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Chapter Fourteen

Ade laughed – he was going through the motions with his buddies, but was wishing he was home. They’d been meeting at the pub every Sunday afternoon, to watch the football, for months; but he was relieved that this was the last game of the season. It was starting to get boring. His five friends and him had got friendly with a few of the women in The Bull & Bush and they always flirted with them. He listened as Gav hit on an attractive Australian blonde with one of his best lines,

“OK, so I came over here to buy you a drink, but it bothers me. What if we get on really well and have a few more drinks? The next thing we know you’re giving me your number because I'm way too shy to ask for it and I finally get up the nerve to call you. I take you to the cinema; we have a few fantastic meals out. I relax, you relax, we go out a few more times and get to know each other's friends? We start spending some serious time together and then the sexual tension bursts and we have the most incredible, intense sex life that blows us both away. We realise that our relationship is solid and so you move into my flat, we eventually get married, we both get promoted and so we buy a bigger house. You really want babies, but I really want freedom, but we have a kid anyway, only to find that I become resentful. Then the sparks begin fading and we have 2 more beautiful children to rekindle the flame. Then I work far too much, just to keep up with the bills. Because of this I have no time for you which makes you stressed and down and you and stop taking really good care of yourself. So, then I become worried about our lack of sex life, and my self-confidence plummets – I turn to someone else, because I am really immature sometimes, and have an affair and then it gets really awful, cos I’m loving the sexual gratification. You find out, cos you’re smart and clever and beautiful and you throw me out. But then we have to explain to the children why Mummy and Daddy are splitting up. God, it’s just so sad. Think about the children…... So, for God's sake, if you let me buy you a drink, and we hit it off, let's just keep it sexual, because we both know where it's going.”

Ade reads her face as she looks at Gav with a twinkle in her eye. He couldn’t fathom whether it was a twinkle of humour or a flicker of pity, but he wasn’t hanging around to find out. He had planned to write some grittier pieces this week and wanted to research the rise of the British chat show, hoping to interview some of the BBC officials later in the week. He hadn’t yet written his short ‘Ade Gets Laid’ column, despite having plenty of opportunities over the weekend to listen to the nagging voice of the bulge in his boxers, urging him to find another beautiful woman to take home. He was confused lately though and it was disabling his babe radar. He finished his pint and sneaked out – leaving his friends to drink out the evening. He walked home, thoughts of Sophie Regan, tormenting him. He wondered, rather disturbingly whether he was starting to slow down a little – ‘maturing’ his Mum called it, and he supposed, at 32, it was probably time, although he wasn’t particularly happy about it. He just couldn’t get Sophie out of his mind lately. She intrigued him. Her decision to stay single and what she’d written about her horrendous dating experiences made him want to know more. She was getting under his skin and since Angela Johnson had told him that she’d once dated Ben Scott, it made him even more interested to know the real Sophie Regan and what made her tick.

“Fuckit, I haven’t even started to write up this weeks Ade Gets Laid. Looks like I’m going to have to make it all up. Again!”

*

I spent all weekend trying desperately hard not to reply to Ben’s sexy text message. He was great at sex texts and it was so tempting to send one back. But I knew it would have been a VBM (very bad move). And I’ve already made too many of them in my romantic life. We’d had a strange relationship, Ben and I. We were fabulous in bed. Actually we were rather ace at all types of non verbal communication – including text messaging. Our relationship had been born on the SMS airwaves and he had charmed me, sweeping me straight off my feet and onto my back in a matter of days. It was a shame that he wasn’t able to back up his text messages with the same enthusiasm over a longer period of time….

*

I’m sitting on the Tube contemplating what I’ll wear to ‘Wine Not?’. I don’t relish the thoughts of a wine tasting dating night – dating with drinks has always been a disaster for me. I either get roaring drunk and everybody looks fabulous – or I am the sober focus for some guy who is wearing his ultra-thick beer goggles. The fact is, if Delaney is going to insist that I continue reporting on the singleton scene of London, then I need to look good, and I don’t. I was hoping to fade into the background with my secret pact to stay single, but it looks as if I’m going to be dragged, probably kicking and screaming, onto Sky television. Imagine the media slant? Imagine the critics? I can just see it now,

‘Staying Single through choice or chance?

