight. But Blanche catches a whiff of knock-off Hugo Boss and a glimpse of a Travelodge receipt, so his chances are nil. Whilst Blanche may tote that the man of her dreams is wild and free, and that cowboys may apply, the truth lies in her being interested in a purely financial rescue.

I tune in to his voice once more as he chats with the bartender.

At first his accent seems to match his hat, but something is off. Blanche and I have been all over this island of Britain on a quest for a man with deep enough pockets for her to land in. I’m getting canny with voices from different regions. 

Yes, that’s it, the way the Cowboy spoke of there being a Spark between them – the A was short, and the R slightly trilled NOT Texas at all – Oxfordshire! The only way this man could ever be connected with Houston was if it became twinned with Witney in some town-planning musical joke. I feel like spinning from working it out, I want to run and touch each corner of the room with joy.

I bring my focus calmly back to Blanche and her Date. He doesn’t seem very responsive to her.

This Date is seriously craggy. Basset droop and Sharpei folds. The cool-white LEDs of the restaurant’s decor give his beard mean, ice-blue, highlights. So Blanche tries taking the conversation down her Rugged Men are Fab path with her prepared monologue of “As if loveliness were not the special prerogative of woman” and “let men be possess only strength and valour: let them Hunt, shoot, and fight”. 

Still nothing. How very wearing, and she hasn’t even secured a glancing together of knees or a graze of ankles with him. His feet are still planted firmly square whilst her heels skid and slide about slowly trying to make accidental contact with them.

How can I help things? Wing Girl step up! I’m good at curve ball ice breakers … which one to try? I could fart or burp, look bug eyed, harmless, and adorable. I try a sigh, as quite honestly that’s where I’m at.

At a loss. 

But there’s nothing. No response from him. I always leave being the centre of attention to Blanche, of course. But there’s usually Some attempt from The Date at acknowledging my existence. Whether to provoke a jealousy in Blanche, or draw a rounded picture of a Bad Boy with a Heart of Gold.

There is usually Something.

I’ve not really heard him speak - I can see the tail end of his head gestures as counterpoints in the bottom half of his body. The evening must be drawing to a close now, surely. I hope he picks up the tab, but Blanche needs more than occasional treats. 

When he throws his AMEX Black Card on top of the bill, she demurs disingenuously in response. 

With his hand pressing and pushing at the small of Blanche’s back, we both trot through the restaurant doors with him, towards his Lincoln Corsair.  He speaks to Blanche, and I hear him clearly for the first time that evening in the cold night air. “So, just what would you do for me?” There’s a giggle of innuendo from her, but it rings false, as there’s a shade of some other meaning in his voice.

The Date helps Blanche into the luxury SUV by means of his hand pushing down on her head so that her body folds in to the seat. He slams the door shut and confirms it with a click of the fob. 

The Date turns to me, and addresses me for the first time: “Fanny, here!” and snaps a white handkerchief out from his pocket. The last things I remember that evening, are tree branches swinging in and out of focus and the muffled thumping of Blanche’s wrists against the Corsair’s windows as she screams repeatedly “Heathcliff! No!”

***

This story came about after watching endless women in search of  a Bad Boy on the TV reality programme First Dates. They always brings to mind the scene in Jane Eyre of Blanche and Edward preparing to perform a duet of the Corsair Song and Blanche’s ridiculous claims. 

I cast Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights as the Bad Boy, who for some reason, is fiction's favourite narcissist.

Blanche and Heathcliff, you both deserve each other. 

Dear Fanny, I hope there’s a passing Nelly to find and rescue you.