by R J Butler
I stop in my tracks. Why did she say that? She wouldn’t normally. And on this, of all days, the day that holds such a clear objective. I swear sometimes my wife can see straight through me.
11 a.m. Sure enough, Heather waltzed by, stealth-like with her paper-white skin, coal-black hair and ketchup-red lipstick giving her the appearance of a mime artist. Robin she says quietly, can we have a heads up in five. It is not a request. No hint of a smile or any form of personable exchange; this is a woman who takes work too seriously and has the knack of turning every matter, however trivial, into a crisis. Heather’s certainly not attending tonight’s knees-up; never one to socialise with her subordinates, there’s a rumour she’s never laughed.
I arrive at the pub, The Horse and Carrot, about 7.30, the cold air still stinging my face, the last to arrive. It’s a narcissist habit of mine – arrive late and people are always pleased to see you. The Grand Entrance. The pub is a clean one, spacious, swirly-patterned carpet and uniformed bar staff, down to the tinsel in the hair, except for the bloke who looks like he’s in charge, a Scot by his accent, who’s wearing a droopy pair of antlers. In the corner, a huge Christmas tree; Slade on the jukebox, a tad too loud. It’s soulless but a clean and pleasant soulless. At the back of the pub, down a couple of steps, where all the noise is coming from, is the restaurant. Ours is the only party in tonight – thirty HR folk taking over the restaurant and rubbing on together – the one time in the year and for once I don’t find the sight nauseating. At least we’re not estate agents.
I skip down the steps and enter into the dim glow of the sultry red light, resisting the urge to do a John Travolta swagger, shouting, Hey, dudes! I’m wearing my best jeans – tight, low-hipped, military grey; with Converse trainers and a gingham shirt and a liberal sprinkling of D&G aftershave.
Hi, Rob, you’re late, says one; We’ve already eaten, jokes another. I laugh and shake a hand or two, all the time glancing around, trying to find where Dawn is sitting. There are half-a-dozen festive tables, white tablecloths, candles in wine bottles, colleagues wearing paper crowns pulled from crackers, smiling faces, faces I know all too well without knowing them at all. The aroma of cooking wafts in from the kitchen. But where is Dawn? She has to be here somewhere. There’s nowhere to sit, until someone points out: There’s a seat over there, Rob, next to Ernie. Oh shit – Ernie. No one wants to sit next to Yorkshire Ernie with his bird nest beard, his thick accent with mispronounced R’s, and his man-of-the-soil attitude. That’s the major drawback of the Grand Entrance – you end up sitting next to an Ernie. As I take my seat I start to feel the swelling of panic, not because of Ernie but because I’ve checked out each table – twice – and she isn’t here. Perhaps she’s gone to the loo. I sit with a heavy heart, the festive spirit draining out of me like sand through a sieve. I flash Ernie, who’s to my right, a weak smile and a feeble hello to Karen on my left. Sweet, plump Karen, elfin ears – a Tory-voting, dog-loving, vegetarian who buys five different wedding magazines a week ahead of her big day with a leftie, dog-eating carnivorous Greek.
You all wight there, Wob? says Ernie, tipping the brim of an invisible hat.
Yeah, guess so. Happy Christmas, Ernie.
And you too, mate. Crackin’ place this, is it not?
I use his rhetorical question as an excuse to glance around one more time, checking each table in turn, smiling and waving at anyone who catches my eye. She would have got back from the loo by now. Paul not here? I ask.
Oh, poor Paul, says Karen. He’s gone to see his mother – she’s very ill, you know.
Oh. And how about Yvonne?
Ernie answers – Nah, she had to get her cat put down today. Poor lass. He asks after my cat and I can’t think of a single interesting thing to say about him. So, Ernie launches into a tale about his own cats. Ernie’s such a bachelor. I’ve heard the story before. We all have. Several times.
And what about Dawn? It’s OK to interrupt Ernie, and often, for the sake of one’s sanity, a necessity. He never notices.
Oh, she can’t make it. She phoned; what was it again, Karen?
My whole body sags with utter, utter disappointment. Something about a gas leak, she says.
And so we have it – after much anticipation, fantasising and build-up, it comes to this – stuck between Ernie and Karen in a soulless pub with Christmas all around and a sense of anti-climax rushing through me like a wave on a northern beach in February.
The swing doors from the kitchen fly open and out appear a succession of bar staff doubling-up as waiters/resses carrying trayfuls of starters. We’d ordered in advance. About last April. Ernie’s plumped for the prawn cocktail – his culinary sophistication having halted somewhere around 1975. Karen and I have opted for the mushroom roulade. Everyone tucks in. A joke is told, slightly un-PC, which would never have an airing within a mile of Heather’s office. Laughter ripples round our table, candles flicker, and in the background, the Christmas hits of the fifties nauseate me and, staring at my plate, I feel like fuck. I glance at my watch – with any luck I could be out of here within the hour.
What’s the matter, Robin? asks Karen. Not hungry?