Meet Sophie Regan, the woman who has decided to remain single, but guys,

would YOU date this woman?’

What if they think that I’ve said that because I can’t get a guy! That really would be the nail in the coffin for me. Jennifer and Mum would certainly disown me. It’s made me see that I’ve never really focussed seriously on dating; it’s all been a rather hit-and-miss affair, or hit-and-Mrs when it was the married guys chatting me up. I must rise to this challenge and start focusing on my inner and outer body beautiful. I need to stop over-analysing everything and get to the gym and the beauty salon – If I’m going to be bandied about as ‘the woman who chose to stay single’ then I need to look as if I have a choice!

I can’t remember the last time I said ‘no’ to a date request – even if I didn’t like the guy!

Things have not been good.

And they’re going to improve.

Quickly!

Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Thirteen

Ben and I had a short but intense relationship. The irony is that he is a chat show host for one of the Sky channels, but had severe communication problems in his personal life. It was difficult, dating someone known for their wit and charm on screen, only to find them clammed up and monosyllabic at home. He wasn’t like that at first, obviously. The first few weeks I dated the ‘Beeennnnn Sccoootttt’ that the television voiceover guys introduced – the one who looked a little like Sam Mendes and who had an audience riveted within seconds with his probing questions and balanced point of view. But, on getting to know the ‘real’ Ben, I realised what an act it all was. He blamed his job for his lack of conversation, suggesting that the extremes of being fabulous on screen reduced him to hermit status at home. I didn’t want the ‘television’ Ben nor the withdrawn one – just to have knocked off the edges and had something in between the two would have been ideal. His depression worsened and I struggled to keep the relationship alive, dipping into overdraft with gestures of weekends away in country cottages and trendy ‘home’ cooking in quaint but trendy pubs. I literally bit my own tongue many times, desperate not to blurt those fatal words about ending the relationship – forever hopeful that I could help ‘fix’ Ben. And then I discovered his secret.

And he dumped me…..

*

I’m worried about talking to Sky about staying single and I travel home on the bus rather than the Tube tonight. I can’t bear the feelings of claustrophobia, the thoughts of walking down those tiled pipes into the pits of the earth to climb aboard a dirty train and whizz through the darkness. I need light. I need to see the world going by on this Friday evening. I get home and strip at the doorway, leaving my clothes on the doormat as I walk to the kitchen, naked. I feel strangely burdened and the need to be free. It’s muggy and I hide behind the curtains to release the sash window, letting the room gasp for fresh air. I can’t talk to Sky. There’s too much at stake if they want me to talk about Ben. It wouldn’t be fair. Are they looking for a kiss-and-tell, or my reasons for staying single? There’s a bottle of white in the fridge and the thoughts of its crisp, cold taste taunts me. Thankfully it’s a screw-top which means I get to it quicker and, I know it’s slovenly, but I take a long gulp from the bottle before pouring a large, cool glass of the wine. I flick the stereo to play ‘Dead In The Water’ by David Gray and pad through to the bathroom. I need to wash away the day and my thoughts and fears.

*

“So she dated Ben Scott? Interesting..”

“Yeah, thanks for telling me. That gives things a different slant. Wicked! Cheers.”

“Not a problem. I’ll keep digging and see what else comes to the surface.”

“Ace, you’re a star. Cheers babe.”

AJ smirked as she put the phone down. She knew she shouldn’t be staying late on a Friday night – the worst night of the week to stay for overtime, but there were things she had to do…..

*

I feel better now. I’d stood beneath the stinging jets of warm water, my face to the showerhead as they’d pummelled my closed eyes, cheeks and forehead, washing back over my hair and down my neck and body. Sliding into my cheap, brushed cotton pyjamas I grab the half empty bottle, setting it down on the coffee table as I head for the kitchen, on the hunt for Doritos and chocolate. I’m going to shut out the world tonight and indulge in a girlie evening – the entire Friends series on DVD, wine and bad food. What better.

