Always Finding Mr Wrong

Chapter 8 - Project Scott

Do you know those apartments in Changing Rooms with elegant soft furnishings, hand-made decorative items and room schemes that showcase striking colours with clean lines? Well, our apartment is nothing like those. I’d like it to be. It’s just never worked out like that, despite my considerable efforts.

When we moved in, fired up with creative zeal, I attempted in earnest to recreate such a look. Only, when I painted the hall a deep shade of mustard, it looked brown.

So I painted over it with ‘Blush’ and that looked brown too. I followed with a ‘Corn’, a ‘Yellow Meadow’ and an ‘Olive’, but the most appealing shade I ever managed just looked like the unwashed shorts of a dirty Boy Scout. When Scott pointed out that the walls mightn’t withstand much more, I went for broke and painted it ‘Duck Egg’.

Every time I walk in now, I feel as if I’m being committed to a prison cell. Still, we’ve learned to live with it. The other reason our apartment is some way off those in Changing Rooms is that it isn’t exactly clutter-free, and for that Scott is as much to blame as me.

Every room boasts floor-to-ceiling shelves straining under the weight of his books; they’re piled high on side tables, the bureau in the hall and the piano in the living room – his piano, not mine, in case you’re wondering.

And this isn’t even his complete collection: the majority is at his parents’ house. These are just his favourites. I don’t know why anyone needs four editions of Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle, or three of Genetic and Evolutionary Aspects of Malaria and Other Blood Parasites (they’re classics apparently). But then, Scott sees these interests as defining him.

Scott or Luitenent Scott James, to give him his full title – previously worked in the army, over the last year he has completed courses in counselling and set up a charity supporting veterans who are struggling. It’s the noblest profession I can think of and makes me feel rather humble when constructing press releases about half-price clothing sales.

Anyway, Scott doesn’t just read books about science. He has more first editions of classic and contemporary fiction than I have split ends. All of this means our flat has some way to go before it features on Grand Designs.

“Have you opened the chocolate cake yet?” I ask casually, curling up on the sofa.

Scott looks up from his paperback. “I don’t fancy it tonight.”

Panic registers in my brain, but I allow him to return to his book. “Why not?” I laugh lightly. “It looks lovely.” He scrutinises my expression. “If I weren’t on a diet, and didn’t have a date in three days’ time, I’d definitely want to eat it,” I continue.

“Who do you have a date with?” I can’t help smiling.

“He’s called Jake. I met him at the opening night of the new play the other night. He’s gorgeous, which is why I couldn’t possibly have any trifle. Though I’d scoff the lot under normal circumstances.”

He shrugs. “I might have some later.”

“At what time?” I ask.

“At what time?” he repeats.

“Yes, at what time do you think you’ll get round to opening it? I’m only after an estimate. You know, eight thirty-two . . . eight thirty-three . . .”

“Given that it is eight thirty-one, I’m guessing you’d like to open it now?”

“Well, if you were opening it now . . .”

“As I said,” he continues, “I don’t fancy it at the moment …….but you’re welcome to open it.”

“I’m obviously not going to open it,” I tell him, exasperated. “Not when I’m on a diet.”

“What difference does it make who opens it?”

“Oh Scott,” I sigh.”‘Will you go and open it so I can pinch some and not feel guilty?”

He stops and smiles. “Of course.” He goes to the kitchen to get the cake, returning with two dessert spoons, one for each of us. He sits next to me on the sofa and we dig in as I switch over the television. “What are we watching?” he asks.

“Only reality TV at its best. It’s right up your street,” I tell him ironically because this isn’t Scotts kind of show at all. He raises an eyebrow. “Live a little, Scott. You might like it.”

“What’s it about?” he asks.

“Some poor person who’s never been lucky in love volunteers for a full makeover. By that, I don’t just mean a new wardrobe. They get lessons in how to flirt and how to behave on a date. They get a new hairdo, facials, teeth whitening……”

“Is there anything left of them by the time they’re finished?” Scott interrupts.

“The good bits stay,” I reply. “Though admittedly, good bits are sometimes in short supply.”

As I tuck into the cake looking not very like someone on day one of a diet, I’m gripped. This week’s subject is a thirty-year-old virgin called Chris who works in literature and has teeth like Bugs Bunny. “I thought I was in trouble,” Scott says.

“Just wait,” I reply confidently. Fifty minutes later, Chris looks like a Calvin Klein model with more chicks at his feet than Chris Hemsworth.

“I admit it,” says Scott as the credits roll. “That’s impressive.”

“Told you. Oh no….”

“What?” he asks.

“The cake is gone.”

“So it has.”

“You must have eaten it all,” I tell him.

“I don’t think so.”

“Scott, you must have,” I say. “I can’t possibly have devoured half a chocolate cake, I barely noticed it. Tell me I didn’t.”

He smirks. “Course you didn’t, Em. I scoffed the lot. Apart from one or two modest spoonfuls for you.”

“I thought so,” I say, taking out my Slimfast Syn Tracker and marking down two and a half points – a reasonable estimate, I think. When I put it down, Scott is gazing into space.

“What’s up?” I ask him. He shakes his head, snapping out of it.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Scott. I’ve known you long enough to recognise when something’s up.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“SCOTT . . .”

