chapter seven: Guildford Girl

And then one day the dating game is suddenly easy. The answer was there all the time. It just took a bit of a re-think, a small paradigm shift in attitude and Bingo! Flicking through the Guardian you come across a whole page of personals. You tut. What, really, is the world coming to? You move on, condemning the editor for taking this once proud paper downmarket. Later on you retrieve the paper and it falls open at that page. You read, dismissively at first, then with increasing interest. You reach for the phone, dial a number and extemporise. The call will soon bring you into contact with real women. Then you notice details of a website. Well, why not? Again, it’s the work of five minutes. And it’s like opening a door into another universe.
But this is adman land. You need a copy writer’s head on for this particular advert. Something eye-catching, punchy, witty, smart, attention grabbing and succinct. How to some yourself up in a few paragraphs that will have women interested. Well, things to avoid would be to give away too much about football, drinking or cars. Things to talk up would be shopping, film and food. Ok so far. The tone needs to be right, too. Go for self-deprecating, you’re good at that anyway. Alright? So do it….
Why me? Well, because I’m witty, smart and so sexy it hurts. Add handsome and you get the picture. I live in a palatial penthouse suite with a view of the mountains from the bedroom balcony and a panoramic vista of the ocean from the servants’ quarters. I give half my salary to charity and I tell lies too. See above if you don’t believe me.
I love shopping and cooking (usually in that order) and if you’re a good girl I’ll let you load the dishwasher after I’ve fed us both a romantic supper. You can choose the wine.
I like to read, go to the theatre about once a month and I still enjoy the buzz of a live band although listening to a CD in the car with the top down and the volume up can be an acceptable substitute if the weather is good.
You may as well know that I can be a bit pedantic about spelling and punctuation. I seriously object to smoking and if you have a personalised number plate and/or an SUV then do yourself a favour, stop reading now and seek help. Tories need not apply. Ditto Coldplay fans.
That said I’m a sucker for a pretty face and can be persuaded to try most things though I’m vegetarian so cannibalism is probably out. Probably.
Anyway, that’s enough about me so why not get in touch and tell me more about yourself? Go on, it’s got to be worth an email. You’ll get a reply. And if you’ve got this far, let’s face it, you deserve a drink. My round.
Now let’s just revisit that. The tone, you must admit, is spot on. The wit is sprinkled throughout. The ‘try anything once’ routine is a gem and the way you’ve ended on an invitation is so neat. Yep, that’s a winner. All that now remains is to sit back and wait for the replies to jam the inbox.
And do you know what? That’s exactly what happens next. A click of the mouse and there they are. A rogue’s gallery. No, more like a portrait of England today. Ordinary women, all of them. With kids, pets, mortgages and secret desires. It’s fascinating. There are real women out there who will exchange emails, pictures, phone numbers and eventually bodily fluids. There’s only so much you can tell from the few photographs and a dozen lines of prose, but gradually you get adept at reading between the lines and interpreting their pose. There’s a lot to be said for a good head and shoulders shot but, as you soon discover, there’s even more you can hide.
But the upshot is that the system works; you have dates to prove it. Now let’s get to work. And of course the MLC is pulling them in and you’ll need a ticket system soon like they have at the deli counter in the supermarket.
‘And the next contestant, please, step right up, just there dear. That’s right, now if you’ll just smile for that camera over there, that’s it, lovely, now, can you tell us your name?’
And they do; Julie, Anna, Zoe, Chris, and that was just last month. This month there’s been Becky, Debs and the red head whose name escapes you for the moment. Who is it tonight? Can’t remember, can you? No. well, never mind check the email when you get back. There is. Of course, no such thing as a certainty but this….well, re-reading her email …….judge for yourself.
I'm even MORE distracted now, this morning, by you or rather the thought of you after last night's call. How can this be sustained until the 9th? It's driving me crazy. Not just that I want to fuck you - 'cause I do, intensely and achingly - but I want to look at you and be with you. I don't even know what you look like when you smile - all 3 photos very serious.
That song by Embrace is playing - Gravity. I think that might be my song for you at the moment. Gawd, how this could all come crashing down...
X
Now, that’s the definition of a racing certainty.
‘Hello, is that Ladbrokes telephone betting service?’
‘Certainly Mr. Punter, and how can we be of service today?
‘I’d like to put £500 on the eight o’clock tonight, please'.
‘Of course. And would you like to take advantage of our early prices service?’
‘Yes, please. And what are the current odds?’
‘We’re currently offering Jane at five to four on.’
Odds on. Did you hear that? Odds fucking on! Oh, if your friends could just see you now. Where’s Shug at this moment? And where oh where is O’Hare? The man with the two hundred pound losing slip tucked neatly into the back of his wallet, in a compartment so secret not even Durex know of its existence. Where are they now? But you’re not to be bought off with these cramped odds. Oh no.
