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Blind Date.
Eliza had never thought she would find herself in such an unseemly situation. Indeed, had she had the slightest notion that she would make the ridicule, she would have never agreed to a date in the present circumstances in the first place.
It all stemmed from her lack of self confidence. She knew she was not a gorgeous blond like her elder sister Jane, yet her charms lay in her uncommon witty mind. If not a reputed beauty, Eliza was, at least hollowly intelligent, which was more than one could say of both her younger sisters put together. Still, in the face of a blind date, Eliza wished she could swap all her wit for at least half of Jane’s attractiveness.
As she glanced at the wall clock in the café, she sent a cursory look at herself in the mirror in front of her, and was rather pleased at the image it reflected. Indeed, she looked surprisingly well.
Alone, in her apartment, she had tried on every single item of clothing in her possession, and in her sister’s for that matter. In the end, she had favoured a low-cut blouse with a pair of luscious silky trousers that accentuated her womanly curves. She was dressed to kill, yet she reckoned she did not look half as handsome as Jane.
Unfortunately, as she cast her own reflection, she also spied the knowing look of the waiter, who not surprisingly,in catching her eye, immediately set for her table to insist on refilling her teacup, ensuring Eliza to leave the shop, if not enamoured, at least in debt.
“Blast! There he comes again,” she hissed to herself as she discerned the man moving towards her table. Quick like a fish, she covered her cup with her hand, risking scalding it, as she shook her head in frantic rejection of a refilling. “No, I thank you,” she hurried to say.
“Then off you go. I have regulars waiting for this table,” the man barked.
Reluctantly, she retrieved her hand, thus allowing the greedy waiter to help her to her fourth cup of tea. She made a mental note to call Jane and ask her to come and fetch her in case the Romeo failed to appear and she would be compelled to pay the already expensive bill.
When he had satisfactorily done his duty, the waiter sent her yet another knowing look. “He ain’t coming,” he announced with a sneer.
Eliza glared at him. Sucker! When the meddlesome waiter turned round, she poked her tongue at him in mockery.
Of course he was coming! Why would he not come? Most probably his car got stuck in the rush hour. But then again she was not sure he had a car, and neither was this the rush hour. Of course he has a car , she berated herself. What kind of looser does not have a car these days? Why doesn’t he text me at least! Does he not know I must be worrying?
At length an insisting beep coming from her mobile phone apprised her that a new message had just arrived, making her almost jump from her chair.
It was not him. It was Charlotte.
Her friend, posted in the park outside the café, was surveying the coming and going of potential suitors in the surrounding. Should she spot a man in a black suit, pathetically sporting a red rose on his lapel and carrying an absurd book in his left hand, Charlotte would text her immediately. If the man in question was worth her waiting for him, Eliza would drink yet another cup of tea. If not, it was a mad rush for the back door. The text read as follows: “Suspect spotted. Looks yummy.”
Then, all of a sudden the ring-tone played Michael Jackson’s “Bad.”
“Jesus!” Eliza cried. With a shaky hand, after two failed attempts to turn the mobile phone into speaking mode, she finally answered it.
“What! What is it?” she demanded almost hysteric.
“You won't believe this! There are two guys going your way, Liz,” said a creaky voice from the other end. “One of them is gorgeous. God, you will cream your knickers if he is the guy!"
"Great. I must ..."
"Hang on! The other man is ... thickly built and paunchy," Eliza flinched. Struggling to find the correct words to break the rather undesirable appearance of the other possible suitor to her friend, Charlotte resorted to verbosity. "...with a glistening, meaty face that is cast in an expression of abject despair.”
Oh, damned Charlotte. Can't she speak vernacular? “What?”
"I'm sorry. I got carried away. I must be quoting from "Le Carre". In other words: he sucks!"
Goodness! What to do? What with one thing and the other, Eliza had wasted precious seconds. By the time she had made up her mind to dart towards the back door, her would -be-suitors had reached the first steps of the entrance.
Belatedly, she rose to her feet, only to watch as the door of the café flipped open to reveal the strikingly different figures of the two men, both book in hand, striding decidedly towards her table.
