8
As Polly arrived outside the entrance of Marco’s, there was quite a kerfuffle, as a cluster of men and women stood on the harbourside chattering away in a most excited fashion. ‘I wouldn’t have come if I’d known – would you?’ ‘We’re going to be filmed?’ ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s for me.’ ‘Filmed, you say? I’m off.’ ‘Me too.’
Polly wrapped her thin velvet coat tighter about her, the distinct chill in the air serving as a reminder that winter was not done with them yet. Casting about her, she realised she didn’t have the foggiest idea what Vanessa even looked like.
‘Ah, Polly. There you are,’ announced a woman, disentangling herself from the throng.
Mid-forties – Polly guessed – dressed in jeans and denim jacket. (Ooh. Double denim, she thought, mentally sucking in her teeth. So not a good look.)
‘I’m Vanessa, and this is Sam. Tonight’s organiser.’ She proceeded to pull forward a woman in a smart navy suit and polka dot blouse, complete with pussy bow tie.
Very Margaret Thatcher.
Sam shook Polly’s hand, muttering a brief ‘Hi’ before returning to her chivvying up of the punters.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ Vanessa said, giving Polly one of those apologetic grins so beloved of passive-aggressives everywhere. ‘I met you once with Mel, at the Watershed.’ Weird grin again. ‘Yeah? No? You probably don’t remember.’
Polly didn’t. ‘Sorry.’ Because since becoming a mother, she was terribly forgetful and awful with names.
*
Once inside, Polly observed the combined powers of Vanessa and Sam as they managed to persuade roughly half of the potential speed daters to stay and sign a waiver. Some plain refused and scarpered. ‘Probably married,’ Vanessa stage whispered to Polly.
‘We carefully vet our clients, I’ll have you know…’ Sam started, but Vanessa had taken charge, proceeding to herd people inside.
Polly felt trapped. A whole chuffin’ evening of this , she thought, as she cast her eye over the upstairs bar of Marco’s, and then remembered. She’d been here before – when it had a different name – to open mic nights of poetry readings and music. Sometimes a group of them, or just Polly and Mel, would come along for live gigs of local bands. She hadn’t performed poetry for ages. If truth be told, she’d only dabbled in the first place. Still, it’d been fun while it lasted.
Looking about her, she took in the mocha-coloured walls of this new Marco’s, with its art photographs of harbour scenes, and its small wooden tables. She wasn’t convinced this revamp was an improvement on its dingy former life when being a bit of a dive had held its own charm. Still. Here she was. Changed venue, changed Polly. Speed dating. What would her friends have her do next? Cruise the internet?
Of course, she’d been here with Spike too. Back when. She sighed. Remembering the past didn’t hurt quite as much as it once had… C’mon, Poll. Enough already. Truly enough . Determined to put a brave face on things, she pulled herself up to her full five feet seven and tried to mentally prepare for an evening of getting back in the saddle (as Suze had so charmingly put it).
‘Come on, it’s time to move on,’ she’d said. ‘All this moping about is plain ridiculous.’
She made her way over to the bar. Tonight would be a good night, and this speed dating malarkey was a positive choice for any single mum trying to find a date… Smiling away (as smiling is supposed to put you in a good mood – or so she’d heard), she told herself she must put her best foot forward, chin up, and spit spot. (Although why she was channelling Mary Poppins…)
She wandered idly over to stand by the window and wait for Vanessa to finish whatever arrangements she was making with Sam. With no particular thoughts, she gazed out of the window, her attention snagged by a swan, majestic on water slick black in the darkness. She watched its progress as it glided past an assortment of moored boats and cruisers, as if a toy pulled along by a piece of string. I shall do my level best to be open , she thought, as she turned back to face the room. Who knows? I could meet someone, couldn’t I? Stranger things happen at sea.
Taking out her compact, she applied a dash of her new Starlet Red lipstick and then scooped up a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter. Best stick to red , she thought, as she fixed what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face. But – wait! Oh God, no. Is that…? She ducked behind a pillar, because over there, next to Vanessa and looking far too hunky for his own good, was him… thingy… Dressed in tight jeans and white shirt combo, standing nonchalantly (as far as it was possible to be nonchalant with something as heavy as the camera he was carrying), was that good-looking blond cameraman from the Severn Bore shoot.
