by Freya North
She was five minutes late, but there again her watch was set five minutes fast. Riley, however, was not on time. On entering the restaurant, aware that it was full and feeling too intimidated to even glance around to assess whom he might be, Stella polarized her vision and made straight for the maître d’ who appeared to take pleasure in leading her, very slowly, to an empty table, nodding to his diners left and right as he went.
She thought, I’m not remotely hungry. She glanced at the menu and couldn’t see a thing that whetted her appetite. She thought, what am I meant to do now? She wasn’t going to be stood up, was she? She didn’t dare look around her. She ordered a vodka and tonic. Soon after, a Bloody Mary. She took out her phone, nervously playing Solitaire which she won in two minutes seventeen seconds. New best time! New fewest moves! Well – that made the evening a success, if nothing else. No texts. She checked the news headlines, the weather. Nothing surprising there. No texts. Phone on vibrate. She scrolled through photographs and gazed at Will, wishing with a pang that the two of them were snuggled up doing their usual Saturday evening thing but then realizing, sadly, that it was his bedtime and if she had been at home, she’d have been curled on the sofa, with a glass of wine, watching rubbish TV and hoping to feel tired enough for an early night. A text came through. Jo. A barrage of larky Emoji images. She couldn’t find any appropriate to fire back so she left the text unanswered. Fourteen minutes late. She did have the right time, didn’t she? And date? And location? Another voddie?
‘Miss Stella!’ Riley had missed Stella. He’d already had a good scout around the restaurant wondering which of the three lone female diners might have been his blind date. Missed Stella. ‘God – am I late? Sorry. Couldn’t get parked.’
‘That’s OK, I was a little late myself,’ she said. She half stood to greet him while he sat down, leaving her stooped so it looked as though she had gut ache. They shook hands a little gingerly, having to negotiate the candle, the condiments, the small vase with the single gerbera – the spiral of wire around its stem seeming to garrotte the flower as much as support it.
‘How are you?’ he asked, as if she’d been on some epic worldwide adventure and he was ready and waiting to be fascinated by her.
‘I’m fine!’ She remembered to smile, do the eye-contact thing. He was good-looking, and she was relieved. She didn’t want to not fancy him – Sara wouldn’t accept that as an excuse. And he looked nothing like Charlie, thank goodness. An open-necked shirt rolled up to just below the elbow. Nice forearms. A quality watch a little clunky for her liking. A neatly trimmed goatee, dark hair, green eyes. Slim, tanned, obviously fit.
‘Come here often?’ He laughed as if the cliché was beyond witty. She laughed for him.
‘A first for me,’ she said. She paused. Did that sound pathetic? Be yourself. Be honest. ‘All of this is a first for me.’
‘I’m starving,’ he said and overlooking her awkwardness to peruse the menu was helpful. ‘Do you drink?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please,’ she said, draining her glass and crunching the ice.
He gave the wine list great attention, muttering names under his breath as though they were players in a football team it was his duty to rank.
When the waiter came to take their order and Riley looked expectantly to Stella to place hers, she realized that each dish she liked contained words she was unsure how to pronounce. So she changed her mind said, green salad to start, please. And then the risotto. It was sage and broad beans. She didn’t like broad beans but the dish was a better option than Agneau de Lait which sounded barbaric. Riley pronounced quinoa key-noir. Stella thought that was incorrect. Or else she’d made a fool of herself in the past. She hadn’t fancied it tonight. It was with something called Noix de Ris de Veau and she wasn’t even going to ask what that was. Riley ordered the steak for his entrée.
‘So, tell me about yourself,’ Riley said which, to Stella, was on a par with a job interviewer asking where she saw herself five years hence.
‘I – er—’
Luckily, he interrupted. ‘The only Stella I know is Artois,’ he chortled. ‘And I’ve had a very chequered time with that one!’
Again, she laughed for him. And told him, in one breath, the details she thought sold herself well.
‘Property, eh?’
She nodded. ‘And you?’
‘Sales.’
She could have guessed.
‘Global,’ he stressed and then Stella relaxed because she knew she could repeat this to Jo and they’d fall about laughing. He’s in sales, you know … global.
‘And you have a kid?’
She hated that word.
‘I have a son,’ she said. ‘Will. He’s seven and a half.’
‘How old are you? If it’s not too rude to enquire?’
Oh God, had Sara shaved a few years off her and forgotten to mention it? Be honest, remember. ‘I’m thirty-four.’
He stared at her. The candlelight making his eyes shine like jade. ‘You look younger,’ he said, impressed. Stella felt chuffed and happily munched her way through the green salad. He raised his glass at her, and his eyebrow. She busied herself sipping wine to keep a blush at bay.
