Behaving Like Adults (18 page)

I thought that if I was Manjit I'd be highly tempted to use at least one of these techniques on Bo.

‘How was the kung fu?' asked Nige politely, when I marched into the office. ‘Should I be scared?'

‘Very,' I said and performed a made-up but elaborate high kick I knew he would appreciate.

‘Ooh. Move over Jackie Chan.'

I beamed. I was determined to be agreeable – my behaviour the previous week had been appalling. And really, there was no need for it. Whatever it was, that
episode
, with, ah, I didn't want to say his name, it was over, done with, forgotten. I'd never liked the saying that people are the sum of their past, it was too prescriptive. I could be whatever I wanted to be, that thing, that had happened, it was nothing to do with me, there was no need
for it to have an effect –
me
, I was incidental to proceedings, it wasn't personal, it could have been anyone. Therefore, I should shake off this descended darkness, this peculiar tetchiness, and get back to the happy business of playing Cupid.

Even for Elisabeth.

Then again, she probably had no further use for Girl Meets Boy. Well. She might. I suspected that Elisabeth didn't plan to toil in an office ten hours a day until she hit sixty and was presented with a carriage clock. Elisabeth had the steel aura of a woman who'd worked herself blue to get into a good school, a top university and a superior firm, not because she was career-minded, but purely to add to an already impressive set of credentials for wifehood. Just like a Jane Austen heroine learning to sing and play the pianoforte, all the better to attract the right sort of gentleman.

Nick was certainly a Prince Charming, but a few dates and Elisabeth's businesslike brain would file the fun under ‘stage one' and start searching for concrete evidence of
providership
. At the end of the fourth dinner, she'd dump Nick.

Nick. Nick. Nick. Why did I care what she did with Nick? Why did I still feel such an
attachment
?

‘Issy's here, dearest,' said Nige, resting a hand on my shoulder. ‘Would you like me to grab us some coffees before the meeting starts?'

Meeting?

Nige saw my blank face. ‘The meeting about tomorrow's Date Night? You called it, Holly.'

‘Oh! Of course. Sorry. And yes, please, coffee would be lovely.' I wondered for just how long we would go on addressing each other like the Queen and Prince Philip (well, one likes to imagine). We were all being so sweet and good to each other, it felt silly and slightly patronising. Like when you're a child at a party and the entertainer forces you to hold a conversation with a glove puppet.
(Incidentally, Nick has never used a glove puppet.)

The meeting was remarkable. We might have been taking part in a communications workshop in California. Intense eye contact. Lashings of listening and letting people finish their point without cutting them short with a yawn or a snort. Lots of ‘
I
feel this' and ‘how does everyone else feel?' Many murmurings of ‘absolutely' and ‘you are
so
right'. One or two exclamations of ‘what an excellent point'. Serious head nodding. Heads bent in humble note-taking. The second the meeting ended, Claudia rushed to her desk drawer, grabbed her toothbrush, and sped, grimacing, to the Ladies. What can I say, I felt her pain.

I also felt exhausted and vaguely anxious. The three of them had – with the utmost courtesy and respect – overridden my every preference. The pairings they'd suggested for tomorrow's Date Night were explosive! We'd be lucky if we didn't have people writhing on the floor in front of us! My God,
anything
could happen. At least three of the men were new. Issy had scoured their application forms, spoken to them at length on the phone and announced herself satisfied that none of them were lunatics. All the same. My stomach was full of worms.

I'd only refused to budge in
one
instance. Elisabeth. It had been quite a dilemma. Did I place Elisabeth with the candidate most likely to be the love of her life so that she dropped Nick like a dead hedgehog? Or did I punish her trespass with a speed date that would enrage her ego and make her pray for spinsterhood?

Issy had wanted to put Elisabeth with a new guy who had been named Samson by his thoughtless and self-indulgent parents. Fortunately for Samson, he possessed a fine head of hair. He also had engaging brown eyes and was a portfolio manager. He wanted four kids, loved beaches and any book by Charles Bukowski, and his hobby was rowing. Issy thought he and Elisabeth would be a great match. Secretly, so did I.

However.

‘MR BOTTOMLEY?'

‘
Dr
Bottomley.'

