by Gill Mather
More impressions of strong, loving male arms envelope and comfort me. I fall asleep and don't wake again until the more civilised hour of eight in the morning. Which is in fact far too late as I’m booked to go on a seminar today and it takes two hours to drive there and registration starts at nine fifteen. It doesn't matter that much as the first talk is by one of the sponsors. The main thing is that I’ll miss the coffee and Danish pastries if I’m too late. Then I’ll feel faint and won't be able to concentrate until the time for elevenses and more coffee and disappointingly just Bourbon biscuits, though sometimes you get those chewy butter-laden double chocolate cookies instead. I decide I don't care if I miss the breakfast pastries as I’m still in slimming mode. I take a couple of aspirins and drink a load of water which usually sharpens me up.
I KNOW EXACTLY where the Indian restaurant is therefore I don’t have to take any directions off the internet. Before it was taken over by the present lot, it used to be a pub that served food and I've been there in the past for peoples' parties and firm do's. I go in, look around and see that it's had a reverse makeover. Funny really. All the old pubs are busy ditching their flock wallpaper and dark painted woodwork in favour of plain emulsioned walls, pastel colours, tasteful roman blinds and inlaid ceiling lights.
This place by contrast is a riot of patterned velvety damask wall covering, bright maroon woodwork, festoon curtains with gold thread running through the material and tinselly light fittings. In fact in some places there's actual tinsel framing the paintings on the walls, bright, garish representations of Hindu men and women wooing each other clothed in primary colours. Perhaps this should therefore be called a make-under. Or a make-overdone. At each end of the room there's a high level TV churning out a Bollywood musical though the sound level is quite low, not enough to be distracting. However if the conversation falters and the evening turns into a wet rag, it'll be something to focus on to get through it until going home time.
But my observations are cut short. Further into the room, which I note is quite full already, I see a man stand up and give me a light wave. I have to appreciate the fact that while I have no idea what my date looks like, he's obviously been able to tag me from my five year old photo on the dating website. I should be flattered that I can still be recognised from a half decade old image of me in a bar in some foreign resort raising a glass to the camera of my mate Alice on her hen weekend before she tied the knot. While the rest of us were merry as kites at the time, she, being four months' pregnant and having determined to do the decent thing by the baby and its father, was stone cold sober while her friends toasted the forthcoming nuptials and subsequent birth. Hence the photograph was in focus and not at some crazy angle, like taken from a recumbent position on the floor as were some of the other photos taken by the rest of us.
Unless of course it isn't my date at all and is another person also possibly meeting someone for the first time who has mistaken me for his date. I'm sure this must happen sometimes so that the hopelessly unmatched couple spend the evening talking at total cross purposes but realise by the end of the evening that they were actually created for each other and walk off hand in hand into their bright and sunny future and hang the fact that their actual intended dates have somehow pitched up at the wrong Indian restaurant and are even now stabbing at an innocent piece of meat with the pointed steak knife, intoning dark incantations based on old Hindu legends against the party who failed to turn up. Though in that case of course they'd actually be at the right restaurant but with the wrong person and who knows, they might be hitting it off too.
These daydreams get me to the table and I smile nicely, pull out my chair and sit down. Unlike Dennis, this man doesn’t rush around to my side of the table and extract my chair for me. I shouldn't I know compare every man I come across to Dennis. But I have to say he was a high bar to surpass. I know almost with certainty that had it rained while we were in the local pub that first night leaving puddles in the car park, that he would have whipped off his jacket and placed it precisely for my ultra-high heels to teeter over and not left me to unsuspectingly negotiate the water filled dips and troughs of the average pub car park on my own.
OK, so perhaps sixteenth century cloaks were a bit more robust than mens' jackets today but you get my drift. Nonetheless it has to be said that this man opposite me tonight remains standing until I have parked myself firmly on my chair, a rare enough tribute in this day and age when rampant feminism has chased almost every gallant bone from the bodies of men trying to somehow or other behave correctly and not unwittingly cause some form of offence.
