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 out and drove towards the coast like lemmings. And she was going to join them. Was it all right to leave Ben on his own since he had refused point blank to go with her? Or did that mean she was an irresponsible mother?
Then she drifted on to her own work as publishing director of Coldharbour Press, an imprint of the giant publishing conglomeration Rockfast. Perhaps she should tell Mark more about that, but it would be hard to match his work-related animation. She’d lost her hunger for the business a couple of years ago – although she was anxious to get back to the office after this was over. Something was obviously happening: too many shut doors with senior execs in secret conferences. Someone had started the rumour that an announcement was going to be made this afternoon. That would be typical. Get the announcement off management’s chests so they could have a conscience-free weekend while all the workforce would spend theirs worrying about their future with the company.
‘Shall we?’ His voice suddenly interrupted her train of thought. Oh, God, what on earth had he just said? To ask would only show she hadn’t been listening at all.
‘Er, yes,’ she agreed uncertainly.
‘That’s wonderful. I’ll be in touch then.’ He reached across the table and took her hand, oblivious to the alarm that was registering on her face. What on earth had she agreed to? ‘I’m so glad we’ve met. To be honest, I was worried that you might be a proper ball-breaker but I’ve really enjoyed myself.’
‘Gee, thanks. I do my best.’ How condescending she sounded. ‘No, seriously. I’ve enjoyed meeting you too. Would you mind if I skipped coffee?’ Once she’d got out of here, she need never see him again – whatever it was she’d agreed to.
‘Not at all. I have to get back too. I’ll just be one moment.’ He extricated himself from behind the table and, after pulling a black bag from under his seat, headed for the Gents. At least they didn’t have the awkwardness of establishing who was going to foot the bill. Let’s Have Lunch settled up for them. So they damn well should, given the little they had to do for their money, mused Bea. Perhaps Mark wasn’t so awful, really. She must try to be less demanding. He wasn’t bad-looking, just a bit humourless. She imagined he might be quite a considerate lover, if not very inventive. She was a fine one to talk. What would she bring to that particular party? She was much more out of practice than she cared to remember.
‘Are you ready?’ At the sound of Mark’s voice she looked up to find herself eyeballing a Lycra-covered crotch that revealed much more than she wanted to know about any man outside the privacy of the bedroom.
‘I should have warned you,’ said Mark, looking understandably sheepish. ‘I must apologise for what isn’t the most attractive look. But cycling is much the easiest way to get around London.’
‘Mmm. Breathing in those traffic fumes must be so good for you.’ Her mother’s words rushed into her head: ‘Sarcasm is not the finest form of wit, especially from you, Bea.’
Bea assumed his trousers had been in the bicycle pannier bag that had been hidden under his seat throughout lunch. His shirt must be in there now having been replaced by an old white T-shirt that had long ago lost its shape. On its front was a washed-out photograph. Bea peered more closely. Yes, below the words ‘The World’s Best Dad’ was the near invisible image of Mark with his arms round two indistinct young children. Bea swallowed. ‘Yours?’ she asked unnecessarily.
But Mark didn’t hear her. He was already striding out into the street where she could see what must be his bicycle, chained to a lamppost. By the time she had caught up with him, he was ready to go. Bea yanked her eyes from his pale over-muscled and extremely hairy calves to his face, now crowned by a royal blue crash helmet – never the ideal fashion accessory. Mark removed the impenetrably black goggles over his eyes and leaned forward to kiss her cheek, catching the side of her head with the helmet. ‘So sorry, Bea. Stupid not to wear it, though.’
‘Yes, yes, it would be. Of course it would.’ For once in her life Bea was lost for words, torn between hysterical laughter and tears. How could the agency have made such a mismatched pairing? You couldn’t have invented it. But wait. Perhaps she should consider, just for a moment, the impression she had given the agency. Perhaps she actually looked like someone who would find this sort of person attractive. Impossible. Much more likely was the dearth of right-aged men on the market. There can’t be many who specified they wanted to meet a woman when the shine had rubbed off a bit. Most of them found themselves a younger model within weeks of ending a relationship – or before. She knew that from bitter experience. What was it they said? When a relationship comes to an end, the man finds another woman while the woman finds herself. She wasn’t in a position to be picky.
‘So, do you have a card? Then I can email you with a when and where.’ Suddenly he looked
