Dating Party

Back home Ali had a full and active social life and professional life –no hours in the day were unaccounted for but now she found herself on the other side of the world with no support network and endless hours to fill.

It’s easy to find your tribe when you’re young: through education, sport, parent groups, professional networks, friends of friends connections seem to form almost effortlessly. But what happens when you’re older?

It was time to shake herself up, pull on her big-girl panties, and put herself out there. To that end, Ali signed up for speed dating. She didn’t particularly want a relationship she just wanted to meet people.

The night arrived, first problem was what to wear, she didn’t want to look over-dressed but she didn’t want to look too casual either, looking through her wardrobe brought back memories from teenage years, racks of clothes with nothing to wear, many times she decided not to go, many times she changed her mind, a ridiculous and long-forgotten flutter stirred in her stomach, achingly reminiscent of her teenage years.

She hadn’t felt this nervous running seminars in front of hundreds of people. On reflection, she knew that was because in those situations there was a professional mask she could wear and a clear goal to work towards, whereas this was raw and personal—like walking into a room naked, with all her vulnerabilities on show and nothing to hide behind.

Ali settled on jeans and a nice top, let’s face it, that had always been the outfit of choice.

When the taxi arrived, Ali put the night into perspective—it was just a social occasion. A few drinks and six ten-minute chats with complete strangers she might, or might not, feel a connection with. What could possibly go wrong?

When she arrived at the bar, the butterflies returned. Fortunately, the ticket included a drink on arrival. A large Pinot was Ali’s drink of choice. As she ordered, she scanned the room. It was roughly fifty–fifty male to female, and everyone appeared to be around her age. Most of the women, however, had dressed for what looked suspiciously like a society wedding: coiffed hair, very recent bouncy blow dries, and makeup applied with professional commitment. Some had gone a little overboard with the contouring, and it was hard not to notice that the Botox clinics were clearly thriving in this part of the world.

Very few had opted for jeans and a nice top and the knock-off designer stores were clearly doing a roaring trade.

The small bar felt overwhelmingly busy, the noise hitting Ali all at once as she stepped inside. The décor tried hard to be inviting: low lighting reflected off polished wood and brass fixtures, shelves of bottles arranged with deliberate care behind the bar. Framed prints and trailing plants softened the walls, and candles flickered on small tables, creating pockets of warmth. Music played softly beneath the chatter, chosen more for atmosphere than attention.

The air was warm and close, heavy with perfume, citrus, and spilled beer, and despite the glow and the hum meant to suggest comfort, Ali felt alone.

After those first nervous steps into the room, Ali began to relax. Perhaps she didn’t look underdressed after all—just sensibly prepared for conversation rather than a sexy photo shoot.

The way the evening worked was that each person received a message with the name and photo of their “date”. When you found each other you found somewhere to sit together to have a chat – simple.

Ali’s first date was Dave—ten years older, a distinguished-looking widower who worked as a property developer. He had a twinkle in his eye a crinkly smile and an easy laugh that put her at ease immediately. Conversation flowed effortlessly; they discovered a shared sense of humour in their mutual love of absurd British comedy joking about which comedians should have been forgotten and which had stood the test of time. The ten minutes flew past. Perhaps this had been a good idea after all.

Date two was with Ivan, Ivan was a bear of a man, over six feet tall, dark hair, swarthy with a Russian accent. Ivan like the sound of his own voice and had very strong views about many things, during their ten minute tryst Ali discovered his views on the wearing of the burkha, the over population of his local beach by women that wore them and his concerns that they had many children, Ivan didn’t ask Ali one question which sent the red flags flying high. All of this said with real intensity and an unwavering gaze. It was a one-sided conversation and he was clearly disappointed with Ali’s attempt to respond or engage.

Every time Ali tried to share a thought, Ivan would barely acknowledge it, instead pivoting back to his own opinions with increasing fervour making Ali feel like a spectator rather than an equal participant in what was supposed to be a shared experience.

By the end of those ten minutes, it was clear that Ivan wasn’t interested in getting to know her. His “passionate” views so far from Ali’s own weren’t invitations for dialogue—they were monologues meant to dominate the space, assert control, and leave little room for dissent or differing perspectives. The red flags weren’t subtle they were waving like banners. Ali felt relieved that the date was so short, recognizing that Ivan’s intensity displayed entitlement and disregard for her voice.

Date three was John. John arrived carrying a cycle helmet and wearing a tight lycra top, the very picture of a man whose identity was tied to his bike. He was physically slight and wiry, softly spoken, polite, almost gentle, the complete opposite of Ivan both physically and in his demeanour. At first, Ali felt a sense of relief; his tone was calm, his smile easy. He asked her questions about herself and listened attentively—or so it seemed.

