Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  “You’re not kidding. You’ve just proved you haven’t got a fucking clue about me.”

  “You’re lucky I’m even telling you about this. You didn’t ask me to make you any promises, nor did I offer any that I recall.”

  “You want promises?” The fury that had roared through him seemed to be turning cold. He stopped giving me death looks.

  “No.” Not if I had to practically beg for them. He hauled himself back on to the couch. “What the hell do you want me to do, just stand the poor guy up?”

  “Yes!” he bawled at the top of his voice.

  Not so cool, then. “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “There is nothing unreasonable in not wanting you to crawl out of my bed–”

  “Sofa.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously and his fists clenched. “Crawl off my body, out of my arms and into some other man’s.” He ran a hand through his hair and made a visible attempt to rein in his temper. “I don’t want you going out with this guy.”

  Seriously? “Are you… jealous?”

  His expression said I’d just won the award for most obvious question of the night. “It’s not exactly surprising, given the circumstances.”

  Like I’d forgotten the circumstances. He was the one who got me into this ridiculous situation in the first place. “You think? You’re the one who set this ‘two months of dating as many men as possible’ thing up with my mother. Blackmailed me into it. You thought it was funny then, Mark.”

  “That was before.”

  “That was before?” I mimicked in a childish singsong voice. “There’s a rational argument.” I sounded scathing. I felt it. He’d seen and heard about all my previous dates. It wasn’t like anything had ever happened for him to be jealous about. What made him think this time would be different? “If you want to be able to make comments on who I spend my spare time with, you need to… to–”

  “To what?” he said. Hell, I wasn’t certain what he needed to do. “I’ve told you that I don’t want you to do it, but it seems like sharing your bed and body doesn’t give me any say, and it’s a bit early to be expecting wedding bells.”

  “I don’t want to go out on dates with these men.”

  “Good!” He leapt off the sofa.

  “This whole thing is all your fucking!” I screamed back, conveniently forgetting Mum’s role. I didn’t want anything of his touching me right now. I ripped off his t-shirt and threw it at him, storming naked through to my bedroom.

  He was being totally unreasonable. And now there wasn’t even enough time to take a decent shower, just a quick wash, brush my teeth, and scrape my hair back. I sprayed myself liberally with perfume, dragged on a dress, and slipped into heels, dispensing with tights when I couldn’t stop shaking with anger for long enough not to ladder them. All the time, muttering about stupid, stubborn, unreasonable men. Grabbing my purse, I stormed back through to the living room.

  Mark was pacing the living room, clearly working up a head of molten fury. “I don’t know why you’re bothering. If he’s able to sit around watching daytime TV all day, he’s probably an unemployed waster anyway.”

  “Or perhaps he’s a wannabe author,” I retorted, slamming the door behind me so hard it bounced back. He caught it before it hit him in the face then swung it closed with enough force to echo down the street like a gunshot.

  * * * * *

  Bee Bar was busy. Live jazz was playing and trendy South Bankers stood in groups laughing and chatting. I stumbled off the lift, feeling strangely off balance. I was nervous. I didn’t have a clue what Richard – the man Before Lunch had set me up with – looked like. Which explained why I was so unsettled. It had nothing to do with the fact I’d walked out on Mark in the middle of an argument.

  I scanned the bar. Maybe he wasn’t here. He might have stood me up. I was nearly ten minutes late. So, he should be here, waiting. If he wasn’t–

  “Hi, Kate. I’m Richard. Pleased to meet you.” I blinked as an overwhelmingly gorgeous man appeared beside me. Movie-star hot. “Make Ashton Kutcher look ugly” hot. “Don’t worry. I’m not another weird stalker.”