Okay, it’s okay. Deep breaths.
She risked another peek around the pillar, but – drats – he’d seen her. And now he was coming across with Vanessa. Polly tried to check her reflection in the window, but it was useless. Giving her hair a quick zhuzh with her hands, she turned with what she hoped was a welcoming face, conveying just the right mix of cool but friendly. ‘Hi,’ she managed.
Cameraman pointed to his front teeth while Polly just stared in return. He tried again. What was he playing at?
‘Lipstick,’ he said. ‘Front teeth.’
The penny dropped. ‘Oh, oh.’ Fumbling for her compact, she scrubbed her teeth with a tissue.
‘Never mind all that,’ said Vanessa, as she grabbed her arm. ‘We have to get a move on before we get thrown out.’ She lowered her voice. ‘That Sam woman isn’t happy about the recording.’ She looked out over people’s heads. ‘Ah. I see that your seat’s over there. Max?’ Turning to camera guy. ‘Can you manage with this lighting, or do we need to rig up more lights?’
‘Sure, it’ll be fine,’ he said, grinning away at Polly with a look she considered hardly professional.
‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed at him as they moved off.
‘My job,’ he said, again with the amused face. ‘Wouldn’t have said you were the type to go for speed dating.’
‘Ah. No, no, of course I’m not… but…’
‘Oh, do hurry up, you two,’ Vanessa frantically beckoning to Max.
‘God, she’s bossy,’ whispered Polly. ‘Who is she? Your mother?’
‘Well, actually…’
‘Oh God. No. She isn’t, is she?’
He laughed – a good strong laugh. ‘No, she’s not… I couldn’t resist teasing you. And your face! Whoops – watch out, here she comes. Best behaviour.’ Giving her a “behave yourself” smirk.
Polly decided she might yet enjoy herself. She hadn’t flirted this outrageously since – well, she wasn’t going to think of since when.
Okey-dokey – here goes nothing , she thought, downing the rest of her red wine, to skip along behind Max, already feeling decidedly squiffy. (Not her fault. She couldn’t help being a lightweight – she hardly ever went out for a good sesh, these days.)
Vanessa flapped around, ushering Polly into a seat at the table allocated to her, then informed her that Sam felt uncomfortable about Polly staying for the whole evening. ‘So we’re going to round up at least two men to film, okay? Before the going gets tough.’ (A blast of the lyrics from “When the Going Gets Tough” played in her head.)
Great , she thought. Next they’ll be paying men to sit opposite me. Not terribly great for one’s confidence.
‘It’ll be fun, you’ll see,’ assured Vanessa. ‘Don’t you go worrying yourself. We’ll do our level best to pick out some nice ones for you.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ But Polly’s sarcasm was lost on Vanessa.
At their own individual tables sat well-turned-out women, all about Polly’s age, while the men milled around before choosing who to sit with. It appeared to be with anyone but Polly. Oh dear. She wasn’t terribly hopeful this was going to turn out okay. None of them appeared to be her type, being a motley crew of David Brents, spotty youths and spray-it-on-all-over-Lynx wearers. ( Don’t be such a snob, Polly .) She tried to sit straighter and appear inviting. Proceedings were about to start.
Organiser Sam took to the handkerchief-sized stage from where she delivered her welcome spiel. On and on she droned… ‘Blah blah blah blah…’ Polly sipped her wine – Ugh . She winced. Could strip paint with this bilge . Gamely she ventured another sip. Mmm, tastes better the more you have?
‘…and so, after your allotted three minutes, the ladies will remain seated, I shall blow my whistle, and you men will move on to the next lovely lady. Yes?’ The microphone gave out an ear-splitting squawk, so she tapped it. ‘Testing, testing – one, two three… Good. Now, don’t forget to fill in your scorecards at the end of each date.’ Polly examined the card they’d been given; it had columns to enter each guy’s name and then rate him: Date/ Maybe/ No Way. Charming . Inwardly she groaned.
