Three years ago, Clara met Graham (full name: Dull Graham) and quickly moved out of the flat she’d been sharing and started co-habiting with him instead. Clara and Graham are both accountants, which is how they met. At forty-seven, Graham is eighteen years old than Clara but you can’t really notice the age gap. Not because Graham is immature (if only) but because Clara is old before her time.
Clara and I still aren’t close, though the distance created when she moved out of the family home has certainly helped to warm up our frosty relationship. We don’t hate each other but we don’t particularly like each other either. I think Clara’s bossy, pretentious and thinks she’s oh so sophisticated since she bought her flat with her boring boyfriend. She thinks I’m juvenile (how can you stand to still live at home like a teenager?), uncouth (don’t hold your fork like that, Delilah. It isn’t a shovel) and unambitious (don’t you want to climb up the career ladder? Aren’t you fed up of being on the bottom rung?) but we somehow tolerate each other. Still, I would rather do anything than attend one of her pretentious dinner parties, yet here I am, standing outside her flat with a bottle of wine and not much will to live.
It all started a couple of weeks ago, just after my date with Wolfgang, which hadn’t turned out quite how I hoped it would and the reality was pretty boring and extremely slobbery (ugh). I ended up on a couple more dates mid-week with an insurance consultant called Vincent who was slimier than a snail with goo issues, and a butcher called Ivor who turned up with animal blood still caked under his fingernails. Ivor had apologised, explaining he’d come straight from work, but it was an unforgivable state of affairs for me and I only just managed to get through one drink before I made my excuses and left.
And as for Vincent? I had high hopes for Vincent. He wasn’t classically handsome, but then that wasn’t necessary for Project Wedding Date. This wasn’t an actual romantic endeavour, after all. Vincent was fun and chatty online. He didn’t take life too seriously, which was a plus after my too-serious date with Wolfgang.
The date did not go well. I don’t even want to think about it, never mind recount it. It was that bad.
‘It can’t have been as bad as Wolfy’s fat tongue,’ Lauren had said when I refused to go into detail.
‘It was worse.’
Lauren was shocked – what could be worse than that? – and obviously intrigued, but my lips were remaining shut on the matter.
‘Never mind. The next date will be better, I’m sure.’ Lauren had reached for my phone to open the Love Today app but I moved the phone out of the way.
‘I can’t do it.’ I deleted the app from my phone. ‘I can’t go on any more dates with complete strangers. They’re all weird or married or worse.’ I shuddered while Lauren’s eyes widened.
‘What the hell happened on that date?’ I shook my head. I wanted to forget all about Vincent, Love Today and online dating in general. ‘What are you going to do? Call the project off?’
‘Nope.’ I dropped my face into my palms. I couldn’t look at Lauren when I said this. ‘I’m going to take drastic action. I’m going to let Clara set me up.’
Clara is always trying to set me up with one of her dull friends. It’s why I’ve stopped attending her dinner parties because I always end up having an acquaintance of my sister foisted upon me. That and Clara’s dinner parties are tedious, pretentious affairs and my sister isn’t quite as great a chef as she thinks she is.
I knock on Clara’s door, hoping that a meteor will strike Earth before Clara has the chance to answer. It doesn’t, of course. I’m not that lucky.
‘Delilah! You made it!’ Clara’s voice is clogged with surprise, but I can hardly blame her. I’m surprised I’m here myself. Clara grasps me by the wrist before I can change my mind and flee, tugging me into the flat and grabbing the bottle of wine before my feet make it over the threshold. She reads the label and pulls a face. Clara and I have very different tastes when it comes to wine. I’ll grab whatever happens to be on special offer at the time of purchase while Clara has far more refined (read: snobbish) tastes.
‘Come through. Everybody’s already here.’ Clara leads me along her oak-floored hallway to the sitting room, flashing me an accusing look. So I’m a tad late (if you can call almost an hour ‘a tad’). So what? That I’m here at all is miraculous enough.
Clara’s sitting room is decorated in grey tones, the only source of colour coming from the teal sofa and matching armchairs arranged around the fireplace. Even the pillar candles, arranged artfully on the mantelpiece, are a dove grey.
