Confessions of a Serial Dater

by Michelle Cunnah

  “Well, I do have a business partner,” I say, squirming a bit from her attention. Oh, how I just want to be left alone to stuff more bread into my mouth. Underneath the table, I slide off my pinchy shoes, because if I’m going to have a rotten time, it might as well be with comfortable feet.

  “Charlie, yes. Delightful man. I was chatting to him at the church. He says you’re the lynchpin.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that—” I trail off. Why is she being so nice to me?

  “I’ve always thought that I’d be good at placing people in the right jobs, myself,” Elaine says, ever one for putting herself forward. “I’m a very empathic person.”

  “Actually, Rosie has a great talent for matching people to the right jobs,” Jonathan pipes up rather surprisingly and smiles at me. “I remember that failed juggler from Covent Garden,” he says to me, and then to the table, “he lost his patch to a group of fire-eating gymnasts, so Rosie came up with the perfect idea of him becoming the entertainment for children’s parties. He was doing fabulously well, the last time I heard…” Jonathan trails off, flushing, and I remember quite well the last time we talked about the juggler. We were in bed.

  “Well, Charlie, my partner, has a lot of contacts in the entertainment business,” I say quickly to cover his discomfort, because it’s true. And I’m a bit baffled that Jonathan would be speaking up for me. Although it has to be said, he was always very supportive about my work.

  “You know, you’re very familiar, Clarke.” Elaine changes the subject, and my nerves stand to immediate alert. “I have a feeling we’ve met before.”

  Christ. I hope not. This wedding really could not get any worse, could it? I reach for my champagne and guzzle it down. I know it’s supposed to be for the toasts, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  And as I place my empty glass down, Luke is watching me, not smiling. His expression is curiously tender as he raises a sardonic eyebrow, as if to ask if I am okay, and I look away. The passing waiter obligingly refills my glass.

  “I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d remember meeting such a beautiful woman,” Clarke smiles gallantly, and my stomach clenches even more tightly with nerves.

  “I know this is supposed to be a wedding, and a party,” Rowan says to me, “but I’m putting together a fund-raiser for domestic violence awareness, and I wonder if you might be interested? I’m looking for successful businesswomen to take part. You’d be perfect. What do you think?”

  “Um, yes,” I say, before I can absorb what she’s said. Um, yes? I must gain back control of my vocal cords, but I’m stunned by the turn of the tides. Not that I’m going to take her up on the offer. I mean, she’s Luke’s wife.

  “Great,” she beams and holds out a business card across the table, and I’m struck once more at the contrast between us. Of course Luke would marry someone like her. And I can’t help it, my eyes slide over to Luke. How could he cheat on someone so nice?

  “Here’s my contact information. Please do give me a call, and we can chat about the details. And now I’ll shut up about work,” she says, smiling around the table.

  And I hate myself even more for cheating on her. Even though I didn’t know I was cheating on her. And in that moment I hate Luke even more, because she seems really genuine.

  “I might be free to help out, too,” Elaine jumps in, because she hasn’t been the focus of attention for at least thirty seconds and must be suffering from withdrawal. “As you know, I’m heavily involved in charity work, myself,” she tells the table at large with such selflessness that I’m struck by a strange desire to write to the Pope and beg him to make an exception to the rule of making someone a saint while they are still alive, and to canonize her immediately. Even though she isn’t Catholic…

  “Less, these days, because of my delicate condition. And, of course, I’m the result of domestic abandonment.” She pats her bump. “I can relate to how a lot of these women are feeling.”

  Heads nod around the table, because she is so convincing. It’s only because I now truly know that her sweetness is a façade that I can hear through the sincerity to the false woman behind it. And as Elaine burbles on, I phase her out.

  “Everything okay?” Clarke says in my ear.

  “Absolutely,” I say back in his ear, and we smile into each other’s eyes. “Tell me you really haven’t met Elaine before?” I whisper, as if I am whispering sweet nothings. “This would be a disaster, believe me,” I add, giving him my most coquettish smile.

