Claire felt uncomfortable to say the least. Her prospective client was already late and she was struggling to hold the table in the popular restaurant owned by a celebrity chef. Two glasses of wine to steady her nerves had already been ordered and consumed and she was feeling distinctly light-headed. She had deliberately picked the place because, in her view, it was a classy joint and Josh would never dream of bringing her here, so she pulled a double whammy — a decent (free) night out and a big contract that would win her plaudits. Claire was sure Patricia would even forego the bollocking for overstepping her expenses budget in what would be a colossal style.
She checked her make-up in a small hand mirror for at least the fifth time. Normally she didn’t wear any, but she wanted to make an effort so she’d layered on foundation, eyeliner and lipstick. She’d also borrowed a designer dress from a friend. It was low-cut but she had, like many of the London-based financial institutions, limited assets to display. A few bunches of toilet paper had helped boost her chest but she was paranoid that the white tissue would rise up and stand out in sharp contrast to the black fabric.
The waiter was walking over to her again. Oh fuck, she thought. She’d asked him for five more minutes ten minutes ago.
“Madam,” the waiter said smoothly, “your guest has arrived.”
Claire sighed with relief as the waiter moved to one side, pulled out a chair and allowed the tall man following him to sit down. Hershey Valentine reached across to shake her hand. His grip was surprisingly strong. Interesting. In her experience men were usually afraid to apply any pressure when greeting a woman.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Claire,” he drawled in a voice louder than it needed to be. “Sorry I’m late.” He grinned disarmingly.
A good-looking bastard and knows it, Claire thought immediately.
“No problem at all, Mr Valentine,” she smiled, “I’ve only just arrived myself.”
She was relieved that the waiter had the good grace to just about keep a straight face through the lie.
“Please, call me Hershey,” he said.
“Sir, madam, welcome to Chez Chez. What would you like to drink?” the waiter interrupted.
“A Chardonnay, Californian, lightly-oaked,” Hershey replied.
“An excellent choice, and for you madam, the rosé again?”
Claire blushed as Hershey eyed the empty wine glass in front of her. She was either busted as a liar or he considered her a lush.
“Just a mineral water please,” Claire said.
“No way,” Hershey said. “She’ll have the same as me.”
The waiter looked at Claire. Fuck it, why not? she thought and nodded in agreement.
The waiter whisked away her soiled glass then disappeared. Hershey turned his full, radiant attention on her.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to be meeting at last,” he boomed.
“I thought you were avoiding me,” Claire replied, sounding more churlish than she’d wanted to. A gentle-humoured reproach was all she’d been aiming for.
Hershey looked pissed off. Shit, shit! Claire screamed in her mind. She wished she’d taken that mineral water now.
“Not at all!” he grinned, the grimace gone as quickly as it had appeared. “I’ve just been real busy, that’s all. You know how it is.”
“But you’re free now, which is great!”
The waiter returned with two unsullied wine glasses which he placed reverentially in front of them whilst another waiter, who seemed to be cloned from the first, placed a bucket next to the table, the ice clinking in a hollow rattle. One clone retreated whilst the other tugged the bottle out of the bucket, drops of water tumbling off it.
“Would madam care to try first?” he asked.
Normally Claire couldn’t give a shit about the taste of a wine and was untutored in grape, terroir and structure alike, but she rightly suspected just diving in would look rude and uncouth in front of such an obviously cultured man who had, after all, been born on another continent and reached a lofty position in a prominent institution. So she said, “Yes, please.”
The waiter dribbled a small quantity of piss-coloured liquid into Claire’s glass, then stepped back and nonchalantly glanced around the room as if he was politely ignoring Claire.
She took a small sip and nodded. “Very nice,” she said, surprised that she’d spoken the truth.
Claire’s metaphorical invisibility over and done with, the waiter returned his gaze to her and nodded with abject delight. He topped up her glass then poured a decent quantity into Hershey’s globe before slipping away to blend in with the wallpaper.
