Unsuitable Men (9 page)

The waitress took our order from a short, handwritten menu that was clearly aiming hopefully at a Michelin star – all foams and jellies where I would have preferred a comforting stew of
some kind. I let myself be led by her suggestions, partly because I wasn’t sure of precisely everything on the menu (salsify?) and partly, I admit, because I hoped it might make her become a
little warmer towards us. I felt that she had, correctly, identified me as insufficiently grand for the honour of occupying the top table, and as for Lance, well, insufficiently English was my
suspicion. I shouldn’t have worried though, because when it was Lance’s turn to order he teased and flirted until he’d forced a reluctant smile to appear on her face.

Once we were left alone, Lance lowered his voice to a whisper: ‘Unclench, am I right?’

‘Me?’ I asked.

‘No! Jeez, like I’d say that to you! I meant Mrs Danvers over there. I mean, an emulsion of
froideur
served with a foam of disapproval, am I right?’

‘You are very right,’ I agreed, with relief. ‘She has totally terrified me. I don’t even know what I ordered – I was too scared to ask any questions.’

Lance leaned over the table confidingly. ‘I am so glad to hear you say that – I thought it was just me with my gauche colonial ways that she was objecting to.’

‘Well, obviously, if you hadn’t started singing “The Star Spangled Banner” and chanting “U-S-A, U-S-A” after ordering your starter, she might have been less
disapproving, am I right?’

‘Do you always do that?’ Lance asked, with a gentle frown.

‘Do what?’

‘Imitate the way people talk.’

‘Oh God, did I?’ I cringed.

‘Yeah, you did,’ he said, but smiling so that I could see he hadn’t taken any offence. ‘You’ve been doing it all day. Dropping in “totally” and
“right”. It’s okay, I’m not offended or anything. You did it with Sacheverell and Bibi, too – got all
King’s Speech
clipped vowels. And then with the
waitress – you totally copied her body language when she was pouring the drinks.’

I twisted the napkin in my lap with mortification.

‘I’m so sorry, Lance,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, really. I’ve always done this, ever since I was little. I just pick up on people’s accents.
It’s incredibly embarrassing.’

Lance shrugged. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. I expect you’re just trying to make people feel comfortable around you. That’s not a bad thing. And your Californian accent’s
not at all bad, you know.’

‘Oh shut up,’ I laughed, but of course I managed to emphasize the ‘up’ and make myself sound like Paris Hilton.

‘Really, you should be an actress,’ he teased.

‘I can’t help it,’ I answered. ‘We just moved a lot when I was little – all over the country. And you know how mean kids are – I mean children. I had to lose
my Geordie accent pretty quickly when we moved to York.’

‘Geordie?’

‘Er, yes, I don’t suppose you’d even know what that sounds like,’ I laughed. ‘It’s from the north-east, a bit sing-songy. Hawey the lads, you know?’

He looked at me blankly. ‘I don’t know. But I do understand not everyone here talks like the Queen.’

‘Except Bibi,’ I said.

‘The Queen
wishes
she was as posh as Bibi,’ grinned Lance.

‘Totally.’

‘Isn’t it, like, not posh to come from the north?’ asked Lance. ‘Have you been all finishing-schooled to speak properly?’

‘Ha,’ I laughed. ‘Finishing school of life, Lance. I’d just got the hang of the Yorkshire accent when Mum took us to Dorset.’ He looked blank again, clearly not
understanding the drastic leap of linguistics I’d had to take to adapt to yet another accent, aged nine. ‘Ummm, ooo-arrr Thomas Hardy? Hello, my lover?’

‘Your lover? You want me to be your lover?’ He raised his eyebrow.

I laughed. ‘It’s just what they say there, to everyone.’

‘Sounds like somewhere I should visit.’

‘And you can eat a Dorset knob,’ I suggested.

‘A what?’

I sputtered with laughter at the expression on his face. ‘It’s a biscuit,’ I said.

‘Like biscuits-and-gravy biscuit?’

‘No – more a cookie. Well, more of a dried-up bit of old bread dough. It’s not very nice, actually. But a good name, am I right?’

‘You’re doing it again!’

‘Oh God, sorry. Got a bit carried away with the Dorset knob gag.’

‘As anyone would,’ said Lance, pursing his lips comically.

