The Engagement Party

by R J Gould

‘What beautiful buildings. It’s impossible to be anything other than inspired surrounded by such grace,’ Henry declared. ‘Anyway, Professor Timpson is the murderer,’ he continued just as Fiona was becoming engrossed in the plot.

  ‘He might be but there are plenty of other suspects,’ Fiona replied. ‘There’s still over an hour to go.’

  ‘I know I’m right.’

  ‘Well you’re bloody clever then because this Professor Timpson of yours has only appeared for about ten seconds.’

  ‘It’s not that I’m clever, it’s memory. I’ve seen this episode before.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that, Henry. Not much point watching it now.’

  Inspector Morse and the girl called Fiona were the final straws and she couldn’t wait for Sunday to pass so that she could submit her own profile on JusttheOne.com as soon as Henry left for work on Monday morning.

  She decided to call herself Rachel. That had been her and Reginald’s reserve name choice for a baby girl after Clarissa. Having analysed so many examples over recent weeks it was easy to write her own profile. The subtitles helped.

  Name:

  Rachel

  Location:

  London

  Marital Status:

  Separated (One of the harder questions – a lie!)

  Has Children:

  Yes, a daughter living away from home

  Wants Children:

  No more, thanks!

  Hair colour:

  Light brown

  Eye Colour:

  Hazel

  Height:

  5’2” (Never could get to grips with metric!)

  Body Type:

  Size 10 when I’m well behaved

  Smokes:

  No

  Drinks:

  Yes, social drinker

  Education:

  A-Levels

  Occupation:

  Currently not working, independent means (Don’t want anyone to think I’m after their money)

  Interests:

  I like classical and some pop music, antiques and more generally things to do with the home, walking, reading fiction, eating out

  Personality:

  Caring, Considerate, Stylish, Independent, Friendly (Actually Restless, Frustrated, and Angry, particularly with ex-husband, current husband, and daughter)

  Searching for :

  A man who is … (writing this easier said than done despite having read loads of profiles. Aim not to be too gushing, but to show some enthusiasm) … passionate about life, a caring person willing to share experiences to the full. I have a lot to offer the right person and I look forward to hearing from you and beyond that, who knows!

  Fiona decided to knock off ‘and beyond that, who knows!’

  Initially reluctant to add a photo, she changed her mind when she was on the verge of posting. She wouldn’t write to anyone unless she saw what he looked like so it was just common sense to put up one of her own. It could only help; she had good features for a fifty-plus woman. This wasn’t something she would admit to herself, but her friends told her, as did her hairdresser. Henry never did.

  She pressed the Send box and got an instant message thanking her for her submission. The profile would be up soon.

  To her surprise, there were twelve enquiries for her to inspect the next morning. She decided that out of politeness she should reply to them all, even if they had no chance. She set up a file with sub-files entitled ‘Reject’, ‘Perhaps’, and ‘Wow’ and wrote a master message that she was rather proud of for the rejects:

  Dear XXX

  Thank you for your message, you sound lovely. I am flattered that you have expressed an interest in me. This internet dating is all rather new and I’ve decided that the fairest thing is to only communicate with one man at a time. You were very close to being that person, but after a lot of agonising I have chosen someone else. I will keep your details on file.

  I hope you understand and wish you luck in your search for a partner.

  Best wishes

  Rachel

  Six of the twelve men fitted into the Rejects group, and another four were Perhaps. She wrote personalised messages to the men in the latter group. As the week went on she got so many more requests that she decided to merge the Perhaps and Rejects files and send them all her original master message – there were enough Wows to choose from.

  By the end of the week she was communicating with eleven Wows, some of them several times a day. She could hardly cope with the messaging and she wasn’t even going off to work every day. These men were all employed, according to their profiles, so how could they have the time to write? There was so much text flying around that she was unsure what she’d messaged to whom. She was dizzy with the interest in her.

  Two stood out, and they were pressing to meet her.

  Henry Derbyshire

  By the time Henry had come into the kitchen the potatoes were in the oven and the rest of the ingredients were laid out on the work surface, fully prepared and ready to be cooked. He thanked Fiona for being so considerate in getting his food organised when she was eating out. Actually, he was perfectly happy to be home alone that evening. Being first week of term theoretically was a quiet time, what with no marking to do. But the headmistress, newly appointed at the start of the academic year, had now launched a set of initiatives, designed, as she put it, to “radically change our approach to teaching.”

  ‘Three new words for you to think about and act upon,’ the Head had stated. ‘Personalisation. Letting Go. Gifted and Talented.’

  ‘That’s six words,’ someone muttered, bringing a ripple of laughter.

  They were ordered to go beyond just thinking about these words, and with immediate effect they had to adopt them in their lesson planning and teaching.

  The post-staff meeting coffee break was not a pleasant experience. As usual, he sat near Michael Clapton. Isobel Daines, who made a point of moving between the social groupings, joined them.

  ‘Henry, I’ve been teaching for over thirty-five years with a high degree of success and I refuse to change what I currently do,’ Michael declared. He lifted his mug of tea then, clearly agitated, put it back down on the table without drinking. ‘My knowledge of French is vast and my job is to impart it to my pupils. I am not going to “let go” so that they can embark upon random journeys of discovery leading nowhere.’

