by Shari Low
‘You’re looking great now, Verity,’ Trish said warmly. ‘I’m really glad everything worked out so well for you.’
‘Small world,’ interjected Stu. ‘And V, this is Leni.’
‘Ah, the one who works for Zara.’
How did she know that? How? What was I missing here?
‘Stu has told me all about you. So is it worth booking a session with Zara–I never know whether all this astrological stuff is for real or not. Do you think she would have predicted I’d meet you, Stu?’
Good grief, when they looked at each other with those soppy grins, the cumulative reflection of both their gleaming pearlies could cause blindness. This wasn’t a romance; it was an ophthalmologist’s case history.
Stu turned to Trish and me. ‘I was waiting until we’d got past your latest rant’ (that was to Trish) ‘and your latest crisis’ (me). ‘So here’s the news–I’m seeing Verity.’
Verity did a mock curtsey while Trish gave a congratulatory, ‘Yaaaay!’
‘Two weeks, one day, and we’re still going strong.’ Verity laughed. ‘And he hasn’t been arrested yet, which is always a bonus in my love life.’
Stu and Verity? Who’d have guessed it? But then…I watched them make eye contact again, and their bucket of mutual attraction was absolutely brimming over. There was no denying they made a stunning-looking couple. Verity was about five foot eight, but even in her four-inch Gucci orange strappy platforms with the dark wood heels (shoe of the week in Style magazine), she was still a couple of inches shorter than Stu. They were both wearing black jeans, Stu’s loose fit, Verity’s skinny, and Stu’s uniform white T-shirt was a stunning contrast to Verity’s black ribbed vest. Their skin-tone was a perfect match of deep caramel, and Verity’s deep blonde hair with honey highlights was like the Barbie to Stu’s short black Ken.
They were both interesting, glamorous, and as long as Stu didn’t show the side of his personality that screamed ‘Hysterical Hypochondriac’ they could definitely be classed as a knockout couple.
And it made me feel…how?
That’s when it suddenly struck me: there was nothing wrong with looking for that. There was nothing wrong with looking for someone to have that connection with, the one who made your stomach flip and your ovaries stand to attention. There was absolutely nothing wrong with being single and on the lookout for love–apart from the fact that, clearly, I was starting to sound like a really dodgy Hallmark card.
And although the chances of meeting that person on one of Zara’s dates was slim, I resolved to just get over myself and view them as being necessary evils, little blips on the road to professional and personal happiness.
Six more dates. Six more nights. Six more men. Time to bring them on…right after I found something to calm the nausea.
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22
The Aquarius Date
‘Will you stop checking out the room like that? You’re starting to make us look suspicious.’
Millie sucked on her straw, making a noise like a lawn-mower as she drained the last of her strawberry daiquiri, all the while ignoring my advice and scanning the room like a periscope.
‘I can’t help it, this is exciting!’
‘I think “excruciating” is the adjective you were actually going for there.’
I squirmed in my seat, making a futile attempt to pull down my skirt so that it was at least within touching distance of my knees.
‘Are you sure about this outfit?’ I asked the suction queen. ‘It just feels a bit…over-dressed.’
‘Leni, trust me, I read his application and you can get such a good feel for a guy from what he puts in a letter. He’s a lawyer, he’s thirty-four, he lives in Chelsea and he’s taking you to the theatre. He’s not going to turn up in a purple shell-suit wearing the entire contents of the Argos jewellery counter. You look perfect, so relax.’
Deep breath. Deep breath. She was right. When I’d spoken to Colin on the phone, the first thing that had struck me was his perfect diction and his long pauses between sentences. It immediately reminded me of those courtroom television shows where the prosecutor is addressing the jury and spelling out just why the machete-wielding serial killer has to get the death penalty.
Despite my resolve to be fearless about the whole trussed-up-like-a-chicken-and-meeting-strangers thing, the butterflies were back in my stomach and there was a good chance that if I tried to stand up I’d end up sprawled on the carpet, as my knees felt like they had the consistency of blancmange.
