Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (5 page)

Brian says it in such a deep, throaty voice it’s like an African witch doctor is putting a hex on me.

I hate to think what he might shout when he orgasms during full sex. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’d give the folk in the next village a good dose of herpes.

A quick clean up with the pack of tissues Brian keeps in his glove box (slightly worrying) later and I’m finally being driven home.

I’ve established that I’m still quite capable of giving a man a hand job - and that I’m now firmly back in the dating scene.

Woo
hoo
.

I stagger out of Brian’s Vectra before he gets the chance to kiss me goodbye.

‘Can I see you again?’ he shouts out of the window as I round the car, rummaging through my handbag for the front door keys.

I look at Brian’s expectant face.

‘I’ll text you,’ I lie.

The Pinot has the decency to feel a little ashamed of
itself
as Brian offers me a happy smile and drives off into the night - a content and sexually satisfied estate agent.

I feel quite awful as I open the front door… and finally trip over the high wedges, landing spread-eagled on the carpet, painfully bashing one of my lumpy knees against the staircase.

Yes indeed, Laura McIntyre is back in the dating scene with a vengeance, Mum!

Love and miss you always,

Your shameless and shameful daughter, Laura.

xx

P.S: I’ve received
seven
texts from Brian since our date, asking in increasingly fraught tones about when the second one is going to be. I haven’t worked out how I’m going to let him down yet without coming across as a complete bitch. I might get Tim and Dan to tell him I’ve come down with a dose of herpes. That should put him off.

Jamie’s Blog

Saturday 26 February

There are invariably times in life when you wish you were somebody else.

Last night, on my second blind date in as many months, I wish I’d been someone at least 73% more physically attractive - with an IQ ten to twenty points higher.

Then I might not have felt like I was punching so far above my weight it caused oxygen depravation.

Annika was a goddess.

A blonde, perfect, golden-skinned creature of myth (or
Sweden
, as they apparently call it these days).

New in town and my cousin Sean’s work colleague, she was looking to meet people. Sean thought I’d be the perfect candidate, given that he knew I was horrifically single and would therefore be guaranteed not to have any plans.

‘She’s stunning, mate,’ he told me over the phone.

‘Hmmm. Real stunning? Or let’s wind up the pathetic single cousin stunning?’

‘Honestly… drop dead
gorgeous
. You want to get in there before somebody else snaps her up – which they will in about five seconds. Shit, I’d have a pop if I wasn’t snowed under with three kids, and Denise didn’t give such a good blow job.’

‘Well… okay. But if I turn up and she looks like pig sick I’m going to kill you.’

She didn’t look like pig sick.

In fact, if someone looking like pig sick was at one end of the attractiveness spectrum, then Annika was at the other.

It was ball-achingly terrifying.

Because I didn’t entirely trust Sean – I figured he was either winding me up or just had very low standards – I didn’t go overboard with my preparations.

Also, memories of Isobel the sex fiend were still at the front of my mind, so I was determined to stay sober throughout.

The best way to achieve this was to pick a location that didn’t serve alcohol. I dutifully texted the number Sean had given me to arrange a date with Annika in Café Leon, a coffee shop in town that caters for people with too much money and chronic insomnia.

Annika texted back that she was looking forward to meeting me - which was a good start.

I naturally arrive early and spend ten minutes trying to decide which of the complimentary magazines I should be casually reading when Annika walks in.

FHM and Loaded are definitely out. Empire will make me look like a movie geek and Take
A
Break will make her think she’s meeting a retard.

I go for a copy of GQ - the magazine that no man actually reads, only buys to impress other people.

It takes me a further five minutes to decide between sitting on the brown leather sofa near the counter, or at a nearby table.

I elect for the table, given that while sitting in the huge sofa might be the more comfortable option, it would make me look like a five year old waiting for his dad.

I shoo the waitress away when she comes to grab my order. ‘I’m actually waiting for somebody,’ I tell her, like she gives a toss.

I sit back, open the GQ at a random page, and try to look as interesting and compelling as possible.

Annika walks in and I know I’m in
serious
trouble.

It appears Sean doesn’t have low standards. If anything he shows a marked ability to underestimate physical perfection.

I’m not even going to bother trying to give you an accurate description of this girl.

