Unsuitable Men

by Pippa Wright

  ‘Rory!’ Lance exclaimed, leaping to his feet at my approach. I kissed him hello and let the maître d’ seat me and, a step too far I felt, shake the napkin out of its fan-shaped arrangement and spread it across my lap.

  ‘Great table,’ I said, more because I thought he’d probably arranged it than because I enjoyed being raised above the other diners.

  ‘Mortifying, am I right?’ he answered, rolling his eyes at me. ‘Sacheverell said we had to have it, nothing but the best for our visitor from Country House. Hey, nice dress, I see you got the memo. We totally match – his and hers. Hilarious.’

  He had that American way of saying things were hilarious without actually laughing, which I have always found a bit disconcerting. It’s almost as if conversation is being appraised rather than experienced when someone comments, ‘That’s funny’ instead of just laughing. I found myself answering in kind though.

  ‘Yes, hilarious,’ I said, but smiling to show that I did find it quite funny. With our accidentally matching outfits and our special table of romance – all champagne flutes and tasteful arrangements of roses – we looked like we were being set up for another Country House photo shoot. Were we being set up for another Country House photo shoot? ‘We’re not being photographed tonight, are we?’

  Lance laughed comfortably. He didn’t seem to find any of this awkward. ‘Your duties are over, Rory, this is just a thank-you from me to you, right? I totally swear we’re not going to demand anything from you tonight. Well, not anything you’re not prepared to give, am I right?’

  His eyes twinkled playfully and, if I hadn’t known that he was gay, I would have thought he was actually flirting with me.

  ‘Ha,’ I laughed, nervously.

  ‘No, seriously, we were all kinds of worried when Martha dropped out like that. Not the best sign, you know? But it’s been a great day, and I totally know you’ll write a great piece. Martha said you were the best journalist at the magazine – she hand-picked you for it.’

  ‘She did?’ I asked. How unlike Martha. I wasn’t unduly flattered, since it seemed likely to me that she’d said it more to mollify the concerns of the Delaval family than to compliment me.

  ‘Yeah, and I’ve got to say, you handled Bibi like a dream. She can be an A-one pain in the ass, God forgive me for saying so. But it all worked out.’

  The steel-haired waitress, as intimidatingly unsmiling as the maître d’, arrived in time to spare me the dilemma of whether or not to agree with him, which seemed rude to my hostess, or disagree and imply that he was indiscreet and treacherous to have spoken like that about his aunt. The waitress carefully lifted a bottle of champagne out of an ice bucket, wrapped it in a napkin and poured out two glasses with her other hand held behind her back, gently bowing as she did so. It was a gesture that suggested, rather than deference, that she was doing us a very great favour by serving us. As I watched her, I caught myself unconsciously inclining my head back at her and quickly snapped back upright in case she thought I had been attempting to condescend to her in some way, as if I was the duchess instead of the duchess’s lowly guest in a high-street dress.

  The waitress took our order from a short, handwritten menu that was clearly aiming hopefully at a Michelin star – all foams and jellies where I would have preferred a comforting stew of some kind. I let myself be led by her suggestions, partly because I wasn’t sure of precisely everything on the menu (salsify?) and partly, I admit, because I hoped it might make her become a little warmer towards us. I felt that she had, correctly, identified me as insufficiently grand for the honour of occupying the top table, and as for Lance, well, insufficiently English was my suspicion. I shouldn’t have worried though, because when it was Lance’s turn to order he teased and flirted until he’d forced a reluctant smile to appear on her face.

  Once we were left alone, Lance lowered his voice to a whisper: ‘Unclench, am I right?’

  ‘Me?’ I asked.

  ‘No! Jeez, like I’d say that to you! I meant Mrs Danvers over there. I mean, an emulsion of froideur served with a foam of disapproval, am I right?’

  ‘You are very right,’ I agreed, with relief. ‘She has totally terrified me. I don’t even know what I ordered – I was too scared to ask any questions.’

  Lance leaned over the table confidingly. ‘I am so glad to hear you say that – I thought it was just me with my gauche colonial ways that she was objecting to.’

