by Jane Moore
He looks perplexed. "Sorry?"
"Why do you want to eat inside? It's a gorgeous day." In case he hasn't noticed the blue sky, I gesture towards it.
"I'm not very good in the heat," he says lamely. "I get hay fever and go all blotchy."
"In May? Bit early, isn't it?" I don't bother to hide my incredulity, then shrug. "OK, then. Let's go."
Once inside, he relaxes instantly, his face lighting up with a smile that makes Tom Cruise look like Lurch.
I feel the small butterflies of excitement in my stomach. It's my first date and it's with a man with movie star looks. Suddenly, the Internet I have hitherto shown little interest in is the greatest invention since the push-up bra.
As he peruses the menu on which I am already word perfect, I take the opportunity to scrutinize him closely. He has short, dark blond hair that's slightly spiky at the front and a faint tan that brings out the paler blue in his eyes. I could stare at him all day.
"You're not looking at the menu."
Oh God, he's just caught me gawping at him. I hastily try and make it seem like I was looking over his shoulder, making myself look more ridiculous in the process. "Um, I glanced at it before you got here. I've got a photographic memory," I burble.
"Me too." There's that stomach-lurching smile again. "Trouble is, the lens cap's on most of the time."
He glances back down at the menu for a few seconds, then slams it shut and places his elbows on the table. "So how come someone like you is advertising on the Internet?"
I'm rather taken aback by the directness of the question, but manage not to show it. "I could say the same to you. You're not exactly Quasimodo."
"No, but I've got a hunch we're going to get on."
We groan simultaneously.
"Seriously though," he persists. "Why did you advertise?"
"I didn't as such. My friends did it for me. They thought it would be a fun birthday present." I raise my eyes heavenward.
"Ah, I see." He nods slowly. "Well, I'm glad you decided to give it a go, or we'd never have got the chance to meet." He knocks his water glass against mine. "In the absence of wine, a toast to our first date."
Wine. First date. Pathetic, I know, but I clutch at these as positive signs. Suddenly, I'm regretting my invented hair appointment and wondering if there's a plausible explanation for missing it without him thinking I'm desperately keen.
After ordering our food and some real wine from a waiter whose reluctant demeanor suggests we're interrupting his modeling career, we settle down to learn something about each other.
He tells me he's one of three privately educated brothers, from Tunbridge Wells in Kent, son of a former bank manager and stay-at-home mother.
"When Dad retired, my parents moved to Eastbourne. Apparently, it's the law." He smiles.
I, in turn, tell him about Olivia and my parents. "It's a funny thing, isn't it, getting old?" I say. "My mother still looks great, but she's started recording daytime TV programs, a sure sign that senility is setting in. And no matter where Dad sits, there's always a draft."
"Aren't you a daytime TV producer?" he says, referring to the tantalizing description I gave him in an e-mail. His expression suggests he's rather impressed.
"Sounds glamorous, doesn't it?" I laugh nervously. "It isn't really though. I work for Good Morning Britain, fixing up the facial scaffolding for the makeovers."
He purses his lips, accentuating how beautifully defined and kissable they are. "Don't do yourself down. I really like that show. Many a time I end up watching that instead of coming up with an eye-catching design or slogan for the blank sheet of paper in front of me."
"So what sort of designs do you do when you're not absorbed in our flower-arranging and cookery items?"
"I work in the print ad section of GFDS. I'm supposed to come up with groundbreaking newspaper and magazine ads for clients. But eventually, I want to get into making ads for TV and film."
"Ooh, I've heard of that agency. I'm sure we did an item last year on one of its ads; the one with the half-naked supermodel practically having an orgasm because she'd just tasted a new margarine. There were loads of complaints about it."
"Yep. That was mine." He grins. "I'll have you know the orgasm was crucial to the story line. Fortunately, in my line of business, attracting lots of complaints is treated as a huge accolade rather than a sacking offense. At least it gets the product talked about."
The food arrives and he tucks into his chili con carne with a side order of garlic bread. I pick at my salade nicoise, my appetite quelled somewhat by the far more temptingly delicious sight sitting across the table from me.
