The Vintage Guide to Love and Romance

by Kirsty Greenwood

  When it’s time to start getting ready for tonight’s date with Leo, I’m dusty, super pukey and beyond shattered. I’ve never done this much work on a hangover before. It would be so much easier if I could just cancel this evening’s ‘date’, have beans on toast for tea and go chill with Peach and Mr Belding on the sofa instead. In this pitiful state, I haven’t a clue how I’ll manage to stay awake, never mind remember the endless Good Woman tips Grandma has been trying to drum into my brain. Thankfully, Leo, being the hollow-hearted scoundrel that he is, probably won’t care if I’m a little quiet; he seems the type to like his women pretty and passive. I’m banking on the theory that as long as I look hot and act super impressed and interested in everything he has to say, he won’t notice that I am rougher than a badger’s arse, and I’ll get through the evening with no major issues.

  The Strand is bursting with busy people leaving work, ties loosened, hair askew and crumpled suit jackets slung over their shoulders as they hurry down the busy London street. I could not look more out of place, for tonight Grandma has dressed me in an extra-scratchy charcoal pencil skirt and a dusky pink blouse which has been super-tightly tucked into the skirt to show off my squidged-in waist. My hair has been curled into a soft femme-fatale wave which keeps falling over my left eye and getting in the way. Choking me is a knotted dark pink and violet Liberty-print neck scarf, and the worst thing of all is that Grandma has made me wear a fucking hat. It’s some little mauve cap affair with a tuft of white lace at the front. The whole get-up is tight and uncomfortable and really hot (in the temperature way, not in the sexual way).

  I arrive at Woolf Frost early and, with a tired and wholly self-pitying grumble, push open the massive doors to the building. The agency offices are huge and ‘old money’ – all oak panelling, low-lit lamps and ugly burgundy chesterfield sofas. I wander over to the reception area, where the young receptionist is gathering her belongings, ready to leave work. I bet she’s off out with her mates to do brilliant fun activities like a normal twenty-something girl on a Friday night.

  ‘I’m here to meet Leo Frost,’ I explain, stifling another yawn. ‘I’m a bit early.’

  The receptionist rolls her eyes. ‘Third floor, second door on the left,’ she reels off in a monotone as if she’s given these instructions to many a woman here to meet Leo Frost after work. I wish I could tell her that I’m not really one of his conquests, that I know so much better than the trail of women whose hearts he has already stamped upon – I hate the pitying look she’s throwing me.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say instead.

  Outside his office, I take a big breath, try to ignore the increasingly queasy feeling in my stomach and fix a fascinated smile on my face. It’s Lucille time. Yay.

  I knock gently on the door.

  There is no answer.

  I knock again, a bit harder.

  Still no answer.

  I push open the door and step into a large, bright office. The walls are plastered with framed print adverts, all of which I recognize from magazines and billboards. There’s a definite theme to Leo’s work – it’s all hyper macho, with lots of shadowy, mechanical tones and bold, aggressive typography. That ridiculous Drive Alive ad takes centre stage above an expansive walnut desk, the diamond-bikini woman pouting vapidly down at me as if she’s wondering why the sweet hell she forgot to get dressed this morning. Frost isn’t at the desk but sitting at a tilted graphics tablet facing the sunny open window. His broad back is to the door, a pair of silver Bang & Olufsen headphones squashing down his dark ginger quiff. He’s furiously moving pencil over paper and tapping his feet against the floor in time to whatever music he’s listening to. He has absolutely no clue I’m here.

  ‘Hiiii,’ I say as loudly as I can while trying to keep my voice soft and soothing.

  Of course he doesn’t hear me. I wander over towards him and my eyes widen in surprise as I spot what he’s drawing. It’s a delicate line-sketch of an old man in a rickety fishing boat, head resting wearily in one hand.

  Wow.

  I’m reluctant to admit it, but it’s actually really great; completely different from all the framed crap on the walls.

  Hmm. Maybe I should let Leo know I’m here before he turns round and catches me mere inches away, silently watching over him in my hat.

  ‘Hello, Leo?’ I tap him lightly on the shoulder.

