There Are No Men

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WALK THE EDGE OF ROM-COM...ONLINE

  JOIN ME ON THE EDGE

  Book Club Questions – THERE ARE NO MEN

  SNEAK PREVIEW - COMING JULY 2015!

  AFRAID OF HER SHADOW

  THERE ARE NO MEN

  Carol Maloney Scott

  Kindle Edition

  There Are No Men - Copyright 2014 - Carol Maloney Scott

  http://carolmaloneyscott.com

  To Jim, Nick & Daisy

  For loving me in your own unique and precious ways

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Claire? You look just like your picture. I’m Matthew.”

  This evening’s loser reaches for my hand and gives it a firm shake, as if we’re about to conduct a business meeting. I look him up and down, and rest my gaze at the top of his head. From this moment on, he will be known as ‘the old man with the hat.’

  Matthew looks SO much older than his dating profile picture. I was ready to accept that he’s fifty, but this is ridiculous. I tell myself that he may turn out to be nice, and what else do I have to do tonight? Clearly the worst part is the hat. My father has one of these hats, as do most of my uncles. It’s the hat worn by men on 1950’s TV shows. I am dating a thinner Ralph Cramden.

  “Hi. Yes, you found me,” I giggle nervously, mostly because this is always so awkward, and not because I’m feeling girlish or self-conscious in the presence of his manliness. Someone shoot me.

  My date’s profile says he’s fifty years old, so obviously he posted an old picture. He’s from New York, which is usually a plus for me. I don’t do well with Southern men—apparently I’m too loud and aggressive. When I came to Virginia I was married and had no idea I would be thrust into this single woman’s world, or else I might never have agreed to move.

  Recently, I’ve joined the ranks of Internet daters. When I was unhappily married I used to say, “At least I don’t have to drive all over town meeting weirdos I found on the Internet.”

  These days I don’t have much choice. I’m a thirty-six-year-old single woman without many single girlfriends, and I work with a lot of women and married men. I guess I should be able to meet men through the old-fashioned horrors of blind dates and fix-ups, but after a couple of solo years, none of these are working for me.

  I love my girlfriends and my job, but neither of them are helping me find a man, not even a decent date or two. The second date has proved itself the most elusive. It is similar to what we in the employment recruiting world call finding the “purple squirrel”—that rare set of skills perfectly matched to a position’s requirements. Hard to find, but nowhere near as hard to find as a middle-aged man deserving of a second date.

  The hostess steps in—I swear she rolls her eyes—and cheerfully says, “Two for dinner? Right this way!” then leads us to our table. She seats us near the restrooms, which is good in case I need a quick break from all of the stimulating conversation I’m sure is forthcoming.

  There is an old couple behind us—people who are actual senior citizens, but probably closer in age to my date than I had hoped. They’re not speaking to each other and I envy their ability to eat their early-bird specials in companionable silence.

  The old man—I mean Matthew—and I are meeting at Uno’s. Even better right? My town is one of the least glamorous in my metro area, and does not offer trendy hot spots or even a non-chain restaurant or bar, unless you count the scary biker bar and the Chinese takeout place. I don’t—I still have some standards.

  Even worse, this is my fourth first date at Uno’s this month. I should try somewhere else—the hostess gives me knowing glances every time I wait in the lobby for yet another strange man. As embarrassing as this is, thank God people know about Internet dating or else she might think I was a hooker.

  I can’t be bothered switching things up and going to Applebee’s or O’Charley’s, and I am not making the effort to drive downtown or hang out late at work to meet someone in one of the hip places on the fashionable side of town. Less than an hour into these dates I’m usually hoping Uno’s catches fire so I can lose the guy in the smoke and make my getaway.

  Across from us there’s a table full of little kids and two harried-looking parents. I don’t know why people take small children to restaurants. The two bigger boys are fighting over the crayons and getting reprimanded by their father, but the cute little blond girl is sitting on her mother’s lap, twirling her mommy’s long hair. They’re coloring with crayons on the placemat and giggling. Uno’s isn’t all bad—I like it when I come here with my best friend Jane and her kids for pizza. We used to come on Sundays for ‘kids pay what they weigh day,’ while our husbands were home watching football.

  Sometimes Jane tells me I’m too picky, or that I’m not trying, when I call her after every date to give her the post mortem. I have to remember that she doesn’t know any better—she’s married and has no clue what my life is like. She has stuck by me through a lot of bad times, but I could swear a blue streak when she tells me I’m not trying. Maybe some of the men would like to hold up their end of the deal and at least be free of any diagnosable mental illnesses.

  The hostess drops the menus and runs off to seat a large group of soccer-playing middle school kids and their moms. (Silent prayer of thanks that I’m not with them). Matthew swoops in to grab my jacket, just as I’m taking it off to hang it on the hook next to our table.

