Katie Peel knows what's hot and what's definitely not. As the 'what's on' writer for her local magazine, it's her job. Her own social life, however, is teetering on the verge of non-existence. With the last of her friends tying the knot and the threat of being replaced at work by some annoying London 'it' girl, it's time for drastic action. Determined to find the ideal partner to take to the wedding, Katie decides to register on a dating website. And when the resulting liaisons turn into experiences worth writing about, she suddenly finds herself the unwitting star of a hugely popular new column. Will her newly acquired social status as a minor celebrity help in her quest or is she destined to go to the wedding alone... again?How far would you go to find the perfect date? Katie Peel knows what's hot and what's definitely not. As the 'what's on' writer for her local magazine, it's her job. Her own social life, however, is teetering on the verge of non-existence. With the last of her friends tying the knot and the threat of being replaced at work by some annoying London 'it' girl, it's time for drastic action. Determined to find the ideal partner to take to the wedding, Katie decides to register on a dating website. And when the resulting liaisons turn into experiences worth writing about, she suddenly finds herself the unwitting star of a hugely popular new column. Will her newly acquired social status as a minor celebrity help in her quest or is she destined to go to the wedding alone... again?
Release date:
April 26, 2012
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
347
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
‘We should get married,’ Jason said, and kissed me on the tip of my nose. Normally I would hate this. Not the getting married part, because I quite liked that particular idea, but the kissing on the nose thing. Tonight was different,
though. Tonight I offered my nose freely. Tonight the stars were shining brightly just for me. Tonight I finally got it; I
got the whole ‘finding the one’ thing.
‘Tomorrow! Let’s get married tomorrow,’ he suggested. ‘No, even better, let’s wait a week and fly out to Las Vegas. We could
have Elvis take the ceremony . . .’
‘I love it.’ I laughed at the deliciously ludicrous nature of our conversation.
‘That’s sorted, then.’
The image in my head was almost perfect. Almost. Then the panic set in. ‘But what should I wear?’
Jason laughed and squeezed my hand. ‘We’ll buy you something.’
‘Vintage Chanel?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Hurray!’
Hurray indeed. It was our second date. Well, technically it was our first, because the one before wasn’t really a date; it
was more of an accidental realisation.
Forty-eight hours earlier we were wandering around Hyde Park, dodging the rollerbladers and eating ice cream. That’s when we discovered a mutual love of all things Italian,
Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft (but for different reasons), picnic blankets, vodka, Washington Red Apples, salted popcorn instead
of sweet and outside swimming pools. He said I was different, that I reminded him of a foal; all legs and cheekbones. He said
it like it was a good thing. He made me feel beautiful and funny and lucky.
Those lost hours in between were a blur of romantic daydreams. Some of them were dirty, but the majority of them were romantic.
When I wasn’t daydreaming I was phoning everyone I knew, worrying about what to wear and counting the hours until I saw him
again.
Tonight we laughed that I didn’t particularly like him when we first met, and at what our mutual friends would say when they
found out. Tonight we kissed for the first time and it was perfect. There was no overenthusiastic tongue action, excess saliva
or one of us keeping our eyes open. Tonight the air was balmy and seductive. Tonight I was feeling dizzy with lust.
We stopped walking and he turned me towards him. I held my breath as he took my face in his hands and kissed me softly on
the lips. He lingered there for a second and I closed my eyes. His lips felt soft and dry, his hands were warm. He smelled
of lime, tuberose and sandalwood. When he released me, I opened my eyes and looked into his. They were liquid brown and framed
by the longest eyelashes I had ever seen on a man. He smiled at me like someone who knew something. I wanted to ask what.
WHAT?
‘Do you fancy an Indian?’ he asked.
‘I’d love an Indian,’ I replied, and floated on my own little pocket of air towards the Bengal Palace.
Two years later . . .
Chloe removes her hair clip and pops the end into her mouth. Long hair, the colour of buttermilk, falls gently down over her
shoulders and back. She is advert-pretty.
