boob. If Ben did that (not that he ever would) Frank would go nuts. Somehow, it’s okay for Jeff to leer at me. It’s a different culture. I need to embrace the differences, but I could probably tolerate it more if Jeff used a little more deodorant. Also, this conversation has been had a few times and is, I know, mostly for my benefit. Calling me beautiful means Frank now feels he has earned a free pass to leave me for the night. And he does.
I spend the night with the ladies of the family. We gather around the tabouleh and the salads. The men mostly gather around the barbecue and drink a lot of beer. Even Frank.
The girls’ talk is mostly babies. They are all mums and there are, as usual, a couple of pregnant ladies. There are lots of babies and they are passed around. I cuddle a few, which I have to admit is lovely. Frank comes over a couple of times – never when I’m holding one of the babies - and whispers that I’m hot and he can’t wait to get me home. He is pretty drunk which is a bit annoying as he is so against it when we’re out with my friends, but he gets so affectionate and complimentary after a few beers, I don’t mind. Chances are he’ll fall asleep when we do finally get to bed, which suits me, to be honest. I could not be more tired. What I wouldn’t do to be on my sofa watching something on UK TV right now, but Frank doesn’t like nights like that. I know. Next Saturday night I’ll cook, and we’ll ask Ben and Ella over. That way I get a night in and don’t have to drive out west again.
Jen
So I came off the dating website. What the men say they are is so different from what they actually are. I suppose my profile was a bit different too, but only a little bit. Online dating seems to be built on layers of lies and I can’t face it anymore. I have been Googling posh dating agencies. I might give that a go. A more refined approach.
I did, however, have an unexpectedly nice evening with skateboard man. His colossal fibbing even stretched to his name. On the website he was Ryan. A young-sounding choice. His real name is Ron. He is actually called by most people, SB. For skateboard. This is slightly ridiculous, but marginally better than Ron.
Unlike with beardy man or sad man, SB and I managed to have a good old chat. It helped that he’s British, and it probably helped that I didn’t feel I needed to prove anything to him, since I had already ruled out his boyfriend potential. So when I mentioned the cushion room cinema at Govindas and he said, “Ee, pet. That sounds smashing. Shall we go one night?” I don’t really want to, but I don’t mind too much either. As long as he leaves the skateboard at home which he agrees to. So I booked it then got an email from Josie saying she’s doing dinner at hers the same night. Ben and Ella are coming, would Kelly and I like to come too? I really don’t like hanging around couples so I was pleased I could say I already had plans. Needless to say I haven’t told anyone – not even Kelly – that the plan is a night out with a sixty-four-year-old.
So here we are at Govindas restaurant. Considering SB claims to be a bit wary of vege-bloody-tarian food, he is doing very well with it. He’s had three platefuls.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get our seats.” If he eats much more he will explode. I need to get him away from the buffet. We climb the stairs to the cinema room.
SB has that embarrassing older person’s habit of over-engaging. Bored ticket man is greeted by him with, “Hello, sir, and a very good evening to you! Which of these fine cushions do you recommend?”
Once we have chosen our spot, the intertwined Chinese couple we will be sitting by get it.
“No snogging, you two. I’ll be keeping an eye!”
I think they have no clue what he just said to them, which is something at least.
SB creaks down onto his cushion and I plop down onto mine. Moments later, there is a terrible smell and it is gathering strength. I look at the Chinese couple who have pulled their t-shirts over their noses. I look at SB who looks sheepish. I think he may be responsible for one of the smelliest farts in history. I knew he shouldn’t have eaten all those cauliflower fritters.
Les Miserables starts. SB insists on singing along with the song that Susan Boyle did. The love of my life was a huge Susan Boyle fan and I get a bit teary. Luckily, SB doesn’t notice as he nods off and starts snoring. I elbow him and he wakes up with a violent start and a, “What? What?” He was properly asleep.
Then, he spots the Chinese couple. They probably live in a flat with ten other people including two in the living room, so this is likely as close as they will get to intimacy. SB has a look of wide-eyed wonder. He nudges me and stage whispers, “He’s not just snogging her, he’s feeling her titties!”
“Shhhh!” I say, trying not to laugh. I’m sure the Yorkshire accent makes him sound twice as loud.
Chinese boy comes up for air and catches SB’s eye. SB gives him the thumbs up. ”Go on, my son!” he says.
Everyone must have heard as there is chorus of shushes and tuts. SB is chortling. So am I. Someone in Les Miserables is singing very badly and out slips another SB fart. A noisy one this time, a big phaaaaarrrp that is blatantly him. “Excuse me everyone,” says Ron
“Shhhhh!”
“You gross stinky man!” says the Chinese girl.
Getting SB off his cushion at the end of the movie is no easy task. After a few, “I’m stuck loves” and “Ee, bloody ‘ells” ticket man gets him under the armpits and heaves him up. On the way down the stairs we pass the entrance for the restaurant.
“That were bloody smashing,” he says to the lady at the till.
She smiles at me. “Your dad is a sweetheart.”
Kelly
Jen can’t believe I’m having dinner with two couples. “It’s bad enough,” she says, “that we get invited along like a lesbian couple, but you’re going on your own? To be a gooseberry?”
“It’s hardly gooseberry with two couples who have been together for God knows how long! It’s not like they’re going to get all lovey dovey or anything. These are our friends. We’ve known them for years. Why does it matter that they are two couples?”
“Rather you than me.”
God love her. I’m sure if she could stop thinking that the whole world should be like Noah’s Ark, she’d have far less of an issue being single.
Josie’s flat is lovely. She’s buying it; not something I could ever imagine being able to do, and she doesn’t have to have a lodger. It’s in a new building so close to the city she can walk to work. Sleek, slate grey kitchen with a dining area. A super white comfy modular lounge. All open plan with a balcony. Not much of a view, but you can see some twinkly lights so you know you’re in the city. I arrive first. She looks a bit frazzled.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“If you could do the salad, Kelly, that would be great. Its only lasagne and that’s in the oven, but it took longer than I thought to get the table ready and I haven’t straightened my hair yet.”
“Well, the table looks lovely.” It does too; all white table cloth and white flowers, like something out of a magazine. “And your hair looks pretty straight to me.”
“No. Frank likes it super straight. Are you okay with this salad stuff while I sort myself out? Do it anyway you like.”
“Will do. Go do your GHD thing.”
After five years, would you not be over this looking perfect for him thing? Weird.
Ella and Ben arrive and are full of excitement.
“We’ve sponsored a Third World kiddie!” Ella is scrolling through her phone, looking for the picture. “This is him. Teflon!”
“Teflon?” I ask. “Did I hear that right?”
“Like the saucepans?” Josie emerges