wearing his shades, I reflected that although he was a sicko, he was still a hot-looking son of a bitch. I just didnât want to be the bitch in question.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vanessa and I were prancing around in the pool, warming up for aqua class. She had asked me how my dating was going and I related my creepy encounter with Max. She studied me, eyes wide, shaking her head disapprovingly with accompanying loud tutting noises. I had expected this, of course. She had already set out for me, weeks earlier, her unbreakable rules for dating. And Iâd been breaking them all.
âOh dear oh dear. What were you thinking ?â
âI know,â I said feebly and pursed my lips. âI know.â
Vanessaâs iron-clad dating rules were:
1. Never have sex on the first date.
2. Never bring anyone home until you know them well.
3. Never pay for anything (âor youâll ruin it for the rest of us!â).
4. Dine only at top restaurants and drink only champagne (âIf they canât afford Champagne, they canât afford meâ).
5. Never take public transport, only taxis (âAny man who so much as mentions the tube is outâ).
6. If possible, make them remove all their body hair (Vanessa disliked hairy men, particularly in her own bed, where their stray hairs sullied her Egyptian cotton sheets).
With Max, I didnât know whether she would be more censorious about my having sex on a first date with the Boston Strangler or my picking up the tab for our food and drinks. (Needless to say, Max never did give me the cash, happy for âmummyâ to foot the bill. I was glad he didnât ask me to stump up for a school trip to France, as well.)
Vanessa was dead against the idea of being with much younger men, too, thinking it tasteless and inappropriate. (Well duh !) When Iâd told her about Little Pup, age 23, she squealed âHeâs only a year older than my son!â and said she might be sick in the pool.
She was an intriguing combination of blousy blonde man-eater and Little Goody Two-Shoes. I liked her a lot and liked comparing notes with her on our internet dating adventures. For every man who âviewedâ me online, she was viewed by twenty. Men flocked to her profile in their thousands. I got dozens of winks, she got hundreds. One must never ever underestimate the power of blondeness and bustiness in the sexual imaginings of men. Itâs not easy for a petite brunette to keep up.
However, we discovered a certain overlap in the men we had been encountering on the site. Jock, for example had been onto her a few times, trying to entice her into a tryst. She had resisted because she didnât like his beard. When I told her about my mindless shag-fest with him, she nodded knowingly and said, âIâm not at all surprised.â
And then there was BryanG, the 63-year-old engineer from Surrey. After exchanging a few messages, he asked whether we could chat on the phone. He was getting on a bit, but I didnât want to be ageist. He looked fairly presentable, was tall, had his own hair. Educated. Solvent. So I agreed.
I suspected he might be a tad dull but didnât realise quite how dull he was until we had our lengthy conversation one day as I was sitting in the shoe department of Marks and Spencerâs at Marble Arch, killing time before an appointment. And when I say killing time, I donât use the word lightly. That 25 minutes was bludgeoned to death.
As BryanG droned on about his life and times â encompassing his divorce from his wife of thirty-odd years, the respective professions and family lives of his three married children, his demanding job (which took him to many âfascinatingâ parts of the world) and the sad demise of his mum through dementia â I surveyed the nearby pumps, slingbacks and court shoes, desperate for a little light relief.
Still too kindly for my own good, instead of casting him to the four winds
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vanessa and I were prancing around in the pool, warming up for aqua class. She had asked me how my dating was going and I related my creepy encounter with Max. She studied me, eyes wide, shaking her head disapprovingly with accompanying loud tutting noises. I had expected this, of course. She had already set out for me, weeks earlier, her unbreakable rules for dating. And Iâd been breaking them all.
âOh dear oh dear. What were you thinking ?â
âI know,â I said feebly and pursed my lips. âI know.â
Vanessaâs iron-clad dating rules were:
1. Never have sex on the first date.
2. Never bring anyone home until you know them well.
3. Never pay for anything (âor youâll ruin it for the rest of us!â).
4. Dine only at top restaurants and drink only champagne (âIf they canât afford Champagne, they canât afford meâ).
5. Never take public transport, only taxis (âAny man who so much as mentions the tube is outâ).
6. If possible, make them remove all their body hair (Vanessa disliked hairy men, particularly in her own bed, where their stray hairs sullied her Egyptian cotton sheets).
With Max, I didnât know whether she would be more censorious about my having sex on a first date with the Boston Strangler or my picking up the tab for our food and drinks. (Needless to say, Max never did give me the cash, happy for âmummyâ to foot the bill. I was glad he didnât ask me to stump up for a school trip to France, as well.)
Vanessa was dead against the idea of being with much younger men, too, thinking it tasteless and inappropriate. (Well duh !) When Iâd told her about Little Pup, age 23, she squealed âHeâs only a year older than my son!â and said she might be sick in the pool.
She was an intriguing combination of blousy blonde man-eater and Little Goody Two-Shoes. I liked her a lot and liked comparing notes with her on our internet dating adventures. For every man who âviewedâ me online, she was viewed by twenty. Men flocked to her profile in their thousands. I got dozens of winks, she got hundreds. One must never ever underestimate the power of blondeness and bustiness in the sexual imaginings of men. Itâs not easy for a petite brunette to keep up.
However, we discovered a certain overlap in the men we had been encountering on the site. Jock, for example had been onto her a few times, trying to entice her into a tryst. She had resisted because she didnât like his beard. When I told her about my mindless shag-fest with him, she nodded knowingly and said, âIâm not at all surprised.â
And then there was BryanG, the 63-year-old engineer from Surrey. After exchanging a few messages, he asked whether we could chat on the phone. He was getting on a bit, but I didnât want to be ageist. He looked fairly presentable, was tall, had his own hair. Educated. Solvent. So I agreed.
I suspected he might be a tad dull but didnât realise quite how dull he was until we had our lengthy conversation one day as I was sitting in the shoe department of Marks and Spencerâs at Marble Arch, killing time before an appointment. And when I say killing time, I donât use the word lightly. That 25 minutes was bludgeoned to death.
As BryanG droned on about his life and times â encompassing his divorce from his wife of thirty-odd years, the respective professions and family lives of his three married children, his demanding job (which took him to many âfascinatingâ parts of the world) and the sad demise of his mum through dementia â I surveyed the nearby pumps, slingbacks and court shoes, desperate for a little light relief.
Still too kindly for my own good, instead of casting him to the four winds
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