The Dating Game. Carolyn Caterer

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      I held my breath when he sent through his photo as that can really disappoint, but he looked quite pleasant with brown eyes and straw blond hair and he certainly looked younger than his years.

      Next we chatted on the ‘phone and he actually had quite a posh voice, which was due to being educated at Rugby and coming from a family that seemed, from what he said, to own a number of farms in Northamptonshire making organic cheese and other dairy products.

      We spoke for almost half an hour and he said that he was coming down to Hampshire the following week and perhaps he could meet me and take me out to dinner. I thought this sounded like a good idea and so we agreed to meet the following Thursday in the Town Square at eight o’clock. He said that he would book himself into a hotel rather than drive home so late at night.

      “A hotel room? You are kidding me?” Erica looked incredulous.

      “What do you mean? I thought that was actually very thoughtful and showed that he wasn’t going to drop any seedy hints about staying at my house if we were still chatting to each other over coffee in the restaurant around midnight.”

      “So you don’t think he booked the hotel room in the hope that he could tempt you to go back with him for coffee?” Probed Erica.

      “I hadn’t thought about that angle at all. Oh God here we go again, he is going to turn out to be a pervert I can just tell. There was me thinking he had impeccable manners and he’s just looking for a shag in a hotel. How naïve can I be?”

      “Jen you don’t know that.” Erica chided gently.

      “No I don’t but you have certainly got me thinking.”

      “Well I could be way off track and he may well indeed be booking a hotel room so that he can have a drink and ensure he doesn’t have to drive home over the limit. It sounds as if he can afford to book into hotels and, from what he says, he does a lot of travelling around with his antique business. For all you know he may well be going off to some auction quite local to you and therefore what would be the point of driving back home on Thursday night?”

      “Maybe, but I suppose I will find out on the night.”

      “Remember to text me and let me know how it all goes.”

      “Oh don’t worry, I am sure you will get the full details of this latest encounter when I see you, Polly and Anna at Aleks’s at the weekend.”

      “Of course. I’ll look forward to it.”

      Chapter 8

      Date #7: Charles

      I have to admit that this was a date that I was quite looking forward to as it seemed to be holding some promise. I decided to wear a mid calf length black skirt, with a lilac top that was smart in an understated way, silver earrings, necklace and bracelet and long black suede boots.

      I stood outside the restaurant in the Town Square in fairly eager anticipation at what the evening would hold and waited for my knight in shining armour.

      At first I did a double take. Not because he was sporting shining armour, but I did wonder if he was wearing body armour under his crumpled white suit. For what was walking towards me was not the man featured in the photos he had sent me, but one about three stone heavier and bearing more than a passing resemblance to the politician Boris Johnson.

      I tried to disguise my amazement at the sight that was approaching and instead concentrate on his personality. Hopefully things would improve.

      He strode up to me and I held out my hand to shake his. Now, I personally don’t like kissing people on the cheek when you have never met them before, so to avoid this happening I have developed the lean back handshake. This works in the following way; when I go to shake his hand I lean back so that it should be clear to him that a kiss is out of the question and, should he ignore that signal, it becomes almost impossible for him to kiss me without some extremely gymnastic movements which in most men would induce a hernia.

      Alas this didn’t work with Charles who grasped my hands, pulled me towards him and kissed me on both cheeks, beaming at me, alarmingly like Boris himself and I looked around to see if he had in fact arrived by bicycle.

      “Jennifer, how lovely to see you. Come on let’s go in and get a table, I am feeling pretty hungry so I hope you are too.”

      Judging by the look of him I could place bets on him finishing off my meal if I was showing any signs of being unable to do so myself.

      We walked into the restaurant and he organised the table (bonus point for taking the initiative which was immediately deducted when he didn’t ask me to choose from the tables being offered by the waiter). However I was prepared to overlook this minor factor in the proceedings.

      We settled into our seats and perused the menu.

      “So Jen, you work in marketing?”

      “Yes I do.” Hoorah, a man who actually starts the conversation by asking about me rather than expecting all the attention to focus on him, which has sadly been the case on previous occasions. My enjoyment was rather short-lived however with his next comment.

      “I don’t think we need marketing, it is just a question of a good product which will always sell.”

      So he had in one fell swoop insulted my profession and dismissed it. I was about to decide on whether to use my goldfish impression or snap back at him about no one needing antiques when modern stuff was so much more affordable, but decided that perhaps his faux pas was due to him being a little nervous (though to be honest I cannot say that he was acting like a bag of nerves, more like someone who is self assured and dangerously close to arrogance).

      I decided to change the subject and we spoke about the theatre and how much we also liked going to horse races.

      His next comment came as quite a surprise though;

      “I do hope you are not madly keen on exercise (had he actually read my profile I wondered) as I don’t like people who are obsessed with keeping fit. What are you doing at the weekend?”

      “Going down the gym on Saturday and doing a ten mile walk with friends on Sunday.” I replied while his sentence still hung in the air.

      Charles seemed remarkably impervious to my sarcasm and continued to talk about himself and his business and how successful he was and I was beginning to wonder if we had much in common at all.

      “So, forty two years old and never married, why is that?”

      “I guess the answer would be that I have never met the right man and I cannot say I regret not marrying any of my former boyfriends as none of them would have worked out anyway.” I wondered what words of wisdom would emanate from his mouth after that statement. However even I could not have anticipated his answer.

      “But surely at your age, if you have never been married, everyone must think you’re a lesbian?”

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