According to the tattered phone book she’d found in the guesthouse, The Grange was a restaurant in central Oxford. It was tucked down a cobbled side street that Jo walked past several times before noticing. When she eventually did, it was still only ten to eight so she went for a longer walk to make herself late.
She hadn’t meant to start drinking; it was just that the gaggle of girls coming towards her had looked faintly familiar and the glow of the deserted pub had seemed welcoming. And yes, her nerves were playing up too; she hadn’t been on a date since…well, she didn’t know.
Frankly, thought Jo, tipping back the glass and enjoying the familiar burning sensation in her throat, she deserved a drink. She hadn’t had one in nearly a week (not counting the odd sip from the bottle of vodka beside her bed). Hunting for jobs with no qualifications and no CV was thirsty work.
Jo had resigned herself to a career as a waitress or barmaid or assistant–something involving no particular skills. But even that was proving difficult. The cafés in Abingdon were welcoming enough but they all seemed to be staffed with sixty-somethings who could (and sometimes did) serve soup and rolls in their sleep and who showed no signs of planning to move on. The sports centre, the library and several bars in town had sent her away with a smile and a patronising promise to call her if anything came up.
Jo spotted her date as soon as she crept through the doors. Dressed in a cream shirt with the top buttons casually undone, Stuart looked like an aftershave model. His hair, with its flat top and coating of gel, looked almost plastic in its perfection. Jo felt instantly ashamed of her charity-shop attire.
‘Hey,’ he said, rising from his seat and kissing her on each cheek. ‘Fashionably late.’
Jo nodded bashfully. It ruined the aura somewhat, she thought, having someone point it out.
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Er…’ Jo sat down, hoping he couldn’t smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘Wine? Please.’
Stuart made a hand gesture that sent a waiter gliding up to their table as though on runners.
A wine menu appeared between them. Jo made it clear that she wasn’t getting involved in the decision, but that didn’t stop Stuart muttering, ‘Louis Latour Puligny Montrachet? Veuve Clicquot Rosé? Bestue Santa Sabina?’
Jo shrugged.
‘Is red OK? Ooh, that looks good. Bodegas Luis Cañas Reserva Seleccíon de la Familia.’ Stuart looked up at the patient waiter. ‘Yes, we’ll go for that.’
Jo watched him snap shut the menu. She had guessed correctly: he was full of himself. Sexy, but a little bit arrogant.
‘So, everything going well at the teashop then?’
Jo grimaced. ‘Er…well, no. Not exactly.’
‘I didn’t get you in too much trouble, did I?’ He grinned cheekily.
‘Well, I think I was already in trouble,’ Jo replied. ‘But you were the clincher.’
‘Really? The clincher? Me? Oh God. I’m sorry.’ He leaned back as the waiter returned with the wine and poured some with great panache into Stuart’s glass. Swilling it for quite some time, Stuart took a sip and proclaimed it ‘OK’, without looking at the waiter.
‘I had no idea I was the clincher,’ he went on.
The waiter filled Jo’s glass and topped up Stuart’s.
‘Don’t feel bad,’ said Jo, wondering whether he actually did. He seemed to be rather enjoying his guilty act. ‘I had it coming. The boss was just telling me how he was worried about my “unhealthy relationship with some of the customers” when you walked in and asked for a freebie.’
Stuart pulled a look of mock horror. ‘Oops. Oh dear. Cheers, by the way.’ He tapped his glass against Jo’s.
The menu was one of those cryptic ones with phrases like ‘bourride of brill with rouille and Gruyère’ and ‘foie de volaille mousse with Madeira’. Jo decided to go by price and opt for something mid-range for each of the courses.
‘You’re not allergic to shellfish then,’ said Stuart.
Jo laughed frivolously and wondered what she’d asked for. Allergies. That was a point. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind.
‘So, what will you do now?’ asked Stuart, when Jo finished explaining about the fiasco in Trev’s Teashop.
The wine was slipping down too quickly. Jo tried to reduce the frequency of her sips. ‘I’m looking for something else. Any ideas?’ She was only half joking.
He clicked his teeth. ‘Not really my line of work.’
‘Oh, yeah? And what is your line of work?’
He waited to catch her eye. ‘Have a guess.’
‘Well…you work from home a lot and you drive a nice car…And you dress well…’ She looked him up and down. ‘And you’re good with people…’
‘Am I?’ Stuart smiled back coyly. ‘Jo, it almost sounds as though you’re flirting with me.’ He raised an eyebrow.
Jo looked down at her wine, embarrassed.
‘I’m not always good,’ he went on, unabashed. ‘But then, nobody’s good all the time.’ He fixed her a meaningful stare. ‘So, what am I?’
Jo waited for her cheeks to stop burning. She hadn’t meant to flirt; it had just sort of happened.
‘Jo?’
‘You’re a property developer,’ she said, plucking something out at random that sounded suitably unflattering.
He frowned. ‘Nope.’
‘Um…’ Jo shrugged helplessly, ‘insurance broker.’
He looked offended this time. ‘No. Try again.’
Jo smiled, lightening up again. ‘Helicopter pilot. Fireman. Farmer.’ This was more fun than inventing her own career. ‘Hairdresser. Oh, I know, you’re a stunt double!’
‘OK. Now it’s gonna be a real anticlimax.’ Stuart allowed the waiter to present the starters. Jo looked down and saw a mass of rubber tubing on her plate. ‘I’m retired.’
Jo screwed up her nose. ‘What?’
‘I was a trader until just over a year ago, then I quit while the going was good. Well, goodish.’
‘What…You don’t work at all any more?’ Jo wondered how much money the man had managed to put away. Two million, she reckoned, at least.
Stuart cut into his sliver of salmon. Jo wished she’d been better able to read the menu. ‘I do a bit of consulting to keep myself busy, but other than that I play golf, go to the gym, entertain beautiful ladies…’
Ladies, Jo noted. Plural. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. ‘What sort of consulting?’
‘Well, people consult me to ask where they should put their money. I do a little voodoo dance, throw a few sticks on the ground and give them their answer.’
Jo laughed, pushing the chewy rings around her plate. At least the lettuce was recognisable. Stuart continued to talk, somehow making his vacuous life sound quite interesting. Jo felt like a contestant on some awful life-swap reality TV show: here she was dining with a multimillionaire while only a few nights ago, she had been sleeping on a café floor.
‘Same again?’ asked Stuart, holding up the empty bottle.
‘How did that happen?’ asked Jo, pretending to be shocked by their rate of consumption. She really had to slow down.
The