  ‘Well, obviously, if you hadn’t started singing “The Star Spangled Banner” and chanting “U-S-A, U-S-A” after ordering your starter, she might have been less disapproving, am I right?’

  ‘Do you always do that?’ Lance asked, with a gentle frown.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Imitate the way people talk.’

  ‘Oh God, did I?’ I cringed.

  ‘Yeah, you did,’ he said, but smiling so that I could see he hadn’t taken any offence. ‘You’ve been doing it all day. Dropping in “totally” and “right”. It’s okay, I’m not offended or anything. You did it with Sacheverell and Bibi, too – got all King’s Speech clipped vowels. And then with the waitress – you totally copied her body language when she was pouring the drinks.’

  I twisted the napkin in my lap with mortification.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lance,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, really. I’ve always done this, ever since I was little. I just pick up on people’s accents. It’s incredibly embarrassing.’

  Lance shrugged. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. I expect you’re just trying to make people feel comfortable around you. That’s not a bad thing. And your Californian accent’s not at all bad, you know.’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ I laughed, but of course I managed to emphasize the ‘up’ and make myself sound like Paris Hilton.

  ‘Really, you should be an actress,’ he teased.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ I answered. ‘We just moved a lot when I was little – all over the country. And you know how mean kids are – I mean children. I had to lose my Geordie accent pretty quickly when we moved to York.’

  ‘Geordie?’

  ‘Er, yes, I don’t suppose you’d even know what that sounds like,’ I laughed. ‘It’s from the north-east, a bit sing-songy. Hawey the lads, you know?’

  He looked at me blankly. ‘I don’t know. But I do understand not everyone here talks like the Queen.’

  ‘Except Bibi,’ I said.

  ‘The Queen wishes she was as posh as Bibi,’ grinned Lance.

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Isn’t it, like, not posh to come from the north?’ asked Lance. ‘Have you been all finishing-schooled to speak properly?’

  ‘Ha,’ I laughed. ‘Finishing school of life, Lance. I’d just got the hang of the Yorkshire accent when Mum took us to Dorset.’ He looked blank again, clearly not understanding the drastic leap of linguistics I’d had to take to adapt to yet another accent, aged nine. ‘Ummm, ooo-arrr Thomas Hardy? Hello, my lover?’

  ‘Your lover? You want me to be your lover?’ He raised his eyebrow.

  I laughed. ‘It’s just what they say there, to everyone.’

  ‘Sounds like somewhere I should visit.’

  ‘And you can eat a Dorset knob,’ I suggested.

  ‘A what?’

  I sputtered with laughter at the expression on his face. ‘It’s a biscuit,’ I said.

  ‘Like biscuits-and-gravy biscuit?’

  ‘No – more a cookie. Well, more of a dried-up bit of old bread dough. It’s not very nice, actually. But a good name, am I right?’

  ‘You’re doing it again!’

  ‘Oh God, sorry. Got a bit carried away with the Dorset knob gag.’

  ‘As anyone would,’ said Lance, pursing his lips comically.

  By the time our desserts arrived – heart-shaped of course – I had forgotten entirely about trying to play any sort of a role. Lance was supremely hilarious company, so much so that I forgot about who I was meant to be for the evening and just had a good time. It felt as if the pressure w
as lifted – no matter what Ticky might have said about Lance being an unsuitable man, I hadn’t had so much fun on a night out in ages. The interview was over, the photo shoot was done, everyone was happy with how it had gone. Conversation was easy and fun; there was no subtext because we hardly knew each other, and it wasn’t like we were on a date or anything, so there was no pressure about whether or not we liked one another like that or how the evening would end.

  Perhaps it was our superior seating, or perhaps it was because I was having such a good time, but instead of feeling like a sad inferior singleton having a meal with a gay man on Valentine’s Day, I felt boozily certain that no one else at the Delaval Arms was having as good a night as me. Except maybe Lance. Because both of us were outsiders here, and because when it came to fitting in I’d rather have joined Lance than any of the other diners, we’d spent the evening like two wildlife-documentary makers studying a watering hole. With our bird’s-eye view we had surreptitiously witnessed, with guilty fascination, two arguments – one of the teeth-denched, words-hissed variety, and one from the school of silently storming-off-to-the-loo. One marriage had been proposed, and accepted, under our noses, to a smattering of applause from other couples, and anxious seat-shifting from a few men. Our favourite couple had failed to address more than ten words to each other over the course of their meal. Lance, who had a better view of them than me, would update me every time a new word was spoken, ‘He said, “Very tasty.” That’s up to nine!’

