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‘It fits in with the boys’ school hours,’ I continue, tugging down the hem of my shift dress, ‘which I really needed when they were younger and their dad and I had broken up.’
He nods, and I notice that his teeth aren’t just white – they are verging on blue-white, and quite disconcerting. The lighting in Ingrid’s kitchen clearly hadn’t illuminated them to full effect.
‘And I’ve set up a business from home,’ I go on, sensing his gaze flickering across the restaurant, ‘making meringues for local cafes, delis and special events …’
Anthony tastes the wine that’s being offered and nods approvingly. ‘That sounds like a fun little sideline.’ Why this riles me, I’m not sure. He’s right, it is a little sideline. While I love it, and it’s boosted our finances, I am hardly heading for global domination of the meringue market.
‘You mentioned at the party that you have your own business,’ I remark, ‘but I’m not quite sure what it is.’
‘Ah, well,’ he says grandly, ‘we’re all about offering a complete bespoke service and taking care of the whole client. It’s about complete personal attention every step of the way.’
I study him, assessing the angular jaw, the intense little eyes and neatly cropped dark hair. While he is certainly handsome, and more than likely employs a personal trainer, there’s something disconcertingly plasticky about him. He looks sort of moulded, as if there could be a secret join up the back of his head, like Barbie’s boyfriend Ken.
‘Erm, okay,’ I say, ‘but I still don’t know what you do.’
‘Oh,’ he wrinkles his pore-free nose, ‘we’re a clinic.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask, taking a big swig of wine.
‘No, we deal in aesthetic procedures.’
Ah – that explains the glowing teeth. ‘You mean Botox and all that?’
He emits a patronising laugh. ‘Yes, but there’s a bit more to it than that. Our ethos is to assess every client individually so, with the very latest techniques, we can work in synergy with her own, unique beauty and the natural contours of her face …’
To stop myself from choking, I take another gulp from my glass. Hell, I’ll be smashed at this rate. Better slow down and have some water, the way the magazines always tell you to. At long last our first course arrives; at least I think it counts as a course. It’s an ‘amuse-bouche’, consisting of a sticky beige blob served on a ceramic spoon with a dribble of green liquid around it, like bile.
‘This looks delicious,’ I fib, wondering what possessed Anthony to ask me out in the first place when he is clearly not remotely interested in anything about my life – and also why he played down the restaurant’s poshness when it’s turned out to have a bloody Michelin star. Is he showing off, trying to impress me by dropping in words like ‘bespoke’? And what’s with the six courses? I told the boys I wouldn’t be too long, but troughing our way through this lot will take weeks. I’m more annoyed with myself, really, for allowing Anthony to decide what I must eat. Tonight may call for an emergency measure, like feigning illness or a faint …
‘… These days,’ he says, a little fleck of spit flying out of his mouth, ‘it’s about women making the most of what they have. For instance, you wouldn’t think twice about buying a new dress on a whim, would you?’
‘Er, I’m not a huge shopper actually …’
‘Yet, for a similar level of investment,’ he goes on, ‘instead of buying a cheap piece of cloth’ – his gaze drops briefly to my blue shift – ‘a woman can regain her youthful bloom, which has a far greater impact on her confidence.’
I swallow down the bile sauce from my spoon. I know. I could go to the loo, climb out of the window and run all the way home. Rude, yes, but then so is mocking my fashion choice … although, I have to admit, I wish I was wearing something else. The dress is a little tight around the hips when I’m sitting down, and keeps riding up, and my shoes are pinching like hell. I overdid it, I realise now. I’d forgotten that, rather than lending me an elegant air, teetering heels have the effect of making me feel like a big, hairy trucker with a secret penchant for cramming his vast size tens into his girlfriend’s stilettos. It’s all wrong – my outfit, the restaurant, the man (who has started on about ‘boosting a woman’s confidence’ again as if, without his poky needles, any female should be terrified of leaving the house).
‘The thing is,’ I cut in, ‘you said it’s all about working with natural contours …’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ More food has arrived. As Anthony nibbles the end of an asparagus stalk, I picture Logan and Fergus chomping happily on a side order of garlic bread.
‘I mean,’ I continue, ‘I don’t have a problem with that, if that’s how people want to spend their money. But it’s not completely natural, is it? Natural is leaving everything as it is. Natural is bunging on a bit of mascara and lip gloss and hoping for the best.’
