Date 7: The Estate Agent

It was accounting time, so I arranged to meet my accountant for coffee. After an exhilarating meeting, a newfound enthusiasm for sorting out my life, and a general under stated interest in the housing market in Bristol, I wandered into the nearest estate agents.

It was a very friendly office, where more tea was consumed and lots of chats were had about the area and how it had changed over recent years. I can recommend the strategy if your at a loose end, and or it’s raining outside. One agent came in who was very keen to give me his card, but then disappeared to do a viewing. After a good sit down, finding out about everyone’s previous jobs, relationships and where they all live, I thought I’d ask what actual property was available. They had a modern style 1950’s house on a quiet road just around the corner. Most definitely worth a look, so I drove round. 

The agent conducting the viewing was the same person who had given me his business card. He came to the front door with twinkly blue eyes, a glowing smile and even more radiant red hair: A happy cheeky chappy. It was a family house, a comment I made as soon as walking through the door. Searching for a bit of information about how to make a sale, he asked if I was moving with a partner or boyfriend. I said no I’m single, but I would potentially like to have children in the house I move to. He was somewhat surprised and asked why I was single, to which my response was that it is quite hard to someone at my age. He rather spontaneously said, “I’ll take you out, do you want to go on a date.” I thought for just one moment and said yes.  He was really nervous. My attempts to mask the energetic awkwardness included commenting on how I like a square kitchen and how easy the access was to re-pressurise the boiler. Sexy talk.

There’s a bit of conversation… I now have had a whistle stop tour of his CV and significant relationships before we check out the bedrooms. I’m somewhat distracted whilst appreciating the double-glazing and fixed wardrobe before we turn to each other. He asked if he could kiss me. And there’s the lean in moment. He is very gentle and loving, and MASSIVELY nervous. He’s doing the cute quivery thing, that’s vulnerable and hot all at the same time. I like to think he was nervous because I’m such a goddess, however I think it might have been more a result of knowing that it was probably dismissible action and if any one knew, he would get a boll£cking at the best. This was a consequence, which would be more likely if I were to take offense. He apologised profusely, “I’ve never done that before”. I do think he was genuine, and I had enjoyed it, so we arranged a date.

Before the date he checked the arrangements so many times, he was starting to be less attractive. Lots of my schedule is unpredictable, so I like to set a day and if it needs to change I’ll only know on the day. Repeatedly asking me a week in advance is just annoying. We met despite my reservations, and went to a very nice bar for pizza. He was really enthusiastic but just would not turn off the hard sell. This was a bad case of taking your work home. Over the evening I was given full CV including his GCSE and A-level results, a family history of successful endeavours stipulating his Grandpa (who he lives with) was in Mensa (in case I was checking genetic prospects), and a carrot for future of, ‘house and kids’. It wasn’t ALL about him. I could express myself during feedback opportunities, “Do you think I’m nice looking?” and “One girl said I was the best looking ginger she’d ever met, do you think that?” Does he want the answer ‘decidedly average’? My inner thoughts were that he looked like a ginger version of my ex (or a grown up version of my ex’s nephew) circa 2008-2013, with a similar set of insecurities, and an annoying urge to prove himself. These insecurities where he had labelled me ‘posh’ or ‘privileged’, and himself as ‘honest working class’, despite my work being manual labour and his being in the service sector, meant he would be irrationally jealous and dig a knife in if he wasn’t going to get his own way. Yawn. The problem with being older is you’ve seen is before. Self-obsessed and predictable, like the English male football team in a penalty shoot out, this wasn’t a combo to get behind.

He asked some of the normal questions you might on date, but by the end of every sentence had interjected. The words “I’m not going answer that question because you’ve cut me off three times,” came out loud from my mouth. Needless to say this date had not gone where I might have hoped. I drove him home (to his Grandpas).

A week later he called me from his work under the guise of checking about mortgage appointments. Knowing that I am 35 and want children, he completely unprompted stated that he would need to live with a partner for 5 years in order to settle down and start a family. He knows my timeline will need to be more fast-track if kids are on the agenda. Was this his best attempt at a knife? The little word, grace, came to mind, “Thank you, spoken from the perspective of a male who has just turned 30, is that all?” And thus, the call was terminated.  

