| |
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Hazel contemplated the little boost to her ego that surprise invitation had produced, and she wondered if it was just that or perhaps more a ‘proposition’.
But then she cautioned herself about becoming too jaded and suspicious of any hidden motives in the man’s approach and chided herself for becoming somewhat negative or even jaundiced in her views of what in essence had been a simple, straightforward dinner invitation.
Hazel had mused and debated. She had debated with herself. Of course, a man who looked like that, and who dressed like that, and obviously had a life like that, was only going to be interested in her for one all too familiar reason. She was forty, she was no longer young, she was ‘easy pickings’ and obviously in dire need of companionship, and inevitably desperate for the sexual gratification that her whole single existence implied.
But how would he know that? How could he be sure? No, for all he knew she could be going out on dinner dates every night.
Only, she wasn’t.
Hazel stirred her coffee and thought about it as she carried her cup to her dingy living room and felt the confines of the restrictive servitude of her financial state. She sat and pondered.
He, Jeffrey, had been very courteous, and he was very attractive in a superficially overt way, but that had not influenced her appraisal at all. No, she was above such banal, childish evaluations.
But she had to admit, he was very handsome, and he talked very well ... and, well, her dating calendar wasn’t exactly full. It would do no harm to call and make herself available for dinner. Yes, simply dinner and straight home. No nonsense – she wasn’t a nineteen-year-old about to have her world upended by a suave, mature man of the world; no indeed.
“Oh, hello. It’s Hazel from the Audley Fine Arts Gallery. You came by three days ago.” She thought that was enough, and she just let the words lay there for his gathering.
“Yes, of course, Hazel.” His voice was warm and enthusiastic as he tried out her name, igniting her hopes, although she quelled them with her logic and reason and sanguine view of how life now is for a woman embarking on her fifth decade. “I’m so glad you called. I was hoping you would.” His sincere tone sounded almost believable, but she steeled herself against that notion.
There was a slightly pregnant and uncomfortable pause as Hazel summoned her wits as to how to proceed.
Jeffrey could hear her concern filter down the line, and he knew he needed to make this easier for her. “Look, I’m thinking of going out to dinner tonight, and I hate to dine alone. Can I ask you to join me and save me from my solitude? It would be a great favour.” He let the words sink in.
There was another pause, shorter this time, and then Hazel brightened. “I’d like that very much. Where shall I taxi to?”
“Oh, you won’t taxi anywhere.” He sounded pleased. “Give me your address, and Robert will come with a car for you.” And then he thought and added, “No ... no, wait a minute what am I thinking? Robert and I will come for you. I’ll be there in say, an hour? I so look forward to seeing you.”
Hazel realized she was smiling as she ended the call.
There wasn’t a lot of time but enough for her unfussy preparations. She did take some care in choosing a simple but elegant dress and some new shoes she had not worn yet, unconsciously hoping for another compliment such as the one that had flattered her into acceptance of this impromptu invitation.
* * * * *
THE CAR ARRIVED PUNCTUALLY as promised, and it gleamed in all its stately Bentley glory. Robert was uniformed and looking quite the part, almost like in a movie, and Hazel wondered just who this Jeffrey was.
“Hello, Hazel. You look wonderful! So you’re ready to go eat?” His words sounded too genuine and unforced. It was just too good to be true, and Hazel braced herself for an evening during which all would be revealed.
However, she did console herself with a balancing of whatever mischief might ensue with the fact that she had not been out on a date for more than she cared to remember. A little adventure would be welcome, and she felt secure that she knew how to handle herself if the worst came to the worst.
They sedately negotiated the well-lit streets of the main thoroughfares of South Kensington and Knightsbridge until the Bentley smoothly nestled to a discreet halt, kerbside to the Ritz Restaurant, 150 Piccadilly.
“I love the Green Park, St James’s area, don’t you? And this eatery has very good grub,” Jeffrey enthused as he turned to offer his hand to help her out of her seat, and Robert understood his services to be surplus to requirements for this particular evening.
He nodded to Jeffrey in an acknowledgement of understanding, and Jeffrey palmed him a gratitude whilst counselling, “Two hours, Robert, and I’ll see you back here. Enjoy the car and the night, but in two hours be waiting ... without fail.” He nodded for added emphasis, and Robert caught the directive for what it was.
Jeffrey quickly turned his attention back to Hazel, and she felt the richness of the evening starting to permeate her psyche to the point of fantasy. She was no stranger to the extravagance of the very wealthy, but the gallery parties she was invited to had a palpable veneer of business about them. This was different. This was personal. She felt like a princess and that all of this would be commonplace for someone of her standing.
