Raven by Monica Porter Read Free Book Online

understanding I was. ‘I’m sorry too, but no problem. Hope the new assignment goes well and looking forward to seeing you at the end of it. XX.’
    Naturally I was surprised and dismayed when, logging on to the dating site the following morning, I noticed him online. (It’s always flagged up when a member is logged on, so that it is clear who is currently available for potential ‘real time’ flirtation.) I also felt another emotion I hadn’t experienced for a while: jealousy. And I hated it.
    I hammered out a curt, resentful message. ‘Busy working, are we? You men are all the same.’
    Back came his immediate rejoinder. ‘Beg your pardon? What's that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜Do whatever you like, it’s all the same to me. But I’ve had enough of men bullshitting me.’
    â€˜What’s this outburst about?’
    â€˜It’s fine if you want to trawl around the site looking for females to cavort with but a little honesty would be nice. Needn't pretend to be out of action due to work. Just say you've got other fish to fry. As for me, I'm out. Not interested any more.’
    â€˜I’m not trawling, just politely answering a few messages. What has this got to do with whether I'm working or not and why are you so pissed off? I haven't been dishonest with you. I'm mystified as to what I've done wrong!’
    â€˜You gave the impression you were too busy to draw breath for a fortnight. So I was surprised to find you on the dating scene.’
    â€˜Well, unusually for a man, I can multi-task. And I don’t appreciate being berated by you.’
    End of conversation. And with that it appeared my ‘relationship’ with SuperA was over before it had really begun.
    Why was I upset? I had hardly known him. Obviously I had read too much into the easy connection we’d made between us. I had thought it promising, but in reality there had been no promise. And I concluded that the reason for his lack of interest in the details of my life was that, the less he knew, the looser the connection, the easier it would be for him to cut me off when he decided my time was up. Maybe that was simply the way internet dating worked for him, and probably for most other men too.
    As for me, the answer was not to care so much. After all, there was an abundant supply of willing men out there in cyberspace, as I was beginning to see. No point in crying over any one of them. From now on I would endeavour to stick to that principle. I’d toughen up. No more getting upset or jealous, no more being outwardly insouciant while remaining an unreconstructed old softie inside.

CHAPTER FIVE
    At this point my escapades took an ethnic turn. I’d been receiving copious attention from a 56-year-old Indian architect called Jabir, who was divorced with three grown children. He bombarded me with messages that were way over-the-top effusive, jasmine-scented and sickly sweet: ‘Hello beautiful young lady, sweetheart and delicious one.’ And the next day: ‘Hello again, you clever little angel with beautiful eyes. How are you on this fine sunny day?’ And the next: ‘What are you doing on this gorgeous day, my gorgeous dear friend? Had lunch yet? Anything yummy? XXXX.’ And all this before we had even met.
    His profile narrative said all the right things about how trustworthy and responsible he was, warm-hearted and considerate, etc. The usual spiel. And his picture showed a presentable, well-dressed man with swept-back dark hair, smiling broadly for the camera. So despite his tiresome Bollywood-style effusions, and in the interests of multiculturalism, I agreed to have dinner with him, choosing my favourite Indian restaurant in north London. He seemed pleasant enough, and it would be a new experience for me. I’d never had a date with an Indian fella.
    We had arranged to meet at the restaurant at 7.30 p.m. But at 6 p.m. on the evening in question Jabir