Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (55 page)

It was nearly four o’clock, and Audrey was pulling on her raincoat to go to the vet and pick up Pickles when something extraordinary happened. She got a delivery of flowers.

The arrival of a bouquet of flowers was not unusual in itself. But this particular delivery was extraordinary for two reasons. Firstly because it was the smallest, simplest posy she’d ever received: a modest bunch of clean, yellow marigolds. And secondly because it was the first bunch of flowers she’d ever received that she hadn’t sent to herself. The shock was so great that she sat back down in her fully buttoned coat to admire them.

If you ever need a friend . . . Maurice Lazenby
, read the card.

A nugget of warmth kindled in Audrey’s chest. After hours of maintaining her rigid iron mask she felt an almost happy prickle of tears at the unexpected kindness Maurice had shown her yet again. For the first time in years human nature had pleasantly (rather than unpleasantly) surprised her and she felt a flush of shame for every time she’d rolled her eyes to hear Maurice was on the phone. How she’d misjudged him! He wasn’t a moaner at all. He was a
gentleman. Old fashioned, fussy and with ideas of a suitor that were well above his station. But beneath it all, a kind and thoughtful gentleman.

She picked up the phone to thank him. It was her first genuine phone call of the day.

‘You’re welcome.’ He dismissed her thanks. ‘In fact, I was wondering if you’d permit me to buy you lunch tomorrow . . . to give you an escape from the office.’

Audrey paused, unsure of how to proceed into such unknown social territory. She looked at the flowers and remembered the relief of his handkerchief and the warmth of his arm around her shoulders.

‘Well, I suppose it would be nice to get out of the office for once,’ she conceded.

‘That’s settled, then. Shall I come to Table For Two for 12.30?’

Audrey was about to tell him to meet her outside – the girls might laugh if they knew she was lunching with Maurice – but she stopped short.
A nicer me
, she reminded herself.

And then just as she stood again, gathering her handbag and Pickles’s travel basket to her, something else unexpected happened. Alice shot into her office.

‘Not now, Alice,’ Audrey said as neutrally as possible. ‘There’s somewhere very important I have to be. I can’t be late.’

‘Oh! Right.’

Alice looked as though the wind had been let out of her sails. Audrey noticed how tired and pale she was; all traces
of last night’s glamour-puss were gone. The cardigan was back. Some sort of order had been restored.

‘Well, can I give you this? Maybe you could read it later.’ Alice nervously held an envelope towards her. Audrey nodded and folded it into her pocket.

‘I really mustn’t be late. It’s my cat, you see.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Audrey made her way to the glass door.

‘Audrey . . . ?’ Alice asked.

Something in her voice made Audrey stop and turn to face her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alice said softly.

There was a short, silent pause as the complexity of meaning of the two simple words settled upon both women.

Audrey nodded, and then sailed out of the room and out of Table For Two. It wasn’t until she was on the bus on the way to the vet’s that she pulled out Alice’s envelope and realized it contained her resignation letter. And then she didn’t know what to think.

Sheryl slid into her red convertible, checked her lipgloss in the rear-view mirror and fired up the engine with an unnecessarily ostentatious roar. She checked her watch. She still had plenty of time.

She began to weave her way through the early rush-hour traffic, tossing her hair and feigning ignorance of the heads she knew she was turning amongst the commuters. Sheryl loved spring. And summer and autumn, come to that. Winter was the only season she disliked, with its lowered hemlines and unspoken fashion law that cleavages should be buried under layers of repugnant wool. But now that the weather had finally turned, Sheryl took every opportunity to draw back the roof of her car and display herself to her fellow road users, even if it did mean turning the heater up to max.

A cycle courier pulled up alongside her at the lights and took advantage of the height of his bike to peer down her cleavage. Yes, spring was definitely a wonderful season, she smirked.

As she waited for the lights to change, her eye wandered
across the vista of drivers, lingering on a van containing three red-blooded labourers. She deliberately let her eye contact linger long enough for one of them to lean out of his window and call out a mild but complimentary obscenity. Sheryl rewarded him with a salacious smile, just as the lights changed. Her convertible roared and she leapt speedily towards the next red light.

Life is good, she thought sassily. Business was booming, profits were soaring and her acquisition of Cupid’s Cabin had gone smoothly. When she factored in her ingenious exposure of Audrey Cracknell yesterday, and her carefully packed overnight bag nestling in the passenger seat, ready for a clandestine rendezvous at the White Hotel, life could barely be better.

When you’re winning
. . . Sheryl thought smugly. Everything was slipping into place like choreography, right down to Partridges’ getting in more of their purple marabou G-strings, just in time for tonight. Her marabou G-strings (particularly the purple ones) always drove Ernie wild, and Sheryl had tried to hide her irritation when he’d slipped her previous pair into his pocket after their last hotel tryst.

‘A souvenir,’ he’d said with a smile that made his network of crow’s feet shine in the artificial light.