‘Yes, well … that’s an option I suppose,’ he says scathingly, as if I’d confided that I’m partial to smearing my face with lard.
‘So,’ I continue, ‘what would you recommend I should have done to my face?’
‘Oh, I don’t want to get into that, Alice …’
I force a smile as plates are whisked away and replaced with others. Every course is tiny; I feel as if I have stumbled into the dining room of a doll’s house.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’m just interested to know what could be done. I’d like your … expert appraisal.’ This might be entertaining, I decide, curiosity having superseded my initial nervousness. Actually, there is no reason to feel anxious sitting here. It’s a one-off, an ‘experience’, certainly, and at least I can report back to Ingrid that I didn’t chicken out.
‘Okaaaay,’ Anthony says plummily, ‘you really want me to tell you?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly.
‘Hmm. Well, I’d say around here’ – his fingers dart close to my eyes – ‘we’re talking a little Botox to soften the crow’s feet, plus dermal fillers here’ – I flinch as his spongy fingertips prod my cheeks – ‘and more fillers here, here and here, to plump up those marionette lines.’
‘What are marionette lines?’ I frown, wishing I hadn’t started this.
‘These crevices,’ he says, sweeping a thumb and middle finger from my nose to mouth corners. ‘In fact, the whole jawline,’ Anthony continues while I take another fortifying swig of wine, ‘can be lifted with the careful use of fillers, creating a youthful springiness. We call it the non-surgical facelift.’ Now the twerp has reached across the table and cupped my chin in his clammy hand, as if trying to guess the weight of my head. ‘And those forehead lines could be lightly Botoxed for a smoother appearance with no loss of movement.’
‘That’s not true,’ I retort, leaning back to maximise the distance between my clearly ravaged visage and his gropey hands. ‘You can’t say that. We’ve all seen celebs with their weird, frozen foreheads, unable to form normal expressions.’
He shakes his head. ‘That never happens when it’s expertly done.’
‘But it does,’ I argue. ‘We’re talking Hollywood A-list – the wealthiest, most photographed women in the world. Surely they go to the best people. I mean, they’re hardly resorting to some shoddy little clinic with a seventy per cent off Groupon deal.’
Anthony makes a little snorting noise. ‘If it’s properly done, it’s merely enhancing. It’s the way forward, trust me.’
‘Okay,’ I laugh involuntarily, ‘so how much would all of this cost, just out of interest? All the procedures you’ve mentioned, I mean?’
‘Well, we look upon it as an investment …’ I know what this means: a fuck of a lot of money. Anthony pops a raw-looking pink thing, tied up with what looks like green raffia, into his mouth.
‘I’m sure you do,’ I say, ‘but how much are we talking exactly?’
‘Ahh … at our top-tier service, we’d probably be looking at around four thousand pounds.’
‘Four grand,’ I exclaim, a little too loudly, ‘for a new face?’
‘Not new,’ he declares. ‘We never say new. We say you’ll still be you – but better.’
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge a seaweedy strand that’s lodged itself in my throat. To my horror, I am starting to feel rather wobbly and emotional. It hasn’t helped that the waiter has been diving over to refill my glass every time I’ve taken a sip. It’s not just the booze, though. It’s the realisation that I clearly have the face of a withered crone who needs extensive reconstructive work. Why has no one told me this before?
‘You might also benefit from microdermabrasion,’ Anthony adds, flicking a crumb from his pale-blue striped shirt.
I blink at him. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s when we use a little spiky roller to stimulate your skin, accelerating the replenishment of collagen deep within the dermal layers.’
Jesus Christ. ‘Excuse me, Anthony,’ I say, getting up, ‘I just need to nip to the loo.’ I march to the Ladies, conscious of my dress clinging to my hips in unflattering folds.
In the swankiest facilities known to womankind, with Jo Malone hand creams lined up on a glass shelf, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. God, that slimy man. Obviously, he doesn’t want to get to know me at all. He just wants to give me a good going-over with his spiky roller. Still fixed on my reflection, I widen my eyes to try to stretch out the crow’s feet, and open my mouth as far as it’ll go, like one of those scary bottom-feeding fish, in an attempt to iron out those damn marionette lines. Then, placing a flattened hand on each of my cheeks, I push back my entire face – the free facelift effect – which does improve things somewhat, even if I look a little like a rabbit in a sidecar …
‘Oh!’ A smart, reedy woman in clicky heels has trotted into the loos.
