The Second Time Around

By Janet Baldey

Multi-coloured balloons quivered delicately in the upward draught of warm air as I looked at the trestle table loaded with party food.   In prime position was a large cake iced in blue with the model of a narrowboat placed smack in the middle.  This time, the occasion was in honour of Helen and her husband leaving to cruise the canals all summer.    Last time, the cake had been pink and decorated with the national emblems of New Zealand where Glenys and her partner were headed.  I stifled a yawn, retirement fatigue had set in.   This was the third in as many weeks.  In people of my age, it was a natural trend.  The problem was, many were leaving but few were being recruited. 

Back in the office, my colleague and I contemplated the tsunami of work engulfing our desks.  “The trouble is” she said,  “we married the wrong men.” I nodded.  I knew she was divorced and if I had my way, I’d be a distant speck on the horizon but my late husband had left me with nothing but debts.   

         Once home, after massaging my sore feet and having a glass or two of wine to settle my nerves, I walked to the kitchen and set about yesterday’s dinner dishes.   I was depressed, surely there was more to life than this.  My little grey cells started to churn almost audibly and somewhere down a long, dark, corridor, a tiny flame flickered into life as an option occurred.    I looked at myself in the kitchen window.  The image was reassuring but the glass cast a dim reflection so couldn’t entirely be relied on.   Determined to confront the truth for good or ill, I abandoned the dishmop and went to the bathroom where the light was better.   I peered at myself in the mirror.   Hmm, skin clear, with only a few noticeable wrinkles, hair still thick and subtly coloured to hide any hint of grey; true, my waist had disappeared but my legs were good and I was by no means fat.    All in all, I wasn’t displeased.   Many women of my age, although comfortably married and affluent, looked a lot older.  There and then, I decided to cash in on my assets before it was too late – I was cutting it fine as it was.   Surely, there must be some lonely soul out there looking for a bit of TLC and an attractive companion to go travelling with.   All I had to do was find him.   Easier said than done.  Of course, there was always Match.com and E Harmony, a lot of couples I knew had met with the help of dating sites, but had I left it too late?   Consulting my oracle, AKA my Hewlett Packard, it seemed not.   There were dozens of dating agencies trolling for the desperate, some even catered for folk in their seventies.   I thought about it.   I thought about it for at least ten seconds – I had always been impetuous, which probably explains a lot - then I dived in.

         To say, I was flooded with replies would be an exaggeration but a few did trickle in.  My standards weren’t high, I wasn’t searching for love – I had given up on that a long time ago - but even so I wanted to look at my companion without wincing.   I was about to give up when I opened the last message.   My spirits rose.   This was more like it.   The photo staring back at me showed a man with a roguish grin, teeth so white and even they could have been false, ‘come hither’ eyes and a full head of springy blond hair.    Its owner claimed to be financially secure, with own house and car, retired and ready to explore pastures new.   Again, I barely hesitated before I hit the reply button.   I, too, was a home owner (I didn’t mention my crippling mortgage) partially retired and looking for someone to go travelling with.

         I’m not entirely stupid, so the first time we met I opted for a pub meal in the next town so as to avoid being seen by anyone I knew.  Especially if I had cause to abandon my meal and run if I suspected I was dating a wanna-be Ted Bundy   On the evening in question, I got there first and sat toying with my drink feeling as if everybody was looking at me.   When he eventually arrived, I was a little disappointed.  He looked a lot older than his photo.   His blond hair was thin and looked straw-like (I suspected bleach) and his face had more lines than Euston.   Nevertheless, his roguish grin hadn’t changed so I hedged my bets.

         As it happened, we got on famously.   Leslie was charming and funny so that, despite my reservations, I found myself becoming increasingly smitten.   We had arranged beforehand that the meal was to be the ‘Dutch’ variety so I was somewhat taken aback when he opted for the soup and nothing else.   “Bit of a  gyppy tummy,” he explained, patting his middle section.   However, during the meal I did notice the way he looked at my steak and when I offered him a chip, he accepted with alacrity.   “I can feel my appetite returning,” he said helping himself to another.   Of course, I refused to let him contribute a penny to the meal, after all he’d eaten barely anything.

         “The next time, everything will be different,” he vowed.  “We’ll have a slap-up dinner at ‘The Grove’ at my expense.  After all, I ate most of yours this evening.  And, don’t worry, I’ll pay for your taxi home.”  I was touched, he seemed a really nice guy.

         As it turned out, the evening was all that he’d promised.  The food was superb, the surroundings luxurious and the wine flowed freely.     It was when the waiter arrived with the bill that things started to go wrong.   Leslie stared at the slip of paper for a long time, a distracted look on his face, then he frowned and started slapping his pockets. one after another.   “Oh my Lord.”  I heard him mutter.