‘All of you, please take your seats.’ Sam checked they had. ‘Good. Off we go, then, and remember to have fun!’
Vanessa brought to Polly’s table what appeared to be an old rocker, sporting grey pony tail, faded jeans with ironed-on-crease-down-the-middle, plus rhinestone-studded Rockabilly shirt straining over his beer belly. Camera guy started filming while Vanessa tried but failed to keep a discreet distance. Rocker guy – name of Wayne – was lapping up the chance to be filmed, while Vanessa raised her eyebrows at Polly as if to say See? I got you a media type . But Wayne showed no interest in Polly and offered her no chance to mention her performance poetry (which Vanessa had instructed her to do). Instead, he held forth on his band – The Fat Slappers – making a point of doing so directly to camera, as he announced that they did weddings and the odd ’70s night at Minehead’s Butlin’s. ‘Played with the Bay City Rollers last year,’ he said. She feigned interest, trying to imagine how different it would be if, say, Damon Albarn had been sitting opposite her.
He liked poetry, didn’t he?
Yes, she decided, they’d get on like a house on fire. She would tell him tales which he’d find oh so amusing. He’d give her the inside story of the whole Blur vs Oasis feud, and then he’d hold her gaze and say, You’re a performance poet, are you? How wonderful. You should keep it up, love.
‘Hello? Are you even listening to me?’ said Wayne, while off to the side. Vanessa stared daggers at her.
‘Hmm?’
‘Brrillll!’ went the whistle; signalling time was up. At which Wayne leant across to plant a kiss on her lips. She wasn’t expecting that! Bloody nerve!
‘Sorry,’ he said, spreading his hands wide. ‘But how could I resist?’ He pointed at her as he backed away. ‘You’re one gorgeous chick. Hope we hook up later, babe.’
She gave him a polite yet (hopefully) non-committal smile, just in time to catch Max cameraman bestowing another of his amused smirks. What? Oh no. I hope he doesn’t think I encouraged that kiss!
‘This is your final swap, ladies and gents,’ called out Sam. ‘Better make it a good one.’
‘Max, do be a darling and come in closer this time,’ Vanessa said. ‘It’d be good to get a few clean headshots.’
Polly couldn’t help admiring those lovely big hands of his as they manipulated the camera… Mmm… But Vanessa cut across her reverie before it had the chance to get going. ‘Okay, okay. This time, Polly, can we please get in that you’re a performance poet – yeah?’
Her head was thumping. Paracetamol. A quick rummage in her handbag – et voilà! Reaching for a glass of water, she caught the eye of the woman at the next table. She was attractive in a Sarah Parish from Mistresses kind of way. ‘Bit grim’ the woman part mouthed, part whispered, and Polly nodded in agreement.
Her eye was then caught by a group of four or five who’d escaped outside to the small roof terrace for a fag break. Huddled against the cold, they were throwing their heads back and blowing smoke into the night. A woman laughed. Oh, how I wish I still smoked, thought Polly, as a new speed date approached.
‘May I?’ he asked. Vanessa gave the thumbs-up and mouthed ‘Poetry!’ at her.
Turning to the man, Polly gave what she hoped was her best open smile, even though he had the most alarming sprouty eyebrows she’d ever seen. They vied for attention above thick, bushy nostril hair. She tried not to openly stare at such non-hair-trimming – but honestly – when he splayed his large hands on top of the table, and she saw that he’d hair on his knuckles and hair poking out beneath his shirt cuffs too, she found it hard to resist spouting the old joke – I used to be a werewolf but I’m all right now – ow-ow-ow – at him, and just stopped asking if there was a full moon tonight! Oh God, I’m in danger of getting the giggles. Lightweight.
She reached to take a sip from her dwindling wine.
‘What is it you do, then?’ he asked.