Chapter 2
As in small motion, Eliza watched the tall, magnificent man, smug smile on his face take long steps in her direction and she felt a lump in her throat. Holly Smoke! It is him! Goodness, she had never expected that much. This man was Heaven! Just looking at him was making her mouth water! All sorts of images passed through her much excited mind. Mmm. Imagine that! Lizzy parading such a stud in front of those idiotic girls from the club! Lizzy making out with a heavenly handsome guy in a cosy car parked in front of her apartment. Even better, Lizzy introducing Mr Perfect to her disbelieving mother, sporting a dazzling ring in her forefinger. No, no, better still was Lizzy making out with a heavenly handsome guy in a cosy car parked in front of her apartment. Wait! I have I already said that, haven’t I?
But then again the insecure girl in her poked her head out and she immediately recoiled. What will he think of me? Will I disappoint him? He’s indeed handsome. Is he too much for me? No, no, no. Why should it be like this? You can do this, Lizzy. You might not be Jane, but you certainly look fine today. There is more to you that meets the eye! But scarcely had she readied herself for the introduction when the dazzling man brushed her by as he headed for the table behind her, whose occupants were just leaving. Lizzy could have kicked herself.
Too good to be true.
As she raised her gaze, however, Eliza noticed the chubby guy, the other potential date, talking to the good-for-nothing waiter. Just as she averted her eyes, the twosome turned to look in her direction which, much to her dismay, seemed to indicate that the tubby man was certainly her date.
This is not happening, she thought to herself. Think, Lizzy, think! There must be something you can do!
Out of the corner of her eye, Eliza spied the man of her dreams, comfortably sitting at the table on her left, quite distractedly perusing the list of sandwiches.
Even in the throes of desperation, Lizzy’s witty mind and quick thinking had always proved the best of her attributes. Turning around she made out Mr Perfect putting down the menu and stretching his head looking for the waiter… Again, she cast a cursory look at the fatso who was decidedly walking her way and realised it was a matter of extreme force.
Sink or swim: that was the question. She chose to make a splash, so to speak.
Without thinking it twice, she grabbed her handbag and huffing and puffing as if she had run a mile to get there, flopped herself on the empty chair under which the gorgeous guy had placidly stretched his feet, and from where he hastily retrieved them with an expression of absolute bewilderment.
“D’you mind if I take this chair?” she said out of breath.
“N..o,” he managed to say a bit dumbfounded. “Not at all. It’s not taken,” he finally replied hardly recovering from the surprise.
“You’re not expecting anyone, are you?”
The man frowned. “No ...” he drawled emphatically as he slowly shook his head.
“Great,” she sighed relieved.
“Great?”
“I’m sorry. I’m Lizzy. And you are…”
“Darcy.”
“Is that your name?” enquired Eliza. She kind of suspected it was not. Not expecting such a formal answer she felt a bit taken aback.
“My surname.”
“Huh. And you don’t happen to have a first name?” she asked cheekily.
“Mark.”
“Ha!”
“Pardon?”
“Pay no mind. Listen, eeer… Mark. There is this guy behind you, he fancies he has a date with me. But you see, I just don’t want to make him feel bad. You know, a friend of mine, well I should say an ex friend of mine, arranged this date. But as soon as I saw him stepping into the shop, I knew I wanted to be miles away from here. Still, it is not like this is his fault. If he thinks I am with you, he will probably believe his date, that is me, has stood him up, which judging by his looks it must happen quite often, so he probably is sort of used to it already.”
“I am sorry. I don’t quite catch you. Is this guy bothering you?” he asked as he turned around to spot the man in question.
“Don’t look!” Darcy shrunk lowering his head and averting his eyes in obedience.
"I'm sorry." he said apologetically.
“It's just that... He is not bothering me, though he is a bother. To cut a long story short, he’s my blind date, only I’m not that blind.”
“I see,” though he was a bit unsure whether he had indeed grasped the situation.
“I promise I‘ll leave as soon as he takes his leave.”
He nodded in agreement, still too much puzzled to think coherently.
“By the way…why are you wearing that rose on your lapel?” she asked a bit mystified. After all, had he not be wearing the ridiculous flower, she would not have mistaken him with her date, and she would have had enough time to run away.
“Oh, this? I haven’t noticed I was still wearing it. My sister gave to me.