‘So you’re a dating virgin, then?’ His gaze lingered and Stella thought, what the hell, and lingered hers back at him whilst nodding with a coy smile. After that, he didn’t ask her any further direct questions, choosing instead to talk about himself. She drank as he spoke and, at opportune moments raised her glass as much for a refill as to toast his many accolades. His monologue also gave her the perfect opportunity, when the main course arrived, to surreptitiously conceal the broad beans under a duvet of risotto. He was soon preoccupied filling his mouth with fillet steak and, bolstered by the wine, Stella felt happy talking at him. As she did so, every now and then he gurned a little, obviously dislodging something a little too fibrous and Stella deduced the meat was not as butter soft as the menu had claimed. When the dessert menu was presented, she was draining her third glass of Merlot or Shiraz or something – or was it her fourth – while nodding for Riley to refill it. She did think she oughtn’t to have had the vodkas whilst she’d been waiting. And she vaguely recalled some pithy saying about grape-and-grain but she couldn’t remember what, let alone which order was the safe one, which was the danger.
Crêpes Suzette. She loved Crêpes Suzette. Splash on the Grand Marnier! Go on, give it a good slosh! Shit – something hot down her top. Really hot. The Suzette bit of the crêpe. How awful! How mortifying! Really not funny – certainly not something to start giggling about. OK. You can stop laughing now. Stop. Laughing. Now.
‘I could eat that all over again!’ she laughed, moments later. She reached for the wineglass and somehow, the water glass tipped over. Oops. Silly glass. Don’t ask for the bill yet, Riley.
Riley Riley not very smiley.
She linked arms with him on their way out, because that’s OK to do on a date, isn’t it? With a handsome man who’s in global sales. Who pays for dinner à deux without even checking the bill. Do we look like a couple, sauntering out of here? He’s very handsome. Do we suit each other? What happens next?
It was a surprisingly chilly evening – which the day had not hinted at. Stella’s weather app hadn’t warned her. The cool air sobered her up only so much as to make her suddenly aware just how woozy she was. She’d done as she was told and worn her high-heeled boots but now she felt unstable and each time she teetered she felt just a little more unwell in that annoying, stupid, car-sicky way.
And then she thought, I just really want to go home.
Lie down.
Be asleep.
I really want to be home.
‘Where do you live? Nearby?’
I don’t want you to come home with me. I don’t want you to be with me just now at all.
‘Nearby.’
‘I think I’d better run you home.’
She meant to say, ‘It’s OK.’ But only the ‘OK’ bit came out of her mouth
.
‘I’ll go and get the car.’ He sounded like a cross parent. ‘Just wait here – I’ll be five minutes.’
As he walked away from her, briskly crossing the road, she saw him checking his phone. Making a call. She tried to focus on him but he was moving too much. She tried to focus on anything but everything was moving. Riley didn’t look back. Oh Goddo Goddo God. Don’t want to be sick. Not here. Not at all. I don’t feel well. I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel safe. I don’t like tonight. I want to be home.
Images of the meal just eaten churned in and out of her mind’s eye accompanied by waves of nausea. Stop the pictures. Stop the feeling. Hold on to the wall. Just stare fixedly as possible at that tree over there. Common sense says that tree trunks are categorically stable things. Leaves flitter and branches sway but tree trunks are nice and solid and steady. Keep staring at it. Don’t let it out of your sight.
‘Stella?’
That’s not Riley.
Stella knew she’d turned her head but her eyes had yet to catch up.
‘Stella?’
That’s Xander.
And a tall blonde lady.
And another man.
And another lady.
And another – oh God, double vision, triple vision.
Just lots of people. Only one of whom she knew and who was the last person she wanted to be here right now.
‘Stella?’
Xander. Rude Xander who jogs and runs and annoys her because he hates her.
* * *
‘Do you know her?’ Caroline asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ said Xander, evenly.
‘She looks ropey, poor monkey,’ said Caroline. ‘Are you OK, chicken?’
Monkey. Chicken. I’m a stupid cow.
Stella didn’t dare nod. She needed to keep her head very still because she was wobbling on her heels like one of those children’s toys which can sway precariously. Please just let everyone disappear. All these Xander people. And that Riley man.
‘Are you waiting for someone?’ That was Xander again. She tried to focus on his face, gave up and just stared blurrily into the middle distance.
‘I had a date,’ she said. ‘He’s gone to get his car.’ She burped. ‘I don’t want him to drive me home.’ She started to cry. ‘I just want to be at home.’
‘We can’t let some bloke drive her back in this state,’ Caroline said to Xander, shuddering at not-so-distant memories of throwing up into her handbag in Andrew’s car – and he was her husband. Xander just thought that no way should some bloke Stella had just met be allowed to drive her off, let alone go anywhere near her home.
‘Would you like us to take you home, pet?’
Stella reached her hand towards Caroline.
‘I’m Caroline.’
‘I don’t feel well.’ And Stella quietly sobbed.
‘Come on,’ said Caroline but she said it to Xander. Then Stella vaguely heard the Caroline person saying something to the other people whose shadowy figures were registering on her peripheral vision. Something about pappadams and bhajis. But she really couldn’t afford to think about food so she stopped listening and just stared at the pavement which was mysteriously revolving.