She straightened and looked up at the historic facade of legend – the Ritz – and she marvelled slightly at how she had come to be a part of this scene.
“Shall we go in?” Jeffrey was wearing an even smarter suit than the one she had admired him in at the gallery, and she felt a certain pride in her consort for the evening. He looked so relaxed and confident, as though places like the Ritz had been designed with him in mind.
“Yes ... yes, of course.” Hazel smiled, still somewhat awestruck by her surroundings, with her head spinning just a little from the possibilities.
“Do you dine at the Ritz often? I mean it’s quite the spot, isn’t it ... and it must be awfully expensive.” She inwardly kicked herself for that last remark. She had betrayed her impecuniosity, and now she had blabbed it forth like a declaration of poverty. How embarrassing.
Jeffrey didn’t even stop to register any impact from her words, positive or negative, and he smoothed her way towards the entrance with an impressive bravado of familiarity with the place.
Suddenly Hazel saw clearly that this establishment, and others like it, existed expressly to serve the whims and caprices of their clients, and it was apparent Jeffrey was fully appraised of that fact.
“A quiet table, Richard, if you can. Madame and I want to be ... private.” The maître d’ nodded an experienced understanding and cast his eye over the opulent dining room, looking out for just the spot that would please his client.
“Ah, yes ... if you will allow me, sir, I think this might be a suitably quiet spot for Madame and Sir.” And, having led them to a charmingly discreet table, he smiled politely as he pocketed the crisp notes Jeffrey had thanked him with.
“Do you always get what you want?” Hazel was enjoying settling herself into the luxury and smiling somewhat in admiration of Jeffrey’s tactical manoeuvres.
He shook out the thick linen napkin and placing it on his lap he conceded, “Well, if it’s something important, and I really want it” – he smiled at her, and she felt like she was inhabiting an old-time romantic movie – “yes, I suppose I do usually get it ... yes.” She could have sworn his eyes gave off a sparkle.
“But tell me, Hazel, ... why did you call me?” He was picking up the menu with a casual disregard. “I thought you were affronted by my commenting on your dress.” He put the menu down again and folded his arms onto the table to face her squarely as he searched her expression for telltale signs.
Hazel cast about for a guarded but pleasant response, but nothing witty or clever came to her and, before she could answer, Jeffrey continued, “I thought perhaps I had been too overt ... nowadays one cannot comment, criticize, or even compliment for fear of being cast as a chauvinist or deviant, and I am neither of the above, but I must confess I am an unrepentant admirer of the female form.”
“Oh, I don’t think too many could be offended by your remarks.” She smiled an admission and scanned the menu for something other than semi-raw duck or overly sauced meat dishes.
He motioned to an attendant waiter and asked her, “Would you like something to drink before dinner ... or even with dinner?”
“Well, I suppose in such ornate surroundings perhaps a white wine or even a sparkling white.” Hazel was slipping easily into the luxury of the privileged ambience.
“Oh, then we must have champagne. That will fit the bill.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice as though imparting a shocking confidence, “I only eat fish, seafood and vegetables, and with that a champagne will be fine.” And he laughed. For the first time he actually laughed, and she felt she could see his soul.
He was a boy. A very rich, socially established, and mature boy, but nonetheless she saw he had at his core the innocence of a boy. It relaxed her, and she felt the strictures of formality melt away. He was easy to talk to, he was beguilingly friendly, and he seemed approachable.
“Are you very rich, Jeffrey?” She could feel the effects of the first sips of the deliciously frivolous champagne loosen her stiffness.
“Well, that depends on what you call rich. But tonight I feel rather rich ... yes.” His eyes were caressing in their appreciation of her.
Hazel looked at him in amazement. Without saying anything suggestive, Jeffrey made her feel desirable and beautiful again in a way she barely remembered. Her protective shield of hard realism was crumbling.
This could not be real. This man was just too good to be true, and anyway why would he be interested in a forty-year-old woman?
She was relishing the exhilarating joy of the champagne, but she could also feel it relax her caution, and she cut to her nagging concern with a somewhat brusque directness. “Okay ... but tell me, why me?”
Her eyes were swimming a little and, even as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. She busied herself with her napkin, knowing she had ruined the evening and berated herself inwardly that she couldn’t even manage half an hour of pleasantry without being the hated voice of reason.
Jeffrey looked straight at her with his eyes unflinchingly convincing. “Because you are very attractive ... you have a great body, and yes, I did spy it out, and even under that demurely tailored dress I could tell. Plus I do get a vibe.” He smiled enjoying his own honesty.
