Date number 4 was a friend of a friend. After her three not so successful experiences with the dating agency and websites, not to mention the emotional ups and downs with the family, the idea of this ‘friend’ really appealed. Susie, as ever eager to express an opinion, was reassuringly positive about it. ‘A friend is bound to be better. I mean you feel you already know something about them. They’re sort of vetted.’
‘They’re not sick animals, Susie’ replied Effie as she stirred the chocolate into her cappuccino. `Anyway, I don’t know him. He’s someone Vanessa knows. Or even someone Vanessa knows knows. I’m not raising my hopes.’
‘Oh go on, Effie. Relax.’ said Susie sprinkling sweetener over her latte with gay abandon. ‘He just might be your dream man, so you’d better be ready.’
‘Dream man! I don’t have dreams like that any more. That’s something Jack stole from me when he decided that my best friend was his dream girl... that skinny bitch Helen !’ Her spoon stabbed through the frothy top of her cappuccino, furious at Jack, annoyed at herself that he could still upset her. ‘OK, Susie. I’ll go. But it’s suddenly striking me that in a way this is a more awkward one, I mean, the fact that Vanessa knows him makes it all seem much more public.’
‘So? It’s a natural human urge to want to be with someone. And I’m sure it doesn’t occur to Vanessa to think it is anything but totally normal.’
‘Well, I wasn’t suggesting it was abnormal, just a bit exposing. Anyway, I said I’d go. I’ve told him I’ll come. And I’ll tell you one thing about this guy - he’s called Quentin, by the way - he’s rich.’
Susie put her cup down and gave Effie her full attention.
‘Yes, Vanessa tells me his family are pretty loaded, very successful family business which he inherited. But he’s no shirker. He sold off the family business after a while at some huge profit and then started up another one which is also doing well. Quite talented at making things work and gathering in quite a fortune in the process, or so Vanessa told me over the phone. She was surprisingly frank for someone I hardly know myself. Anyway, perhaps at least this time I’ll get taken out to dinner.’ The two women laughed and sipped their coffee thoughtfully.
Prospects looked good. Quentin had called her and she liked the sound of his voice, deep, warm and very polite. He got 7 out of 10 for initial presentation. Effie was a hard marker. He suggested they went to ‘Le coq rouge’ for dinner and his score soared. ‘Le coq rouge’ was a first rate restaurant with an excellent reputation and Effie felt hungry just thinking about it. After putting the phone down she couldn’t resist immediately phoning her friend to tell her the news. ‘My god, Susie. So far he’s done everything right.’
This time it was Susie who voiced a note of caution. ‘Great, darling, but hold your horses till you actually meet him. He might turn out to be fat and sweaty with bad breath.’
‘I don’t think so.’
The rendezvous was to be the following Friday and Quentin would pick her up in his car. As the day in question approached there was no doubt that Effie was experiencing an unaccustomed excitement – or was it nerves? She found herself drifting off at work imagining likely scenarios. What to wear also became a preoccupation. She scanned her wardrobe for the umpteenth time and on this occasion Susie was no help. Her suggestions were always for short skirts and bright tops which Effie felt ignored the all too evident fact that her legs were definitely on the plump side, if shapely, and too short a skirt risked revealing the varicose vein on her right leg, apart from looking silly. In desperation she consulted her two daughters.
The ever romantic Jane suggested her mother wear a dress – ‘something filmy, better at disguising excess flesh’, while practical Cathy went for trouser suit and boots – ‘Best to cover your legs. More comfortable anyway.’ After these encouraging comments - how could she expect the girls to take her dating seriously? - Effie decided to take the matter into her own hands, and paid a visit to Halter & Gusset where she tried on fifteen bras before exiting with a lacy black affair and a pair of ‘tummy tightening tights’. Her wardrobe was subject to one final scan at 6.35 on Friday night leaving her precisely 55 minutes to get ready, which should be ample time, she told herself, although she had not calculated with a lengthy struggle to get in to the extremely tight tights. Once in place she was pleased with the result even if she could hardly breath and by 7.30 she was able to stand in front of the mirror and look with a degree of satisfaction at her reflected image: a fitted black skirt down to the knee, a red silk polo neck top, black tights and her highest pair of heels. Her hair gray but shiny and sleek, enough eye- makeup to bring out her grey eyes and a touch of light apricot lipstick. Not bad. She slipped on her black fitted jacket as she heard a car draw up and the doorbell ring.