  You see, when I first interviewed Clarke as my possible escort (to be thorough and efficient), I indicated that there might be a faced-with-exes situation, and we’ve kind of practiced our strategy. He is to treat me as if I am the only woman on the face of the planet.

  Simple strategy, but effective, I think as I catch Luke watching us from the corner of my eye.

  “I’m pretty sure,” he says quietly. “I think you’re safe. Now just relax and let me take care of any difficulties. That’s what you’re paying me for,” he grins.

  And so I determinedly keep my attention on Clarke, and he on me. And all the while I am pretending to flirt with Clarke, I am aware of Luke’s constant glances my way. I am also aware of Jonathan casting sideways glances my way, too. And Harry’s occasional scowls.

  God, I’m beginning to feel like a scarlet woman. I can’t imagine why I’m the recipient of so much unwanted male attention.

  And as we listen and cheer through the speeches, I drink more and more champagne for courage. And flirt even more with Clarke.

  Also, my guilt increases as Rowan makes an effort to chat to me from time to time, in between being monopolized by Elaine. I am curt to the point of rudeness, which I don’t mean, but how can I make nice with her? It’s just so hypocritical. God, I’ll be glad when this is over…

  The wonderful food courses for which Auntie Lizzy and Uncle Greg have paid a king’s ransom are ashes in my mouth. The top-quality wine that accompanies them is equally lost on me, and I cannot help but remember back to the Christmas fund-raiser.

  “So how have you been?” Jonathan asks me as Samantha, Luke and Rowan are engrossed in conversation about a new neonatal unit and as Elaine ignores Harry and tries to charm Clarke away from me. If only she knew the truth….

  “Fine, fine,” I nod my head, thinking how nice Jonathan is. And how easy he was to be with. “And you?”

  “Oh, good. You know. Busy.”

  “Sidney still as difficult as ever?” I can’t help it, I have to ask. “You do know that he’s Rowan’s brother, don’t you?”

  “Yes—and she’s been a great help sorting out Sidney. Actually, he’s been replaced.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, the family decided that he needed a long holiday in rehab after receiving the threat of a lawsuit from a female executive from a company we were doing business with. I’m really sorry I didn’t support you as much as I should have done,” he says. “Got a bit caught up in the whole thing.”

  “That’s alright,” I say, patting his arm. Because I mean it. “Although your breakup line could use some improvement.”

  “I know,” he says, looking down at the table. “What can I say? I’m a bloke. I just thought that leaving you a voice message would be less, you know, messy. Easier on both of us. I’m just not great at all that kind of stuff. I did mean to call,” Jonathan adds. “You know, to see how you were feeling. But then, you didn’t call me, either.”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly the high point of my life.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it was. Well, I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” I say, meaning it. “God, let’s forget about it, shall we? Can we talk about something cheerful—this is a wedding. How’s your mother?”

  “Oh, Clarke, I’ve just remembered where we’ve met,” Elaine chooses just that moment to shriek with delight. “Actually, we didn’t meet at all, but it was you at the Hamiltons’ engagement party last month with poor Mitzy Stanford, wa
sn’t it?”

  “No, sorry, Elaine, it must be a mista—” Clarke jumps in, but before he can valiantly lie to save my pride, Elaine carries on.

  “We all felt so sorry for Mitzy. I mean, having to resort to hiring an escort so that she didn’t have to attend on her own. We weren’t supposed to know, but her sister, Agnes, had a row with her just before the party and made a point of telling everyone.” Elaine collapses in a fit of giggles.

  I cringe as the whole table, apart from Elaine, obviously, who cannot contain her mirth, falls silent.

  I just knew I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning. All I need now is for my newly mended bathroom pipes to explode and newly plastered kitchen ceiling to fall in on me.

  “Grief, that’s so funny,” Clarke steps in. “Not for poor Mitzy, of course—how terrible of her sister to do such a horrid thing. But to think—I must have a doppelgänger wandering around London—goodness. But you know what they say. We all have a double, somewhere in the world.”

