Twenty-third time lucky

Amy was starting to lose hope. She started optimistically enough but twenty-two dates later she was more than a little disheartened. Even the comedy value of telling her friends about each hilarious/excruciating/embarrassing/painful (delete as appropriate) encounter with a new man was wearing off.

Amy had started out wanting to find someone for a serious relationship and have some fun along the way. Now, she would settle for someone who could make it to a second date without humiliating himself, her or both.

She could see why these guys were still on the shelf, some of them seemingly well beyond their sell-by-date. She knew the dating scene was tough for single mums but surely there had to be better than this?

What was worse was Violet, only a few weeks into secondary school, bringing home her new “boyfriend” Zach, who, even to a mother’s watchful and suspicious eye, seemed like a thoroughly nice and normal boy. If her daughter could bag a good one, why couldn’t she?

For example, who, in the world of grown-ups, still finds it hilarious to break wind in public? Apparently Colin did; their date punctuated with farts then uncontrollable giggling. The first time maybe it was slightly amusing but by double figures it was definitely beyond a joke.

And Awkward Arnold who could barely string two sentences together over dinner. By the end, Amy was so exhausted with trying to make conversation that she was practically asleep in her chocolate torte. When Arnold had a sudden surge of courage and lunged in for an unexpected kiss at the tube station she instinctively flinched back, her head cracking against the wall behind her, causing stars to swim in front of her eyes. By the time her vision had cleared Arnold had vanished and an old lady was asking her if she was alright.

Then Liam, who spoke to her breasts all night, unable to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds. Although pretty proud of her boobs, even she didn’t think they deserved so much scrutiny and told him so. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know I’m doing it,” he protested, never taking his eyes off them.

Taxi driver George was more promising when they met for a few drinks. Charming, funny and interested for the first hour; a little slurry and loud for the second, then degenerating into incoherent rants about immigrants and cyclists. He rounded the evening off by vomiting on her shoes then promising to call her. Thankfully he never did.

David, one of the briefest encounters, spared her any unwelcome views he might have by being so nervous on meeting her that he threw up almost immediately, considerately avoiding her shoes, making his excuses and leaving.

No such luck with Darren. She couldn’t put her finger on why but she arrived for their date bright and cheerful and left questioning if there was any point in carrying on. She could feel all joy and light draining out of her as he talked and by the end of the evening she felt like crawling into bed and hiding under the duvet.

And yet more disasters: Wolfgang who wouldn’t stop stroking her hair (“Is so beautiful – like strawberries, yes?”); Nigel who pre-empted all sentences with a loud and prolonged “Ummmmmmm”; and Jonah who called her Susan throughout the date, eventually bursting into tears and wailing, “I’m so sorry, Susan!” Amy wasn’t sure if he was apologising to her or to the real Susan.

“All I want is an honest, funny, caring, sensitive, strong, loving, handsome, generous, trustworthy, reliable, financially stable and sexy guy to whisk me away on the back of a Harley Davidson and ride me off into the sunset,” sighed Amy. “Is that too much to ask?”

“What, no x-ray vision and ability to fly?” was her sister’s less than helpful response.

Maybe Dwayne would be different, she thought hopefully as she turned up for their date at the pub, trying not to judge a man by his name alone.

Twenty minutes later she felt she had seen enough to judge. Dwayne was not Mr Right, she’d decided after he’d spent more time gazing admiringly at his own bulging biceps than at her. When he had looked up from this absorbing sight it was only to appraise her for a few seconds then tell her he reckoned he could easily bench press her. She took this as her cue to down her drink and head to the bar.

As she waited to be served, everything went blurry all of a sudden as her eyes welled up. She put her head in her hands and the tears began to roll from her eyes and splash onto the bar. It was all too much.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. Amy looked up and saw a vague outline holding something out to her. She blinked and it resolved itself into a man holding out a white tissue. Rather an attractive man she noticed. She sniffed, took the tissue and wiped her eyes then blew her nose loudly and offered the tissue back to him.

“It’s okay, you keep it,” he said, with a casual wave of his hand. Very nice hands, she thought. “Do you mind if I ask what’s wrong?”

“Oh, men!” she told him. “They’re all crap!”

“Ah, I see,” he said, seriously. “Well, there are a lot of crap ones, it’s true.”

“Yes, yes there are,” Amy said with feeling, glaring at him and thinking that he really was quite handsome. Very handsome actually.

Not just handsome it turned out, but also, she discovered over the next ten minutes, pretty funny and seemingly sensitive to boot.

“Listen,” he said, suddenly a little nervous, “tell me if I’m way out of line here, but do you want to go out for dinner? Now?”

Amy looked at him. Then she looked at Dwayne, flexing his pecs at the table. It wasn’t a hard choice. But then she didn’t even know this guy’s name, she realised.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Martin,” he smiled at her. Pretty normal name, she thought. She tried not to be swayed by the cute way his eyes crinkled when smiled.

“So, Martin,” she narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you married? Gay? A murderer? A married, gay murderer?”

“No, no, and no,” he replied.

“Am I going to regret going off with you?

“I hope not.”

“Well,” she hesitated. “Alright then!” He smiled the cute smile again. “But if you turn out to be gay or married or anything else I reserve the right to beat you unconscious with my handbag. I will do it.”

“Okay, deal,” he said. “My bike’s out the front if you’re ready to go?”

“Bike?”

Maybe it was the thrill of doing something spontaneous or maybe it was the Harley’s engine vibrating between her thighs, but Amy felt more excited than she had for years.

Hold on tight,” he called over his shoulder, “everything’s going to be okay.”