Eric chained his bike to the railings and struggled out of his waterproofs, indignant that the weather should have let him down so flagrantly on this all-important date. Having stuffed the soggy rainwear into his saddle-bag, he dived into McDonald’s – the only visible refuge from the downpour. Skulking past the counter, with its enticing smell of grilling meat, he headed for the gents, yet a brief glance in the mirror was enough to make him want to bolt for home. The wind had tousled his hair into the untidiest of birds’ nests, flushed his face an unattractive pink and, to cap it all, sneaky drops of water were trickling down his neck.
Switching on the hand-drier, he moved his head into the current of hot air, before beginning the usual tussle with the comb. His curly crop was obstinate; preferred to go its own wild way, rather than submit to any form of restraint. Red hair on men was very rarely flattering and his particular shade was, to say the least, unfortunate. But, short of shaving it off or investing in a hair-transplant, he was stuck with it until senescence, when, he hoped, it would fade to merciful grey. For the moment, though, if he wished to impress Olivia, he would have to rely on conversational skills. Fat chance! He was so nervous about meeting her, he would be lucky to string two words together.
He checked his watch. Still only 7.15. He was always early, for everything, but to turn up late required a degree of casual confidence he simply didn’t possess. If only confidence was sold in shops, he could buy a pound or two, along with milk and bread. Although a pound would hardly suffice tonight. He’d need a ton and more.
But he must concentrate on his good points, not give way to negativity. At least he had hair, unlike the naked-pated fellow who’d just barged into the gents. And at least he was slim and fit – no sign of any beer-gut yet, to rival the baldie’s paunch.
Heartened, he completed his wash-and-brush up; crunched three extra-strong peppermints, to ensure his breath was triple-fresh, then decided to brave the elements once more. He did his best to shelter under shop-fronts as he zigzagged the fifty yards to Chez Guillaume, having deliberately left his bike a safe distance from its vicinity, in case Olivia expected him to roar up in a Porsche. Bikes weren’t cool, especially not his third-hand Raleigh Shopper. But, early or no, he would wait for her in the restaurant, otherwise he would make a bad impression, with damp splodges on his suit. In any case, she might appreciate punctuality – and even the fact he’d worn a suit at all.
Thank God he was dressed up, he thought, as he came face-to-face with a liveried doorman, complete with a top hat – a figure as daunting as the place itself, which, rigged out in stylish green and grey, was flanked by two pretentious bay trees in important-looking tubs. Olivia had suggested the restaurant, as conveniently close to her Chelsea flat, as well as being recommended as a gourmet’s paradise. Any gourmet’s paradise was probably way beyond his means, but then a search for love was bound to involve some degree of financial sacrifice.
Racheting up his courage, he nodded to the doorman, who ushered him in with a sycophantic smile. His experience of doormen was sketchy in the extreme, so he had no idea whether to tip the guy or not. Fumbling in his pocket, he withdrew a cache of coins, only to realize they were mostly paltry 2ps. He quickly put them back again, trying to assume the air of someone so superior he never bothered with small change.
As he ventured in with an air of false bravado, the maître d’ approached, greeting him with such deference, he might have been Montgomery returning from El Alamein. He was escorted to his table with further bowing and scraping; his chair pulled out; the wine-list proffered – the latter bound in gold-tooled leather, not unlike a Bible. The table, he noticed to his chagrin, was opposite an elaborate gilt-framed mirror. The last thing he wanted was to study his reflection again.
‘May I get you a drink, sir?’ A waiter had swooped over and was also dancing attendance on him; kowtowing and salaaming in a manner that mixed swagger with servility.
‘I, er, think I’ll wait for my friend.’
‘Friend’ wasn’t strictly correct. As yet, he hadn’t set eyes on Olivia; seen nothing but a small photo of her face. And all he knew about her was the details on her profile in the Guardian Soulmates site (some of which she had deliberately left blank). The few texts they’d exchanged said nothing really meaningful and when, at last, he’d plucked up the courage to phone, he’d been so relieved to hear her voice – not estuary or shrill or pleb, but well-modulated and feminine – he had barely taken in a single word she said.
‘As you wish, sir.’
