2. The Opera Buff
TWO
The Opera Buff
Tuesday, 8 January, 9.30am
Ooh things are looking up. Five likes.
Wednesday, 9 January, 10.30pm
I got home at 7am this morning, head fuzzy and body thinking, OMG, not again. At some point in my life, I’ll grow up and be sensible, but for now my brain thinks I’m in my twenties. Unfortunately, my body disagrees. I had to cancel Cassandra and Edward’s design meeting because ‘I was making an emergency site visit to another project’. Baaad interior designer.
Yesterday, after finishing my dance exercises, Grace called. She said Tayo was sick, and Ajay was looking after him. She had a spare ticket to the opera and begged me to go with her. I’ve never been interested in opera but thought I should try it at least once. And I’d be helping out Grace, who doesn’t get out much. I don’t know how she does it, raising two kids and managing a meteoric career. I know she’s something big in derivatives, but I have no clue what it entails. Nor does Ajay for that matter, despite being Number One Best Husband Ever.
There was no time for a shower. I discarded my dance Lycra, pulled on my fitted red wool dress and ankle boots, spritzed on lots of perfume, and hopped on the tube to Covent Garden.
‘What’s that smell?’ the little girl in an astronaut outfit sitting next to me asked while staring at me. I hoped it was my perfume, not exercise juice. Her mum pulled her away.
I got off the tube early at Leicester Square, hoping the walk to the Royal Opera House might blow away the offending smells. I spotted Grace by the entrance. She sniffed as she kissed my cheeks. By 7.15pm, we were taking our expensive front stalls seats, paid for by a grateful client of Grace’s, who’d also ordered champagne for the interval.
‘Work is an absolute fucking nightmare at the moment,’ volunteered Grace. ‘My boss is a complete pig. He has not caught up with the twenty-first century. This morning, he said I looked hot in this dress while standing way too close to me. I told him he was invading my personal space and he laughed and said, ‘political correctness gone mad’. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it,’ she huffed.
I thought I’d cheer her up, comedy being my stock response to stressful situations. I’d noticed a man on his own with an empty seat between us. He was studying his programme intently. I nudged Grace.
‘Watch this.’
‘Have you been stood up then?’ I asked.
He looked up, startled. ‘No, well, yes, I suppose. Last-minute change of plan.’
‘You’re in luck. We had a last-minute change of plan too, or I wouldn’t be here sitting next to you.’ I caressed the empty velvet seat suggestively. He blushed and smiled.
‘I’m an opera virgin. You look experienced. Can you give me the benefit of your experience later and fill me in?’ I said as his neck turned red. ‘About the opera, of course,’ I added. I could feel Grace’s body shaking next to me as she stifled laughter. Job done.
As the lights dimmed, Grace whispered, ‘You’re so naughty.’
‘He’s not bad-looking,’ I whispered back, thinking my evening of culture may have dating potential. I took Grace’s programme and fanned my hot flush like a fierce flamenco dancer. The Royal Opera House’s mixture of ornate gilded mouldings, plush red velvet, and warm lighting made the whole auditorium experience magical. Of course, it helped that there was a little frisson in the air. When the lights came on for the first interval, he smiled back then stared at his feet.
‘What do you think of Carmen , opera virgin?’ Grace said at the bar later, laughing. Her mood was lighter as she poured the champagne. A half glass for her, I noticed. I watched as she went to a quiet corner to call Ajay. As always, she killed it with her work outfit in an expensive-looking fuchsia pink fitted dress and killer snakeskin heels. I wonder what her grey suit brigade colleagues think about it. Not that there was any danger of a Black Nigerian woman blending into a sea of white male faces. And how does she make it to the gym at 6.30 every morning? I only manage to dress myself by 9am.
By the time she came back, I was feeling the effects of the champagne, and I sat through the second part not absorbing much. I polished off most of the bottle at the second interval and wished I’d had something to eat.
‘Are you enjoying the show?’ I slurred at the man when we returned to our seats.
‘Yes, Carmen is one of my favourites.’ He watched me with amusement while I squinted at him with drunken eyes.
‘Your date was foolish to stand you up,’ I huffed, then leaned over and slurred, ‘I think you’re rather cute.’ The lights were dimming, and Grace shushed me. She and the woman behind me had to shush me a few more times during the third act, especially when I screamed at Carmen’s brutal murder, then sobbed.
After the show, I wanted to go for another drink, but Grace had an early morning meeting. I told her to go on home as I was heading for the loo queue.
‘Make sure you text me when you get home, OK?’ she said.
‘Yes miss,’ I said with a military salute, mixing my metaphors. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’ As she walked away, I shouted, ‘I love you, Grace.’
‘I love you too, you idiot,’ she shouted back, laughing.
When I came out a few minutes later, a man’s voice said, ‘We meet again.’ It was The Opera Buff.
Hello! I thought.
‘Can I buy you that drink you wanted?’ he asked.
Ooh, he’d been listening to our conversation, the naughty man.
‘That would be lovely,’ I said, fiddling with my curls.