The first thing she noticed was the car. She didn’t know what it was but what she did know was that it was something special. For one thing it was incredibly low and she had to bend right down to get in. Once she had undertaken this manoeuvre with as much grace as she could muster she was able to give her attention to Quentin. He looked nice. In fact he looked very nice. He smiled revealing a set of perfect white teeth. He put his hand through thick gray hair. Not a sign of balding. He beamed kindly, two brown eyes looking at her. And then there was the voice which in reality sounded even more attractive than on the phone. It was a deep, quiet yet penetrating voice which had no trace of hesitation. She summed him up as a man at ease with himself. She, on the other hand, felt a disturbing thrill of excitement which was far from easy to handle. Why did some men get to look more attractive as they got older?
She had only a vague memory of how they got to the restaurant or what they talked about, she felt simply overwhelmed by her senses. This attractive looking man, the plush car seats, the purring engine, and then the assiduous attention of the maitre domo at Le coq rouge who welcomed Quentin as a familiar client and smiled politely at her. None of the ill-concealed sneering of the waiter on her date with Simon. They were seated at an excellent table and in a quietly authoritative voice Quentin suggested they start by looking at the menu. ‘Let’s get that dealt with shall we?’
And what a menu it was. ‘Have whatever you like’ he reassured her in a way that left Effie feeling he really meant it so that her eye automatically shifted to the more expensive items on the list. She rapidly calculated the likely cost of the meal, the digits in her head moving rapidly to three figures as a glass of champagne was placed temptingly by her right hand. She chose a starter of smoked salmon mousse served on a bed of courgette flowers, followed by lamb noisettes en croute with a mint and basil coulis. ‘Excellent choice’. Quentin nodded approvingly. He chose a lobster bisque to start followed by fillet steak au poivre. ‘Not as adventurous as you’ he smiled, to Effie’s delight. He raised his glass and Effie realised that she had been so absorbed in what was going on that she hadn’t even thought about her normal need to drink in order to put herself at ease. ‘Cheers’ she said with a clink of cut glass. Quentin sat back.
‘So, Effie, I understand you’re a friend of Ursula.’
‘Ursula?’
‘Yes, Ursula Hammond.’
‘Well, no. I’m a friend of Vanessa.’
‘Vanessa?’
‘Yes, Vanessa Campbell’.
‘Ah. So you don’t know Ursula?’
‘No – no, I don’t know her... but I do know Vanessa and I think she knows Ursula.’
‘Ah. So you haven’t spoken to Ursula?’ He sipped his drink thoughtfully leaving Effie feeling awkward and mildly guilty for not knowing the right person. She gulped her champagne which went straight to her head.
‘So, to the missing link’ she joked as she raised her glass, hoping Quentin would smile again, which after a second or two he did, raising his eyes from their apparent preoccupation with a loose thread on the table cloth. ‘Well, you’d better tell me a bit about yourself I think.’
So Effie recounted something of the basic facts of her story, her family, her divorce and was moving on to say a bit about her job when the first course arrived looking absolutely delicious. Her spirits perked up considerably. The food was indeed quite splendid and Quentin quickly finished his plate of soup. ‘So how about you?’ queried Effie, ‘I don’t know a great deal about you.’
