Tom Jones
SHE’S A LADY
It was the longest David and I had gone without having a proper conversation.
When I’d rolled in from my first date with Sheila, giddy as a pre-teen on Babycham, he’d been out.
On his own date, no doubt. When I clambered free from bed the following morning, he was still in his pit.
And when I came home from work that day, he was– God, is that typing I can hear?
David had left a sign on his bedroom door – WRITER AT WORK – and it crossed my mind that he might actually be trying to write a book in there.
I lingered for a second with a raised fist, ready to knock and spill the excitement that had carried me through the day with a candy-fizz feeling in my stomach.
I was both embarrassed and elated, but somehow I opted to keep the feeling to myself.
Even the pets had been banished – Lucy was sprawled in a patch of sunshine in the hallway while Fred had made himself into a draught excluder, lying against the width of David’s door – and, failing to remember the last time David had been that focused on something that didn’t involve a woman, I decided to keep the excitement pressed close to my chest for a while longer.
At least until I’d chosen an outfit for date two, by which time I thought David would have likely given up the endeavour of being a bestselling novelist anyway.
And that’s being generous, I thought with a smirk as I slinked away to my own room.
Yuzu’s was an up-scale place. I didn’t know that from experience.
But David and I had often made comments to that effect when we’d wandered past their windows, which were always dimly lit with industrial lights and the glow of bronzer, indicative of the age group that typically dined there.
Sheila obviously didn’t mind that she and I would be raising their average age of clientele, so I thought I should try, try ever so hard, to feel okay about that, too.
Still, I found I was skimming through my wardrobe looking for “younger” things.
A fruitless endeavour, given that I’d started dressing for the age I am now at least ten years ago.
It was one of the few times in my life when I’d been ahead of the curve.
I flicked past jumpers and waistcoats and jeans and the occasional skirt – and one dress, that I thought David might have slipped in there without my noticing at some point given I had no recollection of it whatsoever.
Credit to him, though, the little black and white number was not only not hideous, it was also age appropriate…
‘How uncharacteristic of my husband,’ I said with a smile as I lifted it free of the closet and held it at arm’s length.
It was, I would guess, knee-length, with three-quarter length sleeves and a V-cut neckline.
The fabric was linen, black all over with a white patterning that looked like paintbrush strokes.
‘Honestly, how long has this been in here?’ I thought it was probably testimony to how often I recycled the same outfits without ever stopping to look at what I actually owned, that this had gone unnoticed for so long.
How long, exactly? Though I had to admit it seemed the perfect dress for a follow-up date after a gallery outing.
I shrugged off the day’s clothing and stepped into the dress.
The material was soft against me and I almost, almost considered leaving the house without a pair of tights beneath it.
Old habits died hard, though, and I soon found that I was rooting through the top drawer of my dresser.
There was a fresh pair of nude tights hidden at the back that I’d been keeping for a special occasion and I thought, given my utter lack of success in romance to date, this was probably going to be about as special as it got.
Though there is nothing at all sexy about getting tights on, I thought as I tugged and shoved and–
‘Bloody hell.’
It took me ten minutes but I was in them!
I paired everything with black kitten heels and took a long look in the mirror.
My hair was the same colour as the dust I’d cleaned off that day’s delivery; my smile lines were a map between my mouth and eyes; and I was sure there was a crease of fake tan down in the centre of my chest, in the right lighting, that hailed back from a terrible drunken endeavour with David some weeks ago.
But this is as good as it’s going to get…
I made a beeline for David’s door and was physically taken aback to see the sign still in place.
Only now there was a hum of music – is that Tom Jones?
– from behind the door, too. I whispered my goodbye – ‘Goodnight, husband’ – and trod softly towards the hallway, where I took another fleeting look in the mirror before setting off to meet my date.
* * *
My date? My date? I had to practice the phrase with different, thoughtful intonations for the entire walk from apartment to Yuzu’s, but I couldn’t make it sound right.
Who did I think I was? In my forties and acting like I was in the throes of romance for the first time, again?
I should have known better, I should have–
‘Can I take your name, please, Miss?’
The front of house server cut through my beratement. She was young enough to be my daughter. And I was painfully self-conscious of the way she looked me up and down as she asked for my name. Buggernuts, is this dress too young?