As the conversation progressed, a subtle pattern emerged. Whenever the topic shifted away from cycling, John grew evasive. He gave vague answers about his life even his interests outside of the bike. When Ali pressed lightly, he shrugged or changed the subject back to his rides. The hours he logged every day, the routes he conquered. It seemed that cycling wasn’t just a hobby—it was a lens through which he viewed the world, and everything else seemed secondary or uninteresting.

Ali realized that much like her date with Ivan, this was a one-sided experience—but in a different way. With Ivan, the conversation was forceful, imposing, almost aggressive. With John, it was quiet, subtly self-absorbed, cloaked in calm manners. When their ten minutes were up, she felt that he wasn’t actually curious about her at all, only about the world he inhabited on two wheels. This time there were no red flags waving, just a wall of disengagement that left her wondering if this soft-spoken man could ever truly connect with anyone.

Three dates down and halfway through, Ali felt the tension in her shoulders begging for relief—she needed a drink. Making her way to the bar, she noticed she wasn’t alone; a stream of women moved in the same direction, drawn by the same unspoken need. A soft murmur of conversation swirled around her at first, but as glasses were drained and laughter spilled, the noise grew louder, more raucous, filling the space with a chaotic energy. The thirty-minute halfway break was supposed to be a chance to mingle, to connect, yet it became clear that, apart from one solitary woman navigating the room, the others had huddled together to compare experiences and discuss the evening so far.

Two women, Lou and Debbie, introduced themselves. They had also spent time with Ivan and shared a similar experience to Ali’s. But it seemed his prejudices weren’t limited to burka-wearers—he had also railed against Asian restaurants and appeared to harbour an inexplicable dislike of noodles and curry.

Soon, they were joined by Ann and Lisa, who had also spent time with John. Lisa was considering leaving, her other two dates had been equally disappointing. One, a man named Paul, had barely spoken, aside from mentioning that he liked to cook. She had found herself awkwardly filling the silence, giving an unsolicited tutorial on how to make a soufflé.

Ali found herself hoping that he wasn’t one of her matches as she didn’t know a soufflé from an omelette.

The five of them refilled their glasses and promised to meet at the bar after the final three dates to compare notes.

Ali scanned the room as she waited for the next rounds of dates to be called. In the far corner she spotted a man about six feet tall, with collar-length dark curls. He gave the impression of observing the participants without truly being of them. There was an aloofness about him that set him apart from the rest. He was smartly dressed, though not ostentatiously so. He looked normal, unremarkable even but so ordinary that it became remarkable in itself. Ali found herself intrigued, and, to her surprise, hoping he would be one of the three partners she would meet in the next round.

Date four was Esteban—though he asked Ali to call him Steve. He spoke perfect English with only the faintest trace of a Spanish accent. Steve had twinkling eyes and a ready smile, and he seemed genuinely interested in Ali. Conversation with him was effortless. He was charming, almost disarmingly so, generous with compliments: her appearance, her clothes, her intellect. He even praised her life choices.

Yet no matter how many questions she asked, Ali learned almost nothing about him. All she could deduce was that he preferred to be called Steve, he had never married and that he hailed from Colombia.

She began to feel like an inept interrogator. And although Steve made her feel special, she sensed a barrier between them, as though he were wearing a mask she couldn’t quite see past.

When the date ended, he reached for her hand, his thumb caressing her palm, and gently pulled her toward him as if to kiss her cheek. Ali managed to avoid contact, resulting in a rather awkward air kiss on his part. Something reminiscent of Trump attempting to kiss Melania on the campaign trail.

The whole experience felt surreal.

Date five was with Woody, A cuddly teddy bear of a man wearing jeans and lumberjack shirt, a combination that Ali had not seen since the 1980’s. Woody was funny, self-deprecating and was obviously comfortable in his own skin.

Woody seemed genuinely interested in Ali and the conversation was easy and unforced, they discovered a wealth of shared interests in music and literature – they had travelled to many of the same countries and both enjoyed the theatre.

Woody was an engineer and had worked for some major organisations although he now just dabbled in his own small company based on the coast where he was able to spend his time surfing and walking his two labrador dogs. He had two adult sons who he saw regularly and had been widowed 5 years before.

This was his first time at a dating event and like Ali he seemed to find the whole concept surreal and a little comical. She was disappointed when the date came to an end, Woody took her hand and like the gentleman she though he was, squeezed her hand gently almost in regret at parting

There was a brief respite before the introductions for the final date and Ali found herself scouring the room for the unremarkable man, she spotted him still on the periphery of the room a brooding look on his face.