Half an hour later and I know I have chocolate around my mouth and my fingers are tinged glow-in-the-dark orange from the Doritos dust. I’ve let my hair dry ‘naturally’ – which actually means it’s flat and slightly frizzy on the ends - but it feels great to be so relaxed. And then there’s a knock at the door. Damn it, probably that Fabu-ware consultant wanting to know whether I’m ordering the huge slipper, the glasses with flip-down lenses to help apply my mascara or the bunion support bandage. I’m going to ignore it – they’ll come back another time. It knocks again, louder.

“Damn!” I hiss, heaving myself from the sofa and striding to the front door. I step over my discarded clothes, kicking them to the side as I open the door.

“Hey! Sophie.”

Jesus – it’s Rob. I am, immediately, beetroot.

“Oh, am, eh,” I giggle nervously, suddenly acutely aware of my frizzed hair, chocolately gob, orange fingertips and granny pyjamas.

“You busy?”

How bloody embarrassing. Last time he saw me I was soaked in smoothie juice and now I look like a toddler that’s been let loose in the cookie jar. God only knows what he thinks of me. Not that I’m particularly worried – he’s still dressed in his greasy overalls and his face is, once again, dusty and dirty. But still. I look shit and I know it!

“Did Tamsin not ring you? I told her I’d try and call over tonight to start painting your kitchen for you?”

He reads my blank expression and tails off, “Obviously. She. Didn’t.”

“No,” I force a smile, hoping that the dazzle of my teeth will distract him from looking at the rest of me, “but it’s not a problem. Come on in.”

“No, it’s OK. You’re chilling tonight, I can see that. Maybe I’ll come back one night in the week? How does Wednesday sound?”
“Yeah, OK then. I’ll, er, buy the paint. What do I need? Just get a tub of white paint?”
“No, don’t. I’ve got some left from when I painted my flat. I’ll bring it with me.”
“Oh. OK. Thanks then.”

“OK.”

“OK.”

This is ridiculous – I don’t know which of us is more horrified.

“See you then, then.”

My face is still stinging red as I rush back to the sofa, determined to dig out my mobile and ring Tam immediately! She could have warned me. Not that I need to look particularly nice for him – it’s only Rob, but I would have preferred not to be so unprepared! As I pick up my phone I see that there’s a text message waiting.

I click it.

It’s from Ben.

Replying to my suggestive sexy text from a few nights ago.

Shit.

Chapter Twelve
Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Twelve

Friday mornings were always the same and Tamsin hated them. She was now tuned in to Pete’s extraordinarily early Friday starts, but hated prodding him, sick of being governed by the clock as it smirked it’s 05:20 at her. The birds chirped outside her window as she listened to the whoosh of traffic pass by. She imagined it was the sea washing onto the beach and she closed her eyes, snuggling into Pete’s hairy chest and convinced herself that they were in an exotic apartment beside a tropical beach. The luxury of a ‘clock-less’ room and no demands on his time would be her idea of heaven. Nestling in closer to him, she wrapped her leg up over his hip, pulling herself in tighter. His soft chest hair tickled her nipples and she contemplated turning off the alarm clock. She’d read a blog entry that Sophie had recommended from DirtyFilthyPrincess in which the ‘Princess’ blogged about a magical moment of loving with her husband. It was passionate and lustful, downright dirty and playful and Sophie said that it restored her faith in the concept of marriage. Tam had looked at it, wishing that she and Pete could spend more time together. She worked ridiculously long hours at the hospital and coupled with his excessive work load, they had to grab time together whenever possible. But it wasn’t easy. Her feelings for him had begun to overwhelm her lately, bringing bouts of sadness as well as intense love. She questioned what sort of woman she was– that she could feel such overpowering emotions for a guy that she shouldn’t be loving in the first place.

*

It’s a scorcher today and I’m in Delaney’s good books once again. She loved yesterday’s column, even agreeing to let me call it ‘Relationship Rehab’. My inbox has 42 emails from readers who have also decided to stay single, which is encouraging. One reader has posted me a link to an interview with Pamela Anderson who is also vowing to stay single for a while - – but I suspect that it will be a whole lot easier for ME to stay single than her. I’ve got that Friday Feeling, despite AJ’s noxious comments about my speed dating experience. It was strange the way that she asked whether I saw anybody that I knew. I was initially suspicious, wondering whether she knew that Adrian was there too, but then she remained true to form and sniped,

“I mean, how many saddos can you pack into one room, before you recognise somebody that you know! You’re a hideously over-populated breed.” She’s poison and I was determined not to mention what great laughs we’d had with Adrian. She just stared at me as I smiled at her, gathered my papers and went into Delaney’s office.

