Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (31 page)

But today was an exception. On this particular Friday lunch break Audrey ventured defiantly into the hostile zone of Partridges’ lingerie department with only one thing on her mind: support knickers.

Ever since the night of the ball Audrey had been tortured by two visions. The first was Sheryl Toogood’s silver-wrapped, immaculately presented and unfairly proportioned body. And the other was her own, sagging and dimple-ridden, in her bedroom mirror. Every time she remembered herself she shuddered. If she was serious about winning back John, then she needed to take herself in hand. And the right underwear, it was claimed, could make you lose ten pounds.

As Audrey stepped off the escalator she armed herself
with her don’t-trifle-with-me scowl. She was going to get this over with as fast as possible.

If it hadn’t been for the matter of Jason and Jennifer’s wedding tomorrow (as the architect of their union she was bound to be snapped with the happy couple for the local newspaper; which was not only excellent publicity for Table For Two, but there was also a chance that John might see it), then she probably would have put off buying lingerie for another few weeks. But needs must, so she bustled into the first row of underwear, eyeing the flimsy fragments of satin and lace with suspicion.

Was this modern-day support underwear? she wondered. Her own, purchased when she was twenty years younger and two dress sizes slimmer, was now threadbare. Surely support underwear had come on in leaps and bounds since then? Audrey poked a pair of pretty turquoise knickers and wondered if they were it.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ a voice enquired.

Audrey jumped guiltily.

‘Yes!’ she barked officiously, doing her best not to look ruffled. ‘I want some support pants. To make me look thinner.’

‘Certainly, madam,’ the shop assistant said smoothly. ‘Follow me.’

She led Audrey through the shop, the delicate pinks and lemons gradually giving way to sturdier blacks and beiges, as the waistbands grew higher and the gussets drooped lower. Eventually the assistant stopped before a display of items that looked more like jodhpurs than knickers. Surely
these weren’t underwear, Audrey thought. These were for old women in nursing homes with no bladder control.

But sure enough, the sales assistant’s mouth was moving, and words like ‘smooth lines’ and ‘better than a tummy tuck’ were permeating Audrey’s disbelieving ears. Audrey eyed the pants with dismay. Some of them were so long you had to hoist them over your shoulders. Were they
really
going to help her win back John?

But she reminded herself of the importance of her mission and dismissed the sales assistant. She quickly snatched a pair of beige jodhpurs and powered towards the tills.

But something stopped her dead in her tracks.

A cascade of blonde hair was standing at the tills. Its owner was rummaging in a large crocodile handbag and rocking on a pair of garish stilettos.

‘When will you be getting in more of the purple marabou G-strings?’ A coarse, familiar voice emanated from under the hair. ‘Well, I’ll just have to make do with the hot pink till then. Still, I don’t suppose it matters. It’s not like they stay on for long!’

The blonde emitted a raucous guffaw.

‘They drive him wild!’ she continued crassly. ‘I don’t know if it’s because they’re so tiny, or whether it’s the feel of the fluff, but as soon as he gets a glimpse of them he just has to rip them off!’

Audrey’s stomach turned queasily as she darted behind a row of tights. Sheryl Toogood! She felt a prickle of perspiration on her upper lip. Had she seen her? Surely not! Sheryl never lost the opportunity to gloat, and if she’d seen Audrey
perusing the pensioner underwear she’d have been straight over to plunge the knife in.

Audrey squatted awkwardly, scrunching the support pants into her fist.

‘I’m telling you,’ Sheryl confided loudly to the shop assistant, ‘you really must get yourself one of those sheer bras. So cheeky, seeing the nipples when the underwear’s still on! My fella goes nuts for it. Turns him into a real animal. When we go out for dinner he’s barely got his fork in his mouth before he’s asking me if I’ve got it on. All hot under the collar, he gets. Can’t eat a thing. You must buy one. You’ll never look back!’

