"You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? You’re just worried that I’m into something illegal."
Uh. Okay, so he sussed me out.
"Yeah, all right." I hold up my hands. "You got me."
"I’m not." he laughs. "I promise. I’ll show you my books if you don’t believe me."
"No, it’s okay." I'm warming to the guy slightly. "I believe you."
He smiles, seeming to relax a little. "So, any food recommendations?"
"I hear the braised steak chasseur is very good."
"I think I’ll try that then. Order whatever you want to, don’t worry about the money, it’s just nice to be out."
"Don’t you go out much?"
"I do tend to be a bit of a recluse. I usually come in from work, order takeaway and watch sports, or have some friends round for a spot of golf in my garden. I have my own course, you know. I had it built specifically to my requirements. The problem is that I’m not very good at golf."
Points: building up slowly. The guy has more money than he knows what to do with, and is self-deprecating in the same sentence. Aside from that one remark about the chef here, this guy really hasn’t done anything wrong. And wouldn’t it be nice for my mother to live in the lap of luxury for a while?
The waitress brings our orders over and refills our water glasses.
"This looks good," Joel comments. "Send my compliments to the chef," he tells the waitress, handing her a big tip. Very big. Like more than I earn in a week tip. She sidles away looking very pleased with herself, and I can just picture all the waitresses in the kitchen right now, fighting over who gets to bring the dessert menu. Hell, I didn’t even know you were supposed to tip the waitresses until after your meal. I thought protocol was to leave it on the table after you left. I realise I am missing a vital piece of date etiquette and decide that I must ask Dan when he gets home later.
"That was generous," I say.
"Well, I doubt they get people with money in here very often. I like to leave a good impression for my fellow kind, if they were ever to stop in this end of town."
Okay, snob.
"But it seems nice here. Friendly."
Okay, not quite so bad snob.
"When you first mentioned the place I thought it might be a little like eating on Neptune. And then I realised, of course, that it would be very unlike eating on Neptune as we wouldn’t burn up or fry on impact."
Points: hanging in the balance. Seriously, this guy is not exactly great, but I get the impression he could be trained. Or maybe Eleanor could learn to like golf and eating with seventeen different types of forks.
"So, tell me about your mum," Joel asks. "How did you come to be setting her up on a date?"
"I've recently moved out and it made me realise how lonely she is. I thought it would be nice for her to find love again."
"How romantic."
I shrug. "So, tell me about you," I say. "Apart from golf, what do you like to do in your free time?"
"I love to swim," he says. "And I love to ride my horses. I have a beautiful riding track around my estate and it is so lovely just to ride off in the summer and canter around it all day."
"Doesn’t it get boring, doing the same journey over and over again?"
"Not really," he says. "Sometimes I take a picnic and stop to eat it under the trees, and sometimes I stop to swim in the lake."
"Wow," I'm floored by his wealth. "And this is all your own land?"
"Yep. All in my back garden, practically."
"Wow."
Points: horses equals animal lover, so points are definitely in the black. And I am not swayed by the lake in his back yard. At. All.
But seriously, if it worked out between him and my mum, Dan and I could go there for summer holidays. It would be like summering in the Hamptons. But on this side of the Atlantic, obviously.
He does seem very nice. And he’s tall and fairish, and maybe a little like Bryan Adams if you squint. And I’m almost certain that I wouldn’t complain about riding to work in a limo every day. I mean, he’d want to keep his new love interest’s daughter on his side, wouldn’t he?
"Well, you know," I say after a while, hoping he didn’t realise I was daydreaming about his money. "I’d love for you to meet my mother. I’m sure you and Eleanor would get on really well."
"Really? That’s wonderful. I thought you were going to turn me down for being too much of a snob."
