Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (10 page)

Alice felt sick.

‘I don’t see why I can’t just go as I am. I’d feel like an idiot in a dress and high heels.’

‘Tough!’

‘I don’t even own any heels,’ she mumbled forlornly. ‘Or a dress.’

‘Alice Brown! How can you get to the age of thirty-one and not own a pair of heels?! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’

Alice did feel a small twinge of shame. But you couldn’t ride a bike in heels, or run for the bus, or take the short cut across the grass in the park. Heels were for ladies; real ladies who wore tights the same colour as their skin and didn’t cut their nails with kitchen scissors. Ladies like Bianca. Oh God, why hadn’t Audrey invited Bianca to the ball instead? Maybe it would be better all round if Alice didn’t go at all.

‘Saturday!’ declared Ginny decisively. ‘Whatever you’re doing, cancel it. Dan can babysit. You and I are going shopping for an outfit.’

‘OK,’ Alice agreed meekly.

‘And that means dress, shoes, accessories and handbag.’

‘Surely I don’t need that much!’

‘They’re just the basics, for God’s sake!’

Alice had a terrifying vision of herself. There was a reason why she didn’t own any ladylike clothes and it had something to do with the fact that they made her look like a cross-dresser.

‘We’re going to get you a knock-’em-dead outfit,’ Ginny enthused. ‘You’re going to be the belle of the ball.’

‘Ah, well, I don’t really thi—’

‘Alice!’ Ginny interrupted sharply. ‘This kind of stuff’s
supposed to be fun! Most women list shopping as a hobby, for God’s sake! Going to the ball is your golden opportunity. You’re going to have a great time, you’re going to look fabulous, and everyone’s going to realize what a brilliant matchmaker you are.’

‘OK,’ Alice mumbled uncertainly.

‘Jesus, cheer up!’ Ginny laughed in exasperation. ‘This is
good
news!’

Alice put down the phone. Her joy at going to the ball had evaporated. Only the sick-making ordeal of having to truss herself up, coat herself in make-up and do small talk with Audrey remained. She didn’t think she could do it – any of it. Maybe she should just tell Audrey she had an appointment, a family commitment, an evening funeral to go to . . . anything rather than go to the ball.

If the character of rooms could be likened to people, Kate thought, then the reception area at Pedigree Pooch was an elderly gentleman scholar.

More of a fusty gentleman’s club than a waiting area for a dog food company, Pedigree Pooch’s reception area took itself very seriously indeed. There was none of the minimalist furniture or funky artwork that the receptions of Julian Marquis PR’s clients normally sported. Instead, Kate and Julian were sunk deep within two antique leather armchairs, listening to the hypnotic tick of a grandfather clock and eyeballing dusty paintings of the revered (and all spookily similar-looking) Laird family, the original founders of Pedigree Pooch.

Julian blew his nose noisily. He was clearly bored, and Pedigree Pooch was not a place where things happened quickly. They’d been waiting for ten minutes with nothing to divert them but yesterday’s paper and the ticking of the clock. And Julian was the kind of man who never sat still. As he stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket he rolled his eyes at Kate and squirmed in his squeaky leather chair.

Suddenly the silence was shattered by a phone. Julian’s mobile was always ringing, so it took Kate a few moments to realize it was hers. She dived into her handbag, scattering pens and notebooks in her haste.

‘Hello?’ she whispered and smiled apologetically at the frowning receptionist.

‘Morning! It’s Alice from Table For Two.’

‘Oh, hi!’ Kate replied tightly. Already Julian’s ears were flapping.

‘Ah . . . I’m guessing you’ve got an audience.’

‘Correct.’ Kate tried to sound businesslike to throw Julian off the scent. She saw him pick up the newspaper and pretend to read. He was a terrible actor. ‘But please: go ahead.’

‘Well . . . I’ve got a potential date for you!’

Kate held her breath in excitement.

‘He’s called Sebastian and he ticks a lot of your boxes.’

‘Has he . . . ?’ Kate tried to think of some unsuspicious words. ‘Has he
approved the artwork
?’

‘Yes! He’s seen your picture and he’s keen to meet as soon as possible.’

Kate’s heart leapt. She wanted to jump out of her seat and dance right in the middle of reception, but instead she uttered a tight little ‘Uh-huh’ and tried to keep the excited wobble out of her voice. In the corner of her eye she could see Julian desperately trying to earwig. He was leaning so close he was practically falling out of his chair.

‘That sounds like a positive development,’ she managed, neutrally.

‘I’m emailing you his photo, so take a look and let me know what you think. But I’ll just talk you through a few of his details, if that’s OK?’

Kate nodded wordlessly. She had a date! Her first date! She felt giddy with excitement.