‘Pardon me. I'm Holly Appleton, nice to meet you.'

Dr Neil Bottomley, owner of the philosophy degree in life insurance, stepped into the light of the reception and I fought to keep a neutral face. (It was a more suitable face than the one I wanted to make – that of a teenage girl in a horror cartoon on encountering a decomposing zombie). Never mind the grey hair, what little there was of it – the teeth. This man had the teeth of a horse. And wrinkles. You could iron out his face and it would be twice the size of a normal person's. He was a bona fide grandpa. Dressed in smart, grandpa apparel – a cream shirt under a maroon blazer, brown slacks and leather shoes with plastic soles.

‘Tell me, Miss Appleton, do we lurk in reception for a purpose or . . . ?' He raised a bushy badger eyebrow.

I tried not to look shifty. As it happened, we
did
lurk in reception for a purpose. To avoid being seen by any of my clients or colleagues. If Nige or Claw spotted us, I was in trouble.

‘Not at all,' I replied. ‘Why don't you get us a table in the café, order yourself a drink, and I'll be with you in a sec.'

‘I'm teetotal, Miss Appleton, but yes, I can secure us a table, although I look at my watch and I see that that
sec
of yours has already expired.'

I smiled and laughed, which I presumed was what was required. Then I fled downstairs to where the real action was taking place. I could tell it was going to be a successful
night, there was an animation about it, people seemed to be in a great mood. Nige was holding court to three nodding women – women are so
good
at listening to men talk – and Claw was bent in discussion with Georgina and Samson. Everyone looked happy.

Where
was Elisabeth? On cue, my heart sped up. I'd spoken to her twice, earlier, and she'd sworn she was coming. But what if . . . ? That arrogant madam didn't think she could just . . . ? Did she? I bet she did. I strode up and tapped Nigel on the back. He looked displeased at being made to stop talking.

‘Nige – sorry to interrupt – you haven't seen Elisabeth, have you?'

‘Stanton-Browne? Not a sausage.'

‘Right. Right.'
Now
what? ‘Fine. Look. I might be upstairs for, for most of tonight, I've got stuff to discuss with Sebastian—'

‘Seb is over there making cocktails and failing to look like Tom Cruise,' said Nige, nodding towards the bar.

‘Yes, well, he's joining me later. I'll be in the café doing paperwork till then. You and Claw can take care of things, can't you?'

Nige shrugged. ‘Whatever.'

I scurried back to Dr Bottomley, simmering. The nerve of Nige, not believing me. I'd lied, but even so. I dialled Elisabeth's mobile. It rang – and then it was switched off! She'd recognised my number. She wasn't coming. Which meant
I
was stuck with the doctor of philosophy in life insurance.

Served me right. It was a ludicrous plan. Against the rules. And cruel. It would have been hard to pull off. But I'd have been satisfied even if it had only worked for five minutes before Elisabeth stormed out. Or would I, really? I sighed. Thank
heaven
she hadn't turned up. I couldn't imagine the scene if I'd said I had someone special for her, that I was so convinced that they were made for each other that I'd bent the rules and secured them a private table in
the café, away from the hoi-polloi (Elisabeth would have appreciated that phrase) and, guess what, they had the whole evening together!

Shame on me. Poor Dr Bottomley. He was a pedantic old bore but still. I'd wasted an evening of the man's life – and by the look of him they were in dwindling supply – because of a mean desire to punish the woman who, through no fault of her own, was dating
my
Nick. Not
your
Nick, I corrected myself. I'd become the kind of woman whose problem-pocked relationship is revised as perfect after she's spent three weeks in the real world.

I plodded up to the table, where Dr Bottomley was smoking a thin cigar. I wasn't sure, right now, that honesty was the best policy. (I mean, when is it,
ever
, really?) He smiled, without removing the cigar from his mouth. The action reminded me of Jimmy Savile. Before I could speak, he was on his feet. ‘Allow me,' he said.

Cigar smoke curled around my ears. I found my coat being removed, and a passing waiter imperiously dispatched to carry it to the cloakroom. He shot Dr Bottomley an evil look and I prayed he wasn't going to stamp on my coat. It had pink lining and I was extremely fond of it. I was about to sit down, when Dr Bottomley laid a heavy hand on my shoulder and said, again, ‘allow me'. He pulled out my chair with a flourish. I was about to sink into it, when Dr Bottomley spun me to face him, grasped both my shoulders and said, ‘You seem tense.'

