The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘You’re such a brat,’ he said, laughing.

  She poked her tongue out at him, and then looked around again. ‘Seriously, I love this. It makes me think that perhaps you’re going to—’ She stopped herself. It didn’t matter if David Bennett liked her backyard granny flat. He’d never see it. ‘Never mind. Are any of the paintings yours?’

  ‘That landscape.’ Pointing. ‘The dancers.’ Point. ‘And the still life over there.’ Another point.

  She walked closer to each in turn, examining them carefully. They were completely different subjects, but had a common style. Jagged lines, harsh brushstrokes, violent splashes of colour.

  ‘They’re sort of … brutal,’ she said.

  David had come up behind her. ‘I was in a brutal frame of mind at the time. But don’t worry, bluebell, I’m not feeling brutal at the moment; you’ll turn out differently.’

  She turned to him. ‘How am I going to turn out? You’re not really going cubist on me, are you? Because I was envisaging something more glamorous, along the lines of Gustave Leonard de Jonghe. Timeless elegance. The kind of portrait you can hang at the top of a sweeping staircase today and it will still look good in fifty years. It’s a matter of … of posterity. I mean, spare a thought for all those people who had their portraits done in the Eighties and now have to look at themselves with mullet hairdos and shoulder pads! Now they could have done with a bit of cubism. But the dress I brought with me has a touch of the 1930s about it, and the Thirties have stood the test of time. Plus, I’m really hoping my feet are going to make it into the painting because the matching shoes are gorgeous.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ David said, and his lips were doing that twitch she’d figured out meant he was trying not to laugh. ‘You get changed and show me, and then we’ll see.’ He gestured to the door leading off the room to the right. ‘The guest bathroom is through there, first on the left.’

  ‘Okay, but while I’m gone, try to visualize Gustave Leonard de Jonghe’s Dressing For The Ball.’

  ‘Just be gone, brat, or the only thing I’ll be visualizing is your backside under my hand.’

  ‘Oooh, promises, promises,’ Sarah said, and as he made a grab for her, she yelped and jumped backwards. ‘All right! Going!’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Good!’ he said sternly, but he was laughing too.

  ***

  David wasn’t sure what to expect of Sarah’s take on a nineteenth-century painting in a 1930s-style dress, but when Sarah re-entered the room with a ‘Ta-da!’ and a twirl he was momentarily speechless.

  She looked good, but in a bad way. An uncomfortable way.

  The dress was a rich, deep ruby, with ruching from bodice to hip that made her shape seem sexier than it had last week. And the red shoes? Six inches of wet dream.

  ‘Did you wear that for your date with Craig?’ David asked, before he knew the words had formed. Not that the question wasn’t reasonable—everything about her dates was within range as far as he was concerned. But the challenging tone that went with them, not so much. Because there wasn’t anything to challenge. He’d practically set the damn date up for her, hadn’t he? She was free to wear whatever the hell she wanted.

  ‘Of course not,’ she scoffed, apparently either not noticing or not being offended by his tone. ‘A jazz bar screams basic black. But how did you know about the date?’

  ‘Well, duh, we work in the same office. I introduced you. Of course he told me he was taking you out when I … er … accidentally ran into him.’

  ‘Accidental, huh?’

  ‘That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’

  ‘So I guess you accidentally ran into him afterwards so you know what happened on the date, too.’

  ‘He’s interstate this week so no, but— Hang on. Why? What hap—’

  ‘And if I had worn this dress, what would you say?’

  ‘I’d say it was overkill.’ At least for that dipshit. ‘So what did hap—’

  ‘Where do you want me to stand?’

  ‘Not stand, sit.’ He gestured to an armchair. ‘There.’ Pointing to the small table beside it. ‘And up to you, but I poured you a glass of wine to help you relax.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, sitting. She picked up her glass and took a sip. ‘Now what happens?’

  ‘Now you talk while I sketch.’

  ‘Talk. Okay. It’s nice and warm in here.’

