Deborah’s DIY Date

Deborah inched her hired Ford Focus along the suburban street. She wasn’t used to driving on the left so feared she may clip a parked car. Why did the British build such narrow roads? As she drove, Deborah checked the street numbers. Unhelpfully, many homeowners had replaced their street numbers with inane names, like Dunroamin’. The houses themselves appeared pleasant enough. Not as large as the mansions she was accustomed to in The Hamptons, but quaint.

There! The largest house on the cul-de-sac, with a crooked roof and one boarded-over window. She shook her head. Not a great first impression. Maybe she remembered the address wrong. She parked and opened the app on her mobile phone. No. Even though it appeared derelict, this was the right place. Was she making a huge mistake? Dating-Divorcees-dot-Com was supposedly the world’s best dating site, with a unique algorithm that identified the ideal match for its clients. So far, it didn’t impress Deborah.

A familiar male voice piped up inside her head. “That’s right. Make excuses, like always.”

She gritted her teeth and climbed out of her car. This was the third date she’d arranged using the app. Third time lucky? She scanned the unkempt garden in front of the rickety house. Probably not. She squared her shoulders and pushed aside the wobbly garden gate. Even if the man inside proved to be as shabby as his home, this could provide valuable experience. She must learn how to talk to ordinary people if she hoped to marry one.

At the door, she adjusted her shoulder straps and wondered if the short summer dress she’d worn was too provocative for a first date. Normally, she’d choose something conservative. On this occasion, she’d opted to try something risqué.

She was distracted. She should focus. The door wasn’t quite vertical and was apparently only hanging from one hinge at the top. She eyed the doorbell cautiously. The panel was loose, and loops of wire stuck out. She took a deep breath and pressed. A sharp bolt of electricity stung her fingertip, and she jumped back. “Shit!” Behind the door, loud Westminster chimes rang out. At least the bell worked.

The door opened, and the aroma of fresh sawdust tickled her nose. She stifled a sneeze. A middle-aged man looked down at her, swallowed, and adjusted his bright-coloured tie. At five feet nine inches, she’d never considered herself short, but this giant made her feel tiny. She wouldn’t describe him as handsome, but he had kind eyes. Though not overweight, he didn’t boast an athlete’s frame. He must be five years older than Deborah, but she didn’t worry about age differences. Her own mother was her father’s fourth trophy wife.

“Charles Pemberton?”

He nodded. “You must be Deborah.”

She waited awhile. “Well?”

“Erm… well what?”

“May I come inside?”

“Erm … please do.”

She laughed. “It would help if you moved.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry.” He stepped back and tripped over a toolbox, landing on his arse. Sawdust rose from the ground like a nuclear mushroom cloud.

“Are you all right, Charles?”

He clambered to his feet and dusted off his trousers. “Never better, thanks.” He waved her into a room, muttering, “Way to impress the lady.”

Deborah glanced around the small chamber. She’d visited enough British houses to recognise this as a sitting room. It wasn’t the main living room where the family would relax but rather the formal space for entertaining guests. A threadbare sofa and armchair framed a tall coffee table overflowing with dog-eared magazines. Old family photographs lined the walls. A young Charles smiled from his University of Cambridge graduation photograph. At least he hadn’t lied about his education on his dating profile like the last guy. That man’s PhD turned out to be as much of a fabrication as his “high-flying job in the city”.

“Just be a minute,” promised Charles as he slipped out. The clattering of crockery and a kettle’s whistle explained his departure. Within minutes, he returned with a teapot, milk jug, bowl of sugar cubes, and cups on a tray. He swept aside the magazines on the table and set the tray down. Tea. How quintessentially British. Deborah had moved to England partly because she imagined Englishmen would be more … gentlemanly than Americans. A false generalisation, for sure, but she wanted to check it out. She also came because she was well known in the States, and any men she met undoubtedly knew about her wealth. It was impossible to weed out the gold-diggers.

“One lump or two, Deborah?”

“None, thanks.” She must watch her weight if she wanted to bag a man.

“Sweet enough already?”

“Pardon?”

He blushed. “Sorry. Tired old line. It must be obvious by now I’m not used to small talk.”

She smiled. It was refreshing to find a man so lacking in social graces. He wasn’t a player. She’d dated enough of those. “So, Charles…”

“Chad, please.”

“Why Chad?”

He shrugged. “Sounds cooler than Charles. You know. Like, “Chad woz ere.”

“Sorry, I don’t follow.”

He sighed. “Charles was Mum’s idea. I was born in eighty-one, the year of the Royal Wedding.”

Deborah nodded in understanding and took a sip of her hot drink, finding it unexpectedly refreshing. Chad might not be able to hold a conversation, but at least he made a decent cup of tea. “You were named after Prince Charles.”

His shoulders slumped. “Actually, Mum was hoping I’d be a girl. She wanted to name me Diana. When I was born with a penis … that was just the first of many disappointments for her.”

Looking around the cluttered sitting room with mismatching furniture and peeling wallpaper, Deborah imagined other ways Chad may have disappointed his mother. As a CEO, she had learned to work methodically and to keep everything well organized, even at home. Chad really didn’t appear the right kind of guy for her.

Something brushed against her bare ankle, and she yelped. Was Chad playing footsie?

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry about Tigger.”

She glanced down to see the ugliest cat on Earth staring back. With one eye missing and a vivid scar across its face, this feline had clearly lost a fight. Something jumped from the nearby windowsill, and another cat appeared beside Tigger, this one missing an ear. Poor thing!

