BLIND DATE FROM HELL

Many times had she said the last date was a date from hell and she meant it. She thought the dates she went on went from mildly disturbing to straight out of the depths of hell. Not just because one or two had a mild smell of sulphur like rotten eggs and smelly feet. Some had volcanic acne covering their faces and others had breathe like something that had died several weeks earlier, been buried in a shallow grave and been dug up by a curious dog.

In fact her confidence in her own and all those in her life who set her up on dates had reached an all time low. She was more likely to pick a serial killer than an upstanding and datable human being. Her choices and the blind dates her friends and family had chosen over the past few years had led to a high degree of scepticism whenever a date was suggested or arranged with “good intentions” and perhaps a hail Mary. In her circumstance she had all but given up hope of meeting a person she was willing to date again, let alone share a future with. Youthful dreams of home and children with a man and a Golden Retriever at her side had withered like grapes on the vine as she passed the age of 25 and now resided in the attic of her house beside the boxes of old romance novels she had discarded around the same point.

At 29, Irma Longbottom had come to view dates as either masochistic torture sessions to make most dominatrices wince or long drawn out ordeals punctuated by tall, deep, glasses of merlot. She had enough terrible memories of dates to fill a book or two. Her last date that could be classed as worthy of a second date was over two years before and it hadn’t led to one by his choice. Since then the dating landscape had been as barren as the surface of the moon. Dates were spaced months apart and formed craters in the surface that she struggled to cross and crawl out of when she was forced to do so. Dating had become a way to get a fine meal and a glass or two of wine that her income as a librarian would not stretch to these days.

The last date had been four months earlier and the details had been fuzzy because the Napa Valley merlot had been flowing like water. She knew she was far from perfect and her standards were way to high for most of the dating meat market.

Looking in the mirror she saw bright green eyes, smooth alabaster skin and lips like Angelina Jollie. Flaming red hair above tight skin and a face that few would seen as any less youthful than it had been ten years before when she had graduated from an ivy league college with a degree in fine arts and English literature.

She had taken a vow that she would never allow another person to set her up on a date again, the price was just too high. She walked away physically unscathed but the mental cost was too much to bear. Each terrible date reduced her self confidence and her faith in others to pick anyone close to compatible with her refined tastes and delicate palate. So she had reached the conclusion that blind dates were too much to endure and if she went on dates in future it had to be with men that she could at least blame on her own poor choices rather than the misguided and ignorant selections of others.

The source of some of the worst blind dates and her best friend Betty De Rossi had been in her life since she was a young child aged 3 and her family moved into the house next door. Since then they had gone to the same school, the same parties, and chosen the same career paths. Betty had set her up on at least six occasions over the years and none had been close to acceptable in terms of Irma’s tastes in human beings. She thought Betty was her sister in everything but the blood that flowed in their veins. She respected her choices in everything, except men.

She had refused to accept a date from Betty over the past few months and while she had been firm the level of persistence was indefatigable. Betty offered at least one a week and Irma batted them away like flies at a barbecue. Pleas that this one had broad shoulders, a chiselled jaw and big strong hands fell on deaf ears. Time after time she refused to entertain another blind date from Betty. Perhaps she was coming down with a cold or her mind was just distracted that Friday afternoon.

Betty stood behind the sorting desk and casually strolled down the length of the bench to where Irma stood. Her blonde hair was styled like her idol and her clothes were also reminiscent of Marilyn Munroe at the peak of her fame. Maybe Betty was a romantic or just too persistent to take her tone and demeanour as a reason to not try again for the 46th time to get Irma to go on a date with the friend of the man she wanted to date this fine Friday evening.

Betty must have chosen a perfect time or Irma’s resistance was just at an all time low because she found herself agreeing to a blind date straight after work that night. The name of the finest French restaurant had hit the part of the brain that was deadly bored and needed a glass of wine grown decades before in the Californian sunshine on a gentle slope sheltered from harsh winds and gentle rains that would otherwise plump up and dilute the grapes instead of being slightly wrinkled but concentrating the sugars that formed the alcohol. Those receptors in her brain screamed out and smothered the part of her brain that would have reflexively turned down the inevitably pointless and painful experience that would make up the next date.

