The Dating Game

‘Keep mining that vein and I’ll be forced to prove that I certainly don’t have any insecurities in that area. And very few inhibitions if it comes to that.’

‘Fine. If you’re going to be super sensitive about it, how about wingman?’

‘Better.’

‘So, wingman, back to the way I flew at you a minute ago. You need to train me out of being so impetuous, or at least help me camouflage it.’ She pursed her lips, looking him up and down. ‘I need a little bit of what you’ve got going on yourself.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘Ennui. It’s quite irresistible to women, as I’m sure you know.’

‘Ennui?’

‘A languorous kind of world-weariness. It’s like you’re chronically bored, and yet amused at the same time. Probably by all of us poor fools trying to be the one to shock you out of your ennui.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’m bored at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘And I urge you not to try to shock me out of whatever it is I am. It won’t work.’

‘Yes, I like that about you. Your unshockability.’

‘On the other hand, I might shock you.’

‘Oh, I’m quite sure you will, and I’m looking forward to it. I don’t get shocked nearly enough to suit me.’

‘I hope you still feel that way when I say something that makes you furious. I don’t want you stalking off in a snit when I’m only doing what you asked me to.’

‘I generally don’t stalk off in a snit.’

‘And no punching, slapping, kicking or stabbing me, either.’

‘No punching, slapping, kicking, stabbing,’ she said, giggling at the absurdity of it. ‘Should I be writing these down? I mean, is it going to turn into some giant manifesto?’

‘Depends how hopeless a case you are. Which reminds me—how long is it going to take? We need to set a time limit. Because I’m warning you now, I’m not hanging around for ever to walk you down the aisle.’

‘For one thing, I have a father for that. For another, I don’t want to get married right this second. Marriage is a longer-term goal. For now, I’ll be happy to have a relationship that lasts longer than three weeks. Three weeks and one day will suffice.’

‘Three weeks and one day from when? First date? First kiss? First sexual encounter?’

‘Three weeks and one day from … the first date, I think. How will that fit with your painting?’

‘That’ll work. Let’s aim for mutual satisfaction in six weeks’ time. My painting will be finished by then, and if you haven’t already nailed your guy, you’ll at least be on your way to relationship bliss. Does that sound fair?’

‘Sounds very fair.’

‘We’ll meet every Wednesday at my apartment—say, 8:00 p.m. You’ll pose, and I’ll simultaneously preach at you while dissecting your dating efforts. But since we’re both here now, I’ll do a bonus round for you and start my expert tutelage straight away. Here’s something for the manifesto: how to deal with guys who dump girls by text message. Unlock your phone and hand it over so I can respond to that text. And if I find you’ve already sent something mealy-mouthed, I’m going to … Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but it won’t be pleasant.’

‘I don’t generally do mealy-mouthed,’ she said, digging around in her evening bag. ‘In fact, there was a guy—DeWayne Callaghan, if you ever come across him, feel free to spit on him—who wrote something disgusting about Lane on Facebook once, and I favoured him with such an excoriating critique of his post he was begging for mercy within a minute—sadly, before I had the chance to raise the subject of his own critical failing.’

He was regarding her with a fascinated eye. ‘Which was …?’

‘Premature ejaculation, and how I would have loved to share that all over social media,’ she said, then sighed as she brought out the phone. ‘Ah well, lost opportunities.’

‘Good to know that premature ejaculation is not excused,’ David said, through twitching lips.

‘Nevertheless, I’ll delete what I started so you have a clean slate to work with. Aaaand … here.’ She passed the phone to David. ‘What are you going to say?’

‘I need to read his message first.’ He looked down at the phone. ‘Good God! Lusty Liam? Really?’

‘A misnomer, as it turns out, because he was not lusty. More like Lousy Liam, to be brutally honest. Mind you, there was a Randy Rob who wasn’t randy and a Sexy Sam who wasn’t sexy, as well as a—’

‘Spare me! No, I mean it, spare me!’ He dipped his head and read the message. Shook his head. ‘Good Lord, you really can pick ’em.’

‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.’

‘Don’t worry, bluebell, if there’s a guy out there for you, we’ll find him.’

‘Bluebell?’

‘Would you prefer rhododendron? What about hydrangea? Agapanthus?’

‘Fine!’ she surrendered, laughing. ‘Bluebell it is.’

‘It’s an eye thing. They’re that colour.’