  I stared open-mouthed. His lips twitched with amusement. His eyes were a bright blue. He had a strong, square jaw line with a cleft in his chin. A large, straight nose, quick-to-smile mouth, and thick, dark hair. He was built like a man should be, tall, broad, solid. “I’m your date from Before Lunch.” He slipped my coat off my shoulders and passed it to a waiter, who returned a short time later with a cloakroom ticket. Richard handed the ticket to me, checking me out with subtle, but obvious, appreciation. “You look great.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I snapped out of my fog, looking down and checking what I’d put on. I hadn’t paid any attention when I was dressing. It wasn’t bad. My little red dress had never let me down in the past. My black shoes didn’t exactly go, but at least I’d put a matching pair on. I could have looked a heck of a lot worse.

  “We have a table in the back corner.” His hand settled at the base of my spine, guiding me through the busy bar to our seats, protecting me from the jostling of other patrons. I felt… nothing. When Mark did that, I felt tingles. When Ashton Kutcher’s hotter brother did it… N. O. T. H. I. N. G.

  The table was one of those high, round ones, with two barstools. The production crew had fenced off a little area around it so they could see us. I settled stiffly on a stool. He pulled his own seat closer so we could speak over the music. “I thought we could start with cocktails.”

  I scanned the drinks list, unable to concentrate long enough form the letters into words. A waiter hovered at my shoulder, stressing me. “I can recommend the Undercover Lover,” he said.

  “No, thanks. I’m still unsettled from the one I had earlier.”

  “Pardon?” The waiter looked confused.

  Bugger it. I flushed. I hadn’t meant to say that aloud. “Sorry. I’m not sure…”

  Richard cut in, flashing a comforting smile and saving me from terminal embarrassment. “I recommend the champagne cocktail or a Bee House-style margarita.”

  I forced a smile. “I’ll have a champagne cocktail. Thanks.”

  Richard looked at me with a curious and expectant smile. Alternate hot and cold waves of guilt swamped me. What was I doing? I couldn’t get a proper breath. My heart was pounding. This was crazy. Mark had no right to make me feel this way. We’d never even been on a date. We’d only had practice sex a few times (okay, it was a few days and nights, not times, but the point remained valid). Everyone knows a man will take sex whenever and wherever it’s offered.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  After twenty minutes of hyperventilating, stewing over my argument with Mark, and pretending I liked jazz, Richard took me through to the restaurant. It was just a short walk back through the cocktail bar, so I carried my second champagne cocktail with me to the table. Richard took over from the maître d’ and seated me.

  The perfect gentleman, making sure I was comfortable before he sat opposite. “If it was summer, I’d have asked for us to sit on out on the terrace, but it’s not open yet, so I just went for a window seat.”

  I settled and looked through the full-length window he indicated. The view over the Thames at night was fantastic. The lights of London and the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral lit up the skyline. The restaurant was arranged with the tables along one side by the window. The kitchen ran along the opposite side and was open to the dining room, allowing diners to see their food being prepared.

  Richard smiled.

  I dredged my mind for speed-dating questions, so the poor guy didn’t have to suffer through a whole date of silence. I felt like a bitch. He was gorgeous (I cannot overemphasise this), intelligent, attentive, and just generally wonderful, and I couldn’t even work up the energy to hold up my side of a conversation.

  It was all Mark’s fault. He’d upset me just before I’d come out, and now I felt all out of sorts and… guilty. I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit her
e and let him ruin everything. The last thing I needed was Before Lunch or Loose Women calling me out for being a miserable date. Fixing a faux-interested expression on my face, I said on one long exhale, “So-what-do–you-do-for-a-living-Richard?”

  Okay, so the first question that came to mind was banned from the speed-dating question list, and the delivery wasn’t great, but I was trying, and speed dating had been a disaster anyway.

  “I’m a business consultant.”

  “Really?” Bloody hell! Why would he lie about it?

  “Really.” There was a smile in his voice. “I go into failing businesses and turn them around. Some of them I keep; some of them I sell on. Mostly, I’m interested in retail, but I have a couple of fitness centres and restaurants as well.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded. What next? I had to say something. I didn’t want to lapse into an awkward silence. “What about hobbies? What do you do in your spare time?” That one was straight from the speed-dating cheat-sheet.

  “Well, as a general rule, I try not to bore beautiful women when I’m lucky enough to go on a date with one. I seem to be failing on that tonight.”