He frowns. “It’s nothing really. Just . . .”

“Just what?” He pauses and stares at his hands.

“You know the way I am with women?” I look at him, taken aback.

“You mean . . . shy?”

He nods. “It’s a pain in the arse.” I let out a little laugh, see his expression and stop.

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“Oh, forget it, honestly,” he replies, waving his hand.

“No, Scott – I’m sorry. Tell me what you were about to say.” He frowns for a second and takes a deep breath.

“I’d like to have a girlfriend at some point.” He squirms with embarrassment. Scott has had a relationship before, about six months ago. It was a kind of office romance. The point is, he spent two months with Amy from the reception desk before they drifted apart and she went to work in another city. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Amy. She was quiet, unassuming, and plain but not unattractive.

But, at the risk of sounding like an over-protective friend, she wasn’t good enough for him. I wanted to like her when we first met, to get to know her hidden depths. Unfortunately, and this will sound awful, I never found any. Amy, God bless her, was as dull as they come.

“I’m sure you’ll find someone one day, Scott, don’t worry,” I tell him.

“I’m not,’ he replies. “I’m a glass-half-full sort of person, but I’m also a realist. I’m starting to think it’s never going to happen.” I go to protest then stop, not wanting to interrupt him. “I’m hopeless with the opposite s*x,” he continues. “I don’t know why, but I am. Utterly hopeless.”

I bite my lip. “Why do you think you find it so difficult to talk to women?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, looking genuinely bewildered.

“I mean, I’m a woman, and you’re not nervous with me.”

“You’re Emma,” he tells me. “There’s a difference.”

“Touché.”

“Maybe I’m aware I’m not much of a catch,” he goes on. “I don’t look like any of those blokes in your magazines – Chris Holland, or whatever his name is.”

“Hemsworth, Scott. Chris Hemsworth.”

“Yes – him. I know I don’t look like him. But then I already know that from a biological point of view, not everyone can look like him. Even accounting for evolutionary theories and survival of the fittest, the human race couldn’t exist if only a select few were to successfully procreate. In fact, every animal, particularly mammals, has the capacity to find a mate.”

“Which means?”

He looks up at me. “Even duffers like me can get a girlfriend. In theory, at least.”

“There you have it,” I declare. “That’s your problem.”

“What is?”

“You think you’re a duffer, when you’re not.”

“Your loyalty’s touching, Em, but the facts would indicate that I’m right.” I am about to protest again when I focus on Scott. His hair. His clothes. His glasses. He could be modelling on the front of a 1960s geeky magazine cover. I wonder how to put this.

“Look, I stand by my view fundamentally, but . . .” My voice trails off.

“But what?” he asks.

“You could do with a makeover.”

“Really?” Scott looks shocked. Which shocks me. Although this is a conversation we’ve never had before, I can’t believe he hasn’t noticed that nobody else dresses like him.

“There’s no way I’m going on television.”

“No, of course not. You don’t need to. I could give you a makeover.” How have I never thought of this before? I smile at my idea, at its brilliant simplicity, and then I catch sight of Scott. He doesn’t look convinced.

“Believe me,” I continue, “as someone who has spent most of her adult life studying attractive men in detail, I’d know how to sort you out in the clothes department. And hair and skin – you’d benefit from a bit of microdermabrasion.”

“Isn’t that how they remove corrosion from car panels?”

“Hang on a minute,” I tell him, “let’s do this properly.”

“What do you mean?” Inspired, I look him in the eyes.

“This can be a project,” I declare. “Project Scott!”

“Oh God.”

“I mean it. Dani could help. What she doesn’t know about flirting isn’t worth knowing.”

“Is that what you call it? I’ve seen Dani flirting and it’s like a lioness pouncing.”

“It works,” I argue. “And Katie used to be a personal shopper before she did her current job. She’ll have you looking like Chris Hemsworth in no time.” I stop and take stock. Scott looks terrible.

“Sorry,” I say, deflating. “I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

There’s silence for a second. “You didn’t, Emma,” he says to my surprise. “And you’re right.”

“Really?”

“Really. I don’t want to spend a lifetime as a loser, as your terminally single friend. I mean, you’re not going to be around forever.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Sooner or later, you’ll settle down and have a family with someone. It might even be whatsisname – Jack.” I frown. “The guy you have got a date with on Friday.”

“Jake,” I say.

“Whoever. The point is, that at some point in the not-too-distant future, I’ll be your sad bachelor friend who no longer has anyone to butter bagels for.”

“You’ll always be my best friend, Scott. Always.”

“Well, good. But I’d still like to get laid.” I laugh.

“You say that like you’re a virgin. What about your relationship with Amy? And what was that girl’s name in the Army?”

‘Kayleigh Allan.”

“That’s her.” He looks at me.

“One fleeting relationship and a single drunken fumble in ten years. Casanova would be crapping himself.”

“Point taken. So is this reinvention a goer?”

He takes a deep breath. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

“Great,” I say coolly, picking up the trifle bowl and heading for the kitchen.

When I get there, I have to bite my fist to stop myself from squealing with glee. If you’d told me yesterday that Scott would agree to a makeover, I wouldn’t have believed it. This could be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Scrap that: I’m going to make sure it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I’m going to make sure that my single friend isn’t single for very much longer.