The Decoy Date

By Helen Barrowcliffe

Imogen Jones is sick and tired of her mother setting her up on dates with - well let's face it weirdoes and as luck would have it on the day she finally stands up for herself, she runs into a gorgeous guy who kisses like a god. She thinks her luck is finally paying off, until he reveals his name.

Charlie Ramsey had been one of many who had made her school life a living hell, she thought she'd escaped him once and for all but here he was with that amazing pair of lips asking her to be his fake girlfriend.

Together they hatch a plan to fool their parents, siblings and friends into believing they are a couple in love, but have they gone so far they've fooled themselves.

Or has their decoy date become something a lot more real and a lot like true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helen Barrowcliffe
• Release date: Nov 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310405488

Helen Barrowcliffe

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning to dance in the rain.Live life to the full and make the most of it.Kind of deep I know.Likes:ReadingIndie musicFoodArsenal Football clubMusic:The Arctic MonkeysSlow ClubThe VaccinesThe SmithsTV Shows:ChuckFriendsCharmedThe Big Bang TheoryMovies:The Princess BrideThe Breakfast ClubShaun of the Dead

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The Decoy Date

Helen Barrowcliffe

Published by Helen Barrowcliffe at Smashwords.

Copyright 2014 Helen Barrowcliffe.

Visit my Smashwords author page at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/hrb29

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The Decoy Date

Love isn’t finding the perfect person; it’s seeing an imperfect person perfectly.

Chapter One

Why are there no good men left in the world, Imogen Jones thought to herself as a flashback of last night’s horror show of a date replayed in her mind. The two and a half bottles of Chablis and half bottle of vodka hadn’t been enough to help her forget the nightmare, but had been successful in giving her the worst hangover she’d had since Fresher’s week at university. It was just the latest in a long line of horrendous rendezvous set up by her mother; a mother who lived to interfere and meddle in her daughters’ lives.

I don’t want a lot in life, just a man who loves me for who I am; if he’s willing to stand outside my bedroom window with a boombox blasting out our song or wait for me outside the church after my sister’s wedding with a birthday cake when everyone else had forgotten what day it was; well that was just a bonus. Sadly we can’t all live in a John Hughes film; my teenage daydreaming years had taught me that. Imogen thought to herself as she looked out the window at another grey London morning, rain began pelting against the glass as if to compound her misery further.

Slumping against the counter in front of her, she ignored the sharp pain as her glasses bit into the bridge of her nose; it was more comforting than the memory of last night that was on repeat in her head. David Umbridge had seemed like a nice guy, he’d let her pick the restaurant and on the surface appeared fairly normal; not always a given with the men her mother had set her up with. She chose a little known Italian bistro called Alberto’s in the back streets of Primrose Hill, near where she lived. It was her favourite place to eat in the world and had all the charm and authenticity of a restaurant situated in Rome rather than North London.

Not many people knew of the restaurant but in her opinion that only improved it, she’d stumbled upon it accidentally herself. When her parents had come to town a few years ago, she’d booked into a high-end, rather expensive French restaurant – her mother’s favourite – only to find when they arrived there had been a mix up with the booking and they had no tables left. In a panic and with her mother in a terrible mood, she’d walked them a few streets over and found Alberto’s. Until that moment she’d never believed in love at first sight, but the bistro was perfect and the food was the best Italian she’d eaten outside of Italy itself. Of course it was too run down and there wasn’t anything her mother liked but what more could she expect from a woman who looked for the worst in everything. 

Alberto’s wasn’t to David’s taste either and he made that perfectly clear when they met outside the doorway, him being fifteen minutes late and exclaiming Italian, Great! This day couldn’t get any fucking better could it! in the most sarcastic and offensive tone she’d heard. Imogen had felt the impulse to put her arms around the building to prevent it from hearing the hurtful comments, however thought better than to show David all her quirks on their first date.

The minute they walked through the door she regretted holding back the craziness; yes it would have found its way back to her mother through her endless grapevine of contacts and she would have made her embarrassment known, but at least Imogen wouldn’t have had to spend another hour and a half in the company of a certifiable lunatic. Nothing was good enough, they didn’t serve the right beer, he didn’t like any of the food and when they made him a special dish with ingredients he said he liked, it still wasn’t good enough for him. Imogen found herself sitting opposite a male version of her mother and drank as much as she could so as not to reach out and pull at his hair to make sure it wasn’t her in disguise, examining how she acted on dates so she could give her a critique the next time she called.