‘Ha,’ I guffaw, whipping my hands away and rubbing ineffectually at my cheeks in the hope that she’ll think I’m applying moisturiser. She purses her lips at me before disappearing into a cubicle.
Grow up, I tell my reflection silently. Just be nice and polite and get through this without getting too pissed and making a complete twit of yourself.Surely there can only be another couple more courses to go.
I rejoin my date at our table. Anthony beams at me, and I’m transfixed by his dazzling dental work and unmoving forehead as he says, ‘I’d imagine it’s tough as a single mum, Alice. But for you, covering all the treatments we talked about tonight, I’d be happy to draw up a special payment plan.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_ba9034cd-1704-5852-8a4f-0cd06c7360a2)
On the damp pavement outside the restaurant, Anthony is looking decidedly crestfallen.
‘But it’s only just gone ten,’ he protests. ‘I didn’t imagine you’d have to rush off so soon. Thought we might pop back to mine for a nightcap …’
‘I don’t like leaving my boys too late,’ I say quickly. ‘I’d really better get back.’ It’s a cool, drizzly Edinburgh night, and the fishiness of the amuse-bouche has somehow clung to the inside of my mouth, having obliterated all the other taste sensations. I have also, for the first time tonight, happened to notice Anthony’s curious footwear. I’m not one of those women who’s obsessed with checking out men’s shoes because, they are, after all, only water-resistant coverings for feet. For instance, before she married Sean, Ingrid only ever dated men who favoured black or dark-brown brogues, which seemed crazily picky to me. ‘If you look down and see grey slip-ons,’ she once advised, ‘start running very fast.’
And on this damp pavement I have glimpsed not just any old slip-ons, but basket-weave ones, in tan or possibly mustard, with a little strap across the front and a flash of gold buckle. I have nothing against basket weave – for baskets. But for shoes? And he had the nerve to criticise my choice of attire?
‘Don’t you have a babysitter?’ Anthony wants to know.
Oh God. Having insisted on paying the bill, he’d clearly anticipated that there would at least be a snog in return. Or perhaps he expected that, having been treated to the tasting menu, I’d feel obliged to hot-foot it to his boudoir to remove my ‘cheap bit of cloth’.
‘No, well – it’s a bit tricky,’ I explain. ‘Logan’s sixteen and he’d die if I suggested booking a sitter. I mean, most of the ones we know are in his school year so I could hardly ask them to come over and look after him.’
His eyes glaze briefly, as they did when I mentioned being a school secretary. ‘Well, that’s a real shame.’
‘So I really should get back …’
‘Right.’ He blinks at me, studying my face. I’m convinced now that every time he looks at me, he’s planning how to fix me up, like an over-zealous decorator about to be let loose on a clapped-out house.
‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ I add, ‘and thanks so much for dinner.’
‘My pleasure. We must do it again some time.’
Just how does a woman wriggle out of arranging a second date in these modern times?
‘I, er … I’ve got a lot on over the next few weeks,’ I explain.
‘Hmmm. Busy lady, are you?’
‘Er … yes, especially with the meringue thing taking off these past few weeks …’ I’ll be busy whipping up egg whites into the small hours, you see, with no room in my life for a weasly man who’s starting to look more and more doll-like. Not Ken, I decide. More Action Man with his angular jaw and painted-on hair.
‘Meringues.’ Anthony rolls the word around his mouth. ‘I’d love to try them. I’d imagine they’re quite delicious.’
‘Um … yes.’ I check my watch unnecessarily. ‘Well, they sell them in Peckery’s – you know the coffee shop in Hanover Street? And Betsy’s next to St Martin’s Church. Anyway, thanks again—’
‘Can I walk you home?’
‘Oh, no – you live miles away in completely the opposite direction.’
‘Let’s get you a cab then.’ He goes for my arm, clutching it as if, without his support, I might topple over. However, although I felt mildly pissed in the restaurant, the cool drizzle on my face has miraculously restored me to one-hundred-per-cent sobriety.
