Her Kinda Guy
A ROMANTIC SHORT STORY BY EIRIN THOMPSON
Kirsty had to do something to kick start her love life…
I see Paula’s getting married,” Leonie said, taking a sip of coffee. “Paula Lyons?” Kirsty answered.
“Lyons as was, then Malcolmson, and soon to be Partridge.”
“So you really mean she’s getting re-married.”
“I suppose. Paula Partridge – it has a certain ring to it.
“Paula works for your solicitor, doesn’t she?” Leonie added.
“She’s been there since we left school.” Kirsty nodded.
“They treat her well,” Leonie went on. “She told me the partners gave her a mini-break for two in London to celebrate thirty years with them.
“Bed, breakfast and evening meal at a hotel near Covent Garden, afternoon tea and tickets to a musical.”
Kirsty looked at Leonie.
On my birthday, my boss bought me a jam doughnut
Kirsty said. “I think I’m in the wrong job!
“Anyway, how come Paula gets two husbands and I haven’t even been able to muster up one?”
“Well, Guy Partridge –” Leonie began.
“Guy!” Kirsty interrupted. “You know I’ve always wanted to have a boyfriend called Guy, ever since I read about a Guy in a ‘Jackie’ magazine romance.
“I thought it was the most attractive name ever. I’ve never met anyone called Guy in real life, and Paula not only finds one but marries him.
“It’s not fair!” Kirsty moaned. “Why do I never meet anyone?”
“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you really want me to answer?” Leonie replied reasonably.
“Do you have a theory?”
“It’s more than a theory – it’s clear and obvious: you never meet anyone because you never go anywhere.”
Kirsty spluttered on her coffee.
“Sorry – was that a bit blunt?” Leonie asked.
“Blunt and untrue!” Kirsty replied. “I go out!”
“Where? With whom?”
“I go to work.”
“Where you’re stuck in a tiny office on your own.”
“I go out on my lunch break.”
“And hurtle round the block to try to get your steps in for the day,” Leonie pointed out.
Kirsty frowned.
“I went to the library on Wednesday,” she said.
“And did you talk to anyone there?”
“No-one was around.”
“So who checked out your books?” Leonie asked.
“You do it yourself now, at a machine,” Kirsty explained.
“Again, no interaction. No human contact.”
“I went to the supermarket last night,” Kirsty said defiantly.
Leonie grinned.
“I bet you used the self-checkout there, too.”
Kirsty pursed her lips. Leonie wasn’t wrong.
“OK, then, where do all these eligible men lurk, since it’s clearly not in my workplace, or at the library or the supermarket?”
“You’re asking me for specifics?” Leonie checked.
“Yes!”
“Well, they must be everywhere. The point is to keep a lookout.
“But you’re certainly not going to meet anyone sitting at home with your library book and your tuna salad for one.”
“For your information, my current library book is a thriller that I can’t put down, and last night I cooked Thai green curry from scratch.”
“So you finished your book?” Leonie checked.
“No.”
“Then you did put it down,” she told Kirsty. “And was there a jar of sauce involved in this curry? If there was, that’s not cooking from scratch.”
Kirsty felt herself seethe a little.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she muttered. “You and Gary have been together since you were kids.
“You don’t know how hard it is to meet someone when you’re in your fifties.
“I can’t exactly go to a nightclub with all the teenagers – and it’s equally impossible to go out to dinner when I haven’t had an invitation.”
“Why don’t you stop waiting for this invitation and do the inviting?” Leonie retorted.
“Me invite someone to dinner?” Kirsty was aghast.
“Or for coffee,” Leonie replied. “Or to some book event at the library you’re bound to have heard about.
“Why not?” she added. “You no longer have to drop your lace hanky and see if some passing gentleman returns it before you can talk to him.”
“I can’t just walk up to some man and introduce myself,” Kirsty argued.
“Why not?”
“It’s too . . . too . . .”
“You see, you don’t have a good reason. Why don’t you try it out?
“Look at that chap over there.” Leonie pointed across the room. “A book lover, like you. Pop over and ask if the book he’s reading is any good.
“Tell him about this unputdownable read you’re currently engrossed in.”
“Really?”
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
Kirsty felt a little bubble of excitement form unexpectedly in her stomach.
“OK,” she said. “I will.”
It turned out that the worst that could happen was the man’s wife turning up.
She looked distinctly displeased to find Kirsty hovering around her husband’s table.
Kirsty slunk back to her seat beside Leonie.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Leonie began. “But that proves nothing. They won’t all be married, Kirsty. You have to keep trying.”
“After that?” Kirsty exclaimed. “Never again!”
Kirsty had made up her mind. Her life was destined to be a romance-free zone.
Trying to do anything to change that was both painful and futile.
She would look for other routes to happiness.