‘What do I call you, then?’ She peered into his eyes. ‘What colour are your eyes?’

‘Bluebell is taken, aside from being way too girly—and remember, do not mention my eyelashes.’

‘Yes your eyes are very blue,’ she said, but as she looked more closely, more intently, she saw they were the most amazingly dark, swirling, drowning indigo. And something about them, framed in those dark lashes and staring right at her, made her heart do a butterfly-like flutter in her chest.

‘They’re the colour of a bruise,’ David said, looking away from her suddenly. ‘So you can call me Bruiser—a good alpha male name.’

‘Alpha? A-ha.’

‘Remember, my eyelashes are not tinted, brat.’

‘But it’s not very romantic. Bruiser.’

‘Neither am I—just for the record. Now come on, it’s time to text.’

‘What am I going to say?’

‘Depends.’

‘On …?’

‘What he means by the “cultural divide” he says is between you. Is he from overseas? Different religion? A lot older? Surely not younger—you only look sixteen yourself.’

‘I’m twenty-four, thank you. And he’s twenty-eight, which is in perfect proportion. Plus he’s agnostic. And he’s lived all his life here in Sydney, except for three months in Tokyo.’

‘Then I don’t get it.’

‘He means cultural as in him liking foie gras while I love pizza. Him being a Moby Dick kind of guy, whereas I’m crazy about Agatha Christie. The fact that he’s an opera buff, but I’m into pop music. I wear a terry towelling dressing gown, and he has a really short kimono, or whatever you call that thing that’s like a kimono only not as fancy. A bit like a— What’s funny?’

‘Oh God, the vision in my head!’ David choked out. ‘He wears a yukata? A mini yukata?’

‘Is that what it’s called?’

‘Yep. And I’m guessing that’s his way of pretending he knows all about Japanese culture because he lived in Tokyo for a few months when he probably knows squat.’ He started laughing again, and that set Sarah off too. He tried to take a breath, failed, tried again and managed it. ‘Sorry.’ Another quick breath. One more. ‘Okay, I think I’ve got it under control—now you get it together, or I’ll start laughing again.’

‘Okay,’ she managed, in a strangulated wheeze of a voice.

‘Sarah!’

‘Sorry.’ Choke, breath, choke, deep breath. ‘Right. Fine, I’m fine.’

‘So that ludicrous message of his is basically saying you’re not cultured enough for him?’

‘To be fair, he has a point,’ she admitted. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I read literary novels, just not only literary novels. I always dress perfectly for any occasion, I know what cutlery to use, chew with my mouth closed, and can hold my own in just about any conversation—I work in PR and events and have a huge range of clients, so that’s kind of mandatory. But I certainly have what you might call unsophisticated tastes.’ She grimaced. ‘You should have seen Adam’s face when I asked him to add Coke to one of his precious single-malt whiskies.’

David’s eyes were heading into fascination territory again.

‘Anyway,’ she went on decisively, ‘it’s now your job to make me worldly.’

‘If you want to present yourself to the world as a foie gras-scoffing, single malt-swilling opera lover, then yes, I can help you pretend to be that. But there are plenty of pizza-loving Agatha Christie readers out there we can target instead.’

‘Have you ever read a book by Agatha Christie?’

‘No, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t.’

‘Ha! You wouldn’t.’

‘Seriously, I would.’

‘Ha!’

‘Enough already with the “Ha!”’

‘So what do you like?’

‘I like pizza, same as you. I prefer wine over beer, cocktails and whisky, and blues over either opera or pop music. And most importantly, I do not wear a yukata and pretend to be Japanese. In fact, if you ever hear that I’ve been caught wearing a yukata outside of Japan, and a mini yukata anywhere on the planet, you’re to shoot me dead.’

‘Shoot you dead,’ she said, eyes brimming with laughter again. ‘Just don’t stab you.’

‘Brat! Still, knowing about the yukata and the foie gras makes the text reply easy.’ Ten seconds later, he was hitting ‘Send’.

‘That was quick!’ Sarah said. ‘What did you— No, what did I say?’

David held out the phone for her to take. The message was short.

Go fuck yourself

Sarah gazed at David in frank admiration. ‘I don’t swear—not when there are so many more fabulous words available—but I have to say, I like that.’ She looked down at her phone again. ‘That’s that bridge burned, then.’

