Читать книгу: «Blind-Date Baby»
Welcome to the www.blinddatebrides.com member profile of: Englishcrumpet (AKA Grace Marlowe)
My Ideal Partner… Young at heart, just like I am. No cardigan-wearers, please! My teenage daughter has just flown the nest and it’s high time I remembered what it’s like to be young, free and single. I’d be lying if I said I was looking for a soul mate—true love like that only happens once in a lifetime, and I’ve been there, done that, worn the black veil… But I’m looking for someone to share my life with. Preferably someone who loves rock music and cold Chinese takeaway!
| My Details… | You’ll match if you… |
| • Age: thirty-ten (think about it!) | • Are young at heart |
| • I live: in London | • Are London-based |
| • Marital status: widow | • Are unattached |
| • Hobbies: growing old disgracefully | • Want to join me |
Read the rest of Englishcrumpet’s profile here www.blinddatebrides.com
www.blinddatebrides.com is running 25 chat rooms, 248 private IM conferences, and 15472 members are online. Chat with your dating prospects now!
Private IM chat between Kangagirl, Sanfrandani and Englishcrumpet:
Kangagirl: How was your date?
Sanfrandani: Weren’t you even just a little compatible?
Englishcrumpet: Erm…there might have been a little kiss…
Kangagirl: !!!!!!!!!!
Sanfrandani: And you turned down a second date? Why?
Englishcrumpet: He was too ‘grown up’ for me. And there was way too much chemistry.
Kangagirl: And that’s a bad thing?
Englishcrumpet:I can’t risk falling hard and then losing the man I love again. Surely I’m too old for all that Romeo and Juliet stuff? That kind of all-consuming passion only afflicts teenagers. Doesn’t it?
BLIND-DATE BABY
BY
FIONA HARPER
MILLS & BOON
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To my editor, Kimberley Young,
who urged me to dig deeper—somewhere else—
and I found unexpected treasure.
And to Jennie Adams and Melissa McClone—
even the (very) early morning IM chats were a blast!
CHAPTER ONE
GRACE MARLOWE and six o’clock in the morning weren’t normally on speaking terms. But here she was, standing in the middle of her darkened kitchen, the clock ticking in time with her heartbeat. Pearly light seeped between the slats of the blind, draining all colour from her funky little kitchen. She wrinkled her nose. Everything was grey, even the lime green mugs and the pink toaster. This truly was a repulsive time of day.
What was she doing here? Right about now she should be mumbling incoherently in her sleep, her left foot tucked over the top of the duvet to keep it nice and cool.
In a sudden flurry of movement she turned and headed towards a cupboard—any cupboard—and opened the door. It didn’t matter which one. She just needed to be doing something. Because she refused to think about why her little flat seemed like a gaping black hole this morning.
Bags of dried pasta and tins of tomato soup stared blankly at her from inside the cupboard. She shut the door carefully and tried the next one. Five boxes of breakfast cereal sat in a row, waiting for her to choose one of them. She closed that door too.
The kettle was within easy reach and she absent-mindedly flicked the switch. It roared into life, unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn stillness. She really must get around to de-scaling it some time soon. It boiled so violently when limescale had furred up the insides. The curse of London hard water…
Grace blinked. Just for a few seconds she’d forgotten to be miserable and lonely. That was good, wasn’t it?
She reached for her favourite mug, the oversized baby-pink one with the words ‘Hot Mama’ spelled out in crimson glitter. A present from Daisy last Mother’s Day. Daisy shared Grace’s love of kitsch and had known her ‘hot mama’ would appreciate the sentiment of the slogan and the garish colours.
Daisy had given the mug to her with a twinkle in her eye that had made Grace chuckle, pleased to see proof that her daughter had inherited her sarcastic genes. But when the laughter had subsided, she’d mourned. No more pigtails and scraped knees. Daisy was all grown up and ready to fly the nest.
In fact, she’d already flown.