‘You remember Veronica and Nigel, don’t you?’ Clara thrusts me towards the couple – both in their early forties, her with grey hair glinting, him with more lines on his face than a map of the London underground – and I’m subjected to double-kisses from both. ‘And this is Patrick!’
‘Delilah! What a delight to finally meet you.’ Patrick strides across the sitting room and envelops me in a too-tight hug. He has a slight pong of BO about him but it’s almost masked by the whiskey he’s been busy putting away this evening.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ Clara offers. Patrick still hasn’t released me so I give him a gentle push and step away from the pungent smell he’s emitting.
‘Have you got any tinnies?’ I ask Clara, just to annoy her. I feel a satisfied glow as she squeezes her lips together, her cheeks flushing.
‘We have some bottles of lager in the fridge,’ she says, trying hard to remain composed. ‘I’ll just go and check on the salmon and I’ll bring one over for you. Do sit down and get to know Patrick a little better.’
Patrick leads me to the teal sofa, sitting down too closely to me. He’s practically sitting on my lap! I shift over to give myself some breathing space.
‘Wow.’ Patrick sits staring at me while he shakes his head in wonder. ‘Wow, wow, wow. Clara never mentioned quite how beautiful you are.’
I smile tightly and try to lean away from him. I suppose I should feel flattered by the compliment but Patrick’s intense stare is starting to freak me out. I don’t think he’s blinked since we sat down.
‘Such a beautiful name too.’ Patrick closes his eyes and takes in a lungful of air before releasing it slowly along with my name. ‘Dee-lie-lar. Exquisite! My, my, my, Delilah.’ Patrick leans in so close I can feel his hot whiskey-breath on my neck. When he inhales sharply, his nostrils practically flat against my throat, I decide enough is enough.
‘Will you excuse me? I think I’ll go and see if Clara needs any help.’ Leaping out of my seat, I escape to the kitchen where I find Graham alone, chopping tomatoes and adding them to a wooden bowl of lettuce leaves and slices of cucumber and peppers.
‘Ah, Delilah. How are you?’ Graham holds up his hands, the fingers tinged with tomato juice, to excuse his lack of a hug or handshake. I’m more than fine with the lack of contact. I’ve had more than enough from Patrick, thank you very much.
‘Fine thanks. You?’ I head to the fridge and pull out a bottle of lager, which Clara has failed to bring me.
‘Not bad, not bad.’ Graham nods at one of the drawers, where I find the bottle opener. ‘Can’t complain. Life’s pretty darn good.’
‘Great.’ I open the bottle and drop the lid into the chrome pedal bin. Graham continues to chop the tomatoes, his bottom moving to the rhythm of the knife, as I hover by the fridge. I don’t know how to talk to this man. We have nothing in common apart from my sister, which we all know isn’t the greatest link to have.
‘How’s the job going? Still at that biscuit place?’ Graham continues his bottom-wriggling chopping as he asks. I continue to hover by the fridge. The only thing keeping me in here is the fact that Patrick is in the sitting room and the less time spent in his presence the better. I’m beginning to think agreeing to meet him was a big mistake.
‘Yep, still at Brinkley’s.’
‘I’m not a huge fan of biscuits myself.’ Graham picks up the chopping board and scrapes the sliced tomatoes into the wooden bowl. ‘I
don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I’d much rather have a nice selection of cheese.’ Graham tosses the salad and places it on the table, which is already set with slate grey square plates, matching bowls and side plates, and crystal goblets. The table isn’t terribly big but Clara always seems to find room for her guests.
‘Do you like cheese?’ Graham is washing his hands at the kitchen sink, the sleeves of his brown jumper rolled up to his elbows. ‘What’s your favourite?’
‘Cheddar?’ I can’t say I know much about cheese, other than it tastes delicious on a pizza. ‘I like those little plasticky cheese squares on burgers too.’ I say this last bit for fun. Graham’s aghast face is amusing, though he quickly recovers.
‘Right. Yes. Very good.’ Graham dries his hands on a tea towel before he claps them together. ‘I think I’ll go and find Clara. See what else needs doing.’ With a nod of his head, Graham vacates the kitchen and I slump against the counter. I have a whole evening of cheese-talk and Patrick to put up with. Why am I putting myself through this?