‘What do you think of each guest holding a balloon? It would look great in the photos.’
‘They could have messages attached to them,’ I suggest. ‘Romantic messages.’
‘And at the end of the photos everyone could let them go.’ Chloe claps her hands excitedly.
‘Can’t do it. Air pollution,’ Josie adds dryly.
Our shoulders slump with disappointment. Chloe opens this month’s edition of Wedding magazine and the three of us peer into its romantic, tastefully arranged pages. A handsome couple reveal perfect white teeth
as guests throw biodegradable rose petals at them.
‘They asked their guests to plant a tree instead of giving gifts,’ Chloe informs us.
‘No presents?’ Josie says, unimpressed.
‘No presents,’ Chloe confirms.
We all shake our heads no and agree their wedding must have been rubbish. I hide the bride and groom with a plate of biscuits
strategically placed over the magazine. These happy do-gooders have no place in our Harvey Nichols wedding-list world.
This is what we talk about now. Wedding lists, dresses, menus, and whether anyone can really tell if it’s cava and not champagne.
Six months ago we talked about other things, but for the life of me I can’t remember what they were. We take a moment to contemplate
the big day and eat another biscuit. I check the calorie content and then wish I hadn’t. How many minutes is that on the Stairmaster?
Ten? Twenty? Who cares? I do.
‘Jason has confirmed.’
I hold my breath and mask my internal trauma with a smile. I realise this makes me look slightly manic but the alternative
is crying out loud in a strangled, slightly disturbed way.
‘And he’s bringing Sophie.’
I am still holding. In fact, I am not sure if I can stop holding. I may need those paddles they use on ER.
‘Are you okay with that?’ Chloe asks. There is a moment, probably no more than a nanosecond, when I consider telling the truth.
It’s my default. Josie looks to the ceiling.
‘Of course I am.’
‘I knew you would be. You’re brilliant, Harry.’
I nod, but all I can think of is Jason and Sophie in the hotel room. My hotel room. The one I booked when Chloe and Tad announced
they were going to get married.
It was going to be perfect. Mr & Mrs Smith recommended the hotel in their Hip Hotels guide, the cost was reassuringly expensive (Jason was of the opinion it was a bloody rip-off and suggested a Travelodge),
and they had coloured mood lights under the bathroom sink. The breakfast and pillow menus were amazing and I had already decided
on the haddock with poached egg, and a Russian goose with a four-hundred-thread count. I was going to be half a stone lighter
and, after what I hoped would be a naughty afternoon sex session under the sink, he was going to tell me that I was right
to book the room. I was also pretty sure he was going to look at me (probably at the reception, during a ballad – Ray wotshisname,
or Leona Lewis) and confirm those sentiments uttered on our second date, but without Las Vegas, Elvis and probably the Chanel.
He was going to tell me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, that it was time we made the final commitment.
And it was time. After nearly two years together we were happy and in love. We had moved fast; but it seemed right. When Josie
moved out, Jason moved in. It was only a matter of time before we announced our engagement. Everyone said so. Then Tad proposed
and so did Ben, and I waited. Then Jason went to Manchester. Be good, I said. He kissed me and laughed. We both laughed because
it was ridiculous to think he wouldn’t be. Well, that’s what I thought.
‘Are you sure you’re okay about Jason coming?’ Chloe asks. She looks worried.
‘Of course,’ I lie. My head is full of Sophie kissing Jason, Sophie raiding the minibar, Sophie lying naked on crisp, white
cotton; Jason producing a diamond ring.
‘It’s just that he is Tad’s friend and I don’t feel as if I can say no. They’ve known each other for years.’
‘Chloe, I understand, and it will be fine,’ I reply, and hug her close. She feels tiny in my arms, as if she might break.
I wonder what it must be like to be petite and doll-like. Would I have had more boyfriends if I wasn’t built like a giraffe?
When I asked Josie this, she said yes. I told her to feel free to lie to me at any point in our friendship but she refuses
to. She says tall is good – that I just need to stop fancying men smaller than me.
