Kismetology (7 page)

"Ah, I get it. Nudge nudge, wink wink, huh?"

I shrug, not really knowing what he’s talking about. Nudge
and wink nothing, mate.

"So, shall we order?" I ask, picking up one of the
menus that the waitress has just placed on the table.

"Sure, have you been here before? Any
recommendations?"

Is that a nice way of saying "
your plan is busted, I
know your boyfriend is head chef
" or is he just making conversation?

"I’ve never tried it, but I’ve heard great things about
the poached salmon."

"I was just thinking that, it sounds nice. And salmon
is very good for you, you know."

I nod like I’ve eaten fish in the past decade.

"I’ll have the vegetable pasta," I say to the waitress
Phil has beckoned over.

She sets a jug of water down on the table and leaves with
our orders.

"So, tell me about you," I ask him. "How do
you like to spend your time?"

"Well, I’m an optician, so I spend a lot of time
looking into people’s eyes." He laughs at himself.

I mentally roll my eyes. "And you like days out and
nights in?"

"Yes. There’s nothing nicer than curling up under a
duvet on the settee with a bowl of popcorn, a glass of wine, and a good
movie…"

Promising.

"…Especially after coming in from a day of white water
rafting."

I nearly spit out the water I’m drinking. And I thought he
was normal.

"You like dangerous sports," I say. It is not a
question. It is a statement.

"Yes," he replies. "The adrenaline rush is
incredible. Is your mother into things like that?"

"Eleanor. And no, she isn’t. The most daring she ever
gets is walking her dog when it’s hail stoning."

"Oh." He seems disappointed.

Don’t worry, mate,
I think.
You’re not her type.

The waitress arrives with our food.

"Ooh, this looks good," Phil says, licking his
lips. Probably to hold his dentures in.

Of course it looks good, the guy who cooked it is a master
chef. Okay, so actually it was probably Max who cooked it seeing as he’s the
fish guy, but who cares.

We’re both a few bites in when Phil starts talking again.

"Do you like my hairline?"

"Huh?"

"I had my forehead removed and my scalp pulled down.
Looks good, huh?"

Yuck!

"Ouch," I say, wincing involuntarily. "That
must’ve hurt."

"No, not really."

"Yeah, right," I say. "Looks great."

"Do you really think so? Did you notice straight away?
I always wanted a young person’s opinion on it."

Put me off my dinner, why don’t you? I try to fight the urge
to vomit by sipping water.

"It looks fine," I say eventually. "I would never
have known unless you’d told me." And I really wish you hadn’t. What the
hell happened to growing old gracefully?

"Thank you," he says, smiling. He seems genuinely
pleased. The poor, deluded sod.

"You’re welcome."

I take another bite. Urgh. Why is anyone brought up to
believe that it’s good manners to talk about cosmetic surgery at the dinner
table?

"I’ve had other things done as well," Phil is
saying happily. "Can you guess what they are? Go on, take a guess."

"I really have no idea."

"Go on. Just guess."

"I wouldn’t like to."

"Just one guess?"

"Your teeth?"

"My teeth?"

I shrug. How am I supposed to know?

"Do you think my teeth look bad?"

"Well, no offence but," I say, using one of my
most hated sayings, but I’ve gone way past the point of caring, "they
don’t look very real."

"They don’t?"

I shake my head.

"But they are. They’re all my own. Do you think I
should have them done?"

"No, no, they look fine. I was just saying something
off the top of my head."

Holy crap, those teeth are
real
? I’ve never seen
natural teeth look that unnatural.

"You do, don’t you? You think they look bad."

"They’re fine," I say. "So, what have you had
done?" I want to change the subject quickly, and as much as I despise the
topic, he seems to like chatting about cosmetic surgery.

"I’m going to phone my dentist first thing in the
morning, I’ll get him to file them all down and put veneers on. Do you think
that’ll work?"

I wince at the mere thought. "You know, they really do
look fine as they are. You shouldn’t have anything done to them."

"No, no, you’ve said it now. I appreciate your honesty.
Most people just tell me everything looks nice even though I’m convinced it
doesn’t."

