Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (15 page)

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Jamie’s Blog

Saturday 4 June

I should have known.

I should have bloody
well known.

Whenever things look like they’re going well, along comes Captain Cock-Up to ruin everything.

It’s my fault really.

What else did I expect from being so optimistic about a new woman?

It simply isn’t in the great, galactic plan of existence for me to be anything other than a hideously lonely single bloke. Jamie Newman is simply
meant
to be a champion masturbator and video games expert.

All that successful relationship stuff is for other men, who haven’t in some way offended the gods at some point in their lives.

I don’t know what I did, but it must have been a transgression of enormous magnitude to deal me such a harsh blow - and remove yet another chance of a happy relationship from my miserable little life.

Everything started out well.

On paper it looked like a good idea as far as second dates go.

Instead of the usual trip to the cinema or repeat pub performance, I thought I’d invite Laura round to my house for some grub.

Now, I’m fully aware that this kind of thing is usually third, or even fourth date territory, but sue me, I liked this girl a lot and wanted to make a good impression.

What better way to prove that I’m the right man for her than knocking up some tasty fajitas, along with a bottle of expensive red?

No, get your mind out of the gutter, I didn’t plan on this being some kind of seedy night of seduction… just something a little bit different, with more effort on my part.

I fully intended to sit at one end of the couch with her at the other, and a suitable amount of second date distance between us.

From asking around, I’m led to believe that fajitas are a popular meal for couples in the very early stages of courtship. I have no idea why this is. I’m sure somebody with a beard and too much time on their hands would say it has something to do with sex - but they’ll say that about anything if it’ll make girls more attracted to their beards and improve their chances of a bunk up.

Regardless, Laura seems to approve of the fajita idea. ‘Not too spicy though, please,’ she asks, and I’m more than happy to oblige. While I’m not going to attempt any horizontal shenanigans, it would be nice to get a proper kiss at the end of the evening, and having breath like our old friend Isobel probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

Ever since I burped into a girl’s mouth when I was a teenager I’ve been terrified of food related disasters while dating.

I promise Laura to keep the spice to a minimum.

A speedy shop in Tesco provides all the ingredients I need.

Such was my desire to create a good impression I didn’t even plump for the own brand cheap stuff. I went straight for the top of the range.

I was particularly pleased with acquiring some of that very expensive free range corn fed chicken, which had been put in the sale section at 50% off.

Laden down with various ingredients including peppers, salsa sauce, the chicken and an onion (chuck in the spice mix and that’s pretty much the recipe for fajitas if you’ve never attempted it) I wend my merry way home to begin my cooking extravaganza.

As usual when I’m doing something outside my comfort zone, I over compensate.

Instead of just going for a few fajitas, I also decide to cook nachos, cheesy jacket potatoes and a mixed salad – with an enormous chocolate torte for afters.

You know that African village I could have clothed with my Primark purchases? Well tonight I was going to cook enough to feed the buggers for a week as well.

I won’t bore you with the details of Mexican cookery. Suffice to say you chuck the fajita stuff into a frying pan, the potatoes in the oven and the nachos in the microwave.

By
seven thirty
everything is cooked and I leave it to stand while I go upstairs to get dressed.

The doorbell rings at
eight o’clock
(Laura is on time for this date – officially a good sign) and I answer it smelling and looking my best.

She’s wearing a very pretty cream dress, which looks fabulous, but probably isn’t the best thing to wear when you’re about to eat messy Mexican food.

I don’t point this out of course… I’m not a
complete
idiot.

She makes appropriate noises over how good the food smells, and as I pour her a glass of red, I’m very pleased to hear her compliment me on the way I’d laid the table.

This delights me more than it usually would because I had to borrow the table (and the matching cutlery) from my sister.

It had been a right bugger to lug back to the house in the car. Single men don’t have much call for dinner tables (it’s much easier to eat your pizza straight out of the box while sat on the sofa) and I sure as hell wasn’t going to buy one for just one evening.

I like Laura a lot, but let’s keep things in a bit of proportion, eh?

