A small, not-so-smart restaurant confronted Effie: her first rendezvous. It was the result of an arduous journey by bus, tube and a nine minute walk to a suburb on the other side of town. Her mind was whirring with calculations of how much time she would be spending on the extra travel involved in dating over the next few months, assuming she stuck at it. The resulting total was not reassuring, and to waste any time at this stage of life was a sin. On the other hand the process of calculating had a calming effect despite the speed at which her brain was working. She like the control and certainty of it faced with the uncertainty ahead.
Feeling chilled by a cold March wind that had buffeted her during the course of her nine-minute walk from the tube she greeted the Bistro d’Oro with a sigh of relief although she couldn’t see much about it’s dull brown quasi -tyrollean facade that looked the least bit ‘d’oro’. She had allowed masses of time to reach the place. She dreaded being second to arrive and not having time to go immediately to the ladies room to put herself straight before being seen. After all that wind she was sure her face was red and her hair wild. The first embarrassing thing had been to say she was from Arcadia, the euphemistically named introduction agency. Did the waiter express a barely suppressed smirk as he ushered her over to a table? ‘Here we are. This is the Arcadian table.’
Resisting the temptation to tread on his foot, she sat down and attempted to take stock. The other diners were solidly in couples, not even foursomes, and she felt she stood out like a sore thumb as a single woman. Or could they all be happily joined up protégés of Arcadia? A middle-aged couple next to her were laughing together, sharing a joke. Her own mood was something between adolescent excitement and old age cynicism: ‘now’s your chance’ or ‘don’t kid yourself – I mean just look at you!’ She was clearly nervous and needed to seek refuge in the ladies room, check her face and hair, re-do her lippy. There was still plenty of time, fifteen minutes to go. Her bladder was taking the strain of her nerves. She had already been three times at home in the course of getting herself ready, a process which had taken several hours of indecision, of changing four or five outfits, settling on a sixth and then taking everything off again because she had a suddenly panicked that her underwear ought to be clean, just in case her bra straps showed from underneath the black top she had chosen. It only struck her now as she stared in the mirror in the ladies room that a black bra was hardly likely to show the dirt. In fact even the black top which was decently high necked was covered by a grey fitted jacket. Simple but smart and definitely not too sexy had been the mantra agreed on after discussion with Susie who turned out to have strong views on such matters. The outfit was completed with a pair of slim line matching trousers, black patent leather shoes with not too high a heel - don’t want to look small but not too tall either - and some silver jewellery that jangled to complete the ensemble.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought the image was OK if a little sombre, all that grey and black, even silvery hair, but nothing for it now. She needed to get back to the table so that she would be able to view Simon as he came in. Much better to be the one already there, sitting down, though she hoped he wouldn’t be late. She was dying for a drink to calm her nerves but thought she had better wait, not wanting to look too keen about the joys of alcohol. What if he was TT? That was quite a sobering thought, and something that had not been mentioned in his profile. She could at least order a bottle of fizzy water.
The waiter, however, was studiously ignoring her despite Effie’s best efforts to catch his eye. She became convinced that he was deliberately taking no notice with the result that she was both frowning and waving her arms wildly to attract attention when a man suddenly appeared at her side.
‘Effie?’
‘Goodness, you must be Simon’
‘That’s me.’
‘Great... sorry about that. I was just trying to get myself a waiter, I mean some water.’
Simon smiled, sat down opposite Effie and hailed the waiter who responded immediately. ‘Some water for the lady please and shall we have a look at the wine list?’
This was music to Effie’s ears and she immediately felt more relaxed and able to take in her companion. He was neither tall nor short, neither handsome nor ugly, fat nor thin and in possession of a moderate amount of greying hair. An ordinary man she thought, at least to look at, but he had a nice smile and she had liked the way he had handled the introduction. She just prayed he didn’t feel as awkward as she did and wished the waiter would buck up with the wine list.
They exchanged a few pleasantries about the journey and the difficulties of finding the restaurant until the waiter finally returned with the wine list which he handed to Simon. ‘Right, let’s see’ he muttered as he put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘You will join me, won’t you?’