It was Mother’s Day again in a couple of weeks and, for the first time ever, she wouldn’t spend it doing something totally fabulous with Daisy. Last year they’d gone to the ice rink and had spent the whole afternoon falling on their bottoms. Then they’d eaten a Chinese takeaway so huge it had gone down in family history as ‘the one that could never be surpassed’. But this year Daisy would be in Paris or Romania or Prague. She was going to be away for a whole year. And after backpacking there was university…
Grace hugged the mug to her chest. She missed her daughter already and she’d only been gone eighteen hours. How completely pathetic.
She dropped the mug to the counter with a clunk and stood there, her arms folded and her brows pinched together. Come on, Grace! You’re supposed to be the cool one, remember? The mum that all Daisy’s friends wished was theirs. The mum who had once worn fishnets and thigh-high boots to parents’ evening. The mum who had dressed up as Santa, complete with beard and potbelly, when little Joseph Stevenson’s dad had been too hungover to play the role. The fact that it had been Grace’s tequila that had caused the hangover in the first place was neither here nor there…
But Grace didn’t feel cool. For the first time in nineteen years she felt old and lonely. And not just wandering-round-not-knowing-what-to-do lonely. There was an ache deep inside her that could only have been caused by someone sneaking into the flat in the middle of the night, carving a huge chunk off her soul and stealing it away. She had a funny feeling that chunk might currently be sleeping in a youth hostel in Montmartre, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.
She made the tea and forced herself to turn the light under the cooker hood on. Sitting here in the dark would only give the impression that she was depressed, she thought as she slumped into a chair and lay her head on the table. Steam curled from the mug in front of her and she watched it rise gracefully on unseen currents and drift away. Eventually, she peeled her face from the table top and reached for the mug to take a sip.
Yuck! She stuck the tip of her tongue between her lips and grimaced. What the heck was wrong with her tea this morning? Looking into the mug gave her a pretty big clue. No teabag. Lukewarm water with milk in it was really not her thing.
Sighing, she hauled herself up from the table and crossed to the cupboard where the teabags lived. She reached inside and pulled out the Earl Grey. As she did so, a small pink envelope fell out of the cupboard and fluttered onto the floor.
Teabags forgotten, she bent to retrieve it and stood for a long moment looking at the familiar rounded scrawl that simply read ‘Mum’. She smiled. Ever since she’d been able to write, Daisy had had a habit of making her cards and notes, leaving them in unexpected places. Over the years the indecipherable crayon drawings had been gradually replaced by scribbled messages in a neat, even hand, but the flush of joy Grace felt at seeing each one had remained the same. She greedily tore open the envelope and began to read.
Dear Mum,
Please, please, please don’t be angry with me for this…
Grace frowned. She knew it! Daisy had borrowed her favourite David Bowie T-shirt last week, and she’d warned her daughter not to get any thoughts about ‘accidentally’ packing it in her rucksack. Little rascal. A smile turned up one corner of her mouth and she carried on reading.
…but I’ve got you a little going-away present. I know how much you sacrificed to bring me up on your own, and now it’s time for you to have some fun.
Grace stopped reading. A burning sensation tickled her nose and the backs of her eyes. She took another sip of hot water, shuddered and pulled herself together.
No one could have asked for a better daughter. And, somehow, Grace felt that God had blessed her with Daisy to make up for Rob being snatched away from her after such a short time together. Killed by a landmine on active duty in Iraq at the age of twenty-three. Where was the justice in that? He hadn’t even lived to see Daisy take her first steps or hear her say ‘Dadda’.
Grace sucked in a breath, overcome by the sudden urge to cry, but she shook her head, refusing to give in. She had Daisy. She had to focus on Daisy. Because Daisy had been the reason the sun had kept rising and setting for the last eighteen years.
She looked round the kitchen. Although she knew it was stupid to think so, it was easy to imagine the sun just wouldn’t bother to put in an appearance today.
Come on, Grace! Stop wallowing!
She looked again at the letter in her hands. Daisy didn’t have to thank her for everything she’d done. It had been her job and her joy. Being a widow at twenty-two had been hard, yes, but every time she looked into those beautiful brown eyes she’d known a big piece of Rob had lived on.
But I know you, Mum. I know you’ll talk about moving on or getting a hobby, or finally buying your own coffee shop so you can boss everyone else around instead of being bossed…I also know you’ll do absolutely nothing about it. So I’ve taken the liberty of giving you a little nudge and I make no apologies for what I’ve done. You need this, Mum. Don’t you dare try and wriggle out of it!