The six of us are squeezed around Clara’s kitchen table, plates of salmon spew set out before us. Clara tries her hardest and has a whole shelf dedicated to celebrity cook books in the sitting room but the truth is she’s terrible in the kitchen. The salmon is slightly more edible than it looks, but each forkful is placed in my mouth reluctantly, my brain unable to get past its rank appearance. I tuned out of the conversation about twenty minutes ago as the topic has lodged itself at accounting, something I have no knowledge of, or interest in. Everybody but Veronica and I are accountants and I was hoping she and I could break off and have a chat. We probably have nothing in common, but I’d rather talk about anything other than accounting. Even cheese.
But it isn’t to be. Veronica is not only keeping up with the accountancy chat, she’s joining in too.
‘Are we being incredibly boring?’ Patrick has leaned in towards me and I can smell his fishy breath, which is infinitely worse than the whiskey breath.
With substantial effort, I force my lips into what could resemble a smile. Sort of. ‘No. Of course not.’ YES! I am in Dullsville and Patrick is the mayor.
Patrick flashes me a fishy-tinged smile. ‘You haven’t said much.’
I fight to keep my sort-of smile in place but there’s a grimace pushing its way to the surface. ‘I’m just enjoying my food.’
‘Oh yes, it’s delicious.’ Patrick loads his fork with fishy mush and pops it into his mouth, murmuring his delight. ‘Compliments to the chef!’ A stray flake of unchewed fish flies across the table as Patrick raises his goblet of wine, landing on Graham’s turd-coloured jumper. Patrick doesn’t notice his fishy misdemeanour and beams at Clara before he takes a sip. I suspect he’s rinsing away the taste of the fish swill.
‘Thank you, Patrick.’ Clara dabs at Graham’s jumper with a dove grey napkin. ‘Have you told Delilah about your promotion?’
‘Gosh! No, I haven’t!’ Patrick shifts in his seat so that he’s facing me properly, not noticing that the movement causes Graham to slosh wine down his jumper. Clara mops up the mess while an oblivious Patrick launches into the tedious details of his career path.
It turns out that Patrick isn’t the mayor of Dullsville after all. He is the emperor and I am one of his subjects.
‘Are you still at McVitie’s?’ Veronica asks once Patrick has thoroughly bored me to tears. I could quite literally weep right now.
‘I’ve never worked for McVitie’s.’
‘Delilah’s at Brinkley’s,’ Clara says and all eyes turn to me.
‘Is that a bank?’ Patrick asks.
‘It’s a biscuit factory.’ I can’t help smiling to myself as Clara’s eyes widen in horror.
‘A luxury biscuit manufacturers.’ Clara has always been embarrassed by my job. She was furious when I decided not to go to university, telling me – quite adamantly – that I would never make anything of myself if I didn’t. ‘And Delilah is in the office, not on the shop floor. She’s a PA.’
‘I’m an admin assistant, actually.’
Clara gives a wave of her hand. ‘It amounts to the same thing, really. Anyway, who’s ready for dessert?’
Clara and Graham jump to their feet and start clearing the plates, which are all almost as full as when we started. Patrick leans in towards me again, his breath hot and fishy and wafting all over me.
‘I love a good biscuit.’ He licks his lips as he traces a finger up my forearm. His voice is low and husky, meant for my ears only. ‘Digestives. Custard Creams. Hob Nobs.’ He raises his eyebrows at me and my chest begins to tremble. Does he think he’s being sexy? I press my lips together to prevent a giggle from escaping. ‘Are you a dunker, Delilah?’
‘I’m not a huge fan of biscuits myself. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I prefer cheese.’ I jump out of my seat and cross the kitchen, offering to help Clara and Graham with the dessert.
‘Isn’t Patrick a sweetheart?’ Clara asks as she arranges mini meringues on top of the sundaes she and Graham have created in tall glasses. ‘I think you’d make such a lovely couple.’
‘Don’t even think about it, Clara. It isn’t going to happen.’ There is no way I’m becoming the empress of Dullsville.
