Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (11 page)

She clicked through a few more files. Kate Biggs’s profile filled her screen.

What about her, the new girl Alice had taken on? Audrey’s mouse hovered over Kate’s picture. She was the right age, and pretty enough. None of that awful orange fake tan that so many young women slathered themselves in these days. University-educated too. Audrey scanned Kate’s details. No. She clicked out of her file. She was one of those PR girls. PR girls were, in Audrey’s book, a rather brazen bunch. Not for Max at all. Audrey clicked on.

Helen Oxford? No: bad teeth. So long! They must be forever getting caught in her lipstick.

Abigail Brookes? Not with those roots.

Lisa Jenkins? Too thick.

Jennifer Baxendale? Too thickset.

Catherine Huntley?

Della Bosworth?

Audrey sighed. There were so many average women to wade through. Nobody in the matchmaking business ever dared say it, of course, but it was true. Lady clients always moaned about the lack of good, available men, but they only had themselves to blame. Why was it that so many women thought it acceptable to wear jeans and trainers these days? Audrey was convinced that the rise in single women was in direct
correlation to the plummeting of dress standards. In the 1950s a woman was always impeccably turned out, and you didn’t get too many of them harping on about their biological clocks. Women these days simply didn’t put in the effort. If a lady wanted to attract a man she had to give out the right signals: look smart, keep her hair styled, wear heels, limit her drinking, refrain from smoking in public. Women these days were too interested in ‘being themselves’. Either that or they were too busy with their careers. And what kind of woman listed ‘going to the gym’ as a hobby? Audrey always despaired when she saw a client write this on her application form. Really! Did women really think this was what men wanted? A grunting, muscular Serena Williams with a career more high-flying than their own?

Audrey drained her teacup and set it back on its saucer. She knew what Max wanted. She knew better than he knew himself. He’d been rather vague. ‘Kind’ was the only criterion he’d come up with. But Max should have a discreet, well-groomed partner, willowy and graceful. Someone he could rely on to say the right thing when she accompanied him on important work events. Audrey knew this woman – she could see her! The problem was, she couldn’t see her in the Table For Two files. There were too many tattoos and divorces in there.

She’d sleep on it, she decided. And then she’d call Max in the morning to talk him through a few choice selections. She’d knock his socks off with her ladies, come hell or high water. She wasn’t letting a client like Max Higgert get away.

Audrey looked up. She hadn’t noticed Hilary leaving. Only Alice remained, bent studiously over her paperwork, her hair piled onto her head and held in place by a chewed biro. Audrey shut down her computer, squeezed into her coat and headed for the door.

‘Goodnight, Alice,’ she called out frostily.

There was no response. Completely lost to the world, Audrey thought. The place could burn down around her and that girl wouldn’t notice.

Audrey strode out of the office and immediately came face to face – as she did every night – with the insult that was Alice’s bike. If there was one single thing that could dampen the pleasure of knowing she was on her way home for an evening of uninterrupted BBC television programmes, it was the sight of Alice’s bike, manacled to the railings like a rusting suffragette. Audrey had never known an item scream ‘romantic failure’ quite so loudly. Why couldn’t she get the bus to work like any normal person? No: sensible, practical Alice had to ride a clapped-out pushbike and leave it padlocked right in front of the door. And to top it all, it was accessorized with the ultimate stamp of spinsterdom: a pannier.
A pannier!
What must the clients think?

Audrey straightened her mac and powered in the direction of the bus stop. Mentally she was already pouring her first sherry of the night.

On Saturday morning Alice wheeled her bike through her front garden and headed into the city centre to meet Ginny. She wished she didn’t feel such dread. Normally her spirits would soar at the prospect of spending the day with her best friend. But today was being rudely gatecrashed by the unwelcome guest of shopping.

Alice wasn’t exactly a ‘shopper’. For her, a trip to the shops was only brought about by absolute necessity, like an empty fridge and impending starvation. And today was to be dedicated to the very worst kind of shopping: shopping for clothes. Shopping for clothes meant looking in mirrors. Alice hated looking at herself in mirrors and didn’t keep one in her flat. It’s what’s inside that counts, she reasoned defiantly as she pedalled along. When Mr Right shows up he’s not going to scarper just because I forgot to brush my hair that morning or didn’t get around to ironing my skirt. Love conquers all: even mismatched outfits and saggy jumpers.

All too soon she arrived at the shops. She padlocked her bike and made her way to the boutique where Ginny had decided they’d meet.

‘Morning!’ Ginny chirped, her arms already laden with clothes. ‘I’ve found loads for you to try on. There’s the peach taffeta with the sweetheart bow, the sheer lemon minidress with matching knickers, and the plunge-front satin in scarlet; you won’t be able to wear a bra with that one.’

The blood drained from Alice’s face.

‘Don’t be daft!’ Ginny laughed. ‘I think a nice, safe little black dress is more your thing.’

Relief flooded through Alice’s body.

It was short-lived.

‘I thought you said women went clothes shopping for fun,’ she growled several hours later as she discarded the umpteenth dress and reached for her jeans.

‘Obviously they’ve never been shopping with you.’ Ginny slumped on the changing-room floor in exhaustion. ‘Right, so you’ve hated pretty much everything so far.’ She darted a murderous look at Alice. ‘But the things you’ve hated most have been tight, feminine, or shown more than a millimetre of flesh. So what have we got on the plus side?’

There was a very long pause.

‘Well, you don’t have much up top . . .’ Ginny mused finally, nodding towards Alice’s bust, ‘. . . but you’re slim, toned, and you’ve got great legs. You know, maybe you could pull off a backless dress?’ She sounded positive for the first time in hours.

‘A backless dress?’ Alice echoed in alarm. ‘Aren’t they a bit dangerous?’

