Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (20 page)

Audrey sailed into the kitchen, her coat billowing in her wake and Pickles mewing at her heels. Tomorrow would be perfect, she thought. Her ample breast was already aflutter at the thought of opening her front door and seeing John on her porch, already leaning forward to kiss her hand
in greeting. He was such a handsome man. A handsome
gentleman
, she corrected herself as she pulled a ready meal for one from the fridge. She didn’t know how she would have endured so many Dating Practitioners’ Society balls had it not been for him. He played his part to perfection, fetching drinks for the other ladies, swapping jokes with the men and nodding in shared memory of their recent holiday stories, fictionalized by Audrey for the group. After the first couple of years she hadn’t even needed to ask him to wear a wedding band.

Audrey picked up a fork, stabbed at the cellophane covering her ready meal and slung it into the microwave.

Yes, she and John were such a natural couple she really could see no reason why they weren’t actually together. He’d accompanied her to every function since she’d set up her own business. It wouldn’t have done for word to get around that someone who made a living by ending people’s single status was actually single herself. So she’d taken matters into her own hands and – after securing written confirmation from Geraldine that John wouldn’t accept bookings from any other matchmaking professionals, thus guaranteeing secrecy over the true nature of their relationship – she ordered herself a gentleman friend for the evening. How was she to know that everyone would presume they were a long-standing couple? And why shouldn’t she let them think that? After all, it was they who’d jumped to conclusions. She hadn’t actually lied.

So over the years they had, to the outside world at least, become Audrey and John; Audrey and John Cracknell. It
was such an easy falsehood to slip into, and over time she’d come to think of John as hers. Well, he was, in a way. And she was sure it was what he wanted too, despite his old-fashioned insistence on remaining firmly inside his car when he dropped her off at the end of their evenings. But he too must feel a quickening of the breast and a shortening of breath whenever they said their goodbyes.

The microwave pinged loudly. Audrey shuffled her ready meal onto a plate, placed a knife, fork and a small glass of sherry on a tray and carried it into the living room. She was so excited she wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat. But she’d give it her best shot and treat herself to just a small amount of
Morse
before she pressed her stole and gave her feet a soak in the foot spa. Then she’d give herself a manicure. Nothing too flashy. Just a nice tasteful pearl. John would like that.

Alice burst through her front door and pulled off her cycling helmet, revealing bright red cheeks and flat, sweaty hair. This ‘being-a-lady’ stuff was far more complicated – not to mention expensive – than she’d imagined.

Buying the dress and shoes had been one thing, but now it was all getting way too silly. Everything cost a fortune and every task (like the choosing of nail varnish) led to another task (the need to file and shape her nails). It was like a nightmarishly feminine version of Russian dolls with endless primping, preening and plucking. And if the pre-ball preparation scared her, the prospect of actually going to the ball was hanging over her like the countdown to major surgery without anaesthetic. Alice was beginning to wonder if Audrey had only invited her to the ball as an ingenious form of torture.

The latest ball emergency was down to the wholly ridiculous question of make-up. Or, more specifically, Alice’s eleventh-hour realization that she didn’t own any. Earlier that afternoon Hilary had casually asked how she was going to do her make-up for the ball. Nobody had ever seen Alice
in anything more than a watery stroke of mascara and a smudge of Vaseline. The colour had immediately drained from Alice’s face. Make-up was a brand new hurdle to stress about. A quick straw poll of the office (thankfully Audrey was out) revealed that even Cassandra thought it inconceivable that Alice could attend the ball without wearing at least basic cosmetics. The trouble was that the ball was twenty-four hours away, and Alice didn’t know where to start.

Back in the safety of her flat, she dropped her carrier bag of newly acquired make-up onto her armchair and heard the little pots of creams and colours clink expensively together. She’d spent the last few hours lumbering awkwardly around the alien environment of the cosmetics counter, avoiding the eyes of the scary-looking make-up girls and feeling like Crocodile Dundee as she peered at tubs of light-reflecting-this and cashmere-finish-that. She looked wistfully at her bag of purchases; bang goes another hundred pounds.

Alice checked her watch. Time was marching on. She still hadn’t cooked or eaten dinner, let alone shaved her legs, washed her hair or spent the two hours it took her to apply unwonky nail varnish. And now she had the added complication of having to practise putting on make-up too. The evening was suddenly looking very short.

She pressed her hand against her stomach, trying to calm her nerves. It was hard to know what she was most scared of.

First was the dread of having to engage in small talk with Audrey.

Then there was Audrey’s list of rules to follow. There had been so many, she could barely remember them, let alone avoid breaking them.

