Chapter 4
SAMMIE
My mum can’t even look at me. Instead, she gazes out of the taxi window.
I was tempted to wait until we got there, to allow her to come to the realisation of where we were on her own: at an over-fifties singles night. But at the end of the day, she’s still my mum, I’m still a little bit scared of her, so I waited until we were well on our way before I said anything.
So I uttered the words, like they were no big deal, and then the car fell silent. She might not be saying much, and her face is expressionless, but I can tell that she’s offended.
‘You said we were going for a drink,’ she says finally.
‘We are going for a drink,’ I reply – probably unhelpfully.
‘With a bunch of randy old men,’ she claps back.
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out.
She turns to look at me. Really look into my eyes. I can see her questioning her parenting decisions, wondering where she went so wrong, to raise a daughter who would trick her into attending a singles night. But then her expression changes. Softens a little.
‘Sammie…’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you upfront,’ I say sincerely. ‘I just… I didn’t think you would come, and I thought it would be a great way for you to meet people your own age, not just men, there will be women too – people you can make friends with.’
‘I don’t like that you tricked me,’ she says. ‘But… do you really think this is a good idea?’
‘It’s not a bad idea,’ I reply.
The taxi pulls up outside The Loft.
‘Come on, Mum,’ I say. ‘Let’s go in. Have a drink. If you hate it, we can leave. No questions asked.’
‘I already know that I hate it from out here in the car park,’ she points out. ‘But… okay, fine, we can try it. You never know, you might meet someone.’
I snort – yeah right – but I don’t want to put her off.
‘You never know…’ I say, getting out of the car.
The chance of me meeting someone over fifty that I want to date seems even less likely than me meeting someone my own age.
I thought men were supposed to be more mature in their thirties?
Because I’m thirty-two and I still feel like I’m meeting the same twenty-something ‘lads lads lads’ I’ve been having to contend with for a decade.
Is it so much to want something a little sturdier, from someone just a little more settled?
‘One drink,’ she says.
‘One drink,’ I agree quickly.
‘And if I hate it, we leave immediately.’
‘Immediately,’ I confirm.
She exhales, long and overly dramatic, like she’s about to jump out of a plane or something.
‘Perhaps I’ll take you to an over-thirties singles night,’ she suggests as we head for the entrance to the bar. ‘See how you like it.’
‘Maybe I would like it,’ I reply, although I’m certain I wouldn’t.
For better or worse, I’m still at an age where most nights out feel like bleak singles events.
For Mum’s generation, it’s a thing. Most of them have already been married and separated at least once.
For my generation, when more of you are still single than divorced, it’s still a way of life.
The Loft isn’t my usual cup of tea – or Hugo Spritz, which is my current tipple of choice.
I’m more of a swanky cocktail-bar girly, whereas this is more like the kind of place where you come to get as pissed as you can, as cheaply as you can.
I’ve been here with people from work a few times.
The music is loud, the lights are chaotic – if you want to grind on a stranger, this is the place to be.
Hopefully, they turn the volume down a little, so that people can mingle, and actually hear each other, and why yes, I do feel a million years old for saying that.
I notice Mum sniggering to herself.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask her.
‘The man on the door,’ she starts. She places her hand over her mouth for a second, while she composes herself. ‘He let you in – he didn’t question your age.’
‘What, to check if I was over eighteen?’ I reply – the times when I get ID’d are getting fewer and further between these days.
‘No…’ She snorts. ‘That you were over fifty.’
I stop in my tracks.
‘He did not think I was over fifty,’ I insist confidentially. Then… ‘Did he?’
She shrugs. Fantastic, my own mum is messing with me. Probably because I’ve brought her here. I suppose I’m asking for it, really.
‘At least everyone looks quite normal,’ she points out.
‘Normal?’ I repeat back to her. ‘What were you expecting?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – you forget, we’re from a generation where some people used to think it was fun to put all of the keys in a bowl and—’
‘Mum,’ I interrupt her, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence, just in case it involves her and my late dad swapping keys (and therefore partners) with any of the neighbours. ‘You’re thinking of swingers nights, not singles nights.’
‘I suppose I was expecting desperate people,’ she adds.
There’s at least one desperate person – me, the girl trying to get her life back.
It’s not that I don’t love having my mum live with me, it’s just that, at the end of the day, it’s like having my mum live with me.
I love her company but I feel like a teen again, like I’m not allowed to do anything, like she’s watching me like a hawk, offering me unsolicited advice, trying to help but getting too involved.