  He jumps at my touch, pulled from his reverie, and drops his pencil on the wooden floor where it lands with a clatter.

  ‘Fuck me! Oh . . . yes, Lucille. Hi.’ He recovers himself, pulling off his headphones and quickly arranging his face from fearfully surprised to devilishly confident. He takes in my outfit with a mildly amused but definitely lusty glance. Gross.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your work,’ I coo. ‘I got here early and the receptionist told me to come right up. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he responds smoothly, waving my apology away. ‘Would you like a swift drink before we head to dinner?’

  ‘Mmmm, yes, please,’ I say enthusiastically.

  I’m not sure that Grandma would be too impressed with me drinking booze before dinner, but I feel so rotten, and hair of the dog might be just the thing to perk me up and ease this persistent sickly feeling in my belly.

  Leo strolls over to a glass bar cart in the corner exactly like the one Don Draper has in Mad Men. That’s probably why he bought it, the chump. He swiftly mixes two Martinis and hands one over to me. I take it, and we sit down together on a dark green chesterfield.

  I bat my eyelashes up at him and smile.

  He smiles back.

  I return the smile even harder.

  We sip our drinks, just smiling at each other like a right pair of dickheads.

  He scooches closer to me on the sofa, his eyes travelling over every inch of my face like he’s super fascinated by it. What’s he playing at? I’m supposed to be the one doing the fascinated looks. He brazenly stares me out and, although I’m usually the queen of stare-off competitions – I can go two whole minutes without blinking – I suspect Grandma would want me to let him win. So I wimp out and let my eyes slide away first.

  The whole just looking at each other and not talking thing is creating some tension that I’m not entirely comfortable with.

  I bet this is one of his ‘moves’. I bet Leo Frost thinks it’s sexual tension he’s creating here. It’s not sexual tension. I just don’t know what to say to him. I need to say something, to have an actual conversation if he’s going to see this date as anything other than a means to a shag. But I have no clue what to talk about – Grandma hasn’t paid a great deal of attention to the verbal contents of the dates as yet, beyond telling me to be impressed with everything he says and interested in the things he’s interested in. Although she did mention something about the weather being an agreeable way into conversation . . .

  OK.

  ‘My goodness, it’s sooo warm out—’ I begin.

  I’m interrupted by the door flying open and banging loudly against the wall, making the room shake slightly. A bit of my Martini plops over the side of the glass, wetting my hand. A tall, silver-haired, expensive-looking man strides into Leo’s office. He’s wearing a sharp navy blazer, tan slacks, and a mightily pissed-off expression on his distinguished face.

  ‘Leonardo, for heaven’s sake, bloody Sasha in copy is on at me again about the bloody brand concepts for Longchamp. Have you finished them ye—’ The man pauses when he spots me in the room. ‘Oh. I didn’t know you had company.’

  He gives me the exact same lascivious look that Leo did when he met me at the fair.

  Barf.

  ‘This is Lucille Darling,’ Leo says stiffly, sitting up a tad straighter in the chair. ‘Lucille, this is my father, Rufus Frost.’

  The great and powerful Rufus Frost, owner of Woolf Frost.

  ‘Gosh, I’m so pleased to meet you,’ I simper at Rufus Frost, politely holding a hand out for him to shake.

  ‘My, my, you are quit
e the little head-turner, aren’t you?’ he drawls, not shaking my hand but instead giving it a wet old kiss. He smells of cigars. Now my hand probably smells of cigars. Maaan. ‘A rather lovely specimen indeed,’ he finishes, looking me up and down and nodding with approval like I’m a freaking vase he’s considering for purchase.

  Cringe city or what. Leo’s dad is even worse than him! As if I didn’t already feel vomtastic enough.

  I muster every ounce of composure I have in order to give a ‘flattered’ giggle and not punch this dude in the balls. It’s really tough for me. I take a gulp of my Martini.

  Leo coughs. ‘Apologies, Father, I’ll send the brand concepts across to Sasha by midday tomorrow, OK?’

  Rufus doesn’t reply, spotting Leo’s drawing on the tablet and picking up the piece of paper with a smirk.