  For the first time since I had split up with Martin I saw that life as a single girl did not have to mean moping around on your own, wishing you were part of a couple. I could have fun in the most unlikely circumstances, with someone whose existence I hadn’t even been aware of a week ago.

  ‘Is this a traditional English dish, then?’ said Lance, pointing his fork at our heart-shaped puddings.

  ‘Pannacotta?’ I laughed. ‘Hardly. But I suppose they thought spotted dick wasn’t very romantic.’

  ‘Are you going to make cock jokes all night?’ said Lance. ‘I thought Englishwomen were supposed to be all refined, not potty-mouthed.’

  ‘It’s a real pudding,’ I protested. ‘Honestly. Steamed sponge with currants. It’s disgusting. Be glad you don’t have to eat it.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Lance. ‘Who’s to say I wouldn’t enjoy a soupçon of spotted dick?’

  ‘Oh God, Lance,’ I said, ‘please can we be new best friends? I really think a gay best friend is totally what has been missing from my life.’

  Lance lifted his head and stared at me. ‘Gay?’ He looked horrified. ‘You think I’m gay?’

  ‘A-aren’t you?’ I asked hesitantly.

  ‘Rory, why ever would you think I’m gay? Haven’t we been flirting with each other all night?’

  ‘I-I just thought,’ I stammered. ‘I mean, you’re wearing eyeliner . . .’ I trailed off as he put down his spoon and pushed away the pannacotta. All trace of humour left his face.

  ‘Seriously? Are you that judgy?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Lance,’ I said, flustered. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t apologize,’ he said, waving a hand in front of his face dismissively.

  ‘It’s just my friend at work – she said that you, well, because you’re from San Francisco . . .’ I dug myself deeper. I couldn’t seem to stop talking. It must have been the champagne. I felt as if I was watching from the outside while a friend of mine made an utter fool of herself. I wanted to kick my own leg under the table, really really hard. ‘And – and because your name is Lance.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. He put his napkin on the table, and moved his champagne glass an inch to the left while he composed himself. ‘Listen. Even if my name was Bender McGaylord and I came from Gayville, Arkansas, I would hope that an entire day and night in my company would count for more than the opinion of someone you work with. Someone who’s never even met me. What have I said or done that would make you think I’m gay?’

  ‘It’s not an insult, Lance, I’m not homophobic,’ I protested.

  ‘Look, I don’t think it’s an insult to be called gay,’ he retorted. ‘What, one minute you think I’m gay, next I’m a bigot? I thought you were meant to be this, like, social anthropologist. The girl who moves all over the place and interprets the behaviour of the natives. Seems like you’re not all that good at it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lance,’ I said. From the corner of my eye I could see that all the couples who had provided our entertainment for most of the evening were now shamelessly staring at us, as if we were the Delaval Arms-provided floor show.

  He leaned back into his chair. ‘Jeez, the gay best friend. That’s a doozy, Rory. It really is.’

  He smiled tightly at me as I blinked away tears of shame. ‘Look, don’t cry about it. Seriously. It’s not the first time. I don’t expect it’ll be the last. And, like, you’re British, I should have expected it.’

  ‘It’s not because I’m British,’ I said. ‘It’s because I’m a total idiot, Lance. Honestly. I – I’ve just got out of an eleven-year relationship. I don’t know anything about men any more. Not a thing. I’m beginning to wonder if I ever did. And I especially don’t know anything about men who wear eyeliner.’

  He offered me a tiny wintry smile. Of sympathy? I couldn’t tell. And in any case my powers of people-reading were clearly entirely lacking, so I wasn’t about to trust myself.

  ‘Or men called Lance,’ he said, his stony face melting slightly.

  ‘Or men called Bender McGaylord,’ I said.

  He smiled again, a little less frostily.