  “And we all know that Rosie would never resort to hiring an escort.” Jonathan also leaps to my defense. “She’s such a lovely girl, she has the men lining up in droves for her.” He squeezes my hand under the table, and I’m grateful for the crumb of comfort.

  “Actually, I can see why many women choose to do precisely that,” Rowan says. “It’s hard, sometimes, to find the right partners for all the functions we have to attend. On occasion when I’ve traveled to functions alone, which is a lot, you’d be surprised at the number of sharks who think I’m fair game.”

  Oh, if only she knew what her cheating husband gets up to while she’s away, I think.

  “This is the twenty-first century, after all,” the cheating husband says. It’s the first time tonight that he’s engaged in a conversation in which I am involved, and I’m glad that he’s been keeping his distance.

  “And even if Rosie did decide to hire an escort,” he says, looking across at me, “there shouldn’t be a stigma attached. As Rowan says, it’s sometimes a smart decision. Almost like hiring a bodyguard. Frankly, I feel very sorry for poor Mitzy having such an awful sister.”

  Oh, God, and his eyes are so sympathetic. In that moment, I know that he knows…

  “Oh, well, yes, of course,” Elaine does an immediate about-face. “We all did feel very sorry for her. Agnes can be such a bitch, at times. But you know what they say—sometimes you have to laugh, else you’d cry. And,” she adds, patting Harry’s arm, “Harry and I are just good friends. I, too, am a vulnerable woman who felt the need for a partner at this function,” she sighs.

  And before I can wonder at her complete two-faced gall, Granny Elsie arrives at the table, a flurry of worry and urgency.

  “Rosie, love, I think we’d better get yer mum home,” she says a bit out of breath. “She’s not well.”

  “What’s the matter?” I’m on my shoeless feet before the words are out of my mouth.

  “I think she’s having, you know, a bit of a turn,” Gran tells me. “She’s with Auntie Lizzy in the ladies’ room.”

  “Poor Auntie Sandra’s never been the same since Uncle John passed away,” Elaine announces to the table. “We’re all so worried about her. We think she needs to see a psychiatrist, in fact Mummy’s always telling her she needs to seek medical help,” she lies. “But she can be so stubborn.”

  “Grief can be a serious issue,” Luke says, getting to his feet. “I’ll come, I might be able to help,” he tells me earnestly.

  “It’s okay.” I shake my head. “I can manage.” At least I think I can. And the last person’s help I need is Luke’s.

  “But you’re an obstetrician, not a psychiatrist,” Elaine jumps in, her face falling at losing one of her captive audience. “I’m sure she’ll be fine once Rosie gets her home.”

  “I insist,” Luke says. “Depression can often manifest itself as a physical illness. Let’s go.”

  “I’m such a drain on you,” Mum says sleepily as I tuck her into bed. “I don’t mean to be.”

  “Not one bit,” I tell her, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “Now you get a good night’s sleep as per doctor’s orders. And don’t worry about a thing,” I add, worrying about her.

  “Such a nice young man,” she tells me, sleepy from the sedative that Luke has given her.

  In many ways he is, I think as I switch off the light and close the bedroom door. He’s certainly been kind to Mum.

  Mum started crying, you see. Well, more like sobbing and sobbing her heart out, and she couldn’t stop. It was the wedding, and seeing Flora and Ned together. It reminded her of her and Dad’s wedding. And that Dad was no longer with her. Her grief just caught up with her, and the floodgates opened.

  Luke was so calm and assertive. He got her into a cab and insisted on coming home with Mum, Gran and me. He checked her out, then gave her the sedative to help her sleep.

  And despite Clarke being a good sport and playing the devoted boyfriend right up to the end, I’m wishing that I’d let him come back with us, because now I have to talk to Luke, and I could do with a buffer.

  I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen, where Granny Elsie is plying him with tea-infused brandy.

  “You should be careful,” I tell them. “Two mouthfuls of that and you’ll be on your back.”

  “Good,” Luke says, drinking deeply. “I could use it after the day I’ve had.”

