Read Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Online
Authors: Nick Spalding
I spy Charlie’s bright red crash helmet down by the recycling bin and my decision is made.
It’s a moped.
How hard can it be?
Indeed, things go fine for the first few hundred yards:
Twist throttle and off you go.
I’d owned a little Honda Melody step-through as a student, so was familiar enough with mopeds to know how to ride one.
Sadly, the Vespa is a
lot
more powerful than the Melody.
A fact my neighbours are now acutely aware of, thanks to the ear piercing screams that emanated from Laura McIntyre as she careened down the road, having opened the throttle a little too hard.
With heart hammering in my chest, I apply the brakes and resolve to take things a lot easier.
The rest of the twenty minute journey into town is relatively incident free, other than an expletive filled exchange with a white van driver and a hairy moment involving a Peugeot 106.
I pull into Toys R Us with only a slight wobble and park in the motorcycle bay.
I’ll be the first to admit that buying a four foot doll’s house when you’re on a moped probably isn’t the wisest move, but every little girl should have a doll’s house, right?
I could just picture little
Hayley’s
eyes lighting up as she opened the front of the house to see all those little rooms, with their miniature furniture and tiny glass-eyed dolls. I loved mine when I was a kid, so what better present for Auntie Laura to buy her?
I even got the gangly sales assistant to help me lash the thing to the back of the moped with some parcel tape and the collection of fraying bungee straps Charlie kept in the seat.
The look of terror in his eyes as I started the engine and moved (very slowly) away was entirely unjustified as far as I was concerned.
…as were the repeated car horns as I
pootled
my way along the road, wobbling all over the place as the doll’s house unbalanced the Vespa with its colossal weight.
I was sure I could handle it though, and it was only a short journey home.
Everything would have been hunky-dory if the crash helmet hadn’t decided to fall back off the top of my head and nearly strangle me.
I knew it was too big when I put it on back at the flat, but cinching the chin strap up as tight as I could seemed to stop it moving round too much, so I though it’d be okay for the trip to the shops.
Nope. Not the case.
As I’m turning into the road that leads out of the shopping centre the bloody thing slips slowly backwards, nearly throttling me with the chin strap - and making my head tip upwards.
I’ve barely been in control of the moped / doll’s house combo anyway, so this latest development makes the situation ten times worse.
I lurch and weave across the road – now mercifully empty at gone
in the evening – wailing like a banshee as I fight to avoid an enormous accident.
There are many effective ways to break the ice with a new man, Mum.
A compliment about his clothes, for instance.
A light touch on the forearm, accompanied by a warm laugh is always good.
The wearing of a brassiere designed to lift and separate is even better.
Side-swiping him with a £50 doll’s house in the middle of a road
isn’t
a good way to break the ice – though you’ll certainly end up breaking something if you’re not careful.
I barely have time to register the guy standing in the street holding a gigantic pot plant before I’m steaming right at him, applying the brakes for all I’m worth.
Luckily, I’ve got the speed down sufficiently to avoid serious injury to either of us - but I’m still thrown off the damn moped, earning a nasty scrape on my knee. My luckless victim is hit by the doll’s house and is sent sprawling to the concrete, hugging his pot plant like it’s his first born.
Apologising isn’t something I’m keen on, but I also don’t like the idea of being sued for every penny I’m worth, so I get up a good head of apologetic steam by the time I’ve dragged the moped to the side of the road and helped him carry his ridiculous rubber plant and bag of shopping over as well.
‘It’s okay. I’m fine!’ he says, still clutching the over-sized plant in front of him protectively, like I’m going to attack him at any moment. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah. Just embarrassed is all. I really am very, very sorry.’
He finally puts the pot plant down, having decided I’m not about to jump on him like a rabid spider monkey.
As he stands up, there’s a light of recognition in his eyes.
‘Hey! Weren’t you at that stupid speed dating thing down The Cheetah Lounge last month?’
Oh terrific!
Humiliation piled on humiliation.
Not only does this bloke – who I’m starting to realise is really quite attractive, despite his obsession with potted green flora – think I’m a lunatic with a ballistic moped, he also knows that I’m a hideously
single
lunatic with a ballistic moped.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘I remember you too. Glen Artichoke, isn’t it?’