  ‘Reverse-cycle air conditioning.’

  ‘I love your couch.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘The rugs, too.’

  ‘Glad to hear that, as well.’

  ‘So … the portrait. What’s it going to be? Watercolour? Oil?’

  ‘Oil.’

  ‘Where’s the painting equipment?’

  ‘I’ve turned one of the bedrooms into a studio.’

  ‘Why don’t we do the sketching part there?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘I like the view. Through the French doors.’

  He stopped sketching and looked at her. ‘Okay. Pause it there, bluebell. Are we doing eye of newt and toe of frog, or are we just going to talk about paint colours and fabric swatches?’

  She looked at her lap, tapping one foot, then the other, on the rug, which he assumed was the seated equivalent of shifting foot to foot, which he’d seen her do in the storeroom when she wanted to bolt. And he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  ‘What happened on Saturday night, Sarah?’ he asked, and he accepted the challenging tone this time because this he needed to know. If that mongrel had stepped out of line with a girl David had introduced him to, he was going to beat the crap out of him and then make him eat it.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Really, nothing. It’s just … I think it was a failure. Sorry to disappoint you.’

  Stand down, David. ‘Are you going to give me the details?’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s a lot to tell. I’m not even sure what went wrong. Or what constitutes an important date indicator, for that matter. So maybe you can ask me questions. For example, does it matter what he wore?’

  An image of Craig in a yukata flashed in David’s head and those hairs on his neck stood to attention again. Not that he cared, even if she’d seen him stark naked … except that he did, dammit! It was too soon. And Craig wasn’t … wasn’t worthy. He should have put a stop to Craig at the gallery the minute he’d assessed the sleaze quotient. ‘Yes, it matters,’ he said, and could tell from the snap in his voice that his temper was on a leash.

  ‘Black pants. White shirt. Green vest.’

  And relax. Not naked.

  ‘And a fedora,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A fedora. It’s a hat.’

  David bent his head down, and started sketching. ‘Yes, I know what a fedora is.’

  ‘Are you laughing?’

  ‘I’m trying, manfully, not to.’

  ‘Then maybe control your dimples.’

  ‘They’re a law unto themselves.’

  ‘Oh, they so are not. But come on, what else do you need to know?’

  ‘Did he pick you up?’

  ‘No. I live across the Bridge. I never expect to be picked up from home. It’s too inconvenient. Even though Adam says anyone who doesn’t want to come and pick you up for a date isn’t worth the effort.’

  ‘I don’t care what your brother says, you don’t let a new guy know where you live. So your answer is right, but your motivation is wrong: it’s not about what’s convenient for the guy, it’s about weeding out the psychos and stalkers for the girl. Rulebook moment.’

  ‘Weed out psychos. Check.’

  ‘Big check, or I’ll be the one going psycho. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. Although Adam seems to think the threat of him beating the living daylights out of any guy who lays a finger on me is enough to keep them in check.’

  ‘Viol
ence is never the answer. Avoidance is the key.’

  ‘And then of course, I live in a granny flat out the back of my mother’s house, so she’s usually in screaming distance in an emergency.’

  ‘Usually?’

  ‘Well, she’s jaunting around the Mediterranean at the moment before heading to Italy with her new boyfriend Massimo, so she’ll be away for a few months.’

  ‘Now there, you see? You just rattled that off to me without giving it a second thought. If we were at your flat, any curb on my behaviour your mother’s proximity may have had would be instantly negated.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. I see. Should I not have told you that?’

  ‘You can tell me anything. It’s everyone else you need to be cautious about. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  He sighed. ‘So you met him at the bar …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, presumably, he bought you a drink before he took to the stage.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sheesh, it’s like getting blood out of a stone,’ he said, and stopped sketching to fix her with a no-nonsense look. ‘What did he buy you?’

  Pause. Long.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘All right. Passion Pop. A bottle. For us to share.’

  ‘What the actual fuck! Did you drink it?’