The waiter was dark and dashing, with an enviable thatch of straight, black, glossy hair. The lucky guy probably had women flocking round him in shoals and swarms and squads, and certainly wouldn’t be reduced to searching for females on the Internet. Even his eyebrows were emphatically dark and authoritative. Should he have dyed his own wishy-washy brows before embarking on a new love-life, he wondered anxiously – although why stop at eyebrow-dye, when a full-scale makeover might be more to the point?
A quick glance at the wine-list made him fear that this one dinner would swallow up a whole week’s salary. But it was worth it, wasn’t it? For an attractive woman, nine years younger, who, according to her profile, was ‘keenly interested in art and literature’? Even her name was a bonus – an elegant, Shakespearian name, which made his own ‘Eric’ seem definitely plebeian.
There was bound to be a catch, though. The photo showed her neck-up only, so she might be hugely fat, or missing some vital body-part, like an arm or leg or kidney. Or she could be a dating addict – the sort of woman who went through twenty men a month, just for the thrill of the chase, rejecting every one of them for some trifling reason like eye-colour.
Despite himself, he checked the mirror opposite. Blue eyes should be deep, dramatic and definite; not, like his, the colour of over-washed and faded denim jeans. Indeed, he could barely make them out at all in the stylish gloom of the restaurant, just the pale blur of his face, topped by his insolent hair.
He tried to distract himself by studying the other diners; most of them well-heeled, judging by their outfits and general air of sophistication. Would Olivia take one look at him and immediately make an excuse to leave? Well, he’d find out soon enough, since she was due in precisely eleven minutes.
No eleven minutes had ever seemed so long – except the following eleven, which appeared to take an hour to dawdle by. He mustn’t panic, though. She had mentioned in passing that her journey from work was complicated and, what with traffic snarl-ups and closures on the tube, delays were more or less inevitable. Indeed, he himself had only chosen to cycle because his own tube-line was suspended.
He kept his gaze fixed on the door, checking every new arrival. As yet, he had seen no solo females, but, at this very moment, one was actually venturing in. Could that be Olivia? She was nothing like her picture: older and more lined, with a mousy bob, instead of honey-coloured tresses. But she might have airbrushed her photo; eradicated the wrinkles, lightened and lengthened her hair. Deception was rife on dating sites.
He studied her every movement, coiled like a spring in case she approached, but, having proceeded to the far end of the restaurant, she joined a slender, fair-haired chap, who sprang up to embrace her. Now, he was the only person sitting on his own; couples all around him; the pair at the adjoining table parading their togetherness by clasping hands, interlocking fingers and gazing raptly into each other’s eyes. He was also the only one with neither food nor drink – everybody else tucking in, with relish, and downing fancy wine. The buzz of conversation underlined his own tense circle of silence; the whiff of garlic butter and sizzling steak reminding him how empty he was. He’d been too uptight to eat much lunch, and breakfast had been one quick slice of toast.
Suppose she didn’t come? Red-haired men with freckles weren’t exactly sexy, nor, for that matter, were librarians. She had probably met a hunky City banker and was already in bed with the lout; all thought of dinner forgotten as they climaxed in mutual bliss. But if she had stood him up, what then? Did he brazen it out and eat here on his own, risking bankruptcy for no reason or reward, or sneak out of the restaurant to the sniggers of the staff?
He was overreacting – as usual. It was still only 8.04. Nineteen minutes late didn’t mean she had called it off. He must stop studying his watch and switch his mind to something more absorbing – for instance, his idea of using the music library for some sort of music therapy, as an extension of his existing poetry group. Trevor might dismiss it, of course, as a waste of time and resources, or issue gloomy warnings about the risk of anti-social behaviour from some of those attending, or claim it interfered with the core business of the service to provide books and information. Well, he’d simply have to stand his ground and stress his scheme’s advantages; emphasize its social value and the partnerships that might be formed with other community groups, bound to win approval from the council.
Soon, he had developed a creditable case. Indeed, Trevor had not only acquiesced, he was actually supportive and they were working on the project together, in (unusual) harmony. Unfortunately, however, there was still no sign of Olivia, nor any text or message on his mobile, which he’d been checking since he first arrived. Since she was more than half an hour late now, surely she should have got in touch – unless she’d been mugged at knifepoint, or blown up by a terrorist.