Chapter 18
Matchmaking
Text Message:
Clara: I know you said no more matchmaking after the little Trevor thing, but Graham has this friend. He’s newly single and a little bit shy about meeting women but I know you’ll love him
Delilah: No
Clara: He’s a SENIOR PARTNER, Delilah!
Delilah: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no x infinity
Clara: You are so immature. Perhaps you’re not a good match for Brian after all
I somehow managed to talk Clara down and I’m relieved to tell you that Cupid has put his arrows away and will not be striking me and Patrick any time soon. Clara hasn’t quite given up though – I could see it in her eyes, that steely determination to make my life as miserable as possible. She casually mentioned that Patrick will be at her thirtieth birthday party so now I have to rack my brains for a legitimate reason not to go. Perhaps I can throw myself down a flight of stairs and snap a few bones the day before? Or somehow infect myself with a nasty (but not fatal) disease? These may seem like pretty drastic measures, but I really, really don’t want my sister setting me up with her slimy friend. Besides, I have a month until Clara’s party, which is plenty of time to come up with something a little less painful.
‘You could bang your head, have a sudden but non-permanent bout of amnesia and forget who Clara is and that it’s her birthday,’ Lauren suggests. We’re sitting in The Farthing, waiting for the quiz to begin.
‘Or I could fall down a manhole – or at least pretend to – and say I’ve mangled my legs too much to leave the house.’ I like this idea better than the flight-of-stairs tumble – pretend injuries are a much more palatable idea.
‘Or – and this is a crazy thought here – you could just say no.’ Ryan widens his eyes and mouth in a cartoonish look of shock. ‘No, Patrick, I would not like to go out with you. Thanks for asking.’
Lauren and I gasp.
‘I can’t say that!’
‘She’ll hurt his feelings.’
‘But do you actually care about his feelings?’ Ryan asks me. ‘You can’t stand the bloke. You think he’s a toad.’
‘Toads have feelings too, you know.’ I shift under Ryan’s incredulous gaze, feeling wholly inadequate. I know I should be more assertive but the truth is I’m a great big wussy pants. It’s like when Denise shoves a shopping list of non-work-related items at me and orders me to pop to Sainsbury’s. I should tell her to do one, to get off her butt and do her own weekly shop, but I don’t. I scuttle off and pick up the items for her family dinners and bathroom activities. It’s quite nice to get out of the office and she does pay for a taxi there and back, but the principle is wrong. Yet I go along with it for a peaceful life.
‘When have y
ou ever said no to your mother?’ I shift the focus onto Ryan, who is also a big wussy pants when it comes to Eleanor and her matchmaking. ‘You went on three dates with that girl last month. You said she had teeth as big as Shergar’s and the personality of a bone-dry dishcloth yet you still took her out for dinner. Three times.’
‘I was scared she’d attack me with her giant gnashers if I tried to put a stop to my mum’s meddling,’ Ryan says.
‘So how did you get rid of her?’ I narrow my eyes. ‘You’re not still dating her, are you?’
Ryan shakes his head. ‘I accidentally let slip that I have herpes. Which I don’t, obviously. But it did the trick. She made up the usual excuse of us having no chemistry and I haven’t heard from her since.’
‘You really are a pig.’ Lauren gives Ryan a withering look before turning her attention to me. ‘What are you going to do now?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I’m running out of ideas. I’ve tried online dating – which will not be happening again, let me assure you. And I’ve run out of places of interest to meet men. We’ve already tried the gym, the pub and Ryan’s football matches. I don’t have any more interests unless you count sitting on my sofa watching musicals and I don’t think Danny Zuko is going to pop out of the screen and sweep me off my feet.’ I smile at the image. If only! ‘Do either of you know anybody you could set me up with? I trust your judgement far more than I trust my sister’s.’
Lauren shakes her head. ‘If I knew anybody date-worthy, I wouldn’t still be single.’
I turn to Ryan and he shakes his head but he won’t meet my eye. ‘Setting people up hardly ever works out. Just look at me and the women my mum sets me up with. Have any of them ever worked out? Nope.’
The Wedding Date Page 13