Grace’s colourful language as she read the rest of the letter shattered the greyness of the predawn kitchen once and for all.
‘She did what?’
She stared in disbelief at the pink sheets clutched in her hands. ‘You did what?’ she yelled in the direction of Daisy’s bedroom, even though her daughter had had the good sense to put a few hundred miles and a large body of water between them before she’d dropped the bombshell. Very good thinking. Because, right at this moment, Daisy would have been lucky to see another sunrise if she’d been within strangling distance.
Grace stared at the letter once again, then threw it down on the kitchen table. Despite what Daisy said, there had to be some way to get out of this.
Noah padded across the cream rug in his study, absent-mindedly rubbing his damp spiky hair with a towel. Even though he had already had his morning run it was still dark outside. And quiet. But he didn’t mind quiet. This was his favourite time of day. The time where ideas could brew and grow and take shape.
He turned his computer on. While he’d been running he’d worked out how to make the villain of his current novel even more dastardly. His editor would be pleased. The latest in his series of psychological spy thrillers was doing so well, the publishers were pushing to have the next one in as soon as possible.
He carefully folded the towel and hung it over the back of a chair before sitting at his desk and checking his emails. His inbox rapidly filled but, instead of clicking on the top message, he took a little detour, clicking an email link and arriving at a web page he was very careful not to visit when his PA was around. He logged into the site and opened up a page he had marked as a ‘favourite’ last Monday.
Grace hit the switch in Daisy’s room and blinked and squinted in the harsh yellow light. Maybe purple hadn’t been the way to go with the colour scheme. It was giving her a headache.
Daisy’s baby-pink laptop was on the desk and Grace picked it up and sat on the bed, one foot hooked underneath the other thigh, and settled the machine in the triangle of her legs. The ancient laptop chugged and whirred when she pressed the power button. While she waited for it to boot up, Grace inspected her fingernails and resisted the temptation to pick off some of the electric blue polish. Finally, she opened the web browser and typed in the address Daisy had printed carefully in the PS of her letter.
Blinddatebrides.com! What had her daughter been thinking? The thought of going on a date, blind or otherwise, was bad enough—but marriage? Been there, done that, worn the black veil…
A companionable coffee or dinner would be okay. She could probably live through that. While the page loaded, Grace’s mind wandered. Blind-date brides? How did that work? You turned up at the restaurant and…what?
Random images stampeded through her mind—wedding dresses made out of co-ordinating tablecloth linen…gold rings as napkin holders…waiters who were really undercover ministers, waiting to pounce at any hint of an ‘I do’…
Goose pimples broke out on her legs and worked their way up her body until the fine hairs on her arms raised. She shook her head. Okay, Daisy had undeniably inherited her impulsive genes, but even she wouldn’t subject her own mother to that kind of humiliation. Not unless she was present and in the possession of a video camera.
She winced as she typed in the username Daisy had invented to create an account. Frankly, it just added insult to injury. Englishcrumpet? Classy. Hadn’t Daisy seen enough old Carry On… films to know that crumpet would attract all the wrong sorts of guys? The sort who always seemed slightly sweaty and tried to peer down your cleavage when they thought you weren’t looking. Grace practically had to force her fingers to punch it out on the keyboard.
She logged on to the site and headed straight for the customer service section, bypassing minimalist cartoons of hearts, confetti and kissing stick figures. There had to be a number she could call and yell at someone about identity theft and being made to go on dates you really didn’t want to go on. It all looked deceptively easy. She clicked on a friendly-looking button that said ‘Contact us’.
Great. ‘Customer service teams are available to help you from nine a.m. to six p. m., Monday to Friday,’ she read aloud. ‘What good is that at—’ she checked the display on Daisy’s alarm clock ‘—six twenty-five on a Saturday morning? Most normal people go on dates at the weekend! Fat lot of good you are!’ she said to the smiley-face cartoon on the web page, obviously designed to calm and reassure distressed customers. All it made Grace want to do was frisbee the stupid laptop across the room.