Claire wasn’t sure how to start the conversation and Hershey, who was more intent on casting an appraising eye over his fellow diners, clearly didn’t want to initiate anything. Her difficulty was momentarily deferred by the ceremonial delivery of the menu, which looked as if it had been handwritten by the chef on expensive, thick vellum. It even had gold braid attached, for fuck’s sake. Claire and Hershey silently scanned the selections.
“Are you a starter or a dessert person?” she asked with just her eyes peeking over the top of the menu.
“Huh?” Hershey said, by the look on his face clearly puzzled by the question.
“You know, do you prefer to have either a starter or a dessert as well as your main course?”
“You mean I have to choose?”
“No,” Claire laughed, “it’s just I normally have a dessert, chocolate preferably, and I need to leave room for it so I skip the starter.”
Hershey looked somewhat stunned. “In America we eat all three courses with maybe another one thrown in.”
“Oh. I guess that explains why you’re all so obese!”
Hershey glared at her and she cursed herself for putting a foot wrong yet again so early in the process of wooing a new account.
“Not everyone in America is overweight you know,” he admonished.
“Well I can tell you’re not!” she laughed lightly.
Hershey grimaced a smile in return. He’d had to remind himself several times already why he was here and why he needed to stick it out with this clearly loathsome woman, regardless of what she said or did. He scanned the menu again, using the moment to quash his irritation. A minute later the waiter reappeared to take their order. Hershey looked at Claire with a little surprise when she ordered a starter and main course.
“Not saving yourself for dessert?” he asked with the merest niggle of sarcasm.
She shook her head. “I decided to follow your advice. I figured, what the hell.”
Hershey nodded in apparent appreciation and then ordered himself. The waiter bobbed his head to show he’d understood, retreated and silence descended again. As Hershey gazed around the room Claire took the opportunity to look him over. She had to admit he was relatively good-looking, not really her type, but nevertheless there were some attributes (like a lean body and a global view) that she could appreciate.
So very different to Josh...
“Do you mind me asking why you suddenly decided to get in touch?” she asked, fed up with the silence. She chose not to mention the swear-word-laden e-mail she’d received from Hershey earlier in the day.
Hershey leisurely returned his attention to her. “My secretary screwed up,” he lied. “I told her to get in touch with you. When I realised she’d failed to do so I did it myself.”
“I hope you fired her!” Claire joked.
“I did,” Hershey said with a completely straight face.
“Oh!”
She wasn’t sure whether to believe the loud American or not and Hershey clearly wasn’t going to tell her. Fortunately the waiter appeared with a small sorbet as a precursor to the starter (“To cleanse the palette.”). She dipped the tiny spoon provided into the icy bulge and savoured the flavour (water melon) that liquefied on her tongue, instantly losing any consideration of the unfortunate secretary who’d been sacrificed for her career. Ah well, fuck her, she thought.
“Rather...delicate,” Hershey said.
He speaks with a very strident voice, Claire thought for a second time.
“Yes, I do,” replied Hershey.
“That was out loud wasn’t it?” Claire asked.
Hershey nodded.
“Shit!”
“Don’t sweat it,” Hershey shrugged, a smile on his face. “It’s a national trait of ours.”
“Is it?” she smiled back. She felt as if the ice had at least cracked.
“Sure! Listen,” Hershey said, leaning over. Claire followed suit. “We citizens of the US of A have eleven times more space than you English guys so we have to raise our voices a little to make ourselves heard.”
Claire laughed. This time Hershey smiled with her. “Actually,” he continued, “if truth be told my father was an army colonel. He always shouted and we kids learned to do the same.”
The waiter stretched an arm into their huddle to whisk away the sorbet dishes and replace them with their starters. Claire tucked in. She was beginning to feel much more comfortable in the brash American’s company. He was proving very different to all the rumours.