  ‘Ah, doodling again, I see!’ He shakes his head, turning his smirk onto me and holding up the picture between finger and thumb. ‘What are your thoughts, little Miss Darling? A man in a boat! Hardly Rembrandt, is it?’

  Whoa, that’s cold!

  ‘We should probably be going, Lucille,’ Leo says, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck.

  ‘You’re wrong, Mr Frost,’ I grumpily blurt out to Rufus before I can stop myself. ‘I think the drawing’s ace, actually.’

  Oops. A Good Woman probably does not blurt. I don’t think she’s says ‘ace’ either.

  Mr Frost’s smirk twitches slightly. ‘Yes, well, I expect a layman might be fooled. Good to meet you, sweetheart, have a pleasant evening.’ He gives me a politely dismissive smile and turns to Leo with a frown. ‘By tomorrow, son.’ He points to the boat drawing. ‘The company doesn’t pay you to idle about.’

  He strides out of the room and I try to hide my appalled expression from Leo. I mean, I don’t like him either, but that was très uncomfortable.

  Leo drains the remainder of his drink and clanks the glass back onto the bar cart.

  ‘Let’s go to dinner, shall we?’ he suggests, running his hand through his quiff, nostrils flaring. ‘We can pick up a cab on the Strand.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, following him out of the office. ‘That sounds like a super idea.’

  ‘Don’t mind my father,’ Leo says tightly once we’re outside and he’s flagging down a taxi. ‘He can be a little . . . ’

  . . . bit of a douche?

  ‘ . . . heavy-handed,’ Leo finishes with a mirthless smile. ‘But then that’s why he owns one of London’s most respected ad agencies, I suppose. He’s not a bad egg. Just a bit of a tyrannical one.’

  ‘Oh, of course, I understand.’ I nod fervently like a Churchill insurance dog.

  ‘It’s not often that someone disagrees with him . . . ’

  ‘Maybe not to his face,’ I mutter with an eye-roll.

  Shit. That just slipped out. What is wrong with me tonight? This hangover is totally putting me off my game. I glance up at Leo, ready to apologize, but he’s grinning down at me, green eyes glinting with amusement.

  ‘So . . . you really liked my drawing?’ he asks lightly.

  ‘I really did,’ I confirm, hamming up my response with a deeply impressed gaze.

  ‘Why?’

  Hmm . . . I don’t think ‘I just liked it, all right?’ will cut it as an answer here. I think about why I did like it.

  ‘It was . . . pure,’ I answer after a few seconds, shrugging a shoulder.

  Leo stares across at me for a moment, an indecipherable expression on his snooty face. Then he looks at his Tag Heuer watch, which probably cost him the same amount of money as a car.

  ‘Do you like coffee, Lucille?’ he says eventually, hand stroking his lightly stubbled chin, eyes to the sky as if he’s forming an idea.

  ‘Do I!’ I respond in a pleasant tone. A Good Woman must always be enthusiastic.

  ‘Well, that decides it.’ He nods once and, to my surprise, he stops trying to catch a cab. Instead, we continue walking down the street.

  Where are we going? I thought we were getting a taxi to the restaurant? We cross over the busy road and walk a little further until we reach a small coffee house. The blue neon sign in the window flashes Little Joe’s Java . . . Little Joe’s Java.

  ‘Here we are,’ Leo announces brightly.

  Huh? This is not an amazing fancy restaurant. Where is the amazing fancy restaurant he’s supposed to be taking me to?

  ‘Here?’ I ask uncertainly.

  Leo grins, loosens his tie and – swiftly undoing the top button of his shirt with one hand – steps forward to hold open the door for me.

  I remain on the pavement for a moment. Grandma said he’d be taking me to a restaurant. I learned all that stuff about how a Good Woman behaves at the table! I learned nothing of what a Good Woman is supposed to do at the coffee house!

  Befuddled, I follow Leo inside, where I’m hit by the overwhelming scent of roasting coffee beans – which is usually one of my most favourite smells, but tonight, with this annoyingly icky tummy, is not quite so pleasant.

