by Lucy Diamond
‘You look fantastic,’ he said, his voice low and tickly in my ear.
‘Thank you,’ I managed to say, blushing through my make-up.
He took my hand in his. ‘It’s nice to be with a woman who makes an effort,’ he said. ‘I find that very attractive. Very feminine.’
I squeezed his fingers between mine. ‘You’ve scrubbed up pretty well yourself,’ I said. That was the understatement of the year. He looked like a male model, truly – the sort of person you can’t quite believe is real. The sort of person who shines out even in a crowded room.
He ordered us some bread and wine. I would have preferred red, but he said the Sancerre was excellent and, at £35 a bottle, I didn’t feel I could quibble. Besides, he was a chef, wasn’t he? He knew about wine. I would trust him and keep my mouth shut for once – a fact that both thrilled and unnerved me. It wasn’t like me to be subservient, but maybe I’d give it a go tonight.
I could hardly read the menu, I felt so jittery. The bread basket arrived containing a mouth-watering mixture of sourdough, olive tapenade and polenta. Ooh … this evening was getting better and better. How I loved bread, and how I had missed it and all its yummy calories.
I grabbed a piece of sourdough and nibbled it, luxuriating in the flavour and texture. Mmmmmm. My taste buds were having a party, they were so excited, while I was trying not to think about the fact that this bread was completely undoing all my good dieting work. Ah well, it was worth it. I would pick at a salad for the main course, I promised, and try to hold back on the wine …
Then I almost choked as I felt Joe’s thigh pressing insistently against mine under the tablecloth. Blood rushed to my face immediately – and several other parts of my anatomy, too. Whoa. What with the bread dissolving so deliciously in my mouth at the same time, it was quite the most erotic experience I’d had all year.
‘So, how was your day?’ he asked, and I began talking nervously and rather quickly about shopping with the girls and the German market in town and … oh, anything, really – my mouth seemed to be working on overdrive.
He didn’t seem to be paying much attention, though. ‘You really do look hot,’ he interrupted in a throaty murmur. ‘I’m wondering if I’ll be able to make it through the starter without grabbing you.’
‘Oh,’ I said, somewhat taken aback. Pleased, obviously. Delighted, in fact. ‘Is that so?’ I purred, running my foot up his trouser leg.
‘Mmmm,’ he replied. ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know you much better tonight.’ His words were loaded with innuendo, and I felt a shiver of anticipation run right through my Magic Pants. (Well, they trembled slightly, anyway. The material was so rubbery and unyielding, even a tremble was saying something.) He took my hand again and started stroking it with his thumb, tracing slow – oh, just unbearably slow – circles on my skin.
I was quivering for him already. ‘Me too,’ I said. We looked into each other’s eyes and I saw that his pupils were dilated. I was sure mine were huge and wanton with lust, too. Blimey. Sexy Joe wanted to have sex with me. ME.
Did he expect to have sex with me tonight, though? I wondered, not sure whether to feel horny or panicked. I hadn’t assumed as much. I hadn’t packed my toothbrush as Maddie had advised. I wasn’t even wearing nice underwear, just those skin-tight, decidedly unsexy big pants that were squeezing me so tight I felt light-headed.
I was beginning to dissolve into a puddle of longing, so I changed the subject to something safer. ‘Tell me a bit about yourself,’ I said. ‘How did you get into cooking?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve always been good with my hands,’ he smirked. Oooer, Mrs. ‘And for me, creating delicious food is an art form. I look upon myself as a modern da Vinci, a Van Gogh in the kitchen …’ I was about to make a crack about watching out for sharp knives near his ears when I realized he was deadly serious.
‘… because the food experience should not be just about taste,’ he went on. ‘It must appeal to all the senses – the eye and the nose as well as the tongue. It should be savoured, revered, fully appreciated …’
Blimey, I thought. He was only a flipping cook. Still, I could go along with the savouring, revering and appreciating, so …
‘There’s nothing worse than people who don’t appreciate good food,’ he went on, chomping into some of the olive bread and talking through his mouthful. ‘These women you see turning a salad over with their fork and forbidding themselves the pleasure of enjoying a proper meal … pathetic. A person’s appetite for food is strongly linked to their sexual appetite, in my experience. Wouldn’t you agree, Lauren?’