Images of bloody, mangled flesh tornadoed through his stomach. He needed a drink – a strong one. The waiter had glided back a couple of times, to see if he had changed his mind, but he’d repeated the same mantra about waiting for his friend. No point, however, in waiting for a woman who was a body on a mortuary slab.
‘A vodka and Coke, please,’ he blurted out, as the fellow approached for the third time. What the hell was he saying? Vodka and Coke was Stella’s tipple – he had never actually drunk it in his life. But Stella was on his mind, of course, since she it was who’d encouraged him to sign up for several dating-sites.
‘D’you realize, Eric, it’s ages since your divorce, and you haven’t so much as looked at another woman. It’s time you fixed yourself up with someone else.’
Fixed himself up. The phrase offended his romantic sense, but then the whole dating scene was a meat market. He should have put his foot down, right from the (unpromising) start. Only two of the women he’d emailed had bothered to respond. The first, still married, had spent an hour on the phone to him, slagging off her spouse. The second was seeking a companion to join her on a white-water-rafting excursion in deepest Ecuador. White-water-rafting, for heaven’s sake, when he couldn’t even swim.
All at once, his stomach rumbled – so loudly, so flamboyantly, the whole restaurant must have heard. Thank heavens for the waiter, who was just sauntering up with his drink. He gulped it quickly, in gratitude, although drinking spirits on an empty stomach was bound to end in disaster. He would probably start gabbling inanely, or even lose his balance and trip over his own feet when he rose to greet Olivia. Except she wasn’t coming, was she? Thirty-six minutes late now.
His age might be the problem. Stella had pressed him to say he was thirty-nine, instead of forty-four.
‘Even thirty-nine is old, Eric, when it comes to women’s preferences. Many fifty-something females still prefer a man of twenty-two or -three. I suppose it’s a question of testosterone. Once a guy hits thirty, it’s downhill all the way.’
Despite her views (outrageous), he had stuck to the depressing truth; refusing to lie on principle. Figures were on his mind tonight. Not just his age, but the four-and-a-half and five-and-a-half inches respectively of his limp penis and his stiff one. Measuring both or either had never crossed his mind before, until Stella put him right.
‘You have to remember, Eric, all some women care about is ILBs.’
‘“Interesting Librarian Blokes”, you mean?’
‘No, you dolt. “Incredibly Large Bits”.’
Not much point in fretting about his bits when he’d be lucky to swallow a mouthful of dinner before the restaurant closed, let alone embark on an erotic encounter. Besides, where on earth could they go for the encounter? Bike-sheds were for teens – and not exactly common in Chelsea – yet he could hardly take her to his shabby basement flat. In his fantasies last night, the problem had solved itself, since she had invited him back to her riverside penthouse and, before they were barely inside, had changed into a skimpy négligé. Having whipped it off in a trice, he’d plunged with her on to the king-size bed, where they had remained the entire weekend, only emerging on Monday morning, exhausted but blissed-out; all thought of work or—
Oh my God, she’d come! Yes, she was really, truly here – just bursting through the door; every bit as gorgeous as her photo: not overweight, not missing arms or legs, not even lined or mousy, but radiant, fresh-faced and as near to blonde as dammit.
He leapt to his feet and swooped exuberantly towards her, barely able to believe his luck.
She, too, was smiling; displaying not a hint of disappointment. ‘Eric, I know it’s you – it must be! You simply couldn’t hide that fabulous auburn hair!’
He all but kissed her feet, just for the joy of the word ‘auburn’. Already, his four-and-a-half inches were stirring into majestic masthood.
‘Sorry I’m so late. This fearful crisis blew up at work and I just couldn’t get away. And, to top it all, my mobile’s on the blink. You must have thought I wasn’t coming.’
‘Not at all,’ he lied. ‘It’s wonderful to see you.’ He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the girlish waist, voluptuous breasts, long, curvy legs, displayed now to perfection as a waiter took her coat. ‘But are you all right?’ he asked with genuine concern. ‘I mean, you must have got soaked to the skin. I’ve never known a November like this – rain every day, so far. Although I have to say you don’t look very wet.’