By the time our desserts arrived – heart-shaped of course – I had forgotten entirely about trying to play any sort of a role. Lance was supremely hilarious company, so much so that I
forgot about who I was meant to be for the evening and just had a good time. It felt as if the pressure was lifted – no matter what Ticky might have said about Lance being an unsuitable man,
I hadn’t had so much fun on a night out in ages. The interview was over, the photo shoot was done, everyone was happy with how it had gone. Conversation was easy and fun; there was no subtext
because we hardly knew each other, and it wasn’t like we were on a date or anything, so there was no pressure about whether or not we liked one another
like that
or how the evening
would end.

Perhaps it was our superior seating, or perhaps it was because I was having such a good time, but instead of feeling like a sad inferior singleton having a meal with a gay man on
Valentine’s Day, I felt boozily certain that no one else at the Delaval Arms was having as good a night as me. Except maybe Lance. Because both of us were outsiders here, and because when it
came to fitting in I’d rather have joined Lance than any of the other diners, we’d spent the evening like two wildlife-documentary makers studying a watering hole. With our
bird’s-eye view we had surreptitiously witnessed, with guilty fascination, two arguments – one of the teeth-denched, words-hissed variety, and one from the school of silently
storming-off-to-the-loo. One marriage had been proposed, and accepted, under our noses, to a smattering of applause from other couples, and anxious seat-shifting from a few men. Our favourite
couple had failed to address more than ten words to each other over the course of their meal. Lance, who had a better view of them than me, would update me every time a new word was spoken,
‘He said, “Very tasty.” That’s up to nine!’

For the first time since I had split up with Martin I saw that life as a single girl did not have to mean moping around on your own, wishing you were part of a couple. I could have fun in the
most unlikely circumstances, with someone whose existence I hadn’t even been aware of a week ago.

‘Is this a traditional English dish, then?’ said Lance, pointing his fork at our heart-shaped puddings.

‘Pannacotta?’ I laughed. ‘Hardly. But I suppose they thought spotted dick wasn’t very romantic.’

‘Are you going to make cock jokes all night?’ said Lance. ‘I thought Englishwomen were supposed to be all refined, not potty-mouthed.’

‘It’s a real pudding,’ I protested. ‘Honestly. Steamed sponge with currants. It’s disgusting. Be glad you don’t have to eat it.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Lance. ‘Who’s to say I wouldn’t enjoy a soupçon of spotted dick?’

‘Oh God, Lance,’ I said, ‘please can we be new best friends? I really think a gay best friend is totally what has been missing from my life.’

Lance lifted his head and stared at me. ‘Gay?’ He looked horrified. ‘You think I’m gay?’

‘A-aren’t you?’ I asked hesitantly.

‘Rory, why ever would you think I’m gay? Haven’t we been flirting with each other all night?’

‘I-I just thought,’ I stammered. ‘I mean, you’re wearing eyeliner . . .’ I trailed off as he put down his spoon and pushed away the pannacotta. All trace of humour
left his face.

‘Seriously? Are you that judgy?’

‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Lance,’ I said, flustered. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Oh, don’t apologize,’ he said, waving a hand in front of his face dismissively.

‘It’s just my friend at work – she said that you, well, because you’re from San Francisco . . .’ I dug myself deeper. I couldn’t seem to stop talking. It must
have been the champagne. I felt as if I was watching from the outside while a friend of mine made an utter fool of herself. I wanted to kick my own leg under the table, really really hard.
‘And – and because your name is Lance.’

‘Right,’ he said. He put his napkin on the table, and moved his champagne glass an inch to the left while he composed himself. ‘Listen. Even if my name was Bender McGaylord and
I came from Gayville, Arkansas, I would hope that an entire day and night in my company would count for more than the opinion of someone you work with. Someone who’s never even met me. What
have I said or done that would make you think I’m gay?’

‘It’s not an insult, Lance, I’m not homophobic,’ I protested.

‘Look, I don’t think it’s an insult to be called gay,’ he retorted. ‘What, one minute you think I’m gay, next I’m a bigot? I thought you were meant to
be this, like, social anthropologist. The girl who moves all over the place and interprets the behaviour of the natives. Seems like you’re not all that good at it.’

‘I’m sorry, Lance,’ I said. From the corner of my eye I could see that all the couples who had provided our entertainment for most of the evening were now shamelessly staring
at us, as if we were the Delaval Arms-provided floor show.

He leaned back into his chair. ‘Jeez, the gay best friend. That’s a doozy, Rory. It really is.’