Perceptive and rich. And yes, I’m questioning my motives for saying yes. This guy has positive and negative points, and I have to admit that there is a very, very slight possibility—and I mean, like, a one in a million chance—that I have been seduced by money. I, Mackenzie Atkinson, have been charmed and lured by the promise of fish eggs by the lake on horseback. Or something. It sounds better than saying "by the smell of little green bills", because seriously, who actually likes the smell of money? Not me, but I wouldn’t be opposed to the smell of expensive perfume it can buy. And the personal ad did say that he wanted someone to share his wealth (and his years) with. I’d forgotten that part about the years. You see? He’s a sweetheart. A very, very magnificently rich sweetheart.
We arrange for the date with Mum to take place tomorrow night. He says he’s taking her to a French restaurant. I briefly wonder if this French restaurant might actually be in France, but he confirms that no, it is in a very posh little village on the outskirts of Bristol. Shame. And they can go to see a show of her choosing afterwards, and he’s sending a car to pick her up. This is like something out of a movie, and I pretty much wish that I was going on this date instead of her. I wonder if Joel has ever thought about being a sugar daddy.
I’m not serious, of course. But I must make sure my mother owns suitable attire for a night in the company of a millionaire (a few times over, by the sound of it.)
When he goes to motion for the cheque, I tell him not to.
"No, I promised it was my treat."
"Yeah, but my boyfriend works here, so the whole thing is on the house," I admit. "I just wanted to see if you were the type who expected a woman to pay for her own meal."
"Ah, so Eleanor likes the chivalrous type, then?"
I nod.
"For the record, Mackenzie, no, I never ever expect a lady to pay, no matter who asked who out."
I smile. "That’s good to know."
"So, who’s your boyfriend? He’s not the chef, is he?"
"He might be."
"Oh no." Joel hides his face in his hands. "Oh no. I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I’m sure he knows his elbow from his armpit perfectly well. And the meal was delicious. Please tell him that."
"I will."
"Wow, how embarrassing," he continues.
"Don’t worry about it," I say.
After all, Eleanor doesn’t like Dan, you don’t like Dan—you’ll be a match made in heaven. Or Harrods. Whichever is nearer.
"A millionaire?" Mum asks excitedly. "A millionaire? What am I supposed to do with a millionaire?"
"Eat caviar, drink champagne, ride on horses or in limousines?"
"But a millionaire?" She asks again. "Where on earth did you find him?"
Thankfully this is a rhetorical question and I don’t need to answer it. Okay, so I haven’t quite told her that I’m on the personal ad trail yet.
"Mum, you have to hurry," I say instead. "The car will be here any minute."
Right on queue, the phone rings. I pick up, and a very posh sounding man on the other end announces the car is in fact waiting outside. I thank him and hang up. I’m about to call Mum again when she appears in the doorway.
Mum—sorry, Eleanor—looks lovely by the time she gets downstairs. She’s dressed all in black, with a little bit of sparkle on her top. She looks very refined. Perfect for a millionaire’s wife. Did I just say wife? I meant date, of course.
"You can’t keep a millionaire waiting," I tell her.
"Do I look all right?"
"You look lovely. Like a woman ready to date a man wi
th a huge amount of money."
"Good," she smiles. "See you later."
She’s already out the door. And that car is not the limousine I had pictured. It’s nice enough, I suppose. All black and imposing with it’s shaded windows, but stretch limo it is not.
"No," Mum says when she knocks on our door later that night.
"No?"
"No. We’re incompatible."
"How can anyone be incompatible with a millionaire?"
"I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I don’t know what spoon goes where, or in what order to use the forks. I felt completely out of place. I can’t date him."
"Didn’t he try to make you feel more comfortable?"
"Yes, he was very nice about it, but we’re two completely different classes of people."
"Does class even matter?"
"To that degree, yes. The man has more money than he knows what to do with. And he doesn’t like Cats."
"But he has horses. He’s an animal lover."
"Not cats cats, Cats the musical."
"Oh."
"I thanked him for the lovely night and told him we wouldn’t be seeing each other again."
Oh. My fantasy of summers by the lake and limo rides to work go poof right in front of my eyes. Damn. But I know it is fruitless to argue with her. If she doesn’t like the guy, she doesn’t like the guy, period.