‘No, I took a taxi in the end – couldn’t face sloshing through the puddles.’
If she could afford a taxi all the way from her office, they weren’t exactly evenly matched when it came to basic income. Never mind. When searching for a soulmate, higher things than money were involved.
A second waiter came bustling up and proffered her the wine list. ‘A drink for you, madam?’
Eric watched the fellow jealously. This exquisite woman’s lips were made for kissing, but kissing him, not some natty Frenchman with fatal Gallic charm.
‘Oh, brilliant!’ she exclaimed, as her eyes flicked down the page. ‘They do Billecart-Salmon Rosé by the glass, and it’s my absolute top favourite.’
Eric had never heard of it, although a quick glance at the wine list revealed it to be a vintage champagne – at £20 a glass.
‘I hope you’ll join me,’ she enthused. ‘It really is quite fabulous.’
‘Y … yes, of course.’ He tried to sound less grudging: £40 for just two pre-dinner drinks was exorbitant by any standards, but this dazzling creature’s company surely justified all manner of expense.
The waiter returned with two stylishly slender champagne flutes, orgasming with bubbles and preening on a silver tray.
‘To us!’ she purred, clinking her glass to his.
‘To us!’ he echoed, elated by the fact that she had already turned them into an item – and after a mere five minutes. His mind leapt ahead to the future: marriage, babies, Silver Wedding….
She cocked her head to one side, swilling a little champagne round her mouth. ‘It tastes like apples, don’t you think? Sweet, ripe English apples, smothered in double cream.’
Nervously he nodded. Wine appreciation wasn’t his strong point. Besides, he was still finishing his first drink, so he could taste only Coke, not apples. He quickly switched the glasses over, but the frisky bubbles tickled in his nose, resulting in a mortifying hiccough. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon!’ he spluttered, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. He should have stuck to beer.
‘You’re not allergic, are you?’ Olivia asked. ‘Allergies are really common nowadays, so my GP says. You can even be allergic to yourself, would you believe?’
Yes, he would believe and, yes, he was allergic, although he quickly changed the subject, recalling Stella’s advice not to mention boring things like health; to avoid all risky topics such as death, divorce or dentistry, and, above all, to be original.
‘So what really makes you tick?’ he asked, emboldened by his vodka-and-champagne cocktail, and desperate to distract her from the hiccough.
‘Oh, books!’ she gushed. ‘No question. Which was why I was so enchanted to hear you were a librarian.’
Enchanted? Was he dreaming? For the average punter, librarians were irredeemably downbeat: menopausal females in cardigans and grannyspecs; sad blokes, past their prime, with dandruff and no prospects.
‘It must be so exhilarating,’ she continued, fluttering her long, dark lashes in a disarmingly coquettish way, ‘being surrounded by all that knowledge.’
His spirits soared still higher. She truly was a soulmate; not following the common view that books were dead and librarians were dinosaurs, but grasping the true appeal of scholarship, the open-sesame of learning. The only thing that worried him was the speed with which she was drinking; gulping down champagne as if she’d just run a marathon and was seriously dehydrated.
‘Let’s have another, shall we? It’s such a brilliant vintage, it just floats across your mouth.’
Suddenly decisive, he opened the menu and set it down in front of her, in the hope of diverting her attention from the wine list. Apart from the cost, if he drank a third glass of anything without some food as ballast, he might lose his grip entirely and start babbling on about death, divorce and dentistry in one long, shaming spiel.
‘Yes, do let’s eat! Food’s another passion of mine. In fact, I eat out almost every night.’
He refrained from comment. The last time he had eaten out had been the day his ancient cooker blew up, singeing off his eyebrows (which had grown back paler still). And it had been egg and chips at the local caff, not gourmet, five-star fare.
‘Another two glasses of this, please.’ She gestured to her glass, flashing a smile at the waiter. The wretched man was still hovering obsequiously, probably sizing up Olivia’s breasts, which were, in truth, gratifyingly prominent.
‘What do you suggest as a starter?’ she asked, fixing her eyes on the menu – captivating dark-chocolate eyes. ‘The ballotine of chicken sounds nice. Or how about the Piedmont Bresaola, tête de moine?’