  Little Joe’s Java is indeed little, warm and packed out to the rafters. Low, tatty velvet sofas and plump battered bean-bags are dotted here and there, filled with artistic, alternative-looking folk squashed up against each other. Everyone is facing towards a little spotlit stage at the back of the room. I follow their gaze to where a man with wispy chin-length hair, wearing a tight black turtleneck, is speaking into a microphone. Is he . . . reciting a poem?

  ‘I love the open mic poetry night here,’ Leo grins as we make our way to a tiny free table in the corner. He holds out a chair for me and signals to the waitress.

  Leo Frost. Artist. Thinker. Man. Into poetry?

  ‘Er, terrific.’ I try to look excited. ‘I . . . adore poetry. I adore it such a lot.’

  I’m totally lying. Poetry is the worst, and that’s coming from someone who did an English Lit degree. Why did he bring me here? Ugh. I feel really sick too, and this coffee smell is making it worse. Tonight is not going as Grandma said it would at all.

  Just as the waitress approaches to take our drinks order, my phone beeps with a text. It’s from Peach.

  I’m as sick as a dog! Do you think it was the kebab last night? ☺ Hope y’all are OK? Love, Lady P. x

  The kebab! Fuck, is that why I feel so sick? I mean, it must be – I’ve never felt this rough after a night out before.

  As if in response my stomach gives an almighty gurgle.

  Oh no.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Form a bond with your intended by being interested in the things he enjoys. It may not come naturally, but with practice you will learn to love his hobbies as much as if they were yours.

  Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance, 1955

  I spend the next forty-five minutes delicately sipping water, trying not to chuck up and attempting to be mega interested in open mic poetry. All the people at Little Joe’s Java are so excited to be here, and Leo is the most excited of all. He really does love it, clapping enthusiastically after every performance and nodding like he gets what they’re all spouting on about. Why did Valentina not tell me about this hobby of his? Did she even know? It’s absolutely not what I thought he’d be into. Sensitive sketches and poetry aren’t usually the kind of thing you’d associate with arrogant, sexist ad men. I’m so confused.

  When (thank God) it’s interval time, I lean over to Leo.

  ‘So how long have you been coming here?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘A while,’ he replies, taking a sip of his espresso. ‘Though never with a girl, come to think of it.’

  What did I do to deserve this hell?

  I put a hand to my chest.

  ‘What did I do to be so lucky?’

  He looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose you seem a little . . . different to the girls I usually date . . . A little alternative.’ His eyes flick up to my tufty lace hat and across my powdery face. ‘I thought you might enjoy a more unconventional scene.’

  He t
hinks I’m alternative? This was not the intention. Stupid quirky hat. I try to hide my bewilderment and appear as enthusiastic as I can possibly be.

  ‘Oh, yes, I am enjoying it,’ I purr, looking around Little Joe’s Java with wide eyes as if there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be. ‘Open mic poetry is wonderful. I – I come to these places all the time. I’m thrilled you brought me here. Thrilled with a capital T.’ I peek up at him through my lashes. He seems to like my fake excitement so I carry on. ‘Yes, if I’d known we were coming to a spoken word event, I’d have, er, signed up to recite myself! It’s so . . . brave and, um, expressive to share your soul on stage. To, um, connect with strangers. It’s so . . . er . . . ’ What were they always saying in poetry lectures at uni? ‘ . . . so avant-garde!’

  Leo slowly nods as if I’ve just said something dead insightful. He slips a hand round my waist, rests it on my ribcage and moves his thumb in a slow circular motion that my body, annoyingly, does not immediately reject.

  ‘Lucille Darling,’ he says, looking at me in an odd, appraising sort of way. ‘Aren’t you an unexpected pleasure?’

  ‘That I am,’ I reply with an alluring, mysterious throaty laugh. ‘That . . . I am.’

  He pulls me in close as yet another amateur poet takes to the stage.

  Despite being completely miserable, totally unprepared and on the verge of puking like a mofo, I seem somehow, in the most unlikely of circumstances, to have piqued Leo Frost’s interest.

  This date is going fairly well. Because of the performance nature of the evening, we thankfully don’t have to talk too much so I try to zone out, sip my water and deep-breathe until the night is over and I can shuffle off back to bed and rub my belly. But just when I think I might be about to pull this whole evening off like a boss, I’m thrown a curveball.