‘Thanks,’ Chloe mumbles into my jumper. ‘I want it to be perfect.’
‘It will be,’ I reassure her, because even with a Sophie-sized blip in the love landscape, their wedding will be amazing and
beautiful.
Chloe and Tad are the perfect couple: pretty, successful, impossibly trendy and in love. She is pixie-like with a tiny waist
and her own business making handbags from vintage fabrics. Tad is tall, dark and skinny. He wears his jeans low with studded
belts and directs independent films destined for greatness. They live in a flat full of art installation pieces and talk of drunken nights with BAFTA award
winners in the same way I talk of going round my sister’s for a cup of tea. I have known Chloe since school. Two became three
when I met Josie.
We were both working for Bath’s favourite monthly regional magazine, Life to Live, and she took me under her wing. With her wide smile, untidy mind, and can-do attitude, Josie has always been the bossy one.
She is our alpha female; the one who says we should and we could. A curvy and voluptuous size sixteen, with a short glossy
dark bob and a sexy confidence that takes no notice of her body’s refusal to be a size ten, she is striking in looks and personality.
Josie is the dark and strong to Chloe’s light and delicate. Chloe is one of the happy people: sunny, light, and always smiling.
Sometimes her eyes will reveal a slightly manic edge to her smile and we have to tell her to turn it down a bit but, on the
whole, she is one of the most easygoing people I know. She will agree to anything Josie suggests, even if it smacks of insanity,
whereas I am a little different; more cautious, maybe. I don’t say yes straight away. I have to dither for at least twelve
hours and then consult my horoscope. This is probably why I am still working at Life to Live instead of climbing up the media ladder of success with Josie.
When she left to work in London, I felt a certain amount of pressure to follow. I applied for similar jobs because I thought
I should, but then couldn’t ignore the sense of relief when I didn’t get the interview. I like living and working in Bath,
where it takes me half an hour to get to my parents’ house, where I know I can walk around at night without feeling nervous,
where the honey-coloured stone and sense of history inspire me every day, where I can sit by the canal with the best ice cream
known to man, and where I don’t have to take the tube to go shopping. So while Josie gets to schmooze with the likes of Justin Timberlake
(well, his PR), I interview St Saviour’s Church about their tea and buns afternoon with all the enthusiasm of a TV weather
girl. I am a modern-day Jane Austen: keeping it real, writing about the people who live in my favourite city.
Well, I was. At the moment, I am finding it hard to write about anything. The space left by Jason has coloured my whole world
a rather dull shade of grey. My previous enthusiasm has disappeared and in its place is a reluctance to do anything. I rarely
go out; I have phoned in sick for the first time in five years and I can’t remember the last time I went for a pre-work swim.
Stories that once might have captured my imagination now seem lacklustre and not worth the effort. I wake up in the morning
and the girl who looks back at me in the mirror bears little resemblance to the one Jason professed to love, even when she
had an allergic reaction to rubber and had to go to Accident and Emergency with lips that looked like Cumberland sausages.
Everyone tells me this feeling will pass. I wish it would, sooner rather than later. It’s been three months since Jason left,
but sometimes it feels like yesterday.
Chloe leaves for late-night sushi with Tad and an Arctic Monkey, Josie makes cinnamon toast and hot chocolate, and I get emotional
about a song on the radio. Someone is singing about leaving a cake out in the rain, which is a bloody ridiculous sentiment,
but it’s breaking my heart.
‘Are you crying?’ Josie asks. She has a stocking on her head. Someone told her it was great for keeping short bobs glossy
and perfect. Personally, I think they were having her on. She looks like a bank robber. I shake my head.
‘Oh, Harry, you are, you’re crying.’
She turns the radio off, puts her arm round me, and leads me away from the fridge. That’s where the wedding invitation is;
stuck to the door.
Designed by an award-winning artist, known by the bride-to-be since university, it taunts me with its heavyweight quality
and the gorgeous colours selected to reflect the bride’s and groom’s personalities. In ornate gold lettering it invites Harriet
Peel and Jason Mortimer to the wedding of Chloe Miller and Tad Declan.