Plus there was the crippling fear of being seen in public in her new dress and heels. It was one thing swanning around her flat, imagining herself as a femme fatale, but actually wearing it all outside her front door as plain old Alice Brown . . . ? She was bound to trip in her heels and look like an idiot.

And now there was the added worry of badly applied make-up (why hadn’t she been practising since the age of thirteen like everyone else?).

And to top it all there was the excruciating prospect of seeing Sheryl Toogood again.

Immediately after her chat with Ginny, Alice had burned the midnight oil, carefully composing an email to Sheryl. She’d politely thanked her for her offer but respectfully declined the job. The more she thought about Sheryl’s bad-matches-for-more-money scam, the sicker she felt. She dreaded seeing her again. Sheryl wasn’t the type to take rejection, even if it was only from Alice.

She’d just have a liquid dinner tonight, she decided as she rummaged in the kitchen for a bottle of wine. She was too nervous to eat. It was all she could do to pour the wine into a glass. For a moment she was tempted to drink straight from the bottle.

Audrey swept into the Town and Country Golf Club, her arm hooked around John’s and her head held high. Her petrol-blue ball gown swished elegantly around her ankles. In her mind’s eye she and John made quite an entrance: distinguished-looking, slightly regal. She liked to think the other society members considered them the elder statesmen of courtship. They were a couple maturely in love; none of the outward gushiness of young passion, but rather the deeply felt, discreetly displayed, late-blooming love of, say, Charles and Camilla. Audrey had developed quite a soft spot for Camilla over the years. She was no oil painting, granted, but she always got her grooming spot on.

Audrey nodded grandly to various Society members as she and John made their way to the bar. She always felt like a woman on John’s arm. It was the only place in the world where she glowed. She felt the electricity at the point where his dinner jacket met her arm. Tonight was her birthday, Christmas and Easter Sunday all rolled into one. Tonight she wasn’t just Audrey, she was one half of Audrey and John.

Suddenly a dark cloud appeared in her sight line. Audrey frowned. Why was Sheryl Toogood always the first person they bumped into? And what in the name of heaven was she wearing?

Audrey let her eyes adjust as she took in the spectacle of Sheryl’s outfit. She was poured into a very low-cut silver dress with Perspex heels and a silver clutch bag. She dripped with sparkly diamonds, the only splashes of colour being her fuchsia-pink nails and matching glossy lips. Sheryl looked, Audrey noted with a purse of her own coral-coated lips, like a two-bit Las Vegas showgirl. Either that or an Argos chandelier.

As Audrey swept her eyes up and down the offending outfit her eye suddenly fell on Sheryl’s middle. This section wasn’t made from the same shiny material as the rest, but was a sheer silver chiffon. Sheryl was showing her midriff! Audrey was aghast. Nobody
but nobody
above a certain age should show their midriff! Audrey wasn’t sure what that age was, and was dimly aware that a few years back it had been all the rage for young ladies of a questionable class to reveal their tummies. Even so, if she had to put a safe number on when the optimum midriff-showing age was, she’d probably plump for eight. Audrey felt a small rush of triumph. Sheryl had blown it. She looked like a dog’s dinner! Whatever hopes she had of getting her Barbie talons into John – and that was clearly what she wanted – were well and truly dust.

‘Oh, Sheryl!’ Audrey gushed. ‘I nearly mistook you for a Christmas fairy!’

‘Oh, Auuuudrey,’ Sheryl retorted. ‘That dress looks just as good as it did last year!’

Audrey felt the first prickle of a flush on her neck. There was a poisonous pause, before John stepped gallantly forward.

‘You can’t improve a classic,’ he said supportively before turning politely to Sheryl. ‘Lovely to see you again, Sheryl. Audrey tells me you’ve organized tonight; you must have been busy.’

‘Well, yes, John, I
have
been busy,’ Sheryl simpered, ‘but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Although I could have done with Love Birds being a bit quieter!’ She tapped his chest flirtatiously with a hot-pink nail. Audrey didn’t have her glasses on but she swore she was sticking her chest out at him as she spoke. ‘Business has gone aaabsoluuuutely stratospheric. You know, if we don’t win the “Bureau of the Year” award tonight, I’ll eat my tiara!’

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Audrey cut in brusquely. She turned to John, trying to make sure his eyes were on her and not on the sparkly Ms Toogood. ‘Did I tell you, darling?’ She tried to make the ‘darling’ sound casual, but even to her ears it sounded awkward. ‘We’ve posted our biggest profits
ever
this quarter! And President Ernie referred to Table For Two in the last Society newsletter as
a temple of excellence
and
one of the last matchmaking bureaus to honour the time-old traditions of client service and discretion . . .
Oh!’ She broke away from the conversation with a start. Alice had silently joined the group. ‘Alice!’ she exclaimed gracelessly. ‘You look . . .’