‘Oh please.’ Effie tried not to sound too eager.
Simon was scanning the list as though he knew what he was looking at which appealed to Effie. ‘I think the Sicilian ones are good and this is basically an Italian restaurant, isn’t it?’
‘Fine by me’.
‘So shall we have a glass each? Or could we manage a bottle? We’re neither of us driving are we?’
‘I’m easy’ she lied.
‘Let’s go for a bottle then.’
Effie perked up, gratefully swallowing a large mouthful as soon as the wine arrived, grateful, too, that he suggested they have a look at the menu although that too had its difficulties. It had been made clear by the agency that on first dates clients would pay for themselves. That made sense to Effie but it still left her with the issue of what to choose wanting neither to appear too affluent – the grilled lobster – or on a diet – a salad - or too greedy - the lasagne. So she hesitated, hoping to get a cue from Simon who was studying the menu with the same seriousness he had adopted with the wine list.
‘So, the ravioli sounds good’ he finally pronounced ‘I’ll go for the one with the meat filling.’
‘Good idea. I’ll have the same, or, perhaps the one with ricotta and spinach. That’s an old favourite of mine.’ Which was true. At least she’d not have to eat her way through something she didn’t like. The wine, too, helped her to control the occasional strong desire just to be back in her own home watching the television.
‘Cheers, Effie’. The order had been given and Simon was at last looking at her. There was a sense of getting down to business. ‘So tell me about you, Effie?’
‘Me? Well, not much to tell. At least, I think I mentioned in my - in my profile -’ she had almost said ‘CV’ - ‘I got divorced some years ago, three children and...’ did the mention of grandchildren make her sound too old? She gulped down a large mouthful of Chardonnay and pushed on, leaving her last sentence hanging having decided that grandchildren were not for the first meeting. ‘Job-wise, I’m sort of an accountant, work for Ledgers, have done for years. I look after a group of hotels. Lots of adding and subtracting I suppose’ she laughed. Simon did not, but raised his rather bushy eyebrows ‘that sounds impressive. I like a lady who can do her sums. Never my forte, I’m afraid. Not that I didn’t want to make money when I left school. That’s why I went into property.’
‘Property?’ I thought you indicated you had something to do with the media?’
‘Ah yes. That was a few years ago. No, I’m now attempting to make my fortune in the rather cut throat world of property development. Worked for the Beeb for a while but it was too political, too back-stabbing and I certainly didn’t make much money.’
‘I see’ said Effie as she pronging a piece of the ravioli that had just arrived and looked good. Her appetite had suddenly returned and she was anxious now not to drip sauce onto her front. ‘So how about the cars you said you enjoy? Is it vintage stuff? Racing cars?’
‘Sadly, not even a Polo. That too is something that has had to pass into my personal history books. You see, I did have a couple of beautiful classic cars, an old MGB and a Ford, but when I moved out of the media I needed some capital to invest in a development. Had to sell pretty well everything and the fact is I’m still waiting for a return. I found I didn’t really need a car anyway. Hence the trek here’ he laughed.
This seemed to be the cue for both of them to pause and for Simon to refill their glasses. Effie rested her fork on the side of her plate and addressed him. ‘So what about the classical music?’
‘Ah, yes, I once joined a choir, but had to give that up I’m afraid. Just haven’t had time recently.’
‘So do you still climb? That sounded exciting.’
‘Sadly no. I fell and broke my leg. Years ago actually. No a brisk walk to the river and back is about as much exercise as I allow myself these days.’
‘And the collie?’
‘Poor chap died last year. Got a bit carried away when we were out in the country. Some sort of throw back to his sheepdog mother, except he wasn’t, a proper sheep dog, I mean. He went charging off that afternoon rushing after a flock of pregnant ewes, went absolutely mad, yapping and all hyper. Nothing I could do, and the irate farmer shot him. Understandable but sad, damn sad.’ He took a large mouthful of ravioli and chewed it pensively. ‘Lovely dog.’
Effie spoke with caution: ‘so, basically, Simon, all the things you mention on your profile aren’t relevant any more?’
