Neal Doran - Dan Taylor Is Giving Up On Women

‘Sounds to me like you were doing all right before the “fiancée” came up.’

‘Maybe. But there’s been enough times when I’ve been the lovely guy at the party who goes off to get the cute girl’s coat so she can go home with the cocky bastard who’s drunk all the decent booze and puked in the houseplants.’

‘Cor, I remember those guys.’

‘And then you married one.’

She smiled affectionately, with the slightest hint of a blush, as we remembered the first time the three of us met — a student party in Manchester. And I’d met Hannah first.

Then she got her sympathetic-advice face back on.

‘You know, we’ve watched you trying to get back out there these last few years, and I just wanted to say — there’s being nice, and there’s being a doormat. There’s waiting for signs and hints, and there’s clutching at straws with totally the wrong women. I say that only because I want you to meet someone who’ll see the absolute doll that we’ve known for all these years. And I think you should try this idea of Rob’s. Worst comes to the worst, it could be fun and something to think back on in your lonely bachelor old age.’

‘Just spoken to Angus,’ said the returning Rob with a consoling hand on my shoulder. ‘As we expected there’s no hope of a second chance with the jailbait. But I did get a bit more on that guy who’ll be reaping the benefits of dating a twenty-one-year-old now determined to prove her breasts aren’t nauseating. That fancy job of his in marketing? He dresses up as a giant ape and hands out flyers for restaurants. More gorilla than guerrilla advertising really. Still, I hear it’s a nice little business and he even owns his own monkey suit. How were you ever going to compete with that?’ he asked, ruffling my hair, and giving me a wink.

‘Is this what I can expect from dating boot camp?’ I replied. ‘Some kind of “knock ‘em down to build ‘em up” exercise? Because I’m down to my constituent parts already. You might want to think about moving on to the good stuff if you want me to sign up.’

‘Oh, you’re signed up, buddy-boy. We’re going home to formulate our plan to turn you into a dating GOD.’

‘Say what you like, I haven’t agreed to anything yet. You can’t make me do anything.’

They looked at each other with another secret smile, and together turned to look at me.

Bollocks72 .

No.

Bumflaps69 .

No.

‘Morning, Dan, how are you? Good Christmas?’

‘Not too bad, John. Quiet. You?’

‘Yeah, quiet. See ya later.’

Studmuffin7 .

No.

It was the Wednesday morning after the New Year bank holiday and I was back to work. I was not really ready for this.

After leaving Rob and Hannah, I’d stayed up way too late watching old Ally McBeal and Dawson’s Creek box sets. I wouldn’t say it was a guilty secret that I watched these sappy old shows as part of a post-hangover ritual, but it wasn’t something I bragged about. It raised too many eyebrows and questions. It was a bit like vegetarianism, I figured: accepted — almost expected — of women, but when a guy showed an interest he was viewed with considerable suspicion. But it wasn’t as if I had a long bath, shaved my legs, and snuggled up to watch them with a big box of Hotel Chocolat truffles. Although now by even mentioning that stuff I’d created the image of me in a kimono with a towel turbaned on my head crying about Billy dying, hadn’t I?

But anyway, moving on. I was grudgingly accepting the return to the real world — a world I’d happily forgotten about since Christmas Eve. Unfortunately the forgetting had included all memory of my log-in password. My brain, still resenting its second hangover in two days, was being uncooperative as I tried to dredge up whatever combination of naughty words and numbers I’d come up with this month.

Boobies22 .

No.

One last chance before I was locked out of the system and would have to go to IT support. I wouldn’t have minded so much if the person in charge of our computer stuff was a stereotypical IT nerd, brimming with sarcasm and distaste for anyone that found themselves in his power. But no, I’d have to call Janice the office manager, the Jill-of-all-trades in charge of virtually everything. Janice who was as beautiful as she was unhinged. And she was pretty unhinged.

I still remember the first day I started here, over two and a half years ago. She stood behind me in a blue summer dress and, smelling slightly of apricots, kept bending forward and leaning gently on my shoulder as she showed me the workings of the file management system. Sometimes her summery blonde hair tickled my neck. It was the kind of delicate incidental physical proximity that makes a man imagine so much more. It was disturbingly reminiscent of imagining myself in love with the new Cypriot girl working at my local barber’s, just because she always brushed against me softly while using the razor on the back of my neck.

That situation caused me to make a fool of myself by suggesting dinner to her after my fourth haircut in less than a month, thereby condemning me for ever after to using the expensive and not quite as good salon two doors down.

Sigh.

Anyway. Janice had followed up the lesson with a quiet gossipy chat about my predecessor, which I interpreted as a manifesto about her power in the office.

Turned out the guy whose job I now had was ‘disappeared’ one day with only mutterings about some form of inappropriate online behaviour emerging from management. I learned he’d been seeing Janice for a while, but dumped her to go back to his ex, with whom he’d had a baby. I was invited to agree with her that this was shocking and atrocious behaviour on his part. It was shortly after this that a ‘routine’ review of the Internet history for his computer had discovered a cache of smut. Janice said it had to be him that was looking at Lonely Farmers Go Wild , as no one else would have had the passwords to get on his computer — excepting herself, of course. She darkly suggested that after he’d got back with his ex finding filthy pictures of slutty-acting old cows was to be expected. A moment had passed when it looked as if she was reliving some moment of righteous vengeance, before she brightly offered to show me where the stationery cupboard was, and invited me to the pub after work to meet some of the other guys.

No, I thought, staring blankly at my monitor, best to try not to disturb her first thing, on the first day back after a long break. Janice was not a person to disturb after a holiday.

I sat and closed my eyes and let my fingers hover over the keyboard, hoping some kind of muscle memory would kick in and my hands would fly over the right keys. ‘Bigwilly90’ suggested itself, and I sat there pondering pressing the return.

‘Back in zis shithole, eh, Danny?’

Delphine Montagne, the new business analyst, shimmered towards my desk, and I blessed again the atrociously sexist employment policies of our creepy boss, which saw the office full of unspectacular-looking men, and decidedly above-average-looking women. Delphine was twenty-seven and gorgeous, she had a lean runner’s body that meant she could wear the kind of archly fashionable high-street clothes always seen in the Metro , and bobbed Hollywood-red hair that must have cost a lot of money to get looking that natural. Her default facial expression was a frown that said she’d discovered the meaning of life, and wasn’t too happy about it. But catch her with the right joke and you could get a girlish laugh out of her that left nearby men grinning like simpletons, and women rolling their eyes. Add to that she was French, and you basically had a combination that knocked me flat on my back, waiting for my tummy to be tickled.