Love & The Goddess (7 page)

I’d advertised myself as “being on the singles market” and now pictures of men were scrolling across the top of the screen like battery chickens on a conveyor belt. Ella was on
the other side of the country, and emails were pouring into my inbox. With my over-vivid imagination, I felt as though I was being stared at by hundreds of men, here in my room, and felt literally
hot and bothered, not knowing whether it was from embarrassment, excitement or the dreaded onset of hot flushes. From time to time, as I worked through my emails, I had to grab my mouse mat to fan
myself.

Some of the pictures were downright creepy. One guy with the username “Reginald” looked just like Norman Bates in Psycho: his face half in shadow, eyes staring out of a grainy black
and white photograph. To cap that, he appeared to be cyber-stalking me, firing copious emails every time I logged on. I could have used the blocking facility, but I hadn’t because he had been
kind, sympathising with me about my recent break up. I knew I had a tendency to jump to harsh judgements which were really just silly prejudices. If my recent predicament was anything to go by, I
wasn’t a great judge of character.

I had sent an email to “Serotonin” aka “the doctor”, but the site indicated he hadn’t logged on during the last week. Maybe he had found someone else while I
dilly-dallied deciding whether I would get involved in this or not. My indecision may have cost me. “But,” as Ella had said, “you never know who might crop up at any given
time.”

There was one I thought of as “the auld fellah”. Looking ancient enough to be my father, he was pictured sitting in a big brown armchair dressed in his Sunday best, grey hair parted
to the side. He called himself “sexyboy”. A message from him said, “Hi sexy, would you like to meet up?” “No thanks,” I felt like saying. “Not on a desert
island, even if I hadn’t met anybody else for ten years.” I decided not to answer that one and made a mental note that if he cropped up again l’d have to block him because seeing
him would make me rush to take the vow of celibacy and exchange my lodgings for a real convent.

Someone else was using a picture of Ben Stiller, which I did not immediately recognize as I didn’t consider him to be the archetypical heart-throb actor. Set among this lot, however, he
stood out as drop-dead gorgeous. Another picture featured a man wearing a dinner-suit, seated at an outdoor garden table looking like a 1970s advertisement for Mateus Rosé. I hadn’t
contacted anyone apart from the doctor, but I’d trawled through countless profiles in the age group forty-five to fifty. I was the new kid on the block and the site highlighted new users.
Some contacts, noticing that I’d checked their profile, messaged back, “Thanks for checking me out. I hope you like what you saw lol.” (What on earth did ‘lol’ mean?)
Some didn’t seem to bother reading about me while others read my profile too literally, failing to see the joke – just as Ella had predicted.

A message from “
Bobdbuilder
” was similar to several others asking about my Bollywood career:

Inbox:

From:Bobdbuilder

Subject: famous

I was thinking you looked like someone famous. Which Bollywood film were you in?

Fancy meeting up for a drink?

Bob

Reply:

From: Persephone

Subject: It’s a joke

Sorry to confuse you, but if you read my profile carefully you’ll see it’s a joke. I am a teacher.

Kate

The next one made me laugh so I answered it:

Inbox:

From: iwanttofly

Subject: pretty

Hi sweetie. Youre lookin so pretty in your dress. Youre lookin jus like a butterfly comin out a flower.

Reply: From: Persephone

Subject: re. pretty

Thanks for your compliment. I wouldn’t mind having a pair of wings.

Kate

This was absurd. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in such a babyish manner since Julie was six years old.
Iwanttofly
sent me three more emails about me looking like a
butterfly, possibly on account of my picture showing me wearing a silver and pink lace dress, which I’d worn as a guest at a wedding. I saw he was Greek, so that explained his poor spelling.
Others had no such excuse. As I scanned through my mail, my inner teacher kicked in, spotting bad grammar and spelling along with a general level of immaturity usually associated with
pre-adolescents. The usernames were by and large uninspired and some of them were an absolute turn-off. Take “
spudsgalore”
. I wondered if he grew potatoes or gave a bag of spuds
to the love of his life rather than a bouquet of flowers? Hmm – maybe that was romantic if it was given with love?