Quentin laughed and sat back in his chair. ‘What to tell...? At that moment his phone rang. ‘Ah, sorry, I’d better take this. Excuse me.’ With which he got up and disappeared towards the men’s room. Effie finished off her mousse and was quite happy to savour the delicious flavours once finished. A waiter hovered and refilled her glass as it emptied. About five minutes passed and Effie checked her watch. Yes, more than five minutes. She wished he’d come back. Another ten minutes went by before he returned, profusely apologising.
‘Sorry. There’s a business deal I’m nurturing. It’s American time - six hours behind us. It always happens just when I’m starting something. Bad timing I’m afraid. Anyway, enough of that. Where were we?’ he asked, placing the phone on the table beside him.
‘You were just about to tell me about you.’
‘Me? Well, where should I start? I guess I’d hoped Ursula might have filled you in a bit. I’m not the greatest at talking about myself.’
There was a pause. Effie hesitated. This reticence was unexpected from a man who seemed so self-assured and obviously successful. Was she expected to step in and say something? She wished he’d put that phone away. It was periodically winking. In her experience, most people liked talking about themselves if given half a chance. Should she give him a few cues: I’d love to hear about your work,or even, do tell me what your interests are? These flash thoughts were rescued from the need to make a decision by the arrival of the main course which Quentin greeted with a hearty ‘ah ha’.
The conversation turned to food which was a topic dear to Effie’s heart, while Quentin was clearly equally at ease. He became quite voluble, expanded at length on his considerable experience of restaurants and his ‘dabbling’ in cookery. Effie could not compete on the restaurant front. Even during her married life they had rarely ventured out to eat, Jack preferring to eat at home, but as a result, Effie had developed into an extremely good cook and she could talk about food with enthusiasm. Quentin seemed to be genuinely interested in her culinary skills and was soon asking her about recipes as he sliced his way through his succulent steak.
‘I always use a bit of good old-fashioned lard when I do savoury pastry. It actually makes it lighter I find’,
‘Really? But isn’t it the flour you use that makes the difference?’
‘Well, that’s hugely important, of course, but...’ The phone rang and Effie stopped in mid-sentence. A name flashed up on the screen and she had just time, reading it upside down, to make out ‘Gloria..’
‘Ach. Sorry, Effie. Have to take that. Just when it was getting interesting. This’ll be a quickie. Don’t want to mess up the deal.’
I’ll bet you don’t, was the angry thought that gathered in Effie’s head as she watched him talking in the lobby, phone to his ear and arms gesticulating. If Gloria was merely a friend why not say so? Was this another man out to deceive her? By the time Quentin returned four and a half minutes later, profusely apologising again, Effie had worked herself up into quite a lather inside about his Macavity-like performance, the ready ‘alibi’, the unreliability of men in general and, of course, the principle culprit, her husband with the feet of clay. She had not experienced quite such a rage since the bad days after Jack had left on the arm her best friend. She glowered at the waiter who was brandishing a menu. ‘Dessert, madam?’
‘Oh yes, Effie, we must have dessert. I can see you need something sweet after my unforgivable rudeness.’ He flashed her a smile. ‘And what I recommend is the hot raspberry soufflé. They do it to a tee.’
‘They do?’
The idea of a hot raspberry soufflés was definitely tempting and Effie’s angry ruminations subsided. He really was most charming, and perhaps Gloria really was just a friend. She had no claims on Quentin anyway, and wondered why she had felt so annoyed. Quentin was looking at the wine list again and was discussing a dessert wine with the waiter. ‘We absolutely must have at least a small glass of Sauterne with this dessert. The two go together like, well...’ he hesitated ‘I was going to say like in the old song about love and marriage but perhaps not appropriate for either of us. I believe we’re both divorced. Maybe it’s more like good food and France.’
‘But the French have rested on their reputation far too long and have got careless’ Effie asserted with a degree of certainty that surprised her. ‘I really think the Italians have got the edge with their marvellous pastas and simple roast meats not to mention the best hard cheeses in Europe.’