"So, what else have you had done?" I ask, trying
to veer away from dentistry in general. Plus I’ve pretty much given up on
finishing this meal without my stomach revolting, so he may as well tell me
what he’s done to himself before dessert arrives.

"I’ve had a facelift. I was forty, you know. Forty when
I had a face lift. And I’ve had laser surgery on my eyes. I used to wear,"
he leans across the table and motions for me to lean closer so he can whisper.
I do as he wants. "Glasses," he hisses. "I used to wear
glasses."

Glasses? An optician wearing glasses? How did he ever cope?

He sits back up straight and winks at me knowingly.

"Glasses? Really?" I ask because I get the feeling
that he wants me to ask.

He nods. "Unbelievable, huh?"

Oh, you certainly are, I think. You certainly are.

"So, do you think I should keep my fake teeth the same colour
as these, or should I go whiter?" He grins widely at me, showing all his
teeth and then some.

"Oh, I think those ones are just fine," I say,
barely holding back a shudder. "They compliment your skin tone."

Is now a good time to mention that I really,
really
,
don’t like dentists and generally think anything to do with teeth is better
avoided at all costs?

He grins again, but I think it’s for real this time.

"Wow," he says. "I’m really glad I met you.
But I do have to admit something, though."

He looks at me for a reaction, but obviously doesn’t get one
because he continues, "I hope you won’t be offended or anything, but I
don’t think I should meet your mother."

Don’t worry, Phil. I don’t think you should meet her either.

"It’s nothing personal," he says. "I just
think I should concentrate on my teeth for a while."

And really, what better words are there to end a date with?

CHAPTER 12

After two really bad dates with
horrible men, I’m not holding out much hope for the third. Like none at all.
The second respondent from the personal ads is "
60 year old, very, very
rich male. WLTM a kind and caring woman who I can share my wealth and my years
with.
" He had left a message on my machine when I got home from the
date with Phil, and in the spirit of "if you fall off the horse, get
straight back on," I called him straight away, in the fear that if I
didn’t jump right back in there, I never would. It’s only as I’m walking in the
door of Belisana on Tuesday night that I realise I completely forgot to ask him
his name. But there is a solitary man seated at "my" table, so I
assume that I am, as usual, late and he has arrived before me. From a distance,
he looks quite promising. He’s skinny and long-legged, with blond highlights in
light brown hair, and much younger looking than sixty. Sure enough, the hostess
leads me over to that table. He immediately stands up as we approach, and comes
around to my side of the table to pull my chair out for me. A promising start.

"I’m Mackenzie, sorry I’m late."

"No, no. I’m early."

Well, if that’s what he wants to think, who am I to stop
him?

"I’m terribly sorry, but I forgot to ask your name on
the phone."

"Oh." He laughs. "I’m Joel."

"I always liked that name," I tell him.

"Thank you."

He picks up the menu that is already on the table. "So,
what’ll you have, Mackenzie? It’s on me, of course."

"Mac, please."

"Okay then, Mac. You know, I wish you’d have let me
choose the restaurant. I’d have taken you somewhere much nicer than this."

Points: minus one.

"Oh, I think this place is just fine. The food is very
good here."

"I’m sure, but have you seen the chef? I don’t think he
knows his elbow from his armpit." Joel guffaws at his own joke.

Points: minus six thousand.

"Anyway," he continues. "I’d have taken you somewhere
much more upmarket, like Harrods. They serve champagne and caviar, you
know."

"Well, I don’t eat caviar, and I’m driving
tonight."

"I could’ve sent a limousine."

Hmm. Okay… Points: minus five thousand, nine hundred and
ninety eight.

"So, what do you do, Joel?" I ask in an attempt to
change the subject.

"I’m an entrepreneur."

"Really? So, what does that involve?"

"Oh, just stock market stuff. It’s very boring, I’m
sure you don’t want to hear about it."

Actually, I do. Because if you make all your money pimping
drugs, prostitutes or something else overtly illegal, I want to know now.

"No, really," I lie. "I know a little about
the stock market."