‘Do you care, bluebell?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Good. Now, before we go any further, just for future reference, in the normal run of things you shouldn’t denigrate one guy’s sexual performance to another guy. That’s one for the manifesto.’ He frowned. ‘You know what? I’ll bet Loser Liam would call something a “manifesto”, so we’re going to go for something simpler. What about the rulebook?’

‘The rulebook. Done.’

‘And I hope you appreciate that I’m batting above the average here when it comes to the rules. We haven’t even left the room and you’re up three lessons.’

‘Are we really?’

‘Don’t talk your head off; no dissing a guy’s bed performance to other conquests; be as mean as you like when responding to break-up text messages,’ he said, holding up a finger per point. ‘And on that note, I’m going to block Lousy Lustless Liam, so hand over your phone again. And then I’m going to put my number in there, et cetera, et cetera.’ He busied himself with her phone, then used it to call his own number. ‘There, now I have your number too.’

‘Okay, so now what?’ Sarah asked, taking her phone.

‘Now, let’s get out there,’ he said. ‘I’m going to shadow you—not obviously, but I’ll be close enough to see what you’re up to. I want to see how you flirt. I’ll give you a sign when we’ve found the right guy for you to pick up.’

‘Oh, we’re starting now?’ She looked at the exit. ‘Out there? Together?’

‘We’re on a tight deadline, bluebell. No time to lose.’ He looked curiously at her when she didn’t move. ‘A few minutes ago you couldn’t wait to absquatulate. What’s the sudden problem?’

‘It occurs to me that I may have got carried away in here. With just you and me, it seemed easy. You have a way of …’ She trailed off, not quite brave enough to suggest he was a master manipulator. ‘Of putting women at ease.’ Nice save, if she said so herself. ‘But Lane and Adam are out there and that … changes things.’

‘Changes things how?’

‘I have no idea how they’ll interpret what’s going on with us.’

‘It’s straightforward. There’s nothing to interpret.’

‘Think of the relationship intricacies. What if Lane doesn’t end up with Adam? What if she decides she wants to pick up with you where she left off?’

‘I told you—past tense.’

‘But Adam won’t want me anywhere near you, regardless, if she dumps him. And he’s not exactly the most forgiving guy on the planet, so he might not want me anywhere near you even if she doesn’t dump him, now she’s waved you in his face like a red flag at a tank.’

‘I think you mean red flag at a bull.’

‘Trust me, I mean tank. And I don’t want to have to watch him kill you over something to do with me.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘And I know I’ll end up hating you if you hurt my brother—if you hurt him emotionally, I mean, because he’d wipe the floor with you physically.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’

‘I might end up hating Lane, too. And even though I want to slap her right now, I love Lane.’

‘So just wait it out for six weeks and don’t hate either of us until our time’s up. You won’t have to see me again and you can mop up the rest any way you want. I’ll even help you do it.’

Her hands dropped, and she regarded him with disbelief. ‘It doesn’t work like that with feelings. You hate people, you like them, you love them, but you do it unconsciously. Even if you’re ambivalent, it’s not something you decide, it just happens.’

‘In my experience, feelings can be controlled.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘I’ve seen it, first hand. In fact, I’m adding that topic to the rulebook—controlling one’s emotions. Meanwhile, bluebell, the choice is yours: confess all, or keep me a deep dark secret. Won’t bother me either way.’

‘How can I keep you a deep dark secret when they’ll see us together out there?’

‘They won’t see us together. Adam dragged Lane off in highly dramatic caveman style ages ago.’

‘What? No!’

‘Why so surprised?’

‘It’s just not him, to go caveman over a woman.’

‘I promise you, he was Grade A Neanderthal. Now don’t make me get all caveman and drag you out to the party.’ Pause, while he searched her face. ‘Are we good, bluebell? All I’m doing is painting you with your clothes on. It’s probably the most innocent thing I’ve done for nine years. Not worth any angst.’

He sounded almost bored. And Sarah felt suddenly, painfully gauche, to be thinking there was anything untoward in what they were doing.

‘We’re good, I guess,’ she said. ‘But I do want to keep it on the down low, at least for now. Until I figure out the … the ramifications, consequences, complications.’

‘Not that there should be any ramifications, consequences, complications, but okay, “the down low” it is. A phrase I never thought I’d hear coming out of my own mouth.’ He reached out a finger, flicked it carelessly against her cheek. ‘Now, let’s go and get you hooked up.’