‘Yes, but the basic attitude to food in France is different, it’s serious and such an important part of daily life and, well, there are so many superb restaurants, like this one,’ he smiled. ‘And just wait till you try this divine soufflé’ he added as the waiter emerged carrying a tray on which perched two little white dishes capped and overflowing with crispy mounds of pink froth tinged with golden-brown and smelling of heaven.
‘Wow!’ Effie could not help exclaiming.
‘Voila’ from Quentin ‘you would’t get anything like that in Italy.’
They raised their long silver spoons, and to Effie’s surprise the phone did not ring. The soufflés were quite delicious but fleeting. Effie’s was consumed in three minutes twenty two seconds, but was memorable. She sat back and sipped the equally delicious sauterne and felt much more benign towards her companion who had eaten his dessert even more quickly than she. He raised his glass to her. ‘Here’s to a great meal and to the best cuisine in the world, and I think I can also toast a small victory in my own life. That last call has just about clinched the deal. I don’t think anything can go wrong now. Yes, here’s to Glorianna.’
‘Glorianna?’
‘Yes, it’s the name if the company. Pretty crumby name but not my choice.’
‘I see.’
‘Oh I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. We deal in some totally unnecessary products to do with airport hygiene. Nothing very exciting.’
Effie realised that this was the first piece of solid information she had received from Quentin apart from the brief reference to divorce and a quantity of insights into his gastronomic tastes which were clearly partisan. She rebuked herself for having got Gloria wrong and wasted emotional energy on unnecessary anger. She suddenly felt tired and a bit old, worn down by the strain of having to be sociable with someone she did not know. The initial thrill, like the soufflé, had subsided and she did not feel much the wiser about Quentin. Not an easy man to get to know and perhaps not that interesting underneath the trappings of success. More immediately, the mixture of excitement and tension, the rich food, not to mention the growing discomfort of her stomach increasingly complaining against the constriction of the tights, was beginning to play havoc with her digestive system and she longed to get home. Quentin, however, had summoned the chef into the dining room so that he could express his admiration and gratitude for the delicious meal and all things Gallic and carried on an enthusiastic conversation with ‘Pierre’ in appalling French that grated on Effie’s churning stomach. The two men appeared to have forgotten all about her and the continued talk about rich food was beginning to make Effie feel heavy and a bit sick. Desperate measures were called for. It was only when she managed to make herself sneeze extremely loudly that the two men stopped their conversation and looked at her.
‘I ‘ope madame eez not catching the cold?’ Pierre asked considerately as Effie dabbed her nose with a pink tissue.
‘Oh non, ce n’est rien - un peu trop de bonnes chose ce soir - la cuisine etait vraiment superbe – l’agneau magnifique et le desert - je n’ai jamais goutte un desert comme ca – le soufflé aux framboises etait parfait - hors du monde - et merci.’ She waved her arms as she spoke in true Gallic fashion.
By the time Effie finished this little piece of theatricality Pierre was grinning and Quentin was looking distinctly less pleased. ‘Well, Effie, for someone who speaks such good French I’m surprised you aren’t more in favour of French food.’
‘Oh I never said I didn’t like it. I really did enjoy the meal tonight, but I just think there are other kinds of cooking and I am quite keen on Italian It seems to suit my stomach better. Talking of which, I think I’d better get back if you don’t mind.’
‘Ah yes, of course’.
The journey home was quiet and Effie had the sense that she had definitely put a foot wrong somewhere, either by not being sufficiently Francophile or by demonstrating that she was better at the language than he was. Either way, she was not surprised that when he dropped her off there was only a vague reference to doing something again and a quite petulant parting shot: ‘I’m sorry if it was too rich for you. It really is the best of its kind in this part of town’.
Half an hour later, her stomach at last released from the stranglehold grip of the terrible tights, she sighed with relief as she sipped a cup of Dr Davis’s digestive detox tea in the vain hope that consuming it would guarantee her a decent night’s sleep.