He smiled tightly at me as I blinked away tears of shame. ‘Look, don’t cry about it. Seriously. It’s not the first time. I don’t expect it’ll be the last. And,
like, you’re British, I should have expected it.’

‘It’s not because I’m British,’ I said. ‘It’s because I’m a total idiot, Lance. Honestly. I – I’ve just got out of an eleven-year
relationship. I don’t know anything about men any more. Not a thing. I’m beginning to wonder if I ever did. And I especially don’t know anything about men who wear
eyeliner.’

He offered me a tiny wintry smile. Of sympathy? I couldn’t tell. And in any case my powers of people-reading were clearly entirely lacking, so I wasn’t about to trust myself.

‘Or men called Lance,’ he said, his stony face melting slightly.

‘Or men called Bender McGaylord,’ I said.

He smiled again, a little less frostily.

‘Eleven years, huh?’ he asked.

‘Yup. We broke up just over a week ago.’

‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘No wonder you’re so totally clueless.’

And so it was that my very first date with an unsuitable man was only revealed to be such by the time we got to pudding. Once we’d drunk our coffees – Lance ordered a butch triple
espresso, I suspected just to make a point – it was clear that nothing would happen between us. There are some things that quench a man’s interest for ever, it seems, and one of those
is having his sexuality questioned by a dim-witted English girl. I couldn’t say I blamed him.

‘Er, excuse me, Roars, but why is it my fault that you accused a straight man of being, like, in the gays?’ demanded Ticky.

‘Because,’ I spluttered, trying to save face after relating the whole sorry saga to her, ‘because
you said
. You said he was called Lance and was from San Francisco and
that meant he was definitely gay.’

Ticky looked quite astonished. But if she hadn’t put the idea into my head, would I really have made such a complete idiot of myself? She had to take some responsibility, surely?

‘But like, Roars, you were actually there? Like, you met him, you nutter. Couldn’t you make up your own mind? What the faahrk did it have to do with me?’

‘But, but he was wearing lemon-yellow jeans and a green jumper! I never thought to question it!’

‘Darling, can you really not tell the difference between, like, a homosexual and a fauxmosexual?’ asked Ticky, her eyebrows almost touching, so deep was her frown of concern. She
appeared to have moved from annoyed to anxious in one moment.

‘Fauxmosexual?’ I asked.

‘Yah, like he wears moisturizer and has a cleansing regime and a, like, interest in fashion that borders on the fruity, but he is absolutely all man all the way all the time,’ she
said. ‘You’ve never even heard of one?’

‘Martin didn’t wear moisturizer,’ I said.

‘Roars, you are like, fricking backwards sometimes but, okay, let me explain. The fauxmosexual can confuse some people because he is, like, a stealth straight. Sort of like the Trojan
horse of straight men,’ Ticky confided, coming over to sit on the edge of my desk as if imparting a valuable lesson. ‘Like, he allows women to assume he’s in the gays to gain
closer access – women don’t feel he’s any sort of a threat, right? And then, when their defences are down, he lunges in for the kill.’

‘Oh God,’ I said, shuddering as I remembered once again Lance’s horrified face as he had gently explained that he was not gay.

‘How do you know all this stuff, Ticky?’ I groaned, my hands over my eyes as if I could hide from everything. ‘How do I not?’

‘Unsuitable men, Roars,’ said Ticky. ‘I told you. A girl learns about this stuff through encounters with unsuitable men. It’s what dating is all about.’

I groaned. If the incident with Lance was any indication of my dating skills, then perhaps a life of semi-seclusion at Auntie Lyd’s was preferable. At least it would save me from running
around shrieking wild speculations at sexually ambiguous strangers in country house hotels.

‘Like, Roars, doesn’t this just show how much you need to do this?’ asked Ticky, gearing up for another assault on my weakened defences. ‘I mean, if you’re so dense
that you can’t even tell who’s in the straights and who’s in the gays, doesn’t that tell you something?’

I wondered what it did tell me. Apart from the fact that I was a bit of an idiot. A judgemental idiot with faulty gaydar. But I wasn’t ready to admit that Ticky might be right.

I was saved by the sight of Noonoo, tossing her mauve pashmina over her shoulder as she marched purposefully down the corridor towards the meeting room.

‘Editorial meeting!’ I said, with an enthusiasm born out of relief rather than any real happy anticipation.