Someone with no picture mistook “adventurous” for a willingness to be “up for it sexually” and asked me was I interested in a threesome. As I blocked him, I wondered what
on earth I was exposing myself to.

Yesterday I’d bought a cheap pay-as-you-go phone registered under a fake name and address. I’d also set up a separate email for the dating business. I really was beginning to feel
like a Russian spy. And I had a strange feeling of guilt – given that I was a mother, this did not seem quite proper. Also, I was a teacher responsible for sending students out into the world
and this dating business felt juvenile. But perhaps it was my time to be silly and throw a certain amount of caution to the wind. I’d always followed the rules and been a sensible girl and
look where that had got me.

One of the few men to understand my profile without my having to send several explanatory emails was a man called “
Wordsmith”,
aka Alan
.
After exchanging a few friendly
emails, I agreed to speak with him on the phone. And since we chatted like old friends, I agreed to meet him when his work brought him to Galway later that week. He told me he was an agricultural
consultant with a passion for writing, and seemed well grounded with a good sense of humour. Also, he was very sympathetic about my break-up and offered me advice about how best to handle my
divorce. The only problem was that afterwards I felt that I had shared too many personal details, despite Ella’s repeated warnings whenever she rang to find out how I was getting on with the
site. Quite simply, he had the kind of manner and voice that seemed to inspire the sharing of confidences – rather like a priest in a confessional.

A few days later, as I scanned through my mail on the site, a new message came in from
“Wordsmith”
asking me would this evening suit to meet up, and if so where?

I messaged him back, suggesting the nearby Ardilaun hotel would be ideal.

I hadn’t anticipated being so nervous. After all, this was not a guy I expected to fancy – although I knew I couldn’t be sure of that until I’d met him. Arriving into the
hotel bar ten minutes late, I did a quick scan of the room. I immediately thought he must not have shown up, and was oddly comforted by that thought. A man and woman in their thirties sat at one of
the low tables. Several men sat in the extreme right corner drinking beer, their bodies tense with excitement as they watched a replay of the day’s rugby match. Then I spotted an elderly man
dressed in a crumpled jacket worn over a grey round-neck sweatshirt. He nodded in my direction as he descended from a bar stool. I turned around to see if there was someone behind me whom he had
recognised… then froze as it dawned on me that this stooped grey-haired man could be
“Wordsmith”
. But he had named salsa dancing and Tai Chi as his hobbies! And his photo
had projected such a vibrant, youthful image!

“Hey, Kate. How are you?” He extended his hand to me, while bending to kiss me on the right cheek. A whiff of something musty immediately assailed my nostrils. I glanced distractedly
at the bar, wondering if it had been wiped with a dirty dishcloth. God, after spending so many years living with Trevor, had I become as cantankerous as him?

“I’m good. Sorry for being late. I hope you weren’t waiting long?”

“No. Just enough time to get a gin and tonic.” He led me in the direction of the bar where his glass stood almost empty, and I climbed on to the stool beside him. “What would
you like to drink?”

“A glass of water, please.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not a drink. You should be celebrating your freedom. You’re free of your husband now, Kate. It’s the start of your new, exciting life.”

“All right then, one gin and tonic. After that, just water.”

Alan turned out to be pleasant to chat with and quite forthcoming about his own experience of marriage breakdown, having been divorced ten years with three grown-up boys. But when I looked at
his grey face with its loose jowls, wide nose and bulging eyes, I was reminded of a toad. He looked considerably older than his photograph and he soon confessed to having lied online about his age
– he was fifty-two, not forty-five, and looked even older than that. Despite my initial eagerness to meet any man who could possibly fancy me, it had turned out to be quite different in
reality. On most profiles, the men talked about the need for chemistry. I’d had loads of chemistry with Trevor – before Martha, at any rate – so I’d begun to wonder if it
was that important after all. Now looking at this guy, I figured out that when chemistry was lacking, I’d have more fun playing bingo with OAPs.