Earlier I’d thought he was in his late forties, but now he looked older in his clichéd Opera Buff attire of velvet jacket, silk scarf, and fedora hat. But the rosé-champagne-tinted-glasses helped me to overlook the bad outfit. We went to a pub where, over a glass of wine, he told me he was an art dealer. He had Beethoven hair, ruddy skin, warm hazel eyes, and what I later found to be a developing wine paunch. He told me my eyes were sweet and glossy like honey, my pout was pure Brigitte Bardot and my body would make JLo proud, which was probably why, when the pub lights flashed at midnight, I agreed to go for coffee at his place.
His flat was in a converted warehouse. There were colourful canvasses on the white walls and the decor was understated. So why the hammy Oscar Wilde outfit, I wondered as I flopped on the squishy emerald-green sofa. More velvet.
Carrying two cups of coffee, he sat rather close to me, put them down on the Noguchi glass table and announced, ‘I want to make love to you to the music of Carmen .’ I didn’t spot any blushing that time. Excited by the prospect of ending the dick drought, I giggled and said, ‘Ooh, yes please. As long as you don’t recreate Carmen and kill me.’
Then I remembered I was wearing the knickers Leila gave me for my sixtieth with ‘Full Bush’ emblazoned on the front. She thought they were perfect because I refuse to subject myself to the excruciating pain of having my pubic hair waxed. I’m happy with my pubes and if men don’t like it, tough. No man is worth that much pain.
Anyway, by that time, The Opera Buff had deftly manoeuvred me onto his bed behind flowing chiffon curtains and was well on his way to removing my dress. I needn’t have worried. He grinned with delight at my grooming declaration. It obviously bushed his buttons.
He reached over to the bedside table and pressed on a remote, and magically Carmen came on. Had he done this before? I tittered on the bed as he continued his seduction by next removing his own clothes dramatically and throwing them around the room as he sang his way through ‘La Habanera’. He tapped and stroked my feet, legs and tummy to the rhythm of the music, ending the crescendo of each verse with a tweak of my nipples and a type of horn noise. That was weird, but I went with it.
I hummed along to the music, gesticulating my arms and legs like a quadruped orchestra conductor in full flow, as I lay on my back, and let him play my body. He kissed me as he drew breath between each verse.
At the end of the song, he went to the wardrobe and threw on a cape (he’d definitely done that before) and rushed at me, mimicking fake bull’s horns with his fingers as ‘Toreador’ started playing. He cradled me like a fallen Carmen and touched his cheek against mine as he sang (ouch, it hurt my ear).
Then he gently lowered me and made love to me. If this had been a movie, we would have had beautifully choreographed orgasms to the song finale, but we passed out from our exertions quickly, and the song climaxed without an audience.
I woke up at 6.30am, glanced over at the sleeping toreador, and winced. I sneaked out, shuddering at the fedora and the velvet jacket hanging by the door, and did the walk of shame to my taxi. I checked my phone. Three texts and five missed calls from Grace. Oh God. I sent her an apologetic text saying I’d passed out when I got home. I didn’t want to share my night of opera fuckery just yet.
There was an opera buff who liked to bang
To Bizet’s Carmen as he swung his wang
He charged like a bull
Gave his penis a pull
And it was over before the fat lady sang
When I got home, Joy was already hoovering. Why had she come at 7am?
‘Sophia not come home last night? Been with a man? Sophia looks bad.’
‘Yes, Sophia had a lovely time. Thanks for asking.’
She went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water and paracetamols and put them in front of me as she sniffed at me.
‘Sophia need shower,’ she said.
P.S. Does last night count as date number one?
Thursday, 10 January, 11.30pm
Despite wincing at the sleeping Opera Buff, I confess my opera initiation was fun. And it was sex for the first time in ages. Hurrah. But I have to admit to being put off by his foppish fashion sense, which surely makes me sound superficial and shallow. I agree I should look beyond the outerwear and concentrate on the man inside. But I also know I wouldn’t have let that man inside me if I hadn’t been propelled into his arms by copious amounts of alcohol. He seemed attractive in the heady atmosphere of the Royal Opera House, but in the cold light of day, I knew he wasn’t for me. And let’s face it, the nipple tweaking and horn noises were a bit freaky. No, I will just look back at that night as champagne-fuelled operatic fun of the dick-drought ending variety, never to be repeated.
Friday, 11 January, 11.00am
Just arranged my first Ladybird date for tomorrow afternoon. It’s with a very young man (when did a thirty-eight-year-old become ‘a very young man’? Where did the years go?). I’m excited and flattered to be asked out by a fit millennial. But that’s the wonder of dating apps. Anything or anyone is possible if you’re open to it. The trouble is, he wanted to go ice skating and I didn’t want to appear unadventurous. But now I’m thinking of all the times I’ve tried doing anything requiring good balance – skiing, roller blading, skateboarding, etc. – and all I remember is being wobbly, terrified, and falling over. AND I’m sixty years old with menopausal bones.
P.S. Ace has asked me to go round on Sunday. Wants to talk. Hope he’s OK. He wasn’t his usual bright self last week.