"Everything all right with the food?" It's the sullen waiter again, noting my full plate.
"Fine, thanks." I pop an olive into my mouth to illustrate my satisfaction. When he's walked off, I poke my tongue out at his retreating back.
Simon laughs. "You're funny." He holds one finger in front of him. "Funny." He holds up another. "Pretty." Then a third. "And successful. Which makes me wonder why you're having to go on dates like this. You must have men crawling all over you."
I feel myself blush, and hope it's an endearing pink flush rather than my usual blotchy puce.
"Hardly," I scoff. "I haven't dated anyone for over a year." Worried that makes me sound like a desperate saddo, I add an afterthought. "Well, not seriously anyway."
He looks thoughtful and finishes chewing a piece of bread. "So, who was your last serious relationship?"
I curl my top lip. "Nathan. Otherwise known as Satan to my friends. He was my five-year mistake."
Simon's eyebrows shoot up. "That's a long time to waste on someone who's wrong for you."
"I know. But it wasn't always bad. It just became particularly unbearable towards the end."
I look up from my virtually untouched salad, but he doesn't seem to be listening. He's staring over my shoulder at the restaurant door, something he seems to have done every time it's opened.
He blinks a few times and turns his attention back to me. "Sorry, I was listening. I find sitting near doors very distracting, because although I don't mean to, I always look to see who's coming in."
"I know what you mean," I say reassuringly, although I don't really. With him in front of me, I have absolutely no desire to look anywhere else. "So what about you?"
"Huh?"
"When was your last serious relationship?"
He ponders the question for a moment, rolling the rim of his wineglass along his bottom lip. "Um, it ended about six months ago. We were together for three years."
"I'm sorry to hear that." I'm not sorry at all. In fact, I'm ecstatic. Borderline hysterical even.
"Oh, don't be. It had been in its death throes for some time, then she decided to go and work in Australia."
Could he be any more perfect? Gorgeous, funny, successful, easily capable of holding down a long-term relationship, and with an ex-girlfriend who lives on another continent twelve thousand miles away. Thank you, God.
He glances at his watch. "It's two-fifteen. Haven't you got a hair appointment?"
Bugger bugger bugger. Why the hell did I ever say that? Just as the conversation is becoming more intimate, I have to leave for an urgent appointment with my empty flat and afternoon made-for-TV movie.
"I could always cancel," I blurt.
He looks puzzled. "Really? Won't they charge you for not turning up?"
I can hear false, tinkling laughter. It's mine. "Oh no, Mario is really laid back about all that. I've been going to him for years." Mario, what a cliche. My hairdresser is actually called Colin.
"Well, if you think he won't mind . . ." He picks up the wine list. "You make the call and I'll order us another bottle."
My insides on full spin, I dial my home number and leave a message on my own answering machine. "Hi there. It's Jessica Monroe. I have an appointment with Mario at two-thirty, but can you can tell him I can't make it? You will? Oh, thank you so much. Bye!"
I've heard more convincing performances on Crossroads, but it doesn't seem to have aroused his suspicion.
"Wine's on its way." He smiles. "I must say, I'm enjoying our lunch very much."
"Me too." I lean towards him a little more. "You're my first cyber date, you know."
"Really? And how lucky you were to hit the jackpot first time." His expression is mischievous and he leans forward and plants a playful kiss on the end of my nose. "Hope you don't mind."
"Not at all." At the point of impact, it felt as though a million volts had shot through me. I'm keen, some might say desperate, for him to gravitate towards my mouth.
But the waiter arrives out of the blue with the wine and fills up both our glasses. I wait until he's out of earshot.
"How many dates have you been on?" I ask with as much nonchalance as I can muster.
"Let's see." He holds up his hands and starts flicking his fingers up and down until I can no longer keep count. "Your face!" he laughs. "Just two. You're my third."
Taking a rather large glug of wine for Dutch courage, I swallow hard. "Have you seen either of them again?" Say no. Please say no.
"No. They weren't really my type, to be honest."
