‘If those are apology flowers …’ I begin.
‘Nothing of the sort,’ he says, with a grin. ‘For an apology, you’re really looking at a hyacinth, an iris, or a nice calla lily. These are Looking Forward To A Nice Evening Out flowers. I’d have thought that was obvious.’
‘You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ I smile at him. ‘They’re really gorgeous, Joel, thank you. Oh!’ I add, as I take them from him and notice the branded tissue paper they’re wrapped in, inside the layer of cellophane. ‘And you got them from that place up past the tube! For God’s sake, they must have cost you an arm and a leg up there! You honestly shouldn’t have.’
‘It was worth it. Besides, I’d never have been able to drop the words hyacinth, iris or calla lily so expertly into the conversation if it hadn’t been for the woman who sold them to me. Were you impressed?’
‘Ever so. I’ll just dash up and put these in some water, and then we can get going.’
I should probably, for politeness’s sake, if nothing else, invite Joel up while I bung the gorgeous roses in a sink-full of water, but we’re not quite on that level of intimacy yet, I don’t think. Besides, after Marilyn Monroe, I’m once bitten, twice shy. Even though there’s been no further sighting of Grace Kelly since last night, I’m wary of the worst-case scenario, which is that she’s materialized up there right now and is stretched out on the sofa in full wedding dress, still going on about me being her alter ego, or whatever the hell it was she had me pegged as.
She’s not, as I can see pretty quickly as soon as I get up there. But still. Better to be safe than sorry. I’m pretty inexperienced at this whole dating thing at the best of times; no need to add to my awkwardness by introducing my magical sofa before we’ve even cracked open the first bottle of Pinot Grigio.
‘Shall we start out at that nice pub on the corner of the next street,’ Joel asks, as I re-emerge and lock up the front door behind me, ‘and then we can negotiate what sort of thing we’d like, eating-wise?’
‘Perfect.’
I try not to make it too obvious, as we set off, that I’m looking at him. But he does look good. He’s only wearing jeans, a plain white shirt and dark-brown desert boots, but the combination of these, plus his wonderfully fit body and that chiselled, handsome face … well, it’s a winner, let’s leave it at that.
‘So, what do you like?’ he asks, glancing down at me.
‘Sorry?’
‘To eat. Just so we can get some irons in the fire, dinner-wise.’
‘Oh, right … I’m easy. About food, that is!’
‘That’s good. So you’re not one of those gluten-intolerant, raw-food, permanent health-kick types?’
‘No. But – er – aren’t you one of those?’
‘Should I be?’ He sounds faintly astonished.
‘Well, I just thought, with you being a personal trainer, you might be into the latest health fads and stuff.’
‘Oh … well, up to a point, I eat pretty healthily, I guess. But I’m not one for … sorry, what did you call them? The latest health fads?’
‘That might not be the technical term,’ I say, feeling a bit silly. ‘I’m a bit clueless about all that kind of thing, sorry. And just so I can get this out of the way at the start of the evening, before you make me feel a bit crap about the number of miles you run a week, or anything, I should probably just let you know that I’ve not set foot in a gym in about five years!’
‘I would never make you feel crap about anything,’ he says, in a slightly dismayed tone, as if I’m wildly underestimating him. ‘Least of all your record at the gym. Besides, it doesn’t show. You look, if I may say so, amazing.’
This is generous, because although I’ve done my best, and I think I’ve scrubbed up reasonably well this evening, I think amazing is pushing it.
But fortunately, we’ve just reached the pub, and he’s holding open the door for me, and we’re heading in, which brings to an end this slightly awkward line of conversation.
We find a table, a surprisingly nice corner one given that it’s already pretty packed in here, and then I hang on to it while he goes and gets a bottle of wine from the bar.
‘Red?’ he asks, a couple of minutes later, as he reappears with a bottle and two large glasses. ‘I realized when I got there that I hadn’t actually asked you what you prefer. It’s just a Merlot. Is that OK?’
‘Joel, honestly, it’s fine. Please don’t worry! I’m not fussy.’