Lizzy nodded as she registered his words. So your sister, huh? Not your girlfriend?
A pause in which both coughed at intervals. Darcy was beginning to feel uncomfortable. What will she do next? he wondered.
At lenght she broke the silence. “What are you reading? Not Jane Austen?” she snorted peeking at the book laying conspicuously on the table.
“No. Not Austen. Shakespeare,” he answered mirthless.
“Ha!”
“Have you any idea how many times I have heard that joke?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Same as…is it cold up there?”
“What?”
“I am tall,” he explained. “So, up there…you know.”
“Ah, yes. I see.”
Again a new pause.
“And you are not Lizzy Bennet, I suppose?” he said trying to make light conversation.
“Quayle. Eliza Quayle. Though, my sister is called Jane.”
“Mmm”
There was an awkward silence once more. In truth both of them would have killed to find a topic of mutual interest, but each was equally clueless as regards each other's preferences. At length the waiter came over to take Darcy’s order and the ever so meddlesome man did not fail to send a disapproving look at Lizzy. When he was gone Darcy addressed Eliza again.
“Listen. I think he is gone,” he announced nodding towards the bar.
“Who?”
“Your date. I believe I saw him leaving a few minutes ago.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.”
“You don’t need to go.”
“Oh, but I must, mmm.” Fishing for her purse in her handbag she complained, “Fine. Now, I must pay the bill.”
“Please, allow me.”
“No, no, no. There’s no need.”
“I insist.”
“I insist more.”
“I will not let you.”
“Fine,” she grunted.
He nodded satisfied.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Darcy,” she said with a smile as she rose from the table.
“My pleasure, Miss Quayle. Glad to be of service.”
Chapter 3
Scarcely had Eliza left his table, when Mark Darcy berated himself for his lack of finesse. The impertinent girl was not what one would call a classical beauty, yet there was something about her that had caught his eye. Why hadn’t he asked her mobile phone number? Or asked her out? Why had he told her that her date had left in the first place? He might have just as well sent her off. Though, he had not meant that. No. He had only made a thoughtless remark.
He watched her figure as she fumbled with her handbag and coat. Unlike the women he usually dated, Lizzy was short and chubby, but to her advantage she had the fresh air of her youthful age around her and the saucy seduction of her hips when walking as she waggled her bottom like an unsophisticated swan, though that was probably the effect of the exceedingly high heel shoes she was wearing.
Anyway, she’s too young for you, man. She’s what, eighteen, twenty?
Even if she were twenty-something she was definitely out of his hunting area. Mark belonged to the rare species in grave danger of extinction of heterosexual bachelors well past their thirtieth birthday, though he looked much younger, mind you. Tall, handsome, even though he was no master of Pemberley, he had a bank account of considerable seize, a two story detached house in Holland Park, and a car, which he rarely used.
Notwithstanding Mark was not what one might call a sparkling conversationalist, yet he many a time wished he had someone to talk to. He was definitely weary of his bachelor life. Unfortunately, his personal experience in connubial alliances had left him quite reluctant to persevere in a second marriage. Moreover, used as he had grown to being on his own, depending on no one except himself, spending his time on his own personal affairs and pursues and no one else’s, Mark would find it unlikely that any woman could ever persuade him to change. Still, something was missing in his life and he knew it. Suffice it to say that he usually spent his holidays in Corfu, in a beautiful villa that belonged to his aunt, but despite the beauty of the location he got terribly bored there, even when he took an occasional conquest with him.
Mark Darcy was not a barrister as many of you, dear readers, might have fancied. No. He had a PhD in the Arts and Humanities, money galore from his family business to which he and his sister had been the sole heirs and which his cousin Richard managed and by way of keeping himself busy he occasionally did tutelage at his former university. His job was sort of a hobby, but unsurprisingly, he no longer enjoyed it.
Otherwise a reserved man, he used to be very communicative with his students and feel completely at ease among the younger generation who, not so long ago, used to call him “Sir”, as if he belonged to an aristocratic caste. But those days were gone. Youngsters of this present generation really scared him.
To add to his already dull life, Mark lived on his own; with a twelve-year-old Alsatian whose hips no longer permitted it to go jogging with his master (this was yet another exertion he had got used to doing on his own). He had divorced his first wife after he had found her hocking shamelessly with a stranger (whose hips, unlike his dog’s, did work properly) in their own bedroom. From then on, his love life decayed strikingly.
