WAITING FOR THE CALL
Neil Collins employs the services of a marriage
bureau, and describes his nights (or at least dinners) with Sandy, Becky, etc.
THERE are curiously few of them in the back pages of The Spectator, but the world outside is awash with lonely hearts adver- tisements. The Daily Telegraph carries two- thirds of a page of densely written type every Friday, with initials like WLTM, GSOH, N/S or LTR, each a vignette of a single life wondering wistfully about the alternative. There are millions of us alliter- atively dubbed 'Sad Singles'. We must mind our language here. We are not unhappy (any more than we are gay), but sad in the modern meaning that teenagers have ascribed to it, to be pitied. Have a care, the alternative state is 'Smug Mar- rieds', which is not obviously an improve- ment.
Many of us have chosen to be single, having tried marriage, or at least live-in lovers. While we may not consider the state permanent, there is plenty to be said for it, and little reason to rush to pair off with a vaguely suitable partner — which brings me to the Katherine Allen Marriage Bureau. It brought me to Penrose Halson and I would recommend Penrose to any- one; a fee of £20 buys you a cosy hour in her snug first-floor drawing-room in Thay- er Street, and even if you do not join (£600) it is better for the ego than lunch at the Savoy (£80 for two), and I should know.
Penrose plays the role of a kindly aunt, using her social connections to suggest introductions to women she considers suit- able. There are no photographs provided, which is slightly unnerving in such a visual- ly driven society, but does allow her to make her proposals sound intriguing. But Penrose has a problem. The number of women on her books far outnumbers that of men, an imbalance for which she blames Bridget Jones's Diary. The eponymous Brid- get, says Penrose, made all men seem like bumbling fools or heartless bounders, although in truth Miss Jones has done no more than exaggerate the hopeless male stereotypes passing across television screens in sitcoms every day.
The image of the sassy, successful, thir- ty-something female executive who is com- pletely in charge of her own life and wants a man only marginally more than she wants another garment from Voyage is pretty daunting to many males. For all the macho posturing the world expects from men of almost any age, rejection still hurts, and nobody brags to his mates about joining a marriage agency for fear of being seen as a failure.
When they have finished jeering, they will admit that it makes sense. Those of us lucky enough to have jobs we enjoy work hard, and have neither the time to meet likely partners nor the inclination to go to clubs where the music is both impenetra- ble and overwhelming. Besides, set against the sweating twenty- and thirty-some- things, I look positively geriatric. So, rather than trying those small ads — I thought GSOH meant Generally Solvent, Own Home, before I cracked the code I went to Penrose.
`Divorced, 50, tall, slim, balding male (GSOH, natch) WLTM suitable N/S part- ner for LTR, London area.' Penrose was quite right, London has lots of attractive single girls between 35 and 45, and meet- ing them is not in the least traumatic. A dinner for two at an agreeable restaurant is easily the best option for that difficult first date, since the reservation in your name means she is brought to you, so to speak, while the other diners provide her with some reassurance that you are not a multiple rapist or the Phantom of the Opera. If she decides you are, she can eas- ily run and leave you stranded. A meal is also just the right length of time for a proper conversation.
My first date was with Isa: straw- coloured hair and big hips, single, has never cohabited. We got on rather well, and I was amazed to find that three hours romped past. She was also a journalist, clearly intelligent and an unselfish conver- sationalist, but there was no meeting of minds, and definitely no prospect of a meeting of bodies. Then came Janet, light- brown hair, pretty, delicate build, talkative, confident and much more my type. She had married young and quickly divorced, with one serious relationship since which ended badly when they were on holiday together — always a dangerous time. She was obviously very clever, had a senior job in finance and was in danger of letting it take her over (this sounds famil- iar). This one, I thought, had possibilities. I decided on a simple test to see if my date felt the same way: wait and see whether you get thanked for dinner. Neither side has the other's address, of course, but a call to a home number during the day will almost certainly mean an answering machine, free of the need to sustain a dia- logue and from any pressure to fix another date merely as a desperate device to end the conversation. In both cases, message came there none. Heigh-ho. In some ways I was quite glad, since I have an ability which unnerves me. I can tell whether there will be a chemical reaction within minutes, sec- onds even, and in the past I have paid dearly for ignoring this instinct.
Then there was Becky, a woman in pub- lishing with a splendidly unexpected dirty laugh, but I concluded that we didn't have much in common, and presumably she did too, since there was no thank-you call. She followed Sandy, a spectacularly can- tilevered American who had fallen in love with England, as the best of them tend to, and had even been infected with a British sense of humour, as even the best of them often fail to. In other circumstances, we might have been great friends — but no phone call to say thanks. To date there has been only one disaster. Kerry was the pret- tiest of the lot, delicately built with wonder- ful hands, living in a charming village outside London and walking to work. It ended with her turning on me for what she thought was cross-examination and I thought was conversation. I apologised but felt like something out of Men Behaving Badly.
This sounds like a grim litany. It is, in fact, great fun. I regret meeting none of the women, and the excitement of anticipation alone is well worth the cost of dinner for two. Without exception, they are confident, successful and (usually) have plenty to say for themselves, which I like. The most gar- rulous of all, a Scottish girl with a wicked sense of humour, is on the way to becom- ing a firm friend, which in some ways is even better than a potential marriage part- ner. I'm lucky to have a job which is better than mere work, and which takes long hours, thus preventing me from going home and having a panic attack about what to wear for the next blind date. It's the business suit, like it or lump it.
Living alone is proving so much more agreeable than I expected that it will take someone special to make me give it up for the joys of cohabiting, but I'm sure she's in town as I write, and if she is not on Pen- rose's list now, it's only a matter of time. And would I recommend the Katherine Allen Bureau to those shy, retiring males out there? You betcha.
The author is City editor of the Daily Tele- graph.
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