‘I can’t go to the wedding on my own. Not now Jason and Sophie are going,’ I say with absolute conviction.
Weddings are a celebration of love and finding the One. Going to one on your own is like turning up to a barbecue without
food and drink when everyone else has brought both. I have been to two weddings on my own. The first was to cousin Tracey’s
and the second was to my friend Vicky’s. On both occasions I was the one who made the wedding photos look uneven and was assigned
to the odds and sods table making polite conversation with the relatives whom nobody knew what to do with. I seem to remember
getting horribly drunk at both.
‘You’ll have met someone else by then,’ Josie reassures me. ‘Look at Chloe five years ago. Who would have thought she would
end up getting married to Tad?’
‘I don’t want anyone else.’
‘Of course you do.’
I ignore Josie’s comment and consult the calendar. ‘I have eleven months – eleven months to find a man who will make Jason
jealous enough to realise what a dreadful mistake he’s made.’
‘Harry, you don’t want Jason. You’re better off without him.’ Josie shakes her head at me as if I’m a naughty child.
‘And that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not better off without him. I’m rubbish without him – the dirty, rotten, two-timing bastard.’
Josie sighs.
‘Okay, what about work? Is there anyone at Life to Live you can take?’ Josie asks.
‘Only Ed, but Jason knows him.’
‘But he might be a good emergency option. I’ll put him on the list,’ Josie says, getting a notepad from the kitchen.
I sigh heavily. ‘Eleven months . . .’
Josie rubs my arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. Anything could happen in eleven months.’ She sounds confident and I believe
her like a child waiting for Christmas.
‘Anything?’
‘Anything. Within reason.’
‘What’s outside reason?’ I ask, feeling a little indignant at the limits imposed on what I might achieve in eleven months.
‘Let’s just stick with getting you a date for the wedding, shall we? What about Frankie? He’d go with you.’
‘Frankie with the weird laugh? I thought he had a girlfriend?’
‘He does, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’
I shake my head. In my fantasy world, I would be with someone sexy, successful and gorgeous; someone who would look good in
a suit and possess excellent conversational skills and a killer sense of humour. After dancing all night I would lean in to
him in stockinged feet (he would be holding my heels for me and planting gentle kisses on my lips with the promise of something
more) and I would barely notice Jason snapping at Sophie in a jealous rage.
‘Jon Jo?’
‘No, I want someone believable, someone Jason doesn’t know.’
‘Okay, let me think . . .’ Josie crosses out Jon Jo’s name from the list of two.
As she flicks through her phone list, I do the same with a magazine.
‘My horoscope says I will meet someone musical and mysterious this week, but to watch their ascent into Pluto,’ I read out.
This is hopeful.
Josie scoffs. She doesn’t believe in horoscopes.
‘I know, I’ve got it!’ Josie throws her pen down. ‘Why didn’t we think about this before? What about Internet dating?’
‘No.’ I am adamant.
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
Go on, do the bungee jump, buy those heels that will make you taller than ninety per cent of men, eat that dessert, go for
that job. Yep, there’s always someone who is keen for you to fulfil your potential as a human being, someone who is quite
happy to throw caution to the wind. Josie is that person; the one who pushes me from behind and tells me it is a fabulous
idea. I should know better, but sometimes, usually against my better judgement, I allow myself to be persuaded. Today is not
going to be one of those occasions. There is no way I am going to do Internet dating.
‘No!’ I shake my head emphatically.
Josie shakes hers in despair and switches the TV on. We open a box of liqueur chocolates left over from Christmas and go through
our favourites. Josie throws her head back and sucks the filling from the ends.
Despite having officially moved out over a year ago, she continues to divide her time between my flat in Bath and her boyfriend Ben’s in London. This makes her feel secure, because ever since the big romantic proposal on a flight to
New York, she is suddenly asking herself if Ben is the One. He doesn’t know this, and her excuse for the odd night back and
forth is that she feels sorry for me. The fact that he readily accepts this is slightly disappointing.
