Love @ First Site

by Jane Moore

  Scrolling down, I double click on Seb Northam's e-mail from earlier in the week, the one suggesting lunch today. What harm can it do, I muse, as I stand up and cross to the kettle.

  After all, we've been cyberchatting for a couple of months now and he seems personable and funny, not to mention passably pleasant looking in his photo. Not an oil painting, but then again, not a seaside postcard either.

  And if I'm honest, Olivia's little Christmas Day speech about life's priorities has been playing on my mind. Yes, thirty-four is still young in so many ways, but if, as I do, you want to get married and have children, then time is of the essence. Particularly if you want to do things the traditional way of meeting someone, giving it a couple of years to make sure you're right for each other, getting married, then trying for a baby. By my calculation, even if I met someone right now, my ovaries would be approaching 104 by the time I got round to needing them.

  Nope, there's nothing else for it. I've got to get back out there and date. Starting now.

  Rawnsley's is a traditional English restaurant with stalwarts such as braised beef and Guinness pie or fish and chips on the menu. Both are scrawled on the "specials" blackboard outside, along with beef stew and dumplings.

  I loiter outside for a few seconds, taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself. God knows why I feel so nervous when I have unabashedly turned up for so many dates with complete strangers and not felt in the slightest bit jittery. Perhaps it's the fact that Seb and I have already revealed so much, despite never having clapped eyes on each other. Ducking into a doorway at one side of the entrance, I take out my pocket mirror and check my hair and makeup one last time. The latter is "au naturel," in other words, equally as much as any other kind of makeup, just less obvious. I hope.

  After a good hour of deliberation and frustration at home, I have opted for a black polo neck sweater, cream trousers, and black ankle boots, with a cream parka jacket on top. The look can best be described as that ubiquitous oxymoron "smart casual." Right. Here I go. The restaurant is dark, very dark. Great for hiding any blemishes, but less obliging for an attractive first impression, given that you have to squint alarmingly to be able to see anyone.

  There are only two tables currently occupied, and both of them already have three people en suite. So, unless I have unwittingly agreed to a group date, I'm the first here.

  I contemplate leaving and walking round the block a couple of times, but I don't think my hair could cope. Besides, being first puts me in poll position to scrutinize him as soon as he comes squinting through the door.

  "Madam, how may I help you?" A hand-wringing, obsequious waiter hones into view, dipping his entire body below mine as if I'm the King of Siam.

  "I'm meeting a Mr. Northam here for lunch," I reply.

  "Ah yes, he's here."

  "He is?" I peer into the gloom, wondering how I could have overlooked a solitary diner.

  "Yes, he's out the back."

  Out the back? Bloody hell, I think, if he can't get a table in the main part of a virtually deserted restaurant he must have a really imposing presence. What have I gotten myself into?

  "Let me take your coat and I'll take you through," says the waiter, gesturing to a small door at the rear of the room.

  Following him, I start to panic slightly about the decision to come, and seriously contemplate doing an about turn and escaping. I now wish I'd suggested coffee in a brightly lit, crowded cafe, rather than agreeing to lunch in this gloomy, half-empty place. If I decide after five minutes he's not my type, it's going to be incredibly difficult to curtail an intimate lunch in an isolated back room.

  Before I can make a decision, the waiter is tapping on the door. "Hello, sir? Your guest is here."

  He tentatively pushes the door open, and I peer in over his shoulder. It's a small, dimly lit room with just one table for two laid out in the center. Seb is sitting in the nearest chair, his back to the door.

  "I'll leave you now, madam." The waiter smiles, standing aside for me to walk in. He closes the door behind me, and I stand there motionless for a couple of seconds, taking in the surroundings. A small ledge-cum-dado rail around the room is peppered with tealights flickering in the gloom, and in the center of the table a large church candle adds to the slightly eerie ambience. George Michael's "I Can't Make You Love Me" plays softly out of two speakers positioned in the far corners of the ceiling.

