One of a series of columns (Third Wheel) for a student newspaper, in which I accompanied couples on blind dates.
There was a point towards the end of the night where Jake was using Frankie’s umbrella to simulate a kaleidoscopic, mushrooming phallus between his legs, and Frankie turned to me and said “That’s my date.”
Having known Jake Brookman for almost three years by virtue of a film and literature degree, I had come to perceive him as a man who devours females with a fervour unmatched even by Mick Hucknall or the vast majority of the rabbit population. It has seemed entirely plausible to me that in later life he could conquer the market of instructional dating literature with titles such as “Women: Why They Definitely Will”, or “Two-Night Stands: Of Course I Love You.” I anticipated a master class in seduction, to which Salsa Night at the Cooler would provide the perfect backdrop.
Franki Burke is a bushy-tailed Liverpudlian who takes offence at the stereotyping of her type as light-fingered (to which Jake would later reply that “I’ve been watching my wallet all night… just kidding.”) Unfortunately, the pair had met a number of times in a shared creative writing seminar, but their connection was vague enough for Jake to think Franki was named Shelinda, or any other number of equally wrong names. Jake seeped confidence like a drastic pheromone, declaring himself brilliant at salsa, and the combination of this with Franki’s relative inexperience of Latin rhythms assured there would be much hilarity on the dance-floor as they flailed like newborn penguins cuddling in an oil spill.
Regrettably, it was not to be. It transpires that salsa is actually much easier than I had ever imagined, rather like a sexy kind of line-dancing. However, body language at this early stage was not promising, as, even within the regimented confines of a human grid, Franki managed to stand farther away from Jake than anyone else was standing from another person in the room. Perhaps it was because he was missing the eviction of Jade Goody, but Jake’s dancing seemed terse and laconic as he performed the “Monkey Bum” with a noticeable lack of gusto.
The techniques perfected in line-dancing formation are then put into practice in pairs. Franki and Jake danced with a systematic precision devoid of ardour, and the instructors mingled among the couples providing guidance that appeared to be mostly sexual in nature. “You must take each other in an embrace and hold on tight… salsa is a dance of passion… move backwards with your bum… yes, sexy.” I think I was finally resigned to Franki and Jake’s relationship remaining platonic when they completely failed to grope each other under the insistence of an undulating dance instructor. That one would have been a freebie.
Dinner at Xanana’s was complimentary (except, as is now tradition, in my case), and a bottle of Shamwari Shiraz for two soon stripped away any reservations held about expressing forthright views. Unfortunately, only Jake actually held any forthright views, including “meat eaters are going to hell. Unless they kill the animal themselves,” (as Franki ate her steak), “the French are frog-eating, cowardly, surrender-monkeys,” (during a story about Franki’s French friend), and “my mum wouldn’t agree. But she’s not here, so fuck her.” The latter may not technically be a view, but I think it safely qualifies as forthright. Factor in an admittedly interesting conversation about dogging and I was finding it almost impossible to deduce Jake’s romantic game-plan, unless it involved wanking through a car window.
And so we ended up standing at the bus stop at midnight, watching Jake as he opened and closed Franki’s £4 Primark umbrella at crotch-height like an unwelcoming penis. Disconcerting though it was, this may or may not have served to inadvertently flag down the taxi driver on his way home who offered to take us to Leamington for a pound. For this, I would have slept with Jake, even if Franki wouldn’t.