  “Let me take your coat. I am always a gentleman.” Whenever someone tells me what they are, instead of just being what they are, I’m suspicious, and I don’t go for the chivalry bullshit either. Maybe it’s because I was raised in the North, but to me it’s a silly, feeble attempt to impress a woman. Wait—this guy is supposed to be from New York.

  I let him take my coat and say, “Thanks, but I thought you were from New York? Why the Southern gentleman routine?” I say this with a smile so he doesn’t notice how annoyed I am already, but I’m curious if he was lying. He takes off his hat and hangs it up with his coat. He’s tall and he does have hair, even though it looks a little weird and too perfect. However, at this point he could be a giant, with long flowing tresses like Fabio, and I wouldn’t give a shit.

  “Yes, I moved here twenty-five years ago and I have completely assimilat
ed to the culture of this fine city,” he replies.

  Richmond is a good place to live. We have four seasons, lots of sunshine, good restaurants (except where I live), and lots of entertainment for all ages and interests. The culture shock takes some getting used to when coming from the North, especially when Northern transplants weren’t as plentiful as they are now. There is still an element of conservative Bible Belt ideology, as well as a lingering resentment over losing the Civil War. Monument Avenue is lined with defeated Confederates’ statues, and poorly-adjusted northerners refer to this street as the “Avenue of Losers.”

  For the most part I have gotten used to never having a good bagel and learning to like marginal pizza. There are so many people here now from the North and from all over the country, even the world, that it isn’t a stereotypical Southern city anymore. Plus, there is good shoe shopping, an excellent cupcake shop, and we are only two hours from both the beach and the mountains.

  Having said all of that, is he for real? Who talks like this? He isn’t Thurston Howell III.

  Luckily the waiter comes over to our table and asks for our drink orders. Matthew makes a big show of letting me go first.

  “What would the lady like to have?” He gestures towards me as if presenting a prize cow at the county fair.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. We are in Uno’s for God’s sake—what would I want? Thirty-year-old scotch? A bottle of Cristal?

  “I’ll just have a Coke.”

  “Pepsi alright?”

  I sigh and say, “Yes.” It irritates me to no end when servers ask that question. I know they have to ask because all sorts of whack-jobs will freak out if you bring them the wrong brand of soft drink. How can your life be so boring that you have taken the time to actually distinguish between Coke and Pepsi in the blindfolded taste test?

  “I will have a sweet tea. Would you like an appetizer?” Matthew looks directly at me and I notice his nose for the first time. The hat is actually not the worst part.

  “No, thanks—I just need to look at the menu for a minute. I’m not that hungry.” I never eat much on these dates and I need to start suggesting shorter meetings, like for coffee. But I don’t drink coffee and then that gets weird, and I don’t have time during the work day to meet for lunch—and I am not wasting weekends on weirdos. That’s how I waste my weeknights.

  The waiter walks away to grab our drinks from the bar while Matthew stares at me with a crazed look of forced cheer and enthusiasm. He starts telling me how he moved here twenty-five years ago with his ex-wife and kids—now grown! How his divorce was tough but he’s doing great! All the while, I am looking at his nose and trying to figure out where I have seen a red nose so bulbous and full of veins and then it hits me—he looks like my Uncle Randy. Except that my uncle is seventy years old and probably not on Match.com. How do you end up with a nose like that?

  “Do you eat out a lot? I love to cook at home, and I live so close to the grocery store I can shop every day. I never waste food. Last night I made a delicious salmon. Do you like fish? You can get some good fresh seafood around here…” He blabbers on and on.

  Since my ex-husband, Ron, only went to the grocery store five times the whole time we were together, and several of those were during my hospital stays, Matthew gets some points for this declaration.

  Ron’s last trip to a store was two years ago, when I was at home recovering from surgery. My supportive and loving husband was most concerned about his embarrassment over buying Maxi Pads for me. What the hell did he believe people would think? Maybe that he was the only bleeding man in Virginia, or that he was using them to soak up oil leaks under the car or to line a bird cage? Obviously, he was buying them for his wife, or at least a woman. And why did it even matter? The bored and distracted grocery store cashier wouldn’t give a crap about what he was buying, and would be focused instead on her next smoke break or why her asshole boyfriend hadn’t called today.

  “I don’t care for salmon. Would you excuse me? I need the ladies’ room.” I jump up and grab my purse.

  “Certainly, my dear. I will await your return.” I am beginning to think he is a time traveler from the past who hasn’t mastered modern speech.

  I am only heading for the ladies’ room because I need that anticipated break. I would be lying if I said I didn’t look for a window, but of course I would never do something as ridiculous as try to climb out a window in the Uno’s restroom. Maybe someplace trashier, or out of town, or not facing the main road. But not Uno’s.

  This man is clearly not a match for me. I summon my Internet Dating Girl strength (yes, like a super hero) and prepare myself to go back out there to face more frustration. I can get through this—I have already survived twenty-five bad first dates in the past ten months, but who’s counting?

