Just Between Us (16 page)

Vicki was in full flood on the subject of her last lover, a fellow lawyer she’d met at a charity ball. ‘If you’re referring to my encounter with that horrible man from Simpson and Ryan, then forget it. He was a disaster in bed. If he’d wanted to be paid by the hour, I would have wasted my money for fifty-eight minutes.’

Stella groaned. ‘You’re terrible, Vicki. The poor man would be horrified to hear you.’

‘Poor man indeed! He thought he was the last of the red-hot lovers,’ said Vicki in outrage. ‘That was the problem. He thought I’d be grateful, can you believe it? The louse. His sort think all women over thirty-five should quiver with thanks if a man so much as looks at them, never mind brings them to bed. They reckon we’re desperate for any crumb of affection that isn’t battery-powered.’

Vicki was getting into her stride on the women-over-thirty-five theme: ‘We’re on the conveyor belt to single TV dinners and interlock knickers that never come off…’

‘Vicki, you live with your sister,’ interrupted Stella, ‘and you know perfectly well that Craig from accounts fancies you rotten but you won’t deign to notice him.’

Deflated, Vicki sighed. ‘I know but he’s six years younger than me. That’s the last sign of absolute desperation. Imagine what people would say if I started dating a younger man? It’s easier to just sit at home and fantasise about Russell Crowe.’

‘Lunch,’ said Stella firmly. ‘You need your mind taken off men.’

Life conspired against Stella the next day. Jerry was still out sick, leaving Stella to deal with his clients again, which kept her in the office all through lunch when she’d planned to get her hair done. And the lurking demon of pre-menstrual tension paid a visit, bloating her stomach despite her post-Christmas detox.

‘Do hormones know when you’ve got something important happening and deliberately act up?’ Stella raged, as she realised she wouldn’t be able to wear the burgundy jersey dress she’d planned on because it clingfilmed around her stomach and could only be worn on thin days.

‘Yes,’ sighed Vicki. ‘It’s like herpes, which apparently appears on the occasion of any hot date.’

‘You have sex on the brain, Vicki,’ Stella reproved.

‘Don’t be so prim and proper,’ teased Vicki. ‘You don’t fancy him for his mind, do you? I bet you’re going to wear your best knickers too.’

Stella had to laugh. ‘I am, but only because they make me feel good,
not
because there’s any vague hope of anybody seeing them.’

As she drove home that evening, she remembered what Vicki had said. Vicki wasn’t afraid of the idea of sex, while it terrified Stella. It was five years since she’d felt a man’s arms around her; five years since she’d been to bed with anyone. If sex was like riding a bicycle, Stella decided that she’d obviously gone back to using stabilisers.

Going out with a man could, eventually, lead to sex but Stella wasn’t sure she was ready for that. Celibacy, by choice or otherwise, was easier, wasn’t it?

At home, she washed her hair in an agony of uncertainty. If only she could phone Nick up and cancel the date. Tell him she was washing her hair for the rest of her life.

No, she decided finally. That would be the coward’s way out. She’d go out and tell him that it was a mistake, that
she was sorry. And she’d pay for dinner. If that wasn’t the way to stay in control, she didn’t know what was.

The restaurant was empty. So empty that Stella momentarily wondered if she’d got the time wrong. Starkly designed in black and white, there were no tablecloths on the black tables, and no other diners either.

The waitress inside the door fell on her with ill-concealed delight.

‘Good evening, lovely to see you, can I take your coat?’ she said joyously.

‘Yes.’ Stella surrendered her coat. ‘Miller for two.’ Why had she worried over booking?

‘Your guest hasn’t arrived…’ began the waitress.

‘He has now,’ supplied Nick, shutting the door behind him. His eyes were flatteringly appreciative as he looked at Stella, all dressed up in her faithful cranberry red shirt and a long black suede skirt she’d had donkey’s years but which was happily back in fashion again.

‘Nice to see you,’ he said, and leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek. Stella felt something inside her go ‘ping!’ with excitement.

‘Nice to see you too,’ she said and, just as a test, proffered the other cheek for a double kiss. There it was again. Ping!

‘You look beautiful,’ he said, his eyes caressing her face.

Ping, ping, ping!

‘Will I show you to your table?’ asked the waitress.