‘Patti, I’m meeting my–’ Say date; say date. ‘I’m meeting my friend, Sheila.’
‘Ah.’ She looked down through the list. ‘Your friend is already waiting.’ She stepped out from behind her podium and looked me up and down again. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but that dress is fantastic.’
‘Oh,’ I belched out. And a giggle followed. ‘Oh, thank you, that’s… thank you.’
By the time the young woman had led me to my table, I felt a thousand times more confident than I had when I stepped into the restaurant.
Which was bloody ridiculous, given that I was a grown woman who certainly didn’t need validation from another woman about my appearance but– It’s still nice to have, I thought with a soft smile as Sheila came into sight.
She was sitting at a dimly lit table for two at the back of the restaurant floor; close enough to the kitchen door that I was likely to be distracted all night by the swing of food moving past us.
It was a trait that David hated. When Sheila stood to greet me, though, I realised the only thing worth being distracted by in the entire room was most probably her.
She was wearing her hair in the same messy up-do that she’d worn the night before.
And, upholding the same professional edge, tonight she was wearing an actual suit.
Sheila donned slim-line black trousers with a crisp white shirt, a black blazer and a thin black tie that was loosely knotted at the neck.
If she’d been a date of mine twenty years ago, I’m sure I would have thrown myself across the table and ravished her there on the restaurant floor.
‘You look… Well, bloody spectacular,’ I said as she stretched out an arm to welcome me for a hug. Sheila paused to kiss my cheek as she pulled away, then cast a look downward over me. I suddenly felt more aware of my body than I had done in… I didn’t even know how long.
‘And you look like a work of art. Take a seat, beautiful.’
‘Can I get you ladies some drinks?’
‘I’ll take an old-fashioned,’ Sheila answered.
Of course you will. And I smiled. Sheila was every bit cool enough to order an old-fashioned. Meanwhile, I was more traditionalist.
‘I’ll take a gin and slim-line tonic, slice of lime with ice.’
‘Coming right up.’
Sheila settled back in her chair and stared over to me. ‘You really do look…’ She shook her head as though actually lost for words and I felt what can only be described as an explosion of heat in my stomach. ‘That’s a fantastic dress.’
‘Well, I think my best friend slipped it into my wardrobe without me…’ The sentence died on my lips before I could finish it; before I could catch the error and suck it back in. Of course, now I’d mentioned the best friend, there would be the inevitable question of–
‘You two must be close?’
‘We are.’ I flashed a thin smile and found that I was casting an eye round for the waitress.
‘He, she, they?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I faltered, until I realised she was asking about my husband – not that she knew that, of course. ‘Oh, he. Embarrassingly straight white male. Throws himself around town like a horny, bank-rolled teenager.’ At least that wasn’t lying.
I had a hideous memory then, of David sitting across the kitchen table from me and explaining the intricacies of “juggling women”.
With a knowing expression he’d simply shrugged and said, ‘Patti, the best way to lie is to tell people the truth.’ And I swore to myself that it was advice I would never, ever take. Yet somehow…
‘We live together, actually. We’re an old married couple at this stage.’
‘How delightful! Tell me all about–’
‘Sorry, ladies, let me squeeze in with these drinks.’
I could have kissed the woman for having interrupted us. But I decided a healthier show of appreciation would be to leave a wedge of a tip for her at the end of the night instead.
‘Have you had a chance to browse the menu?’
‘Not just yet,’ Sheila answered. ‘Could we have another minute?’
‘Absolutely. Take your time, I’ll saunter back.’
‘We’d better get looking,’ I said, gratefully snatching my menu from the table and taking a hard stare at it.
I’d spent most of the quiet hours at work googling a) the menu, and b) ingredients from the menu – honestly, why is everyone eating plants now?
– so I was sure I knew it by heart. But the excuse to look away from Sheila’s questions was too good an opportunity.
‘Is there anything catching your eye?’ I asked.
There was a long pause where Sheila didn’t answer, causing me to glance up.
I saw she was watching me, head tilted, arms loosely folded in front of her, and a very confident smirk on her face.
She nodded. ‘I think there is, actually.’ She reached into her inside pocket and pulled out a pair of thick-rimmed, bottle-top reading glasses and slipped them on, before casting an eye over the menu.
But seconds later she repeated, ‘I definitely think there is…’