I jerked away. My brain did some fast calculations. The memory of his touch burned into my skin. This time, I couldn't stop the expression on my face, which was teenage girl in horror cartoon meets great green gang of decomposing zombies. If Dr Bottomley saw the look, he ignored it. ‘Now, Miss Appleton. Would you like me to order you a little something from the wine list?'

One impudence treading on another's heels! ‘I thought you said you didn't drink,' I said.

Dr Bottomley smiled, showing teeth. ‘Which is another
thing from being a wine connoisseur.'

Just about every organ in my gut clenched in irritation. The joke of it was, that trotting up the stairs after my exchange with Nige, I'd thought of a woman for him. Despite my reluctance these days to pair up anything more than two shoes, a likely partner for Dr Bottomley had popped into my head. Really. She was far too old for Girl Meets Boy, much too middle aged in body and spirit, but I'd kept her on file. The picture she'd sent us said it all. A stern stout figure in a yellow brim hat and pearl earrings, a yellow skirt with matching blouse, belt and bag, and blue eye shadow. She described herself as ‘a lady of calibre' whose hobbies were ‘admiring old buildings' and attending ‘prestigious social events'. I doubted she'd be interested in meeting our crew of twenty- and thirty-something men, who described themselves, variously, as ‘a dog lover, yes, but I prefer chicken or fish' and ‘able to play a tune through my nose' and whose hobbies, allegedly, ranged from driving in bus lanes to hacking into the Pentagon.

And even if she was, I doubted they'd be interested in meeting her. But, before the shoulder-touching incident, she'd bobbed into my head as a viable match for Dr Bottomley. Now, I'd introduce them over my dead body, and his as well.

‘No thank you,' I said. ‘I don't drink alcohol when I'm working, but even if I did, I'm capable of ordering for myself.' After a pause I added, ‘thank you', then regretted it.
He
was out of line, why was
I
embarrassed? I decided to be blunt. ‘Dr Bottomley,' I said. ‘I'm afraid I have bad news for you. I'd hoped to introduce you to a, a woman who applied to Girl Meets Boy, but the truth is, it was to be an off-the-record meeting as it were, and I wasn't going to charge you – as you know the usual joining fee is £200 – because the fact is, this is an agency that caters specifically for people in their twenties and thirties and so, I'm sorry to say, it isn't suitable for you, and er, you aren't suitable for it. My client base requires me to concentrate on, er' – I
searched for a term I thought he'd understand – ‘youngsters, really, boys and, er, young girls.'

Dr Bottomley reached across the table and patted my hand before I could withdraw it. ‘I also like to concentrate on young girls!'

At first, I thought I'd misheard. I was speechless. I wiped my hand on my trouser leg. My dearest wish – well, the one that didn't involve the steak knife and a fifteen-year jail sentence – was that I could verbally annihilate him. But I couldn't think of a word to say.

Finally, I found my voice – well,
a
voice, and what a thin feeble thing it was too. ‘The woman I thought I'd found for you has just rung me and she won't be coming. She's got engaged.'

It annoyed me that I found it necessary to create an excuse. It was a sign of weakness.

Dr Bottomley made another grab at my hand but I was too fast for him. He said, ‘A pity, but never mind. Now
we
shall spend the remainder of the evening together.'

I gritted my teeth. ‘I really don't think so, I—'

‘Miss Appleton, you seem agitated and there is no need. I am simply being sociable, I have no romantic designs on you, I merely ask you to join me for a light meal as a companion, and I think I am owed that much, after being dragged from my home by your so-called dating agency on what appears to be a wild goose chase.'

My great flaw, or one of them, is that when a man tells me things I
believe
him. Nick was always feeding me ridiculous stories, usually playing on my ignorance of the countryside, in the hope that I'd repeat one in public – ‘you know that sheep sleep standing up?' – and embarrass myself. Even though Dr Bottomley's actions belied his words, I believed him. I also had a wild idea that he might ‘go to the papers' – for what exactly, I don't know, but that's what a guilty conscience does to you.