  ‘Um … yes?’ she squeaked.

  ‘Um … no! Unless a guy knows you very well, he shouldn’t order a drink for you without asking what you like. Especially an abomination like Passion Pop—Jesus H Christ!—but not even a bottle of Cristal—which, incidentally, only a poser would buy for you on the first date.’

  ‘You poured me a glass of wine without asking what I wanted, and this is only the second time we’ve met.’

  He bent his head forward to the sketch again. ‘Ah, but that just happened to be the wine I’d opened for myself, and this is my apartment not a wanky jazz bar, and we’re not on a date.’ He stopped suddenly, looked up. ‘And you can tell me—right now—if you don’t like it, and I’ll get you something else.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘You’re blushing. And to prove to you how well I know women, I’ll tell you that I worked out the first time you blushed that you do that when you lie.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I did. Now, for rulebook: hanging out with girls who agree with everything you say and like everything you like is boring. Don’t ever do that unless you really do agree with everything a guy says and like everything he likes. And if you do truthfully agree with everything he says and like everything he likes, dump him anyway. I’m telling you—boring!’

  ‘Fine. You found me out. I don’t like the wine. I don’t like Pinot Noir at all. Happy?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get you something else.’

  ‘Fine. But am I supposed to like Pinot Noir?’

  ‘Fine. Hang on! What?’

  ‘I mean, is it unsophisticated to dislike an entire grape varietal?’

  ‘Who the hell cares?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, Sarah,’ he said, ‘I could bang on about their being Pinot Noirs and Pinot Noirs, but that would make me an insufferable prick. So why don’t you just tell me what wine you actually like? Or do you hate wine, and I need to mix you a cocktail?’

  ‘Fine. In white wine, I like Chardonnay, as long as it’s super cold. In red, Shiraz.’

  David laid his sketchbook on the coffee table. ‘I don’t have any Chardonnay quite that cold, so Shiraz it is.’

  ***

  As David disappeared through the doorway Sarah presumed led to the kitchen, she contemplated getting up to re-examine his paintings for clues about his ‘brutal frame of mind’. Why brutal? What had happened? It was a mystery. He was a mystery. And she was intrigued—almost enough to not care if he caught her snooping.

  But before she could give in to curiosity, David was back with a decanter and two glasses. He poured a glass for Sarah and one for himself, and as she sipped, he picked up his sketchbook and started drawing again.

  Silence.

  And then he sighed and put down his sketchbook again. ‘Why can’t you sit still?’

  ‘Drinking wine requires movement.’

  ‘It’s not the wine. It’s this …’ He squirmed, demonstrator-style. ‘You’re fidgeting.’

  ‘Maybe I’d better top up my wine. That might help me relax.’

  ‘Drink away. But if you slide into a drunken stupor and I have to book you in for AA meetings at the end of this, I won’t be impressed.’

  ‘Do not slide into drunken stupor. Check.’

  ‘Brat,’ David said, and went back to drawing.

  While he sketched, Sarah pondered the idea of being still. She’d never thought of herself as either still or not still—she just was. ‘Is it a good thing?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stillness.’

  ‘It’s neither good nor bad. Like Pinot Noir.’

  ‘But you like it, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at her. ‘Especially when I’m sketching.’

  ‘Oh, you! Seriously, is it an attractive quality in a woman?’

  ‘It suggests a certain confidence, to be still. And confidence is always attractive.

  ‘So, yes.’

  ‘So, yes, I guess. Now, back to Craig. What happened post-Passion Pop?’

  ‘We talked.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Music.’

  ‘And what did he think of your preference for pop music?’

  Sarah did the foot tap thing again.

  ‘Saaaaraaaah? You did tell him, right?’

  ‘It didn’t come up.’

  ‘Blushing.’

  Her hand came up to her cheek. ‘Oh, but it’s not a lie. Not really.’

  ‘You were at a bar, where he was scheduled to perform, talking about music, and he never asked you what kind of music you liked?’ He shook his head. ‘Not buying it. I mean, he’s a moron but not that much of a moron.’

