Out Late with Friends and Regrets (7 page)

The magazine’s dating ads were fascinating. Advertisers were nineteen and fifty-nine, slim and curvy, hard-working and easygoing. They were black and blonde, sporty and disabled, student and professional. A whole world of
 
women looking for each other. She read them all during the evening, and picked out five that described an enviable combination of attractive

traits, and who claimed to be between thirty and forty. Unfortunately, their locations were far-flung, the nearest two being London and a village north of Birmingham. Rosemary was right; it might be an idea to start with the local paper. Today the fell-running dog-lover was still there, joined by an F of unspecified age, who enjoyed equally unspecified “good times”. Not a plethora of choice; the ‘Women Seeking Women’ section was always the smallest in the Soulmates page, Rosemary had said. No matter, Fiona would compose her own advertisement, and surely she could attract the attention of a few of the interesting lesbians who must throng the streets of a university city like Harford.

She tried out a few ideas, jotting key words and phrases, throughout the next day. It was surprisingly challenging, requiring a skill quite different from the composition of snappy taglines for her personalised T-shirts, at which she considered herself something of an expert. For a start, the art of double-entendre would be superfluous here; this effort needed to be sincere but eyecatching, with careful wording which would target exactly the sort of women who would be on her wavelength. If only she knew what that was.

Wednesday was closing day, so after a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs and coffee she sat to the task. Inspiration was no pushover, however, and she could feel sympathy for the authors who complained of blank page syndrome. But she persisted, finding that the ads grew by turns more pretentious or silly. At least they gave her a few laughs as she re-read them. She stretched, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes. A quiet, reflective track played on the radio. Velvet Underground? Nothing like the visceral dissonance of some of their more startling work. But one line settled in her head, and then it was easy. She tinkered a little, moused a border round the eighteen words, and saved it as ‘Soulmates 1’.

The next morning, the ad looked a lot less impressive than the ingeniously succinct masterpiece she had gone to bed imagining it to be.
 
Did it make her look needy?
 
Was it wise to reveal her inexperience?
 
Did all absence of age or other descriptive details imply authorship by a grizzled female Quasimodo?
 
She sighed.
 
Well, if nothing came of it, she could always try again. She added the necessary details required by the paper, and sent it.

On Friday she picked up the early edition, and fumbled for the half-page of cries from the heart.
 
She could not see it at first; but, yes, there it was, looking somehow very shocking and naked in formal print:

Not just curious – convinced.

Gay virgin but adult and motivated.

No baggage.
Help me find where I belong.

Then the reference number.
 
God, nobody was going to answer that.
 
With unbearable restraint, she left it twenty-four hours before ringing the linkline to see if anyone had recorded a message.
 
Nothing over the week-end. Nothing on Moday either, the second of her three insertions.

On Tuesday there were two.
 
The first was a barely coherent ramble, from a young woman who sounded stoned and started crying; the villain of her sobbing rant was a perfidious girlfriend, presumably now an ex.
 
This was sobering.
 
There would obviously be a bit of careful screening to do; even a person who sounded normal over the phone could have a sinister agenda or a personality disorder, with potential for terrible repercussions.
 
No wonder the ‘Soulmates’ column was headed with a list of precautions to take when arranging meetings.

The second message was from a woman with a wheezy, well-kippered voice.
 
She wasn’t into commitment, but would willingly show the advertiser how to
do it,
and gave assurances of the advertiser’s complete satisfaction, if she wanted to
give it a go
.
 
She should just ring the King’s Head any time during hours, and ask for Fred.
 
Everyone, she stated categorically, knew Fred.
 
Fiona decided that ‘everyone’ would not include herself.

It was disappointing to reflect that this exercise had been a bad idea, and that the column might indeed be a forum for weirdoes and losers.
 
How Paul would have jeered.
 
‘Fred’ probably answered every single advertisement in the ‘Women Seeking Women’ section, every week.
 
An image came to Fiona’s mind, of a pudgy hand resting on the open newspaper on the bar, a cigarette with an inch of curved ash at the tip dangling from the slack mouth, the wide bottom shifting from the stool as Fred left her pint for long enough to record yet another message at the payphone on the wall.
 
Well, not these days, of course, Fred would be huddling over her mobile outside the door in the smokers’ pen.
 
Fiona suddenly felt terribly sorry for Fred, before reflecting with deep shame what an unkind stereotype she had allowed into her imaginings.

Still, that didn’t help her in her own search for – what, love? Friendship? An interesting social life?
 
Well, OK, some sort of sexual gratification too, to assuage these feelings that had been pawing at both mind and body recently.
 
She fantasised, seeing herself cutting a passionate swathe through a host of beautiful and interesting women, of having her pick. Of course, it couldn’t possibly be like that; it never could be in the real world, gay or straight.
 
For a start, she would have to learn to talk to new people as easily as she did to customers in the shop, without getting tongue-tied or saying stupid things. She knew herself well enough to realise that random promiscuity would not suit her in the long term, although it might be rather pleasant for a while.
 