Then she spotted another button: ‘Email us’.
She stopped scowling and rubbed her finger across the mouse pad to click on the link. Email would work. Not as direct as yelling, but she could use lots of capitals instead. A new window popped up: ‘Thank you for spending time letting us know how we can make Blinddatebrides.com better. A customer service representative will respond to your message within twenty-four hours…’
But the date was in less than fourteen hours! Grace was sorely tempted to revisit the whole ‘frisbee’ idea.
It was far too early in the day to start reading any kind of small print they might have stashed away in the deep recesses of this website. She needed help. Now. She dragged the mouse pointer to a sidebar button that read: ‘Chatrooms,’ spied a chat headed up ‘New to Blinddatebrides.com’ and typed, ‘HELP!’ Might as well not beat about the bush.
For an instant, her little plea for salvation blinked alone on the page. It was six-thirty in the morning, for goodness’ sake! Who in their right mind was going to be trawling for dates at this time of day? Only the utterly desperate—which summed her up quite nicely at the moment, actually.
Then a miracle happened.
Sanfrandani: What’s up?
Grace looked around the room. Was this person talking—erm, typing—to her? There was only one thing for it. Grace flexed her fingers and began to type.
Englishcrumpet: I’m new to this. Kangagirl: Hi, Englishcrumpet! Don’t worry, we’re all new in this chatroom! How can we help? Englishcrumpet: Oh! There’s two of you! Are you up at the crack of dawn panicking about a date too? Sanfrandani: LOL! It’s almost my bedtime! The ‘Sanfran’ in Sanfrandani stands for San Francisco. Kangagirl: And I’m just about to head home from work here in Sydney. Englishcrumpet: Australia?! Kangagirl: That’s right! Didn’t you know this was a global site when you signed up? Englishcrumpet: I didn’t know anything about this site until fifteen minutes ago! That’s the problem. Someone else joined on my behalf. Sanfrandani: How are you finding the site so far? Englishcrumpet: Well, I found two kind souls willing to help a sister in need, so it can’t be all bad.
Grace scratched the tip of her chin with a fingernail. She’d jumped to one conclusion already. Might as well make sure she had her facts straight before she carried on.
Englishcrumpet: You are a girl, right, Sanfrandani? Sanfrandani: Yes! Believe me, if you saw me, you’d know I was a girl.
In through the nose, out through the mouth… Grace took a deep breath and dived right in.
Englishcrumpet: I just found out I have a date with someone from this site tonight! Kangagirl: Good on you, girl! Englishcrumpet: But I don’t want to go on a date! I want to know how to get out of it! Sanfrandani: Do you have his email address? Englishcrumpet: No. Kangagirl: What about his username? Then you could contact him through his profile page. Englishcrumpet: I don’t know that either! Sanfrandani: Okay, Crumpet, what do you know?
Grace didn’t need the pink page from Daisy’s letter to relay the next bit of information. Every time she closed her eyes, the words floated in front of her face. She dropped her lids right then and—hey presto!
Englishcrumpet: The note says: Barruci’s, Vinehurst High Street. 8 o’clock. Kangagirl: Nice place? Englishcrumpet: Erm…I think so. A bit out of my league. I tend to prefer the Hong Kong Garden takeaway if I’m spoiling myself. Kangagirl: LOL! Sanfrandani: Why don’t you want to go on a date with this guy? The matching system at this site is supposed to be really good. He might just be your type. Englishcrumpet: Have your dates been perfect matches so far? Kangagirl: Not bad. On paper they should have been perfect, but just no…you know… Sanfrandani: So why not go?
Grace’s shoulders sagged. There were a million and five reasons why she should stay in, watch bad Saturday night TV and treat herself to a takeaway—especially now she’d mentioned it and was craving roast pork chow mein. What she wouldn’t do for a leftover tub of it cold from the fridge right now.
She wasn’t going to go. No matter how perfect on paper her mystery date might be. It had been years since she’d been on a first date. Of course, after Rob had died, she hadn’t even been able to conceive loving anyone else for quite a few years—and she’d had Daisy to bring up. Looking after a toddler on your own was pretty time-consuming.