I’d brought Millie along for a pre-date drink as she’d helped me select Colin over donuts (mine) and peppermint tea (hers) a couple of days before, and was intrigued to see if she’d chosen wisely. She was dressed perfectly for the occasion…if the occasion involved taking to the stage to sing to our boys in the services as they departed for World War II. Her Dita Von Teese look had morphed for the evening into Ava Gardner: shocking-red lips and jet-black hair provided dramatic slashes of contrasting colour against her chalk-white skin, and she was wearing an impossibly tight dress that reached to her calves, cinched at the waist by a belt that encircled her torso, black seamed stockings and black patent leather platforms with a five-inch heel. Incredibly gorgeous she might be, but it had taken us five minutes to cross a hundred yards because her outfit limited her to steps of six inches at a time.
A sudden gasp escaped me, sending the periscope into frantic scan mode.
‘Is he here, is he here, where is he?’ she garbled excitedly.
‘Nooooo, but I just caught a glimpse of your shoes–are they real Louboutins?’
She burst out laughing. ‘On my wages, are you kidding? They’re New Look, and I just spray-painted the bottom with red enamel. Got to keep up appearances.’
Our snorts of amusement had reached a crescendo of inelegance when a tall gent appeared in front of us and stuck his hand out to Millie. ‘Excuse me, and apologies for interrupting, but would you by any chance be Leni Lomond?’
‘I’m Leni Lomond,’ I corrected him, and then watched his almost–but not quite–imperceptible attempt to conceal his disappointment. This was definitely a man who would be good at poker.
I was consoled to see that even though I obviously didn’t quite light his candle on first impression, at least my dress code was pitched perfectly to his beautifully cut, deep grey suit and–wait for it–silk tie. I hadn’t been on a date with anyone wearing a tie since age ten, at my primary-school dance, and even then my ‘boyfriend’ Raymond Drummond’s red and blue striped affair had been clip-on.
From the neck up, Colin’s appearance was as striking as his attire. His slightly receding sandy hair was brushed back and rested in small curls at the nape of his neck; his nose was definitely of the Roman variety and his eyes were set wide apart and topped with eyebrows that were slightly darker than his hair. Taken singularly, his features were at best unusual and at worst unattractive, but when they were all put together the result was a weirdly commanding, handsome figure of a man who gave the impression of intelligence and authority–in a ‘keep quiet, don’t mention the shotgun and I’ll try to get the judge down to ten years with parole after five’ kind of way.
Just in time, I remembered my manners. ‘And this is Millie De Prix,’ I informed him. I struggled to say it without a note of amusement in my voice. Millie De Prix. She swore it was her real name, despite it sounding like a cross between a porn star and a Formula One championship.
‘We work together,’ I added.
‘And I was just leaving,’ she said warmly as she shook his hand.
Gallantly, h
e objected. Marks out of ten for chivalry and good grace? Eleven so far.
‘You’re welcome to join us,’ he told her. ‘I can easily get another ticket. Blood Brothers is rarely sold out on a Thursday night.’
‘Thank you, but I won’t. I actually have plans for tonight,’ she replied, before saying her goodbyes and walking off with short, high steps that gave anyone who was looking a prime view of her bright red soles. If nothing else good ever came out of working with Zara–although how could I dismiss the benefits of discovering how to chant affirmations like ‘My body is my implement of celestial joy’–it would always be worth it just to have met the unconventional but utterly lovable Millie.
We had a quick drink–a white wine for me, while his tastes extended to a very expensive Courvoisier–before walking the hundred yards to the theatre. Even in April, a good couple of months short of London’s biggest avalanche of tourists, the pavements were thronging with people making their way to the West End shows.
‘Do you go to the theatre often?’ he asked me as we walked down Charing Cross Road to the Phoenix Theatre.
‘I do, actually, it’s one of my biggest pleasures.’ Why did I do that? Why? I’d been to the theatre four times in the last two years, every time with Trish and Stu, and we’d seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Mamma Mia!, Grease and We Will Rock You. It was hardly the highbrow study of the arts that I had the feeling Colin was referring to.