He quickly scanned the starters for something he could pronounce – not to mention something cheaper. ‘The soup for me,’ he said, wishing it were homely oxtail, rather than coconut and lemongrass.
‘But that’s frightfully unadventurous! Why not have the game and foie gras terrine?’
Fatally weakened by her cleavage, he heard himself agreeing. Her top was so low-cut, he could all but see her nipples – in his mind was kissing them in an ecstasy of bliss.
‘Actually, I think I’ll have that too. And the ballotine of chicken.’
What the hell was Ballotine? ‘The chicken as a main course, you mean?’
‘Oh, no – as well as. I often have two starters. I have this weird metabolism, you see. However much I eat, I’m never full.’
He would have to pawn his bike at this rate, or even ring the bank and arrange an instant overdraft, but he kept his focus strictly on her breasts. He would gladly lose his bike – lose everything, in fact – for the chance to see them naked. ‘And what to follow?’
She pursed her darling mouth. ‘Well, I adore Beef Wellington, but it says they only do it for two. Would you fancy sharing it?’
At £45 the double portion, no! Best to pretend he was vegetarian, but the lie stuck in his throat. ‘I’m not actually a great meat-eater.’ That was true, at least. Since the divorce, his usual fare was beans on toast. ‘I think I’ll go for the’ – his eye fell on a pasta dish, at a merciful £12.90 – ‘the crab linguine.’ Seafood brought him up in a rash, but so would a bill in three figures.
‘In that case, I’ll have the Beef Wellington all to myself. I’m ravenous tonight, so it’ll suit me rather well. And I’ll have the sautéed spinach to go with it, and the lemon-crushed Charlotte potatoes.’
Vegetables were extra, of course. Another reason he had opted for pasta, which could be eaten on its own. He wasn’t mean – far from it. He would gladly buy a woman dinner – indeed, treat her every week, if things went well – but his wallet and this restaurant just didn’t marry up. Even the basket of bread, just set down by the waiter, who had come to take their order, cost a flagrant £5.50. Admittedly, it was stone-ground, seed-encrusted and organic, but what was wrong with Sainsbury’s ‘basic’-range white – a mere 50p for a whole family-sized loaf?
Olivia grabbed the largest piece, spread it liberally with butter and began devouring it at frantic speed. ‘Mm, yummy!’ she enthused, spraying him with half-masticated morsels. ‘I adore this bread, don’t you?’
Since she hadn’t thought to pass him any, he couldn’t give his verdict. Bemused, he watched her seize a second chunk and down it at the same dizzy rate.
‘So, tell me all about yourself,’ she mumbled, between manic gobbles. ‘Do you work at the British Library?’
‘Er, no. I’m afraid I’m not quite in that league.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m in public libraries,’ he explained, ‘and my special interest is community engagement – you know, bringing in new readers amongst the socially excluded, particularly those with mental-health problems …’ The sentence petered out. Not only was he using jargon, but his line of work didn’t sound exactly glamorous. Indeed, Olivia’s expression was already one of mild distaste. Just as well he hadn’t mentioned ex-prisoners or asylum-seekers as amongst those he burned to help.
‘I’ve never met a librarian,’ she commented, dismissively, still chewing hard and speaking with her mouth full. ‘I prefer to buy my books. I mean, if you borrow them from some public source, you never know where they’ve been. You could pick up awful diseases – things like AIDS or—’
He dodged the shower of saliva-coated crumbs spraying from her mouth. She was now on piece number three, and clearly viewed the whole large basket as her own private property.
‘Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if all libraries were made to close down – I mean, once the powers-that-be get wind of the real health risks. It’s a bit like doctors not washing their hands in the early days of surgery. It took a while for society to grasp that patients were dying because of the surgeons’ lack of hygiene, not on account of the operations. Oh, great – our starters! Which shall I eat first, Eric?’