  ‘If he’s a moron, why did you introduce me to him?’

  ‘Because I’m a moron.’

  She started laughing. ‘Oh, you!’

  ‘It’s true. I’ll choose better next time. Now come on, spit it out. Music.’

  ‘The subject really didn’t come up, because …’ Her eyes squeezed shut. ‘Because I told him jazz was my favourite type of music before he could ask me and that was the end of that.’

  ‘I see,’ David said.

  Sarah opened one cautious eye, then the other, biting her bottom lip.

  ‘Stand up and go over to the glass doors, will you?’ David said.

  ‘Why? Are you going to make me jump off the balcony?’ she asked with a nervous half-laugh, clutching her wineglass like a lifeline.

  ‘Yes, if you do something like that again. But for now, just move. Okay, stop … right … theeere, good. Turn side-on.’ Sketch, sketch, sketch. ‘What else did you and Craig talk about?’

  ‘Golf.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Football.’

  ‘Okay, I think I can see what went down. You talked about everything that interests him, and nothing that interests you.’

  ‘But I told you, I can talk about—’

  ‘Anything, yep, got it, PR girl. Face me.’ Pause while he drew. ‘And then he sang.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he any good?’

  ‘Truthfully, he was singing in the wrong register.’

  ‘So he sucked? Come on, gloves off.’

  ‘He was … not good.’

  ‘So when he rejoined you, you said … what?’

  ‘You don’t really think I was going to tell him how bad he was!’

  ‘There are ways, and there are ways.’

  ‘Whatever “ways” there are, they’re not my ways, are they? I’ve clearly been doing things the wrong way my entire life.’

  ‘Hey, enough with th
e italics! Just tell me what your “way” was on Saturday night.’

  ‘I told him he was brilliant,’ she mumbled. ‘As anyone with a modicum of … of politeness in their character would have done.’

  ‘His mother, maybe. No—don’t argue.’ He started sketching again. ‘Rulebook: excessive politeness does not a memorable date make. It’s the same in principle as agreeing with everything a guy says.’

  ‘Okay, but he didn’t seem bored.’

  ‘Turn a little to the left, but keep looking at me.’ Pause, while he looked between her and his sketch. Then, super-innocent: ‘So he called you on Sunday, I suppose, after you were so obliging as to sing his praises and agree with everything he said?’

  ‘No, but I didn’t really want him to. And anyway, they never call the next day, do they?’

  It was a rhetorical question, but David answered it anyway. ‘Yes, Sarah, they do. If they’ve had a great time and they want to have another one, they call you the next day. Sometimes they even call you later that night.’

  ‘Or text?’

  ‘Or text.’

  ‘Like you texted me?’ she said, and laughed.

  Pause, and then David batted that away. ‘Yeah, don’t get too puffed up in your own conceit there, bluebell. It’s Craig who should have been doing it. Craig, your date.’

  ‘Well, Erica never seems bothered by it when they don’t call straight away.’

  ‘Who’s Erica?’

  ‘Erica Wilder. One of my two best friends. Lane’s housemate. She’s a flight attendant.’

  David’s eyes widened appreciatively. ‘A flight attendant?’

  ‘What is it with guys and flight attendants?’

  ‘It’s a women in uniform thing.’

  ‘More like a mile-high club fantasy.’ She took a giant sip of wine. ‘Before you get carried away, I’ll tell you what I told Adam: Erica has a boyfriend. And about a hundred guys waiting in the wings hoping Jeremy drops dead.’

  ‘Adam? And Erica? I thought he wanted Lane.’

  ‘Long story, which I am not going to go into.’

  ‘Well if Erica could get your brother’s eyes off Lane after what I saw of him at the gallery last week, she must be something else. And you’re telling me there’s nothing special about flight attendants?’

  ‘It’s not about her job. It’s about …’ waving her wineglass ‘… her.’