Alan regaled me with his dating stories. “Lots of women are just online purely for sex. Seriously! I’ve had loads of women contact me asking to meet up. Some of them married women.
Once I tell them my job brings me round the country, the offers come flying in.”

I studiously sipped my drink in an effort to hide my face, which had surely turned pink from embarrassment. Recovering myself, I pitched a bold question and made direct eye contact. I was not
going to let him intimidate me. “And do they say they’re only interested in sex?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.” He briefly touched my knee. “And some of the women have told me about strange men they met on the sites. You need to be careful, Kate. An attractive
woman like you. There are a lot of very weird people out there. It’s not so easy to meet someone right.”

“I can well imagine. I don’t really know what I’m doing online, to be quite honest with you – I’m still traumatised by my marriage ending. I probably wouldn’t
be able to form a relationship just yet.”

“Well, don’t rule it out because you can never predict when you’ll meet the right person. Life doesn’t work that way. So stay open.” He touched my arm reassuringly.
“You need someone to talk to, Kate. It’s good to talk to someone like me who has been through the same thing because the early stage is very raw.”

“Thanks, Alan. That’s kind of you. Your phone calls have been a support.” Suddenly aware that I’d had two gins and tonics to Alan’s four, I asked the waiter for a
glass of water. Never one to tolerate much alcohol, I was now feeling somewhat disorientated.

“You are such an incredible woman. Your husband must be a very foolish man to let you go.”

These words brought tears of self pity to my eyes and I found myself telling Alan about Martha stealing Trevor from under my nose. What had come over me? “I don’t know why I told you
that.” I anxiously squeezed my hands together on my lap. Cupping his hands over mine, Alan gazed at me reassuringly,

“It’s good to get it off your chest. It’ll help you heal. You can trust me.” He moved so close I felt my personal space being invaded. Now I realised where the moldy
smell came from. Alan’s clothes smelt musty, like he’d slept in them for the past five months without washing. I was sure I could also detect sour milk and silage. I knew he acted as a
consultant to dairy farmers, but surely the least he could do was wash before meeting a woman for the first time? On top of that, it seemed like Alan felt my confidences allowed him to presume I
was easy prey.

As he finished his fourth gin, he again touched my knee. Then he grabbed my wrist tightly and – locking my eyes with a narrow gaze – blurted, “Now that I’ve met you,
Kate, I’m never going to let you go.”

Aagh! Yuch!
Alarm bells were going off left, right and centre as my stomach heaved.
I’m not going to be a bird in a cage for you or anyone.
It was difficult not to show my
horror, yet I didn’t feel I could go just yet. Wishing to change the mood and give his hands the slip, I asked him about his love of reading and creative writing. “I love Oscar
Wilde’s wit and use of language.” I freed my hands from under his, and sipped at my water.

“Oscar Wilde was not a great writer. His language is overly descriptive – too flowery. He’s not in James Joyce’s league. I’m presently doing an evening course in
creative writing and everyone says my writing style is similar to Joyce’s. You need to forget about Wilde.” He patted my knee.

I covered my mouth to stifle a yawn. I had trusted this man and now he thought I was so naïve that he could completely dominate me by overruling every opinion I held. His clothes were not
the only things stinking up the atmosphere – his arrogant attitude had a pong all of its own. I disliked him more with each passing minute spent in his company. Now a flurry of yawns were
emerging from behind my hand. I glanced at the clock on the wall. “God, I never realised it was so late. I should go now.”

“You look exhausted, Kate. What you need is a good massage to liven you up and help get rid of all that tension. I did a course in sports massage.” He looked at me in the way a
priest would when offering spiritual advice, his tone mellifluous as he continued. “I’d love to see the new apartment you told me about. Do you want me to come back with you?”

“No thanks. I really have to go.” I hopped off the barstool, grabbing my bag. “I have an appointment in the morning.”

“Hey! Hang on a minute! Kate!” he called to my fast disappearing back.

Freedom had suddenly become a much cherished commodity as I escaped to what now seemed like the bliss of solitude.