Love @ First Site Read Online Free Page A

one? Could I really, in all seriousness, meet the man I might spend the rest of my life with by way of a computer? And even if I did, what would we say when someone asked how we met? I'd rather say our eyes met over the condom counter at the drugstore than fess up to the truth.
    Another, "Crespo," is very handsome but rather off-puttingly suggests he's a man who could fulfill a girl's greatest fantasy. I toy with the idea of asking him to fix my roof for nothing.
    "Hmmm, he's tasty."
    I jump out of my skin, rapidly hit the "close" button and swivel round in my chair. "Oh, thank fuck, it's you!" I press the palm of my hand against my chest, waiting for my raging pulse to subside. "What on earth are you doing in so early? Is the end of the world nigh?"
    "I was going to ask you the same," says Tabitha. "But now I know why. I have to call Australia to research that piece on Lizard Island, and I'm buggered if I'm using my home phone to do it."
    She plonks her handbag on the desk next to me and sits down. She nods towards my computer. "I hope you're going to put him on your list of potential dates. He looks just your type."
    "What do you mean,
my type
?" I scowl, mortally wounded by the thought that I might be predictable in some way.
    "Oh, you know. The romantic, penniless-poet type. The one who could be the next Dylan Thomas . . . if only someone would recognize his potential."
    She's absolutely spot on, of course, and my laughable relationship history backs this up. There have been a succession of short-lived poetic ne'er-do-wells in my life and one giant, musical one to whom I gave the best years of my thighs.
    After five years of giving him endless emotional and financial support whilst he tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to get a recording deal, he left me just over a year ago for a twenty-something Trustafarian with a small brain and a large fortune.
    Nathan, he was called, or Satan as Richard refers to him. Even now, I can only just bring myself to say his name. But Tab's right. Unfortunately, being kicked in the teeth by Mr. Futon Potato hasn't dulled my appetite for airy-fairy "creative" types.
    "Sod Australia. I'll get them out of bed later," says Tab, pulling her chair closer to my screen. "Let's have a look at some more."
    We spend the next half an hour engrossed in what unfolds before us on the flickering screen, oohing and aahing in equal measures at some of the seemingly high-caliber men offering themselves up, laughing like drains at the low-caliber barrel-scrapers. All human life is here, from seventeen-year-old spotty youths right up to a couple of octogenarians.
    "Look at this one!" I shriek, double clicking on "Alf, 74." His ad reads: "I'm 5' 5'' but used to be 5' 7''. I can remember Mondays to Thursdays, so if you can remember Fridays to Sundays, then let's put our heads together for some action."
    "Well at least he's got a sense of humor," laughs Tab. "I might even give him a go myself."
    I pull a suck-a-lemon face. "What does 'action' mean? Do you think he's referring to sex? Look at him, poor love, he'd have to bring along an eighteen-year-old and a set of jumper cables."
    A door creaks open in the distance and footsteps come towards us. Seeing it's Janice, our executive producer, I hastily click the "sign out"option on the screen.
    "Bloody hell, are you two on a sponsored work-in for charity?" Sarcasm is just one of the services she offers. She looks at the clock. "I don't normally see either of you for at least another hour."
    "I've been making calls to Oz on the Lizard Island piece," lies Tab with consummate ease. "Jess stayed at mine last night, so came in early with me."
    I simply smile in mute agreement, not trusting myself to say anything. Janice has always intimidated me.
    "Good." She smiles thinly, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Feel free to come in early to the office any time you like."
    "This isn't an office. It's hell with fluorescent lighting," mutters Tab to her retreating back.
    Once