It was Gail who suggested that her mother try Internet dating. She had persuaded Stephanie, who taught English in a deprived school in North London, into believing (almost) that fifty-three was the new thirty and that going online was a great way to get back into the game.
‘Give it a go,’ Gail had said, not once but many times until, in an idle moment between marking sadly illiterate essays and eating her solitary dinner, Stephanie had logged on to U-Date and, in the boxes indicated, described her personality type, revealed her interests (listening to music and belly-dancing), outlined her perception of an ideal relationship and pressed the ‘search’ key.
There were not many people, according to her daughter, who hit the jackpot first time. Scrolling through the dozens of thumbnail images of men looking for women who were ‘gentle and caring’ or ‘fun-loving, confident and smart’, Stephanie had clicked on Dominic, a substantial, chess-playing, widowed solicitor who liked reading, travel and listening to music.
It was five years now since Robert, who taught history in an upmarket boys’ school, had sneaked off with a fluffy supply teacher, five years since Stephanie had been on her own. Once she had got over the shock of her ex-husband’s betrayal, and to fill the gap which the absence of what she had imagined was an entirely satisfactory marriage had created, she had sought out a new interest and found it in a twice-weekly belly-dancing class that got her out of the house. Between her fulltime job, caring for her affectionate King Charles spaniel with whom she carried on a one-sided conversation, and practising her new hobby, her time was fully occupied.
Having at first approached each other tentatively in a local wine bar, she and Dominic had got on like a house on fire. Any initial shyness on her part – it was a long time since she had dated – had been dispelled by Dominic’s kindness and his warm personality. It was a level playing field and together they went to concerts and restaurants, walked on the Heath near which Dominic lived, and discovered, among other things, that they shared similar birthdays and that each of them had a daughter. He would not let her pay for anything. It was not until Stephanie began to feel, much to Gail’s delight, not only safe, but that there could indeed be life after Robert, that she invited Dominic home to dinner.
Although she had never been a great cook and since she had been on her own didn’t bother too much, picking up something from the supermarket on the way home from school, the menu she decided upon was ambitious. Individual cheese soufflés would precede the crown roast of lamb with a herb crust and would be followed by raspberry pavlova. Her heart, for some reason, fluttering like a young girl’s, she spring-cleaned the terraced house left to her (together with the mortgage) by Robert, got out her recipe books and, admonishing herself to ‘act her age’, put a couple of candles on the kitchen table.
When Dominic arrived, his face almost hidden by yard-long red roses for which she did not have a tall enough vase, he kissed her firmly on the mouth, arousing sensations that over the past five years had become alien. Leaving him in the living room, where he made himself comfortable in the armchair and switched on the TV, she went into the kitchen where she put the flowers in a plastic bucket, struggled with a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and, as the recipe dictated, set the soufflés in their ramekin dishes in a bain-marie and slid them gently into the oven. When they were risen to perfection and would, like time, wait for no man, she announced, her voice urgent, that dinner was ready.
‘Hang on,’ his eyes were fixed on the screen. ‘Arsenal have given away a free kick!’
By the time he took his seat at the kitchen table, the cheese soufflés had collapsed. Singing her culinary praises Dominic seemed not to notice. The crown roast of lamb had been cooked to perfection, although it was not for her to say so. While he ate it, leaving a clean plate, he reminisced about his late wife, a keen horticulturalist who was never happier than when she was pottering about the large garden or bottling and preserving the fruits of her labours.
When Stephanie enquired could he manage a little more of the lamb, Dominic consulted his Rolex before stroking her bare arm warmly and looking steadfastly into her eyes. She thought he was about to say something.
‘What’s for pudding?’ Something in his voice triggered alarm bells in her head as he handed her his empty plate. ‘Just going to check the score.’
Stephanie thought about the pavlova with its chantilly cream and its egg whites whisked laboriously by hand. She opened the fridge where the pale cloud of meringue reposed in its raspberry splendour then shut it again firmly. Picking up the fruit bowl she set it before Dominic on the table and watched as an expression of disappointment, like that of a thwarted child, scudded briefly over his face.
He selected an apple. ‘Do you mind if I take this inside?’
Clearing the remains of the dinner which, if you counted the planning and the shopping, it had taken her almost two days to make, she saw herself, in a moment of clarity, dreaming up puddings and listening to the disembodied voice of the football commentator ad infinitum. Dismissing the idea from her head, she thought what a good life she had made for herself since Robert had walked out of it, with her circle of like-minded friends, her rewarding job, her cosy house and her dog. Belly-dancing over to the dresser, she picked up her mobile and, with a smile of relief on her face, telephoned Gail.