No one wants their mum meddling in their love life (although I appreciate no one wants their daughter doing the same either – but this is a retaliation).
We move deeper into the room, and almost immediately someone hands us each a glass of wine, which feels like a good sign – it doesn’t taste like an especially good one though. I guess a free drink is a free drink.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘One drink.’
‘One drink,’ she echoes, like the saddest toast ever.
We stand there for a moment, both slightly unsure of where to position ourselves or what to do. I probably should have thought of a better plan than simply getting Mum through the door. I need to get her to actually speak to people.
‘Hi,’ a voice says, turning towards us. ‘First time?’
I’m so relieved that it’s a woman, mid-fifties, with a friendly face talking to us.
‘Is it that obvious?’ my mum asks with a smile.
‘Only slightly.’ The woman smiles back at us. ‘I’m Janet.’
‘Chrissy,’ my mum says, relaxing a little. ‘And this is Sammie.’
I brace for the moment where she brings up that I am not in fact over fifty. She doesn’t say a word.
‘Nice to meet you both,’ Janet says. ‘Don’t worry, everyone’s a bit awkward at the start.’
‘That’s good to know,’ I reply. ‘We’d hate to be the only ones.’
Janet laughs.
‘Trust me, women have all the power at these things, the men are like scared little puppies,’ she tells us.
It’s hard to imagine that being a good thing. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t love things the other way, when you’re younger and you go out, and it’s the men who think they have the pick of all the girls. I don’t like that at all. Still though, the thought of everyone being scared and intimidated… ick.
Conversations start to form around the room. Small groups daring to come together, people drifting in and out. Mum and I hang back, waiting – although I’m not sure for what.
‘Evening, ladies,’ a voice interrupts the space between us. ‘Are you enjoying your evening?’
‘We haven’t been here long,’ I reply. ‘But so far so good.’
‘I’ve been here since six,’ he tells us. ‘The early bird gets the worm and all that. Any bites?’
‘Bites?’ Mum replies.
‘Any takers? Any interest?’ he clarifies. ‘A couple of lovely ladies like yourselves – am I seeing a family resemblance?’
He looks back and forth between us.
‘You are,’ Mum says.
‘Sisters?’ he asks.
I open my mouth to protest very loudly but Mum gets in there first.
‘How did you guess?’ Mum says with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face.
‘I’ve got an eye for these things,’ he replies. ‘Do either of you work?’
Christ, the dating game is bleak at any age, isn’t it? The same mix of low-key offensive remarks coupled with the most mundane questions.
‘I do,’ I reply, keeping the conversation going for better or worse.
‘What do you do?’ he asks.
‘I’m a water engineer.’
He laughs.
‘Is that just a fancy way of saying you’re a plumber? Well, hats off to you, I’ve never met a lady plumber.’
A lady plumber. Wow. I mean, I’m pretty sure a plumber is just a plumber.
‘I’m a civil engineer,’ I correct him.
‘Yes, well, it’s important to be polite…’
I’m not getting into it with him.
‘May I have your attention please…’
There’s a man with a sparkly blazer and a microphone who keeps shouting encouraging things at us all.
‘Boys and girls, it’s time to shake things up,’ he tells us. ‘Women, I want you to stand in a circle. Men, I want you to get in their circle – not like that, you dirty mare.’
He singles out one person who I’m pretty sure didn’t say anything. He must always make that joke.
‘So one big circle around the outside, and then another circle inside that circle,’ he sort of clarifies.
I think we all get it. ‘Now, I want you to talk to the person in front of you, and when you hear the bell, move on to the next. You don’t know if you’re going to get five seconds or five minutes, so use your time wisely,’ he explains.
Ugh, is this just speed dating by a different name? I suppose it’s better, when you think about it, a more efficient way to process everyone, and more chance of Mum meeting someone without me having to get any more involved.
We begin the process, going through the motions, and while Mum seems to be in her element, happily making small talk with whoever is in front of her, I can’t help but feel personally offended by any man who doesn’t question why I – someone who is clearly under fifty – am here.
And, not to sound big-headed, because Lord knows I know I’m not a catch, but I suppose I thought my age might work in my favour, give me an ego boost, propel me to Hollywood-actress levels of hotness by default.
Honestly? No one seems bothered. Humbling, really, to know there is in fact not any type of singles night I could clean up at.
I turn to my mum ‘between men’.