         “Is anything wrong?”

         He looked at me, his face as mournful as a spaniel’s refused a walk.   “Stupidly, I seem to have mislaid my wallet.  I think I must have left it at home.”  He looked so disconsolate, my heart melted.

         “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”  I said, refusing to think of my next month’s credit card bill.   His relief was visible.   “We’ll have dinner at my place, next time,” he said. 

         A few days later, my heart ‘a flutter,’ I hurried outside as soon as I heard the sound of his horn.  I stopped dead.  During our previous conversations, he’d mentioned he owned Jag.   “Top of the range” he’d said airily.   But, this car was no Jaguar.   This was an elderly, rusting Mondeo, and when I got near, the door swung open with a grating squeal.   

         “Sorry about the car,” he said, obviously seeing the look on my face.  “Some fool ran into the Jag.  Had to use the run-about.”

         Things looked up when we reached his house.   I stared, impressed.   A split-level bungalow it sprawled like a lazy cat.   Inside, my feet sank into emerald carpeting, shaded lamps shed a comforting glow over leather furniture and the windows were covered with velvet drapes echoing the decor.   It was sumptuous, if a trifle green.

         “Take a seat”, he said “I’ll get you some wine and start on supper.”

         When he’d gone I wandered about the room.  There was wall to wall book shelving on two sides.  I fished out my specs and peered at the titles.  They were all travel books and my heart lifted.  Paul Theroux, Bill Bryson, Jonathan Raban and more.  Food forgotten, I eyed then hungrily.  I had just made my choice and was reaching for it, when I heard slam of the front door.  Seconds later, the door to the living room swung open.   Surprised, I turned around as a stranger entered.   Head down, he didn’t immediately see me but when he did, he stopped dead and stared.

         “Who are you?” He said.

         My heart lurched.  He was drop-dead gorgeous.  Deeply tanned, with piercing blue eyes, he reminded me of a young David Attenborough.  

         Collecting myself, I had just opened my mouth to explain when Leslie came bounding out of the kitchen.  He was very pink, it must have been very hot and steamy in there.

         “This is Patsy,” he said.   “She’s come to supper.”  

         “I see. Leslie, a word please.” The stranger turned and left the room.

         Taken aback by his curt manner, I watched as Leslie followed.  Just before he went, Leslie turned and mouthed at me.  “My brother.”  His lips said.

          I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.  Brother or not, it just wasn’t done to burst into someone else’s home and take over, unless……   As I’ve said before, I’m no dummy and at last the penny dropped.  This probably wasn’t Leslie’s house at all.

         Unable to contain myself, I tiptoed over the door and listened.  I couldn’t hear much, just the low rumble of voices but two phrases rang loud and clear…..”did you go to that interview?" and “what about Angela?”

         I stepped back quickly as Leslie re-entered.

         “Sorry about this, but something’s come up at the factory and I have to sort it out.”   The factory!  He’d told me he’d retired.

         When we walked outside, I noticed there was a sleek Jaguar parked next to Leslie’s old banger.   “Aren’t we going to take your Jag?”  I said sweetly.   Leslie didn’t answer.

         The silence in the car was deafening as we drove to the nearest town.    Just as we entered, I noticed a middle-aged woman with a spray of dyed red hair, standing at the side of the road.   The car slowed imperceptibly and I saw the surprised look on the woman’s face as her eyes tracked our progress as we accelerated away.

         “Was that Angela?”  I said.   

         With a squeal of brakes, the car skidded to a halt.

         “Get out.”

         I stared at him.  His profile reminded me of Mount Rushmore and suddenly, I was furiously angry. “What do you mean ‘get out?’  How am I going to get home?  This is a Sunday.  There are no buses on a Sunday.”

         “Out”, he snarled.  I turned and looked around.   The red-haired woman was running towards us and I deliberately waited until she reached the car.

         “Good luck love.” I said.  “You’ll need it.”

         I watched as the car sped off.   I could see the woman’s mouth moving rapidly and smiled to myself, hoping she was giving him hell.    Mind you, I had no illusions.   He would talk himself out of it.   That sort always do.

         Once back home, I counted the cost of my experiment.    Two expensive meals and the price of a taxi, plus the new dresses I had bought to impress.   I had learned a hard lesson, one which I wasn’t going to repeat in a hurry.  Then, I thought of the brother.  How gorgeous was he!  I wondered if he was unattached.   I turned to my PC and plugged it in.  Perhaps I would be luckier the second time around.  

 

Copyright Janet Baldey