‘I think you’re being a little hasty. Lots of people do Internet dating nowadays. Carrie at work said some of her friends
go out with a different man each week.’
‘No!’ I snap back.
‘Think about it.’
‘No.’
‘Tia Maria or Jack Daniel’s?’ Josie asks.
‘Tia Maria.’
She throws me a chocolate foil miniature. I unwrap it and knock back the contents.
‘Can you get drunk on chocolate liqueurs?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, but we can find out.’
Josie flicks through the TV channels. Normally it would get on my nerves, but tonight I feel satiated with chocolate and alcohol
and too lazy to protest. Foil wrappers litter the floor. The only light in the room is from the TV.
‘I hate weddings,’ I announce to the living room.
‘Me too.’
‘I feel sick.’
‘Me too.’
Josie switches the TV off.
‘What would I say about myself?’ I ask.
‘On what?’
‘Internet dating.’
Girl Without a Date in Her Diary – Blog entry – January 15th
Apparently Brad has proposed. Will Angelina say yes? What dress will she wear? I’m thinking slinky, but tasteful. I aspire
to be the Jolie. It’s the whole luscious lips, kick-ass thing. That girl is superior and she knows it. The thing is – it’s
all on the inside. On the outside she gives that enigmatic smile and leaves us all wondering about the whats, hows, whys and
whens. I practise this smile in the mirror but I look as if I have constipation.
What a wedding that would be. The air would be heavy with the scent of lemons and nougat. The sun would shine (Brangelina
don’t do rain) and there would be laughter and dancing on cobbled streets with jugglers and a violinist . . . or something
like that.
My friend Chloe is talking about having a three-foot meringue stack as a wedding cake and arriving on the back of a Hell’s
Angel motorbike. Tad wanted to buy the Batmobile on eBay but somebody got to it first.
Good things about weddings
• It’s the best justification to buy an expensive outfit.
• You have the perfect excuse to buy new shoes and a handbag.
• There’s always a free meal.
• You can justify a night in a hotel room you can’t really afford.
• You get to cry.
• There are men in top hats. This is good for those film-moment fantasies you drift into whilst the photos are being taken.
My particular favourite is the one when man in top hat (the devastatingly handsome one, not the lecherous uncle) removes slice of wedding cake from my
hand, cups my face in his strong hands, kisses the sugar from my lips, then lifts me off my feet (because he is very tall
and strong, and I am as light as a feather), pops top hat on my head and carries me off to a four-poster bed where unspeakable
but rather lovely things will happen. Normally I wouldn’t sleep with someone on a first date, but in this particular instance
I would make an exception because, technically, it wouldn’t be a first date. Where was I? Other good things about weddings
. . .
• There is cake and dancing.
• And champagne.
Bad things about weddings
• It’s another lie on your credit card.
• You end up with another pair of shoes that don’t go with anything.
• The meal is always somebody else’s choice.
• You feel the pressure to stay in an overpriced room when you just want to go home and cry about being single.
• Crying is good. Unless you can’t stop.
• In my experience, the men in top hats rarely look like Jude Law. They are also usually brothers and cousins and I have this
thing about it not being a good idea getting into relationships with the relatives of close friends. It usually ends in tears.
Nobody wants to hear that their brother is no good on the foreplay front. Josie lost a very good friend this way.
• There is nothing bad about cake or dancing.
• Or champagne.
• And thinking about it, another pair of shoes that don’t go with anything is hardly a bad thing. When you are old and sitting
in a plastic-covered chair, they will serve as a reminder of a time when you were young and carefree; when four inches meant
you were closer to the stars. In my case it would be more Saturn or Jupiter, which are a little darker and lonelier.
Eleven months . . . God, I hate weddings.
My horoscope:
Neptune is moving forwards and that means an unexpected surge in your love life, especially from the eighteenth to the twenty-eighth.
Opportunities could be in the most unexpected of places. Don’t discount your local bank, tax office, or local supermarket.