Though it has to make you wonder a little bit about the sort of woman he’s used to dating, I suppose: the precise punctuality, the flowers, the checking about my happiness and preferences at every turn. Not that I’m complaining, because obviously his manners are pretty much as exquisite as that flawless skin of his. I just hope he relaxes a little as the evening goes on.
I’m not used to being the chilled-out one, that’s for sure.
‘Good.’ He sits down opposite me and pours us each a well-judged glass: not so big that it looks as if he’s trying to get me drunk, but not so small that it looks miserly. ‘Cheers. And I know I said I wouldn’t apologize again—’
‘Then don’t,’ I say, firmly, ‘because I’m absolutely fine. I mean, I’m pretty well padded.’
The image of me and my well-padded body linger, mortifyingly, in the air for a moment.
Then he chinks his glass to mine again. ‘Bottoms up, I suppose?’
The ice, thank God, has been broken.
I laugh, he smiles, and then he takes a drink from his glass and starts looking – thankfully – a little more relaxed.
‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me a bit more about yourself. I mean, all I have so far is that your name is Libby, and you’re a jewellery designer. A well-padded jewellery designer.’
‘Well, for starters, I don’t think anyone wants to know more about my well-padded body.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ he says lightly, and softly, into his wine glass.
I won’t deny, this gives me a bit of a thrill.
I mean, I got so accustomed to Dillon’s barrage of seductive charm – full-on, no-holds-barred, innuendo-laden verbal foreplay – that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to indulge in some proper, grown-up flirting. No, scratch that: I’ve never actually known what it’s like to indulge in proper, grown-up flirting. Everything I know about proper grown-up flirting, I’ve gleaned from the movies. Gregory Peck, Cary Grant, Fred Astaire. To name just three of the men I’d have given my eye-teeth to be dating rather than the sorry assembly that makes up my past. I’ve never been wined and dined. I’ve never been wined or dined, come to think of it. All my past relationships have taken a direct path from 1) Drunken Snog At Party through 2) Vaguely Ending Up Sleeping Together to 3) Saying We’re Going Out With Each Other Just To Avoid The Embarrassment Of Actually Having To Address The Fact We Only Have (Unsatisfactory) Sex Because We Don’t Have Anything To Say To One Another. Followed by 4) Hasty (but never quite hasty enough) Break-Up.
Seriously, my ‘love life’ has pretty much looked like the icky, embarrassing bits Taylor Swift has never wanted to chronicle in one of her hits.
All of which makes it even more ironic that during all those years of relationship failure, I could – should – have been settled in blissful harmony with Olly.
And dammit, there I go.
I’m not thinking about Olly tonight. I’m not. In fact, I’m putting a total ban on it. A total ban I’m going to have to tighten up pretty quick-smart if I want to enjoy the evening.
‘Libby?’ Joel is looking at me across the table, and looking mildly concerned about the fact I’m (probably) gazing into space like an idiot and not giving him an answer to his perfectly polite question. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes! More than OK! Gosh,’ I say, in a super-enthusiastic, jolly-hockey-sticks sort of style, to make up for drifting off, ‘well, yes! What can I tell you about me? Er … well, I’ve been running my jewellery company for almost two years now
. It only started out as a hobby, really – I mean, I was an actress before that, and a pretty unsuccessful one – but it’s really taken off, way more than I ever dreamed it would, really. I’m working with some … um … really great people.’ Best not to sit here and whinge about Elvira’s Official Warning, I think; it might lend a bum note to the evening. ‘And I’m just concentrating on building the brand at the moment,’ I say, which I’m rather pleased with, as an off-the-top-of-my-head statement, because it makes me sound purposeful and dynamic, both of which are things I suspect Joel is impressed by.
‘Amazing.’ He nods. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Libby Goes To Hollywood. I’m a huge fan of old movies, and my stuff is sort of inspired by Old Hollywood glamour … you know, Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner … er … Grace Kelly …’
‘Oh, well, now you’re talking …’ He puts a hand to his chest. ‘Grace Kelly was my first love. Not that she knew it, unfortunately. But still … what I wouldn’t have given to have met her in her prime.’
