Confessions of a Serial Dater Page 19

  This is a classy joint. Think opulence, splendor, luxury, five star all the way, baby. Just in case I didn’t make myself clear enough, I am utterly charmed by the idea, because I’ve never had tea at the Ritz before.

  As the waiter leads me to the table, as I absorb the magnificence of the Palm Court, I am in awe. It is everything I imagined, and more, complete with a huge chandelier and a harpist harping gently in the background.

  As soon as I see Giles Lockwood, I am totally shocked, too.

  “Rosie, how lovely to meet you in person—you’re every bit as beautiful as Lady Etherington promised,” he says as he stands and takes my hand.

  What a promising start!

  He is tall, blond, and while not exactly handsome, he is nice looking. And I’m thinking that the fat lady just sang…

  And I’m really glad that I made the effort to dress up. I’m wearing a discreet little black number (it’s actually Bill Blass, but I got it secondhand from Carmen’s store), and a pair of sexy, yet elegant, high-heeled shoes. Uncomfortable ones, obviously, because we all know about my trouble with finding sexy shoes that actually fit my clodhopping feet.

  “Hello,” I smile and shake his hand. “I’m—” pleased to meet you too, I nearly say but don’t, because I don’t get the chance.

  “What are you waiting for, man?” Giles suddenly barks at the waiter. “Come on, chop, chop. Help the lady to be seated.” And before I can even register shock at his Mr. Hyde about-face, he beams Dr. Jekyll at me.

  “I think this calls for champagne, don’t you think?” he asks jovially. And then to the waiter, “Two glasses of champagne, and a full high tea for two. And be quick about it. Honestly,” he smiles at me. “What is the world coming to? You just can’t get the waitstaff anymore. I tell you, my dear, I’ve been coming here for years, and the standards have slipped. Which is reflected in the tip I don’t leave these days,” he adds, glaring at the waiter again.

  “Thank you,” I say to the poor waiter as I hand him my menu with an embarrassed smile.

  “So, Rosie, I understand you own and run an employment agency. That’s completely fascinating, and I want you to tell me everything about it, absolutely everything,” Giles tells me. “The Ritz should use you to get some better staff, ha, ha.”

  “Well—” Before I can utter another word, Giles leaps right back in.

  “I’m sure dear Lady Etherington’s charming daughter told you, but I’m a member of the medical profession. And you’re probably wondering why I specialize in feet.”

  “Um—”

  “Tell me, my dear, because I couldn’t help but notice that you’re wearing shoes that are a tad too small. Why do you girls insist on wearing shoes that are too small?”

  “Um—”

  “You simply can’t do that to your poor feet. My dear Rosie, don’t you realize that you’re running the risk of corns and bunions? And corns can lead to a nasty ulcer, you know.”

  “I—” didn’t know that.

  “And that’s only the beginning,” he tells me earnestly as the waiter brings our high tea and champagne. “About time, too,” Dr. Foot Fetish barks at the poor man. “I tell you, the service here could do with a good shake-up.” Dr. Foot Fetish shakes his head.

  “Actually, I think—” that was incredibly quick. We’ve barely been here five minutes. But I don’t get the chance to say that, either, because, of course, Dr. Foot Fetish’s mouth is running full steam ahead.

  I don’t think this is going so well…

  “Yes, we had to operate on her bunions,” he tells me ten minutes later, as I stuff a smoked salmon sandwich into my mouth.

  “But do you realize how common is toenail fungus? Nasty business—all thick yellow or brown toenails. A nightmare. You wouldn’t believe it, my dear, even, it has to be said, amongst the titled and famous. And you wouldn’t believe how many of them don’t have a weekly pedicure—”

  I grab a cream cheese and chives sandwich as I try to phase out Dr. Foot Fetish.

  “—heel fissures—all cracked and bleeding, you just wouldn’t believe the state of her feet,” he blathers on.

  I drink the rest of my champagne.

  “Waiter? Waiter! More champagne for the lady.”

  I fill my mouth with delicious lemon meringue pie and glance discreetly at my watch.