  “Another of those days?” I say before I can stop the words from coming out of my mouth, and he raises a sardonic eyebrow at me as he takes another sip.

  “I don’t know about you young people, but I’m all done in,” Gran says rather pointedly. “I’m taking my brandy to bed. It was lovely to meet you, Luke,” she says. “You’ve been marvelous with Sandra.”

  And I panic, because I don’t want her to leave me alone with him.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, too.” He smiles his lovely, charming smile, and my heartbeat picks up speed.

  “I’ve made one for you, love. Drink it up, then you should do the same,” Gran tells me, giving me a meaningful wink before she trundles toward the stairs.

  Ever one for seizing an opportunity, I know what that meaningful wink of Gran’s means. It means, “Take this one to bed with you.” Honestly, the woman has no shame!

  “Goodnight, Gran.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she adds, and I scowl at her.

  “I’ll be following you in a couple of minutes,” I say rather pointedly, then flush at the abruptness of my tone.

  It sounds like I’m trying to get rid of Luke, and after all he’s done for Mum, this is not kind. But then, it’s not every Saturday night a girl finds herself in her mother’s kitchen with her married one-night stand, is it? What the hell am I going to say to him?

  But before I can say a word, a horn honks outside the house.

  “I should leave you in peace,” Luke says, finishing his tea and getting to his feet. “That’s my ride home.” He grabs his bag.

  “Okay,” I say flatly. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  And as we get to the front door, he pauses, handing me a card.

  “Stephen Miller is a good friend. We were at med school together for a while,” he says, and I’m confused, which is not an unusual occurrence these days. “He’s a top man. Great psychiatrist. Your mum should see him.”

  Stephen Miller might be a great psychiatrist, but he also has an expensive Harley Street address. Which means expensive Harley Street medical bills.

  “Thank you,” I say, concentrating on the card, because I don’t want to concentrate on Luke.

  “He takes National Health Service patients, too, so no worries that he’ll be too, um, expensive.”

  His kindness brings a lump to my throat, and I make the big mistake of looking up into his face. Huge mistake, because what I see there fills me with a longing to throw myself into his arms. Which is ridiculous.

  “Rosie?” he says gently.

  “Yes?”


  “About that—night—”

  “No,” I say, holding up a hand. Because I don’t want to think about that night, because if I think about that night I might do something rash. Like kiss him. “Thanks for everything, but you’d better leave,” I say in a rush, taking a step back. “Good-bye.”

  “Well, then. Good-bye.”

  I close the door before he’s barely over the doorstep.

  17

  New Beginnings

  Rosie’s Confession:

  Okay. I admit it. Living alone can be a bit lonely after a while. But only a bit. And only sometimes…

  “Miss Mayford, she just won’t do,” Mrs. Granville-Seymour booms down the telephone line at me.

  I’m a bit cross about this because, as per New Year, I lined up a selection of perfectly good people with cat experience from whom Mrs. G-S could choose the perfect companion for dear Maxie while she and her companion head off to Paris for a few days.

  They’re leaving on Monday. This gives me precisely today, Thursday and Friday to conjure up a replacement out of my magic hat.

  “What, exactly, seems to be the problem?” I ask her, completely hiding my crossness as I wrack my brain for an alternative. Mrs. G-S has, after all, generated a lot of business for us in the rich-pet-carer business.

  But Karen, a very nice English literature major in her final year, was all lined up to move in.

  “I made it quite clear that dear Maxie needs twenty-four-hour companionship. I can’t have her tripping out whenever she feels like it, leaving him all on his own. I’ll be leaving adequate supplies. There will be no need for nipping to the corner shop for tea bags when I have a perfectly good tea caddy full of Earl Grey. And lemons in the refrigerator, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” I say, but don’t mention the fact that some of us find the taste of the bergamot oil in Earl Grey too much for our palates.

  Frankly, I don’t understand why Maxie needs twenty-four-hour supervision. He’s a cat. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that the poor girl might need to go out and buy, oh, I don’t know, luxury items such as milk and bread, is it?