“Regan?” she manages a half smile as I knock and then open her door. “Come in. Sit down.”

She throws an open magazine onto her desk, twisting it so that it lands to face me. The first thing I see is the tacky grapes photograph as backdrop, and then I notice the twee curly wurly font in green which reads ‘Wine Not? Meet other classy singles and have a grape night out as we take you on a gastronomic rollercoaster through the vineyards of Europe’.

“It looks gross.” I stare at Delaney, horrified that she’d even think that I’d be interested.

“No, it’ll be fun.”

“Will not be fun.”

She laughs, throwing her head back, her shock of short auburn curls jerking out, like a baby’s arms on losing its balance.

“Anyway,” she tails off with the hilarity, “you’re going. I’ve booked you a ticket for Wednesday. It’s just off of Greek Street. 8pm start. You can write about it for next week’s piece.”

I feel the colour drain from my face. As if speed dating wasn’t enough like Butlins, I now need to go on the dating equivalent of a Faliraki pub crawl. This is not good.

“OK,” Delaney gees me up, “that’s it for now then. I need to get on with this piece about The Times.”

“Right.” I stand up, clutching my file tightly to my chest. For all my promises to focus on my inner and outer body beautiful, my determination not to give out an invisible radar of wanting to be with a guy –I’m being put into the most hellish scenarios where that is the focus of the evening. I reach for the door handle when she speaks again. I turn around to see that she’s talking but typing and staring at her computer screen. I’m not sure that she’s talking to me.

“Yeah and it really has attracted some attention too.”

I think she must have her Bluetooth in her ear and is on another call. I turn to leave again.

“Sky want to talk to you about it.”

I open her door, still stunned at being booked in for ‘Wine Not’, when she yells,

“Regan! I’m talking to you.”

“Oh, I thought….”

“I said that your Relationship Rehab column has been picked up by some of the media. Apparently Paris Hilton made a similar promise to stay single for a year and Sky want to talk to you about how it’s working for you. Obviously Paris Hilton attracts men wherever she goes, but they’re interested to see how it would work for an, well, an ‘ordinary’ woman.”

“Ordinary?”

“You know. Non celeb. So keep doing the good work. I’m going to talk to them later today. Might see if you can write a piece for them, but be prepared for them wanting to interview you. For a programme they’re developing on how we attract the opposite sex and how we break up relationships.”

I’m blushing. “Really? They want to talk to me?”

“Reckon so. Anyway, you crack on with what you’re doing there. And I still want you to follow up the leads for that piece on rape sentences across Europe.”

“Right.” I’m stunned.

And excited.

“Oh, and by the way,” she adds, “they know you dated Ben Scott.”

Shit.

Sky! Want to talk to me!

I think I feel sick.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Thirteen

Pulling Power #4

OK, now I'm running out of vid clips!!!
Please send in your recordings (by mobile phone or camcorder) to singlesophieregan@yahoo.co.uk

The best chat up line and reason for dumping your other half will receive a prize!!!

Chapter Eleven

Fancy a cliché? How about men are like buses – you wait ages for one, and then three come along at the same time! Or how about men are like placemats - they only show up when there's food on the table. Or even, men are like government bonds - they take so long to mature. Well I have a new cliché and it’s ironic! Here it is, ‘the best bit about speed dating was talking to Adrian-from-floor-2’. I know, it’s ludicrous and loaded with irony, but I have worked in the same building as this man for weeks and learned more about him in 2 hours than in 2 months. He works for one of the financial magazines and it’s surprising what fun he is – considering he spends his days writing about stocks and shares and equities. I usually find that these guys who number crunch are mind-numbingly boring, but Adrian was funny and genuine. Speed dating was hell and I can honestly say that I’d prefer speed dying than speed dating. Never again. It was a bad omen when the evening kicked off with Frank from Leeds buying me a drink (which I’m certain was one of the complimentary glasses of wine) and said, “Hey, babe. Did you know the word of the day is ‘legs’.”

