By Royal Command
My girlfriend insisted I sleep with her daughter. Was it a trap?
Part 1
I was ready to throw in the towel on my internet dating career before I met Lynda. I'd been a widower for five years when one day I mentioned to my daughter Abby, I would like some companionship while I could still enjoy it.
She looked vague for a moment. "You've got plenty of friends, Dad. You are always being invited to things." Then the penny dropped, and she said, "Oh."
I guess that's the appropriate response when your head fills with the image of your father in a romantic encounter. Moving on, I added, "I'm thinking of trying internet dating. Any tips, love?" This was a touchy subject. She'd divorced her husband, John, after she caught him fucking some woman he'd met on Tinder. Her own post-divorce dating experiences did not match her ex's (or if they did, she did not tell me about them), nevertheless, she was an expert and I was a newbie so I put myself in her hands.
"A woman doesn't want a player, Dad. It's okay these days to shop around, but then you make one purchase, you don't sample all the goods before deciding to buy." I felt like I should take notes. "And don't use one of those hook up and fuck sites, you know what I mean. Have you thought out your offer?" I shrugged my shoulders. There was more to this than I thought.
The upshot was Abby became my dating manager until I had one for real at the fancy dating agency she persuaded me to sign up with. I've never filled in so many forms in my life or agreed to so many vetting checks; and the face-to-face interview left me doubting I'd even get a date with myself. My consultant Veronica, looked up after reading the last page of my psychological questionnaire and said I was just the sort of client her agency valued most. Now I understand what she meant.
The women they introduced me to were smart, well presented, but took themselves and the whole exercise far too seriously. We were supposed to be having fun, but they treated the date like a job interview. And the grilling's I got. One very in your face woman asked me questions about my business I'd need my accountant to answer. I said I should have brought along my profit-and-loss statements for the last four years. It was a few seconds before she realized I was joking. I had to get out of there. So, I asked her if she had a good imagination. She nodded and smiled, like it was a question she'd boned up on. I pulled out my phone and asked her to imagine I'd just received a call saying there was an emergency at home and I had to leave right away. I got up just as dessert arrived and left her mouth open. The next day I phoned the agency and fired them. I did not want to be bait for their female clients, desperate for financial security above all else.
I gave it one last go on a dating website popular with older people. Told Abby I would do it by myself, thank you very much, and I would not say a lot about my background this time. No lies, but not the ins and outs of a cat's arse like Veronica asked for. Abby just mumbled something I did not hear and let me get on with it.
When I first saw Lynda's picture, she reminded me of someone I'd known long ago. She was stunning, and I thought she'd never go for me. I've still got all my hair and teeth and don't think I've been hit with the ugly stick, but she could attract men twenty years younger than me. I passed on and messaged someone else, then I came back and thought, why not? This was my last roll of the dice. So, I contacted Lynda too.
Abby came into the kitchen and glanced at Lynda's page. "Wow Dad, punching above your weight."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, love. I was just browsing. She reminds me of someone."
Abby looked again. "Me too. Someone I haven't seen for a while." She left, taking the last carton of orange juice from the fridge, and I returned to my maintenance spreadsheet. She was back an hour later.
"Oh, my god, Dad. Do you realize who that woman is?" I looked blank. She took over my computer and Googled something I couldn't see. The page filled with pictures of Princess Diana. I looked puzzled. Then Abby did her search again. I saw this time she put `Princess Diana now' in the box. I didn't realize there was a niche for photographs of how she might look now, but her face sold so many magazines when she was alive. Why should the poor woman's death get in the way of a story today? Some images were silly, but one was Lynda to a tee. I clicked back to her dating site picture to check it was not the same one. Lynda's eyes were green and her nose was different, but the hairstyle and smile were the same. I felt myself blush. Like many men of a certain age, I had a thing for Diana. God knows she had her demons, but she did not deserve the treatment she'd received.
"She's done that deliberately," Abby pointed accusingly at the screen. "That hairstyle, the smile, that little string of pearls. God knows how many men that siren has lured."
I didn't think it was the time to confess I'd been added to the total.
After three friendly chats on line, I suggested we met in person. We'd already shared that we were widowed, and it had taken us both a long time to change tack from the futures we'd expected. We also commiserated on the travails of having grown up kids with problems you could not fix with knee ointment. Then one day I said it.
"Lynda. We need to meet before we end up in the friend zone." She was puzzled, so I explained. "The longer we go on without meeting, the more awkward it will be to think of each other as boyfriend and girlfriend. Any intimacy would seem odd."
There was a long pause before Lynda said, "How many times have you used that line, Bryan Harrison?" I asked her to wait and then started tapping. "What are you doing?"
"I've got my calculator out. I want to give you an accurate answer, Lynda." She snorted in my ear. "The answer is one. It won't change, because you will be my last date."
"Now you're guilting me into meeting you?"
"Has it worked?"
Another long pause. "Yes."
Meeting Lynda for the first time was a surreal experience because when she walked into the restaurant, she was Diana. Two older diners did a double take. I stood up to shake her hand, having rehearsed in my mind that I would not overreact, but her green eyes and that smile put paid to that plan. I just blushed, and she laughed. She kissed me on the cheek. She smelled wonderful. "Sit down Bryan," she instructed.
When I found my voice, I said, "Your picture does not do you justice. You are lovely."
My clumsy sincerity made her blush. "You look like your picture Bryan." My expression must have said something. "No, that's good Bryan. So many people don't. They go mad with Photoshop or something. I'm glad you are the person I was expecting."
The conversation flowed during our three course Italian lunch. I can't remember much of what we discussed. Now and then I'd get distracted by some feature; the tiny lines at the side of her mouth when she smiled, the nape of her neck, the liveliness in her eyes and that hair. I didn't care if it was a copy. I just wanted to run my hands through it while I kissed her. It's fair to say I was smitten and doing a crap job of hiding it, which seemed to please her.
I asked her how I was doing, and she said, "Hang in there, champ." She asked me about my dates with the other agency, so I told her. Including the one which ended with the imaginary phone call. She laughed. "They are an expensive agency, Bryan. You told me you were a handyman, semi-retired."
"Something like that, Lynda." She knew there was more, but understood my reticence, given my earlier experiences.
Lynda talked about her own dates in more general terms. She said she was surprised at being approached by younger men. "It was flattering at first, but then one of them let something slip and afterwards I did an internet search for MILF." I laughed. "Why are young men obsessed with the idea of bedding an older woman?"
"You're asking the wrong person, Lynda. I only search for GILF." I watched her mind working.
"God, men are disgusting!" She covered her ears in mock horror, but her flushed neck told me she was enjoying the risqué conversation.