Audrey felt sick. The last thing she wanted was a mental picture of Sheryl and Brad in the bedroom, or at the dinner table, or anywhere at all for that matter. And she especially didn’t want to imagine Sheryl’s nipples. Was John the kind of man who turned into an animal? she thought with a sudden panic. Would he be the type who liked a bra so flimsy he could see right through it?

Eventually Sheryl paid for her goods and headed to the ground floor. As the last glimpse of teased blonde hair vanished down the escalator Audrey ventured out from her hiding place and scuttled over to the tills. She thrust the limp, sweat-dampened jodhpurs onto the counter and started frantically pulling out her money. Cash would be quicker than a card, and the faster she got away the better in case Sheryl came back for another X-rated purchase.

‘Brazen woman!’ she muttered to herself. ‘Common little whore!’

‘Pardon?’ The shop assistant sounded affronted.

‘Not you!’ Audrey said brusquely, as she grabbed her purchase and headed for the nearest fire exit. She’d take the stairs, thank you very much. There was no way she was running the risk of bumping into Sheryl. No way on God’s earth.

John looked at Alice as she sipped her cappuccino. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks pink from riding her bike. She’d been adamant that they meet on the opposite side of the city to Table For Two. She’d burst through the door on the stroke of six o’clock, her bicycle helmet in her hand and her hair unruly. The women John usually met were always immaculately dressed for a formal function. But Alice looked wild, scruffy and full of energetic life. She’d almost taken his breath away.

He cleared his throat. He’d just taken a sip of his coffee but his mouth still felt dry. He was surprised by how nervous he was. He talked to women for a living. Wasn’t he supposed to be good at this?

‘So, what made you decide to become a matchmaker?’ he asked awkwardly.

Alice smiled and stirred her coffee. ‘It was the only thing I ever wanted to do. I don’t think of it as a job; it’s a privilege.’

‘I’m interested.’ He leant forward in his chair and then, realizing his knees were touching Alice’s, leant back again.
‘What makes you put people together? How do you know they’ll get on?’

Alice laughed. ‘It’s going to sound strange . . .’

‘Strange is good.’

She told him how she stared out of the Table For Two window and drifted into an imaginary world.

‘Have you ever set people up who really hated each other?’

‘A couple,’ she said confidentially. ‘But they were deliberate.’

‘Deliberate? But matchmaking’s your passion!’

‘It is!’ she replied earnestly. ‘That’s why I did it. Sometimes I
need
to make a bad match for the sake of the client. Like this one lady I’ve got at the moment.’ She wriggled forward in her chair. ‘She’s lovely; pretty, successful, a nice person, good fun. She shouldn’t have any trouble in finding someone. She doesn’t realize it, but she’s stopping herself from meeting a man. She’s got two big obstacles in her way, and she’s put both of them there herself!’

‘What kind of obstacles?’

‘Well, the first is her job. She’s a workaholic,’ Alice explained, her face alight with passion. ‘She hides behind long working hours as an excuse for not getting out there and meeting men. Actually I think she’s scared to, in case she tries and fails. She’s used to working hard and succeeding. Falling flat on her face frightens her.’

‘And the second?’

‘She’s got unrealistic expectations about the man she wants to meet. Lots of women are the same. It’s as if she decided on her ideal man when she was thirteen and hasn’t
updated her fantasy since. She wants the works: looks, money, a fancy car, a perfect body, a family man. A Hollywood dream-man with no imperfections. But these men don’t exist, not even in Hollywood!’

‘So you set her up on a bad date deliberately?’ John asked, enthralled.

‘I had to!’ Alice replied emphatically. But then she faltered for a moment, and her face seemed to crumple. John watched in fascination as she appeared to debate something within herself.

‘But that doesn’t make me like her!’ she insisted suddenly.

‘Like who?’ he asked, confused.

She looked at him strangely as though suddenly remembering he was there. ‘Like . . . It doesn’t matter.’ And then she was back on track. ‘But you have to understand – I only made bad matches to
help
this woman,’ she explained earnestly. ‘Because she has to see that what she’s looking for isn’t right for her. So I matched her with the richest, best-looking men on our books. But just because they’re rich and handsome doesn’t mean they’re interesting or caring or fun! Don’t get me wrong; they’re perfect for someone. But not for her.’

