Lila Glover Wants a Lover (Teapots & Tequila Shots Book 2)
Chapter 1
Somehow, I had managed to find myself on the worst first date ever.
Even the goat’s cheese tart starter, which was pretty inedible, still managed to be not quite as cheesy as the man sitting across the table from me. He was leering at me, probably thinking it was seductively, but with a little bit sprig of spinach wedged in the gap between his two overly white, overly large front teeth.
His name was Christopher, or “Toffer” as he preferred (just kill me now). I had met him on Tinder. Why, oh why had I not swiped left?
He was 34 years old and worked as an accountant ? the very same profession my philandering weasel of an ex-husband did. In the past I had always thought accountants were reliable sorts, though maybe a little dull and of course obsessed with the figures on their spreadsheets. This was true to a point with my ex-husband Duncan: he had been into attractive figures, just not the ones on a profit and loss account; and more interested in spreading sheets in the bedroom than the spreadsheets on his laptop ? always desperate to make our double divan look as pristine as possible after an afternoon romp with his latest floozy whilst I was toiling away, blissfully unaware, at work. I had learned a very valuable lesson from dearest Duncan: don’t fully commit your heart to a man; if they don’t own it, they can’t destroy it.
It looked as if Toffer was cut from the same incorrigible cloth as my ex. Maybe I should have learned from my past and plumped for a nice traffic warden instead. And somehow young Toffer managed to be even more oily than my odious ex. Quite a feat in itself.
“I’ve always had a thing for the older ladies.”
He looked intently at me as I tried to avert my gaze from the side salad stuck between his front incisors.
“Always found them to be so confident and self-assured, if you know what I mean?”
He served up a wide wolfish grin before spearing a king prawn on his fork and sucking it down with more noisy smacking of lips than was strictly necessary.
“They know what they like, and they aren’t afraid to ask for it.”
He was right on that score. I knew what I liked, all right, and that certainly wasn’t him.
I gave a tight-lipped smile but chose to remain silent. I knew exactly what he was getting at, the randy little sod, and as I pushed my half-eaten tart around my plate, I considered my options. I could leave the restaurant right now with him, go back to his for the night and make all his sordid little dreams come true. But let’s face it, that was never going to happen, not in a million lifetimes. Or alternatively I could leave now on my own, which sounded a much more attractive prospect.
I was in two minds. I didn’t know how much more I could stomach of toothsome Toffer and his letchy comments. But talking of stomachs, I had ordered the mushroom stroganoff for main, and after the poor performance of the goat’s cheese tart I was still bloody ravenous. I felt sure I could battle through another course courageously before I could feign some emergency or attack of explosive diarrhoea and escape screaming into the night and away from “Just call me Toffer” forever.
He had seemed so good on paper: attractive photo – well, he had been smiling with his mouth shut, so that was false advertising for a start. We had many shared interests, namely fine wines, reading and travelling. However, given the fact that he was currently guzzling down a large glass of sweet Liebfraumilch and had already informed me he hadn’t so much as picked up a book since being forced to read A Midsummer Night’s Dream at school, which he couldn’t abide as it was full of mincing fairies, I could hazard a guess that fibbing could be added to Toffer’s list of favourite pastimes. Another thing he clearly had in common with my rat of an ex-husband: yes, Toffer was not averse to bending the truth.
For a start he had certainly lied about his height: six foot one he claimed, but he was more like five foot seven and a half on his tippy toes. Well at least he would be travelling soon, so that wasn’t a lie: travelling home alone in an Uber.
He was still talking, some anecdote or other about a colleague at work, who sounded quite frankly as obnoxious as him. I felt my mind wandering again. When had my dating life become so bad? After the split from Duncan and with our only son Thomas now away at Bristol University, I had initially enjoyed the thrill of throwing myself spectacularly into single life again.
At 49 I felt in the prime of life. If life was there for the taking, I was grabbing it with both hands and on my terms. Things were looking good for me. My career as a solicitor afforded me a comfortable lifestyle and the opportunity to enjoy the finer things in life; and the finer things for me just happened to include à la carte restaurants and dinner dates with dashing younger men.
I wasn’t an idiot though; I knew what some people were saying about me: that I was a woman teetering perilously close to fifty years of age dating men in their mid-thirties. It was not the done thing.
I had heard whispered murmurings about me having some sort of mid-life crisis, or maybe I was just lacking in self-esteem. Hah, that was a laugh: I held myself in the highest possible regard, thank you very much. I had to, as when it boiled down to it, I was the person I trusted the most.