"Oh. Do you have any stocks and shares?"

"Um, I’m not really sure. My boyfriend handles that
side of our finances."

Okay, so the only shares Dan has are in the poker game he
plays with his ex-housemates once a week, but Joel doesn’t need to know that.

Joel is grinning at me.

"What?" I ask.

"You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?
You’re just worried that I’m into something illegal."

Uh. Okay, so he sussed me out.

"Yeah, all right." I hold up my hands. "You
got me."

"I’m not." he laughs. "I promise. I’ll show
you my books if you don’t believe me."

"No, it’s okay." I'm warming to the guy slightly.
"I believe you."

He smiles, seeming to relax a little. "So, any food
recommendations?"

"I hear the braised steak chasseur is very good."

"I think I’ll try that then. Order whatever you want
to, don’t worry about the money, it’s just nice to be out."

"Don’t you go out much?"

"I do tend to be a bit of a recluse. I usually come in
from work, order takeaway and watch sports, or have some friends round for a
spot of golf in my garden. I have my own course, you know. I had it built
specifically to my requirements. The problem is that I’m not very good at
golf."

Points: building up slowly. The guy has more money than he
knows what to do with, and is self-deprecating in the same sentence. Aside from
that one remark about the chef here, this guy really hasn’t done anything
wrong. And wouldn’t it be nice for my mother to live in the lap of luxury for a
while?

The waitress brings our orders over and refills our water
glasses.

"This looks good," Joel comments. "Send my
compliments to the chef," he tells the waitress, handing her a big tip.
Very big. Like more than I earn in a week tip. She sidles away looking very
pleased with herself, and I can just picture all the waitresses in the kitchen
right now, fighting over who gets to bring the dessert menu. Hell, I didn’t
even know you were supposed to tip the waitresses until after your meal. I
thought protocol was to leave it on the table after you left. I realise I am
missing a vital piece of date etiquette and decide that I must ask Dan when he
gets home later.

"That was generous," I say.

"Well, I doubt they get people with money in here very
often. I like to leave a good impression for my fellow kind, if they were ever
to stop in this end of town."

Okay, snob.

"But it seems nice here. Friendly."

Okay, not quite so bad snob.

"When you first mentioned the place I thought it might
be a little like eating on Neptune. And then I realised, of course, that it
would be very unlike eating on Neptune as we wouldn’t burn up or fry on
impact."

Points: hanging in the balance. Seriously, this guy is not
exactly great, but I get the impression he could be trained. Or maybe Eleanor
could learn to like golf and eating with seventeen different types of forks.

"So, tell me about your mum," Joel asks. "How
did you come to be setting her up on a date?"

"I've recently moved out and it made me realise how
lonely she is. I thought it would be nice for her to find love again."

"How romantic."

I shrug. "So, tell me about you," I say.
"Apart from golf, what do you like to do in your free time?"

"I love to swim," he says. "And I love to
ride my horses. I have a beautiful riding track around my estate and it is so
lovely just to ride off in the summer and canter around it all day."

"Doesn’t it get boring, doing the same journey over and
over again?"

"Not really," he says. "Sometimes I take a
picnic and stop to eat it under the trees, and sometimes I stop to swim in the
lake."

"Wow," I'm floored by his wealth. "And this
is all your own land?"

"Yep. All in my back garden, practically."

"Wow."

Points: horses equals animal lover, so points are definitely
in the black. And I am not swayed by the lake in his back yard. At. All.

But seriously, if it worked out between him and my mum, Dan
and I could go there for summer holidays. It would be like summering in the
Hamptons. But on this side of the Atlantic, obviously.

He does seem very nice. And he’s tall and fairish, and maybe
a little like Bryan Adams if you squint. And I’m almost certain that I wouldn’t
complain about riding to work in a limo every day. I mean, he’d want to keep
his new love interest’s daughter on his side, wouldn’t he?

"Well, you know," I say after a while, hoping he
didn’t realise I was daydreaming about his money. "I’d love for you to
meet my mother. I’m sure you and Eleanor would get on really well."