Sarah smiled, but as they walked out of the storeroom, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d dived headfirst into dangerous seas; the shore of her old life was already receding, the undertow dragging her out of her depth.

CHAPTER FOUR

David Bennett: wingman.

If anyone had told David he’d end a night out trailing after a girl like an anxious duenna after she’d rejected his sexual advances out of hand, he would have laughed his head off.

And yet here he was.

He’d thought he’d swayed the outcome towards sex for a moment in the storeroom when Sarah had arched right into his savagely unapologetic boner. But nope. It was as though she’d made him, somehow. As though she’d twigged that he was testing her. It was a novel experience, being caught out, seen through. And what made the situation even more remarkable was that Sarah had resisted him so easily, right in the middle of telling him he was, in fact, irresistible.

No, he corrected, he himself wasn’t irresistible; it was his air of ennui that was irresistible. And damn if that didn’t make him want to laugh his head off too. Not that laughing deflated his erection; to his surprise, it had the opposite effect.

He wondered how many of the men buzzing around Sarah like bees around a honey pot were being similarly afflicted in the groin area. The thought made him uncomfortable in a way he didn’t understand. Unless it was that he wasn’t seeing anyone in the gallery worth their effort—as he’d been communicating to Sarah via a strange telepathy she seemed to understand innately. It was amazing what you could achieve with a series of finger twitches, glancing frowns, eyelid flickers and half-shrugs. He probably looked like a palsy sufferer to anyone watching closely, but the silent language seemed to do the job.

An engineer called Harry—flick. Edward the dentist—flick. Earnest China expert Felix who’d made a beeline for her and actually kissed her cheek—flick. Four others, gone within as many minutes. It was getting ridiculous. There had to be someone in the room who wasn’t a total loser.

Sarah had obviously reached the same conclusion, because she was converging on him in her tottering-on-high-heels, stopping-for-a-chat, strutting way, with a determined sparkle in her eye. ‘There has to be one who passes muster,’ she said through a too-large smile as she sidled close to him.

‘If you’d stop hitting on the conservative intellectual types, we might find him. Who are you trying to date? Your father?’

‘My father is not conservative.’

‘All right, then don’t deliberately not date your father. Okay, that sounds repellent, but you know what I mean. Either way, no more guys with glasses and pokers up their backsides.’

‘They didn’t all wear glasses.’

‘No, one out of ten didn’t wear glasses. And they all, bar none, had the poker shoved high enough to have them singing falsetto. No, don’t argue, just listen: no glasses, no plain blue ties, no supercilious smirks. Okay?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Okay.’

‘And don’t roll your eyes. You know I’m right.’

‘I said okay, didn’t I?’

‘It’s how you said it.’ He swept his eyes around the room—in one direction, then back … and stopped. Victim located. He cocked his head to the left. ‘Over there. The guy with the dark hair, on the long side.’ Slight pause. ‘Too long, if you ask me.’

‘Hello? You’re talking to me about dating my father but from where I’m standing, I could just date you if that’s going to be your attitude. Are you going to check them for tattoos as well as hair length? What if they ride motorbikes, Dad?’

‘Shut up, brat,’ he said, trying not to laugh. ‘Look at him, not me. Black suit, white shirt buttoned up to the neck but no tie. See? He’s raising his champagne glass to his lips. Good, he’s seen me. He’s coming over.’

‘You know him?’

‘His name’s Craig. He works at the bank.’

‘I thought you said no more conservatives.’

‘Not all bankers are conservative. I’m a case in point.’

‘But you’re only half a banker.’

‘And even a hundred per cent banker would be better than Lacklustre Liam. Who was what, by the way?’

‘A lawyer.’

‘Dear God!’

‘Now who’s being judgemental?’

‘If it makes you feel better, Craig is only half a banker, like me.’

‘What’s the other half?’

‘Jazz singer. And yes, I know pop’s your thing, but at least it’s not opera, so cope with it. Now come here, your lipstick’s smeared.’ He wiped the corner of her mouth with his thumb. ‘There. Better.’

‘What about my—’

‘Shhh, he’s almost here.’

‘Stop shushing me.’

‘Stop needing to be shushed. Now, shhh.’ He turned abruptly to welcome his long-haired colleague. ‘Craig! How are you?’

‘I’m fine, just fine,’ Craig said, but although he was ostensibly addressing David, his eyes were on Sarah. ‘I’m counting this evening a great success, so make sure you say nice things to the CEO, David.’