“Hope you don’t mind cats,” said Chad. “I have six. I never meant to get more than one, but the cats home keeps calling to say they’ve another nobody wants. If the cats aren’t housed within six months, they are put down.”

Deborah gasped. “How terrible.”

“They only have room for so many, you understand.”

Another cat entered, this one struggling on three legs. It hobbled over to Chad, jumped up, and settled on his lap. Animals liked him. That was a good sign. As she watched Chad stroke the newcomer, a somewhat uncomfortable silence fell. Hoping to break the ice, Deborah glanced around for inspiration. There were no curtains hanging in the window, but a curtain rail lay on the floor next to an electric drill. “Is it your handyman’s day off?” she asked.

His eyes followed her gaze, and then he shook his head. He picked up a magazine. DIY Today. “Do it yourself is my hobby. I love making things myself.” He gestured to the room around them. “The whole of this house was like this when I bought it, but over the last two years I’ve devoted all my spare time to transforming it into something special. I love taking things that are broken and making them whole again.” He held out his hand. “Come see.”

Curious, she grasped his hand and stood. He led her into the rear of his home. She entered a room that was probably originally the living room and noted the pleasant aroma of beeswax polish. Oak bookshelves filled the room from floor to ceiling with only gaps for one broad window and the door. Thousands of books stood on those shelves, covering subjects from computer coding through to Ancient Greek. There was also a broad range of fiction books, including many written by her favourite novelists. Chad was a man of eclectic but good taste. Unlike his wobbly garden gate and faulty doorbell, the bookshelves were well crafted. A snug armchair in the corner called out to her, and she yearned to settle into its plush cushions with a good book.

Next, he led her into the kitchen, where again he’d made fabulous use of oak. A spacious conservatory to the back of the kitchen afforded panoramic views over a landscaped garden. A tranquil waterfall splashed into a coy-carp-filled pond, and a Japanese-style bridge provided access to the garden beyond. She wished she were as capable of creating something special like this, but even mature houseplants withered and died if she so much as looked at them. Deborah wouldn’t mind learning a thing or two from Chad.

As they explored further, she learned that Chad had begun restoring his beautiful home from the rear and worked forwards. The envied his skill with a toolbox. Perhaps he could teach her how to hammer in a nail without breaking her thumbnail. She wondered what the interior and exterior at the front of his house would eventually look like. Did she want to be around to witness it?

Finally, he took her upstairs, and she admired his handywork in the main bathroom. The other upstairs rooms that she spied looked a mess. Clearly, he hadn’t yet made a start in those areas. But she was impressed by what she had seen so far. She doubted that any of her previous lovers knew which end to hold a screwdriver, but Chad was clearly a perfectionist. She blushed at an inappropriate thought and bit her lip.

Just before he led her back downstairs, she caught sight of the inside of the smallest bedroom. Wires and circuit boards covered every surface. She entered and looked around. Multiple computer screens and keyboards dominated the confined space. Lines of computer code she couldn’t comprehend filled each screen. “What’s this, Chad?”

“Just work.”

“Work?”

He gestured to one screen. “That’s an app for Coutts Bank.” Another screen. “I’m improving the banking transaction systems at Santander.” And another. “Sony asked me to hack into their email systems and provide feedback on security.” He shrugged. “Apparently they’ve had problems and want to seal the gaps.”

“You’re a software engineer?”

He pursed his lips. “A Jack of all trades, really. A bit of app development, software development, hacking and consultancy work.” He walked out the room, glancing back. “More tea?”

She followed him downstairs and happily accepted another tea but remained standing. She paced the room, examining the photographs. In one, she saw a teenaged Chad in a desert, possibly in Africa. He was helping to build something. “Where’s this?”

He came over. “Oh, that’s Malawi. I was volunteering with Habitat for Humanity. Wish I could do so today, but I’m always so busy. Besides, who would look after the cats. Today, I can only help financially.”

Deborah examined his lightly wrinkled face. Okay, he wasn’t the handsomest or hunkiest guy she’d met, but, goodness, what a heart! If he cared so much for the underprivileged and animals, imagine how he might treat his future wife and kids. And she was certain he didn’t know she was a wealthy heiress. The only information she input into the Dating-Divorcees-dot-Com app related to her qualifications, interests, and status as a divorcee. She wasn’t a girl who believed in love at first sight. Also, once bitten, twice shy. This time she’d get to know the guy well before revealing her hand. However, she was beginning to think the dating algorithm got it right. Just one thing still puzzled her. “If you’re so determined to do everything for yourself, why didn’t you find a date yourself instead of using Dating-Divorcees-dot-Com?”

“But I did, Deborah.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wrote the algorithm for Dating-Divorcees-dot-Com.”

She gaped at Chad. “You wrote the world’s most successful dating algorithm?”

He shrugged. “I’d written gambling algorithms for online casinos before. Isn’t dating life’s biggest gamble?”

Deborah barked a laugh. “It sure is.” She glanced around his rickety sitting room, with its mismatched furniture. “You can’t work on commission, otherwise you’d have upgraded your house.”

He frowned. “I don’t need to work on commission. I’m the main shareholder in Dating-Divorcees-dot-Com.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

Was he lying or simply delusional?

Chad delved into the magazines on the table and pulled out The Financial Times. His face beamed from its cover: THE GEEK GETTING THE CHIC TOGETHER.

He must be loaded! “Why don’t you buy a mansion in Kensington? Somewhere already renovated. You’d never have to repair a broken window or replace a faulty light switch again.”

He tilted his head in obvious confusion. “What would be the fun in that?”




WORD COUNT: 2149

Featured in "Comedy Newsletter (July 27, 2022)" 
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