satisfying. No messing around. No wasted time. Just straight in there and down to brass tacks.'
`Go on then,' I said, spooning instant coffee into a mug and impatiently waiting for the kettle to boil. I was already running late and Margot's ill-timed visit would delay me a heap more.
`I'll take you speed dating,' she said.
`Huh?'
`It cuts out the wasted flab of chatting someone up. You have five minutes to work out if the bloke is worth dating or not and if he isn't you haven't wasted a lifetime's investment on him. It's like an accelerated version of a lonely hearts' club.'
`Sounds like a sop for a bunch of losers.'
`Yeah, and you're not one when it comes to dating?' Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
I took a sip of scalding coffee and burnt my tongue while trying to ignore her true but cruel shaft. She had a point. I sometimes felt I had Loser Lover tattooed on my forehead.
`There's a new place in town called Hit and Miss in Hay Street. We'll go together, tonight,' she said, which sounded great in theory but I was sure would be absolutely disastrous in practice.
Margot, you see, had always beaten me in any encounter with the opposite sex simply by slinging a hip in a provocative pose and batting one artful, artificial eyelash at them. Hey, when I slung a hip, it was to get a better aim with my gun. Ditto when lowering an eyelid. Maybe I should try Cupid's bow rather than a gun. And aim for the heart rather than the leg.
`Better if I meet you there,' I said. `Then if I get caught up on a case, you can speed date for the two of us.'
`You're not going to stand me up?'
`As if.'
`Remember to dress to knock `em dead. See you at eight.'
`I'll do my best.'
My best, as it turned out, wasn't very good. For starters, I was late. As usual. Everyone was already milling around with clipboards of pink paper and red pens. They were dressed to kill and I was still clad in my hard-day-at-the-office jeans and t-shirt. Even though the night was muggy, I had on my leather jacket. Call it a security blanket if you like. It made me feel in control.
It also hid my gun.
Hit and Miss: the place lived up to its name. It was neither a bar nor a hall, but simply a room with a scratchy, carpet-tiled floor in deadbeat brown, and neutral, corpse-beige walls. I should think it had once been an office and those running the speed dating had got it cheap. I hesitated at the door, trying to spot Margot and hoping I'd got the wrong place.
I hadn't.
She yoo-hooed me from the other side of the room and pointed to a small card table where the organiser was seated. The lady in charge was called Josie. She was a bottle blonde with fake tan and, judging by her protruding cheek bones and taut skin, she'd been stretched and nipped a few too many times for comfort. She dressed like a teenager and affected a Shirley Temple cuteness. She must have been all of sixty-five, though it was hard to tell without cutting her in half and counting the rings.
`Yes?' she asked when I hovered by the table. Her voice was sugary and girly and would appeal to the older male punters, I reckoned, as would the little pink bow in her hair.
`I… er…' What the hell was I doing here? I should make a dash for freedom before it was too late.
`At last, Eve!'
Damn, too late. She who hesitates-
`Josie, meet my friend Eve. She wants to sign up,' said Margot over my shoulder. `You're late.'
She waggled her finger and jingled her bracelets. `You've wasted valuable talent-spotting time.'
What talent? I couldn't see any from where I was standing.
`It couldn't be helped. I was busy,' I told her. `So what do we do now?'
`Pay up front, put your name down, grab a clipboard and get your backside on a chair in front of a man.'
`Sounds-'
`Simple? It is.'
`Actually, I was going to say clinical.' Though cynical was also appropriate. And awful and horrendous and a complete waste of valuable curry-eating, wine-drinking, cigar-smoking time.
Josie handed me a form. `You have five minutes with each person. You fill in the scorecards provided and anyone with a score of ten-plus should be a good match. Five and over aren't bad either. You might just need more time to find common ground. We take no responsibility for what goes on between consenting adults. Good luck.'
Good luck? After that spiel, I reckoned I needed it. I looked at the registration form the Barbie doll grandma had given me and tried to spend an inordinate amount of time filling it in. If I spun it out long enough, the clock would strike midnight and I could return to the ashes and pumpkins and miss the ball altogether.
`Oh for goodness sake, do it later. You'll miss out otherwise,' said Margot returning from the back-blocks of the room to hassle me.
By now I'd got an eyeful of her get-up. She'd stinted at nothing in the fashion stakes. She had on a leopard-skin boob tube that revealed a great deal of her womanly charms, and a red leather mini skirt. Her red snakeskin heels I'd swear were circus stilts and made her at least seven foot tall. She was all woman. I wondered which men here would be game to take her on. Even a milkshake with Margot on the other end of the straw would be more than a lot of these mousy types could handle.
Margot grabbed my arm and sat me down in the nearest chair.
`Go for it, kid,' she said and skittered away back to her dark corner, where she obviously had someone tasty baled up. It took me a split second to realise there was a man sitting on the other side of the small, round, café-style table.
Feeling acutely embarrassed and avoiding all eye contact,
I said, `Evening.'
I purposely left out the `good' bit, because, as far as I could see, there was nothing remotely good about the night. I'd be more gainfully employed watching the Paradise for perps. Or feeding my face with takeaway chilli chicken masala.
My taste buds tingled instantly at the thought. Finding love and companionship in a nanosecond sucked. But you knew where you stood with an Indian.
`Do you believe in miracles?' the man said. His voice was creepily quiet, like crumpled tissue paper in an airtight room. I gave him a swift once over. He was no miracle, I could tell him that for nothing.
`Actually, no. Especially not tonight,' I said instead.
He had an uncanny resemblance to Elton John. Or was that Elton's mum? That was scary enough on its own. But his smile owed everything to Alfred Hitchcock. Bring on the psycho.
Eek! Eek! Eek!
I wasn't surprised when he said, `I do. I believe in miracles.'
I shut my eyes in disbelief. He wasn't going to start singing that old Hot Chocolate number, was he? Hell, I hoped not. His nasty smile widened so I could easily count the