  Yes, I am using that old trick again. If I just keep filling my mouth, I won’t be able to talk. Not that Giles is exactly expecting me to talk, because the man hasn’t stopped since I arrived.

  “—my, that was one of the nastiest cases of an ingrown toenail I’ve ever seen—”

  “Thank you,” I smile pleadingly at the waiter as he brings me another glass of champagne. I’ve given up on the food, because who can eat with all this talk of fungus and cracked, bleeding feet?

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” he tells me politely, with an understanding smile.

  “Where’s my glass of champagne?” Giles demands. Which is odd, because he’s only drunk half of his first glass.

  “Sorry, sir—”

  “What are you waiting for, man?”

  God, I need to get out of here, I think as I make inroads into my champagne. This was a terrible idea, I should have known from the start that this was a terrible idea.

  And then it becomes even more terrible.

  Luke Benton is seated at a table at the far side of the room. With him are the beautiful blond woman from the Christmas fund-raiser and an older, elegant woman.

  “—best remedy for athlete’s foot—”

  I have to get out of here.

  “—bursitis—”

  Right now, before he sees me.

  “—people just don’t trim their toenails properly—”

  “Sorry, Giles, I have to leave,” I say, abruptly getting to my feet. “Splendid to meet you, lovely tea, thank you so much,” I babble. Because, of course, I always seem to babble in the presence of Luke Benton.

  Any second now he’ll turn his head and he’ll see me. And although I haven’t done anything wrong, because I didn’t know about his wife before I slept with him, I am filled with guilt. I feel sick. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see him…

  “But we’ve only just met—”

  “I’ve just remembered, um, an important appointment,” I babble, jumping to my feet as I grope for an excuse. “With—with my plumber.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  “Good-bye. Thanks again.”

  My legs are so shaky that I think I need to sit down.

  “Ma’am, is everything alright?” our waiter asks me as I reach the entrance. “May I be of assistance? Do you need a cab?”

  “Yes, please,” I tell him with relief and hand him a twenty-pound note.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I insist,” I tell him gratefully.

  Flora is the perfect May Day bride, I think as she’s helped out of the car by her dad, as Carmen, Jess and I all walk down the church steps to greet her.

  “Are you sure I look alright?” Flora fusses, as Carmen discreetly slides up the skirt of her own dress and pulls a small silver flask out of a pocketlike, elasticated arrangement that she has strapped around one of her calves.

  “You are completely fucking breathtaking,” Carmen tells Flora. “ ’Scuse the bad language, Mr. Mayford,” she adds to Uncle Greg, who is looking a bit green himself. “Take a swig of this brandy, Flora. It will settle your nerves. What?” she adds to me as I raise quizzical eyebrows.

  “I’ve never seen you more gorgeous,” I say to Flora, because it’s true. And then to Carmen, “What a nifty idea.”

  “Well, I made it specially so I could bring the flask yet not have to bother actually carrying the flask, so to speak. In case of emergencies.”

  “Can I have some emergency brandy, too?” I ask, because I’m also a bag of nerves. But not for the same reasons as Flora.

  “Lovely, you’re absolutely lovely,” Jess sighs, partly in complete won
der and partly in sadness, and we know that she’s thinking of her own dashed hopes for a wedding.

  Jess’s much more meager earnings as a condom tester (yes, testing condoms, because the supermarket job didn’t work out) didn’t go down very well…

  Aster, it seems, got over Jess far more quickly than Jess got over him. We know this because he took his new girlfriend, Maureen, to the supermarket where Jess was working, just to rub Jess’s nose in it. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.

  “Here, have some Dutch courage.” Carmen, after taking a swig herself, hands the flask to Jess. And then, “How about you, Mr. Mayford?”

  “Call me Greg, dear girl,” Uncle Greg tells her, gratefully accepting the flask from Jess. “And I don’t mind if I do.”

  “Paul, please stop snapping pictures of the bride, the bride’s father and the bridesmaids knocking back brandy,” Carmen commands. “It’s hardly the material bridal albums are made of.”

  “I want some reality shots,” he protests, and Carmen glares at him. “Look, don’t tell me how to do my job, and I won’t tell you how to do yours,” he says sweetly, but he’s gritting his teeth. “I think it’s a cozy moment, you all gathering up your courage and nerve to walk down the aisle with Flora. It’s sweet.”

