Chapter Forty-One
And so, my foray into the dating world began. However, it wasn’t quite as anticipated.
In all honesty I hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect. I was old-fashioned enough to let Dylan set the pace. Although I was now starting to wonder if he was waiting for me to take the lead.
My mind went back to Tim and Ruby over dinner. Tim had given his sister a look that had summed up his take on this so-called relationship. That this stranger and their ancient mother would partake in dog walks, trips to cafés and maybe do some handholding – but only if Dylan had consumed a lager and I’d indulged in a sherry.
The thing was, so far, my son had been spot on – apart from the sherry indulgence. To say I was baffled was an understatement. Every time Dylan held my hand I would happily zing away. But on Dylan’s part there had been little reaction. In all truth, it was starting to make me somewhat paranoid.
Six weeks on, and now in the middle of a hot July, I wondered if Dylan was having second thoughts about me. Was it because of my age? Had he spotted the way my neck wrinkled attractively? That I was more tortoise than gorgeous? Was he too embarrassed to say, “Look, Maggie. I’m sorry. I’ve made a mistake. I’ve since met a younger woman… yes, quite a bit younger… okay, a lot younger… she’s thirty-five.”
That said, life was not allowing me much time to ponder over this puzzle. The Golden Oldies had been keeping me on their toes. There’d also been several photography bookings to oversee – a kiddie’s party (photoshoot according to Birthday Girl’s mother); a couple of pet portrait bookings; and a bride that had wanted The Works.
Despite keeping busy, I often found myself mentally rewinding to that first date – brunch in West Malling. Dylan had called me darling. Later, he’d taken me in his arms and gently lowered his mouth to mine. “I’d like to kiss you properly,” he’d murmured. “But Tesco’s carpark isn’t terribly romantic.”
Well, he was still referring to me as darling. And that was lovely. But he hadn’t yet kissed me properly. Okay, he could hardly go for it at Trosley’s country park café. But he could have snogged me in the woods. Or in his car when he’d dropped me home after having dinner. If he’d really wanted to, he could’ve puckered up in the car, then flipped back the seat and suggested we steam up the windows. Or hoarsely told me to lead him by the lapels into my house, up the stairs, and inside my bedroom to finish what, so far, hadn’t even started.
Nor had it been lost on me that, so far, he’d completely bypassed us going back to his place. Not even a hint of inviting me in for a nightcap with a bit of eyebrow waggling and a meaningful look.
As every couple in lust knows, one kiss leads to another. And that leads to a fumble… then a grope… to getting naked… concluding with the bedsprings being put through their paces.
Or perhaps there was a much deeper issue here, and it was nothing to do with my age. Rather, more to do with Dylan’s age. Maybe Dylan – despite looking in peak condition – wasn’t. If you get my drift. Perhaps things down there were a little… soft.
The thought had sent me off to Google. Here I’d been reliably informed of some statistics. Apparently one in four men between the age of fifty to fifty-nine experienced Mr Stiffy doing a runner at an inopportune moment. In other cases, Mr Stiffy had gone completely AWOL and been replaced by Mr Floppy.
I’d clicked off the internet and puffed out my cheeks. Greg hadn’t experienced any of those issues. I’d rather naively thought that impotence was a rarity. I mean, look at Hugh Heffner and all those bunny girls. Stamina or what? Another recent example was ninety-one-year-old Rupert Murdoch. Only last year he’d been set to marry for a fifth time. I mean, presumably one wouldn’t be up for marriage if one’s willy wasn’t up for it too?
I decided to broach the subject with Dylan and ask him outright. By that, I don’t mean, “Tell me, Dylan. Are you impotent?” Of course not. I wasn’t insensitive. Rather… well, I wasn’t too sure about how to approach the subject. Maybe Google could provide me with some clues.
‘Er, Dylan, sweetheart, have you heard about, um, Erectile Dysfunction? No? What is it? W-e-ll, it’s, um, it’s, um, it’s…’
Or perhaps I should, on the quiet, start up an Erectile Dysfunction Support Group. Then I could invite Dylan to it. But then I might have some explaining to do if nobody else turned up. A case of a big flop and nobody coming.
I’d have to give it some serious thought.
Meanwhile, my parents were stressing me big time. It didn’t help that my mother had telephoned only last night – actually, it had been three in the morning – demanding to know if I’d stolen her handbag. However, after being on Social Services’ waiting list these last several weeks, a house visit was finally being made.
And so it was, on this beautiful July morning, that I set off to see the parents. Bess was on the back seat. Together, we cruised along the M20. Irene, the lady from the Old People’s Team, would conduct the assessment.
As I overtook a lorry, I found myself earnestly talking to Him. Please God, let there be help.