Stupid old man, she’d thought, wondering whether men ever grew out of their inner teenager. Still, she had to acknowledge that the G-strings were doing their work. Ernie was already treating her like his DIPS deputy, openly deferring to her in meetings. And when the silly sod finally realized it was time to retire Sheryl had him right where she
wanted him to make sure the succession to the presidency was hers.

Besides, her extra-curricular meetings with Ernie weren’t all work. She’d always been a firm advocate of variety, and Ernie’s age and gratitude were a refreshing foil to Brad’s vanity and acrobatics. And despite what they said about not being able to teach old dogs new tricks, Sheryl had made Ernie bark in ways she’d never thought possible.

She drummed her scarlet talons on the steering wheel and idly turned to check out Partridges’ window. But before her eye could reach the designer-clad mannequins her attention fell on a familiar figure clutching a cat basket at the bus stop. It took Sheryl a couple of seconds to realize that the unassuming woman lost in maudlin introspection was Audrey Cracknell. She looked different somehow. So much less. It was as if the fight had seeped out of her. Her chin no longer jutted like a private’s on parade. Even her hair didn’t seem so antagonistically orange. She barely looked like Sheryl’s adversary at all.

Sheryl smiled a smug smirk of victory, deliberately over-revved her engine and sped forwards into a sudden clearing in the traffic. Maybe she’d put in a call tomorrow, she thought mercilessly; see whether the time was right for Table For Two to go on the market. After all, she reasoned heartlessly, business wasn’t business. It was war. And everyone knows what they say about love and war.

It was over their apple crumble that Maurice dropped his bombshell.

‘You do know why nobody from Table For Two has been able to find me my perfect match, don’t you?’ he asked suddenly.

‘No,’ Audrey replied, taken aback.

She hadn’t expected this tangent in the conversation. So far, she’d done all the talking. She hadn’t planned on telling Maurice everything, but there was something about him that made her suddenly decide to come clean. So she’d told him about her unrequited love for John, how she’d allowed everyone to believe they were a couple because she’d wanted it to be true. She’d told him how she’d been exposed by Sheryl and expelled from the Dating Practitioners’ Society; she’d told him everything, right down to the moment she’d come across John and Alice having dinner together and how she’d lashed out at Pickles. And Maurice had listened to it all without comment or judgement. By the time they’d ordered dessert Audrey felt a stone lighter. She’d revealed all. And the person she’d done it to was still sitting before
her, with neither pity nor disgust nor repugnance on his face. It felt good.

‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I hadn’t really wondered why we hadn’t matched you. I just presumed that my girls were . . .’

‘Incompetent?’ he smiled.

‘Well, yes, I suppose I did,’ Audrey conceded, ashamed. ‘And were they?’ She held her breath as she waited for his answer. Suddenly it seemed very important to hear good things about her staff.

‘Far from it,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘They tried their best, and Miss Brown in particular gave my case a great deal of thought. Her matches were . . .’ – he searched for the right word – ‘inspired.’

Audrey felt a small but distinct flush of something. Was it pleasure? she thought. Pride? She wasn’t sure, but it felt strangely good to hear Maurice’s positive feedback about her girls. Particularly the praise for Alice, whose resignation letter still languished in Audrey’s pocket and to whom she hadn’t been sure what to say this morning. And so, to her embarrassment, she’d said nothing. She’d have to speak to Alice this afternoon. She’d have to acknowledge her resignation; accept it, even. She’d wanted rid of her for long enough. But now she finally had what she wanted – professionally, at least – she wasn’t sure what to do. She’d only just realized what a phenomenal matchmaker Alice was. Could she possibly put all the other stuff aside and ask her to stay? She didn’t know.

‘You’re a tough nut to crack.’ She smiled at Maurice. ‘A
man who knows what he wants and accepts no substitutes. You’re a bit like me, in fact. We’re perfectionists. I didn’t realize it before, but we seem to have a lot in common.’

‘A lot,’ Maurice agreed, but he suddenly seemed nervous. ‘Maybe more than you think. Actually, as we’re putting our cards on the table today, I think it’s time I also came clean. I’ve got a confession to make.’

Audrey looked at him quizzically. Maurice took a deep breath.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t been completely truthful with you, Audrey. My motives for staying with Table For Two haven’t been entirely ethical.’

Audrey’s spoon paused in mid-air and her face suddenly pinched tight. ‘Oh, Maurice, you’re not . . .
married
... ?’ Her voice seemed to come out strangely. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

‘No, no; nothing like that. What I mean is, I’m afraid I set you all an impossible mission. You’ve all been looking for my perfect match on your books, but I know for a fact she’s not there.’

‘Of course she’s there!’ Audrey replied in a rush. ‘We have the best client list in the city. We have every kind of woman there possibly is. I refuse to give in and accept defeat, especially when you’ve been so kind to me. I gave you my word that I’d find her for you, and I will.’

‘Will you?’ Maurice replied. His question hung in the air for a moment. ‘Well, you’ll have to stop searching your client list and start searching your payroll.’ He adjusted his napkin in embarrassment.