  ‘Maybe teaching for thirty-five years is your problem, Michael. Things have changed. You’re making the daft assumption that the upshot of lecturing at the girls is them remembering everything you’ve said.’

  ‘Well, Isobel. My exam results indicate that they do indeed remember.’

  ‘They are their results, not yours.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Whatever. But you’ve got it all wrong, Michael. The girls take notes, then they revise, then they regurgitate them in an exam, and then they instantly forget. And right through the whole process they’re bored stiff. They do well because we only admit able students.’

  ‘So if they are all able, what’s this gifted and talented programme for? It might be suitable for the state system, but what is the point of adopting it here?’

  ‘Because it’s tied to the personalisation agenda that Mrs Paddock is talking about. We have a duty to inspire every pupil, and there are many here who aren’t challenged enough. In fact, it’s more complex than that – there are a lot of very bright girls who massively underachieve, usually because they are so bored they switch off.’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  ‘Because I read about education, Michael. I also speak to the girls.’

  ‘You think you know it all, don’t –’

  ‘Come on, you two. You can disagree without getting personal,’ Henry interrupted. ‘I must say though, I have a problem using the word “gifted” to describe our girls. I would use the term for Mozart or Einstein or Shakespeare. To call Fiona, who is probably my brightest pupil, gifted just because she has written a
good essay analysing how Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea can be used to add to our understanding of Bronte’s Jane Eyre seems rather over the top.’

  ‘I’m afraid you two are dinosaurs,’ said Isobel as she stood. ‘How long before our departmental meeting, Henry?’

  ‘About twenty minutes.’

  Bearing in mind they had no choice but to follow the Head’s agenda, Isobel was rather helpful at the meeting, providing the English teachers with a lesson plan pro forma that addressed personalisation, letting go and gifted and talented in one fell swoop. Such an abrasive young woman, but no fool, Henry appreciated. He smiled; perhaps when she was a little younger she would have been classified as one of the gifted.

  He heard Fiona walking around upstairs, moving back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom. He would eat quickly then settle down to get to grips with Isobel’s sheet and plan next week’s lessons. His books were spread across the dining room table so he would have to eat in the kitchen when Fiona came in.

  ‘I’m off now, Henry. You look well and truly settled for the evening. Enjoy your meal.’ She gave him a peck on his cheek. She was wearing one of her new outfits, a tight-fitting black satiny dress, rather short, and a black velvet jacket. Her tights were black as were her boots, necklace, and dangling earrings.

  ‘Off to a funeral?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Henry?’

  ‘Only joking. All that black. You look lovely, Fiona,’ he said as she left the room without making further eye contact.

  She must want to impress this long-lost friend of hers, Henry reflected.

  He enjoyed his meal for one and was soon engrossed in the challenge of preparing lessons that gave the students more time to think things out for themselves. When Michael Clapton’s name came up on the telephone display panel he was reluctant to answer the call – he didn’t want to hear another moan about the new regime at school. The phone continued to ring. Henry regretted not having switched it to answerphone. He lifted the receiver.

  ‘Hello, Michael. What can I do for you? … I’m fine, thank you, just rather busy preparing lessons, quite enjoying it, really … yes, I’m listening, of course I am.’ There was a long pause before Henry spoke again. ‘You’re right to tell me. I value your friendship, Michael, and I appreciate how difficult it must have been for you to make the decision to call. Thank you … Yes, I’ll be in tomorrow, I’ll see you then. Goodbye.’

  Henry returned to his work, though now without enthusiasm. Work had always been his favoured escape route when there was anything difficult to confront, but it wasn’t a successful strategy that evening. Restlessly, he lifted texts and noted relevant references to ‘deceit’, the theme for next week’s A-level classes, but it was impossible to concentrate. He adjourned to the lounge and switched on the television.

  There was an American talk show on, hosted by a confident young lady with a permanent smile. A man and woman had joined her on the raised platform, and she sat between them. The woman was very large, with a wild sweep of light blonde hair running across her forehead to cover her left eye. She kept jerking her head back to lift the hair but it immediately dropped back down. She wore a bright pink T-shirt with the words Get it in gold sequins across her large breasts, a considerable amount of which were exposed by the low cut of her top. She had on a short, white leather skirt, revealing bulbous legs that merged at her knees. She lifted herself off her seat to tug the skirt down, but it had no impact on the amount of thigh visible. The man was thin and rat-like, dressed in black shirt and trousers. He had long black hair and a small pointed beard.

  Henry was shocked to hear such acutely personal questions. The couple, Jim and Jo, didn’t seem to mind the interrogation, enjoying the cheers and boos emanating from the audience. As they spoke they looked up to the camera and smiled – she a broad grin and his a sly half-smile. Members of the audience yelled out questions and gave verdicts on what Jim and Jo said.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ continued the interviewer. ‘When you found out that Jim had had a sexual relationship with another man soon after you married, you were prepared to accept it?’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ said Jo, ‘because I loved him so much and I still do.’

  ‘Why d’you do it, Jim? Did you consider whether it would hurt Jo? Don’t you think Jo’s incredibly forgiving?’