‘Five to four on, you said?’
‘Yes, sir. Five to four on’, she adds for emphasis. Should I perhaps transfer you to our betting advisor?’
Yes you can indeed my good woman, indeedy you can you’re thinking while she switches on some Mozart to calm any potential bad language. Five to four ON? This is an outrage, an insult, a joke……
‘Ah, Mr. Punter, it’s David here. We spoke last week when I seem to recall you almost cleaned us out over that result you had with Zoe, am I right?’
Ah yes, Zoe. What a filly. Well, a mare technically but still very much a betting prospect. They were offering 5-1 against on sex on a first date and you bit their arm off at the shoulder. 5-1. Easiest grand you ever earned. As soon as she saw the MLC it was a foregone conclusion. Easier than Shergar winning the Derby. Home and hosed before you were halfway back to the flat. All over as a contest. If this was a horserace there would be an inquiry, sure as fuck.
The jockey’s interview with Brough Scott would be all over the papers.
‘Well, she gave me a lovely ride…..’
Oh stop it. That’s not fair. True. But not fair.
Then the trainer would come on. ‘Well, she’s bred for this trip and the conditions were just right….’
The jockey club would be shouting till their purple faces turned a lighter shade of puce. You’d be warned off.
Ah Zoe…….
David’s back. ‘Mr. Punter, are you still there….? Mr. Punter? In view of your valued custom we might be able to offer ten to eleven…..’?
Mmmmm. Better stop pissing about now and take their offer. You’ll be back to take their money later. You politely accept their improved terms and bid David good day, gracious to the last, but not before adding, almost buy way of an afterthought that you’ll increase the stake to a round thousand pounds. Easier to calculate, after all.
David, bless him, doesn’t falter and logs the bet.
‘Just grand. Thank you and goodnight’.
You settle down to check the form on the computer. Let’s just go over the profile again and re-read those emails. Preparation, that’s the ticket. Do your homework. Read between the lines. And flattery? That always works. Nothing outrageous, just tell them what they want to hear. And another look at that photo, no, not the official one on the website, the one taken just last week when she was getting ready to go out to a party. Now that’s just pornography. Surely that’s illegal. Or it should be. And in approximately two hours time she’ll be………
It’s probably got a name, some technical jargon, or maybe a number to identify it on the computer’s menu of sound effects but there it is, the little box pops up in the corner of the screen. The ricochet noise and the ‘You have email’ message. Well, well, well. Who can this be? This channel is strictly reserved for the dating game so it can only be potential dating material.
You set Jane aside for the moment to check out the incoming. And well, if it isn’t an old friend. She was one of the very first people you ever made contact with about, what, four, five months ago? Blonde, slightly gawky, but funny and good with Bob Dylan quotes. You exchanged a few emails of the ‘Hi, how’s the weather where you are?’ variety. Well, come on, who’s going to chase all the way down to fucking ….where was it again…..Sussex?….Surrey?…well, the Home fucking Counties for a shag. The idea was, no….. is and remains, preposterous. You had to double check Guildford’s whereabouts on the road atlas. And anyway…..Surrey….the home of the horsey set, of rock star mansions and cut glass accents. Nah. No way are you getting involved with anything from south of London. Stuff that for a game of soldiers. So you exchanged maybe four emails in this friendly fashion and then it fizzled out. So, goodbye Guildford Girl and thanks for nothing.
But here she is. Just been to a friend’s fortieth birthday party and had a thoroughly miserable time. She reckons there’s no decent men in Surrey. There’s something about the tone, a bit lonely, not yet desperate but really, really, truly fed up. You recognise that feeling. You’ve been there, done that, bought a drawer full of T shirts. So what’s a guy to do? Well, you respond of course. And what a response! You dash off a seriously up front and in yer face missive.
Dear Guildford Girl,
So good to hear from you again and I’m sorry that things aren’t working out on the dating front. Now of course if you were prepared to travel I could personally guarantee to put a smile on your face by the simple process of shagging that skinny southern arse off you. but I guess you Surrey bints are a bit scared of the grime this far north so I’ll sign off now and wish you well.
X
There, that should do it. Nice balance of condescension, tact and invitation. The syntax positively drips with arrogance. And of course a reply always leaves the door ajar for further correspondence. But no, get a grip, not Guildford Girl. No way. Now, let’s get back to the task in hand. Jane. So you go to shower and to check that everything is in working order…all equipment is present and correct…..which of course it is. You step out of the shower and quite honestly if the mirror isn’t lying then no wonder they’re all so desperate for a shag. Eighteen months of attending the gym might just be starting to transform what was a decent shape in the first place into something quite attractive. Just hold on sweetheart, I’ll be with you in approximately…..there it is again: the incoming signal.