Here, mate, says Ernie, you’re not wearing a hat. Here, pull on this. He offers me a flaccid cracker and we pull and yank but there’s no satisfying pop at the end of it, just a dull rip. What do call a green penguin in stilettos? Hang on. He passes me the yellow crown. Put this on your head.
As opposed to where? I ask. Ernie laughs and for a moment I think he’s going to slap me on the back.
Half an hour gone and we’re onto the main course. We never did get to hear what you call a green penguin in stilettos. We’ve all gone for the traditional Christmas roast except Karen who has a vegetarian equivalent which looks as dry as a doormat and appears more dead than our turkey. The meal is almost tasteless and I’m not the slightest bit hungry but I force it down. I wish I could drink but I’m driving and so I nurse just a small glass of red wine. Ernie’s a beer man, through and through, and is onto his third pint of some northern ale that has the consistency of tar. He’s recounting his latest encounter with Marjorie, the woman from accounts whom he fancies. It’s unrequited and certainly not a secret, as he seems intent on telling anyone he meets at work. He’s now talking mistletoe. He doesn’t stand a chance, we all know it, but no one has the heart to tell him.
Another twenty minutes and we’re waiting for desert. Christmas pud – naturally. People start wandering around, swapping places, talking to people from other tables. Sinatra’s singing Christmas favourites, the red glow deepens. The recently retired Stephen lays his hand on Ernie’s shoulder and the two of them immediately strike up a conversation about Kendal mint cake or something equally alien to me. Karen talks to her neighbour about the difficulty of buying Christmas presents for elderly parents, and I think of Dawn and chastise myself for having even entertained the idea of a romantic dalliance between us. I almost feel embarrassed by my schoolboy designs on her.
After two minutes, I offer up my seat to Stephen. Thanking me, he takes my place. I wander across the floor to his vacated chair and find myself sitting next to our IT guru, Sally, a woman who can use fun and run as one word. To my left an empty chair and next to that Anthony, Sally’s son, who’s nineteen going on thirty, with long, shaggy hair like an aging rocker and with features carved in wood. he starts telling me about university, even though I never asked, and that was when it happened.
I swear my heart bounces against my ribcage – she looks fantastic, a vision in black and white: white shirt, big collar, black waistcoat glittering with silver stones, tight, tight black jeans and shiny high-heeled boots that go half way up her calves. What a vision; a religious moment. She looks slightly flustered but smiles. Sally follows my open-mouthed gaze, Oh, here’s Dawn! she says, waving at her. Coo-ee, Dawn! Dawn catches her eye, waves back and with a big smile bounces over to our table. She slides behind Anthony’s chair and with a sigh, plonks herself down on the only remaining
seat – next to me! Glancing up heavenwards, I almost weep with gratitude. Bring it on, I think, the evening starts here…
Did you have a gas leak? asks Sally.
No, it was a false alarm – silly me. Hi, Rob.
She flashes me that huge smile, her teeth sparkling. Hi, Dawn. We didn’t think you were going to make it tonight, I say, emphasising the we.
Nor did I. But it’s nice to be here at last. You OK, then?
Yeah. Absolutely, I say, I am now that you’re here, I add in my head.
And now we’re in full swing. Whilst Dawn catches up with her starter and main course, we’re onto Christmas pudding and coffee. I try not to look down her blouse that has one button too many undone. She’s wearing a lime green bra with lacy straps. But I didn’t notice that.
I feel hyper and entertaining my new table with witticisms and eagle-eyed observations on office politics, celebrities and Chihuahuas. I enjoy holding forth like this, it’s all drivel and I’m showing off, I know, but I have a good audience. Dawn laughs heartily and I can feel myself going up in her estimations. Everyone seems livened up by her appearance; there’s almost a glow that radiates around her, a glow of beauty, and I feel entirely intoxicated. She has a lovely laugh to add to her list of attributes – it’s fulsome and genuine but without being over-loud or embarrassing.
It’s late. Most people have left, Ernie and Karen amongst them, but Dawn is still here. She laughs at my jokes, momentarily rubs my sleeve, and tilts her head to one side. The omens are good. She liked Stephen, a lovely man and even Ernie – what a sweetie. The novelty soon wears off, I thought.
It’s now eleven. The bar’s open for another hour but in the restaurant we’re down to the last four – Sally, Karen, me and Dawn; and I certainly wouldn’t still be there if Dawn had gone. Sally and Karen make a move to leave which involves long trips to the toilet, checking of bus passes and purses, and kisses and hugs. And then they’re gone. Now, still in the restaurant, it’s just Dawn and me. This is going well, I think. She’s telling me about her real job, how the digital camera has eroded the photography hence her need to supplement her income with jobs in places like our HR department. But in my younger day I used to be on the other side of the camera.
Really, you mean you were a model?
Oh yes, for years. You should see my portfolio. Well, not all of it!
Now, that was intriguing. What do you mean, not all of it?
She glances left and right as if someone might sneak up on us, and says in sotto voice, I used to do a bit of glamour. Nothing too raunchy but Page Three and the like.