  ‘Jo is a wonderful person and I love her dearly.’ Some members of the audience clapped and there was an aaahh chorus.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ A new voice and the camera quickly panned to a young woman in the audience. ‘My boyfriend had a relationship with a man way back, but he was honest and told me soon after we met. He said it was important that I knew and he vowed it wouldn't happen again. But it took place before we met. That’s the difference. I wouldn’t be with him if he’d done it after we started a relationship.’ Others in the audience clapped.

  ‘Jo, is that different?’ asked the interviewer.

  ‘I guess it is, but that still doesn’t take away my right to forgive and forget.’

  ‘How can you still be attracted to him now you know what he’s done?’ asked another female audience member. There was some applause, but also some boos.

  ‘Do you mean deceiving her or going with a man?’ someone called out.

  ‘Both’ replied the woman. ‘I wouldn’t want to be with a man who’s gay. I’ve got nothing against them, it’s up to them, but he wouldn’t be my boyfriend.’

  ‘Shame on you,’ retorted another young man. Muted applause.

  ‘Jo, if it had been a woman would you feel any different?’ asked the interviewer.

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps Jim being with a man was less threatening.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’d hate to think that he’d found another woman who he was more attracted to than me.’

  ‘Jim, would you have gone with another woman?’

  Jim smiled a sly smile. ‘There has been another woman. Several other women.’ There were gasps from the audience, followed by booing and jeering. Jim was still smiling, clearly soaking up his few minutes of fame. The camera switched to Jo’s reaction. Her jaw dropped. Then she stood up, stepped past the interviewer, and gave Jim a vicious slap across his right cheek. The audience cheered.

  ‘You asshole!’ she yelled.

  ‘We’ll take a break now,’ said the unflappable interviewer. ‘And then we’ll see how this can be resolved. Back soon.’

  Henry rarely watched television and he had never seen anything like this before. The sexual theme made it all the more difficult to view in the light of his current situation. He switched off and returned to the dining room.

  Still unable to concentrate, he decided to do some research to verify Michael Clapton’s claim. He went upstairs into the spare room to access the computer predominantly used by Fiona. Acquiring more than sufficient evidence, he returned to the dining room to stare at his unopened books until Fiona arrived.

  Fiona Derbyshire

  Charlie was a City banker. That was the first statement on his profile. Fiona had agreed to meet him at Old Spitalfields Market, a long journey for her compared to his stroll round the corner from his Liverpool Street office, but at least there was no chance of being recognised that far from home. She’d read about the recent Spitalfields redevelopment – it had been favourably reviewed and she was curious to see it for herself. It did have a nice feel to it, heaving with after-work revellers sitting al fresco under the impressive glass roof. Charlie had nominated a Mexican bar and she stood by the entrance in a vain attempt to recognise him. A hand rested on her shoulder, pressing gently.

  ‘Hello, you must be Fiona.’

  She swivelled around, somewhat surprised by the mismatch between the profile photograph and the live person. Clearly the former had been taken rather a few years ago. His black hair was now speckled with grey, though still immaculately styled. His face was rather craggier and more lined than she remembered, but it remained attractive, with strong
features and laughing eyes that emanated confidence.

  ‘Hello, Charlie. Pleased to meet you.’

  She extended her right arm just as he placed his hands on her shoulders, pulled her towards him, and kissed her on her left cheek.

  ‘The pleasure is mine. Apologies for the gear, it’s my work uniform.’ “Gear” was a well-fitted navy pinstripe suit, white shirt, and a navy tie with lime green polka dots. ‘Care to join me for champagne?’

  ‘Why not.’

  Two young men stood up at the table nearest them.

  ‘The gods are with us. Grab the table and I’ll get the drinks.’

  So she sat down, placing her coat on the second chair. She pulled her dress down in an attempt to get it a little closer to her high boots. Self-consciously, she considered the mutton dressed as lamb possibility while looking at the gaggle of modelesque City girls around her with legs to die for.

  Charlie returned with an ice bucket and two glasses.

  ‘Quicker to bring it myself than wait for service here. They know me well enough, in fact I could probably go behind the bar and help myself. It’s Dom Perignon, I hope that’s OK,’ he said, showing Fiona the label.

  He drank as quickly as he spoke, covering his day at work, which included a meeting with the deputy governor of the Bank of England, his recent trip to Dubai, part work, part pleasure, his love and sponsorship of the arts, his joy of sailing (his own boat, of course), and weekends away from the grime of London on his farm in Hampshire. There was little opportunity for Fiona to talk about herself, but despite the one-sidedness of the conversation, she did quite enjoy listening to him, he was rather witty. Before she knew it he was pouring the last drops of fizz into her glass.

  ‘Fiona, what are your plans for this evening? I was wondering whether you would like to join me for dinner.’ He lifted the empty Dom Perignon and turned away from Fiona. ‘Waiter, another bottle please.’ He looked back at her, the laughing eyes now rather intense and piercing. ‘I’m staying over tonight, I’ve booked into Threadneedles. You’ve probably heard of it, they say it’s the best in the city. I’d love you to join me.’