Open it up and guess what. It’s only Guildford Girl, and from the contents of this email she’s been on the Pimms, big style. The gist of it is that she doubts your ability but welcomes the suggestion. Best offer she’s had in ages, apparently. The phrase ‘like to see you try, though….’ rankles. Cheeky cow! What exactly is she getting at? There’s too much to do locally. Don’t lose focus. Surrey’s fucking miles away. But still……No, put it out of mind. She’s a bit tipsy so she’s fired off a message without thinking it through. She’ll have forgotten all about it in the morning. How many times have you done that? The next email she sends, IF she sends one at all, will be an apology. No doubt about it. So, forget it. Focus.
You look at the time. Jesus Fucking H. Christ on a bike, it’s gone six! Oh, fuck fuck, fuck! Stupid Surrey bitch making you late with her pathetic drunken witterings while you’ve got the hottest date this side of the Pennines and it’s now only minutes away.
So you’re out the door, hair still wet, computer still switched on and while you wait for the 34 bus into town there’s a little flashing window in the corner of the screen, because unbeknown to you, you’ve got email. And know what? There’s going to be an awful lot more where that came from.
But go on, enjoy yourself with Jane. There’s plenty money riding on this one, so don’t slip up; don’t stop short of the line, don’t look round for danger on the stand side when the opposition is charging down the centre of the track. And don’t, whatever you do, let your thoughts drift down the pages of the road atlas to Surrey. You don’t want to go there, mate. Not Surrey. Oh no.
When Jane climbs onto the bar stool beside you, you seriously have to resist the urge to phone the betting agency to call it off. Taking their money now doesn’t seem fair. She’s only wearing sussies. And come on, girls, be honest. Why do you put on a pair of sussies? You put on sussies because you think you’re in with a chance and that’s an empirically derived truth. Ergo, young Jane here is up for it. QED. Quim easily defined. You almost lick your lips in anticipation. She just smiles, obviously not the sort to scare easily or scream in fright.
And so it proves. The only screaming she does in is the throes of sexual passion. Some girls yell that they’re coming. This is always good news. Some implore you to fuck them harder. Again this is welcome instruction. Some just sob and cry and contort their faces as if in pain. Young Jane takes the religious path to self-discovery. She beseeches God and Jesus so frequently, loud and long that the Second Coming is a boon and a blessing for both of you.
As you lie there gasping on the floor you turn your head for breath and the monitor, suffering the shockwaves that have transferred through the floorboards, is startled into life from slumber mode and the sign winks at you from the corner of the screen. Young Jane is too far gone to notice and masking your true intentions you deftly access the incoming under the guise of tuning into some internet radio station. So it is to strains of Tom Waits, appropriately enough charting his search for the Heart of Saturday Night that Guildford Girl throws her hat into the ring and your head into a spin.
Later you like to regale each other with this touching moment and frequently do so. And to think that both of you harboured concerns that it might end in tears……. Meanwhile, back in the real world, young Jane is only slightly distressed to hear about your mother, your silver haired mother, whom your sister has just this very minute emailed about. You outline some nondescript symptoms while Jane nods. It’s serious apparently. Her aunt, she tells you, had the very same and died just three…..She claps her hand to her mouth immediately but the words are out and about and she hugs you and in her state of semi-nakedness you respond with a semi yourself. This is not appropriate to the bad news and she quickly breaks off the embrace and hurries into her ensemble before a call to her friend and a promise to text as soon as you return from Scotland.
You bid her a fond farewell and dash to the console where you immediately console yourself. Now, composure is required. Maybe a good idea to try a few drafts first.
‘Dear Caro…..’
Nah, way too formal. This is an email. Come on.
‘Guildford Girl,
checking my diary I see that a trip south is going to be very difficult to manufacture for at least six weeks………’
No, don’t set limits. She might believe it and quit there and then. Ok, try this.
‘Hi,
Since you seem to be keen enough to correspond yet distant enough to make a date a major undertaking, how about we get to know each other a bit first….’
Oh, please. That’s so juvenile.
Eventually you patch together some form of words that works for you and so the correspondence begins. She’s really nice. She’s cute. She’s clever. She’s sexy. And gradually she does something to you. Ex notices it straight away. Ex is highly dubious about this internet dating game; sniffy and slightly suspicious about motives, intentions and the sort of woman who would advertise herself. You want to keep the peace so you say nothing. She asks if you’re keen on this one. And guess what. You blush. Oh my. This could be serious. This may even be life threatening.
Two days later you get an email from a recent acquaintance. She’s emigrating to Oz next month and would like to spend some time with you before she goes. She is quite specific about how and where she’d like to spend that time too. And she did have gorgeous tits. Oh yes. But you email back and tell her that you’ve met someone you’re very keen on and that want to concentrate on developing the relationship. You wish her well and give her the name of a couple of bars in Melbourne. You hit send. Oh my. And you haven’t even met Guildford Girl yet. Oh my, oh my. What on earth is going on?