We introduce ourselves. He stands again to shake my hand. This man has a pronounced Scottish accent, unmistakable at three hundred paces let alone across a restaurant table. He looks tough and well muscled but also rather gentle and kindly with crinkles at the edges of his eyes and I find that I warm to him. He does have a large plaster on the left side of his forehead that extends down the side of his face to eye level, partly obscuring the crinkles on that side. I wonder how he got whatever’s underneath the plaster but then he is wearing leathers so perhaps he rides a motor bike which could result in injuries sometimes, in fact probably quite often, and account for the plaster.
We order our food and drinks for a kick-off and busy ourselves with serving out the dishes, which arrive spectacularly quickly, and heaping chutneys, relishes and raita onto our plates. I sample these accompaniments and they’re divine.
"So you're a solicitor Anna," Ollie says smiling to me. Well at least the word solicitor doesn’t figure to him as the Antichrist as it seems to do to so many divorced men. I like him. I shan't tell him I used to do matrimonial work and litigate the balls off married men. But of course if he's been on the firm's website and read my profile, he'll know this already. Oh, I think, I do so hope he isn't an actual husband, or even a friend of a husband for whose wife I acted in the past, come to extract his revenge against the solicitor who robbed him or his friend of all his worldly goods.
I'm not sure of the actual stats but I feel confident that I've acted for as many wronged husbands as I have for wronged wives. I don’t feel that I have especially supplied legal services to women in these situations more so than to men.
I decide that I shouldn't be so defensive. I've as much right to earn a living in my chosen field as the next man or woman. In fact there are parts of the world that actually purposefully come to England to litigate their disputes, expecting that in England they'll get a fair hearing, that the judges are free of corruption, that the decisions will be sound. They write their contracts under English law with this in mind. They actually remove their businesses and head offices to London so that they can take advantage of our judicial system. It apparently earns a huge amount of foreign currency for the country.
I should be proud of this income-producing export for our country, that other countries envy our legal system and want their disputes fought by English lawyers and determined by English judges. I wonder, fleetingly, whether Dennis has ever had to attempt to determine a dispute between a Russian owner of London property say and English leaseholders. Probably not. I decide that my eternal musings have gone as far as they should tonight and that I ought to focus on the here and now.
"Yes. For my sins," I smile in reply. "So. You say you’re a professional. But a professional what exactly?"
"OK. I'm a professional cage fighter."
"Sorry. I'm still not clear about that."
"I, and my opponent, go into a cage and….it's locked and….we fight to the death. More or less!"
"But….but….aren't there laws and things about…."
"S'posed to be. But what of it?"
"Oh, God," I say.
"Exactly," he says, still smiling.
It seems to me like the human equivalent of an illegal dog fight, where seedy-looking characters peel off notes from a huge wad to bet on one dog or another. Where the poor creature who’s defeated gets carted away in bits in a bin bag. Though I can't s
ee this Ollie fitting into a bin bag.
Cockfighting’s another of these horrible spectacles. Poor ragged little creatures dying on their feet, egged on by baying men wanting a quick, cheap thrill.
“But is it legal?”
“Well it’s regulated. But then so’s your profession and I imagine there are those that step outside the proper boundaries from time to time.”
“Actually there are a huge number if the reports of disciplinary proceedings are anything to go by.” I’m actually really interested in what he does and want to ask if it’s very lucrative but that seems rather rude so I just ask if there’s enough work to keep him fully occupied.
“More than enough but it means moving around a lot. The fights are all over the place. I got sick of hotels so I bought a Winnebago….” I frown. I’m not sure immediately what a Winnebago is.
“A Winnebago’s a motorised caravan.” Oh yes I nod. I remember now.
“….but the missis didn't like selling the house and living in one of those. She buggered off with a police officer who covered one of our less well-ordered fights. But at least he made sure I didn't get charged with anything.”