I nearly picked up some candles from
Wilkinsons
to top the whole thing off, but thought better of it, as it’d be laying it on a bit thick for a second date.

Unfortunately the table is quite small, so can’t handle the banquet I’ve cooked.

I have to resort to dragging over the coffee table, which wouldn’t be too bad were it not for the fact my mate Ryan had drawn a penis on it in permanent marker last month while he was arseholed on cheap gin.

I cover the offending phallus with the bowl of potatoes before Laura sees it.

The meal itself goes off without a hitch. The non-spicy fajitas come out well, Laura likes the cheesy jacket potatoes and the chocolate torte is demolished with no concern for calorie intake.

Admittedly, there’s still a mountain of food left at the end, but that’s what Tupperware and freezers are for, after all.

We stay sat at the table chatting for well over an hour with no problems whatsoever. She isn’t even bothered when she lifts the bowl of potatoes and sees Ryan’s handiwork.

By
nine thirty
I’m confident that the evening is going well and that the meal has been a success.

Oh Lord have mercy, how wrong I was…

Laura’s Diary

Sunday, June 5th

Dear Mum,

I knew it was too good to be true.

I don’t think I’ll be seeing Jamie Newman again.

Things happened on Friday night that I am only now able to put into words.

I’ve spent the weekend in mortified shock and while I’m usually happy to tell people about my dating misadventures, this one will stay between me, you, Jamie and whatever heavenly deities may be watching (and laughing their collective celestial bottoms off no doubt).

The evening began with the customary hatred of my wardrobe.

There was literally only
one
item I could wear that was suitable: the lovely cream dress I’d picked up for Melina’s wedding to Travis last year that I never got round to wearing because of the ‘incident’. You know… the one I told you about? Where she found all those pictures of her sister naked on Travis’s phone?

The fallout has only just settled from that one.

Anyway, that was the dress I wanted to wear.

One problem though: I was going to be eating fajitas.

Sloppy Mexican food and cream dresses do not a happy combination make.

But what choice did I have? It was either that or the purple maxi that sagged at the boobs, the cocktail dress with the permanent absinthe stain, or the Elvis jump suit I’d bought for a Halloween party two years ago.

I’d just have to eat very,
very
carefully, that was all.

It’s apparent when he opens his front door that Jamie has decided to wear an entire can of Lynx deodorant this evening. I let him off (and hold my breath) as at least he’s made
too much
effort instead of
none
… which is always better in my book.

The rather lovely smell of cooking fajitas is even stronger than the Lynx and I feel my stomach rumble in anticipation.

I’ve virtually starved myself all day to make sure I’m hungry. Even if Jamie is a terrible cook, I’ll eat whatever is put in front of me.

This is another one of Tim’s valuable dating tips – one which actually makes some sense in a twisted, masochistic way.

I needn’t have worried… Jamie is in fact a very good cook – even if he has made enough to feed an entire football team.

His house is quite tidy for a boy.

The Raiders Of The Lost Ark poster hung on one wall is a bit much, but at least it’s in a frame.

‘Signed by George Lucas himself!’ he says with pride, as if this is meant to mean something to me.

Other than that – and the vast collection of DVDs that seemed to exclusively feature things exploding – Jamie’s bachelor pad is more than acceptable.

I firmly believe the way a man keeps his house says a lot about him.

There was one guy I dated years ago called Nathan, who thought that purple suede effect wallpaper all over the house was a good idea - along with a black sofa, black curtains and a matching black coffee table. His penis, along with his skill at conversation, was very small.

Then there was Terry, who thought nothing of inviting a girl to his house, even though he had no less than
thirty
posters of Page Three girls stuck up with blu-
tac
in various places. There was even one on the toilet door, to be gazed at whenever he was taking care of business. Terry could talk the hind legs off a donkey, but was also severely under-endowed - and snorted when he laughed.

Finally, there had been Zach. Zach was hung like a horse and a very witty guy. Unfortunately, he also had the hygiene habits of a pig with chronic sinusitis. There were
things
growing in his kitchen that still give me the willies every time I think about them.

Zach therefore never managed to give me
his
willy
, no matter how many times he invited me over to his cess pit.