Ah, I had her! I already knew that Zara had taken temporary residence in an upmarket day spa, and that Conn was planning to work in the office all day before meeting Zara at 7 p.m. and going off to a fundraising ball they were attending that evening. Zara had donated a raffle prize of an hour’s free consultation, and in return they’d been invited to the star-studded meal prepared by Jamie Oliver and a team of dinner ladies from Southend.
‘Nope, sorry but you’re wrong,’ I argued, thrilled to bits that for the first time I had the upper hand, ‘and I do believe that you’ll receive a call any minute requesting…’
Right, it was Thursday. What did he have last Thursday? Think. Think. Think.
‘Vegetable soup with a crusty wholemeal baguette,’ I announced with a flourish and just a smidgen of smugness. Cue one departing smidgen as I got halfway up the stairs and met Conn coming back down them.
‘Change of plan, Leni, I’ve got to meet with the event managers for tonight because they want Zara to do a live reading and I need to organise the set. I’ll be out for the rest of the day, but you can get me on my mobile.’
It was official: what I knew about men could be written in capitals on a Post-it note. N.O.T.H.I.N.G.
‘Oh, and can you send champagne to these four ladies,’ he thrust a sheet of notepaper with contact details scribbled in red pen towards me, ‘and organise for the house, pool and gazebo to be cleaned today. Thanks, Leni.’
Off he went, all suave and official, while giving me backwards glances that oozed wanton lust. Okay, so I was imagining that too.
I trudged up the rest of the stairs in the manner of a death-row inmate en route to the chair with the big plug. And ten hours later, as I waited for Daniel Jones, 25, an accountant from Teddington, I was wishing someone would flick the switch.
If this was such a ‘nothing’, as I’d blurted to Conn, then why was my heart thumping like a boy racer’s Corsa? And the less said about the sweat patches I suspected were forming around my hotspots, the better. This was hell. Hell. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be at home, lying on the couch, munching HobNobs and watching old episodes of Sex and the City with the volume up really loud, so it drowned out the Barry Manilow DVD that Mrs Naismith next door played on a nightly basis.
Still, at least tonight’s rendezvous was local, so that would make it easier for the murder squad to track down my address book to obtain details of my next of kin. When I’d called Daniel to make arrangements and reaffirm that the content of the date was entirely up to him, I’d mentioned that I lived on the Slough/Windsor border, and straight away he’d suggested we meet at the bus station in Slough. My first reaction was that it was sweet that he didn’t want to make me travel; my second was that I was fairly certain that I wasn’t heading for an evening of five-star luxury and opulence.
‘Leni?’
The voice sounded warm (somewhere between your favourite male friend and a Blue Peter presenter) with definite overtones of apprehension. At least we already had something in common.
‘So, er, what would you like to do then?’ he stuttered anxiously after we’d done the awkward introductions.
That threw me. ‘It’s, er, up to you,’ I reminded him, trying desperately to suppress my tendency towards nervous irritation. I had enough to worry about, what with making conversation, keeping mental notes and trying not to crumble into a full-scale panic attack, without making decisions about the logistics of the night.
After a tortured gap of hesitation, he took the hint. ‘Well, er, let’s go for a drink first then.’
Oooh, what did he mean by ‘first’? Maybe I had made a rash and incorrect assumption. Had he made reservations at a nice restaurant? Did he have plans for a swanky night of gastronomic indulgence?
‘And then you can decide what kind of food you feel like: Indian, Chinese, pizza…’
Cancel all thoughts of swanky plans.
After a few on-the-spot shuffles we set off, strolling through the windswept metropolis that was the Slough pedestrian precinct. In the manner of an undercover operative (Mission Un-bloody-believable), I flicked some covert glances in his direction and committed the details to memory: auburn spiky hair (Jake Gyllenhaal meets hair gel), khaki combat trousers (well pressed, new) and pale brown cashmere v-neck jumper–fairly attractive, in an understated kind of way. And you could tell he’d made an effort. It was an image that said ‘thought has gone into this’, as opposed to ‘dragged out from under a pile of pizza boxes and a week’s worth of washing’.
‘This is, er, a bit weird,’ he’d perceptively observed, acknowledging that neither of us was entirely sure how to start a conversation based on a blind date set up by a mad woman on the telly.
I nodded, hoping that he’d point us in the direction of a suitable destination before my feet began to ache. Damn those heels. I’d ignored Millie’s advice (comfortable boots, skinny jeans) and gone for smart black trousers and my favourite vertigo-inducing eBay specials. Big mistake.
But back to the jolly, comforting tones of our strained silence.
‘Are you cold?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
More silence.
‘What about there?’ he blurted, pointing to an outwardly respectable-looking wine bar with several loved-up couples in plain view behind the shop-style window.
I shook my head. It might look okay, but thanks to a tip-off from Trish (obtained via a temp-agency waiter who supplemented his student grant by working in the TV studio canteen and acting as a naked butler for wife-swapping parties in the suburbs) I knew it was a major pick-up joint for swingers, doggers and deviants. Call me old-fashioned, but I felt that the prospect of being propositioned for a foursome by an ageing history teacher and his middle-aged nymphomaniac wife didn’t seem like it would be the best way to spend the next few hours.
I shook my head. ‘What about in there?’ I pointed to a quiet little pub on the other side of the road. ‘I’ve been there a few times and it’s okay, I suppose.’ It was either that or bunions that may well have crippled me for life.
We were barely in the door when he started ranting effusively. ‘Great choice, it’s lovely, brilliant, top option.’
It was a tiny pub with beer coasters on the tables and a telly showing the snooker in the corner–I doubted it had ever been anyone’s ‘top option’. Nevertheless, I appreciated his encouragement and enthusiasm and it took the prospect of the rest of the evening down from ‘crippling dread’ to ‘might be just about bearable’.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t plan anything–I wanted to wait and see what you liked first.’ Sweet. Accommodating. A faint whiff of a cop-out.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ he continued.
‘A white wine, please–dry if they have it.’
‘Wow, that’s what I drink. How bizarre.’
Indeed.
‘And I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you think I could have a packet of peanuts–I haven’t had time to grab anything since lunch.’
‘Not at all–I fancy some myself.’
Once again, I give you Mr Sweet and Accommodating.
I watched him as he curved his way round a table of sixty-something bingo players and three old men poring over the horse-racing page in a newspaper, and I couldn’t help wondering why he was here. He seemed fairly hygienic, he was personable and acted friendly enough, albeit in a shy, self-conscious kind of way. Did a guy like him really struggle to meet someone in the real world? Or did he have some deep-rooted personality flaw that I’d yet to discover? Dear God, please don’t let it involve body parts stored in his deep freeze.
He