  ‘Eleven years, huh?’ he asked.

  ‘Yup. We broke up just over a week ago.’

  ‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘No wonder you’re so totally clueless.’

  And so it was that my very first date with an unsuitable man was only revealed to be such by the time we got to pudding. Once we’d drunk our coffees – Lance ordered a butch triple espresso, I suspected just to make a point – it was clear that nothing would happen between us. There are some things that quench a man’s interest for ever, it seems, and one of those is having his sexuality questioned by a dim-witted English girl. I couldn’t say I blamed him.

  8

  ‘Er, excuse me, Roars, but why is it my fault that you accused a straight man of being, like, in the gays?’ demanded Ticky.

  ‘Because,’ I spluttered, trying to save face after relating the whole sorry saga to her, ‘because you said. You said he was called Lance and was from San Francisco and that meant he was definitely gay.’

  Ticky looked quite astonished. But if she hadn’t put the idea into my head, would I really have made such a complete idiot of myself? She had to take some responsibility, surely?

  ‘But like, Roars, you were actually there? Like, you met him, you nutter. Couldn’t you make up your own mind? What the faahrk did it have to do with me?’

  ‘But, but he was wearing lemon-yellow jeans and a green jumper! I never thought to question it!’

  ‘Darling, can you really not tell the difference between, like, a homosexual and a fauxmosexual?’ asked Ticky, her eyebrows almost touching, so deep was her frown of concern. She appeared to have moved from annoyed to anxious in one moment.

  ‘Fauxmosexual?’ I asked.

  ‘Yah, like he wears moisturizer and has a cleansing regime and a, like, interest in fashion that borders on the fruity, but he is absolutely all man all the way all the time,’ she said. ‘You’ve never even heard of one?’

  ‘Martin didn’t wear moisturizer,’ I said.

  ‘Roars, you are like, fricking backwards sometimes but, okay, let me explain. The fauxmosexual can confuse some people because he is, like, a stealth straight. Sort of like the Trojan horse of straight men,’ Ticky confided, coming over to sit on the edge of my desk as if imparting a valuable lesson. ‘Like, he allows women to assume he’s in the gays to gain closer access – women don’t feel he’s any sort of a threat, right?
And then, when their defences are down, he lunges in for the kill.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I said, shuddering as I remembered once again Lance’s horrified face as he had gently explained that he was not gay.

  ‘How do you know all this stuff, Ticky?’ I groaned, my hands over my eyes as if I could hide from everything. ‘How do I not?’

  ‘Unsuitable men, Roars,’ said Ticky. ‘I told you. A girl learns about this stuff through encounters with unsuitable men. It’s what dating is all about.’

  I groaned. If the incident with Lance was any indication of my dating skills, then perhaps a life of semi-seclusion at Auntie Lyd’s was preferable. At least it would save me from running around shrieking wild speculations at sexually ambiguous strangers in country house hotels.

  ‘Like, Roars, doesn’t this just show how much you need to do this?’ asked Ticky, gearing up for another assault on my weakened defences. ‘I mean, if you’re so dense that you can’t even tell who’s in the straights and who’s in the gays, doesn’t that tell you something?’

  I wondered what it did tell me. Apart from the fact that I was a bit of an idiot. A judgemental idiot with faulty gaydar. But I wasn’t ready to admit that Ticky might be right.

  I was saved by the sight of Noonoo, tossing her mauve pashmina over her shoulder as she marched purposefully down the corridor towards the meeting room.

  ‘Editorial meeting!’ I said, with an enthusiasm born out of relief rather than any real happy anticipation.

  ‘Oh faahrk,’ sighed Ticky. ‘Not just editorial. It’s the faahrking ideas meeting, too.’

  Tuesday’s editorial meeting was always the nadir of the week, but this was the worst of all meetings: the monthly call for features ideas for our next issue. In the pre-Amanda days editorial meetings were interminable all-day affairs, in which the merits or otherwise of a piece on carpet beaters could be discussed for an hour or more. Amanda ran a tighter ship – meetings were a less agonizing yet still bum-numbing two hours – but her tactic for shortening the meeting was a fairly brutal approach to rejecting features ideas.