The Dating Game. Avril Tremayne
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I guess you accidentally ran into him afterwards so you know what happened on the date, too.’
‘He’s interstate this week so no, but— Hang on. Why? What hap—’
‘And if I had worn this dress, what would you say?’
‘I’d say it was overkill.’ At least for that dipshit. ‘So what did hap—’
‘Where do you want me to stand?’
‘Not stand, sit.’ He gestured to an armchair. ‘There.’ Pointing to the small table beside it. ‘And up to you, but I poured you a glass of wine to help you relax.’
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, sitting. She picked up her glass and took a sip. ‘Now what happens?’
‘Now you talk while I sketch.’
‘Talk. Okay. It’s nice and warm in here.’
‘Reverse-cycle air conditioning.’
‘I love your couch.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘The rugs, too.’
‘Glad to hear that, as well.’
‘So … the portrait. What’s it going to be? Watercolour? Oil?’
‘Oil.’
‘Where’s the painting equipment?’
‘I’ve turned one of the bedrooms into a studio.’
‘Why don’t we do the sketching part there?’
‘Because.’
‘I like the view. Through the French doors.’
He stopped sketching and looked at her. ‘Okay. Pause it there, bluebell. Are we doing eye of newt and toe of frog, or are we just going to talk about paint colours and fabric swatches?’
She looked at her lap, tapping one foot, then the other, on the rug, which he assumed was the seated equivalent of shifting foot to foot, which he’d seen her do in the storeroom when she wanted to bolt. And he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
‘What happened on Saturday night, Sarah?’ he asked, and he accepted the challenging tone this time because this he needed to know. If that mongrel had stepped out of line with a girl David had introduced him to, he was going to beat the crap out of him and then make him eat it.
‘Nothing,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Really, nothing. It’s just … I think it was a failure. Sorry to disappoint you.’
Stand down, David. ‘Are you going to give me the details?’
‘I’m not sure there’s a lot to tell. I’m not even sure what went wrong. Or what constitutes an important date indicator, for that matter. So maybe you can ask me questions. For example, does it matter what he wore?’
An image of Craig in a yukata flashed in David’s head and those hairs on his neck stood to attention again. Not that he cared, even if she’d seen him stark naked … except that he did, dammit! It was too soon. And Craig wasn’t … wasn’t worthy. He should have put a stop to Craig at the gallery the minute he’d assessed the sleaze quotient. ‘Yes, it matters,’ he said, and could tell from the snap in his voice that his temper was on a leash.
‘Black pants. White shirt. Green vest.’
And relax. Not naked.
‘And a fedora,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘A what?’
‘A fedora. It’s a hat.’
David bent his head down, and started sketching. ‘Yes, I know what a fedora is.’
‘Are you laughing?’
‘I’m trying, manfully, not to.’
‘Then maybe control your dimples.’
‘They’re a law unto themselves.’
‘Oh, they so are not. But come on, what else do you need to know?’
‘Did he pick you up?’
‘No. I live across the Bridge. I never expect to be picked up from home. It’s too inconvenient. Even though Adam says anyone who doesn’t want to come and pick you up for a date isn’t worth the effort.’
‘I don’t care what your brother says, you don’t let a new guy know where you live. So your answer is right, but your motivation is wrong: it’s not about what’s convenient for the guy, it’s about weeding out the psychos and stalkers for the girl. Rulebook moment.’
‘Weed out psychos. Check.’
‘Big check, or I’ll be the one going psycho. Okay?’
‘Okay. Although Adam seems to think the threat of him beating the living daylights out of any guy who lays a finger on me is enough to keep them in check.’
‘Violence is never the answer. Avoidance is the key.’
‘And then of course, I live in a granny flat out the back of my mother’s house, so she’s usually in screaming distance in an emergency.’
‘Usually?’
‘Well, she’s jaunting around the Mediterranean at the moment before heading to Italy with her new boyfriend Massimo, so she’ll be away for a few months.’
‘Now there, you see? You just rattled that off to me without giving it a second thought. If we were at your flat, any curb on my behaviour your mother’s proximity may have had would be instantly negated.’
‘Oh. Yes. I see. Should I not have told you that?’
‘You can tell me anything. It’s everyone else you need to be cautious about. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
He sighed. ‘So you met him at the bar …’
‘Yes.’
‘And, presumably, he bought you a drink before he took to the stage.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sheesh, it’s like getting blood out of a stone,’ he said, and stopped sketching to fix her with a no-nonsense look. ‘What did he buy you?’
Pause. Long.
‘Sarah?’
‘All right. Passion Pop. A bottle. For us to share.’
‘What the actual fuck! Did you drink it?’
‘Um … yes?’ she squeaked.
‘Um … no! Unless a guy knows you very well, he shouldn’t order a drink for you without asking what you like. Especially an abomination like Passion Pop—Jesus H Christ!—but not even a bottle of Cristal—which, incidentally, only a poser would buy for you on the first date.’
‘You poured me a glass of wine without asking what I wanted, and this is only the second time we’ve met.’
He bent his head forward to the sketch again. ‘Ah, but that just happened to be the wine I’d opened for myself, and this is my apartment not a wanky jazz bar, and we’re not on a date.’ He stopped suddenly, looked up. ‘And you can tell me—right now—if you don’t like it, and I’ll get you something else.’
‘I like it.’
‘You’re blushing. And to prove to you how well I know women, I’ll tell you that I worked out the first time you blushed that you do that when you lie.’
‘You did?’
‘I did. Now, for rulebook: hanging out with girls who agree with everything you say and like