‘I …’ I began. I’d been thinking that for someone so passionate about food appreciation, he didn’t seem to have noticed that he’d just wolfed down one piece of the olive bread and was now waving the other one around like a baton as he spoke. However, his use of the phrase ‘sexual appetite’ had thrown me. ‘Yes,’ I said meekly in the end. Was he going to eat that olive bread? I wondered. Because there had only been two pieces and I’d been hoping to try one. He was using that last bit to prod the air for emphasis, so I didn’t like to ask.
I sipped my wine and listened to him talk at great length about his career, how he was the best chef in Birmingham – no, the West Midlands, no, actually the country – and how he had plans to open his own restaurant chain that would knock Gordon Ramsay into oblivion and …
He liked to talk, I had to give him that. Loved the sound of his own voice. And yeah, okay, so it was a nice voice – low and sexy, the sort of voice you could imagine whispering raunchy suggestions into your ear in the bedroom – but all the same, I was beginning to wish I’d never asked about his flaming cheffing now. I kept trying to interject, to steer the conversation away from him and how brilliant he was, but he was an unstoppable force, ploughing relentlessly on. And on. And on.
After a while, I started to feel as if I wasn’t there, as if I could be anybody sitting opposite him. He didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in what I had to say, in my personality. So much for ‘getting to know me better’. The only thing he seemed to want to get to know was whether I had tights on or stockings, judging by the way his hand was creeping enquiringly under the edge of my dress.
Okay. Like that. I had the picture. He didn’t want to date someone who had their own mind, their own topics of conversation. He just wanted someone who’d look good on his arm, someone he could boast to, someone whose knickers he could pull off at the first opportunity (he’d have a job pulling mine off, though, the amount of wrestling and heaving it had taken me to get them on in the first place). And while I was flattered that he thought I was attractive enough to be seen in public with (gee, thanks, Joe), the truth hit me like a ton of bricks: that this wasn’t enough for me. I remembered the compatability test I’d run for the pair of us on the office computer. Computer says no …
I was kind of siding with the computer now. Lauren says no, too.
‘Obviously it was a mistake, me not getting that Michelin star,’ he was droning now, ‘but these inspectors are idiots half the time – they wouldn’t recognize high-class food if it was shoved in their faces …’
His leg-pressing was starting to annoy me. I no longer felt like jelly every time he looked at me. I felt … bored. Disappointed. What a let-down, I kept thinking. What a tedious let-down Joe Smith was turning out to be.
The food was good, at least. The food was the best thing about the date. I had the beef and it was an orgasm in itself, the way it melted on my tongue. Certainly it was the biggest thrill I’d be getting that evening, I thought glumly. He was still playing footsie under the table, and it was really getting on my nerves now – not only because I felt completely turned off by him, having listened to him bang on for twenty minutes, but also because he was clearly so confident that he’d got me in the bag, so presumptuous that I’d be unable to resist his advances. Ugh. I don’t think so, matey. He was beautiful, yes, but that wasn’t enough. I had barely cracked a smile all e
vening, let alone enjoyed myself.
Bollocks.
My phone went just as we came to the end of our main course. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, taking it out of my bag. Normally I’d have let it ring through to voicemail – answering one’s phone over dinner is kind of rude, I always think – but he’d been such godawful company all night, I was glad of a chance to interrupt his bragging.
Patrick, the display read, and I took the call gratefully. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Sorry to interrupt, just wondered if …’
‘A car accident?’ I gasped theatrically, clutching a hand to my throat. ‘Oh no. Is she badly hurt?’
There was a pause. ‘Ahhh. It’s going that well, then?’ he said dryly. He cottoned on quickly, did Patrick.
‘Oh God, that’s awful,’ I went on, widening my eyes. ‘Of course I will. Tell her to hang in there, I’m on my way.’
I closed the phone up and pretended to sniffle. ‘Joe – I’m so sorry, I’m going to have to dash,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘My sister’s been hurt in a car crash and is in intensive care. Thanks for a lovely evening, but I’ve got to go. Bye.’