‘I suppose not. No, you’re right. It’s all just a bit out of date. The fact is, I wrote it a while back when things were different. I first went to Arcadia some years ago. Met some lovely people, and they’ve just sort of kept me on their books.’
‘I see.’
So what did she see? It was difficult to tell since the man sitting in front of her was not the man she had been led to believe he was. There was a whiff of stale goods, of someone second hand and much used. The food suddenly did not taste as good and Effie lowered her laden fork.
‘Well, perhaps you’d better tell me a bit about your up-to-date version’. But she knew her interest level had plummeted and she more than ever wanted to be home and not have to go through another course and possibly coffee – did they serve chocolates with it? - just to be polite. The whole situation was so untried and new, however, that Effie felt quite paralysed about doing anything other than what she usually did, which was to be polite, and the food was quite palatable she decided as she picked up her fork again. So she sat it out for another forty five minutes, ordered a tiramisu, which she knew she shouldn’t, followed by a double espresso, which she knew would keep her awake all night, and accepted Simon’s suggestion that they finish off with a limoncello which he assured her would make her sleep like a baby.
There was nothing acutely wrong with Simon. His story wasn’t even entirely ordinary but Effie found his apparent lack of concern about having given her the wrong impression hard to digest. Or was it strangely compelling? What a way to get through life, simply not letting things bother you. The fact was that it did bother her, that instead of being an adventurous, dog-owning media man he turned out to be a property developer with a highly uncertain future and no dog at all.
The rich mix of chocolate, cream and alcohol on top of a hefty pasta was also taking its toll on Effie. Time to go. Her feet were aching and she longed to be soaking herself in a warm bath. Simon made no protest when she took the initiative and asked for the bill which they shared as instructed, agreeing on a suitable tip. Their coats were retrieved by the smirking waiter who insisted on helping Effie get hers on. ‘I hope madam enjoyed her evening’. To which she struggled to think of a suitably crushing response, only able to come up with a feeble ‘yes she did thank you’. ‘So...?’ Simon was hovering at the door ‘Well, I enjoyed the evening Effie.’
‘You did?’
‘Oh yes, one of my best to date.’
‘Right...’
‘I’d really like to get to know you better. Such an interesting life you have. I mean, I’d love to meet up again if you would?’
‘Well, yes, that’d be nice’ she lied for the second time that evening.
‘I’ve got your number. I’ll give you a call some time?... Maybe we could do a film or something?’
‘Yes, sure. A film would be good.’
And so the evening ended with a degree of bathos for Effie whose gut feeling told her he would not ring and she didn’t want him to anyway. Not a complete disaster of an evening but she seriously wanted to get home now to nurse her aching legs and buffeted psyche.
All was not finished, however, at the door of the restaurant. Having made their farewells, with a cheerful smile and a peck on the cheek from Simon and a nod from Effie, they turned to start the journey home, only to find that they were heading in the same direction. ‘So where do you actually live?’ he enquired, one question that neither of them had asked so far. ‘Oh, I live in Earl’s Park. A small house off the High Street.’
‘Goodness! So do I. I mean, I live in Earl’s Park too. A flat in the block overlooking the park. What a coincidence. So I guess we’re going the same way. And we could have met much nearer to home for both of us.’ Effie laughed, finally able to see something funny in the evening, that huge long trek through the wind and the rain when they could have met round the corner in the local Indian. And now she had to reckon on a further three quarters of an hour of small talk with her companion on the journey back. It was in fact forty seven minutes until Effie could put her key in the door and a further twenty one until she was lying back in the steamy warmth of a bath with a cup of peppermint tea balanced on the edge. Not a total washout for a first meeting, but tiring, exhausting. Perhaps she was too old for this sort of thing after all. She certainly must not wear those shoes again, even if they weren’t too high they had proved miserably uncomfortable. Death to her varicose veins.
Her phone buzzed. It was half past eleven. Only Susie would ring this late, but she did not answer. She would have to wait until tomorrow. She was far too tired and too sober to engage in a de-briefing with her friend. Or would it be a post-mortem?