  Actually, he has a point. It’s not as if we’re knocking back a bottle each, or anything. Paul snaps a photo of Carmen glaring at him and walks into the vestibule.

  “Think of the film you’re wasting, darling,” Carmen tells him sarcastically. “We don’t want to waste money, do we?”

  “I’ll be inside getting ready for the main shots,” he says. And then to Flora, “Good luck, Flora. You’re gorgeous. Ned is a very lucky man, so no need to be nervous.”

  Paul and Carmen, I feel, are in for a plate-smashing session later, and I wonder if Carmen is deliberately goading him. You see, Paul, in his desire for a more settled domestic life, has asked Carmen to marry him.

  She’s accepted, but she wants a long engagement while she makes up her mind about actually following through with a wedding. Secretly, I think she’s delighted, but she’s keeping him waiting to set the date. I don’t know why, because she’s crazy about him.

  “Spontaneity,” she tells me, reading my thoughts. “I want a bit of our old spontaneity back again.”

  Sex in odd places, and plate smashing. Well, it takes all sorts, I suppose.

  “Right, are we all ready?” Uncle Greg asks. “Shouldn’t keep the poor chap waiting too long, Flora, it’s pretty nerve-wracking for him, too, if the bride doesn’t appear.”

  Five minutes later, after we’ve all had a couple more sips of brandy to warm our stomachs, smoothed Flora’s dress and veil, and straightened our bouquets, the very slightly tipsy bridal party sets off down the aisle.

  Flora’s dress is of ivory silk, beaded with tiny pearls. It is formfitting and shows off her lovely, statuesque figure. Neither a frill nor a flounce to be seen; she is the epitome of elegant good taste and glowing prettiness.

  As the organ booms, as all eyes descend on us, as she walks the aisle on Uncle Greg’s arm, and as Jess, Carmen and I follow her, I thank God that she’s so generous of heart that she didn’t force us into horrible, disgusting dresses designed to make us pale into frumpy insignificance beside her.

  I don’t know why some brides feel the need to do that. I mean, I know it’s the bride’s day, and everything, and she should have the best dress and look the loveliest, but really, a disgusting bridesmaid dress is just one of the most unkind, nastiest things ever to foist on someone you call a friend, isn’t it?

  Instead, we are wearing lovely, pale blue, elegant dresses that echo but don’t overshadow the bride’s dress. A color and style that all of us agreed were the best combination to suit our differing hair colors and complexions. Jess, post Aster, has adopted honey blond as her new color and has grown out her punky spikes.

  Flora didn’t ask Elaine to be a bridesmaid. She explained to Elaine that it didn’t seem appropriate for a thirty-one-week pregnant woman to act as bridesmaid, and that she would be happy to have her as matron of honor, instead. But Elaine balked at the word matron as being too old and frumpy.

  So instead, Elaine is sitting on the front pew, on the bride’s side of the church. She is also wearing ivory silk, of a style more elaborate than, yet similar to, Flora’s wedding dress, and when I first saw Elaine earlier I was tempted to say something very rude indeed, because, of course, upstaging the bride is such a spiteful thing to do.

  But I didn’t, because this is Flora’s special day, and everything must run as smoothly as possible. Plus, I am trying to give Elaine the benefit of the doubt—that she really didn’t mean to overshadow Flora. I mean, Elaine can’t help being beautiful, can she?

  The style that lends Flora an elegant, glowing prettiness makes Elaine look like a breathtaking, fecund, glorious goddess.

  Elaine has also invited Harry as her partner for the day. I don’t know why she bothered, unless she’s developed a fondness for him, but I am happy to say that Harry really means nothing to me.

  Since Flora and Ned’s engagement party, he has called me a few more times, but I can’t even muster the energy to be angry with him anymore. He’s just an irritating irritation, so I usually just tell him to go away and hang up.

  Jonathan, of course, is sitting on the groom’s side of the church with Samantha, the midwife. Flora asked if I minded him attending, because she worries about that kind of thing, but I said I was completely fine with it. Truth be told, I’m not that thrilled, but this is her special day.