‘Anthony,’ I say firmly, ‘I only live twenty minutes away. I’d actually like to walk.’ I smile again, and this is when I make my crucial mistake. As I stretch up to give him a polite kiss on his waxy cheek, my brief, bird-like peck is somehow misinterpreted to mean that I desire him very much, and next thing I know, he’s got my face in his hands and has jammed his wet lips on mine as he goes in for the full-on, tongue-jabbing snog.
‘What are you doing?’ I exclaim, springing away from him.
‘Oh, come on, Alice. You’re a saucy minx – I can tell …’
I stare at him, speechless.
‘You older women,’ Anthony adds in a throaty growl, ‘I know what you’re like. You know your onions …’
‘I know my onions?’ I bark. ‘How old d’you think I am?’
He shrugs. ‘Thirty-seven?’
‘Thirty-nine actually.’ I omit to mention that my fortieth is a mere month away. ‘How about you?’
He smirks. ‘You might be surprised to learn that I’m actually forty-five.’ And he’s calling me an older woman? ‘My last girlfriend was twenty-eight,’ he adds, ‘but I’ve finished with younger girls now. Their bodies are great but they can be so vacuous. It’s refreshing to spend time with someone who’s genuinely interested in what one has to say.’
‘I’m sorry, I really have to go,’ I say, cheeks blazing as I turn on my stupid heels and march away.
Mercifully, Anthony doesn’t protest or try to follow me. I walk briskly, overcome by the terrible realisation that, for a ‘woman of my age’, this is probably as good as it gets. God, if that’s a typical example of dating today, then it’s something I’ll avoid from now on. Ugh … the creep, with his foot-baskets and darting tongue, like a lizard trying to catch flies. My bouche is not amused. I walk faster and faster until, by the time I’m almost home, I have virtually broken into an ungainly trot. I take a quick left turn, hurrying past the grand, detached Victorian houses, then alongside the terrace of tenement flats. Although this is a fairly smart area, with an arthouse cinema and coffee shops galore, our block is rather shabby. I am beyond seething as I head in through the main entrance and clatter upstairs to my second-floor flat.
‘I’m home,’ I announce jovially, trying to sound as if I’ve had a perfectly enjoyable night out. In the darkened living room, Logan and Fergus continue to stare at the blaring TV. On the coffee table in front of them lies the detritus of a boys’ night in – greasy pizza boxes, milkshake cartons and a few stray socks. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask, tearing off one shoe, followed by the other.
‘Yuh,’ Logan replies, picking up his red and white stripy carton and taking a big slurp. In the absence of any further response, I commence a slightly deranged conversation with myself: ‘“Hi, Mum, did you have a nice time?” “Yes thank you, it was lovely …”’ In the kitchen now, I click on the kettle. ‘“Actually,”’ I continue under my breath, ‘“it was pretty shitty. But maybe I misread the signs, or I’m so out of touch with dating that, if a man has paid for the six-course tasting menu, he at least expects to ram his disgusting fat tongue down your throat …”’
‘Huh?’ Fergus is standing in the doorway, clutching the pizza boxes to his chest.
‘Nothing,’ I mutter, peering into the fridge so he can’t see my blazing face.
‘You were talking to yourself,’ he sniggers. ‘That’s the first sign of madness, Mum.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I reply.
He smirks as I straighten up and pour too much milk into my mug. ‘What was that about a fat tongue?’
‘Nothing, take no notice of me, I was just babbling on.’
‘Who were you out with tonight?’ he asks.
‘Just someone I met at Ingrid’s party last weekend.’
He arches a brow. ‘Was it a man?’
Clutching my tea, I lower myself on to a kitchen chair. ‘Yes, sweetheart, but I won’t be seeing him again.’
Fergus cracks a grin, extracts a packet of Jammie Dodgers from the cupboard and rips it open. ‘Good. What d’you need a boyfriend for anyway? You’re a mum.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_9da95519-804e-5799-8518-1991dd4ef748)
His words are still ringing in my head when I wake up early next morning. While he may only be thirteen, and unable to tolerate virtually the entire vegetable food group, Fergus is absolutely right. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’ve managed perfectly well – well, I’ve managed – being by myself all these years, and have now reached the conclusion that any single men around my age are so baggage-laden they can barely face leaving the house, or are looking for girlfriends born in the early nineties or, as in Anthony’s case, are so clearly wrong for me that I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.
