Love @ First Site Read Online Free
the last word is an echo."
"And she's got such an innocent, harmless look about her," continues Madeleine. "As if butter wouldn't melt."
"Yes, the face of a saint." Richard nods. "Trouble is, it's a bloody Saint Bernard. I just feel sorry for that poor sod of a boyfriend. Talk about under the thumb."
"Nah. Dan's easygoing, but he's no pushover," I say. "I'm sure he stands up to her, he's just too polite to do it in public."
"Anyway." Madeleine looks at Richard but jerks her head towards me. "Have you persuaded her yet?"
"Persuaded me to do what?" Then it sinks in and I let out a low groan. "Oh God, you're not on about that wretched Internet thing again?"
"Go
on
, it'll be a laugh if nothing else," says Madeleine. "What have you got to lose?"
"My dignity?" I retort. Then a thought strikes me. "I tell you what, I'll do it if you do."
Of course, as a woman who makes Mae West look positively virginal, Madeleine is quite simply the worst person I could have thrown out this challenge to.
She shrugs. "Absolutely fine by me. But I'm not the one looking for a serious relationship. I'm happy with the occasional fling with whoever life throws at me."
"She's so discerning." Richard smiles sarcastically. "Anyway, she says she'll do it too, so that's it now, you
have
to go ahead with it."
My heart doesn't just sink, it's got concrete boots on. "OK, three dates, no more," I say resignedly. "But if none of them turn out to be Mr. Right, then it's back to the old method of trawling wine bars and late-night bus stops."
"Fantastic!" Richard slaps his thigh D'Artagnan style. "All for fun, and fun for all!"
Three
O h God. I have just logged onto my computer, and I have thirty-seven e-mails from total and utter strangers. The jaw-dropping, knuckle-scraping, head-hanging shame of it.
But also, deep down, I have to admit to feeling a slight thrill too. I don't know them, they don't know me, and best of all, they have absolutely no way of making contact other than through e-mail. Much better than standing by the bar, fending off the approaches of Mr. Never-in-a-Thousand-Years. Unless, of course, I reply and grant them the honor of knowing my phone number.
Yet I can call up their dating ad, along with thousands of others, and pore over their photographs and personal details. Even more astonishingly, I can read the answers to the kind of gallingly intrusive questions it would usually take at
least
two or three traditional dates to even dare broach. Such as "How much do you earn, and do you want to have children?"
There's something rather addictive about cutting through the crap so comprehensively and finding out if you're singing from the same song sheet before the band even strikes the first chord.
It's 8:30 a.m. and I have deliberately come into the office early, leaving myself free to browse through the sex supermarket without fear of being ridiculed by any nosy work colleagues. I decide to leave the thirty-seven replies to my ad until later, and take a cyberstroll through the general site first.
A form pops up asking my requirements, as if I were simply buying a car. I can tap in my preferred requirements, such as hair color, height, and religion, and up comes a list of all the men who fit my specifications. How very Third Reich.
I decide to hedge my bets and keep it vague, asking for someone between the ages of thirty and forty-five who lives within twenty-five miles of London. The machine makes a faint grinding noise as it searches.
"Shit!" I exclaim out loud as it tells me I have 3,456 matches. Each has a passport-sized photograph they have provided, alongside their brief description of themselves. It instructs you to click on their picture to get further information.
"Bob764" catches my eye and I double click right on the bridge of his nose. The photograph enlarges and, although slightly blurred, I can see he has rather striking blue eyes and an attractive grin.
I lean forwards slightly, scrutinizing him. Could he be the
"And she's got such an innocent, harmless look about her," continues Madeleine. "As if butter wouldn't melt."
"Yes, the face of a saint." Richard nods. "Trouble is, it's a bloody Saint Bernard. I just feel sorry for that poor sod of a boyfriend. Talk about under the thumb."
"Nah. Dan's easygoing, but he's no pushover," I say. "I'm sure he stands up to her, he's just too polite to do it in public."
"Anyway." Madeleine looks at Richard but jerks her head towards me. "Have you persuaded her yet?"
"Persuaded me to do what?" Then it sinks in and I let out a low groan. "Oh God, you're not on about that wretched Internet thing again?"
"Go
on
, it'll be a laugh if nothing else," says Madeleine. "What have you got to lose?"
"My dignity?" I retort. Then a thought strikes me. "I tell you what, I'll do it if you do."
Of course, as a woman who makes Mae West look positively virginal, Madeleine is quite simply the worst person I could have thrown out this challenge to.
She shrugs. "Absolutely fine by me. But I'm not the one looking for a serious relationship. I'm happy with the occasional fling with whoever life throws at me."
"She's so discerning." Richard smiles sarcastically. "Anyway, she says she'll do it too, so that's it now, you
have
to go ahead with it."
My heart doesn't just sink, it's got concrete boots on. "OK, three dates, no more," I say resignedly. "But if none of them turn out to be Mr. Right, then it's back to the old method of trawling wine bars and late-night bus stops."
"Fantastic!" Richard slaps his thigh D'Artagnan style. "All for fun, and fun for all!"
Three
O h God. I have just logged onto my computer, and I have thirty-seven e-mails from total and utter strangers. The jaw-dropping, knuckle-scraping, head-hanging shame of it.
But also, deep down, I have to admit to feeling a slight thrill too. I don't know them, they don't know me, and best of all, they have absolutely no way of making contact other than through e-mail. Much better than standing by the bar, fending off the approaches of Mr. Never-in-a-Thousand-Years. Unless, of course, I reply and grant them the honor of knowing my phone number.
Yet I can call up their dating ad, along with thousands of others, and pore over their photographs and personal details. Even more astonishingly, I can read the answers to the kind of gallingly intrusive questions it would usually take at
least
two or three traditional dates to even dare broach. Such as "How much do you earn, and do you want to have children?"
There's something rather addictive about cutting through the crap so comprehensively and finding out if you're singing from the same song sheet before the band even strikes the first chord.
It's 8:30 a.m. and I have deliberately come into the office early, leaving myself free to browse through the sex supermarket without fear of being ridiculed by any nosy work colleagues. I decide to leave the thirty-seven replies to my ad until later, and take a cyberstroll through the general site first.
A form pops up asking my requirements, as if I were simply buying a car. I can tap in my preferred requirements, such as hair color, height, and religion, and up comes a list of all the men who fit my specifications. How very Third Reich.
I decide to hedge my bets and keep it vague, asking for someone between the ages of thirty and forty-five who lives within twenty-five miles of London. The machine makes a faint grinding noise as it searches.
"Shit!" I exclaim out loud as it tells me I have 3,456 matches. Each has a passport-sized photograph they have provided, alongside their brief description of themselves. It instructs you to click on their picture to get further information.
"Bob764" catches my eye and I double click right on the bridge of his nose. The photograph enlarges and, although slightly blurred, I can see he has rather striking blue eyes and an attractive grin.
I lean forwards slightly, scrutinizing him. Could he be the
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