Free Cloudy with a Chance of Love by Fiona Collins Page B

totally freaking me out. The second guy… oh god help me, it was Elton again, and he now looked even more of a nutter. The staring brought out a random twitch at the side of his nose. He looked like he was wincing at a constant bad egg smell or that he was a very sensitive bunny rabbit. I wanted to focus on something else, like his chest hair, but that was against the rules. The eyes it was. It was unbearable.
    Ozzy was next. He looked as enchanted as I was. He stared at me in quite a hostile manner for the first minute and nodded off for the second. I looked across at Sam. She was on the table by the door opposite someone who looked like Rod Stewart, and had another full glass of wine in front of her. She winked at me and I shrugged in return.
    The klaxon sounded. It was time for Mr Osbourne to move on. I nudged his elbow with my hand. He blinked his kohled eyes, mumbled, ‘See you’ and meandered off.
    Fourth starer was Kanye. He didn’t blink once. I felt like I was going into a trance. He was like the snake singing ‘Trust in Me’ from the Jungle Book – I thought the whites of my eyes would turn into spirals and I’d fall away in a dead faint.
    Finally, it was over and Kanye loped off to scare Katy Perry half to death. It really wasn’t going very well, so far. None of these men were for me; there was no one here I liked. I was incredulous at the thought someone could waltz into my life in four days’ time. How ridiculous!
    Oh, hang on, I thought, things could be looking up. Mick Jagger was slouching up to the table. I liked his style and didn’t think he’d even come in fancy dress. He wore a louche, undone paisley scarf over a navy velvet jacket extremely well; his skinny jeans and pointy boots were just the right side of flamboyant. He sat down with a waft of aftershave and a lopsided grin, Nigel’s klaxon went off, and we began looking into each other’s eyes. It was really intense – quite sexy. Ooh, he could be interesting. His eyes were really dark and broody, his eyebrows all dense and quizzical and he looked like he was not only undressing me with his eyes but tethering me to a willow tree and whipping me lightly with peacock feathers. By the time the klaxon sounded I was quivering slightly and praying that when I spoke to him in the next round he’d have a voice like a rumbling Heathcliff and not disappoint with an unmanly helium squeak.
    The remaining contents of an eighties reunion festival, Ringo, Bruce, Bruno and that low rent Michael Bublé later, Nigel announced the third round with two blasts of that bloody klaxon and a balletic twirl. He was staggering around a bit now and laughing wildly at random, while Isobel glared disapprovingly from the wings and waved a grubby gloved finger at him. Finally, I’d get to actually talk to someone, I thought. Bring it on. Let’s get this whole charade over with, and as quickly as possible.
    Up first to the post was Ozzy and he cut straight to the chase.
    â€˜Do you fancy me?’
    â€˜Do what?’
    He acknowledged my surprise. ‘Well, no point beating about the bush, is there?’
    He would never be beating or anything else about my bush, so I decided to join him in the straight-talking.
    â€˜No, there isn’t. And no, I don’t fancy you.’
    â€˜Ditto,’ he said. ‘You’re a bit too fat. Next!’ and he made a great show of looking behind him as though Britney bloody Spears was going to be waiting there, ready to fall at his ridiculous feet. Well, actually she was. She had a pina colada in her hand and was swaying slightly, in front of the bar.
    â€˜The klaxon hasn’t gone yet,’ I said tersely. ‘And I am not fat.’ Fat! How dare he? At least he could have had the decency to say curvaceous . He should pack up his Tinder and go.
    â€˜I’ll just go and hover,’ he said. He downed the rest of his beer, issued a small belch and