Clive has me well and truly sussed. He knows I’m only here to help reach the end of the challenge. Getting to number one hundred is the only way I can put an end to this infernal experiment. In some ways, however much I think Tess is wrong, now we are near halfway through I almost want her to be right.
Other people start to filter in. The women are shown to tables whereas the men are being led to a bigger side table by Clive. When the event’s due to start, the men pick a number out of a hat to determine which table they go to. As systems go, it seems a fair one, but I can’t help but notice the pieces of paper are different sizes. I fight the urge to request they cut them all to the same size and do a redraw. It really isn’t going to make any difference.
I stare at my coffee. I don’t want to make direct eye contact with anyone. My nerves are jumpy and I have no idea how that will affect taking a reading. I attempt to measure one discreetly before anything starts, and as I expect my resting heart rate is up.
Tess calls everyone to order. The men are chattering like comrades planning their attack. The whole thing makes me feel uneasy.
I figure, at this moment, that I don’t have to stay. If it feels like it’s all getting too much, I can leave at any point. The door to the outside world is just over there. Just steps away.
Tess issues instructions on how the evening will unfold. The ladies don’t need to worry about moving and will be able to remain where they are. The gentlemen will join their first table and then will work their way clockwise around the room every time the bell rings to indicate their time is up. Each date will be three minutes.
‘Would the gentlemen like to go to the table number they picked out and your first date will start.’
For the first time I spot a wooden spoon on the table that isn’t usually here. It’s poking out of the menu holder and has the number three on it made from a series of love hearts. I’m certain it’s a bargain charity-shop find that between them they’ve jollied up for the event.
My first date mumbles so badly I’m not sure if his name is Fred or Algernon or Phillip. It might be all three as I’ve asked him to repeat it twice and both times it sounded like something completely different.
He starts with the killer question: ‘What do you do for a living?’
‘Look, if you’re going to be doing seven more of these, don’t start with that question. I mean, it can be such a conversation killer. What if it’s something you don’t like or something you’ve never heard of? You need to start by finding a common base. Talk about hobbies. Talk about your pets.’
Fred Algernon Phillip then spends the rest of the three minutes trying to find out what my occupation is by asking roundabout questions. ‘Are your hobbies related to what you do for work? How many work colleagues do you have? Do you drive to work?’
Dates two and three may well have been twins. If they aren’t at least relations then they certainly got ready together. They ask almost identical questions that are perhaps meant to be offbeat, but they lose their quirkiness when they both go with the same opener of: ‘What’s the worst movie you’ve ever seen?’
It’s oddly like having an interview with questions that are designed to try to catch me out.
By the fourth date, I decide there’s absolutely no point in continuing to take my pulse. My heart rate is up, not because I’ve come across the love of my life, but because of the stress I’m currently under. Admittedly, though, that isn’t making me want to run away like I thought it would. Instead, it’s a surprise to find I’m on the verge of enjoying myself.
It’s quite nice to be able to see others around the room having dates as disastrous as I am. For the first time I pay attention to some of the other women. At the table beside me is a beautiful Asian girl who gives me the brightest smile when I catch her eye. ‘Please tell me it gets better,’ she pleads, before greeting her next date with the same wide