  “Yes.” Oh, wait! “No!” I shouldn’t have agreed. I blinked at him, eyes wide, mind empty. “I’m so sorry. I’m not bored.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Really, I’m not.”

  “I’m a big boy, Kate. I can tell when someone’s not interested in me.”

  “It’s not that. You’re gorgeous, successful… You’re Mr Perfect.”

  “But…”

  “I’ve got a couple of things on my mind, but that’s no excuse for being a bad date.”

  “It’s okay. Being Mr Perfect” – he winked – “I have the perfect cure for a tough day… alcohol.” Wow. He really was perfect. Alcohol was my cure-all too. “They have a great wine list here.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Whichever you think is best.” I forced myself to make an effort. “Although I’m off Merlot at the moment.”

  “Do you mean that bit about leaving the choice up to me, or are you just being polite? I don’t want to tread on any feminist toes.”

  I went for the truth. There was no point in being on my best behaviour or trying to impress him. “It’s a mix between being polite and not wanting to have to wade through the wine list. I’m not much of a feminist unless it comes to being paid the same amount as a man for the same job. Oh, and putting out the rubbish.” I shrugged at his enquiring look. “Man’s work.”

  His lips twitched. “Honesty. I like that. Well, I’m a Chardonnay fan. If you don’t have any objections?” I shook my head. “Great, we’ll have a bottle of the Tapanappa Tiers Vineyard Chardonnay, please.”

  After the sommelier left, I tried again to be a better date, forcing myself to focus on Richard and look interested in his responses. “So, you know how I ended up here, but how did you end up going on a date with someone you’ve never met who was advertised on daytime TV? You don’t strike me as the daytime TV type.”

  I felt more relaxed now there was no pressure. He knew I wasn’t interested. He wasn’t going to expect anything or pounce on me. I was here for the duration, so I should try my best to settle down and enjoy the date, or at least make it tolerable for Richard. It wasn’t his fault Mark was a prick who tag-teamed with my mother to force me into dating, then made me feel like I was cheating on him by being here.

  “You mean I’m employed.” He flashed that perfect smile again, tasted the wine when the sommelier brought it to the table, and nodded his consent. “Meddling family.”

  “Ah.” I nodded in sympathy. “That’s how I ended up being advertised in Underground stations and on TV. Your mum?”

  “And a sister who recently gave birth and is still on maternity leave. She saw you, thought you were my type, and recorded the rest of your appearance before showing me.”

  I groaned. “You’ve seen it?”

  “Yep.” Then he ruined it by laughing. He pulled himself together and shook his head, but the laughter continued dancing in his eyes. “Sorry, but that bit with the cameraman who’s gay…” He wiped away a tear of mirth. “Classic.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” For nothing.

  “Sarah, my sister, showed it to my mother, who agreed that you’re exactly my type – incidentally, so did I when I eventually found out what they were up to – and they emailed the show. I was a little unsure about the whole TV date thing, but Sarah’s still hormonal.” He gave a mock shiver of fear. “She gave it the works: tears and an I only want to see you as happy as I am guilt trip. I caved.”

  “I understand all about familial blackmail. My mum spent her pension lump sum and threatened to use video footage of me looking worse than the Underground poster in the next lot of advertising. If it was just her, I could have eventually gotten out of it, but Mark supported her. So, I ended up agreeing to two months of dating and looking for Mr Perfect.”

  “Ah… and now you’ve met Mr Perfect, you’ve realised it’s not what you’re looking for.” He was so intuitive. Sometimes perfect was too perfect and just wasn’t right. This was one of those times.

  “Excuse me, sir, madam – would you like a few more minutes or are you ready to order?”

  I looked up from my menu and blinked dazedly at the waiter, realising I’d tuned out again. “I, ah–”

  “We’ll take a few more minutes, thanks.” Richard munched on some bread dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. We lapsed back into an awkward silence, both fixated on our menus like they held next week’s winning lottery numbers. “How’s it going? Are you any closer to deciding what you’d like?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

  “I can’t decide between the monkfish with cashew nuts and langoustine dressing, or the slow-poached venison with sweet potato.” I felt miserable, like it was a vital decision I was incapable of making or I’d failed a test.