Without waiting for an answer, she dug an eager fork into the terrine, swallowed a large mouthful, then repeated the exercise with the ballotine of chicken, which resembled a fat brown bolster floating on a lake of creamy sauce. He jumped as she cut into it, sauce spattering over the clean white-linen tablecloth, and leaving a yellow stain. She hardly seemed to notice, so intent was she on eating; alternating forkfuls of each starter, and washing them down with her second glass of champagne.
He was so astounded by her messy eating, all conversation died; the ensuing silence filled solely with the sound of rampant chomping. He thought back to the Soulmates site, which did include questions about one’s eating and drinking habits. For drinking, she had answered ‘rarely’; for eating, ‘sparely but healthily’. ‘Sparely’ was an outright lie, and was it really healthy to eat so extraordinarily fast? At this very moment, she was emitting a succession of strangulated gasps, as her speed increased still further and a recalcitrant piece of chicken lodged itself in her gullet.
‘Are you OK, Olivia?’
‘Mm. Just starving! Eating actually makes me hungrier. My mother said I was like that even as a baby. My first word was “More!”, apparently.’
As she talked – and chewed – he could see directly into her open mouth; had no choice but to watch the slimy brown gobbets slithering down her throat. She had mentioned her mother, but that mother had been seriously remiss in failing to teach her table-manners.
She paused, at last, although only for a second. ‘Why aren’t you eating, Eric?’
‘I’m … just finishing my drink.’ In fact, confronted by her greed, he was beginning to lose his appetite – even more so, as a gob of food-and-spittle landed on his face. He moved his chair back, in an attempt to dodge the firing line, but he was still stomach-churningly close.
‘That reminds me, we ought to order our wine – red for my Beef Wellington, of course, but a Chardonnay right now. I’d like some with the rest of my chicken, and it’ll go nicely with your linguine.’
Maybe she was paying, he thought, with a surge of relief. Surely no woman would take the initiative like this, then leave him to settle the bill. He couldn’t count on it, however, and even if they agreed to go Dutch, it would still more or less clean him out. He didn’t even want more wine – was in need of some plain tonic water to settle his queasy stomach.
Then, suddenly, she leaned towards him, mouth open, eyes ablaze, and for one dizzying moment, he assumed she was going to kiss him – an advanced French kiss, all darting, pulsing tongue. But all she did was help herself to his as yet untouched terrine. She had already devoured the whole of her own, yet now was cramming in a huge chunk of his.
‘You don’t mind, do you, Eric? I can see you’re not a serious eater.’
Yes, he thought, with rising indignation – I do mind. He watched in revulsion as she continued to gobble his starter, only pausing to butter more bread and stuff that into her mouth, as well. Then, turning back to the ballotine, she sloshed another puddle of sauce on the cloth, in her feverish haste to scoop it up. Even her once-pristine top was now patterned with yellow splodges, and sauce had splashed the sleeve of his best suit. He could hardly bear to look at her as she bolted down her food – and his. A frond of parsley was stuck between her teeth; her mouth was moustachioed with grease, and her champagne glass all smeary from those unappetizing lips.
Literature and art? He all but hooted. Her sole concern was eating for Great Britain, so how could they discuss the things he longed to talk about: the role of fiction in fostering empathy and tolerance; his firm belief that illiteracy must be banished, root and branch; his passion for using books and libraries to help minority groups, underachievers, and indeed anyone in search of knowledge, or that satisfying sense of lives beyond one’s own?
She had barely listened to a single word he’d said, nor had the simple courtesy even to offer him the bread or salt. Even her looks were fast losing their appeal. However blonde her hair or sensational her breasts, how could he be soulmate to someone who thought libraries were a source of plague and pestilence? The whole concept of a soulmate was desperately important to him – had been since his boyhood, when the notion, although impossible in fact, had still been a cherished dream and a future aspiration. Looks were less important than believing in some cause, sharing the same ideals, viewing the world through roughly the same eyes. But this woman had no ideals – only a serious eating disorder, combined with a drinking problem. Even if she offered to pay the whole exorbitant bill – even if she was a millionaire – she was still, at base, a slob and, frankly, his overwhelming instinct was to bolt out of the restaurant and keep running, running, running, until he’d put fifty miles between them.
In fact, he had come to a decision: he would rather spend his days alone – for ever, till he died – than settle for a female as gross and gluttonous as this.