Nick shrugged out of his coat, giving Stella a chance to admire him. He’d swapped the casual look for a steely grey suit worn with a pale pink shirt that only the most masculine of men could get away with. Nick got away with it.

‘Ready?’ He turned around and Stella rapidly averted her eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. But wow, could he fill a suit in all the right places. Nick didn’t look as if he needed a detox but then you could never tell with clothes on and…

Stella shocked herself. What was she doing thinking about
Nick with his clothes off? Vicki was right: she was losing the run of herself. She gave herself a stern talking to while they were led to a table for four at the back of the restaurant. The waitress gave them menus and left them alone in the bare expanse of the restaurant.

‘It’s odd that we’re the only ones here,’ whispered Stella, leaning forward.

Nick nodded solemnly but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

‘What?’ Stella asked.

A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

‘Tell me,’ she demanded.

‘If you need any help with the menus, please ask,’ said the waitress, appearing beside them. She flitted off again.

‘Do you come here often?’ Nick asked blandly.

‘Never been here before in my life,’ Stella said. ‘What is it?’

‘I wanted to know if this was your favourite restaurant, that’s all.’

She was puzzled. ‘What’s that got to do with the lack of customers?’

A party of six people arrived and the waitress flew to the front desk to usher them in. Despite the increased noise from the new arrivals, Nick still whispered.

‘I mentioned to a friend that we were coming here and he told me they’d had a write-up in one of the papers recently.’

She nodded. ‘I knew I’d read about it somewhere. Mussels to die for…Ah.’ She got it. ‘It wasn’t a good review, was it? In fact,’ she looked for confirmation in his face, ‘it was a Very. Bad. Review, wasn’t it?’

‘Bad is not the word,’ Nick said. ‘Horrendous fits the bill more successfully. Apparently, the reviewer had mussels and ended up cancelling his holiday because he was so sick. Mussels you’d die
from
was the tone of the review, I’m afraid.’

The whole situation suddenly struck Stella as hilariously funny. Trying to prove that she was a coolly independent
modern woman, she’d inadvertently recommended a restaurant rocked by a food poisoning scandal.

Laughter bubbled up inside her and she bit her lip to stop it erupting. It was no good. She burst into laughter at exactly the same time as Nick. They both roared so loudly that the newly-arrived customers stared at them curiously, interested to see what was so amusing.

‘It’s not funny for them, but it’s hilarious really,’ she howled, leaning over the table and clutching her stomach with the intensity of her outburst. ‘I knew I’d heard something about this place but I couldn’t remember what and I didn’t want to say yes to Figaro’s instantly because I didn’t want you to think…’

Their waitress appeared, looking anxious. ‘Is…is everything all right?’ she asked.

‘Wonderful,’ squawked Stella. ‘Joke, that’s all.’

Nick composed himself.

‘Just another minute, please.’

The waitress drifted off.

‘You didn’t want me to think you were a pushover,’ finished Nick.

Stella grinned. ‘Got it in one.’

‘We can leave if you want to,’ Nick added, ‘although I’d prefer to stay now that we’re here. It might be hard to get a table anywhere else at such short notice, and our waitress would be so upset if we did leave.’

That did it. Stella smiled at him in admiration. Any man who was so kind would be worth a proper date. She could always say she couldn’t see him again at the end.

‘I don’t think I’d have liked you if you’d wanted to leave,’ she admitted. ‘The mussels could have been a once off and it would see so mean to leave now, when the dear waitress was so thrilled to see us.’

‘I agree. And there’s pasta on the menu, anyway, so less chance of fatal illness there.’

Stella erupted again.

‘Are you ready to order?’ inquired the waitress, once again
materialising out of nowhere. Was she on roller skates? Stella wondered.

‘Yes,’ smiled Nick.

They ordered quickly – no fish – and agreed on a bottle of claret.

‘I am very out of practice at this date thing,’ Stella confessed when they were alone after the waitress had served the wine. ‘I’m sure that even
saying
that contravenes modern dating standards, but I can’t help it. I did all my dating when flares were in, the first time. I’ve forgotten the rules.’

‘I didn’t know there were rules,’ Nick replied. ‘See what I know about women. I thought I had to fill in your dance card, and after fifty dates, we were allowed out without chaperonage as long as I kept one foot on the floor at all times.’