  He smiled. “I’m glad you’re not one of those women who doesn’t eat. How about you order the monkfish and I’ll get the venison? You can try both and decide which you like the best and I’ll eat the other.”

  Mr Perfect.

  Tears welled up.

  If he kept this up much longer I’d have to excuse myself, before I started to sob at the table. Sob, because I was out on a date with my perfect man and thinking about Mark and how upset he’d been when he realised I was going out.

  “We’ll have the king scallops with enoki mushrooms and an ale-braised pork belly for starters. Then the monkfish and the venison. Ah, also, can I get a side of chips with that, please… and some ketchup?” He smiled sheepishly at me, then shrugged. “I like them.”

  P. E. R. F. E. C. T.

  My chin wobbled, a lump of emotion stuck in my throat choking me. Of course, he noticed. “If you don’t like the monkfish, we can swap, or I can order you something else.”

  “I – I’m s-sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  He gave a small smile. “You may as well tell me about him and what he’s done to upset you. Otherwise that poor flower will have sacrificed its life in vain.”

  I glanced down. At some point I’d pulled the gerbera from the budvase and shredded it, littering the table with cerise petal-confetti. “You must think I’m so rude. There’s nothing wrong with the food order, or me…” I forced another smile and tried to ignore the tremble in my voice. “Or you!” I added belatedly. “I’m having a good time. I am.” I should be.

  He choked on his wine, then started to laugh. “I’m thirty-five years old. I’ve had a couple of serious long-term relationships and I have a sister. I know what a woman looks like when she’s sulking and fretting over something a man has said or done.” He smiled sympathetically. “If I had a mirror, I’d hold it up to you and prove my point.”

  “Why do you have to be so perfect?” No man wanted to talk about what was troubling a woman they barely knew.

  His perfect white teeth flashed in a dental-advert-perfect smil
e. The waiter arrived beside the table, sliding beautiful-looking starters onto the table before melting away.

  “Maybe I’m lulling you into a false sense of security; I’m going to go to the bathroom later, duck out, and leave you to pick up the bill,” Richard said.

  I went prickly-cold with panic. I frantically tried to remember which credit card I’d brought. Perhaps it would have been funny if I hadn’t lived through a pretty similar situation only a few weeks ago.

  He laughed, squeezing my hand where it rested on the table. “You deserved that. Now stop panicking. As you already pointed out, I’m perfect. I won’t abandon you. Besides, Before Lunch are picking up the tab. Now, smile and pretend you’re having fun. You weren’t listening before, but those guys over there, with the cameras” – he pointed a few tables away, where a couple of men, one young and tall with a ponytail, the other short, fat, and bald, fiddled with cameras – “are from Before Lunch, getting some footage. The last thing I want is to look like a loser that bores his date. You might not be interested in me, but someone else watching Before Lunch may be.” His hand covered mine on the table again. “I’m not saying that to make you feel bad; that’s just a fringe benefit.” He flashed a grin. “Now spill.”

  “I can’t come on a date with you and bore you with my problems.” Or talk to him about another man.

  “I asked, and I won’t keep begging you to tell me, so take the opportunity, or I’m going to have to tell Before Lunch you sulked because you didn’t like their choice of a date. Then Penny will cry and Pete will get angry, and I wouldn’t be surprised if internet trolls find you online and start bullying you…”

  I huffed out a sigh. “Fine, you asked for it, and maybe a male perspective would be good.”

  “You’ll feel better if you talk about it. Maybe then you’ll be able to eat your dinner instead of playing with it.”

  He was perfect. So, of course, he was right. It would probably get annoying being with a man who was right all the time. The food looked and smelt fantastic, but my stomach was still unsettled. I’d have liked to blame it on first-date nerves, not being upset over Mark, but… “I can’t believe he got all angry and upset just because I was coming out with you.” I glanced up, checking his response. “It was totally unfair.”