And later, when she’d thought about dating again…well, a widow just had too much baggage for men her age. It had been a relief when she’d decided to give up trying. None of them had even started to measure up to Rob, anyway. Love like that only happened once in a lifetime.
There was an insistent ping from the laptop.
Kangagirl: Crumpet? Are you still there? Englishcrumpet: Yes. I’m here. Sanfrandani: So why not give this guy a try? You can come back tomorrow and share all the gossip with us! Englishcrumpet: I don’t really want to go out with anyone at the moment. I’m a widow.
There was a pause for a few seconds. The usual reaction. People didn’t know how to handle it when she told them. Grace sat back, propping herself against the pillows, and waited for the inevitable hasty retreat. These girls would politely excuse themselves and find someone more fun to chat with.
Kangagirl: I’m so sorry, Crumpet. Hugs. Sanfrandani: Me too. Even if you don’t go on the date, come back tomorrow and chat, okay? It’s going to take time.
Okay. Now she felt like a real heel. These were perfectly nice women and she was making it sound as if it was all recent history. Had she really been alone that long? She looked round the purple room. Last time she’d been on a first date, there had been teddies on the bed and pony posters on the walls. Now there were shaggy cushions and one of the walls was covered in wallpaper that boasted stylised purple flowers on a silver background.
Englishcrumpet: Actually, my husband died quite some time ago. But what I said is true. I don’t really want to go on a date, but I can’t leave the poor man sitting there on his own—that would be too cruel. Oh, I’m going to kill my daughter for this when she returns from backpacking! Kangagirl: Your daughter set you up?! Sanfrandani: LOL! What’s her taste in men like? Englishcrumpet: Her taste in men is fine—for a nineteen-year-old. I’m just not sure what sort of man she’d choose for her mother! Kangagirl: I think you should go. He could be cute! Sanfrandani: What’s the worst that could happen? You have a nice meal, chat a little. In a couple of hours it’ll all be over and you never have to see him again if you don’t want to. At least you’d have got back out there. Next time you could pick someone for yourself. Think about it.
Grace slid the laptop off her legs and left it on the duvet. Her right foot was all tingly from having been sat on for so long and she gave it a shake and stood up to get the blood moving again. Daisy’s dressing table stood a few feet away and she walked over to skim her fingertips over the curled edges of one of the photographs tucked into the rim of the mirror.
Daisy smiled back at her, her long dark hair ruffled by the wind, her eyes bright with mischief and easy confidence. Her gaze left the photograph and wandered until she met her own eyes in the mirror and she started. People said that she and Daisy looked more like sisters, rather than mother and daughter, but Grace could always see so much of Rob in her daughter. Just for a moment she was stunned by the similarity between her own reflection and the photograph. Apart from the eye colour, it was as if she were looking at herself in a time warp.
Yes, there were fine lines and wrinkles round her eyes now, and her once slender build had more curves, but she still looked closer to thirty than forty. What a pity that inside her head she was closer to being twenty-one. Being Daisy’s buddy had kept her thinking and feeling like that.
What would happen now Daisy was gone—only due to pop in and out of her life in between travels and university courses? Would she turn grey overnight? And it wasn’t just her hair she was worried about. She could imagine her skin taking on a dull grey pallor, her eyes becoming glassy. Would she wake up one day and discover an overwhelming urge to wear baggy home-knitted cardigans?
Come on, Grace! Snap out of it.
She twisted to check out her rear end and fluffed her hair with her fingers. She smiled. Even through the striped cotton of her pyjama bottoms, she could tell her derrière could stop traffic in the right pair of jeans. She was way too young to hide it beneath baggy cardigans. She did a little wiggle, just to prove herself right. Her reflection enjoyed the joke and laughed along with her.
See? She was still the same old game-for-anything Grace.
She picked the photograph of Daisy out of the mirror frame and studied it closely. One corner of her mouth lifted. That child was a chip off the old block, no doubt about it. This stunt with the dating agency was just the sort of crazy thing she would have pulled at nineteen. Why was she getting in such a lather about one silly date?
You never have to see him again if you don’t want to.
It was time she saw a little more sparkle in her own baby-blues.