Darcy became the eternal bachelor, last in a dying breed, always polite, perfect manners, sexual life unknown. More than anything he avoided commitments in general, preferring occasional sex to a regular partner, but this intelligence he kept to himself throwing a veil of secretiveness over his sexual conquests, so much so that people in general suspected he was gay, with the exception of the better looking wives who would be quite unwilling to reveal how they had been apprised of his heterosexuality.
Yet he found no great satisfaction in those relationships, other than the fleeting pleasure a man could eventually derive from sexual intercourse in general. Truth be told, Mark Darcy was bored to the core of the women of his circle.
Eliza Quayle was nothing like them.
Indeed, she was not. At first, one would say she was self-confident and bold. But on closer inspection, Darcy had rapidly detected the great confusion his evident rejection had occasioned on her. He noticed it in the expression of her intelligent eyes, downcast and solemn as she gathered her coat, which she had laid over a chair, her handbag on top.
As Eliza slipped into her coat, she raised her arms which caused her blouse to go up, thus exposing her waist and her round bottom which was wrapped in a pair of white silky trousers that revealed the colour of her knickers. None of those details escaped the inspection of Darcy’s eyes.
My, my. Eliza Quayle had a gorgeous figure; that stood to reason. Yet, she looked flushed and uncomfortable, as if she had experienced some embarrassing situation, which as a matter of fact, she had.
Is she feeling rejected? Of course, she is, you idiot! Although Darcy had a blind spot where feminine sensibilities were concerned, Eliza’s face spoke volumes.
He drained his coffee and set up the cup. There goes what could have been a good… date.
As he watched Eliza fling the door of the café open to take her leave, Darcy’s eyes danced around each of her movements and the Etonian gentleman in him felt the dire need to rush to push the door for her, while the womanizer in him urged him to steer clear from her.
He just had to spring to his feet, and with two of his athletic strides he would be by her side.
What the heck. It is much better this way. What if she is not of age? You are no cradle robber, Darcy.Suppose she falls for you, which will not be a surprise... How will you ever get out of it?
Chapter 4
Eliza was a brand new graduate of embarrassment. Never in a hundred years would she have dreamt of feeling so humiliated in her life. Not only had she spent half her Friday in dressing up for a fruitless date with a fellow she had never seen before, but she had also been slighted by the cutest man she had ever set eyes on!
Durr! He not even asked me my bloody telephone number! Am I so unattractive? Curse Jane’s trousers! I can hardly walk in them, and all for nothing!
She was just about to cross the street when her mobile phone began to peep frantically. But, to her surprise, she could not get it because she was holding something in her hand.
Ugh! It was Mark Darcy’s book.
Oh no! I can’t face the thought to go back to him. He’ll think I’m throwing myself back into his path again!
She finally put the book under her arm and fumbled with the handbag until she found the elusive mobile phone not before she had stored half the contents of her bag under her arm together with Mark’s book. By the time she managed to answer it, the phone was dead.
Eventually, she turned round, determined to return the stupid book to his owner. While she was waddling back to the café, she thought how perfectly ridiculous was that they should be called respectively Mr Darcy and Miss Eliza (at least she was not Miss Elizabeth) and that she had been slighted by him. Was he a pompous jerk like the hero of Austen’s novel? She let out a snort.
As she arrived at the coordonnée of the café, she stopped in midstride and spied his figure bowed over his table, reading what she suspected might be her copy of “The Bible of Diets ”
“Great! Now his opinion of me can’t be worse.”
A woman walking up the pavement overheard her talking to herself and sent her a quizzical look. Oh, this is rich! Now I’m a loony. With her low self esteem beyond recovering, Eliza took a look at her own reflection in the clean windowpane of the café and quite intuitively she checked her hair. In the background, Darcy was still bent over her book. First impressions counted enormously with Eliza and Darcy had struck her as a fine person, let alone gorgeous. And because they counted so much, she stood a moment observing his good looks and perfect silhouette. He’s wearing a tie, so probably he’s nearer to thirty than twenty, but she could guess that only from the way he dressed. A man passing by turned his head to take a better look at her bottom and muttered something she could not make out. Far from thinking he was paying her a compliment, she thought he had insulted her.