"Okay," I say reluctantly. "I’ll find you someone else."
"That’d be nice, Mac. I’m really enjoying being out like this. I feel young again. And I had a lovely time tonight." She kisses me on the cheek. "Well, goodnight. I must be getting home to my Baby."
I wave her goodbye and shut the door. Dan is in work, as is usual for a Wednesday night, so I’m all alone in our house.
I have to admit I’m questioning my motives for setting Eleanor up with Joel the Millionaire in the first place. Now, see if that had been me on a date with him tonight, I would’ve tried my hardest to impress the millionaire. Anybody with that amount of cash is worth trying to get along with. If you were to marry him, hypothetically speaking of course, but if you were to marry him, you could give up work for good, and just live the life of luxury. I mean, I think I’d get bored just sitting around all day with nothing to do, but I would personally go for any opportunity of getting out of my job. And if marrying a millionaire was the way to go about it, and if the opportunity was open for me, I’d go for it.
Damn shame I fell in love with a chef.
CHAPTER 13
The next man to respond to my message is Guy Number One—"Sincere, honest male. Young fifty. Very sexy. Tall, fun, and good looking." He’s left it quite late to respond, and that puts me off somewhat. Has he been waiting for other dates? Seeing what other women responded to his advert before calling the girl who wants to set her mother up as a last resort? Enthusiasm is the key here, men. I don’t want you to leave it until Thursday to leave me a message while I’m in work. You need to phone back straight away. Never let a girl feel like your second choice.
But anyway, I’ve arranged to meet Guy Number One—another nameless guy, because I forgot to ask—Friday night, at the usual venue. Sure, the dates are a little repetitive, what with same place, same table, same food, and everything, but it does have its advantages. The food is free, Dan is good at his job, and I don’t feel so vulnerable being out with a stranger who is quite often more than twice my age.
When I get there on Friday, I’m early. Such a miracle in itself that I kinda wish Mr. Tall, fun, and good looking was here to witness it. But then I wouldn’t be early as he’d have been here before me. Oh well. I get seated at my usual table and wait. And wait. And wait some more.
It’s a half hour later when the hostess finally leads a man over towards my table. If this is Mr. Tall, fun, and good looking, then he’s missing some vital parts. Like the tall and good looking parts. And from the surly look on his face, I’ll hedge my bets that he’s missing the fun part too.
"Hi," I say, standing up. Is it good manners for a woman to stand up at the table when a man arrives? How about when that man has kept you waiting thirty long minutes? I remind myself to ask Dan for another etiquette lesson tonight.
"Yeah," he kind of grunts and sits down without even acknowledging me.
"Fucking traffic," he says. "I hate this city."
"Don’t worry," I say. "We all feel like that sometimes." I debate whether to add the next part that I want to say. But one look at the frown on his face, and I decide he deserves all the berating I can get in. "It would’ve been nice if you’d called, though."
"Who do you think I am, love? Fucking Superman? You fucking women. You’re all the fucking same. Think we owe you something because we have dicks and you don’t."
"Or maybe because you are a dick." I stand up and smile at him. "I would say that it’s been nice to meet you, but it really hasn’t. No wonder you’re placing personal ads with an attitude like that. Goodnight."
"Fuck you." He calls after me as I leave.
I go round the back and into the side access door to the kitchen.
"You’re leaving?" Dan says when he sees me.
"I’ve never met such an asshole in my life."
"Hey Mackenzie," Holly the waitress comes in to the kitchen. "Table seventeen has just ordered a whiskey. Do you want me to put laxatives in it?"
"No," I tell her. "But feel free to tip it down his pants."
I turn back to Dan. "If he orders food, sneeze on it or something."
Dan laughs. "See you at home, babe."
I walk out just in time to see Mr. Not so tall, fun, or good looking, jumping up from his chair and angrily wiping his trousers off. Hah! Revenge is sweet, and being the girlfriend of head chef is even sweeter.