Thankfully, we reached our destination before he could ask me about the finer points of my theatrical experiences thus far.
I walked into the foyer, cool, calm and utterly in control of my faculties, safe in the knowledge that Blood Brothers was a musical so I was in for some toe-tapping and an all-round jolly time. Two hours later, I staggered out, crushed, devastated and with an avalanche of snot threatening to burst through my nose like a tidal wave.
I thought theatre was supposed to entertain and delight? Neither Grease nor Dirty Dancing dealt with abject poverty, family tragedy and brutal death in between the queue for the ice-cream and the lights-up at the end.
A hanky suddenly appeared in my eye-line, and not one of your common or garden disposable variety, but an actual square, cotton, ‘wash, iron and re-use’ proper one. I wasn’t aware that anyone actually used those any more. I accepted it gratefully and then proceeded to blow my nose so loudly that a group of Taiwanese tourists (the flags on their hats gave their country of origin away) made it clear they found this hilarious.
Smashing.
I folded the hanky and was gratified when Colin made a ‘you can keep it’ gesture while eyeing me with concern. Unfortunately I couldn’t tell if it was concern for my obviously upset state, or concern that he’d been landed with a wailing loon and the night was still young.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I apologised weakly, ‘it was fantastic, but I just didn’t expect the sad bits. I thought it was a sing-along.’
Once again, he had the manners to appear unfazed, but then I supposed that was no consolation as he spent his working day in the company of murderers, thieves, and football players who were trying to avoid another one-year ban for driving drunk on the way home from Funky Buddha.
Surprisingly, he didn’t bail out there and then, and instead we walked to the restaurant that he’d booked for dinner. The beautiful, authentic little French bistro was the perfect choice: exclusive but not flash or ostentatious (although he could clearly afford that), but neither was it the local branch of Pizza Hut. Not that I’d have minded an extra-large pepperoni with a cheesy crust, because in my frame of mind I would have been delighted to pitch tent in the Camp of Comfort Food.
The maître d’ welcomed him with a kiss on each cheek and a brief exchange in rapid French, before showing us to a booth upholstered in deep chocolate leather in the back corner. The walnut table was already set with crystal glasses and napkins ornately folded on silver charger plates. This was traditional French with a cosmopolitan twist, and I could see how it would impress a first date–a first date that didn’t have mascara down to her chin, bloodshot eyes and sinuses that were so blocked they could bring on a migraine at any minute.
I nipped to the loo, washed my face, reapplied my makeup, and then joined him at the table looking slightly less terrifying than I had ten minutes before.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I repeated in an acutely nasal voice.
‘Please, don’t be–I thought it was rather sweet.’
Bee-baw. Bee-baw. That was my bullshit detector going into meltdown. Julia Roberts’s one big fat tear at the opera in Pretty Woman was sweet. My hysterical interlude of grief was more of a ‘keep your distance, watch for flying snot’ episode.
The waiter arrived and supplied the menus and to my slightly mortified amazement, he and Colin had a full-scale discussion in French that my O-level couldn’t keep up with. If anyone else had done that, I would have wanted to stamp ‘pretentious plonker’ on their forehead, but with Colin it was strangely, well, normal. He had a calm but commanding presence that was actually quite endearing–even if it did make me feel like I was in the presence of a real grownup. I was impressed. And no doubt after such an in-depth consultation he’d have the low-down on the best dishes and the perfect wine choice for the meal.
‘Sorry, I wasn’t showing off there, but I’ve known the family who own this restaurant for years and they’d think it strange if I didn’t take time to chat. He says his aunt isn’t waitressing tonight because her varicose veins are playing up.’