When he had gotten bored of complaining about the food and she’d apologised countless times to the staff, his conversation turned towards her and the fact that she had looked younger, prettier and thinner in the photograph her mother had shown him. Deciding anger was not the best way forward she used wine to mellow it out, only to have him accuse her of being an alcoholic like his previous girlfriend had been. Completely emphasising with her, Imogen bit her tongue holding back any comment that might come across as simply a drunken slur and wished she’d told her mother where to go when she revealed she’d set her up on another date. 

Meal over, they left Alberto’s and he had the gall to ask her whether they were going to her place or his, there was no chance in hell she was sleeping with him. On the way back to his car she heard him mutter that it had been two hours of his life wasted and felt exactly the same way before stumbling home to the comfort of neat vodka, a bubble bath and the Arctic Monkeys blasting through her speakers until the early hours of the morning. Most of which she now lamented.

How was your date last night? She looked up through tired eyes to see her best friend Jess and watched the change in her face as she recognised the hung over look from their shared student days. That rough, huh? She filled in her friend on the disastrous date and how she’d ended up drowning her sorrows to an indie rock soundtrack at one o’clock in the morning. This was the best part about the crappy dates, she endured them just so she could gossip and moan about them with Jess.

Every single one followed the same pattern, the man – usually one of her mother’s friends’ sons or an acquaintance she’d met through work – arrived to find Imogen totally different to what he was expecting, they’d eat and chat, which usually led to some hidden freaky personality trait being revealed. In the last year her mother had set her up with three men who were interested in S & M, the first one of which she’d misheard and started a conversation about how expensive Marks and Spencer’s food was, one who turned out to be married and looking for a bit on the side, one that was later arrested for fraud and the latest one before last night who came out as gay the week after they’d been out. She wasn’t sure whether to be offended or proud that she’d been the one that had finally made his mind up about his sexuality.

I don’t know why she only seems to set me up with weirdoes, I wouldn’t mind going out on dates if the men didn’t turn out to be freaks. I don’t think she’s set me up with one normal guy, I swear she thinks I’m a lesbian, the amount of men I’ve rejected. She sighed as her friend laughed, Carole Jones was always their favourite topic of conversation and had been since they had met at the age of five. Even at that age a pushy mother was the most embarrassing thing in the world, it had only gotten worse since.

You should just tell her you are, then she’d stop setting you up on blind dates.

Oh no she wouldn’t do that.  She’d probably wouldn’t even be surprised, she’d find some butch women to set me up with. You’ll never guess who I ran into yesterday, Laura Simmons, you know you used to play football together. Well she’s a lesbian now, I’ve given her your number and told her to call you." Jess doubled over in laughter at the perfect impression of my mother’s well-spoken Home Counties accent.

Somewhere under the counter I’ll be there for you by The Rembrandts began playing, Imogen reached for her iPhone and groaned as she saw the caller ID. Speak of the Devil! Hello mother. She lifted the phone to her ear and listened as her mother reeled off all the news from Kent, all about the events she was organising including a surprise party for her father’s sixtieth birthday the following weekend. It was just a small gathering, friends and family, the caterers had been contacted and a menu of canapés and finger food had been arranged; she had to stifle a laugh, something about the combination of finger and food always set her off. Listening to all the choices she thought of protesting that her father wouldn’t want any of that, he’d be happy with a cheese and pineapple hedgehog; but her head was already pounding and she couldn’t take her mother shrieking that you can’t serve cheese on sticks at a sixtieth birthday party.

"So how was your date last night? David’s a nice man isn’t he?" She cringed as the mention of his name brought back the unwanted memories of last night once again.

Well . . .

"Oh Imogen, another perfectly respectable man rejected and dispatched. I keep finding all these lovely men for you and you don’t even give them a chance." She’d become so accustomed to the disappointment in her mother’s voice she no longer felt any guilt over inducing it; it was there constantly, she waited for the day she finally did something to please her mother, but knew the tone would return before long.

Mother, he turned up late and then swore at me! There was no harm extending the truth a little, he had actually sworn, just not directly at her. He also seemed to be expecting someone else, which photo did you show him? It was one with Daisy in wasn’t it? She didn’t have to wait for an answer she knew what was coming, her mother had never hidden the fact that her younger sister was her favourite child. Daisy was the princess, the baby of the family that everyone doted on; she was girly and giggly without a care in the world, the complete opposite of Imogen who was a tomboy, shy and according to her mother didn’t know when to let her hair down and have fun.