My body may seem outwardly still, but my inner spirit is doing handsprings followed by a full stag leap around the restaurant. "So what's your type then?"
"You are, actually." He extends his chest across the table and kisses me full on the mouth. He lingers there, clearly waiting for a response, and I can't help myself. Pinch me, pinch me. We are gently smooching and I think I might actually pass out with sheer pleasure. I can't remember a Saturday afternoon as satisfying as this since a teenage Kara tripped up in the precinct whilst trying to impress some bloke with her new cork wedges.
Eventually, for the sake of decorum, I gently pull away. "Yum."
Yum? Yum? Jesus Christ, as witty, coquettish bon mots go, that's right up there with "glad," my least favorite word of all time. Memo to self: Must practice and learn Dorothy Parker-esque repartee.
He makes a circling motion on the back of my hand with his forefinger. "As you might have guessed, I'd like to see you again."
"Fine by me." I'm grinning with unadulterated delight, but I can't help myself. Having heard and read so many dating horror stories, I can't believe my luck.
The door behind me creaks open again, but this time he doesn't tear his gaze away from mine. "Good. I'll e-mail you to fix a date. Shall we make it dinner next time?"
"Good idea." It's Richard and Lars's anniversary dinner tonight, but if Simon suggests this evening I might just mutate into the worst friend of all time and say yes. But he doesn't. "It's funny, you know," I say, looking down at the table and smiling to myself. "I was really dreading this lunch . . ."
I'm about to fess up to the mythical hair appointment, and glance up to make sure he's hanging on my every word. He isn't.
Lowering his eyelids and tucking his chin into his chest, he mumbles: "Excuse me, I have to go to the loo." Silently pushing his chair back, he scuttles to the rear of the restaurant and disappears through the door marked "Restrooms."
Maybe the chili con carne is working its magic, I think, tittering to myself at the thought. Taking another mouthful of wine, I turn in my chair to view the rest of the room. The diners who arrived when I did have mostly left, to be replaced by the next shift of Saturday afternoon shoppers who probably ate a late breakfast. One large group has clearly just arrived, as they noisily choose who sits where and remove coats.
I turn back and stare at the empty chair in front of me, deep in thought. Who would have guessed that Kara would be doing me such a favor when she placed that ad? Certainly, that wasn't her intention. I smirk with joy at the thought of her meeting the gorgeous man she has indirectly hooked me up with.
Five minutes pass and I wonder whether I should go in there and check if he's all right. But I talk myself out of it. After all, a stomach upset is undignified at the best of times, but on a first date, it must be horribly embarrassing. I'll wait a bit longer and pretend it's been no time at all when he finally emerges.
Ten minutes now. I look at my watch just to check, then glance over at the door to the loos, willing him to walk back through it. The last thing I want is for him to get the shits and have bad memories of our first date. Perhaps we'll laugh about it another time, when we've been together a month or so.
Twelve minutes. Now I really should go and see how he is. Otherwise, he might think me horribly uncaring. Throwing my handbag over my shoulder, I stand up and walk to the back of the room.
Through the door, three options face me: Private: Staff Only, Dames, and Guys. Standing outside the latter, I tap on it. "Simon, are you in there?"
No answer. A bit louder now. "Simon! It's me, Jess. Are you OK?"
No answer again. Suddenly, the door from the restaurant swings open and a middle-aged man in a suit walks through. He looks at me strangely.
"Sorry." I smile weakly. "But my friend went in here a while ago and hasn't come out. Would you mind checking if he's all right for me?"
His face relaxes slightly, now confident I'm not some mad stalker with a gents loo fetish. As if. The stench is making me want to throw up what little of my salade nicoise I actually ate.
"Of course. Hang on a minute." He disappears inside.
My ear pressed to the door, I can hear him knocking on cubicles and saying "Hello?"
A few seconds later, he opens the door again and I fall forwards, clutching his shoulder to break my fall. "Sorry," I gasp.
"There's no one in there." He looks at me strangely and I realize it's pity.