Great! I’m looking like a ham on high shoes. My hair is a mess, and I have a book to return to a man who is reading mine, thinking what a damn fool I am. Oh I almost forgot. I also talk to myself.
She thought, maybe she could give the book to the waiter, and save herself from further embarrassment. But then again, how would she recover hers? Not that she thought much of it, but she imagined that should she let him keep it, he might read even more and would eventually determine that not only was she a fat cow but she was either irremediably stupid or completely deranged, for who would read a book that stated that a diet based on peanuts, bananas and bacon could ever help one lose weight?
I must go for it! Come what may.
* * * * * * * *
Both to his surprise and alarm, Darcy saw the door of the café flung open again and Eliza was in once more, face redder than ever, lips muttering something to herself, feet taking quick, unsure steps in the direction of his table.
With a huff and a puff she said between gasps:
“I am sorry.”(*gasp*) “I took your book by mistake,” she explained as she handed him his shabby copy of Twelfth Night.
He stared back but did not react as expected. Eliza noticed some silver tips in his trimmed black hair.
“My book…”she mumbled pointing at hers in his hands.
Bang! She was back into his life as if she were the answer to his prayers, as if he had made a wish on a shooting star.
This time, Darcy could not resist the impulse to keep her for him. How could he? She was barely balancing on her modish high shoes, which she was obviously not used to wearing, looking as waif and stray as he felt protective. Surely her embarrassment was his fault. Had he not dismissed her? She probably thought he did not like her.
“Yes. Of course.”
She handled him his copy and collected hers in turn. Then she loosened the strap of her bag to ease it over her shoulder and said a reluctant goodbye again.
“Listen,” he heard himself saying, “I’m done here. How would you like a walk in the park?”
She would like it very much. Eliza, hardly believing her luck, quickly fished for her mobile phone in her handbag and busily tapped a short message for her friend while Darcy hailed the waiter to come over and give him the bill. A couple of minutes later, they were walking along the narrow path of the park and as Darcy told her about himself, his house, his car and his holidays in Greece, Eliza held his arm for balance, her frail ankles at the sure risk of spraining in the instability of her shoes. He could feel her body bobbing against him and hear her shooting short questions that showed him that she was listening with unseemly attentiveness to his prattle. As they walked, hip to hip, occasionally stopping to watch a squirrel or feed a goose to some crumbles of bread, he thought time had stopped.
She seemed fascinated with the details of his boring life. Questions went: “And why did you do that? And where do you leave your dog while you are away? Do you not take him with you?” which kept him strangely talking about himself, a topic nobody was overly keen to explore.
When the conversation jumped into their pastimes and hobbies, she was thrilled to hear he made bonsais.
“Actually, I am a student of botany. Though I particularly like flowers,” she confessed.
“Do you? That explains the roses,” he said in relation to the mark of identification she had used to recognize her date.
“Oh, that was utter stupidity. Should have used more sophisticated flowers. But I just love simple things.”
“Actually, roses are my favourite.”
She nodded demurely. “So I’ve noticed,” she sighed. “So by now you must have guessed, at first, I thought you were my date.”
“Did you?”
She nodded again. “I just couldn’t go out with the fatso with the greasy hair. I am glad you’ve agreed to be my date.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
“So am I,” he said.
“Even if I am not tall and slender?”
“Why should you be?” he asked as he allowed her to walk ahead while he took a leisurely look at her bottom.
She blushed and stiffened a laugh. “What are you looking at?”
“Your lower back has a most beautiful form I find myself particularly fond of.”
“Cheeky,” she exclaimed as she prodded him lightly with her elbow.
“Backs like yours make the world go round, I grant you,” he said teasingly.
“What do you mean?” she inquired feigning offence.
“I mean girls with something in their mind other than diets and fashion,” he said politely.
“You mean I’m fat and don’t look trendy? Is that what you mean?”
“No, I don’t mean that. You look great,” he grinned wolfishly.
“But you’ve just said I’ve no regards for diets or fashion.”
“What I mean is that I’m sick of bony women with no conversation. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
She laughed heartily.