I never listened to gossip, as I believed most of it was based on jealousy. In truth I didn’t really care what people thought of me. If they were talking about me, they were leaving some other poor bugger alone. Anyway, I never cared what people said; somebody else’s opinion of me really was none of my business. And just because I was going to hit the half-century in a month or so didn’t mean I had to retire from social life and sail off into obscurity on a boat called Old Biddy.
No, there would be no hanging up my Louboutin slingbacks in favour of a pair of comfortable suede slippers. I would have to be dragged kicking and screaming into the autumn of my life. It was going to be less knitting and more nights dancing till daybreak for Lila Glover.
I had been referred to on occasion as a cougar. I didn’t have a problem with that: I already knew my nickname at work was The Rottweiler, so it felt quite apt. I barked in the boardroom, and I purred at the party. And anyway, what fun-loving girl in the prime of life doesn’t enjoy a bit of role play once in a while?
In my book, which would undoubtedly be a bestseller, there was absolutely nothing wrong with an older successful woman dating a younger man. I would not be made to feel bad about it in the slightest. I was proud to be me: opinionated, feisty, unapologetically me.
When I was newly single, I had stayed in my own lane, so to speak, dating men of my age or a little older, but truthfully most of them were deadly dull. If their aura had a colour, it would most definitely be beige; more interested in talking about their pension investments or bemoaning their dwindling hair line than dancing till dawn.
Less passion and more passing the time watching the History channel for them. So, after a few mind-numbingly tedious dates I had shaved a few years off my stated age range on the dating apps from 45-55 to 30-42 and never looked back. I still had a lust for life, and so did men in their thirties if you catch my drift.
However, in the last few weeks the dates I’d gone on just didn’t seem to hit the mark any more; they didn’t come up to scratch. So I had been choosing to swerve dating altogether and stay at home with a takeaway and a good book. And if I did still have a certain itch to scratch, that’s where the AAA batteries came in handy.
I glanced over the table to my dining companion, who still hadn’t finished regaling me with his long-winded tale. I noted that the wilted spinach must have worked its way loose as his gnashers were now unfettered by wayward foliage. They were shocking in their brilliance, like two bright white tombstones. No human teeth were ever meant to be that shade, surely. I wished I had my sunglasses with me; those things could trigger a migraine.
Maybe I was being a little mean. He wasn’t all bad: teeth aside, he had a nice face and lovely thick wavy chestnut hair that was simply wasted on a man. He was a smart dresser, though with maybe a few too many designer logos for my liking. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a bit of designer smutter myself, but I like to keep the labels hidden inside my clothes. Wealth should be whispered, after all. As Yves Saint Laurent once said, “Fashions fade, style is eternal.” But clearly if Toffer had spent a wedge on his outfit, he wanted the world and his wife to know about it.
It wasn’t his looks that were the problem: okay, his teeth were giving me serious walrus vibes, but overall he was a decent enough looking chap. With a good personality he would even be considered attractive, but that was where the problem lay: his personality was simply atrocious.
It wasn’t just him, though; all my recent dates had fallen way short of what I would consider a success. I would much rather have had a night out on the town with my girlfriends than subject myself to another night out with any of the dreary designer-clad douchebags I’d met of late. At least with my girlfriends I was guaranteed some good conversation. All I was getting from my current date was enough of the ick factor to give me raging indigestion.
Toffer was certainly not rekindling my desire to dive headfirst into the dating scene again. If there were plenty more fish in the sea, that water appeared to be full of sewage.
At least I was seeing my friend Charlotte the following day. My legal firm Fluck, Young Glover were sponsoring a small fashion show at a local hotel to showcase her new business. She had recently started her own fashion brand with her friend Morgan, and it was doing really well. I was keen to support her, let her know how proud I was of them.
“I must stay you’re being awfully quiet, Lila; I would get more conversation out of a Trappist Monk.”
Toffer honked with laughter at his own joke and looked across the table at me expectantly.
With more enthusiasm than I felt, I decided it was about time I rejoined the conversation.
“I’m so sorry, what were you saying … something about your work?”
Toffer picked up his wine glass and took a hearty swig.
“I was just telling you about my PhD.”
I perked up slightly. At last, something potentially interesting to talk about, something with a bit of substance; maybe the night wasn’t a complete disaster after all.