  "Hello?" I say tentatively, craning my head towards Seb, who still hasn't turned round. The image of Psycho's mother in her rocking chair snaps into my mind.

  Taking a couple of steps forward, I walk past the side of his chair and turn to look at him. The blood drains from my face and my nerve endings stand to attention.

  "What the fuck are you doing here?" I exclaim, feeling my cheeks flush hot with a mixture of confusion and slight anger that some sort of trap has been set without my knowledge. We all know how I hate surprises.

  "Ah yes, a typical Jess-style greeting. Lovely to see you too." He smiles sheepishly and gestures to the chair in front of him. "Sit down."

  "No thanks." I stay where I am, my hands on my hips. "Ben, what's going on?"

  His expression is apologetic. "I'm Seb Northam."

  Brow furrowed, I plonk myself into the chair without thinking and turn to face him. "OK, you've lost me."

  "I'm Seb Northam," he repeats. "It's an anagram of Ben R. Thomas. My middle name is Robert, by the way . . . I don't think I ever told you that," he adds matter-of-factly.

  I blink rapidly, my brain computing what he's just said. "So you're the one who's been sending me all those e-mails?"

  He nods, giving me a nervous grin.

  "Why?" I ask. "Why not just e-mail me as yourself?"

  "It's a long story." He sighs. "Are you going to share a glass of wine with me and stay and listen to it, or carry on being hostile?"

  "I'm not hostile," I reply indignantly.

  "Oh no, not at all," he says, arching an eyebrow. "Scowling expression, body turned to one side, arms crossed . . . no, no . . . not hostile at all."

  I unfold my arms and turn my body round to face him front on, but a faint scowl is still evident, more through continuing confusion than anything else. "Go on then, pour the wine."

  He duly does, and hands the glass to me. Holding the stem of his own, he raises it. "Nice to see you."

  "Nice to see you too . . . Seb."

  "Now, now, you see? There's that hostility again."

  "Well, what do you expect?" I splutter, a small dribble of wine escaping from the corner of my mouth. "I send you an apologetic e-mail, you don't even bother replying, then I turn up for a date with some supposed stranger I've been conversing with for a couple of months and find out it's you! I don't even like surprise birthday parties, so this is really pissing me off."

  He waits for me to finish, his mouth set in a firm line. "Well, sorry you're pissed off, Jess, but it was the only way to get through that thick skull of yours."

  "Get what through?"

  He sighs again, a longer, deeper one this time. "This wasn't how I envisaged this at all. I wanted it to be special." He sweeps his arm towards all the candles and slumps back in his chair with an air of hopelessness.

  "You did all this?" I say, with a note of surprise. It hasn't struck me before, such was my shock at seeing him.

  He looks at me incredulously. "Well, who the hell do you think did it?"

  I shrug. "I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it. I suppose I imagined it was for something happening later."

  He slaps his hand against his forehead. "Two hours of hard slog to create a romantic ambience and you think it's for some bloody birthday party or whatever later on. I may as well have booked a table by the toilets in a Happy Eater."

  "Sorry." I wince pathetically. The word "romantic" sears itself into the front of my brain, and for the first time I focus on what this might be all about.

  He shakes his head slowly, as if I'm a lost cause. "So do you want to hear th
e long story or not?"

  "Go on then," I say, leaning forward on my elbows.

  Taking a deep breath, he looks at me apprehensively. "On second thought, fuck the long version . . . The truth is . . . I think I'm falling in love with you."

  I stare at him blankly for a couple of beats, my stomach lurching. "You're falling in love with me?" I parrot.

  "Yep. Think so." He looks at me expectantly.

  "But I thought you . . ." I tail off awkwardly.

  "Ah yes, you thought I was gay," he says helpfully. "Don't worry, you can say it."

  "So you're not then?"

  "Nope. Not one iota, although I do have a couple of Judy Garland albums I should probably confess to."