“Legs?” I frowned, checking out his tacky goatee beard as I scanned his face. I thought it might have been some special code word that only the fully initiated in speed dating knew about. It probably was – but only in Frank’s book.

“Yeah,” he chortled, “So let's go back to my place and spread the word.”

I grimaced and handed him back his freebie glass of wine. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for Adrian I would have probably thrown in the proverbial towel after half an hour, but he had Tamsin and I in raptures. I’m sitting at my desk trying to write up this week’s column and struggling to keep Adrian’s name out of it. The truth was, that I found him adorable – but that doesn’t quite tie in with my still-wet-from-the-seal promise that I’ll be single for a year. So I need to write this up from the point of view that Adrian wasn’t at speed dating. The truth is I’ve been on the phone to Tamsin at least four times every day since Saturday, just to remind her of something else that Adrian had said to me. I think I’m driving her bonkers, but I can’t help it. So…. to focus on the dreadful side of speed dating….

Relationship Rehab - week 2

Embark on speed dating with caution. Be prepared to mingle, Butlins-Holiday-Camp
style, with a crowd of men with zero personality. Forearm yourself with the reality that, if they had an iota of personality to begin with, they wouldn’t need to resort to speed dating. Prepare yourself to be treated like a Brit-abroad as you are handed your cartoon character playing card at the door and told to ‘work the room, find the other half of your card, and the first couple back here win a bottle of champagne.’ My card was Princess Fiona. Great, that meant I was looking for a fucking Shrek. Plenty of choice there, then. The ‘champagne’ was Asti Spumanti, the guys were Shrek, but hey, at least Shrek had personality. At least Shrek was funny. Unlike these dorks. In the first half hour I was subjected to the old reliable, ‘that outfit would look great in a crumpled heap on my bedroom floor tomorrow morning,’ and the ‘was your father a thief…’ – I won’t bore you with the details. I got chatting to the host at one point, who delighted in telling me how he ‘bagged all the tasty birds’ for himself and don’t even get me started on the ‘7 guys – 3 minutes each’ session. Would you believe how exhausting it is trying to strike up a new conversation every 3 minutes? As for the Texan guy with the beard – the moment I noticed his name badge read ‘Yosemite Sam’ I knew I was looking down the double barrel.’ Sophie x

*

I made a joke of it all in my column, but the truth is, spending time with Adrian made me feel lonely. To have a laugh and a proper conversation with a guy that doesn’t revert to bawdy banter and sexual innuendo every few minutes was refreshing but stark. It made me realise that I didn’t care about losing Danny Mullins or any of those short-term boyfriends. It was the long-term ones that broke my heart. Ben was a hard man to lose, despite his desperate lacking in the communication stakes; we were definitely on the same sexual wavelength. The vagaries of that cattle market, also known as speed dating, have left me numb; made me realise that I’m tired of the brave face. There’s no doubt that break ups are ugly and sting like crazy. Mum is always urging me to be more like Jennifer in my choice of men, but I just can’t ignore the vital signs – such as integrity and honesty – because I’m dazzled by the size of their car/wallet/house/bank balance (tick any or all of these). I’m slightly depressed and disappointed that I felt pushed into choosing to stay single, but convince myself that I’m better off alone rather than putting myself through the trauma of the extreme highs and lows of continually dating the wrong men. And I don’t have the patience anymore, to consider that every guy that I meet is potentially ‘The One’.

Chapter Ten
Chapter Twelve

It's not right - but now I fancy Jack Black??

And I've seen this and HAD to add it. And now I kinda fancy Jack Black - is that scary or OK? Or what?

What do you guys think??

Jack Black singing Kiss from a Rose on American Idol. He's so not fanciable - but kind of really is at the same time!!!

I'd listen to his chat up lines any day.

Might even consider breaking my 'promise' to stay single for him....

And check the guy in the front row with the rose!!!! Anyone shed any light??