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Chapter 2
DARA
And so here it is at 4:15 in the afternoon on Valentine’s Day and I’m wearing black strappy heels and a far-too-dressy magenta satin cocktail dress, holding a virgin mojito in my hand, and I am nervous as all hell.
Although I have absolutely no reason to be. Worst-case scenario, all the guys here are toads and I don’t find anyone to date, and I turn the experience into a where-have-all-the-good-men-gone report for the station.
“Just pretend I’m not here,” Paul the Camera Guy says, in a vain attempt to calm me down. “You’ll just be one more hot career woman at this thing. No problem.”
Yeah. No problem.
Well, anybody who’s on camera learns to never let them see you sweat. Fake it until you make it and all that.
The 10 Spot’s a nice bar, and the cocktail nibbles are yummy. I say hello to a woman I know from the gym, and a lawyer I’ve interviewed before, connected with his service on town council. I meet a few other people. I get a lot of “hey, you’re on TV, right?” questions. Paul tapes the small talk in short bursts, just for background.
At 5 p.m. promptly, the host begins to welcome us and go over the rules. Ladies sit at small tables; men circulate, spending 5 minutes at each table. If you’d like to see any potential date again, mark “yes” next to his or her name on your score card. If there are any matches—as in, both parties would like to have further conversation—MatchMakers Inc. will put you in touch. Simple, right? Sure.
At 5:02 p.m., a tall man with cheekbones so sharp you could cut your finger on them, gorgeous enough to be a high-fashion model though he’s far too old for it, rushes through the door, brandishing his cell phone. “Sorry I’m late. I got held—”
One of the MatchMakers people intercepts him smoothly, checking his reservation and speaking in low tones.
We all go back to listening to the instructions. I choose a table. I run an absent hand over my hair, and make sure my name tag is visible. But I keep stealing glances at Late Guy.
Something about him doesn’t add up. He’s gorgeous, but awkward. His suit doesn’t really fit. His shoes are too casual to match the suit, and he keeps wrenching his tie around like it’s strangling him. I could assume that he’s a social climber who has no idea how to dress, but he also wears an attitude of absent-minded authority, as if he’s used to directing the people around him but doesn’t know his way around a social situation.
My story-senses tingle.
I spend the next hour meeting ten different men who don’t ignite a spark of any kind in me. Some of them seem perfectly nice but not my type; some of them are out-and-out creeps who likely can’t get a date on their own, or can’t get a second date after the first one sets off warning flags.
Matthew, the town councilor, shoots his cuffs when he sits down at my table. “Kara, right? Nice to see you again. Do you remember me?”
“It’s Dara. Of course.”
“Ever been to one of these things?”
“First time,” I say coolly. “You?”
“Second. The one they did before Christmas? The women were all dogs. Arf.” His eyes skate greedily over me. “You were certainly worth coming here to meet on a social basis, though.”
I interrupt him with one of the suggested icebreaker questions on the info sheet. “How often do you clean your place?”
He laughs. “Once a week. I mean, not that I do it myself, you know, my ex-wife used to do that. Anyway, I can hire cleaners. I’m in the market for some arm candy.” He winks at me. “I wouldn’t make you clean my house. Unless you wanted to put on a little frilly French maid outfit, ha ha.”
I give him a chilly smile, and get through the next few minutes by returning short, brusque responses and letting my body language signal disinterest. I take great pleasure in checking the NO box on my scorecard.
The next guy to sit down at my table is handsome and brawny, with crisply waving blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. He’s got great forearms. He looks into my eyes, not down at my boobs. I might consider this one.
Thirty seconds later, I’ve figured out that his sexy exterior covers just enough brains to walk upright. NO.
At the end of the first round, I’m still disappointed. I get another virgin mojito and a couple of Thai meatball sliders. I chat briefly with a woman who turns out to be an artist. Luz, who’s got funky blue highlights in her dark-brown curls, works in acrylics and mixed media. “Are you having any luck at this thing?” she asks under her breath.
“Not so far, except meeting some pretty cool women.” She agrees with a smile. I get her business card, so I can go look at her work at the Mountain Art Gallery downtown.
I check in with Paul the Camera Guy, who says he’s definitely got enough footage for a short segment, and he’s heading out. I nod. “Home to the wife and kid?”
“Best part of my day,” he says, and grins. We fist-bump, and then he’s gone.
Okay, I’ll be honest. Even though my mom is pushy as hell about my finding love, I’d like to have something like Paul the Camera Guy and his wife have. I’d love to be the best part of somebody’s day.
