Take Mum Out. Fiona Gibson
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here, because this is what grown-up single women do. And it’s time to move on, to be proactive and seize the moment, after six years of crap dates and sex which has been at best, a mild diversion and, at worst, made me seriously consider celibacy as a more satisfying option.
‘So you mentioned you’re a teacher,’ Anthony says, his confident tone snapping me back to the present.
‘I’m actually a school secretary,’ I remind him, having imparted this fascinating information at the party.
‘Oh, I see.’ His eyes fix on mine.
‘It fits in with the boys’ school hours,’ I continue, tugging down the hem of my shift dress, ‘which I really needed when they were younger and their dad and I had broken up.’
He nods, and I notice that his teeth aren’t just white – they are verging on blue-white, and quite disconcerting. The lighting in Ingrid’s kitchen clearly hadn’t illuminated them to full effect.
‘And I’ve set up a business from home,’ I go on, sensing his gaze flickering across the restaurant, ‘making meringues for local cafes, delis and special events …’
Anthony tastes the wine that’s being offered and nods approvingly. ‘That sounds like a fun little sideline.’ Why this riles me, I’m not sure. He’s right, it is a little sideline. While I love it, and it’s boosted our finances, I am hardly heading for global domination of the meringue market.
‘You mentioned at the party that you have your own business,’ I remark, ‘but I’m not quite sure what it is.’
‘Ah, well,’ he says grandly, ‘we’re all about offering a complete bespoke service and taking care of the whole client. It’s about complete personal attention every step of the way.’
I study him, assessing the angular jaw, the intense little eyes and neatly cropped dark hair. While he is certainly handsome, and more than likely employs a personal trainer, there’s something disconcertingly plasticky about him. He looks sort of moulded, as if there could be a secret join up the back of his head, like Barbie’s boyfriend Ken.
‘Erm, okay,’ I say, ‘but I still don’t know what you do.’
‘Oh,’ he wrinkles his pore-free nose, ‘we’re a clinic.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask, taking a big swig of wine.
‘No, we deal in aesthetic procedures.’
Ah – that explains the glowing teeth. ‘You mean Botox and all that?’
He emits a patronising laugh. ‘Yes, but there’s a bit more to it than that. Our ethos is to assess every client individually so, with the very latest techniques, we can work in synergy with her own, unique beauty and the natural contours of her face …’
To stop myself from choking, I take another gulp from my glass. Hell, I’ll be smashed at this rate. Better slow down and have some water, the way the magazines always tell you to. At long last our first course arrives; at least I think it counts as a course. It’s an ‘amuse-bouche’, consisting of a sticky beige blob served on a ceramic spoon with a dribble of green liquid around it, like bile.
‘This looks delicious,’ I fib, wondering what possessed Anthony to ask me out in the first place when he is clearly not remotely interested in anything about my life – and also why he played down the restaurant’s poshness when it’s turned out to have a bloody Michelin star. Is he showing off, trying to impress me by dropping in words like ‘bespoke’? And what’s with the six courses? I told the boys I wouldn’t be too long, but troughing our way through this lot will take weeks. I’m more annoyed with myself, really, for allowing Anthony to decide what I must eat. Tonight may call for an emergency measure, like feigning illness or a faint …
‘… These days,’ he says, a little fleck of spit flying out of his mouth, ‘it’s about women making the most of what they have. For instance, you wouldn’t think twice about buying a new dress on a whim, would you?’
‘Er, I’m not a huge shopper actually …’
‘Yet, for a similar level of investment,’ he goes on, ‘instead of buying a cheap piece of cloth’ – his gaze drops briefly to my blue shift – ‘a woman can regain her youthful bloom, which has a far greater impact on her confidence.’
I swallow down the bile sauce from my spoon. I know. I could go to the loo, climb out of the window and run all the way home. Rude, yes, but then so is mocking my fashion choice … although, I have to admit, I wish I was wearing something else. The dress is a little tight around the hips when I’m sitting down, and keeps riding up, and my shoes are pinching like hell. I overdid it, I realise now. I’d forgotten that, rather than lending me an elegant air, teetering heels have the effect of making me feel like a big, hairy trucker with a secret penchant for cramming his vast size tens into his girlfriend’s stilettos. It’s all wrong – my outfit, the restaurant, the man (who has started on about ‘boosting a woman’s confidence’ again as if, without his poky needles, any female should be terrified of leaving the house).
‘The thing is,’ I cut in, ‘you said it’s all about working with natural contours …’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ More food has arrived. As Anthony nibbles the end of an asparagus stalk, I picture Logan and Fergus chomping happily on a side order of garlic bread.
‘I mean,’ I continue, ‘I don’t have a problem with that, if that’s how people want to spend their money. But it’s not completely natural, is it? Natural is leaving everything as it is. Natural is bunging on a bit of mascara and lip gloss and hoping for the best.’
‘Yes, well … that’s an option I suppose,’ he says scathingly, as if I’d confided that I’m partial to smearing my face with lard.
‘So,’ I continue, ‘what would you recommend I should have done to my face?’
‘Oh, I don’t want to get into that, Alice …’
I force a smile as plates are whisked away and replaced with others. Every course is tiny; I feel as if I have stumbled into the dining room of a doll’s house.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’m just interested to know what could be done. I’d like your … expert appraisal.’ This might be entertaining, I decide, curiosity having superseded my initial nervousness. Actually, there is no reason to feel anxious sitting here. It’s a one-off, an ‘experience’, certainly, and at least I can report back to Ingrid that I didn’t chicken out.
‘Okaaaay,’ Anthony says plummily, ‘you really want me to tell you?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly.
‘Hmm. Well, I’d say around here’ – his fingers dart close to my eyes – ‘we’re talking a little Botox to soften the crow’s feet, plus dermal fillers here’ – I flinch as his spongy fingertips prod my cheeks – ‘and more fillers here, here and here, to plump up those marionette lines.’
‘What are marionette lines?’ I frown, wishing I hadn’t started this.
‘These crevices,’ he says, sweeping a thumb and middle finger from my nose to mouth corners. ‘In fact, the whole jawline,’ Anthony continues while I take another fortifying swig of wine, ‘can be lifted with the careful use of fillers, creating a youthful springiness. We call it the non-surgical facelift.’ Now the twerp has reached across the table and cupped my chin in his clammy hand, as if trying to guess the weight of my head. ‘And those forehead lines could be lightly Botoxed for a smoother appearance with no loss of movement.’
‘That’s not true,’ I retort, leaning back to maximise the distance between my clearly ravaged visage and his gropey hands. ‘You can’t say that. We’ve all seen celebs with their weird, frozen foreheads, unable to form normal expressions.’
He shakes his head. ‘That never happens when it’s expertly