‘Ah… that might have been a bit of a fib.’ He extends a hand. ‘My name’s actually Jamie Newman.’
I offer a smile still laced with apology and take his hand. ‘Laura McIntyre. I wondered if that was a made up name at the time.’
‘Yeah. Call it an insurance policy against any psychopathic women out there.’
That’s a very nice smile you’ve got, Jamie Newman. Congratulations.
‘We never got a chance to talk did we?’ I say, remembering how the awful evening had ended.
‘No.’ Jamie looks a bit guilty. ‘That may have been my fault. I set the sprinklers off having a fag in the toilets.’ Guilt changes to pride. ‘That was my last cigarette, actually. It seemed appropriate to quit at that point.’
Jamie Newman and I spend a good ten minutes at the side of the road chatting, before I have to stifle a yawn.
Much as I’m enjoying speaking to what appears to be an intelligent, charming man, I am now virtually dead on my feet from near exhaustion. I can also feel blood trickling down my leg from the scrape and I need to get home to apply some TCP as soon as possible.
Not wanting to let this fish off the hook I decide to take a chance.
‘Look, I have to get home before I fall asleep in the street, but maybe I could buy you a drink sometime?’ I ask. ‘You know, by way of an apology for nearly killing you with a doll’s house?’
The smile he gives me makes my heart beat faster.
‘That’d be lovely.’
I give him my number, which he programs into his mobile. He promises to give me a call in the next few days.
‘Will you be okay riding home on that thing?’ he asks, pointing at the moped, which now has a lovely fresh dent down one side to go along with all the others Charlie has inflicted on it.
‘Oh yes. I’ll be fine!’ I reply with more than a touch of bravado, and jump back onto the infernal contraption.
I just hope I can ride away without crashing into the nearest lamppost…
Having cinched the crash helmet up as tight as it’ll go, I turn the key in the ignition and look back at Jamie, who is once again holding his rubber plant. It doesn’t look like he’s planning on throwing it at me this time though.
I give him a wave, which he returns awkwardly - and I pray to all the gods in the universe that the moped behaves itself as I twist the throttle and ride away.
Happy thoughts manage keep the Vespa upright all the way back to the flat.
I barely notice the car horns and screeching tyres that mark my uncertain progress.
I’m fortunate the local constabulary aren’t out in force. Any copper would probably run out of ink in his pen filling out all the penalty notices it would take to cover everything I’m doing wrong.
So there you go Mum.
I thought you had to dress like a high class prostitute and go clubbing to find a man - when all it really takes is a day old set of work clothes, a knackered moped and a hit and run.
Whether Jamie Newman calls me or not is another thing. Let’s just hope he can see past the attempted murder and bright red crash helmet.
Love and miss you, Mum.
Your tired but happy daughter, Laura.
xx
Tuesday 24 May
Today finds Jamie Newman in an astoundingly good mood my web-based friends, for I have had the best night out I’ve experienced in a long time.
First dates have always been something of a trial for me – even the ones that have resulted in a relationship – but the two hours spent in the company of the lovely Laura McIntyre last night at The Barley Corn pub were far more pleasurable than I expected them to be.
It started, as these things always do, with THE PHONE CALL.
I’m using capital letters for extra added emphasis to indicate just how important THE PHONE CALL is.
There are many times when you call a girl during the course of a relationship, but there is only ever one THE PHONE CALL - and it’s always the first one you make.
This call will determine the rest of your life.
Those few brief moments you spend speaking into a small electronic device can have ramifications on your future so profound it’s hard to put into words.
People with beards can bleat on about chaos theory and the ‘butterfly effect’ all they like, but they pale into insignificance alongside the seismic shifts that happen in the universe based on what transpires during THE PHONE CALL.
The biggest part of the call is establishing whether the young lady in question is still interested in meeting up with you. This is never,
ever
a certainty.
Just because she drunkenly scrawled down her number in lipstick on a beer coaster, it doesn’t mean she actually wants anything more to do with you three days later, when she’s sober and watching
Eastenders
.
…and just because a woman feels guilty about nearly killing you in the high street and gives you her phone number, it does not automatically mean that she’s got the
hots
for you.
Even if you do find out she
is
interested, you still have the thorny problem of engaging in a conversation with a complete stranger over the phone without saying anything stupid, offensive - or even worse,
boring
.