‘He’s thirty-seven, and just like you wanted, he’s tall, dark and handsome. He’s been with us a few months, and all the ladies we’ve matched him with so far have thought he was . . . and I quote . . . ‘
gorgeous
!’ You also said you wanted someone who wore a suit to work, was a manager of some kind and drove an upmarket car. Well, Sebastian’s a trustfund manager, so that ticks a few more of your boxes. I don’t know what kind of car he drives, but he’s just got back from two weeks’ skiing in Val d’Isère, so he ticks the sporty box too. Oh, and you mentioned you’d like a man with good teeth, so when I last met him I sneaked a look and I’m pleased to report they’re white, straight, and in the right places!’

Kate blushed, remembering her list of preferences.

‘He suggested you meet at The Privet for dinner. Do you know it?’

Kate gasped. Did she know it? The Privet was
the
place to eat and had a waiting list a mile long.

‘God, yes,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘That’s, err . . . That would be most acceptable.’

She did her best not to giggle with glee. Beside her, Julian made a great show of looking at his watch. The receptionist took the hint, lifted a telephone and started making barely audible enquiries. Kate didn’t have much time left.

‘Well, thank you very much,’ she said to Alice. ‘You have my go-ahead to proceed.’

‘Don’t you want to wait and see his photograph?’

‘No, everything sounds in order.’

‘Great! I’ll call him straightaway. Shall I tell him 8.30 at The Privet on Wednesday?’

‘Anything I should know about?’ Julian pounced nosily the moment Kate hung up.

‘No, everything’s in hand.’ Kate smiled, doing her best to look calm and controlled whilst her insides did cartwheels. She had a date! A date with a tall, dark, handsome man who – if she wasn’t very much mistaken – sounded like a filthy rich studmuffin to boot!
And
he’d seen her picture and it hadn’t put him off! She could scream with happiness. Julian peered at her inquisitively, but luckily a thick, oak-panelled door swung open and Geoffrey Laird stepped into the room.

‘Terribly sorry to have kept you,’ he apologized. ‘We’ve had a few issues with canning. But we’re all intrigued to hear your ideas for dragging Pedigree Pooch into the present and sexing us up!’

Julian slapped Kate’s back matily.

‘Geoffrey, trust me,’ he bragged, ‘you won’t be disappointed. My girl Katy’s come up with a cracker.’

‘Splendid!’ said Geoffrey, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he ushered them into the boardroom.

Although she was her favourite employee, it always irked Audrey that Bianca would, without fail, ignore the ringing phone and start shutting down her computer at 5.26 p.m. every day. She was as regular as clockwork – a trait that ordinarily Audrey admired in people, but one that on
her
time and at
her
expense never failed to gall. Office hours, as per the contract, were clearly stated as 9.00 a.m. to 5.30 p.m. with an hour for lunch. This daily early abandonment was not just irritating but, surely, in a legal sense, some sort of dereliction of duty. And of course, wherever Bianca led, Cassandra followed. Audrey had tried to admonish Bianca about her timekeeping and the kind of example it set to the staff, but she’d looked at her so sweetly and with such confusion that Audrey had felt like a heavy-handed prison warden. Audrey really didn’t want to upset her (she liked to run a happy ship at Table For Two), so over the years she’d resigned herself to bidding a premature goodbye through gritted teeth.

And so, as Bianca calmly ignored the ringing phone at 5.27 p.m. Audrey bore down and tried to breathe steadily
until Alice tore herself away from her files, groped for the receiver and put Audrey out of her misery.

‘Bye, everyone,’ Bianca called, and she breezed out in a waft of perfume.

This was followed immediately by the harsh scraping sound of a chair being pushed back.

‘Yes, night, chaps,’ Cassandra barked.

Audrey dismantled her rigor mortis smile as she heard Cassandra’s noisy footsteps along the hall. A few moments later the sounds dissipated and the gentle hum of the office resumed. Audrey took a calming glance at John’s photograph on her desk, and returned her focus to her computer screen.

Now where was she? Ah, yes! Max Higgert. Max was a handsome, unassuming architect who no doubt earned a six-figure income. Such a prize for the agency! Men like Max didn’t fall into your lap and onto your books very often. Thank goodness for long working hours and a shy disposition, or he’d have been snapped up years ago. He was a man with education and taste, who spent his working days considering clean lines and beautiful aesthetics. Audrey had caught him halfway through his enrolment interview with Hilary and had immediately whisked him away to the more rarefied confines of her office (where he’d no doubt been impressed by her glass wall). Max Higgert was someone who should have first-class Table For Two treatment, and not be bothered by the unclean lines of the pregnant eyesore that was Hilary Goggin.

Audrey clicked open a file and browsed the profiles of Table For Two’s choicest lady clients.

Serena Benchley? No, too old.

Lorraine Hendy? Too obvious. If she knew gentlemen – and Audrey was quite sure she did – then Max would want a more discreet woman; a lady in the true sense of the word.