Page 4 of Darling Girls

NORAH

At a secluded table in the back of a cheap Mexican restaurant opposite the train line, Norah was counting the number of ways her date had disappointed her. One – in his profile, Kevin professed to be ‘interesting’, yet he’d already mentioned his passion forDungeons & Dragonstwice. Two – he’d called himself ‘intelligent’ but wore the gormless dull-witted smile of a simpleton (it was common knowledge that, on average, smiley people had a significantly lower IQ than the sombre). Three, and the most glaring of the disappointments so far, was the fact that his profile picture resembled Harry Styles, yet the man who sat before her bore a striking resemblance to a weasel.

‘So,’ Kevin said, beaming like a fool, ‘I noticed that you were Norah with an “h”. What’s that all about?’

Norah stared at him. ‘I noticed you were Kevin without an “h”,’ she said. ‘What’s that all about?’

‘An “h”?’ Kevin replied, perplexed. ‘In Kevin?’

She closed her eyes. Four, his self-professed ‘great sense of humour’ appeared to be in the eye of the beholder.

Norah was starting to wonder if this was worth it. All she wanted was a few odd jobs done. Probably only a couple of hours’ work.

A few years ago, when she’d discovered she could get the majority of her household maintenance taken care of easily – and, of more importance, cheaply – by having dinner with a man and planting the faintest suggestion of sex in his mind, she’d thought herself a genius. Particularly since she rarely had to deliver on the sex. Even on the occasions when she did, it was worth it; growing up with a scarcity mentality, Norah was nothing if not parsimonious. And as Kevin had listed ‘handyman’ as a quality in his online dating profile (something that would inevitably become the fifth disappointment), she’d thought this would be a fairly straightforward transaction. They’d wake up Saturday morning, he’d complete a few odd jobs, and be gone by lunchtime.

No such luck.

Norah’s therapist, Neil, was forever telling her she had a dysfunctional attitude towards sex.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘the opposite is true. I have sex with a man, and he fixes my hot-water service. Or cleans out the gutters. Or pays a bill. Sex quite literally allows me to function.’

Neil was unmoved. ‘Sex isn’t supposed to be quid pro quo, Norah.’

‘No?’ She considered that. ‘Then what is it supposed to be?’

Neil hadn’t responded straightaway, which made Norah think she’d won. But it turned out he was just taking his time to answer, acting thoughtful when he was probably just taking advantage of the fact that he was getting paid by the hour.

‘It’s an act of mutual pleasure,’ he said finally.

‘Exactly,’ Norah said. ‘He gets pleasure from the sex, and I get pleasure from the free help around the house.’

Neil had got exasperated then. ‘Norah, I suspect your skewed idea of sex and its power stems from your childhood. Do you want to talk about that a bit?’

‘No.’ Norah wanted to keep proving her point. She knew she could go several more rounds with Neil, each time reinforcing the fact that sex was, in fact, a transaction. Instead, Neil wanted to talk about her stupid childhood. It was a crying shame.

‘Do you like kids?’ Kevin asked her eagerly.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I like dogs.’

Specifically, she liked the big stupid ones, the ones that barked at the wind and got underfoot and bowled you over every time you walked in the door. Norah had three of this particular type of dog: a greyhound-Great Dane cross named Converse; a regular greyhound named Couch; and a mutt (who almost certainly had some bull-mastiff in him) named Thong. They were all named for the first item they destroyed after coming to live with Norah.

Kevin beamed, revealing comically large front teeth. He resembled a marketplace caricature. ‘I have a Jack Russell called Harvey!’

For the love of God. The worst part of dating, she’d told Neil at their last session – far worse than the sex, if it happened – was the conversation. It was not only tedious but pointless, given that if theywereto become life partners eventually, then they would most likely spend the next thirty or forty years gazing at either the television or their phones in companionable silence. Why not practise some of that silence now, to get the feel of it? See if the silence feltright.

Norah signalled to the waiter who was lurking nearby.

‘Can I get you anything, ma’am?’

‘A lobotomy,’ Norah said. ‘And make it a double.’

The waiter smirked.

Outside the window a couple of dachshunds passed by with their owners. Norah waved at them. Kevin ordered a margarita.

‘What is it you do for a living, Norah?’ Kevin asked as the waiter shuffled off.

‘I run my own business.’