‘Hold on,’ Caroline said. Stella thought she was giving her an instruction. And Xander was the nearest thing for her to hold on to. So she reached for him. Stella’s eyes were half-closed and her head was lolling and all Xander could do was put an arm around her waist, an arm close across her shoulders and hold her up, hold her steady. Caroline went to speak to Andrew and their friends to say, don’t worry, Xander and I will just deal with his friend then we’ll meet you at the Raj.
It wasn’t late. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. And they glanced over to Xander who was standing still and steady, tall and strong. And thoughtful. His arms around the drunk girl as if he was embracing her, not steadying her. It was a strange sight, a good sight. A sight Caroline and Andrew hadn’t seen, hadn’t associated with him, for a few years now.
‘Do you know where she lives?’ Caroline asked Xander quietly, now the others had gone. He shook his head. ‘But you know her name.’ She paused. ‘Stella, can you tell us where you live? Xander and I will take you home.’
As Caroline and Xander removed Stella from the scene, Stella felt she was on a hovercraft because there appeared to be no pavement beneath her feet. Riley drove up some minutes later. He parked but left the engine running, opened the driver’s door and stood in the gutter looking quickly up and down the street. No sign of her. Well, that was a blessing in disguise, wasn’t it. He looked around again. She was local, wasn’t she. She’d probably gone home. Or gone to chuck up behind a wall. He phoned her mobile – relieved when it rang through to voicemail. What a dire evening. Oh, well. Chalk it all up. Another Saturday night, another date. Pretty enough – but not his type.
Vaguely, Stella could hear questions being asked of her, her voice discombobulated when it came, giving out the components of her address in an order she hoped would be pieced together and make sense. She kept burping. And it made her feel worse at first and then better straight after so it seemed silly to say sorry or to stifle them. And certainly the Caroline woman kept telling her not to be silly and not be sorry. She was wearing a floaty wrappy sort of thing with bits on which tickled the side of Stella’s face, comforting and annoying.
And Xander’s arm around her waist. Xander, hearing her burping and slurring. Oh, the shame of it! Xander and Caroline. Stella so drunk that she had no option than to allow her nemesis and his friend, the Good Samaritan, to escort her right to her front door.
‘We’re here!’ Stella’s head rolled around as if it was on a pivot. ‘Thank you so much!’ She started to cry again, with a little hiccup every now and then.
‘We have to take her in,’ said Caroline. ‘Where’s your key, monkey? Can I look in your bag? Here –’ She passed the girl to Xander who held her steady and held her close.
‘Smell nice,’ Stella murmured.
‘Pardon?’ Xander pretended he hadn’t heard.
‘Nice,’ she muttered. He felt her cold nose against his neck. She felt his skin, warm, fragrant. The smell of him made her feel better. Just want to stand like this for a little longer.
‘Got them!’ said Caroline. ‘Come on, pet.’
‘Stella,’ Stella corrected.
Caroline unlocked her door and Stella was back in her world.
Oh, the relief.
‘Is your bedroom upstairs?’
A very difficult word to repeat when drunk, but Stella gave it her best. She was clinging on to Xander’s shoulder trying desperately to focus on the framed photos of Will yet the sight of her little boy filled her suddenly with acute shame. How she wished her evening had been the simple Saturday night she was used to. Why veer from the tried and tested? Something had been broken so she’d fixed it – divorced Charlie. Why had she tinkered with the status quo? Will and her together. Supper on their laps. Telly. Never again. Never drink again. Never go on dates, blind or otherwise, ever again.
Caroline was in the kitchen, fetching water, the washing-up bowl, old newspaper to lay out strategically; going upstairs to prepare Stella’s bedroom. Stella looked up forlornly at Xander.
‘I had a date,’ she said. ‘I never have a date. I never want to have another date again. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’ She pressed the side of her face against Xander’s chest because it made the room spin less. ‘What a numpty.’ And then she heard him laugh. Actually, she didn’t hear him – she felt him. Soft low vibrations thrumming comfortingly against her head.
‘I know what you mean,’ he said, knowing that Caroline couldn’t hear him and that Stella wouldn’t remember. ‘There’s some woman loitering for me with my mates at the Raj curry house.’
‘But you can run away,’ Stella said sleepily. ‘Because you’re very good at running.’
Very good at running away, Xander thought quietly.
‘Ready,’ Caroline called down.
Slowly, Xander brought Stella upstairs, leaving her sitting on the edge of her bed with Caroline tending to her. Before he left the women to it, he glanced around the room. It was small but homely. And he couldn’t help but notice the fragrance and, for a split second, he recalled how she’d passed by so close to him when he’d opened the door for her into his childhood home that morning.
‘Good night, Stella,’ he said but she didn’t respond, sitting there on her bed with her head hung low, possibly asleep already or simply comatose. He went downstairs and waited for Caroline.
‘Ready?’ She appeared a few minutes later.
‘Will she be OK?’
‘Yeah,’ said Caroline. ‘When it comes to the drunken element of the female race, I’m an expert.’