‘They’re dresses, not hand grenades!’

‘Well, a bit revealing, then?’

‘Nope, that’s the whole point. You’re not showing your legs or your boobs, just a back. Who cares about a back?’ Ginny leapt up. ‘Stay there! We’re going to crack this.’ And she darted back out to the shop floor.

Alice forlornly undid her jeans.

Two minutes later Ginny zipped Alice into a backless satin dress. ‘You know, the dress would look a whole lot better if you took your socks off,’ she said sarcastically.

Reluctantly Alice bent down and pulled them off.

‘That’s better!’ Ginny sounded cheery. ‘Look!’

Alice turned and looked at herself in the mirror. And to her great surprise she didn’t hate what she saw. From the front, she was covered up. The dress started at her collarbone, and although it was sleeveless, it hugged her armpits so that her chest was completely hidden. And the hemline was just below the knee. If only the dress had a back, it would be perfect.

‘And if you could just stick these on’ – Ginny reached behind her and pulled out a pair of peep-toe stilettos – ‘it would look twice as good again!’

Alice eyed the shoes suspiciously. They looked hazardously high. Surely you could break your ankles in those. But she caught a glimpse of Ginny’s face. It wasn’t a face to be messed with. She backed into the changing room, sat down and wriggled her feet into the shoes.

Instantly her feet became ladies’ feet, not her own feet at all. Her foot contorted into a delicate, ladylike arch and her toes winked flirtily out of the peep toe. Gingerly she
stood up. She felt the spindly stiletto heels wobble a bit and then settle. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t the razor-blade experience she’d been expecting either. Like a baby giraffe she took a few uncertain steps.

‘Bloody hell!’ Ginny exclaimed, a hint of marvel in her voice. ‘I think we’ve done it!’

She stepped forward, scooped Alice’s hair off her shoulders and held it loosely on top of her head.

‘Look!’ she commanded.

Alice blinked. She couldn’t believe it. The person blinking back at her was a woman: an actual, feminine woman! The long expanse of skin from her hairline to the base of her spine looked lean, healthy and – Alice blanched as she even thought the word –
sensual
. The dress tapered to reveal shapely, bicycle-toned calves that led to the sexiest pair of feet Alice had ever seen. The shoes were amazing. Her feet had somehow transformed into film-star feet. It was a miracle!

Her eyes met Ginny’s.

‘I’ll take it,’ she heard herself say. ‘All of it.’

Four hours, five hundred pounds and two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc later, Ginny and Alice were back at the bicycle stand, cheeks flushed with alcohol as late-night shoppers milled around them. Alice didn’t normally drink much, but the dress and shoes made her look like another person, and that person liked to celebrate eye-wateringly expensive shopping with a generous helping of booze. After the purchase of the dress and shoes Ginny had propelled Alice
into yet more shops to buy ‘vital’ ball stuff, including deep-red nail varnish, some dangly earrings and a small black handbag. Finally Ginny had marched her into a lingerie boutique.

‘I’ve never seen your underwear drawer, but I’d stake my life on there being nothing in it worthy of being worn under your new sexy dress.’

So Alice had left the shop the slightly embarrassed owner of a pair of ridiculously overpriced, unfeasibly flimsy, but secretly thrilling tiny black knickers.

‘I don’t know how you’re going to get back home,’ Ginny laughed as she surveyed Alice’s mountain of shopping bags. ‘I don’t think shopaholic sex goddesses normally travel by bike.’

Alice swayed slightly.

‘I’ll just hook them over the handlebars,’ she muttered. ‘Of course, it’d help if the handlebars would stay still.’

Ginny sniggered.

‘Anyway,’ Alice continued, ‘shouldn’t you be getting back to Dan?’

She thought she saw Ginny grimace, but she couldn’t be sure. She could see at least three Ginnys, so maybe it wasn’t fair to judge. She turned to her bike and tried not to wobble as she awkwardly lifted her leg over the saddle.

‘Alissssssss, darrrrrling!’ a voice trilled from the mass of bodies on the pavement. Alice froze momentarily with her leg in the air.

A pair of breasts in a low-cut emerald-green dress emerged from the crowd.

‘Alisssss Brown, how lovely to see you,’ said the breasts. They were framed by a fake-fur jacket and topped off by long blonde hair tonged into curls. ‘I thought it was you hiding behind all those shopping bags, you naughty girl. Audrey’s obviously paying you too much!’

‘Er . . . hello . . . Ms Toogood.’

‘Sheryl, please!’ Sheryl Toogood touched Alice’s arm conspiratorially. ‘And what have you been up to?’ she asked lasciviously. ‘Have you been buying yourself a little outfit for the DIPS ball?’

‘My friend Ginny has been helping me,’ Alice mumbled awkwardly. Ginny was eyeballing Sheryl with a mixture of horror and awe.

‘How sweet.’ Sheryl threw a brief semi-smile at Ginny. She stepped closer to Alice and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Can I just say how deliiiiighted I was to hear Audrey was bringing you this year. And about time too! Many’s the time I’ve said to Audrey, “Aud, why have you brought that dull little Bianca again? I’m sure she’s an adequate matchmaker, but she’s never going to fire off more than a couple of Cupid’s arrows. Why don’t you bring that wonderful Alissss? I’m sure she fires off arrows by the quiverful.”’

‘Well, um, that’s really nice of you, Ms Toogood. But Bianca’s a great matchmaker.’ Alice tried to move but Sheryl gripped her arm.

‘Sheryl, please. And nonsense! Credit where credit’s due. I’ve got spies all over the city and I hear great things about you! It seems you’re the engine that keeps Table
For Two afloat. Without you they’d be scrambling for the lifeboats.’