He was staring at me, half-rising to his feet as if to embrace me, but I’d had my fill. I didn’t want him to touch me. Without waiting for his reply, I turned and ran out of there, my heart thumping as I went.
‘So how bad, on a scale of one to ten?’ Patrick asked, sloshing red wine into an enormous balloon glass. On leaving the restaurant, I’d jumped in a cab and gone straight over to his flat, and I was only just beginning to recover.
‘A thousand,’ I said, rolling my eyes and swigging the wine gratefully. He’d had two glasses already set out when I arrived, bless him. ‘Maybe even a thousand and one. He got a few points’ credit for being so utterly handsome, and the food was yummy, but …’
‘But then he blew it by being an arrogant shit,’ Patrick finished. ‘As predicted by moi.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Thirsty, are we?’
I’d somehow managed to drain almost the entire glass of wine. So much for being abstemious and sticking to my diet. ‘Parched,’ I replied, holding the glass out to be refilled. God, but it was a relief to be there in Patrick’s place, with its beautiful chocolate-brown soft-leather sofa and pale mohair cushions, the dim lighting, the huge framed Chagall print on the wall and Goldfrapp on the stereo. My place was still half painted, and although the takeaway menus and slovenly ways were now a thing of the past, it didn’t feel as if it would ever be as grownup a living space as Patrick’s.
‘Cheers, mate,’ I said as he topped me up. I was feeling better by the second. ‘Honestly, I’ve never been so glad to see your name come up on my phone. You must have picked up my telepathic distress signal.’ I sighed. ‘And you were right, as always. He was just awful. So full of himself. I don’t think a girlfriend of his would be allowed to have an opinion about anything. Maybe some women like that, but me …’ I pulled a face.
‘But you’re a successful businesswoman, you’re smart and gorgeous and funny, and you don’t need to waste time on pigs like him,’ Patrick said. He was finishing my sentences far better than I was able to tonight.
‘Absolutely,’ I said, pulling out a huge slab of Dairy Milk from my handbag. I’d made the cab stop at the end of Patrick’s road so that I could buy it, as well as two bottles of red wine and forty fags. Stuff it, I might as well go for broke. ‘But do you know the weird thing? I don’t feel as crushed as I thought I might. I mean … yeah, I’m disappointed that he’s not the complete package – he’s got the looks, deffo, but in terms of personality, I’ve had better dates with … cockroaches. But I don’t feel absolutely devastated.’ I started breaking up the Dairy Milk and popped one square into Patrick’s mouth and one into mine. ‘Because I deserve better, like you say.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Patrick said, raising his glass. ‘I knew he was shallow, the way he only fancied you when you’d lost a bit of weight. If he’d had any sense, he’d have fallen for you the first time he ever spoke to you.’ His eyes flicked to the clock. ‘He just wasn’t good enough for you.’
‘No, he wasn’t, was he?’ I replied. ‘The Compatability Crunch program was right after all.’
He laughed. ‘You what?’
I blushed, but before I had to explain myself, the doorbell went.
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Um … yeah. Steven said he’d pop round,’ he replied, getting to his feet and not quite meeting my eye. ‘You’re welcome to stay, though.’
It was then that I clocked just how immaculate the flat was. How pristine Patrick was looking, how nice he smelled. How there had been two glasses set out in preparation …
I jumped up, almost spilling my wine. ‘You should have said!’ I cried, feeling terrible. ‘I’ll go, don’t worry. I don’t want to interrupt anything.’
‘It’s fine, you can stay,’ he said again. ‘Honestly, Lauren. There’s no need to rush away.’
But I was already stuffing the chocolate into my bag, trying to clear the crumbs off his smoked-glass coffee table without smearing them across the just-cleaned surface. I heard the door open and soft voices. Then a silence, as if they were kissing. There was no way I was hanging around being a gooseberry tonight.
‘Steven, this is my friend Lauren,’ Patrick said, coming back into the room just then. His eyes were dark and excited, but there was tension around his mouth too. ‘Lauren, this is Steven.’
Steven was tall and blond with a St Tropez tan and amused blue eyes. He was wearing a shirt which had a black and white photographic floral print, and smart jeans. I didn’t have to look at his shoes to know they would be expensive and classy. He was perfect for Patrick.