‘Yes. I, um, imagine that would have been something.’ I take a large drink from my glass. ‘Truly.’
‘Hey, if you love the movies, we should go to the cinema for our next date. I mean, always assuming there is a next date,’ he adds. ‘You might decide against it.’
‘You might decide against it.’
‘I can safely say,’ he says, ‘on the basis of everything I’ve experienced so far this evening, Libby, that no, I won’t be deciding against it.’
I smile at him. He smiles back. And we just sit there, for a couple of moments, beaming at each other like a couple of idiots.
‘Anyway!’ I say, breaking the spell, ‘that’s quite enough about me. Tell me about yourself. I mean, a surname would be nice!’
‘Perreira,’ he says. He turns ever so slightly pink. ‘Sorry,’ he blurts, inexplicably.
‘Why on earth would you be sorry about your surname?’
‘Just because … well, I know it’s a bit of an odd one. Brazilian, as it happens.’
‘Oh, you’re Brazilian.’
‘Half. My dad. My mum was born in Slovakia.’
‘Wow, so you’re … Brazilian-Slovakian.’ His vanilla-fudge skin and mysterious accent are making a bit more sense. ‘That’s quite a mixture.’
‘Yeah, I’m just an old mongrel,’ he says, with a short laugh. ‘Well, maybe not that old, thirty-nine next birthday. And you’re … what? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?’
‘Nice try,’ I say, wryly. ‘I’m thirty.’
‘Never!’
‘Again, nice try,’ I say. ‘But yes. Thirty.’
He grins back. ‘Thirty is good. In fact, thirty is terrific. You know, I accomplished more from the age of thirty onwards than at any other time in my life.’
‘Good to hear.’ I sip my wine. ‘So. You’re thirty-eight. And you’re a personal trainer. Do you enjoy it?’
‘Yes, I do enjoy my work.’ He sounds oddly stilted, but after another sip of wine, he goes on, a little less awkwardly, ‘I mean, I have some really great clients. And some good people working for me.’
‘Oh, wow, so you actually own FitRox, then? I thought you were just one of the trainers who worked there.’
‘No, no, I’m not one of the trainers.’
‘That’s amazing. Running the place, I mean. But is it ever difficult, owning your own business like that? Because I suppose I always thought it would be the most incredible fun – and it is, don’t get me wrong – but are there ever times when you feel like it’s not turning out quite how you wanted it to?’
‘Oh, God, yeah. All the time. I mean, when I first started out, I had all kinds of visions and dreams for how my business was going to look. It was going to be this shining beacon, of course, the gold standard. But then, along the way, you end up making compromises, and having to live in the real world …’ He shrugs. ‘It is, in what I think is the technical term for this sort of thing, a real bummer.’
‘It is that.’
‘The only thing you can do – and having been doing this for almost twenty years, now, Libby, this would be my biggest piece of advice to you – is never to make the compromise that feels too much. If you feel like you’re selling yourself down the river, or losing any of your integrity, or just not doing it the way you want to do it any more, then you should probably listen to your gut and hold firm.’
‘Right. That’s … that’s good advice. I mean, not exactly what I want to hear, to be honest with you. I’m having – well, a few issues with the people I work for. With!’ I correct myself, hastily, trying to ignore the sinking feeling as I realize the all-too-apt Freudian slip I’ve just made. ‘I have one vision of the way I want the company to go, and my investors have another … but I won’t bore you with any of that, sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly! If there’s anything at all I can do to help … You know, I do have some clients,’ he goes on, after another sip of wine, ‘who might be able to give you a bit more advice. Lawyers, and management consultants, that sort of thing. People who sometimes give me business advice too, in fact. I could always ask one of them if they’d be able to have a chat?’
‘Thanks, Joel. But I’ll work it all out somehow. Your clients must like you a hell of a lot,’ I add, ‘if they’re prepared to give you free legal advice while you’re making them do sit-ups! Oh, though sit-ups are completely out of fashion these days, aren’t they? Aren’t we all meant to be doing that thing called the plank instead?’