“Oh dear,” I say. “That’s unfortunate. Depending of course on your angle. Do you still live in your caravan? I didn't notice any living accommodation-sized vehicles in the car park.”
“Yes but it’s parked at a friend’s and I tow a small car around with me. But I’ve also got a buy-to-let for later.”
“I see. Very sensible. I suppose you couldn't be a fighter forever.”
“No. It gets harder every year. When I get to forty which won't be long, I’m going to join a mate of mine with a bar in Thailand. We plan to expand the business and I may settle there. It’s a beautiful country. Lots of Brits retire there you know.”
Yes I think. And drink and smoke themselves to death too from what one sees on TV documentaries and the like. But:
“Sounds idyllic,” I say. The evening is just rocketing by. I’ve almost finished my food and so has Ollie. I never fancy the puddings on offer in Indian restaurants so I wonder what we’ll do next. Apart from look at the films showing at each end of the room.
Ollie excuses himself to go to the loo. I watch the cavorting of the Hindu dancers on the elevated screen in front of me and try to ignore the loud and raucous banter from a table somewhere behind me. A group of men came in some time ago and the noise they’ve been making has been steadily ratcheting up since then.
Ollie returns and sits down. “I’m going to drive to Thailand in the Winny. It’ll be great. That’s why I’ve gone on the dating website. It’ll be a fantastic experience. I want to share it with someone.” He’s looking at me keenly.
“A real adventure!” I say. “It makes my desk-bound existence seems dull and boring.”
Which of course it is though I can't see myself throwing everything up in the air to go off half way around the world in a motorised caravan. It has a definite romantic appeal but I reckon you’d have to be madly in love with someone to suddenly take off like that. I hope Ollie doesn't regard me as a serious contender but his eyes are boring into me making me feel quite uncomfortable. I feel I need to make my position clear. I’m no good at lying or stringing people along.
“Ollie, I truly hope you can find someone who’s interested in doing something like that. Someone intrepid maybe. Who’s totally pissed off with their current existence.” I warm to the theme. “A person who’s already primed to leap in and grab such a caper by the castanets….”
“Castanets,” says Ollie staring at me.
“Sorry?”
“You said ‘castanets’ just now.”
“Well yes.” Now I’m confused.
“Anna. You haven't been to the Ladies yet have you.”
“No, but….”
“Well perhaps you should.”
I start to worry that I accidentally tucked my skirt into my knickers before leaving home and he’s only just somehow noticed. Or that my makeup’s run. Or that I’ve had some sort of allergic reaction to the food and come out in hives all over my face.
Or that I’ve somehow managed to arrange a date with a weirdo who can only behave reasonably for a limited time and then it all goes to shit all of a sudden. I decide that a trip to the loo might be the best course of action in the circumstances and therefore get up out of my chair while pulling as discreetly as possible at the back of my skirt.
“Good advice I’m sure,” I say to humour him and walk off towards the ‘Toilets’ sign at the back of the restaurant.
Once safely inside the Ladies, I make a thorough inspection but I fail to find anything especially out of place. I decide to use the facilities anyway and it’s only as I emerge from the cubicle that I notice the A4 sized poster taped to the wall above a sheet saying that the toilet was last inspected by Rani at eleven this morning.
“HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?” The words scream at me out of the poster. Further down is the caption:
‘THE CASTANET KICKER’
My blood freezes in my veins. I look with horror at a photograph between the two lines of writing, the image of a woman gurning without artifice into the camera, a shot taken at my brother's wedding when I was many sails to the wind. The photo is grainy but recognisable.
My brain stops there and then and I realise that Ollie must have seen the same poster in the Gents which is why he was staring at me and picked up on the word ‘castanets’ innocently uttered by me at the time. I steel myself and move closer to the poster to read the small print at the bottom. It refers to Ebden Andrews having been attacked by the woman in the photograph and seriously injured earlier in the year. He obviously has no shame. It says that he only had one functioning testicle at the time and this was injured so badly in the attack that it had to be amputated. He wishes to locate the woman to pursue a claim against her for his loss. It gives a mobile number.