"My mistake," I gush. "We must have passed each other. He's probably back at the table." Mustering as much dignity as I can, I turn and walk back through to the restaurant. My eyes closed, I murmur a small prayer, then open them.
He's not there.
My Prince Charming has seemingly vanished into thin air, with not so much as a smelly dock shoe left behind. In his place, the facially challenged waiter is standing next to the table scowling at the two empty chairs.
There has to be some perfectly reasonable explanation. After all, we were getting on brilliantly and he was doing all the chasing.
I approach the table and plonk myself dejectedly into the chair. All pretense of dignity gone, I look at the waiter with an expression of puzzlement and disappointment. A swell of nausea rises from my stomach to the back of my throat and I feel close to tears. "Have you seen the man I was having lunch with?"
"Yes." He tears the bill from his pad and places it in front of me. "He went out through the kitchen a few minutes ago. He said you'd pay."
Five
He's married. Absolutely no doubt about it." Richard's mouth sets in a firm line, suggesting that now he has delivered his verdict, that's the end of the matter.
Doubtful, I purse my lips. "He didn't seem married."
"Darling, of course he didn't. He was pretending to be single because he wanted to have his cake and eat it. You know, get his leg over."
It's 8:30 p.m. and I'm at Richard and Lars's flat for a party to celebrate their first anniversary. They moved in together after just one month, both impetuous types.
There are about twenty people expected, but so far it's just them, me, Tab and her boyfriend Will, and Madeleine. They have all cornered me, chomping at the bit for news on my hot date, and I have told them everything--right down to the humiliation of being abandoned and saddled with the bill.
"He's not necessarily married," says Tab, placing a reassuring hand on my forearm. "There might be a simpler explanation."
"Like what?" scoffs Richard. "He's got X-piles?"
"Eh?" Tab looks bewildered.
"Unwanted visitors on Uranus, darling. Because that's the only other reason there could possibly be for spending so long in the bog, then disappearing into thin air."
"No," perseveres Tab. "He might have received an emergency phone call whilst he was in the loo and had to rush off."
"Through the kitchen?" says Richard scathingly. "Tabs, sweetie, you're lovely to try, but there's no point sugaring the pill. Jess has been taken in by the oldest con man in the book. He's married and he wanted a little extra-cunnilingular activity."
I scowl at him for such coarseness, but inside I feel horribly nauseous and overwhelmingly depressed. I just want to go home, curl up in a ball under the duvet, and never come out. Instead, I have to stay here and celebrate someone else's happy, rewarding relationship. Hip hip hoo-bloody-rah.
"But if, as you say, he was only after one thing, why would he suddenly leave when he was so close to getting it?" I flush at the thought of the wine-induced kiss. I don't know why I'm still flogging this dead horse, but there's a strange masochistic comfort in talking about it.
Even Richard has to give thought to my question. "Hmmm," he says slowly. "Let's see. What happened between the snog and him disappearing?"
"Nothing." And I meant it.
He looks incredulous. "Think. There must have been something. What about elsewhere in the restaurant?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, did anyone come in?"
I think for a moment, then shrug. "People were coming in and out all the time. I had my back to them."
"Ah, so he could see them?" Richard narrows his eyes and rubs his chin Columbo style. "How did he react to them?"
All eyes are glued on me and I feel like the main witness in a murder trial. I can't help myself.
"Now that you mention it . . ."
Almost imperceptibly, they all lean forward a few millimeters.
". . . he was in the library with the lead pipe."
It takes a couple of beats for my remark to sink in, at which point they all sigh collectively and sit back in their chairs.
"Ha fucking ha." Richard hates it when the joke's on him. "Well, if you want to be a spinster for the rest of your life, you go right ahead and laugh at our efforts to try and help you," he says huffily.
"Sorry." I look suitably sheepish, then put on my best expression of concentration. "He did get a bit distracted every time the door opened, but he mentioned it himself and he wouldn't have done that if he was trying to hide something. Would he?" I look imploringly at Tab and Madeleine and, in the true spirit of the girly code, they shake their heads reassuringly, even though they probably think it's total hogwash.