  "A dead giveaway," I say. Inside, my heart feels like it's about to break out of my chest at his revelation, but I'm not sure whether it's through panic or excitement. I haven't yet had time to assimilate it properly or form a response, so I decide to gloss over it for now. "Now I feel even more stupid for what I said on New Year's Eve."

  "Forget it," he says simply. "Considering what you'd been told, I suppose it's understandable you thought that."

  "You mean the locker room embrace?" I sip my wine and study his face for a reaction.

  He raises his eyes heavenward. "That wasn't what it seemed at all."

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "Not really, as it's very personal to the other person. But I'll tell you anyway, just to clear up any lingering doubt." He bites his lip. "The guy plays for the rugby team. I don't really know him that well, but he knows what I do for a living, so when his younger sister was diagnosed with leukemia recently, he wanted to talk to me about it, to get some advice and insight and be reassured. He approached me after practice one day and we got to talking and, understandably, he became very upset. So I gave him a hug. And that's it." He shrugs and looks straight at me.

  Needless to say, I feel like a complete fool, and I could cheerfully throttle the moronic Will, who clearly can't tell the difference between a reassuring hug and a gay kiss. "And how is his sister now?" I ask.

  He smiles. "Luckily, she has the most curable form of leukemia, so she's going to be just fine."

  "Thank goodness. Let's hope it stays that way." I take a sip of wine and continue to try to stop my mind from reeling, to try to process everything that's being said.

  "So . . ." His eyes bore into mine. "What are your thoughts on my little declaration?"

  I shrug. "It's no big deal. I quite like Judy Garland too."

  "Jess . . ." he growls. And I grin, despite myself.

  "Sorry, but it's quite a shock. One minute I think you're gay, the next you're telling me you might be falling in love with me. It takes a little time for a girl to digest all that."

  He purses his lips, looking doubtful at this explanation. "But you must know whether you feel happy or appalled by the news?"

  "Not appalled, that's for sure," I say.

  "But not happy either?" He looks disappointed.

  "I didn't say that, did I?" I reply softly. "It's just a lot to take in, particularly that Seb Northam business. What was that all about?"

  He pours the last of the wine bottle into our glasses, and I notice there's another sitting in an ice bucket by his side. The waiters have obviously been told to stay well away until called.

  "Well," he says tentatively, "I kind of figured that you might not think of me in that way. You know . . . we met through Will, didn't get off to a very good start, and then became friends because of your TV report on Sunshine House. Hardly Romeo and Juliet, is it? And I know how you like to feel an instant spark in relationships, because you've told me enough times."

  I wonder whether this is the time to interject and point out that I've had a radical change of heart over that particular relationship rule of mine, but decide to save it for later.

  "I'm very mistrustful of that whole spark business," he continues, "because it always wears off and leaves a residue of disappointment. To my mind, it's much better to be friends with someone first."

  He reaches across the table and grabs hold of my right hand. I feel a tingle that surprises me. "You see, I already know that you can be unerringly stubborn when you think you're right about something, that you occasionally suffer black moods in the mornings, and that, just sometimes, you become totally focused on work to the exclusion of all else. I know all that because we've been friends first.

  "We've already learned the worst about each other and can go forward with no surprises, whereas normally, you discover the worst things about your partner after falling in love and it sometimes erodes what you have."

  He lets go of my hand and leans back on his chair, stretching his left leg out to one side and cupping his hands behind his head.

  "But none of those worst things matter because I also happen to know you are one of the kindest, most loyal people I have ever met, someone who can appear to have a hard shell to those that don't know her, but who I know to have an endearingly soft center."

  "Just call me M&M," I quip, trying to ignore the fact that my insides are fluttering with apprehension.

  "Anyway." He sighs, moving his arms in front of him again and leaning forwards on the table. "Because of your penchant for dating total strangers rather than mates, I felt the only way to woo you, if you like, was to start from scratch by pretending to be someone else . . . voila, Seb Northam. I tweaked a couple of facts about him so you wouldn't suspect, but otherwise he's intrinsically me."

  I nod my head slowly, smiling slightly to show I'm not cross. "And the photo?"