She noticed Esteban again, this time deep in conversation with one of the more inebriated women at the event. They were pressed together on a sofa at the side of the room, less than a cigarette paper between them. The woman’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, yet locked onto his, as though she were being held there by an invisible string. Esteban’s hand rested on her knee, possessive rather than casual, his face drifted closer, and then closer still, as if her lips were inevitable.

When the final date was called, they did not move. No startle, no separation - just the quiet suggestion that the world beyond the sofa no longer mattered. Watching them, Ali felt a tightening in her chest, an uneasy sense that she was witnessing something she wasn’t meant to see.

Date six and by this time Ali felt quite jaded. She had found making conversation with five strangers in quick succession quite exhausting. The effects of the wine had started to wear off and she had the beginnings of a headache, plus she found her attention drawn to Esteban and the woman at his side who by now were openly canoodling on the sofa much to the amusement of some of the couples close to them.

Ali still felt uncomfortable however, the woman now looked dishevelled, her movements slack, as though she no longer had full control of herself. Her laughter came a beat too late, her head lolling slightly as Esteban leaned in, murmuring something Ali couldn’t hear. The intimacy no longer looked mutual so much as assumed, and Ali felt a prickle of unease crawl up her spine.

Ali tried to get the attention of the event facilitators to voice her concerns but they were no where to be seen. She was at a loss of what to do but in that moment she knew that to do nothing would be unforgivable.

Ali approached the sofa under the pretext of asking if the woman was okay. Her face was pale, her responses vague and unfocused. Ali offered to call her a taxi, but Esteban smoothly interjected, saying he would arrange transport for them both. As he spoke, his jaw tightened and his eyes turned frosty. He looked Ali up and down with deliberate slowness, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

In an instant, Ann and Lisa appeared at Ali’s side.

Confronted by the three of them, Esteban moved back. The woman slumped against the sofa cushions, eyes closing, her breathing shallow. At that moment, Michaela, one of the facilitators, joined them and took control of the situation. Her first action was to call a taxi, then gently guide her to a chair near the entrance to wait.

The cold air seemed to revive her. Colour returned to her cheeks as she sipped from a glass of cold water, her hands trembling slightly around it.

As she was led away, Esteban lingered at the edge of the room, posture relaxed once more. Before turning to leave, he glanced back at Ali. His expression was calm -pleasant even - but his eyes held something colder, that unsettled her more than open hostility ever could. He smiled briefly, a smile that did not reach his eyes as he disappeared from the bar.

Once he was gone Ali realised her heart was pounding, hands trembling, a delayed reaction she couldn’t suppress. Ann touched her arm, grounding her. Around them, the event resumed its low hum of chatter and laughter, as though nothing had happened.

For Ali, the evening had shifted irrevocably. The room felt louder, faintly unreal. She knew she had done the right thing, yet the unease lingered, a heavy awareness that some dangers did not announce themselves loudly, and that recognising them came with a cost.

Ali took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension. Her gaze drifted across the room - and there he was again: the unremarkable man. He stood slightly apart from the crowd, watching, as though he were absorbing everything but not participating.

There was something about him that pulled her attention in spite of herself. He didn’t sparkle with charm like Esteban, nor radiate the easy warmth of Woody. He simply existed - quiet, calm, unassuming - but somehow, that made him impossible to ignore.

Ali felt a strange mix of curiosity and relief. After the chaos with Esteban, he seemed like an anchor in the room, a presence that didn’t demand anything from her but invited her to notice.

Ali moved towards him. He was standing just slightly apart, as if he had been waiting for her to notice.

“Hi,” he said, his voice calm, unhurried, carrying a subtle warmth. “I’m Daniel, have we met before?”

Ali was confused, in all the fuss around Esteban and the woman she hadn’t seen her notification for date 6, it looked like everyone else had finished their dates and were now mingling and what she couldn’t understand was why only she and Ann and Lisa had stepped in when there was so obviously a problem. Ali really couldn’t face going through the motions with unremarkable Daniel however much he commanded her attention, she felt drained and empty so she smiled politely and made her excuses returning to the bar to her 4 new girlfriends.

Michaela joined them a short while later, thanking them for their support and reassuring them that the woman was home safe and well, escorted by the other facilitator. The knot Ali hadn’t realised she was carrying loosened slightly.

As the night drew to a close, Ali swapped contact details with her new friends. They promised to meet back at the bar the following week, for a proper debrief on the evening - but for Ali, it already felt like the beginning of something steadier, and far more real.

Who would have thought that a dating event would leave Ali with four new friends and a startling education.

In the space of a single evening she had encountered a narcissistic predator, a potential misogynist, a probable racist, an egocentric cyclist, two seemingly nice men, and one thoroughly unremarkable one. The whole gamut of the male species, compressed into a few hurried conversations, leaving her oddly clearer about what she didn’t want and unexpectedly grateful for what she’d found instead.