And Polly, remembering Vanessa’s prompt about poetry, wished fervently that she was at home right now, feet up on the sofa, snuggled in a Slanket (not that she had one, but she might get one now), munching Maltesers as she merrily watched several country stereotypes come to a sticky end in Midsomer Murders. Instead, she took a deep breath – ‘I’m a performance poet,’ she said, and smiled pointedly at Vanessa, who was busy eavesdropping, alongside the sound man and Max.
‘Really?’ the werewolf was saying. ‘And do you make a living from that? Hmm?’
Giving him a steady look as she thought, Here goes nothin’, ‘Yes, I do,’ she began. ‘Plus, I’ve had my first novel published in hardback after a fierce bidding war, sold the film rights to Steven Spielberg, am about to embark on a one-woman show called Fabulous Women, No Men, which will tour all major cities in the UK, and I teach snake charming at Bristol University.’
‘That’s nice,’ he said, in a flat yet ingratiating manner, all the while peering down her cleavage.
‘Yes, it is nice,’ she continued. ‘Why, just last month I was featured on the front cover of Gossip magazine snogging Peter Andre on our way to the Brit Awards.’
‘Cut! Cut!’ called Vanessa, who didn’t look best pleased. ‘That’s all very lovely and fantastic.’ Behind her, Max, his hand-held camera perched on his shoulder, was clearly trying not to laugh. Next to him, sound guy took off his headphones and lowered his sound boom – covered in some kind of fun fur.
‘You want to get a glass of milk for that,’ she quipped to soundman, who pretended to ignore her, his eyes fixed on Vanessa, who shoved her microphone in between Polly and Mr Werewolf.
‘Can you say all that again, please?’ She looked from Polly to wolfman. ‘About being a performance poet. For the camera, yeah? Only…’ and here she leant closer to Polly ‘…this time without quite so much embellishment. There’s a love.’
And it was almost over – the evening was meant to finish with some sort of disco, but Polly was let off the hook as speed dating hostess Samantha had a word with Vanessa, saying wasn’t it time for them to leave?
Polly watched Max head for the bar, holding his camera up and away from him like he was hefting some large firearm. Ooh. He’s swaggering , she thought. Yes, that’s definitely a swagger . She took a moment to admire the shape of his bum, his muscled arms and how fine his legs looked in those khaki chinos. And now he was ordering from the barman who – Oh no – was looking across at Polly! Too late, she realised the barman had thought she was eyeing him up, as he gestured, ‘You and me, huh?’
‘No, no.’ She was shaking her head just as Max turned, caught the exchange and gave her an amused smile. Oh great. Now Max will think I can only pull some greasy middle-aged barman. Fantastic end to the evening!
But Max was now beckoning her over. ‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes please,’ she said, her heart skipping around as she said a silent thank-you to the fates, for the return of her mojo.
*
‘You see,’ Polly was saying, slightly slurred to camera as they recorded the final section of that night’s filming on the steps outside the restaurant. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I love a bit of romance, me. It’s lovely, isn’t it? But this whole wanting to find “The One”. That’s rubbish, isn’t it? Don’t you think? I mean…’ and here she swayed a little. ‘Look at me. I’ve got my own house, my own business, my own child and brilliant friends. This is the twenty-first century, after all. And you know what? I am a Renaissance Woman,’ she announced, waving her glass of wine in the air, narrowly missing the woman who’d earlier been sitting at the next table. Wendy was her name, wasn’t it? That’s right. Wendy. And there she goes – wending her way off into the night.
‘G’night,’ Polly called after her.
‘Night,’ Wendy waved back.
‘Now, where was I? Oh yes. Like I said. Renaissance Woman.’ She reckoned she was definitely having a lightbulb moment. ‘Us women, we have choices, right? We can be single. We can have lovers. Whatever. That’s the trouble with this love stuff, innit? Slipperier than an eel coated with extra-slippery eel stuff. And – here’s the thing, right? People expect too much, don’t they? Too much of the other person. Too much of love – but not me – oh no.’ Polly was aware she was babbling but was unable to stop. ‘From now on, I shall only need men for romance, passion and sex.’ She emphatically nodded her head.
‘So, for the camera now, Polly,’ said Vanessa. ‘Any potentials here tonight?’
‘God, no. Get me back among my own people.’