  I haven’t looked for his blond head, because I am doing my best to completely avoid the groom’s side of the church. I have other guests to worry about. Two particular guests.

  So, all in all, it’s rather unsettling to think that there are probably three men in this church with whom I have had sex. Three men I have known in the biblical sense.

  I squash all thoughts of sex and reconcentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, because, of course, apart from several swigs of brandy, yet again I am wearing pinchy shoes.

  I really tried to get something that would be elegant, sophisticated and comfortable. But as usual, I could only achieve two out of three. And Flora loves these particular shoes, because they echo her own, and as she’s paid such a lot of attention to detail (and paid for the shoes), I didn’t like to tell her that they hurt.

  But pinchy shoes are worth the look on Ned’s face as he turns and sees Flora. He’s utterly bewitched, totally enamored of her, and as she turns to hand me her bouquet, the same smile is plastered on her face.

  For a moment, just for a moment, I am entranced by this bond of complete love between them, and my throat tightens with emotion. Emotion in motion, I think, mentally thanking Iris Murdoch for penning such a lovely, appropriate set of words.

  “Dearly beloved,” Philip begins, his voice echoing around the lovely, brightly lit church. Of course Philip is holding the service. It just seemed so appropriate that he would perform the honors. “We are gathered here today,” he continues solemnly, and I lose myself in the quiet beauty of the familiar words.

  Grace is also here, somewhere on the bride’s side of the church. Although her companionship to Philip began as a professional one, I think that it’s developed into a genuine fondness between them.

  Well, he certainly didn’t book her through Odd Jobs for this wedding, so that’s a good sign. I do hope so—she and Philip seem so well suited. Although an ex-fluffer and a vicar is an incongruous mix…

  Thinking of hired escorts, my own hired escort, Clarke, smiles encouragingly as I glance across at him and Mum and Gran. Well, I wasn’t going to turn up on my own and suffer silently through all the pitying, poor-Rosie glances, was I? Especially with the ex-boyfriend ratio in attendance.

  Clarke is lovely. He’s a very nice, considerate man. Plus, he’s very good with Mum. Since the birthday horse surprise, she seems to have settled a bit. I still suspect she’s suffe
ring from delayed depression, or something, but she has been better since I began staying over on the weekends and taking her out and about. I still can’t get her to go and see a doctor because she insists that she’s fine.

  Although she’s only met Clarke twice before, she’s really taken to him, which is good, but I do feel a bit mean deceiving her by introducing him as my friend. Not exactly a lie—it’s not like I said “boyfriend”—but that is what she’s assumed. That’s what everyone else has assumed, too.

  Fortunately, despite being tall, dark and handsome, he’s not my type. So therefore there’s no danger of anything unprofessional happening between us.

  In reality, he’s a lawyer studying to take the bar, but he needs to supplement his earnings by moonlighting as an escort. Which is absolutely admirable and fine, as far as I am concerned.

  As Philip pauses to allow anyone with an objection to speak now or forever hold their peace, I hold my breath. And then I breathe again as Philip continues. And after Philip says that those whom God has brought together, let no man put asunder, and after we’ve gone to the little anteroom to witness the signing of the marriage certificate, we’re tripping out into the lovely sunlight.

  I’ve been purposely distracting myself from thinking about Luke. I don’t even know if he’s actually here, because I couldn’t figure out a way of asking Flora without drawing attention to him.

  In fact, I don’t care, I really don’t.

  In the weeks since our ill-fated night of passion, I have moved on and pushed him out of my mind and heart. Mostly…but at least I’m not having sexy daydreams anymore. Or dark images of revenge and retribution involving him being roasted slowly over hot coals.

  And so, obviously, the first person I bump into outside the church as Paul starts putting groups of people together for the album shots is Luke.

  He’s suddenly there, right in front of me, all handsome in his morning suit, as usual. And my heart leaps in my breast, and my organs all leap to attention, also as usual.

  God, but he looks so good in formal clothes. His hair is still floppy, and he’s just as endearing as ever, and I can’t help but remember the last time I saw him. He was naked…