‘Hi, Lauren,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’
‘Hi,’ I gulped, hoping I didn’t have chocolate round my mouth. ‘I was just going. I … um … just popped round to borrow something and I have to go now. Tired. Must sleep. Nice to meet you.’
‘He’s lush,’ I whispered to Patrick as we hugged goodbye at the door moments later. ‘Well done you.’
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I told him, and went home with my Dairy Milk, where I managed to finish off the entire bar all on my own.
I almost didn’t make it to FatBusters the following Monday after my wine and chocolate binge, but I forced myself to go along and step on the scales of doom. I’d put on a pound and blamed Joe for it entirely. Stupid bastard, it was all his fault for boring me off the wagon. Well, I wouldn’t be doing that again. Maddie didn’t turn up, which wasn’t like her. I hoped she hadn’t given in to temptation like I had. Jess, however, had a better night – she’d lost another two pounds, bringing her grand total up to a whole stone. She let out a big cheer and turned bright red. ‘Well done, mate,’ I said, hugging her. ‘A stone – that’s fab. It’s all that salsa dancing, I’m telling you.’
‘That, and running about like a blue-arsed fly for work,’ she said with a grin. ‘Are we still on for tomorrow night, by the way? My friend Phoebe is going to come and give me a hand, so we can do double the work between us.’
‘Sure,’ I said. I was holding a pre-Christmas pamper party for some of my long-standing singletons in the hope that a mini-makeover would give them the confidence boost they needed to make it all the way under the mistletoe for some Yuletide lip action. ‘Looking forward to it.’
I said ‘looking forward to it’, but in truth I wasn’t holding out a lot of hope for some of these clients. They had all been on our books for a few months now and were knock-knock-knocking on Desperation Door. I’d sent them on plenty of dates, but none of them had particularly gelled with anyone else. (Still, I was a fine one to talk, so I could sympathize.) They were a timid lot on the whole, all slightly nervous in large groups, so I’d kept the numbers down and made sure that none of the louder, more
in-your-face clients would be there. Hopefully the softly-softly approach would bring them out of their fragile little shells, and they’d all be perked up and feeling good about themselves with the help of Jess, Phoebe and the free-flowing cava.
And no, Joe Smith was not invited. Funnily enough, he hadn’t called since my imaginary sister’s car crash had interrupted his Aren’t I great? monologue on Saturday night, and I certainly hadn’t phoned him. I felt a tiny bit mean about deceiving him, but not enough to get in touch and arrange a second date. I’d already filed him in my mental ‘Mistakes – Don’t Go There Again’ file. Ho hum. It would be another Christmas with just me and Eddie in the bed, but I’d come to the decision that that wasn’t so bad. Not bad enough for me to compromise, anyway.
On Tuesday evening, Patrick and I decorated the office with gold tinsel and some holly sprays that I’d picked up for a song from the farmers’ market. I plugged in some fairy lights and hung sprigs of mistletoe in discreet corners, just in case, then put on some party music. ‘Sim-ply having a wonderful Christmas time,’ I sang cheerfully, ignoring the pained looks from Patrick.
Jess and Phoebe arrived and began setting up at the far side of the room. They’d be offering express manicures, mini-facials and head massages for a fiver a go, which sounded a bloody bargain to me. ‘And I’ve printed some twenty per cent discount vouchers too, in case the clients want to book further treatments,’ Jess said, whipping out a pile of cards and setting them prominently on the table.
Phoebe looked impressed. ‘Blimey, Jess, you’ve thought of everything,’ she said. A wistful expression came over her face. ‘You are lucky, having your own business. I wish I had the guts to leave. Karen’s decided not to come back from her maternity leave, so Louisa’s got the manager’s job now, worst luck. She’s even more unbearable to work for these days.’
Jess gave a shudder. ‘Best thing I ever did, walking out from there,’ she said, arranging nail varnish bottles in a line. ‘The thought of having to put up with her and her horrid comments … I don’t think I could do it now.’ She blushed. ‘Listen to me, I’ve got all feisty in my old age. I don’t know how that happened!’
