‘Well, basically, Ella, if I can be honest with you, for a while, I’d fuck anything that moved. White, Black, man, woman. If they had a hole, goddamn it, I’d find it.’ He tittered. My jaw dropped open. He almost soundedproud. He must have spotted my smile evaporate because he hastily added, ‘Hey, all above legal age and all consenting, of course.’
I was still speechless.
He stared at me for a reply, and it took me a few seconds to find my voice. ‘What? Wow. I’m sorry. I .?.?. I didn’t expect that.’ My mind was racing. How could I get someone so wrong? ‘And you don’t do that now?’ I asked, trying to end our time on something that might resemble a positive note.
‘Sorry, Ella, what?’ He leaned in.
‘You don’t do that now? You’re, ahem, celibate?’ I asked louder, noticing a few heads turning.
‘I mean, I can fight my sexual urges now. And if the right woman came along, I believe I could try to abstain. But, momentarily, I’m single.’ He looked me in the eye and I found I couldn’t look away as he delivered his killer line. ‘And if Little Billy wants to mingle, trust me, he does.’
Ping.
Saved by the fucking bell. I stood up and shook Bill’s hand.
‘Great to meet you, Ella. I’m not supposed to say this, but I’ll give you the green light on my card. You can hit me up anytime.’ His eyes widened behind his glasses, which were slightly fogged with condensation from the heat and, no doubt, his knitwear.
‘Aww, that’s so sweet of you. Thanks,’ I replied, shuffling my way to the following table. I briefly made eye contact with Zola, trying to warn her that Big Billy was an absolute beast.
‘Nice to meet you, I’m Ella,’ I said, sliding into a chair opposite a young man with dark hair. My eyes skimmed his badge: Adrian.
‘Lovely accent you have, Scottish or Irish?’ he said.
‘Scottish,’ I said, still gobsmacked by Bill and his sex addiction admission.
‘I love the Scottish accent.’ His voice was smooth and deep. ‘I have family over there, not that I’ve met them or anything.’
‘That’s nice,’ I replied, still settling in.
‘So, have you done this before?’ Adrian asked. ‘Because the last time I came to one of these events, that was when I first met my ex-girlfriend, and I really thought she was the one, so this is bringing up some unresolved trauma for me.’
Oh, here we fucking go, I thought. Not another therapy session. Jesus sweet Christ. Was I doomed to a night of talking to the rejected guests of fucking Jerry Springer?
‘In the last few months of our relationship, she would always tell me she was working late and I started to have my suspicions that something was going on .?.?.’
‘God, I’m so sorry!’ I tutted in sympathy at his sob story, completely uninterested.
‘No, no, there wasn’t anything going on, shewasworking. But I started to follow her to and from work, for my own peace of mind,’ he said with a self-righteous huff. ‘Until she spotted me.’
I sat for the next couple of minutes, hearing all about how his ex-girlfriend brought stalking charges against him, how he was currently fighting for custody of their dog, Hillary, as he believed he could give the pooch a better life than his overtime-addicted ex could.
Ping.
Halle-fuckin’-lujah.
Next, I sat opposite Chad, a head tennis coach who had relocated from Washington, DC to New York. He worked at one of the city’s most prestigious sporting clubs, catering to the wealthy so as to give them the competitive backhand edge.
‘So, you must have met some really famous people?’ I asked, impressed, as he divulged his career.
Chad nodded with the utmost sincerity, like he was breaking some form of confidentiality clause just mentioning it.
‘Like who?’ I probed. ‘Come on, spill.’
His white teeth gleamed as he grinned. ‘OK, OK, I’ve met Beyoncé, Jay-Z, Kanye.’ He leaned in and whispered, ‘Trump. But I’d better keep that on the downlow. We Americans take our politics very seriously.’
I smiled, observing the handsome, laid-back, athletic man I was chatting with. He seemed completely normal so far.
‘Honestly, Ella, I’ve made it sound way cooler than it is. Most of the time I’m teaching tennis to businessmen who are far too used to everything going their own way so can’t understand why I can’t turn them into Novak Djokovic on ninety minutes a week.’
