Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (23 page)

Luckily, Audrey jumped in, her tone bossy and proprietorial.

‘I don’t think that would be appropri—’

Completely ignoring her, Sheryl took John’s head in her hands and pulled him forcefully towards her, planting a hard, lingering kiss on his lips. His head pounded under the pressure of her vice-like grip and the insistent squirming of her lips. He tried to pull away. He could hear Audrey gasp in horror. Eventually, Sheryl released him.

He turned to Audrey, his face full of apology. She was his client, and shouldn’t be expected to witness behaviour like that. But Audrey wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Sheryl, and she looked ready to murder.

‘Sheryl Toogood, you’re nothing but a common tart; a cheap, brazen whore!’ Audrey’s face and neck were covered in an angry red rash, her expression beyond fury. ‘You think of nothing but sex, sex, sex. You disgust me!’

Sheryl gave a little smirk, and pointedly wiped the corner of her lips with a manicured finger.

‘Love and fidelity and marriage mean nothing to you,’ Audrey thundered. ‘You’re more interested in notches on your bedpost. Don’t you know men don’t like that kind of thing? Decent men, I mean, not the kind of male bimbos and flopsies you surround yourself with. You need to grow up, cover up, and stop acting like a teenage slut. You’re not fit to win the award. You’re an embarrassment to the Society!’

‘Now really, Audrey, you’ve gone too far.’ Ernie was on his feet, swaying tipsily, and waggling his finger in Audrey’s direction. ‘I demand you apologize to poor Sheryl at once. We all think she looks very lovely tonight; like a diamond.’

John looked at Audrey, who was staring at Ernie aghast. Her mouth was open in surprise and dismay.

There was a long pause. Sheryl shifted insolently, a contemptuous smile on her lips as she inspected Audrey and waited for her apology. It clearly wasn’t coming.

It was time for action.

John put his hand under Audrey’s elbow and gently tried to steer her away.

‘Right everyone,’ he said pleasantly. ‘It’s been a lovely evening, but it’s time Audrey and I made tracks.’

With relief he felt Audrey rock on her axis.

‘See you all again next year!’ He threw a broad smile in the direction of the table, turned and headed out, half guiding, half scooping Audrey up by the elbow. Thankfully she moved with him.

He manoeuvred her out of the great hall, past the cloakroom and straight to his car.

Audrey stared blindly ahead as John steered the Audi in the direction of home. The muted hum of the engine gave a deceptive air of peace. Neither had spoken since getting in a full ten minutes ago. It was only now that her Sheryl-inspired rage and her sense of betrayal at the hands of President Ernie had subsided, that Audrey realized John was angry. There was none of his normal, easy conversation. Instead he drove in stiff silence, his brow furrowed and his profile unforgiving. Audrey’s anger instantly dissolved into panic. John couldn’t be angry with her? He was never angry. He was always kind and calm. Her mouth went dry and her stomach lurched.

She cleared her throat and tried to think of something jovial to say, but nothing came. Instead she miserably watched his hands turn the wheel, each movement taking her closer to home, each gear-change hastening the end of the evening.

Audrey felt sick. She’d longed – yearned – for tonight for so long. But something had gone wrong. And whatever it was, it was Sheryl’s fault.

All too soon they arrived home. With a sinking feeling Audrey noticed that John didn’t switch off the engine, or undo his seat belt, or turn in his seat to look at her. It was over, she thought desperately; the evening was over. There were no more precious minutes to be had. Not for several months anyway. Not until a suitable work occasion beckoned, and that could be ages.

‘Coffee?’ she suggested in panic.

‘No.’ He sighed heavily. There was an awkward pause. ‘You surprised me tonight, Audrey.’

‘Me?’

‘I . . . I didn’t know you were like that.’

‘Like what?’ Audrey demanded, suddenly feeling very small. John’s eyes were fixed on a point the other side of the windscreen.

‘So . . . hard. So devoid of compassion.’

‘It was Sheryl,’ Audrey said hurriedly. ‘She deliberately provoked me. She always does.’

‘No, it wasn’t Sheryl. Look, forget it. It’s not my place to say.’

‘Not your place to say what?’

An ominous silence fell.

‘Please . . . I want to know. I
need
to know what you’re thinking!’ But even as she said the words she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. It was all wrong. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to go. She waited breathlessly for his reply.

But John just looked ahead for a very long time.

‘Sorry,’ he said eventually, ‘but I’ve got an early start in the morning.’

Audrey nodded dumbly. She was dismissed.

She groped for the door, still hoping he’d change his mind and flash one of his vintage smiles that made his eyes crinkle and her stomach flip. But his eyes were fixed on the road.