Stella giggled. ‘Let’s skip a bit. I left my dance card at home, anyway. I think we have to tell each other our histories. That’s what they do in those articles in the paper when they set people up on blind dates.’

‘I’m afraid I never read that stuff,’ Nick said apologetically.

‘Men never do. But the theory is simple: we each get five minutes to tell our life stories.’

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if mine will last that long.’

‘I bet,’ said Stella in mock cynicism. ‘OK then, make it shorter, say…twenty words or less. Let’s keep it short.’

‘Twenty words,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘OK. You first or me?’

‘You,’ she said quickly.

‘Right. You keep count of the number of words and when I’ve done twenty, stop me.’

‘More than twenty, and I’ll leave,’ Stella replied solemnly.

‘Forty-four, Irish, two daughters, fourteen and nineteen, married for twenty years, worked abroad, ran engineering company, divorced a year ago, head-hunted home. That’s more than twenty words, isn’t it?’ He stopped and his face had a faint weariness about it.

A hard divorce? wondered Stella with intuition. Or something else?

‘Sorry,’ she apologised. ‘That seemed tough for you, I didn’t mean it to be.’

‘No, you’ve a right to know who you’re having dinner with. Laying your life down in a mere twenty words makes it sound pretty hopeless.’

Stella fiddled with the stem of her wine glass. She wanted to ask why the marriage had broken up but was unsure of venturing into such personal territory. She decided to tell him her story. ‘Age: undisclosed.’

He laughed.

‘A woman’s age, like her weight and dress size, is highly classified information,’ Stella said gravely. ‘If I tell you any of them, I have to kill you. One daughter, wonderful Amelia, who’s seven and absolutely adorable.’

‘You’re using too many words,’ Nick put in.

‘Nick.’ She fixed him with a stern glance. ‘I’m a
lawyer
.’

He laughed again.

‘One daughter, Amelia, seven. Lawyer, specialising in property, divorced, erm…two fantastic younger sisters, great parents, yoga, perfume bottles, bad at picking restaurants…’ She broke off.

‘That’s good.’ ‘Tell me more about the
perfume bottles
bit.’

‘I love those little crystal perfume bottles, the ones with silver tops from ladies’ dressing tables a hundred years ago. I have magpie tendencies when it comes to junk like that. And costume jewellery, forties and fifties stuff.’

‘What about the fantastic sisters?’

Stella’s face always softened when she thought of Holly and Tara. ‘Holly’s the youngest and she works in the children’s department in Lee’s. She’s so funny, she’s brilliant, I worry about her, though.’ She didn’t know why she’d said that but she felt as if she could say things to Nick. ‘Tara,’ she continued, ‘is a storyline editor for
National Hospital.
She’s brilliant too. They just won an award at the television and radio awards.’

‘They sound wonderful. Are you a close family?’

‘Very. We’re like this tight unit. Mum, Dad, me, Holly, Tara, and now Amelia. The Miller clan. It’s all down to Mum, really,’ Stella added. ‘She’s an incredible person, very warm and strong. Mum has no time for family squabbles or long-running arguments. She taught us how important family is.’

Nick was quiet.

‘What about your family?’

‘I’ve a younger brother, Howard, and an older sister, Paula, and of course my mother. Paula lives in the same village as my mother near Wicklow town and she’s looked after her for years. They want to sell both their houses so they can move to a bungalow, which would be easier for my mother to get around. Paula’s artistic – she paints – and she hates sorting out legal matters, so my brother and his wife, Clarisse, have always done that side of things. Clarisse feels that now I’m back in the country, I can take over.’ His slightly wry smile revealed more than he was saying.

‘Clarisse feels put-upon and wants you to shoulder some of the burden?’ Stella offered.

‘You
are
intuitive,’ said Nick, impressed.

Through the meal, they talked about their jobs, places they’d worked and more about their families. Clarisse sounded vaguely like Aunt Adele, Stella reflected. By dessert, they had discussed every relative except their children – and their exes; a glaring omission.

‘Tell me about Amelia,’ Nick urged.

Stella produced a photo from her wallet. It had been taken the previous summer in Kinvarra, when her parents had held a barbecue for friends and family. Stella’s father had hung a low swing from a sycamore tree, and, in the picture, Amelia was sitting on it, colourful in pink and white shorts and T-shirt, laughing into the camera and with her hair swinging in two jaunty pigtails.