“So you like me, huh?”
“Absolutely”
“You don’t think I’m a fat cow?”
“A fat…No, I don’t. I like you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I like you very much.”
“I fancied you immediately,” she confessed unembarrassed.
He raised his brows and laughed richly.
They spent the whole afternoon together without realizing their entire relationship consisted in just that afternoon, both of them equally resisting the idea that they would not end up having sex at the end of the day which was nothing short of bizarre since they hardly knew each other.
Chapter 5
“It's getting late,” she announced, and Darcy thought their date had come to a sudden end. In all probabilities he had bored her to death with his prattle about his every day activity. But to his amazement he heard her saying, “Let’s go to my place and have something to eat.”
He stared at her incredulously. “Your place?”
She said yes, it was only a short walk from the park.
An hour later they were like newlyweds, languorously making love on the sofa in her small living room in her apartment. In vain he had struggled. He had been hit by an express train. In the madness that had seized him, he forgot she was so young and a bit of a little devil. In vain had his mind sent out desperate signals of a most emphatic nature: Abort, she is just a girl. She is completely unaware of how this game is played.
He had certainly done his best to avoid the situation, mind you. Suggested going to an Italian restaurant; maybe fish and chips? No? Then politely excusing himself saying he had forgotten his car, but to no avail. She simply took him by the hand and led him in as if she was letting a stray dog in for some bones.
Undoubtedly, he was in a different element, and found himself defenceless against an unknown enemy he could find no way to defeat. She had completely drawn him in and he was no longer in control of his body or his thoughts. Captivated, he made love to her as if he were a young man of scarcely twenty-three.
When their passion had subsided he went courteous and English again.
“Thank you.”
She frowned. “For what?”
Darcy felt embarrassed. Indeed, what was he thinking of? How could he have thanked her? “For this gift,” he murmured.
She prodded him with her toes “Gift my foot! Take this!” and then hurled a pillow on his head. He laughed, in vain fending her off with his own pillow as she kept kicking his ankles and tossing cushions or whatever was handy on his head, and lastly joining her in her playful battling. He hardly knew him. Once the game was over, they kissed and caressed each other as if they were truly in love. Or were they?
“Will you use the bathroom?” she asked him.
“Ladies first.”
“Well, then.” With extreme modesty she made her way to the bathroom, swathed in one of the covers.
“What are you doing?” he asked diverted.
“I don't want you to watch my fluffy bottom.”
“Your bottom's not fluffy. You've got a bottom of a twenty-year-old.”
“I am a twenty-year-old,” she said and disappeared behind the door of the toilet.
“Precisely.”
“I turn twenty-one next week,” she said in mitigation.
Mmmm. He suspected he was in dangerous waters again. Next thing she would ask him his age.
“How old are you? He heard the question waft through the corridor.
Argh! Old enough to be your fucking literature teacher.
He watched her coming over him with an inquisitive face, a toothbrush in her mouth and another one in her hand. She offered this one to him.
“It’s new,” she explained.
Darcy took it; not bothering to conceal his manliness, he left the bed and went to the bathroom brushing his teeth in imitation of his hostess.
“Wear this,” she asked him handing him a robe that was decidedly feminine. He accepted it and slid into it. He looked ridiculous, but did not mind it in the least.
“Well?” she asked again as she leant against the toilet’s door.
“D’you mind?” he smirked, justifiably claiming some privacy. She turned around and went to the kitchen leaving him alone for his “toilette”.
While he attended to his privates privately, Lizzy made some coffee and buttered some toasts. Then she put everything on a tray and waited for him in bed. When he reappeared he had a frown on his visage. He had found some blood in his privates and was at a loss for its provenance. Was she in her days?
“You're not going to tell me your age? Is it a secret?” she asked teasingly.
Darcy smirked. He was not at all ashamed of his age, but he feared she might. “How old do you think I am?” he asked tentatively.
“Mmm.” Let me see. “Twenty-eight.” she ventured with a grin, in truth thinking he would say thirty.
He chuckled.
“No?”
He shook his head. “I wish.”
“Am I too far?”
He nodded.
“How far?”
“Eight years.”
“So you are…”
“I'm thirty-six.”
She just shrugged and handed him his coffee, ...