‘He’s very pleased; he told me earlier,’ David said, and drew Sarah closer. ‘Craig, this is Sarah Quinn, a friend of mine.’

‘Quinn,’ Craig repeated slowly. ‘Oh! Was it your brother I met tonight? With Lane? He said his sister was here.’

‘Yes, that was Adam,’ Sarah said, and if her face had gone a little uh-oh, because this wasn’t exactly a sign that keeping things on the down low was going to work, David suspected Craig wasn’t intuitive enough to notice it.

‘You look completely different,’ Craig said, looking her over.

‘That’s because she’s a girl,’ David said ironically, and thought, Idiot. Up close, he could see that not only was Craig’s hair definitely too long, it also needed a split end treatment.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Craig said, taking the chance for another up and down examination of Sarah’s tiny frame.

Yep, hair too long and shaggy. Attitude a little sleazy. And it wouldn’t have killed the guy to wear a tie, would it? ‘Craig, mate, you’re giving Superman a run for his money with the X-ray vision.’

Sarah gave one of those little chokes of suppressed laughter, and followed it up with a pinch to David’s thigh—hard enough to make him wince.

‘Actually, I take after my mother,’ she said smoothly. ‘Adam overdosed on Quinn genes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Do you … um … have a lot to do with Lane at work, Craig?’

‘Not really,’ Craig said, and David could almost feel the relief ooze out of Sarah. ‘I’m in the public relations department, managing sponsorships and events like tonight’s. I wouldn’t know one of Lane’s economic indicators if it hogtied me and threw me in a truck.’

‘I work in PR too!’ Sarah said eagerly. Too eagerly. David was going to have to tell her to play it cooler. ‘I’m with Frisk & Frolic. We’re doing the PR for the Western Sydney Arts Festival, which is why Lane thought I should come along tonight—in case there were opportunities for cross promotion with this exhibition. It’s travelling around the city, right?’

‘The city and then all over the country,’ Craig said, and the conversation was off and running.

So they had something in common, David thought. Good. Great.

Although working in the same field could end up being a bit yawn-worthy. Maybe Craig wasn’t the best choice after all. David started looking around the room for alternatives, but was brought up short by the sound of Sarah laughing.

He tuned into the conversation, discovered Sarah was taking humorous issue with Craig’s bozo-ish interpretation of one of the paintings on display, and found himself gritting his teeth. Craig was an ignoramus; she shouldn’t be indulging him.

Oh God, he really was acting like Sarah’s father. He needed to start behaving like a normal, mature-but-not-ancient wingman. Who would not be thinking about knocking a guy’s arm accidentally-on-purpose to get it away from a girl’s bare elbow. Who’d be thinking about getting himself laid, now his mission had been accomplished.

Anthea. He would find smart, sexy Anthea, who was as determinedly no-strings as David was, and had given him all the signals earlier in the night. Anthea, who had a calculator rather than a thesaurus for a brain, and whose vocabulary he knew from past experience he could scramble, until the only word she could find was his name, screamed out at the point of climax.

Climax, orgasm, ejaculation. Arrrrrghhh.

‘I knew you two would have a lot in common,’ David said, and only when Sarah darted a surprised look at him did he realize he’d bowled that out right in the middle of one of Craig’s sentences. ‘I’ll leave you to your PR discussion.’

He saw Anthea across the room and headed for her, and the promise of sex. Even though the sure knowledge of exactly how it would go with Anthea filled him with … with ennui!

Enn-bloody-ui.

***

Sarah was very conscious of David across the room, flirting with the buxom bottle-blonde she’d met earlier. Anthea, her name was, and she was waving her sizeable boobs in David’s face so enthusiastically, Sarah suspected he wasn’t going to get his eyes off them long enough to monitor Sarah’s progress with Craig.

A shame, because she’d landed a date with Craig to hear him sing on Saturday night and she wouldn’t have minded letting David know how quickly she’d managed it. After behaving like a lovelorn desperado in the storeroom, her pride could have used the boost. Which, of course, was counterintuitive! If she wasn’t a lovelorn desperado, she wouldn’t have had to ask David to help her in the first place, would she? And really, it wasn’t as though getting dates had ever been a problem. It was what came afterwards she had trouble with. So—reality check—she didn’t have anything to brag to David about yet.