CHAPTER 14
What is it with these tardy men? I’ve pretty much given up on getting any more responses from the messages I left, when another one calls me back the following Sunday. Sunday! A week and a day after I got in touch in the first place. It means one of two things—you’ve had no luck with the other dates you’ve been on, or you’re too busy for dating. And if you’re too busy for dating, then you’re definitely too busy for being set up with my mother. But, my options are limited, and I’m just waiting until Mum starts asking if there are any more men ready yet. What does she think I’m doing? Creating them from a test tube? Pulling them out of a hat like a white rabbit? Turning toads into non-princes in my underground laboratory? So I decide to give this one the benefit of the doubt. It can’t hurt, right? And if he’s a creep then the waitresses can always put laxatives in his food. (Oh yes, I’ve filed that information away for safekeeping.) We book a Monday night dinner at Belisana. I object to being anyone’s last resort, but honestly, I’m somewhat desperate. I’ll take any resort at all by this point.
This guy is number four—"Attractive, youthful, 60 year old with GSOH." Or Andy, as he tends to be known. Yes, I actually got his name. That’s a good omen, right?
As usual, I’m late. Andy is already there, seated at "my" table. I notice straight away that his advert wasn’t a lie. He actually is very youthful looking, and he’s got short brown hair. He stands up and smiles when I arrive and I notice his bright blue eyes. Youthful? Check. Attractive? Check.
"Hi." He smiles at me. "You’re the one named Mackenzie, right?"
I nod and smile back. You’re the one named Mackenzie, right? We spoke on the phone yesterday, do you have more than one woman to meet today? I’m coming over to you and saying hello, am I likely to not be the Mackenzie you were expecting? Should I be this judgemental? Should I be analysing every sentence that every man says to me? I think the answer is probably not.
"So, Andy," I say conversationally as I sit down. "You were late responding."
"Yeah, I was."
Just like that. No sorry. No "I was out of town." No "My dog/Nana/goldfish died." Not even an "I was busy."
Holly arrives at the table and places a plateful of food in front of Andy. She smiles
at me sympathetically.
"Did you get many responses to your ad?" I ask him.
"Quite a few, yeah. I’m a catch, right?" He opens his mouth and winks at me, revealing a gob full of spare ribs. Why do men do that? Why do they have to open their mouth to close their left eye?
Oh yeah. Such a catch that you’re eating right now? Such a catch that the waitress has just placed a plate of barbequed spare ribs in front of you. You couldn’t even wait for me to arrive before ordering?
I spot Dan on his way back into the kitchen and wave at him.
"You know that guy?" Andy says immediately.
"Yeah, he’s my boyfriend."
"Oh. Isn’t it bad manners to wave at your boyfriend when you’re on a date with me?"
"Isn’t it bad manners to order food before your date arrives?"
"What does it matter? We’re paying for our own. Oh." He suddenly looks up at me. "You’re not one of those women who expect the man to pay are you? One of those bitches who prattle on and on about equal pay rights and then refuse to pay for their own food?"
I shrug. "No, I’m not one of them, but I consider chivalry to be good manners."
"Then you won’t mind me treating you like an inferior who isn’t clever enough to understand the big grown up man talk all night then. If you want chivalrous, I can do chivalrous, but if you want to be treated like an equal, you can be expected to be one on all levels."
Is there even a response to that?
"So," I say, in an effort to change the subject. I’m in half a mind to get up and walk out right now, but maybe he has a point. Maybe I do expect too much from a man. And I’ve got to give this one a go. I did walk out of the last date after all. "What do you do for work?"
"I’m an accountant. You?"
"Nail technician," I say, not really wanting to talk about me, and definitely not wanting to talk about work.
"How do you expect to be treated as an equal when you do a stupid, girly job like that?"
"Excuse me, it is not a stupid, girly job. It is a—"
He interrupts me. "Painting silly little flowers on women’s nails is a good, validating job?"
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