“Oh yes, that’s very interesting, Toffer. It must be difficult studying whilst working full-time. Is your firm giving you time away from the office to devote to your PhD or do you have to do it all in your free time?”
Toffer was smirking to himself in a most unappealing way.
“No, the firm gives me no time off to study my PhD, it’s all done in my own time, a bit of a labour of love you might say. I don’t think any boss would pay even minimum wage for me to work on my Pretty Humongous Dick!”
Clearly I was wrong; the evening could get worse, infinitely worse.
Tears were running down Toffer’s face he was laughing so hard.
“Damn, I should really get into stand-up. You saw what I did there? You thought I was talking about a degree, and I was referring to my dong the whole time. I’m a comedy legend.”
I smiled politely at the middle-aged waiter who was deftly clearing away our starter dishes, a forced smile etched on his face. He was a pleasant enough looking man, and for a moment I wished he was sitting across the table from me. Anyone would be an improvement on my current date. Hell, let’s be honest, at this point in time I would take a Conservative Party candidate with a bad comb-over if they could just hold up their end of a decent conversation.
I sighed deeply and with more restraint than I knew I possessed and forced down the desire to launch myself across the table and wrap my hands around his neck.
“Yes, Toffer, although your sense of humour is exceedingly subtle and nuanced, it didn’t completely pass me by.”
Though obviously my sarcasm had shot right past him at high speed, as he nodded at me proudly, clearly chuffed with himself.
I said a silent prayer of thanks as the waiter returned and placed a steaming plate of mushroom stroganoff in front of me and an exceedingly rare steak for my date.
Toffer eyed my plate with distinct displeasure.
“Goat’s cheese for starter and now mushrooms. Are you a vegetarian?”
I took a forkful of my food and savoured it before answering, as it really was excellent.
“No, not vegetarian; I just try to have a couple of meat-free days a week. It’s good for your health and better for the environment too.”
He looked unconvinced and sawed into a large piece of his steak, the blood oozing out onto his plate, making it look like a Jackson Pollock painting. He gave me a wink before popping the meat into his mouth.
“Definitely not for me. I’m strictly vag-itarian.”
He winked at me as he chewed his food, his mouth slightly open so I could see half-masticated cow stuck between his gnashers again. I couldn’t help but wince.
He exploded into laughter once more. He was quite obviously delighted once more by his comedy genius.
I took another mouthful of food. Once my plate was cleared, I was going to be out of here like a marathon runner with their arse on fire.
Clearly though, Toffer was just getting into his stride.
“If we start dating, Lila, that would make you my Sugar Mummy, wouldn’t it?”
He blew on one of his chips in a seductive manner, well as seductive as was possible with root vegetables and those teeth.
“I’ve always secretly fancied being a boy toy. I could do whatever you wanted, and you could thank me with occasional little gifts now and then.”
I wasn’t often shocked, but this time was an exception. I was rendered completely speechless. A Sugar Mummy? He had to be joking, surely? But this time I actually thought he was being completely earnest. The bloody cheeky little git.
I smiled pleasantly at him. It took a Herculean effort to keep my temper in check.
“I’m sure I could get you a little something if you’re a very good boy.”
He sat back in his chair, looking for all the world like the cat that had got the cream; obviously thinking he’d hit the jackpot with me: an older experienced woman who was a sure thing in the sack and was going to shower him with gifts too.
Lucky young Toffer. What a treat he was going to have, telling all the young bucks his exploits around the photocopier the following morning at work.
I slowly put down my knife and fork and neatly folded my napkin next to my plate, all the time smiling sweetly at my companion.
“How does a nice big, gift-wrapped box of Go Fuck Yourself sound?”
My chair scraped noisily across the wooden floor as I jumped up from it. In a flash I was on my feet and heading for the door as fast as my black patent stilettos would allow. Toffer would be picking up the tab for dinner. Might teach him a lesson about how not to behave with a lady. Anyway, it was the very least he could do after subjecting me to that fiasco. That was eighty minutes of my life I was never getting back.
Just before leaving the restaurant through its revolving door, I cast a longing glance back at the table I had just vacated: not at Toffer’s shocked face, but at my barely touched food. It was a crying shame to have to walk away from that meal. But absolutely nothing would make me endure another minute of the date from hell.
To escape that date, I would happily forfeit my mushroom stroganoff and get myself a vegetarian pizza with extra mushrooms on the way home. But definitely no spinach.