Read Online Love @ First Site by Jane Moore - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jane Moore
Tags: Chic-lit
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us?"
An hour later, after dutifully enthusing over Dad's swivel car DVD holder, Olivia and I pull out of the driveway in convoy, waving at the parentals standing cozily in their doorway.
I have barely reached the main road when my mobile trills its distinctive "Dancing Queen" ring tone. The caller ID says "BigSis."
"How can I miss you when you won't go away?" I quip.
"Very funny. I want to know all about that sparkless date. What really happened?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yep."
"He
was
great and lovely. But I left out the bit about him doing a disappearing act through the kitchen."
"You're kidding!"
"Sadly not."
"Why did he leave?"
"Richard thinks it's because he's married and saw someone he knew."
"No! The
bastard
."
"Precisely." I stop at some traffic lights and glance to my right to see a picture-perfect family sitting alongside me in a Mercedes estate car. There's a boy of about four or five who looks like Little Lord Fauntleroy and an angelic baby girl straight from a Pampers ad. The parents are sharing an animated conversation, both laughing heartily.
I let out a long sigh. "Still, two more dates to go. One of those might look like Brad Pitt--though knowing my luck it'll be his long lost brother Cess."
Olivia laughs, then her voice turns serious. "Maybe these dates aren't such a good idea after all. As Dad says, they can pretend to be one thing whilst being someone completely different."
"They can do that in wine bars too," I reply. "Besides, too late now. I'm leaping straight back onto the horse after my nasty fall. I've got another date lined up for tomorrow night."
Six
Hello, I'm Larry, and I graduated with a degree in electronic engineering from Cambridge. I often work late into the night trying to unravel the mysteries of microprocessors, but I'm seeking a lovely lady to persuade me there are better ways to spend one's evenings.
B ruised by my experience over lunch with "Simon," or whoever he may be, this time I'm playing it safe and opting for just a coffee by way of introduction. That way, I can make a quick assessment of his suitability without wasting another few hours of my life.
We have arranged to meet outside Niketown on Oxford Circus, chosen by me as somewhere highly public and therefore anonymous.
But I soon realize it's a mistake as the crowds pour through the entrance area, some to shop, others taking a shortcut from the tube exit to bustling Oxford Street. My head swivels from left to right like a Wimbledon spectator, not very subtly trying to spot Larry before he sees me.
My eyes rest on a disheveled white man with short dreadlocks and a scruffy anorak, looking furtively down the street. Please God, no. He suddenly looks across at me and I rapidly glance away, wondering whether to make a run for it.
After several seconds of inaction, I sneak a look at him again and am overwhelmed with relief to see his attention has turned to his frayed shoulder bag. His hand reaches inside and he pulls out a rolled-up stack of fliers. Panic over.
A hand taps my shoulder. Panic back.
I turn round to find what I presume is Larry smiling anxiously at me. I say I presume because, although the hair is the same sandy color as in the photo he e-mailed me, the rest of his features don't ring any bells at all.
"Hi." His voice is cracked and squeaky, like a twelve-year-old boy on the change. Perhaps it's nerves, I think benevolently.
"Hi." I smile. It's a false one, but he probably doesn't know that. "I presume you're Larry?"
"You presume right. Are you Jess? It's just that you don't look anything like your photo."
I gasp audibly. "Excuse me? My photo is one hundred percent genuine, if a little out of focus. Which is more than I can say for yours."
He looks slightly taken aback. "It's definitely me. I was on holiday in Greece at the time, so I was quite brown. Maybe that's what threw you."
Yes, particularly as I'm now looking straight into the face of Casper the Unfriendly Ghost. Since the photo
An hour later, after dutifully enthusing over Dad's swivel car DVD holder, Olivia and I pull out of the driveway in convoy, waving at the parentals standing cozily in their doorway.
I have barely reached the main road when my mobile trills its distinctive "Dancing Queen" ring tone. The caller ID says "BigSis."
"How can I miss you when you won't go away?" I quip.
"Very funny. I want to know all about that sparkless date. What really happened?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yep."
"He
was
great and lovely. But I left out the bit about him doing a disappearing act through the kitchen."
"You're kidding!"
"Sadly not."
"Why did he leave?"
"Richard thinks it's because he's married and saw someone he knew."
"No! The
bastard
."
"Precisely." I stop at some traffic lights and glance to my right to see a picture-perfect family sitting alongside me in a Mercedes estate car. There's a boy of about four or five who looks like Little Lord Fauntleroy and an angelic baby girl straight from a Pampers ad. The parents are sharing an animated conversation, both laughing heartily.
I let out a long sigh. "Still, two more dates to go. One of those might look like Brad Pitt--though knowing my luck it'll be his long lost brother Cess."
Olivia laughs, then her voice turns serious. "Maybe these dates aren't such a good idea after all. As Dad says, they can pretend to be one thing whilst being someone completely different."
"They can do that in wine bars too," I reply. "Besides, too late now. I'm leaping straight back onto the horse after my nasty fall. I've got another date lined up for tomorrow night."
Six
Hello, I'm Larry, and I graduated with a degree in electronic engineering from Cambridge. I often work late into the night trying to unravel the mysteries of microprocessors, but I'm seeking a lovely lady to persuade me there are better ways to spend one's evenings.
B ruised by my experience over lunch with "Simon," or whoever he may be, this time I'm playing it safe and opting for just a coffee by way of introduction. That way, I can make a quick assessment of his suitability without wasting another few hours of my life.
We have arranged to meet outside Niketown on Oxford Circus, chosen by me as somewhere highly public and therefore anonymous.
But I soon realize it's a mistake as the crowds pour through the entrance area, some to shop, others taking a shortcut from the tube exit to bustling Oxford Street. My head swivels from left to right like a Wimbledon spectator, not very subtly trying to spot Larry before he sees me.
My eyes rest on a disheveled white man with short dreadlocks and a scruffy anorak, looking furtively down the street. Please God, no. He suddenly looks across at me and I rapidly glance away, wondering whether to make a run for it.
After several seconds of inaction, I sneak a look at him again and am overwhelmed with relief to see his attention has turned to his frayed shoulder bag. His hand reaches inside and he pulls out a rolled-up stack of fliers. Panic over.
A hand taps my shoulder. Panic back.
I turn round to find what I presume is Larry smiling anxiously at me. I say I presume because, although the hair is the same sandy color as in the photo he e-mailed me, the rest of his features don't ring any bells at all.
"Hi." His voice is cracked and squeaky, like a twelve-year-old boy on the change. Perhaps it's nerves, I think benevolently.
"Hi." I smile. It's a false one, but he probably doesn't know that. "I presume you're Larry?"
"You presume right. Are you Jess? It's just that you don't look anything like your photo."
I gasp audibly. "Excuse me? My photo is one hundred percent genuine, if a little out of focus. Which is more than I can say for yours."
He looks slightly taken aback. "It's definitely me. I was on holiday in Greece at the time, so I was quite brown. Maybe that's what threw you."
Yes, particularly as I'm now looking straight into the face of Casper the Unfriendly Ghost. Since the photo
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