The twenty-four hours or so in between inviting Stephen to dinner and finding myself sitting at my desk, checking my watch, waiting for him to arrive, passed surprisingly quickly and without any increase in anxiety levels. Unwilling, or unable, to think about the situation any longer, I succeeded in setting my depressing preoccupation with Jon largely to one side, allowing myself instead to fret mildly over a more immediate issue – that of meeting Stephen. Despite my new focus being not entirely stress-free, the prospect of an evening with him did offer the double benefit of being both a distraction from, and significantly less distressing than, a crumbling friendship. And I was pleasantly surprised to realise, several hours into Thursday evening, and after a second, more relaxed telephone conversation with Stephen, that I hadn’t thought to check my landline for possible missed calls from Jon.
Of course, he was not entirely absent from my mind. Every now and then I found myself sighing involuntarily, or experiencing a fleeting sense of something worryingly close to panic but, on the whole, such negative feelings remained at bay.
I had agreed with Stephen that we would meet at our offices at six-thirty and then walk to meet Sophie and David for drinks, before all going to the restaurant at eight. Sophie was reluctant to accept the plan and, as she and David put on their jackets at six, she was still trying to persuade me to change my mind.
‘What if he’s a psychopath?’ she asked.
‘He’s a friend of Greg’s,’ I reminded her.
‘My point exactly,’ she said. ‘If I asked you to name one person we both know who might befriend a psychopath, who would immediately spring to mind?’
‘David,’ I said tonelessly.
David raised a finger. ‘Er, excuse me but I—’
‘OK, OK,’ agreed Sophie. ‘Obviously, David. But if you had to name another.’
‘The computer guy. The one with ears shaped like Quavers.’
Sophie sighed. ‘I just don’t see why we can’t all head off from here together,’ she protested.
‘Because I don’t want an audience,’ I said.
‘An audience for what?’ she asked. ‘You’re just meeting a new person.’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ I said.
She looked genuinely perplexed. ‘I don’t get it.’
I rolled my eyes at her. ‘I just need fifteen to twenty minutes in his company, without feeling under scrutiny by you, OK?’
She looked thoughtful and then shook her head. ‘I still don’t get it,’ she repeated, before turning to David. ‘Do you get it?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as a matter of fact, I do.’
‘Really?’ She placed a hand on her chest, feigning surprise. ‘I am all astonishment.’ She walked towards him, buttoning her jacket as she went. ‘Because you’re not usually one to display any signs of anxiety.’ She smiled up at him fondly. ‘Well, come on then, Mr Darcy. Let us depart,’ she said, linking his arm and acknowledging defeat. ‘We can fetch ourselves a glass of refreshing punch, whilst we await the arrival of the Reverend and Mrs Bentley.’
‘Am I to assume that you’ve never actually read Pride and Prejudice?’ asked David.
‘I only got as far as: “It is a truth universally acknowledged…”,’ she replied. ‘I’m more of an Adam Bede, kinda gal.’ He laughed and, with that, they disappeared down the stairs, each calling a ‘goodbye’ to me as they exited.
On hearing the outer office door slam, I sighed and wondered how to pass the next thirty minutes. Stalking Stephen on the internet was out. He had apparently shunned all social media and the only picture I had of him was an indistinct and, I hoped, unflattering, thumbnail on Greg’s company website. I had considered asking Connie whether she or Greg had another photo, but decided against this in case she thought me superficial. I didn’t like the idea of disappointing Connie.
Online research being a no go, I leaned back in my chair and tried to remember what I had been told about Stephen. He was, according to Connie, good-looking. However, I had already decided not to get my hopes up in that department, as she had once confided that newsreader Huw Edwards was her ‘ideal man; both physically and intellectually.’ I had additionally been advised that Stephen was thirty-three, spoke beautifully, held an MSc in Bioengineering from Imperial, dressed well, thought government foreign policy was misguided, had a face which lit-up when he smiled and, of course, owned a Morgan 4/4 with a walnut dash. The eclectic nature of these personal details was due to the fact that they were supplied by two people, each with a rather different set of priorities. My primary source of information was Greg, with a few supplementary titbits from Connie, based upon her one, relatively brief, meeting with Stephen at a corporate event. The upshot was that I had no real idea of what to expect.
So it was with some relief, when he finally buzzed the intercom at 6.25pm, that I opened the street door to a man who resembled neither his thumbnail photograph, nor Huw Edwards. Stephen Powell was a few inches taller than myself, had strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and a face which lit-up when he smiled. He did the latter immediately upon the door being open wide enough for us to see each other.
‘Alice?’ he said.
‘That’s right. And you’re Stephen?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He beamed and shrugged apologetically.
‘Oh don’t be afraid,’ I laughed. ‘I’m afraid enough for both of us.’
‘Are you really?’ His smile remained in place, but I could tell he was slightly anxious.
I held up my right hand, and indicated ‘a tiny bit’, using my thumb and index finger.
He opened his arms to their full extent. ‘Well, I’m way ahead of you. Never had a blind introduction before. Absolutely terrified.’
I laughed again, stepped out onto the pavement and closed the door behind me. ‘Well, shall we head off in a mutually terrified fashion? It’s a fifteen minute walk.’
‘Great,’ he said, popping his hands into his pockets in an appealingly boyish manner. ‘I’ll leave it to you to steer. Just tug on my sleeve as appropriate.’