That is how with nothing more than the application of a light coat of fire engine red lipstick and a pair of long curled and mascaraed eye lashes she found herself in the taxi beside Betty. She was a silent zombie listening to the inane ramblings of her friend as her mind soared over the distant vineyards of vines imported from even further away and into vats and casks covered in dusts and full of a liquid made from the Merlot grapes. She could see the ancient vines, the oak barrels and the glass bottles that had sat in warehouses for decades before being moved to a cellar below the restaurant to which she was headed. She could also almost taste the wine as it coated her tongue and slid down her throat and the feeling of fire flowed through her veins as the alcohol moved to her extremities. She was anticipating that wine like the addict she was and like that addict she only thought of coating those receptors and feeling the high that she craved. She could tell herself that it was only wine and that she only drank to excess every now and then.

The taxi came to a stop in front of the gleaming façade of a building that looked like a modern art museum and a sterile virus laboratory rolled into one. Irma barely noticed as she walked through the steel sculpture that passed for an archway inscribed with ‘squiggles’ engraved into the steel at regular intervals. She failed to notice completely the red neon glow from each symbol as they passed through and into the foyer area. The first thing that really got her attention she put down to fatigue after a long day. She saw a figure standing at a black podium looking down at a large book and holding an old fashioned quill in a large red skinned hand with sharp black talon-like claws. As her focus shifted from his hand and ran up the length of his body she saw a very expensive suit occupied by a demon with curved horns that curled around like a mature bull ram. She shook her head and the demon turned into a regular man with extremely pale skin and a shiny bald head. The look of disdain on his face drew her back to the now like a sharp slap. It was very familiar and identical to every maitre’d in every fancy French restaurant around the world. So familiar that it made her doubt that the flash was just her mind playing tricks on her.

The women approached and Betty must have said the magic words because the former demon or hidden demon snapped a pale white hand with what appeared to be perfectly manicured nails. A white shirt and black trousers clad waiter appeared from the shadows of the foyer and beckoned the ladies to follow him. They did and had to walk quickly to keep up with the receding figure down a long poorly lit hallway. The hallway sloped gently down and in a spiral too. It opened out into an enormous room with a spotlight centred on a circular table with a large solid silver candelabra in the centre and silver flatware and goblets arranged for four people.

The waiter ushered each woman to a chair and held it out as she sat down. Then he walked off into the area away from the light and disappeared into the shadows. A minute later he returned holding a wine bottle wrapped in a white linen cloth. He popped the cork and poured each woman a glass of the rich red liquid that Irma knew was her favourite variety of wine, merlot.

As she reached for the glass the silence around them was shattered by crisp, clear, loud footsteps. Two men walking in sync approached from the shadows and stepped into the light. They were both so handsome they could have come from a Mills and Boons novel and when the one next to her spoke his words had a hypnotic effect and she found herself lost in his deep blue eyes and flowing golden mane of hair. The man introduced himself as Jason and sat down in a chair beside Irma. The second man also sat down beside Betty. Irma was unable to take her focus off Jason and wouldn’t have been able to describe so much as the colour of the second man’s hair.

Irma had the best date of her life and the conversation was as deep and complex as if the script came from her deepest fantasies. The time meant nothing and she failed to even register the taste of the food that wouldn’t have been out of place in a five star Michelin restaurant. What was strange was that the urge to drink the wine that had gripped her all day was suddenly gone and she didn’t once reach for the ornate

silver goblet. She was so absorbed that the merlot receptors in her brain felt that the wine was like candy when she had discovered cocaine and the candy would never be enough again. Jason was that new drug and the wine would never be enough again. He looked deeply into her eyes and she saw flames as if reflecting a roaring fire over her shoulder. Except for the fact that there was no fire and it didn’t matter. It was the best date of her life and as she took a long deep swallow of the Marilyn Munroe merlot with the blonde bombshell on the bottle she was sure at that moment that it would be her last.

The END