Maybe she’d think seriously about changing jobs. Give herself little treats.
The following Thursday, she decided to make a start by dropping into the Golden Griddle beside the train station and having someone else cook her tea before going home.
The café was very much in the traditional style – wooden tables and chairs, flocked wallpaper and waiting staff with pens and little notepads rather than tablets.
Perhaps that was why Kirsty had always found it a comforting place to duck into – maybe she was a little traditional herself.
She cast her eye over the menu, although she knew it off by heart; it never really changed.
What should she have? The fare was basic: hot sausage rolls, Cornish pasties, Welsh rarebit.
The special tonight was macaroni cheese, so macaroni cheese it would be.
Kirsty sat at the small table by the window just as a downpour began.
People hurried past with umbrellas up and heads down.
Kirsty felt lucky to have avoided getting soaked.
A waitress took her order and laid her cutlery.
Kirsty was just adjusting her handbag when the front door flew open and a man crashed in.
He was tall, with longish, dark hair flecked with grey. It was a little how Kirsty imagined Jean-Michel Jarre would look these days.
Kirsty found herself watching as he scanned the café’s interior. There wasn’t a single free table.
She realised the man was looking straight back at her.
She felt embarrassed at being caught gawping and tried to turn her stare into a smile.
“Hello,” he said, coming over. “I wonder if I could share your table?”
Kirsty felt flustered.
“Er . . .” she began.
Get a grip, Kirsty, she said to herself. The man has simply taken refuge from the rain and needs somewhere to sit down.
“Be my guest,” she managed to say.
“Be my guest,” the man echoed and broke into a wide smile. “That’s a nice expression.”
It was then that Kirsty realised that his speech was accented.
He sat down.
I believe this is what is called ‘raining cats and dogs’
he continued. “Quite ferocious cats and dogs this evening, I think.”
Kirsty smiled.
“English isn’t your first language,” she observed.
“Non. Je suis français.”
So he was French.
Kirsty felt butterflies in her stomach and colour rising in her cheeks.
He couldn’t actually be the real Jean-Michel Jarre, could he?
Which would be worse, her brain agonised – being him and being recognised, or being him and not being recognised?
He picked up a menu and started to read.
“Cornish pasty,” he read aloud. “Can you tell me, please, what is this?”
Kirsty still wasn’t sure of her ground.
Was she being asked to explain a traditional hot snack to a very famous electronic musician or not?
“It’s – well, it’s beef, swede, potato and onion, parcelled up in pastry and nipped together along a fancy seam,” she explained.
“And this is what people eat in Cornwall?”
“Yes. But it’s not all they eat, of course.”
“And what, please, is Welsh rarebit?”
“Oh. Let me think. It’s a sort of sauce . . .”
“Sauce is good.”
“Although perhaps not quite like any sauce you have in France,” Kirsty went on. “It’s made with brown ale, flour, Cheddar cheese, Worcestershire sauce, English mustard . . .”
“Cheddar and Worcestershire are in England, yes? And English mustard?
“So how is this Welsh rarebit?”
Good question, Kirsty thought.
“Anyway, you spread it on toast and put it under the grill and eat it while it’s still hot.”
The man looked perplexed, which rendered him even more handsome.
How was Kirsty to find out whether she was sitting opposite continental pop royalty or not?
“I’m Kirsty, by the way,” she announced boldly.
The man looked at her and smiled.
“And I’m Gee,” he replied, with a hard “G” as in “get” and a sharp “ee” sound.
Now that she knew him to be an ordinary person like herself, Kirsty began to relax.
She and Gee chatted about the rain, about food, their favourite cafés (Gee’s sounded infinitely more interesting than hers).
Gee had recently moved to the UK to work as a magazine illustrator.
Kirsty thought this explained why he had such a good eye: his haircut accentuating his jaw and cheekbones, and his clothes that looked simultaneously comfortable and effortlessly suave.
Their meals came. Gee nibbled at his Welsh rarebit before giving Kirsty an enthusiastic thumbs-up and devouring the rest.
Kirsty polished off her macaroni cheese, then they both drank some terrible coffee.
“Kirsty, do you have to go home straight away or would you like to go for a drink with me at the Station Hotel across the road?” Gee asked.
“I think we have more to talk about, and you can advise me on brown ale,” he added.
Kirsty couldn’t remember the last time a man had invited her out for a drink.
She had a sensation she recalled from childhood of going downhill on her bike a little too fast, yet almost not fast enough.
Go for it, Kirsty, she told herself.
“Yes, let’s do that,” she agreed.
Gee held out her coat for her to slip into.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
As they left, a thought struck her.
“Gee – is that a traditional French name?” she asked.
He looked puzzled.
“You have it here, too,” he replied. “The one who tried to explode the Houses of Parliament.
“G-U-Y – I think you pronounce it Guy.”
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