Her relationship with her mother had always been fraught, she got on with Daisy perfectly well, they accepted each other’s contrasting personalities; but her mother just couldn’t and their arguments always boiled down to the fact her mother was trying to change her into a different person. Her father Ian on the other hand loved her for who she was, he practically encouraged her to be that way. Their mutual love of Arsenal had driven Carole insane when she’d lived at home and even now when Imogen rang her father to discuss a game, she’d be somewhere in the background making derogatory comments or bringing up the increase of hooliganism in football.

"You were in the photo as well, it’s not as if I passed you off as a different person completely." She scoffed at her mother’s reply and rolled her eyes at Jess who was listening intently and enjoying the conversation between mother and daughter, all she needed was some popcorn and chair with a drinks holder in the arm, Imogen thought to herself. "Well seeing as David wasn’t right for you, I ran into Yvonne Burrows-Hove yesterday her son Michael’s just moved back to London from America; he went to university over there you know."  From what she could remember of Michael Burrows-Hove at school, he was a jumped up snob, completely up himself. He’d always thought he was better than the comprehensive secondary they’d attended and wanted to escape as much as she had, albeit for different reasons.

No mother! I’m not going on anymore dates with men you just happen to run into, I’m done.

"I’m only trying to help you find someone like your sister has, it’s only seven weeks to the wedding." That’s what everything came back to; the fact her sister, who was four years younger was getting married first, that she herself hadn’t come anywhere near meeting The One, let alone getting married.

Yeah, well I don’t need your help mother, I’ve met someone myself! Shit! What the hell am I doing? She’s so not going to believe me. Imogen thought to herself as she looked at Jess who was staring wide-eyed straight back at her, laughter long gone and replaced by a look of shock and her mouth forming the silent words What the fuck are you doing? She shrugged her shoulders at her best friend as panic froze her brain and body to the spot.

"Really, well why did you agree to go out with David last night? You’re just lying to get out of another date aren’t you?" She couldn’t move her mouth, it was literally stuck in an ‘o’ shape like she was someone from an Edvard Munch painting. Her heart pounded so hard she swore her mother could hear it at the other end of the phone line; her mother was like a human lie detector, a slight hesitation or the tiniest whiff that something was off and she’d pounce and work the truth out of you anyway.

I tried to get out of it but I couldn’t get a word in edgeways when you called to say you’d set it up. Besides its early days, we only met last week, we haven’t even been on a proper date yet, just coffee. She relaxed into the lie as her mother seemed to be believing her words, of course she could just be lulling her into a false sense of security, waiting until she tripped herself up and revealed everything was just a ruse to stop her meddling.

"Well, what’s he like then? What’s his name? Is he tall, dark and handsome? I always imagined you marrying a man with dark hair." Oh God, she’s already planning my marriage to Mr Imaginary.

He’s really nice mum, look, I’ve got to go we’ve got customers. I’ll see you at Dad’s party next Saturday. She started to pull the phone away from her ear only to have her mother call her back.

"Bring this mystery man along and introduce him to us. Before she could protest that it wasn’t really his thing her mother interrupted. If you don’t, I’ll assume he’s made up and set you up on a date with Michael." Imogen could practically hear the smile that would be settling on her mother’s lips through the phone, she knew her daughter was lying and had the perfect opportunity to prove herself right.

Shit! I need a boyfriend by next Saturday!

***

Charlie Ramsey sighed as the bell rang signifying the start of period five, the last lesson of the day; he didn’t need to look at his timetable to know he had a year nine class that would rather be starting the weekend than learning Pythagoras Theorem at two o’clock on a Friday afternoon. He knew they were going to cause trouble, Jamie Preston was back from suspension and he was the ringleader of the adolescent circus. He just had to keep reminding himself it was just one more lesson, one more hour to half-term, then he’d be free, for the week at least.

It wasn’t that he hated his job, on the contrary he lived for teaching mathematics, if somebody had told his sixteen year old self he’d say that, he’d have laughed in their face. It was just this one group, they didn’t want to work, didn’t want to learn; the rest of his colleagues had given up on the same group of students long ago but he’d persevered, wanting to be the one person who believed in them however it was becoming increasingly difficult. 

Maths had always been seen as a boring subject but he’d managed to make it more interesting for all the other groups he taught, making it personal to them with real-life applications. This class however just weren’t interested, they wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t do work in class, wouldn’t do work at home. Coming up with fun and interesting ways to engage them was just becoming an impossible challenge, he needed half-term to research some new