  Matthew is still sitting there looking old. I experience a twinge of disappointment, as if I’d thought he might change, and become young and attractive while I was gone. I didn’t say Internet Dating Girl isn’t delusional at times. How do you think she copes?

  I order a Caesar salad (I should be able to choke that down) and he orders a steak, well-done with mashed potatoes and vegetables. “I like my meat and potatoes.” He cracks himself up again.

  I do sympathize with him. He’s just a person trying to find someone, and that’s why I shouldn’t be wasting his time, either. I just don’t know how to say that without sounding mean. Instead I say, “You look a little different than you did in your picture. Was that taken recently?” I can’t resist going there.

  “No, that was an old picture. I don’t have any pictures taken since my divorce and I can barely figure out how to upload them,” he says with a laugh that is way too hearty.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Ten years. Ten long years.” He pauses and looks over at the couple with the little kids, as if he is remembering the years and paying his respects to them. The family is on their way out and I can’t help but shoot the mother a look of envy, which she returns with her own look of pity. I could be imagining this, but I get angry and think about how she is going home now to bathe those little monsters and wrangle them into their flame retardant sleepwear, while her husband sits in front of the TV and watches some stupid sporting event, dropping chips on his chest and ignoring her. All she has to look forward to is a sink full of dirty dishes while I could still get my prince charming. Well, not tonight, but I could someday!

  As they almost disappear from view I catch the little girl’s eyes, and she smiles in that innocent way of young children, not knowing that one day she could be on a date with an old man with a hat. She pulls away from her mother and comes over to our table. She hands me her placemat. I open up the folded paper and see a picture of swirls and squiggles.

  “This is so pretty!”

  She shyly glances away and starts sucking on her thumb. She removes it with her mother’s prompting. “Tell the nice lady what it is, Olivia.”

  “It’s a pretty flower and a bunny. See.” She points at her art work with a chubby finger and my heart blows up. I don’t want anyone to notice the depth of my reaction as I fight the urge to squeeze this little girl. I smile and tell her it’s beautiful.

  “You can have it.” She walks away with her mother, who is now beaming with pride. I take a deep breath and look back at Matthew, assuming he is also caught up in the emotion of this exchange. But no.

  “I must say you look especially beautiful, Claire. That top is very flattering on you.”

  He is now leering at me in a creepy way. Was he even paying attention for the last five minutes? Crap. I never know what to wear to these things. I am often coming straight from work but I don’t want to dress too businesslike, and since my office isn’t stuffy I can get away with a cute lacy camisole or a tight sweater. Today I have opted for the latter in bright pink. I’m not big on top, but I have enough to squeeze together some decent cleavage, with the help of my Victoria’s Secret push-up bras.

  The pro
blem is that I never know if the guy I’m meeting is going to be worthy of my sexier look, and since it’s been awhile since I’ve gotten any action, I want to look like someone who could get some. I have forgotten what it’s like when the man across the table is clearly not someone I want to attract. Unfortunately, I do not own a crystal ball, and now I wish I were wearing a nun costume or a potato sack.

  “Thank you. So tell me about your kids,” I reply as I try to steer the conversation away from my clothing and his eyes away from my chest.

  Luckily most people love to blab about their offspring, and this guy is no exception. I hear all about Matthew Jr. and how he just got married and moved to Texas, and about how his daughter (Megan, Margo?) is teaching English in Japan or some such place. I try to pick at my salad, but I have no appetite.

  “Claire, you’ve barely touched your dinner. I guess that’s how you keep that fantastic figure.” More leering. If only he knew that I eat like a lumberjack in the presence of people who aren’t giving me the willies. And, to be clear, the willies are NOT good!

  I need to get to the ladies’ room again, although I don’t know what I think that’s going to accomplish. This is an advanced case of the willies—if this were a heart attack it would be a Code Blue. I can’t just ditch him, though. I’m trapped.

  Luckily, there is no one in the bathroom. I hate when I go in looking all manic and stressed out, and there are old ladies drying their hands or groups of little girls staring at me, clutching each other. I know I look crazy—I don’t need the validation of strangers in the ladies’ room.

  I need to waste a few minutes this time so I start scrolling through the messages on my phone. Oh, look—a Facebook invitation to a Pampered Chef party from a friend of a co-worker. Yay! I want to attend a Pampered Chef party about as much as I want to go to a used auto parts party where you can win a baby monkey as a door prize.

  I look in the mirror and give myself a firm talking to about improving my social life and reconsidering my dating plan, but only after I check my e-mails later tonight for promising prospects. I fight the urge to check my account now—if there’s a message from an older guy in a worse hat I won’t be able to go on. I return to the table after a few deep breaths and a couple of yanks on my sweater, to pull it up higher.