His eyes closed for a moment as he searched for the words that would capture the essence of his meaning. “But, more than that, when meeting someone for the first time, I get a feeling almost like subconsciously being able to read their personality. And, apart from your obvious physical allure, I liked your personality ... your character.”
Hazel felt her jaw had dropped and worried she may look less than his description, and she pulled herself together. “Really?”
“Really.”
Her blushes were queueing up for their turn on her cheeks, but she managed a weak diversion. “Do you think they do Pasta alle Vongole here?”
He smiled back at her. “I don’t know ... but if that’s what you want, they do now.”
They laughed together, and she particularly noticed her appreciation of the together bit in her observation.
The dinner swirled around Hazel like paintings from Lautrec, and the ambiance and décor left her reserve defenceless. This was Maxim’s, this was Gigi, and all the pomp and richness of centuries of privilege. The dining room was sumptuous, the service beyond attentive, and the atmosphere was loaded with a wealth imbued not from mere expenditure, but from expectation of service.
The champagne was playing games with Hazel’s senses, and she didn’t notice the waiter approaching their table with the discreet silver salver when she let her underlying preoccupation slip. “Are you going to expect me to sleep with you after all this?” Oh, dear. I didn’t just say that, did I? She knew she was now quite tipsy.
Jeffrey was signing the bill and seemed unfazed by her candour.
The waiter did raise an eyebrow but caught Jeffrey’s admonishing look and recaptured his impartial and implacable countenance.
Once again, Hazel felt herself shrink inside hoping the earth would open up and let her hide her embarrassment.
“No, Hazel, ... I think and hope you’ve had enough excitement for tonight.” He lowered his voice to intimate confidentiality. “Anyway I never make love to anyone unless they are fully able to appreciate my meagre efforts on that front. And tonight I think maybe the champagne was a little heavy ... I will make sure it is less so next time. My fault entirely ... yes.”
As they left the decadent embrace of the fabled restaurant, Hazel admonished herself for her gaucheness and tried to pull herself together. It was unsettling. She never let wine go to her head like this on her social outings, and she could not understand what was so different about tonight.
It was as though the sober wisdom of the last fifteen years had evaporated like the champagne bubbles, leaving behind a younger, carefree, and slightly sillier version of herself.
Hazel was still struggling with these perplexing thoughts as they exited to find the waiting Bentley, with Robert there to open her door. She settled herself into the luxury of that cosseted and cocooned back seat, and Robert set about steering them smoothly through the London after-theatre traffic.
“I’m sorry about that, Jeffrey. I made a bit of a fool of myself in the restaurant. I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much.”
Jeffrey waved a dismissive hand and reassured her, “You have nothing to apologize for, and I’m not sure my standing at the Ritz hasn’t gone up, if anything.” He smiled a sincere confirmation that her worries were unfounded, and all was well with the world.
The lights of night-time London flowed by like pretty festive illuminations, and then the car slowed. Her building appeared as if by magic and she was home, and the night seemed softly quiet.
Jeffrey walked her to her front door to ensure her safety with flattering attentiveness and waited whilst she fumbled slightly with her keys. The crisp night air was thankfully clearing her light-headedness, and she managed to insert the key and turn it in the lock with a relatively steady hand.
“Good night, Hazel, and thank you for your charming company. I’ll call you tomorrow” – and again he deployed that disarming smile – “but not too early, I think. Sleep well.”
From inside her foyer, she watched through the glass panel as the Bentley elegantly glided its way away from her, and then she turned to press the old-fashioned timer light switch which would allow her to safely climb the steps to her third-floor flat.
The substantial Victorian terraced house in Brechin Place, just off the Brompton Road, had been converted into four floors of small individual apartments, opening onto a common staircase. As she put the key in the lock to her flat, she heard a call from below. “Hi, Hazel ... nice car!”
Hazel sighed, her eyes looking skyward, “Tomorrow, Maggie, I’m tired now ... we can talk tomorrow.”
Hazel closed the door, slipped off her new heels, and slumped down into her sofa. From its deep, soft comfort, she moodily pondered the night’s events.
He hadn’t even kissed her.
Jeffrey had not kissed her. That was a signal, a definite signal. She just knew it.
When you turn forty, and guys don’t even want to kiss you goodnight after a date, never mind get into your underwear ... not a good sign.
This was how it was going to be from now on then, and yes, granted, she had been nervous and had drunk too quickly, but it had been such a long time since she had had so much fun, and so the effect, well... it was predictable. She shook her head and instantly regretted it.
Into bed to get some beauty sleep was her mission, and that she attacked with determination.