Wow! All my principles about female exploitation vanish out of the window. I’m impressed.
The swing doors fling open and out comes a massive, furry Alsatian, a beast of an animal, the distraction ending our conversation just as it was getting interesting. At the other end of the lead, the Scottish man I saw earlier, the one in charge, now minus the antlers. Dawn swoons over him, the dog that is, but it’s the man who seems happiest with the attention. What a lovely dog. What’s his name?
Rufus, he says in a manly voice. Lucky, I thought, the dog isn’t a bitch called Trixibelle.
He’s gorgeous, says Dawn, ruffling Rufus’s mane of hair.
Aye. I’m just taking him out for a walk; his late night constitutional. Well, go on then, I thought, be off with you.
But it gets worst. A man-mountain of a woman appears, her accent thicker and deeper than his. Ah, is Rufus being all soppy again? And that was it. The three of them launch into a conversation about dogs, the Christmas meal, hired staff, running the pub, how long they lived in London, their whole fucking existence. And Dawn seems exceptionally interested in all this. And then as abruptly as they appeared, they disappear in a grunting flurry of dishevelment, hairy dog and all. What a lovely couple, says Dawn.
Lovely. But thank fuck they’ve gone, now where was I…? My objective. But relief at the Scottish retreat, sadly, is brief – the man returns without dog but with a look of mischief on his phizog, carrying two small glasses, within which are shots of clear liquid.
Here you are, on the house, two white rums. Happy Christmas.
Oh, that’s so nice of you, thank you.
Yeah, right. Thanks.
I take a sip. I don’t really like spirits but it seems churlish to refuse.
Hmm, nice, says Dawn, purring. What‘s your name?
Iain, he says. With two ‘i’s, and my wife’s Geraldine. Anyway, I have to tell you this story about when we first moved down here…
Weren’t you about to take your dog for a constitutional? Did I disguise the irritation in my voice? I hoped not.
Ack, Rufus can wait to later. And so his story unfolds – something to do with being a murder witness and having to appear in court. On the surface, quite an interesting tale but not the way he told it in his monotone voice. Ten minutes later, he was finally coming to the end of this saga and I began to feel the urge to start reading War and Peace – it’d be quicker and less painful. Dawn, bless her, made the appropriate noises, the odd Really? or Noo? which only encouraged him to embellish and drone on. Thankfully, Geraldine, the wife, came out and told him Rufus was getting impatient. And so, unable to hide his disappointment, he scuttled away. We thanked him for the drinks and finally we were alone.
Well, time to head home, I guess, says Dawn. I feel a lurch in my stomach. The time had come.
I’ll walk you to your car if you like, I offer casually.
You are the gentleman, Rob. Thank you; that’d be most appreciated.
And so we left the pub and I hope we wouldn’t be bumping into the Scot and his beast on their midnight stroll. With her high heels, Dawn is a good inch taller than me. We’d both parked a distance away, which means walking along a cobbled pavement, lined with railings that run adjacent to a canal on our left and a terrace of pretty decorated houses on our right, Christmas tree lights shining through the windows. The occasional arched bridge crosses over to a leafy park the other side of the canal. Street lamps shine down on us, old-fashioned ones, emitting a gentle yellowish glow. The air smells fresh and damp, the trees on the other side of the canal rustle in the soft breeze. The night is perfectly silent, the air perfectly romantic…
I enjoyed tonight¸ says Dawn, dreamily.
Yes, so did I. Somehow the objective, which seems, in theory, so close to being achieved, feels, in practice, very, very distant. I simply don’t know what to do next. How in the fuck do I kiss her? Christ, it’s years since I’ve kissed a girl. In that way.
Listen, Rob, that stuff I told you earlier, you know about doing Page Three and the glamour modelling… you won’t tell anyone, will you? Please, I mean it, keep it to yourself.
Dawn, I say, stretching out her name. Who would I tell? Anyway, you can trust me. And with these reassuring words my arm slips round her waist. I promise – I won’t tell a soul. And there my arm stays, hooked round the slimmest of waists as we stroll along the path. And then, with total calmness, my mind devoid of thought, I stop, turn to face her, lean forward and kiss her very gently on the lips.
She doesn’t shriek, slap me or resist at all. I pull away; see the street lamps reflecting in her eyes and the look of bemused shock on her face. A faint hint of a smile plays on her lips. I kiss her again, Dawn leaning against the railings. And she responds gently, hesitantly, our lips moist. Wow, she whispers. That was nice. Where did you learn to kiss like that?
Aha, I say, leaning in for more.
You’ve done this before, haven’t you?
Frequently.
Robbie…?
No, really, you’re the first.
We here footsteps, a couple arm-in-arm, dark figures. And so we amble down the path, floating, Dawn and me, our arms around each other, our shadows overlapping. I haven’t been kissed like that for years. You naughty boy.
A naughty boy, eh?
She giggles. Still floating, we stop every few yards to kiss again. Oh, Rob, Robbie, that was soo
nice.