Avril Tremayne - The Dating Game

‘Kelly Greaves when I was fifteen. Janet Clarke when I was … How old was I? Eighteen? Yes, eighteen. And then …’ He trailed off.

‘And then?’

He let go of her hand. ‘Rebel, when I was twenty-five.’

‘Rebel …’ Sarah realized she still had her hand held out, and dropped it, rubbing it surreptitiously against her thigh to try and stop its strange prickling. ‘Unusual name.’

‘Unusual woman.’

‘What about Margaret, who says you’re so “nice”? Because you know “nice” is how they describe you right before they dump you.’

‘Margaret and I weren’t a dumping in either direction. We were a parting of the ways—or in today’s parlance, a conscious uncoupling.’

‘So basically you’ve been dumped three times in your whole life, whereas I’ve been dumped three times in the past two months?’

‘Er …’

‘ Really ?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, let me tell you something: it’s no fun. I’ve been dumped in person, over the phone, in quiet corners, at large gatherings, at home, from abroad, and now by text.’

‘Text?’

‘Text! Next time it happens, I’ll probably find out via Facebook. And if that happens, I’ll be entering a nunnery and taking a vow of silence.’

‘Yeah, I think the vow of silence might actually kill you.’

‘And how will you live with that on your conscience, knowing you could have helped me to— Wait! What? Are you saying I talk too much?’

‘Weeeell …’

Long, staring moment. ‘Oh my God, you’re right , I do ! You know, Adam’s tried to tell me that but he’s my brother so it doesn’t count. The truth is, though, that I even talked to Clarence—’ gesturing to the bronze head on the shelf ‘—when I was in here on my own.’ She beamed at David, delighted. ‘See? You’re already helping me! I believe you when you say I talk too much!’

He started laughing. He was also shaking his head.

‘Please, David, help me.’

He looked down into her face, and the laughter faded. He lifted his hand, touched his index finger to her right eyebrow, tracing it all the way down to the little black dot at the end. Half-laugh, half-sigh. ‘What the hell.’

‘You mean you’ll do it?’

‘I’ll do it. Sign me up.’

Squealing, she launched herself at him.

David stiffened as her arms came around him, but it was only for a fraction of a second—and then his arms were circling her, tightening, bringing her harder against him. She heard, felt , him breathe in once, deeply, then slowly out. She became aware of the scratch of his jacket against her cheek. A waft of scent, dark and unsafe. A flood of warmth transferring from him to her. And then, the other feeling, the hardness of him against her belly.

The shock of it had her arching into him, head tipping back, eyes colliding with his—only where hers, she just knew , were wide and awed, his were narrowed and watchful, as though gauging her reaction to him. The alertness of that look, while she’d been all about the heat and sensation, reminded her that David Bennett was a man who knew women very, very well. She’d have to be on her guard. The plan was to use him, not fall for him.

‘Right, then,’ she said, pulling out of his arms and readjusting the strap of her now slightly squashed evening bag. ‘That’s a perfect example of something that needs to be fixed. The way I flew at you just then. Too impulsive.’

‘Really? Because I kind of liked it.’

‘Yes, I could tell,’ she said dryly.

‘You sure I can’t persuade you to have sex with me instead of all this other stuff?’

‘Tempted as I am , sex isn’t that missing ingredient you promised to get for me. I can use you much more effectively as my … What would you call it? My male girlfriend?’

‘Er … no. Do not use the word “girlfriend” to describe me!’

‘For a man who doesn’t look like he’d have any insecurities about his sexuality, you really are touchy.’

‘Keep mining that vein and I’ll be forced to prove that I certainly don’t have any insecurities in that area. And very few inhibitions if it comes to that.’

‘Fine. If you’re going to be super sensitive about it, how about wingman?’

‘Better.’

‘So, wingman, back to the way I flew at you a minute ago. You need to train me out of being so impetuous, or at least help me camouflage it.’ She pursed her lips, looking him up and down. ‘I need a little bit of what you’ve got going on yourself.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘Ennui. It’s quite irresistible to women, as I’m sure you know.’

‘Ennui?’

‘A languorous kind of world-weariness. It’s like you’re chronically bored, and yet amused at the same time. Probably by all of us poor fools trying to be the one to shock you out of your ennui.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’m bored at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘And I urge you not to try to shock me out of whatever it is I am. It won’t work.’

‘Yes, I like that about you. Your unshockability.’

‘On the other hand, I might shock you .’

‘Oh, I’m quite sure you will, and I’m looking forward to it. I don’t get shocked nearly enough to suit me.’

‘I hope you still feel that way when I say something that makes you furious. I don’t want you stalking off in a snit when I’m only doing what you asked me to.’

‘I generally don’t stalk off in a snit.’

‘And no punching, slapping, kicking or stabbing me, either.’

‘No punching, slapping, kicking, stabbing,’ she said, giggling at the absurdity of it. ‘Should I be writing these down? I mean, is it going to turn into some giant manifesto?’

‘Depends how hopeless a case you are. Which reminds me—how long is it going to take? We need to set a time limit. Because I’m warning you now, I’m not hanging around for ever to walk you down the aisle.’

‘For one thing, I have a father for that. For another, I don’t want to get married right this second. Marriage is a longer-term goal. For now, I’ll be happy to have a relationship that lasts longer than three weeks. Three weeks and one day will suffice.’

‘Three weeks and one day from when? First date? First kiss? First sexual encounter?’

‘Three weeks and one day from … the first date, I think. How will that fit with your painting?’

‘That’ll work. Let’s aim for mutual satisfaction in six weeks’ time. My painting will be finished by then, and if you haven’t already nailed your guy, you’ll at least be on your way to relationship bliss. Does that sound fair?’

‘Sounds very fair.’

‘We’ll meet every Wednesday at my apartment—say, 8:00 p.m. You’ll pose, and I’ll simultaneously preach at you while dissecting your dating efforts. But since we’re both here now, I’ll do a bonus round for you and start my expert tutelage straight away. Here’s something for the manifesto: how to deal with guys who dump girls by text message. Unlock your phone and hand it over so I can respond to that text. And if I find you’ve already sent something mealy-mouthed, I’m going to … Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but it won’t be pleasant.’

‘I don’t generally do mealy-mouthed,’ she said, digging around in her evening bag. ‘In fact, there was a guy—DeWayne Callaghan, if you ever come across him, feel free to spit on him—who wrote something disgusting about Lane on Facebook once, and I favoured him with such an excoriating critique of his post he was begging for mercy within a minute—sadly, before I had the chance to raise the subject of his own critical failing.’