It was Amy who’d made him accept. Dared him to accept. He got home that night and found her watching Sex and the City instead of doing her homework, and switched the TV off. She glared at him.
“First Mum, now you.”
“Where is Mum?”
“She’s gone out with Larry.” She avoided his eyes. Both she and Adam adored both their parents, patently found the breakup painful. “He looked so ridiculous; he’s such a medallion man. They were going to some concert or other. Duran Duran. I mean, please. Good thing you don’t go out on dates, Dad.”
“And how do you know I don’t?”
“Well… you’re too old. For a start. I mean, much older than Mum.”
He was stung. “Not that much. Thanks, Amy. And actually, and just for your information, I was asked on a date today.”
“What? An actual date? Not some medical lecture?”
“An actual date.”
“By?”
“By some woman I met.”
“How long have you known her?”
“I don’t, really. We only met a few days ago.”
“Dad! Dad, that is… what’s her name? What’s she do?”
“Her name is Linda Martello. Something like that. And she’s a theatrical agent.”
“God! No kidding. Is she as old as you?”
“No. Not quite.”
“Good-looking?”
“Yes, I would say so.”
“And she’s asked you out?”
“Yes. To some play and then to dinner.”
“That is so cool. Are you going?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Well… because… because I don’t particularly like her. I’d have nothing to say to her.”
Amy sat studying him; then she said, “I dare you. I dare you to go out with her. She sounds really cool. And she could be a big help in my career on the stage. And it might be fun. Your life is so not fun. I really think you should.”
“Amy…”
“If you don’t, I’ll tell Miss Jackson. And she’ll tell the whole hospital.”
“You wouldn’t!”
She laughed. “No, probably I wouldn’t, but I do think you should go. I’d like you to. Go on, Dad; live dangerously.”
They met outside the theatre: arrived at exactly the same time, exactly fifteen minutes before curtain-up. Not a lot of time to talk, to run out of talk, the awkwardness kept at bay by the various rituals: drink, programmes, settling into seats.
Very good seats. Maybe it was going to be all right.
The musical was terrible; Linda said, as the curtain came down on the first act, that there was no reason they should stay.
“Honestly. I don’t mind. I’m not enjoying it, and if you’re not either, where’s the point?”
He agreed there was none and they went to the restaurant. She had booked it: Joe Allen, in Covent Garden. Alex, while appalled by the noise, did manage to absorb the fact that it offered the opposite of a romantic atmosphere, so at least she had spared him that. Their table wasn’t ready, as they were so early, so they sat at the bar. And tried to talk. It was difficult; they had very little in common, no knowledge of each other’s worlds. She told him one of her best friends was married to a surgeon; he told her his daughter wanted to be an actress. There was a silence. She apologised for the play; he said he hoped the management or whoever had given her the tickets wouldn’t notice their empty seats. There was another silence.
“So… how many actors and actresses do you have on your books, then?” he said.
“Actors. No such thing as actresses anymore. I mean, you don’t have doctoresses, do you?”
“No, indeed. So… how many actors?” He stressed the second syllable, sounding slightly derisive.
“About two hundred.”
“That sounds like quite a lot.”
“It is quite a lot.”
Another silence, a very long one. Then she suddenly said, “Look… this was probably a bad idea. This evening. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, not at all. Very nice idea.”
“Same as the play really. If you’d rather go, I won’t mind. I mean, there doesn’t seem a lot of point.”
He looked at her; she really was… what? Not pretty. Features too strong. Beautiful? No, not really. But… arresting. The amazing auburn hair, and the dark eyes. She had a wonderful figure: tall, slim, good bosom, fantastic legs. And very nice clothes. She was wearing a black dress, quite low-cut but not embarrassingly so, and a bright emerald green shawl. And emerald green shoes, with very high heels. It was a shame, really, that she was so… well, a bit harsh. Very direct, very opinionated. And he hadn’t liked being corrected over the actor business. Not charming.
She looked at him; he really was… what? Not handsome. Features too irregular. But… attractive. Sexy. The wild dark hair, the probing dark eyes. Surprisingly nice clothes: that dark navy jacket… really well cut, and the blue-on-white stripes of the shirt really suited him.
“Well… look,” he said, “it’s been very nice. Really, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. I appreciate your asking me out. But… well, I’m on call tomorrow. So maybe not dinner. If it’s all the same to you.”
“Absolutely,” she said.
She smiled at him, totally in control. She was a very cool customer. Much too cool for him. And hadn’t he sworn never to get involved again with someone who didn’t understand the medical profession? Not that he was going to get involved.
“Well… we’ve ordered this.” She gestured at the bottle of wine. “May as well finish it.”
“Good idea.”
She looked at him as he picked up his glass. What a disaster. Well. She’d done it. Never would again, though. Bloody Francis. What a thing to make her do. So not her.
Suddenly she wanted to tell him. It really wouldn’t matter. They would never meet again. And she didn’t want him to think she was what she wasn’t.
“I want to tell you something,” she said. “I only asked you out because I was dared to. It’s not the sort of thing I usually do. Honestly. I couldn’t have you going away thinking I was some kind of hard-as-nails ball breaker.”
“You were dared?”
“Yes. ’Fraid so.”
“That’s really very funny,” he said, and started to laugh. “Because I was dared to accept. It’s not the sort of thing I usually do either.”
“Oh, God!” She was laughing now. “Who dared you?”
“My daughter. She told me I should get a life. Who dared you?”
“My business partner. He told me more or less the same thing. And I thought… what have I got to lose?”
“I thought the same. And…”
“Miss Di-Marcello, your table is ready.”
“Oh. Oh, well… we don’t really-”
“Oh, come on,” he said, “let’s eat. I dare you!”
CHAPTER 32
She’d hoped, very much, that things were about to be better. The TV programme had definitely had an effect on Christine; it had made her realise what a lucky escape her mother had had. Seeing the size of the crash-again-realising how easily Mary could have been just a few cars farther forward, or even hit by one of the freezers, had sobered her. She was quiet during supper, and when Mary had said good night to her, later, she had kissed her and said, “Night, Mum. Thank goodness you were where you were-on the road, I mean.”
Mary felt more cheerful than she had for a week as she got herself ready for bed.
She had switched on the radio and turned the light out; she was too tired to read, and she liked being lulled to sleep by the well-bred voices of the World Service announcers. But it wasn’t quite time for the World Service, and there was a programme on Radio Two about popular music over the past sixty years. Starting inevitably with the war. And equally inevitably with Vera Lynn, singing “White Cliffs of Dover.”