Very pleasant indeed. But she was certain that she could adapt, that relationships with women would feel quite natural to her, once she got over the initial hurdles.

Meanwhile, it was back to the start line.
 
Magazines next, maybe. There must be readers in Harford, there had to be.
 
She sighed, and got up to make a cup of tea.

It was Wednesday again, and without much hope she accessed the messages.
 
Surprisingly, there was another reply.
 
The voice was loud, rather plummy, and totally confident.

“Hello!” boomed the voice, affably – “Hello, mysterious person!
 
Look this isn’t the sort of thing I’d normally do at all, but your ad’s been bugging me all weekend... Most interestingly put, if I may say so, and so totally
different
from all the others!
 
You
may be convinced, dear, but
I’m
the one who’s curious!
 
So on the basis of satisfying
my
curiosity, and because I’m always interested in widening my social circle, I’m going to take the most
enormous
chance, and give you my number.
 
I must want my bloody head examined, but life’s about taking chances on the back of a hunch isn’t it?
 
Oh! My name’s Ellie, and the mobe is turned off when I’m working.
 
Evenings after eight would be good this week.
 
Don’t make it
too
bloody late, OK? Ciao!”

Fiona scribbled down the number that followed.
 
Wow.
 
Whatever she had vaguely expected or hoped for, this wasn’t it.
 
However, Ellie sounded friendly and very sure of herself, though very...
butch
.
 
Still, what did Fiona expect, having owned up to being a gay virgin?
 
She was suddenly concerned that an experienced butch woman might see her as Tweetie Pie to a slavering Sylvester, chummily inviting her to supper at a dish marked ‘Puss’.

She listened to the message again, and couldn’t help warming to the bluff personality behind the voice.
 
Only a perception of course.
 
Don’t be fooled.
 
The bit about the social circle was encouraging, though.
 
Were Ellie’s stated doubts about leaving her mobile number a devious come-on?

“Come on. Do it,” she muttered.
 
She found she was smiling and trembling at the same time.

At one minute past eight she lifted the telephone receiver, glanced at the clock, and put it down again.
 
Don’t want to seem over-eager.
 
As if five past would by contrast seem so-o-o-o cool, she thought, laughing at herself.
 
Wait, though.
 
Better plan ahead what to say, how to present herself.
 
No knowing what Ellie might ask; she should prepare, like spotting exam questions.
 
Make a few notes.
 
Don’t want to sound a complete wally, stumbling over her words, babbling platitudes.
 
Maybe imagine she was talking to a customer.
 
She jotted.
 
Name: just Fiona, to begin with.
 
Don’t give address, or phone number.
 
Oh!
 
Tap in the code to protect her own number, before dialling.
 
What might Ellie want to know?
 
Occupation?
 
Shopkeeper – God, boring or what; T-shirt designer sounded better.
 
Except, if the woman was as intellectual as she sounded, that really didn’t cut it, either.
 
Businesswoman? Play that one by ear.
 
Might her reasons for placing the ad come up as a question?
 
Better broached at a face-to-face meeting, if she could fend it off.
 
She really didn’t fancy discussing it with a complete stranger she wouldn’t even recognise in the street.
 
She wondered how old
 
Ellie might be; despite the fruity tones she didn’t sound that old, though the utter self-assurance made her sound mature… Oh, bugger it, she muttered under her breath, picking up the phone and jabbing in Ellie’s number.
 
Disconcertingly, she found herself sweating, breath jerky and throat tight, as she listened to the ringing signal.
 
No reply.
 
She slammed the handset down before the voicemail function kicked in, suddenly realising that she hadn’t keyed in the anonymity prefix.
 
She sat, foolishly holding the receiver down with both hands, shaking.
 
Go and make a cup of tea.
 
No, get yourself a stiff whisky.
 
Make that a malt.
 
Sip it slowly, calm down, and try again later.
 
She took a deep breath, and rose to get her drink.
 
At that precise moment, the telephone rang, and for once she hoped it might be the guy doing the insulation survey, as always, in her area.

“Hello?”
 
Her own voice sounded oddly unfamiliar.

“Hi there.
 
I don’t recognise the number, are you my mystery lady, by any chance?”

“Hello, Ellie.”
 

Fiona just managed to get control of her voice.
 
Made sure the nerves didn’t push it into a high register.

“Come on, then, what’s your name?”

“Er... Fiona.
 
Thanks for, for …” oh shit, straight up a blind alley.
 
What a prat.
 
What on earth to say next?
 
She was sure her breathing must be audible.

“No prob, Fiona.
 
Are you interested in a meeting?
 
Sorry if I’ve not followed all the niceties, but this is the first time I’ve answered one of these damned things, and you wouldn’t
believe
how nervous I am.”

Fiona suddenly felt fine.
 
This sounded like a warm and friendly human being, although she doubted the last part of the statement.
 
Nervous?
 
A likely story.

“You know what I think, Ellie Whoeveryouare?
 
You may never have answered one of these before, but I think you must be someone who’s quite used to putting people at their ease – bet you heard my knees knocking!”