Instead, I suggest you spend a constructive ten minutes on the internet Googling ‘
stunning Scandinavian girls
’ and multiply whatever results you get by ten.

That would be Annika’s uglier little sister.

You may be wondering why I’m not sounding more positive about this. After all, how lucky am I to be on a date with this goddess?

No.

No, no, no.

I’d have been quite happy if she’d just been a very attractive girl. I have enough self confidence to hold a conversation with a pretty lass, without becoming tongue-tied or making a fool of myself.

Hell, I even bumped into
Scarlett
Johansen in the lift of a swanky
London
hotel once and managed to conduct a polite conversation with her while we rode the lift up ten floors. She’s not keen on fish, it transpires.

So, pretty girls I can cope with.

This fucker is
flawless
, though…

I always thought being slack-jawed was something only people in bad books and movies ever suffered from, but it happens in real life too.

Annika’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans that show off her long, sculpted thighs. Her honey blonde hair shines with health and light.

It’s a saving grace she’s wearing a suede jacket when she walks in, because if I’d caught sight of how amazing her tits look in the pastel blue sweater she’s got on, my brain would probably have exploded.

‘Hello. Are you Jamie?’ she says with a gentle European accent.

No! No, that’s not me, oh great and perfect one. How could a sorry sack of chicken faeces like me ever think he could be on a date with you? I’m sure this Jamie of whom you speak will be here shortly. I’ll just go and sit in the corner where I belong and try not to dribble while I stare at you.

‘Yes… yes, that’s me,’ I reply, in an octave higher than my usual speaking voice. ‘Pleased to meet you!’

‘Thanks, you too.’

Annika takes her jacket off and I can’t quite suppress the slight moan of excitement that jumps from the back of my throat as she shrugs the thing off. Those are classic 34DDs if I ever saw a pair in my life.

I will never be able to look at a blue sweater again without getting a raging hard-on.

‘What… what would you like to drink a coffee a tea or something else they do very nice muffins in here especially the blueberry ones I quite like the chocolate ones as well though they’re really bad for you!’

No, I haven’t lost my ability to punctuate dialogue. That’s how it came out.

‘Um…’ Annika didn’t quite get all that - understandably.

‘Sorry!’ I tell her as she sits down opposite me. I take a deep breath and try to speak less like I’m off my face on amphetamines. ‘What would you like to drink? A coffee?’

‘Yes please. I’d like a latte, if that’s ok?’

Of course it’s ok, you faultless bitch. I’d cut off my genitals if you asked me to.

‘Sure, I’ll call the waitress over.’

Now, I am usually a pretty easy going, self-effacing kind of bloke. Not prone to being bombastic or arrogant. It’s just not in my DNA.

However, being in the presence of Annika makes me feel more inadequate than an impotent midget with a one inch penis, so something deep down in my idiot brain decides I have to compensate for this perceived shortfall by acting
big
and
tough
.

Maybe if I come across as a commanding, hyper-confident kind of guy I might actually stand a chance of getting out of this blind date alive.

In any normal situation I would wait politely until the waitress was drifting past my general vicinity and raise a hesitant hand, calling her over in an equally timid voice. The waitress would fail to hear of course, forcing me to wait another few minutes until she’d finished serving the two Goths in the corner.

Today though, I intend to show Annika my thrusting prowess…

I locate the waitress over by the tills, raise one stiff arm skyward, click my fingers three times in sharp staccato fashion and virtually bellow ‘WAITRESS!’ at her from across the cafe.

I realise my stupidity as soon as it’s out of my mouth.

Annika’s perfect brow creases in horror as she processes the fact she’s on a blind date with Captain Arrogance.

Everyone in the cafe is looking at me with various levels of disgust - including the waitress, who’s probably not used to being ordered around like a newly minted army private.

She shuffles over, glowering at me.

Annika is now sat back in her chair with her arms folded. You can already see the excuses to leave formulating behind those glorious blue eyes.

‘Aah… sorry,’ I say meekly to the waitress. ‘I’ve been suffering with a build up of ear wax recently and it’s made me a bit deaf.’

As feeble excuses go, this one is a
cracker
.

The waitress seems to accept it with fairly good grace though.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Annika peering closely at my left ear.