My brain starts functioning again and I wonder how he got hold of a photo of me when he doesn't apparently even know my name. But for that fact, I would have put money on my mother having supplied the photo. I asked the police at the time to ensure that they withheld my identity and they obviously kept their promise.
The second thing I speculate about is how many Goddamn restaurant and other toilets all over town are bearing the same poster, not to mention lampposts, fences, community hall notice boards. The list is endless. Tomorrow I’ll have to scour the town during my lunch hour and ring round my friends and see if anyone else has seen the poster. It looks frankly amateurish so hopefully there’s a limit to how many he could have produced and found time to display. My imagination goes into overdrive though as it occurs to me that anyone could print any number of small flyers and simply cast them about on pavements all over the town. Perhaps he has a large family and they’ll all have been roped into the effort.
I clutch at the sink and feel weak. However I realise I’ve been in here some time. I have to go out and get through the rest of my evening with Ollie somehow. I rip the poster off the wall and, pushing open the door, I see Ollie loitering outside looking worried. He’s obviously come to check up on me. I take it all back Ollie, I think. You’re sweet and kind and not at all weird.
“Are you all right hen?” he says.
“I suppose so. It’s not true Ollie. I didn't attack him. I was out running and he attacked me and I just automatically kicked out at him. I’m just so worried now that he’ll have plastered those posters all over town. At least he doesn't seem to know my name.”
He pats my shoulder in an avuncular manner. “Well maybe not. I’ve removed the one in the Gents. Come on anyway. Let’s go back and finish the wine off.”
I go first and he walks behind me into the restaurant. We’re almost back at the table when someone shouts:
“That’s her. It’s her!”
And a man launches himself out of his chair at a table nearer the door. It’s the table making all the noise. His mates look up at him. He starts towards our table
yelling:
“She did it. You did it. You ruined my life! I was just out looking for a neighbour’s dog and you kicked me in the nuts for no reason at all. I’m going to give an interview to the Standard tomorrow. Your reputation’ll be in ruins, whatever your name is. Your photo’ll be in the papers all over Essex next week. You bloody mangled my bollocks, you bitch.” He rushes at me.
I just stand there open mouthed. It’s Ebden Andrews all right. I back away but Ollie quickly places himself between me and Ebden.
“You just try it,” Ollie says. If Ebden ever had any sense it was obviously all stored in the gonad he lost last summer because he squares up to Ollie who laughs out loud.
Two of Ebden’s mates come over and hold him back. “Don't be such a pillock,” one says. But a fourth man, he could be a brother of Ebden, comes at Ollie instead. Seriously this time. I’ve never seen a fist come out, deliver a colossal blow and be withdrawn quite so quickly. At least not in the flesh. Ollie barely draws breath. The brother is suddenly on the floor out cold.
“You stay away from her mate,” says Ollie to Ebden, “You leave her alone and get rid of those posters. Wherever you’ve put them. Or you’ll have me to answer to.
“Come on. Get your bag,” Ollie says to me as the brother starts to groan and come round. He takes my arm and hustles me towards the door. At the till, he pulls out a wad of notes and puts them on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says and suddenly we’re out in the cold night air. It sharpens me up considerably.
“I should have been stronger and had the bastard charged at the time,” I tell Ollie. “Thanks for that. I don't know what I’d have done without you. I’d never even have known about the posters if I hadn't met you tonight.”
“I reckon we’d better get away from here as quickly as possible. Just in case,” Ollie says. He walks me to my car and stands looking at me with interest. I mean he wasn’t ever going to be my ideal date anyway, someone who refers to his ex-wife as “the missis”, but I'd rather it didn’t end up with me being the one to be ditched for unsuitability not him. It just doesn’t seem fair.