So he’d known this family for years–did he mean that in a personal or a professional sense? That waiter had looked a bit shifty and the maître d’s eyes were pretty close together–wasn’t that a criminal trademark? What about the waitress with the über-short skirt? Prostitution? Fencing (ooooh, get me with the lingo–must stop watching reruns of Taggart) stolen goods? And if he was socialising with his former defendants, did that mean that he was bent? On the pay-roll? Holy indictments, did that make me a gangster’s moll!!!!
One sign of a secret handshake or an unmarked brown envelope and I was out of there. We could be under surveillance at that very moment. There was no way the plump old bloke three tables away was actually on a date with the hot twenty-something sitting opposite him. They had to be undercover cops. Oh my God, we could get busted any minute. The table could be bugged. I could end up on This Morning telling Fern and Phil that I’d honestly had no idea my date was a key figure in organised crime. Or I could follow Verity’s lead and turn an association with a criminal figure into a centre-spread in Nuts.
‘Can I ask you something? Of course, you don’t have to answer–you could take the Fifth Amendment,’ I said, while running my fingers under the rim of the table to check for hidden listening devices. None. But my fingers were now stuck in a large gob of chewing gum.
‘The Fifth Amendment only applies in America,’ he replied with an indulgent smile, ‘but yes, ask away.’ Cool as an Eskimo’s front door. You could just tell that he’d never crack under interrogation.
‘Do you find it strange spending your days with hardened criminals? I mean, isn’t it scary?’
That’s it, draw him in gently–that’s what Cracker always did. Robbie Coltrane never stormed in there making accusations. He always went for the softly, softly ‘you can talk to me’ approach. Memo to self: you’re now living your life guided by old television shows–must get out more.
‘Only when I’m dealing with serial killers. You always have to watch out for them.’
My eyes were bigger than the bread rolls that the reformed call girl had just slipped onto our table. That’s when I noticed that in between mouthfuls of warm baguette his mouth was turning up at the edges.
‘You don’t deal with serial killers at all, do you?’
‘Not as far as I know, although you can never be sure. Sorry, Leni, I hate to spoil the drama, but I’m a corporate lawyer–mergers, acquisitions, defamations, compensation claims…rather boring, I’m afraid. Are you disappointed?’
&nb
sp; ‘No, not at all,’ I answered disappointedly. There went the intrigue, the suspense and my Nuts photo shoot. Still, maybe the avoidance of criminal activity was a good thing. At least if the date didn’t go well I didn’t have to worry about him getting one of his ex-clients to slash my tyres or steal my identity and run up thousands of pounds’ worth of debt while buying cocaine from South American drug lords. I really had to stop watching crime shows.
Why was a lawyer, albeit one who dealt in a fairly boring area of justice, writing in to Zara Delta for a date? He was obviously solvent, undoubtedly charming, and apparently in possession of all his faculties. And he could speak French, which, given my slight crush on Thierry Henry, was undeniably sexy. I pondered the above out loud (except the crush on Thierry Henry bit).
‘Spur-of-the-moment thing, really,’ he shrugged. ‘I heard her talk about her work on a radio show while I was in the car on the way to court and I just fired an email off on my BlackBerry there and then. I work terribly long hours, surrounded by suits, and as clubs aren’t really my thing I was at a bit of a loss as to how to actually meet anyone these days.’
‘So what would be your dream date then?’ I asked, curious to know what a man who subjects a girl to murder and devastation on their first meeting would do if he was given a completely free rein.
His eyes flashed with anticipation. ‘That’s a great question. Just give me a minute, if you will, for me to think…a hot country, definitely a hot country. I’m wearing a cream linen suit and the lady is resplendent in white silk, toga style, falling just short of the floor. We meet at sunset, on the sand, our table the only one on the beach.’
His eyes glazed over slightly, his mind obviously going to that place in time.
I shuffled a little in my seat, unused to such elaboration and eloquence of conversation.
‘We talk, we laugh, we hold hands in the moonlight as we feast on fine wine and the most exquisite seafood. And we plan for the future while never letting go of those moments, those beautiful, unforgettable moments of connection between two people who know that they are undeniably, incredibly perfect for each other.’