She jumped back onto the bed, grabbed the laptop and typed in a frenzy, before she could change her mind.
Englishcrumpet: Okay, girls. I’ll do it. I’m going on the date.
After making a quick character sketch for his Ukrainian villain and jotting down some related plot ideas, Noah checked his emails again. He’d better get a move on, though. His PA would be here in twenty minutes and he really ought to finish getting dressed.
Yes, it was Saturday, but he had a big crime writers’ conference coming up soon in NewYork and they needed to go through the final travel arrangements and double-check that the notes for his seminar were all ready to go. Last job would be to proofread his keynote speech for the opening luncheon.
He shook his head, hardly able to believe that this was how his life had turned out.
It seemed he was always travelling, always speaking here and there. Everybody wanted to know what the secret of his success was, as if there were some ingredient other than a modicum of talent and pure hard graft. Living the life of a best-selling author had its great points, but there was a downside he hadn’t expected. For a start, he spent far too much time on publicity and promotion and struggled to find time to scribble more than a few words some days. Just as well his army background had taught him discipline and how to be cool under pressure.
And then there were the women.
His friend Harry thought he was crackers to complain about the women, moaning that he’d settle for just one per cent of the female attention Noah seemed to generate.
Oh, Noah had certainly enjoyed glamorous women making a beeline for him in the early days, when his books had first reached the top of the charts. The women had laughed and smiled and hung on his every word, marvelling at how clever and handsome he was and how he was just like a hero in one of his own novels. But after five years it was definitely getting a little tired. He was starting to feel like that guy in the movie who woke up and discovered the previous day was repeating itself. Only, in Noah’s case, it seemed to be the previous cocktail party repeating itself.
Okay, the colour of the skimpy dresses and the hair extensions changed. But that was as far as it went. He’d even stopped being surprised how so many stick-thin women professed to love martial arts or were totally fascinated by the cold war. One woman had even spent an hour telling him in great detail exactly how she could strip down an AK47, a hungry glint in her eyes the whole time.
After all his experiences, he could really write a convincing portrait of a glamour vixen who’d do anything to bag herself a rich and successful husband so she could bask in his glory and ride the celebrity merry-go-round for ever. Maybe he’d put such a character in his next book. And maybe he’d have the merry-go-round explode…
Compatibility started with sharing some interests, but it had to go deeper than that, surely. And it had to be a genuine interest, not facts and figures cribbed up on before a date. That was why his new pet project had come in handy. He’d read an article about this website in a Sunday magazine and had been intrigued with the possibility of being able to remain almost anonymous.
He flipped back onto the web page he’d minimised earlier.
Blinddatebrides.com.
If Martine, his PA, knew he’d been surfing on such a site, she’d have fainted.
But what was so surprising about him wanting to find a wife? He was of marriageable age, financially very secure and he had a huge house all to himself. It was just crying out for a wife. And he was fed up going everywhere on his own, being the odd one out at friends’ parties, always having to duck into the bathroom to avoid the glamour vixens at the writing ‘do’s’. Securing a wife would have the added bonus of being the ultimate deterrent.
He wasn’t asking for the moon. At forty-one, he was old enough not to fall for all that love-at-first-sight, finding-your-soulmate nonsense. He didn’t believe that his soul had another half floating around somewhere, desperately looking to re-attach itself. That sounded like a gruesome scene from one of his novels rather than romantic, anyway.
What he needed was a partner in life. Writing could be a lonely business. He spent days on end on his own, not speaking to anyone, travelling alone. It would be nice to have someone other than a part-time PA in the house. Someone to share a meal and glass of wine with at the end of the day. Someone to bounce ideas off or moan to about the latest deadline. And, if there was a little chemistry there, so much the better.
He’d been on three dates with Blinddatebrides.com so far and all had been unmitigated disasters. The women had been nice in their own way, he supposed, just not suitable at all. He was on the verge of downgrading his expectations in the short-term and just looking for a date-buddy, someone who wouldn’t mind attending functions with him to keep the vixens at bay. Even the stupid computer at Blinddatebrides.com—or the trained hamsters, or whatever they used to match people up—should be able to cope with something as simple as that.
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