Your career also goes from strength to strength this month. Hold on tight for success and romance. You shall be belle of the
ball!
I love weddings. Love ’em!
It has been raining for three days and my umbrella is now a hazard to health and safety. One of the spokes has broken and
is now exposed, ready to poke eyes out or pick at ear wax. I give up, throw it in the bin and come to terms with the fact
that I am wet and will be soaked by the time I get home. I have been on a preview of the Laugh, I Should Georgian Hope So
Tour. Laugh? I Georgian didn’t. Following a man with a joke bow tie and a balloon around Bath in the rain is not something
I would normally sign up for, but as the editor for the What’s On page for Life to Live, I had no choice. After an hour of not laughing I dropped out behind the abbey. The trouble with being tall is that it isn’t
easy slipping away. The key is to crouch down in stages until I’m the same height as everyone else; then I make my exit. This
is quite hard on the knees and I open myself up to questioning looks from passers-by.
Pools of light from street lamps shimmer like tiny moons on the wet, slippery pavement. People rush by, heads down, jostling
umbrellas. I step into an invisible puddle and it soaks my shoe. I feel miserable, grey and wet. My mobile rings and my heart
misses a beat, because it always does. Hello, Jason . . . no, I’m not going to take you back . . . you do? Oh okay, then.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’ I ask.
‘Have you done it?’ Josie asks.
‘What?’
‘Internet dating.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it doesn’t feel right. You should like me because of the following five reasons. You should have sex with me because—’
Josie laughs. She laughs a lot and it’s one of the reasons why I love her.
‘Sex?’
‘You know what I mean. I’m just not sure. It feels so false,’ I whine.
‘And you have a better suggestion?’
Josie knows I haven’t got one. We have been down this route at least twenty-five times in the past two weeks and the outcome
is always the same.
‘But you said yourself that anything could happen in eleven months.’
‘That was over a fortnight ago and I forgot you don’t go out.’
‘I still have ten months and five days.’
‘Ten months and two days, actually.’
I open the door of the flat and take off my now drenched coat. Droplets of water roll down my back and I shiver.
‘Harry, you need a date and the Internet is our last resort. Now, I’ve been researching this and it looks like DateMate is
the best one.’
‘You seem to be taking quite an interest in this.’
‘See me as a manager/coordinator of sorts.’
‘I’m not sure, Jose. What if it’s full of weirdos?’
‘It will be full of people just like you: lonely, desperate and with hermit-like tendencies. That doesn’t make you a weirdo; it just makes you a little bit sad.’
‘Thanks.’
I gratefully slump on the sofa. My legs are killing me, my feet are cold and my tights are leaving a line round my waist.
‘Come on, if nothing else, it will be fun, and who knows, you may find your dream man.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I reply and sigh. My shoulders hunch inwards and I rest my head on my knees. ‘There is nothing that will make
me want to do Internet dating,’ I mumble.
‘What did you say?’
I sit up and say it again.
Josie takes a deep breath. ‘Chloe mentioned that she couldn’t move Jason from our table. It would screw up the whole table
plan. She’s too scared to tell you.’
Josie has produced the red rag, and predictably I go running towards it.
‘Okay, okay – I’ll do it.’
‘Good. Let me know how it goes. Wow, I’m so excited.’
So says the person who is secure in the knowledge that she will never have to resort to this.
‘I just want a date for the wedding! That’s it,’ I protest.
‘Yes, yes! Okay, I’ve drafted something you might want to use. Listen to this—’
‘I don’t speak three languages, nor do I belly dance. I also don’t go sailing or know the girls from Girls Aloud.’
Josie sighs. ‘Okay, forget the sailing part.’
Ten months and two days? I have lost three days. I register for WeightWatchers, make a note to join a gym, run a bath, and
pour myself a glass of wine.
I stick my toe into the tap and with the phone lodged under my chin, begin shaving my legs. If I don’t make good of the time I am here, the water will be cold by the time my mother
has finished. I contemplate putting my head under the water to see if she notices.
‘I thought we could . . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