  He laughs. "Ah yes, the photo. It's my brother James, taken at his birthday party a couple of years ago. I figured we look similar-ish, but not enough for you to figure out the truth."

  "It certainly worked," I concede. "I didn't suspect a thing."

  His face turns serious again. "Jess, you have no idea how hard it was for me to be developing these feelings for you, all the while listening to you talking about all the dates you were going on. It was so frustrating."

  "So why didn't you just ask me out?"

  He looks derisive and clicks his fingers. "Oh yeah, just like that. Easier said than done, particularly as questions like that have a habit of ruining good friendships. I was close to it at one point, but then Will casually mentioned that you had the hots for some bloke you'd met through the Internet, and I thought I was going to be sick with jealousy."

  "Ah, yes." I nod sagely. "Simon R.I.P." I make the crucifix sign across my chest. "Sadly, he didn't live up to the hype."

  "Glad to know the voodoo doll worked then." Ben grins, running a hand through his hair. "Anyway, I had earmarked New Year's Eve as the time I was going to sink my own weight in booze, confess to the Seb thing, and finally pluck up the courage to try and ravish you, but . . ."

  "But I accused you of being gay," I interrupt with a sheepish smile.

  "Precisely. Silly cow." He raises his eyes heavenward to show the insult is meant affectionately. "So that's why I came up with the idea for this lunch."

  Grabbing the second bottle of wine, he pours us two generous glasses. I can feel the alcohol relaxing me now, stripping away the earlier tension caused by this little surprise. The combination of candlelight and a windowless room is disorientating, and it could easily be nighttime, but a quick glance at my watch shows it to be 1:30 p.m.

  "So are we going to eat?" I inquire, waving my glass at him. "Because if I have much more of this on an empty stomach, you might have to carry me out of here on a stretcher."

  Smiling warmly, he's clearly relieved that I'm showing no signs of a quick exit. "Sure. Shall I just order a couple of plates of stew and stodgy dumplings to line the stomach?"

  "I'm on the Fatkins diet, so that sounds perfect," I say, maintaining eye contact as he stands up.

  After he's disappeared through the door into the restaurant, I take a deep breath and try to take stock of what's been said so far. Most crucially of all, I try to nail down exactly what
I feel about it, as I know that whatever I say today will probably make or break our relationship, be it as friends or lovers.

  It's true I have never thought about Ben in a sexual way, but that could easily be explained away by the fact that, right from the outset, Tab alluded that he might be gay. On the plus side, I felt bereft when I thought I might have upset him with my insensitive blethering on New Year's Eve. But was that simply because I value his friendship or because, subconsciously, my feelings ran a lot deeper? And if they don't now, could they?

  Whoops, no time to dwell on all that. He's back.

  "Two plates of stodge on its way." He grins, settling back into his chair.

  "Excellent."

  We sit there, smiling at each other, for what seems like an eternity. Both clearly wondering where the conversation goes from here, neither knowing quite how to restart it.

  He clears his throat. "So why did you come on a date with Seb Northam?"

  "Pardon?"

  "What was it about him that made you decide to turn up today?" he elaborates.

  I shrug. "Dunno really. He seemed very nice, and I figured that as I was single it wouldn't do any harm to at least have lunch with him and see what he's like in person."

  "That's it?" He raises his eyebrows. "You weren't blown away by his witticisms, drawn in by his overpoweringly attractive personality?"

  I laugh. "Oh yes, that too of course."

  "Glad to hear it."

  My expression turns serious. "And something Olivia said made me come along as well."

  "Oh?" He leans forward slightly.

  "She said that having a good relationship and kids was what life was all about . . . that work doesn't keep you warm at night." I stare down at the table, absentmindedly picking at a fleck on the cloth. "She also pointed out that I'm thirty-four and time is running out if I want to have a chance of finding the right person before my ovaries shrivel to the size of raisins."

  Now, let's just pause a moment here. Can you imagine repeating what I've just said on most first dates? The man would leave skid marks.