‘But how can you be so sure?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if she’s telling you she wants one thing, why are you convinced she needs another?’

‘If wealth and beauty were right for her I’d be able to tell.’

‘How?’

‘By everything! By what she wore, how she had her hair, the way she carried herself, the things she said . . .’

‘You can tell what somebody wants by what they’re wearing?’

‘Of course!’ Alice nodded enthusiastically. ‘Money attracts money, and the women chasing rich men know that. So they dress accordingly, with designer clothes and immaculate hair, manicured nails . . .’

‘And how does your lady dress, then?’ John asked.

Alice thought.

‘Perfectly. Her clothes really matter to her. But her outfits are her protection – like armour. I think, beneath it all, she’s actually underconfident. The heels and suits are there to give herself a boost.’

‘So she’s not dressing to attract a rich man?’

‘No; she’s dressing to make herself feel better. You need to be extremely confident to partner a rich man. And thick-skinned too. That’s not the life for her.’

‘And who do you dress for?’ John heard himself asking.

Alice laughed and pulled at her simple dress and long cardigan.

They both blushed.

‘So.’ He tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground. ‘You’ve sent your lady into the lion’s den knowing she’s going to have a bad date. And you do this so you can then put her on the right path with the right kind of man?’

‘Yes!’

‘But will it work?’

‘Definitely!’ Alice smiled confidently.

‘And have you found someone who
is
right for her?’

‘Yes, I think I’ve cracked it. She’s not met him yet, and
he’s certainly not rich, nor conventionally handsome. But he’ll make her feel rich.’

‘It’s a risky strategy, though; it could backfire on you.’

‘I know.’ Alice smiled. ‘But isn’t love worth taking a risk for?’

John looked at her. She emanated warmth and kindness. It was hard to imagine her working in the same world as Audrey and Sheryl. She seemed like a beacon of purity, full of honesty and zest for life. She wore hardly any make-up, but far from looking plain, it lit her up. She looked natural and alive. And she had a habit of pulling her jumper around her and snuggling into it. It made him want to scoop her up so she could snuggle into him instead.

‘So,’ she was saying, ‘we’ve established that you’re not married to Audrey, but have you ever been married?’

‘Once,’ John replied honestly. ‘I was very young – too young. It ended.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, so was I. But it was a long time ago.’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘Yes, a daughter.’ John’s face broke into a smile. ‘Emily. She’s twenty-three and as wise as the hills. She’s like her mother that way.’

‘Is she very close to her mother?’

‘No. Her mother died – car accident. Emily was only eight.’

‘Oh, that’s awful. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘No, it’s fine. After my wife – her name was Eve – after Eve died I brought Emily up on my own.’

He never normally told anyone about Eve, but then, he
never normally went on dates of his own choosing. And suddenly it felt good to talk about the past.

‘It was a tough time. Sometimes it felt like Emily was more grown-up about it than me. But we survived. And now we’re very close.’

‘That’s good,’ said Alice simply.

‘Yes, it is.’

They smiled at each other.

‘So, how about you?’ John asked. ‘Have you ever been married?’

‘Er, no!’ she laughed.

John looked at her. How could she not have been snapped up? She was lovely – the archetypal girl next door. Wasn’t she just what men wanted? All the blokeish posturing men made about wanting girls with blonde hair and big breasts . . . but beneath the bravado, didn’t they all, deep down, not really care about the Sheryl Toogoods of this world? Didn’t they all
really
want someone just like Alice?

Their date was at an end, and he helped her into her coat. He didn’t want her to go. He suddenly felt tongue-tied. He’d never been lost for words on a professional date. But here in the cafe, watching Alice fiddle with the strap of her bicycle helmet, he felt like he was floundering. It felt exciting, like he was out of his depth.