Chapter 10 - Money can't buy you love.
I took a break from the online dating scene for about 2 months after the fishy failure. I was still single, however, still living in the same village with the same non-existent prospects of finding a husband. Not that I was, or am, looking for a husband, but a decent fella might be nice! Once again I found myself alone, on a Friday night with a bottle of red wine, filling in the personal profile of the online dating site, feeling a mixture of emotions; wistfulness, trepidation, but mainly hope. Hope is what makes us single girls get back in the saddle, so to speak, and that was what drove me into the same old lion’s den.
Waking up on the Saturday morning, I had a few emails from potential suitors (this is normal when you set up a new profile as you seem to go to the head of the ‘queue’, as it were. Yes, I’m a pro… whatever), and one of them in particular caught my eye. Neill was from a nearby city, he seemed to be sporty (was in to kite surfing), spoke Polish as a second language (intriguing) and looked fairly fit in his photo. We exchanged a couple of emails and he asked me what my plans were that weekend. Seeing as I had none, I suggested that we meet up; he was taken aback but seemed to like the fact that I was impulsive! Well, perhaps, but I had nothing better to do, plus I was keen on the idea of a night out in the “big city” so we arranged that he would meet me off the train, and we would go for a few drinks. I decided to go for it this time, first impressions count etc etc, and donned my little black dress. After all, Pretty Woman got her guy by wearing a posh frock! Er….
When I saw Neill in the train station I was a little disappointed. He had clearly aged since his profile picture, and his choice of outfit didn’t blow me away, but all this aside, I remained hopeful and we set off to a city bar. I had taken the decision not to drink, mainly because past a certain time, it was impossible to get any sort of public transport back to my village, so once we had our drinks (me, a diet coke, Neill, a beer) we sat down and started chatting. Sorry did I say WE started chatting? That isn’t true. Neill started a monologue, which went on, and on, and on, and on. Sweet Jesus the man could talk! I wouldn’t have minded if it had been a topic of mutual interest, but certainly he was interested in the subject matter, and very good at talking about it too. Himself.
Neill didn’t have a job. He lived in a hotel. He had pots of money. Pots of it. I knew this because he told me so. He had made a fortune in stocks and shares, and I don’t know what else, to be honest, because I stopped listening. I was bored. I had become an expert head nodder, smiler, and “oh really?” –er. He spoke at length about the perfect house that he was buying, in cash, which was a church conversion. He didn’t need a mortgage, you see, he was loaded. Sorry did I mention that he was ridiculously rich? Well he was; he liked to throw that into the conversation every 30 seconds or so.
The clincher was when Neill actually stopped to draw breath and ask me a question about myself; did I like to cook? As the woman he was going to marry had to be at home in the kitchen. I took great pleasure in telling him that actually, apart from a cheese scone, I was pretty rubbish in the kitchen, and would rather cut the grass and put the shelves up. I hoped this might put him off, but he replied, “that’s fine, I’ll just hire a cook and a maid”. Floored. Impressed? Au contraire my friend; I wanted to spew. He was exactly the kind of guy who swaggers into a place and throws his money clip and Audi key ring onto the bar in full view of everyone, hoping to impress a swooning gold digga. Not me. That’s the opposite of me. I actually despise Audi drivers; they’re always driving up your arse and stealing my braking space…
I can’t really tell you what else Neill liked, oh, apart from holidaying three times a year in Cape Verde, where he went kite surfing. I got the impression that if I had continued to date Neill, I would have been treated to a holiday there, as often as I liked, Business Class, on him. He was loaded, don’t you know. The thing is I’m looking for love, not a bank account. I can honestly say I wouldn’t have been able to fake it, as far as Neill was concerned. He texted me when I was on the train on the way home, saying he had a nice time etc, and I responded that I had too (little white lie); but I didn’t text him again. Hopefully Neill found his Pretty Woman. As for me? I’m still waiting to be rescued.