‘That’s the one.’ He pours a slightly larger glass for each of us. ‘But enough about me. Tell me more about your jewellery. Do you have a website? Somewhere I could go and order something? My mum’s birthday is coming up, and she always loves a good pair of earrings …’
‘Oh, God, Joel, don’t worry about that! You don’t have to start ordering stuff from me just to be nice!’ I’m appalled. ‘I appreciate the gesture, and all that, but it’s not necessary.’
‘That’s not why I’m doing it! My mum does like a good pair of earrings, and nice ones are surprisingly hard to find.’
‘OK, but please, please don’t go and spend two hundred quid on my website! My stuff is expensive. A lot more expensive than I want it to be … Look, I tell you what, I’ll find something I think you might like, and let you have it for an absolutely massive discount. Is that OK? Just, like, a tenner or something.’ I can feel myself turning pink, and wishing he’d never taken us down this uncomfortable avenue in the first place. ‘I mean, I’d happily give you something for free, but the people I work with—’
‘Libby, Libby.’ He reaches across the table and puts a hand on top of mine. He looks almost as mortified as I feel. ‘God, no, no, don’t be ridiculous. What on earth makes you think I wouldn’t want to spend two hundred quid on my mum’s birthday present? Trust me, she’s quite comfortable with me spending even more than that!’ He smiles. ‘Please, don’t go giving me a pair of your gorgeous earrings for a tenner! How about if I promise you that I’ll only order something – and pay the full price, mind – if I actually like it? Is that a deal?’
‘That’s a deal.’
God, I like this man.
And honestly, part of me is even starting to wonder if there’s any chance he’s just as magical as Grace Kelly and the other Hollywood icons who’ve popped out of my sofa. I mean, is it really possible to meet a man this nice, and sexy, too? In real life, I mean, not in a fairy tale. If it weren’t for the fact that it would make me sound very, very strange indeed, I’d lean over and ask the woman at the next table if she can actually see a real-live man sitting opposite me, or if I’m just imagining it, and freaking everyone else out by having an animated conversation with thin air.
‘And I promise you, Libby, if I like your stuff as much as I think I will, I’ll end up being a really good customer. I have a mum, a grandmother, an ex-wife I like to keep on the right side of …’
I smile at him. ‘Ah. Did you just want to drop that into the conversation?’
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br /> ‘The ex-wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Busted.’ He grins, sheepishly. ‘I don’t know the etiquette on these things, but … well, I thought it’s the kind of thing you ought to fess up to early on in the first date, right? If you’re really hoping there’s going to be a second date, that is.’
Like I probably ought to be fessing up to the fact that I’m still getting over the fact I’ve lost my soulmate?
Except … I don’t know. That might be something more appropriate for Date Number Two. Former marriage: not that big a deal. Still getting over loss of soulmate: probably best to bring that up a little further down the line.
Or, ideally, getting on with getting over Olly, and then never even needing to mention it to Joel at all.
‘Maybe. A lot of people have baggage, though, Joel,’ I say, carefully. ‘I honestly don’t think an ex-wife is anything you exactly need to be self-conscious about.’
‘I appreciate that, Libby. Oh, and I have a daughter, too, by the way. Not something I’m self-conscious about. That, I’m perfectly happy shouting from the rooftops.’ He starts to fish in his pocket for his phone. ‘She’s only five, though, so I don’t know if I’ll look on your website for anything for her. Disney Princess plastic tat is more her bag.’
‘Ah. Well, I have toyed with bringing out a range of plastic tat,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if it’s necessarily the direction I ought to be taking, but right now I’m open to most suggestions.’
He smiles. ‘Well, in that case all I can advise you is that the more glittery, the better. They don’t tend to care for the understated look, these five year olds.’
‘I’ll take that into account.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ He holds out his phone, with a picture of himself, looking just as luscious on an iPhone as in the flesh, with his arms wrapped around an equally luscious little girl – white-blonde, but with the same vanilla-fudge-coloured skin and blue eyes as Joel. ‘My baby. Julia.’
‘Oh, Joel. She’s gorgeous. Do you at least get plenty of time with her?’
‘Not as much as I’d like. She lives in Sydney.’
A Night In With Grace Kelly Page 8