Audrey climbed out of the car, murmured a tiny, contrite ‘thank you’, and gently closed the door. She walked slowly up the drive, drawing out each step as long as possible to give him the chance to call her back, catch her up, toot his horn, anything. But before she’d reached her front door she heard his car pull away and just the discreet murmur of the engine lingered in the night.

With a trembling hand she pulled out her house keys. And then she was in the house, the door was closed behind her and John was elsewhere.

She went straight to the bedroom. Pickles was asleep on her bed and barely stirred as she walked in. She went over to her full-length mirror and looked. She wanted to see herself – not in the way she normally did, checking her skirt was straight or that there was no lipstick on her teeth. She wanted to see what John saw. She wanted to see her: Audrey Cracknell the client, the woman.

She looked. She kept on looking.

And then she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it. She slipped off her shoes and placed her swollen feet on the flat, carpeted floor.

She was in her underwear, tights and make-up. She looked again.

She didn’t like what she saw.

Her tummy bulged over her sensible underwear and her thighs stuck tightly together from abdomen to knee. Her chubby arms stuck out wider than her shoulders, making her silhouette soft and egg-shaped. She had none of Sheryl’s hard, aerobicized lines. Even her bosom, certainly as large as Sheryl’s, was saggy and misshapen. Sheryl’s bosom was pert and pneumatic: an enticing pillow that called men to it. Audrey’s bosom was like two lumpy spuds hanging in a pair of popsocks.

Audrey looked at her face. Her hair – immaculate when she’d left the house at the start of the evening – was frizzy again; wild and more orange than ever. There was a small red mark in the middle of her forehead from her disastrous meeting with John’s funny bone. Her make-up looked painted on, like brittle gloss paint cracking at the edges. Her mouth was small, so small she could hardly see it. Too tiny and clenched to be kissed.

This is it, she thought. This is me. She suddenly felt overwhelmed. There was no escaping this woman in the mirror. This was her, Audrey Bridget Cracknell. Fifty-one years old and twelve and a half stone; a workhorse, held together by sheer grit and support underwear. Was this a body that could wear a silver dress? Was this a body that stirred men to defend her? No wonder John had made his excuses. He could have any woman he wanted. Why would he choose this?

On the bed, Pickles woke momentarily, yawned, licked his paws and fell back to sleep.

In front of the mirror a small shiny tear collected in the corner of Audrey’s eye. Eventually, a long time later, when the night-time chill finally permeated her misery, she put on her nightie and went to bed.

Kate got to the café early and sat at a corner table. It was nearly 3.45 p.m. and the place was full of parents treating their children to a post-school slice of cake. Young, excited faces were greedily steaming up the glass on the cake cabinet, trying to decide which sticky treat to plump for. Kate smiled at their agony as they carefully weighed up the iced doughnut versus the chocolate eclair.

‘I must hurry up,’ she berated herself sternly.

It wasn’t that her biological clock was ticking, exactly; it was more that she had a rising feeling of panic and a growing sense of time marching on. It felt like someone, somewhere, was laughing at her; and slowly, but ever so surely, they were feeding her life plan into a paper-shredder. Despite Lou’s constant reminders, she wasn’t just thirty-three; she was thirty-three, five months and one week.
Hell, she was almost thirty-three and a half
. Things were getting serious; thirty-five was just five hundred and sixty-nine days away. If she wasted a moment more she’d run out of time; venues might be fully booked; she might have to go registry office; two kids might turn into one,
or maybe even none
. She needed Alice to work her magic, and fast.

It was three whole weeks now since Kate had joined Table For Two, and so far she’d had only two dates. Everything was happening too slowly. Her date with Sebastian had been a disaster, and the one with Michael not much better. She’d always known she’d have to kiss a few frogs, even with the frog-filter of Alice, but at this rate it could take her months to find a boyfriend. She needed to step things up. She needed Alice to sort her out with two dates a week –
three!

‘Hello.’ Alice was hovering at the side of the table, looking pale and tired. Kate hadn’t even noticed her come in. She rose in greeting.

‘Alice! Thanks for coming. Can I get you a tea?’

A few minutes later both women were installed behind teacups. Kate immediately got down to business.

‘So, let’s speed things up, shall we?’ Alice suggested once Kate paused for breath. ‘Actually, I’ve already got someone in mind for your next date. Here he is: date number three!’

She pulled a piece of paper from her bag. Kate eagerly skimmed the sheet. Date number three was called Harvey. His picture was ten-out-of-ten handsome and a quick scan of his details revealed that he regularly holidayed in faraway luxury locations and drove a Maserati. He looked promising.