What Women Want. Fanny Blake

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      Bea turned to see an effete young man in a loose white shirt of the finest linen, the sleeves rolled up, well-cut dark trousers and expensive shoes. Surely this wasn’t him – a more perfect ‘match’ than she could ever have hoped for. Or was a younger man picking her up before she and Mark Carpenter had even had a chance to sit down?

      ‘I’m sorry?’ Say it again, please.

      ‘Let’s have lunch?’ he repeated, with the slightest of smiles, encouraging her to agree.

      She hadn’t misheard. Unsure what to say, she tried a rusty attempt at a flirtatious smile. ‘Normally I’d love to, but unfortunately I’m meeting someone. Another time, perhaps.’

      ‘No, no, no.’ His face spoke volumes. Of course he wouldn’t make such an obvious pass at her. She was old enough to be his mother, for God’s sake. ‘I meant the table booking,’ he explained, a little too patiently. ‘Is it under Let’s Have Lunch?’

      She had forgotten that the girl who had rung her about the date had explained that she would book the table for them under the company’s name. The entire restaurant staff must know why she was here. Were they all looking at her and whispering, laughing at her mistake? Flushed with embarrassment, but stifling a laugh, she murmured an apology. Hardly hearing his reply, she followed him between the tables of chattering lunchers to the dimmest reaches of the room where her eyes fell on Mark Carpenter for the first time.

      He sat with his back to the wall, his head bent as he concentrated on cleaning his fingernails with a toothpick so she had a clear view of the top of his scalp through his thinning dark hair. The maître d’ pulled back her chair and her lunch-date looked up. A pleasant face – a little on the baggy side, if she had to be critical. She didn’t, of course, but she couldn’t help herself. As she sat down, still mortified by her initial mistake, Mark attempted to stand although there wasn’t enough room to do so without tipping the table towards her. She snatched at a wobbling glass.

      ‘Hallo. I’m Bea,’ she said, wondering what on earth had possessed her to sign up for all this. That stripy City shirt with the white collar and the navy pin-striped trousers immediately told her that this was not going to be a match made in heaven. She had been quite specific about her taste in men when filling in the questionnaire – no City types – but the agency had ignored her.

      ‘I know.’ He gave a nervous laugh but Bea was concentrating on the sweat beading on his upper lip, telling herself not to be so bloody judgemental. She knew sweat was beading on her forehead too, as another flush swept over her. She could feel the dampness at the nape of her neck and running down the small of her back. She tried willing herself to cool down. No dice.

      As Mark sat down again, he reached behind him, whipped out a single red rose and put it in front of her. His smile revealed a mouthful of slightly overlapping teeth that Bea stared at as she tried to take in the significance of his gesture. How ridiculously over-the-top. This is just lunch, she reminded herself, not some full-blown long-term romance. You can leave whenever you want to. But, of course, she couldn’t. That would be too rude. Imagine if her date took one look at her and announced he wasn’t hungry after all. It would take weeks to recover from the blow to her self-confidence. She couldn’t do that. First impressions weren’t always everything so she must make the effort.

      ‘Thank you. That’s so sweet.’ She put the rose deep into her capacious bag where no one could see it, at the same time imagining what her close friends, Ellen and Kate, would say when she told them.

      The waiter was standing over them, asking if he could bring drinks. Bea’s resolve to stay strictly sober flew out of the window. ‘A glass of Pinot Grigio would be lovely. Yes, a large one.’ And make it quick, she prayed silently.

      ‘And a sparkling water for me.’ A nice voice with the trace of an accent she couldn’t place. ‘I don’t drink,’ he added, by way of explanation.

      ‘Oh. Why not?’ Bea was wishing she had stuck with her resolve. He’d probably think she was a lush, drinking at lunchtime. Oh, to hell with it. Either he’d like what he’d paid for or he wouldn’t. There were always the other five.

      ‘Not during the working week. Need to keep a clear head for the job. You can’t play around with other people’s money without one.’

      ‘But it’s Friday. Surely you can have one to keep me company.’

      ‘No, I don’t think so. The markets don’t stop trading when I have a drink. I wouldn’t risk it.’

      ‘But you drink in the evenings?’ Bea was hoping for the reassurance that he was one of her sort, racing to open a bottle of wine as soon as he’d taken the key out of the front door at the end of a hard day.

      ‘Only at weekends. It’s a slippery slope otherwise.’

      ‘Oh.’ Bea was silenced. Studying the menu, she wondered what was the least she could eat without seeming rude. The sooner she could extricate herself from this disaster, the better. Could she get away with only one course? Just a starter, perhaps? No, she was firm with herself, she couldn’t. Come on, Bea, play the game.

      ‘What will you have?’ He broke the silence as the waiter returned, pad at the ready.

      ‘I think I’ll go for the goat’s cheese salad and then the grilled Dover sole.’ There. Simple, not too much and lowish on the calorie front.

      ‘I’ll have the scallops and pea mash. Thank you.’ He sat back, looking, Bea thought, a touch on the smug side.

      ‘But that’s just a starter.’ Bea couldn’t stop herself. ‘Won’t you have something else?’

      ‘No. That’s plenty for me. Got to watch the weight, you know.’ He patted his no doubt lean and muscled stomach. She looked at his thick chest hair growing out of the neck of his shirt. What would he be like in bed? she wondered. After all, that was one of the reasons they were meeting – there was no getting away from it. If things went well . . . He looked like one of those men who brought his own tissues and thanked you afterwards. Stopping herself going further, Bea took a swig of wine.

      The lunch seemed interminable. Conversation dragged and every time Mark asked her a question, Bea seemed to have a mouthful. She ate her salad, then he picked his way through his four tastefully arranged scallops floating on a pea-green island as Bea filleted her sole with the cack-handedness of a ten-year-old, despite a lifetime of having done it without any difficulty. What was wrong with her? In desperation, she ordered another glass of wine, choosing to ignore Mark’s raised eyebrow. They trailed across all the obvious topics, never stopping on one long enough to become too confidential – where they came from (she from London and him from Northumbria); where they lived now (Islington and Clapham); their marital status (both awaiting divorce); children (one to her – Ben, now sixteen; two to him – Bella, thirteen and Stevie, fifteen); where they were going on holiday (hadn’t decided because always left it to the last minute; golf and fishing on the Spey with two friends), favourite books (anything by Anne Tyler; Fever Pitch) and films (When Harry Met Sally – sad but true; anything starring Jackie Chan – even sadder).

      The only time Mark became really animated was when he talked about his job as an investment banker. But he did so in such detail, bringing in all his colleagues and the negotiations they’d recently completed, that she soon lost the thread and began to think about the drive she was going to have to make the next morning to see her mother in Kent. What time should she leave to avoid the worst of the traffic out of London? Everybody leaped into their cars the moment the sun came СКАЧАТЬ