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Date 6: The Other Accidental Date

Dating 'as you like it', 

'All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players…'

Was it a date? Define date.... I'm having a late night dinner with a man after having spoken on the phone for hours and I surely would not be here if I had a partner? If all the world were a stage, this would look very like a date. It doesn't feel real. But it is a date. There's a strange attraction? What is reality? Where is home? What is time? Does god exist?  Is this the loneliness of two souls brought together by existential crisis? Who knows? It was certainly a meeting which would raise more questions and give less answers than an astrologers daydream after an afternoon picking 'wild' mushrooms. Sophia Coppola, with my panoramic view of London and dinner with an older man, I am Lost in Translation. This time I get to be Scarlett Johansson, which is way cooler than a princess. 

A couple of weeks before I had done my job, well a little beyond my actual job, but then my actual job was boring me. It happens (stuff they don’t tell you in school). By being minuscule flexible, I met an up and coming film director and a certain charismatic 40 something year old, who orchestrated the job and appreciated that I'd been around to make his plans come into fruition. A few weeks later, he had got me on another job with a big celebrity. 

We spoke at length on the phone after the first job. He was mostly living in LA and from what I experienced was definitely well connected in the world of Hollywood. He needs a show biz name, so I'm calling him Larry. Being a celebrity cynic I initially wondered how much was smoke and glass, but sometimes people's stories and philosophies add up. His life was one of transition, moving from place to place, between time zones, countries and hotel rooms. He described a life where writing was the only constant, and in a world where time doesn't exist and a bed is just that, and there is little control and no relationships connect you to a place, the metaphorical pen and paper was where he was happiest. 

My life was also in transition. At one point when people asked me where my home was, I hesitated whilst scanning through seven answers. Did they mean 'home' or just the place that I was mostly sleeping? Did they want me to say the Marriott but only when I can get the special rate because the reward points are pants? Shall I lie? They surely don't want the real narrative, "Well, I've given up my tenancy because the rent increased, so right now I have no idea because agencies only advertise rooms two weeks before they expect someone to move in. It's OK because there's a Big Yellow Storage container on the Uxbridge Road, and I have a yoga mat so I could always sleep under a desk or something." I'll just say, “West London. Yah yah, it's lovely. I feel really settled.”

Over recent months I had realized home is not the bricks you own, nor is it bricks you inhabit; it's not even the place you mostly sleep. Home is with the people you love. And one of my homes had, a few months ago, disappeared from my life.  No wonder everything was in question. Larry had already been on this journey. He was divorced and had been living a life where the less he held on to, the greater the leaps he’d been able to make. He didn’t have kids. Leaping away from your kids is apparently not a good idea.  

This second accidental date, was with a Hebrew speaking Palestinian, with a petite frame, a gentle voice with an almost American accent. Everything about him felt wiser, calmer and more familiar than being on other dates. As I sit listening and watching him, I realize he's got my father’s eyes, my father’s height and weight; in fact he looks and sounds really like my dad. And strangely like my ex. Wow, my father is illusive, but maybe I do need to see a bit more of him, even if it means installing Spybubble on his phone.

Larry sells the wonder of LA. If I believed in signs, it was clear that it is the land of opportunity. He’s even given me an open invite to his apartment. If I were a smidgen more spontaneous, there’s the January flight sales coming, or I could see how far my Virgin points go. They are fun to collect. I like the concept that when you get to 100000, you get a club class flight or your virginity back. It comes with free gold from the end of the rainbow and a toothbrush that is good for cleaning the grouting in the bathroom.

I really like Larry. There is a whole lot of love. There was also one of those moments when I leave to go in the tube, where there might be a kiss, but both of you look at each other and know you’d have to be sure. It wasn’t a box either of us was willing to open. This is a relationship consigned to exchanges of photos of my comparatively grounded life, for his celebrity selfies.

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