Authors: Vicki Tyley
A beefy hand cut through her vision. “It’s Wayne, by the way. Wayne
McGurk.”
She blinked and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Wayne. Megan
Brighton.”
“So what do you do?”
“Recruitment consultant. And you?”
Wayne puffed out his chest. “Property entrepreneur. Units, villas,
townhouses, duplexes, houses, vacant land, commercial, residential. You name
it. Not good to have all your eggs in one basket. The key is to buy well under
market price to minimize risk. Instant equity…”
Megan’s gaze swept the table. Next to Mr Ginger Moustache, whose
place tag actually named him as Robert, sat Nick, a square-jawed man with
dark-rimmed spectacles. Thanks to Brenda switching place tags, Nick had to be
content sitting between two males. He was looking off into the distance, his
thoughts obviously further afield than the immediate table. Adam, a
hollow-cheeked pasty-faced man sporting a dark goatee beard was deep in
conversation with Kate who was seated at the end. The boy-girl pattern
continued as it was meant to around the table.
“…investment. You have to have the gift.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Megan caught Brenda smirking. Under
the cover of the tablecloth, she kicked her foot sideways and connected with
her friend’s ankle. Brenda chuckled before wincing in overplayed mock pain and
indignation.
A giggle bubbled in Megan’s throat. She swallowed hard. The guy with
the spectacles was looking her way, a smile playing on his lips. Heat flooded
her face. What the hell was she doing there?
Shielded by her menu, Megan leaned to her left and elbowed Brenda in
the ribs. Her so-called best friend had cajoled her into signing up with Dinner
for Twelve with the ruse that she needed her support. Had Megan believed her?
Of course not. Brenda was the last person who needed any help finding a date.
Men literally fell over each other in their efforts to impress her. Discounting
the permanent mischievous glint in her eyes, Brenda had the face of an angel
and the type of body those tiny midriff tops and low-rise jeans were
specifically designed for.
More importantly, she exuded a warmth that men and women alike were
drawn to. They’d been friends since high school and Megan, like others, found
her hard to resist. So, here she was in a room full of strangers trying to put
together an escape strategy that wouldn’t offend her well-intentioned friend.
Oblivious to the elbow jabbed in her ribs, Brenda turned to Megan
and grinned. Brenda actually looked like she was enjoying herself. No
accounting for some tastes. “Hunk alert at nine o’clock.”
“What?”
Brenda cupped her hand around the left side of her face. “Over
there,” she said, holding a finger close to her cheek, but still managing to
indicate the general direction of the door.
Twisting in her seat, Megan watched the man ambling across the room
towards the table. At first glance, he reminded her of a younger and
darker-haired version of David Bowie. But as he neared the table, she saw he
didn’t possess the relaxed raffish air of the singer. Quite the opposite. He
looked nervous and unsure of himself, like a five-year-old boy on his first day
at school.
He reached the table and, smiling half-heartedly, moved to step
around it to one of the two vacant chairs at the back. Megan glanced at the
place tag. Lawson. The name appealed to her, but she would’ve expected it to be
attached to a man who carried himself with more confidence, arrogance even.
In her peripheral vision, she glimpsed Brenda stretching an arm across
the table in the act of swapping her place tag with the one at the still vacant
chair, the one next to Lawson. Just as Megan grabbed Brenda's arm, Pauline
Meyer, Dinner for Twelve’s owner-manager, arrived on the scene. With her hands
resting on the vacant chair’s back, she surveyed the table and frowned. The
rearranged place tags had not gone unnoticed.
With an almost imperceptible shake of the head, Pauline pulled the
chair out and settled herself at the top of the table. Now it was Megan’s turn
to frown. Surely this wasn’t standard practice. Did Pauline attend all the
dinners?
No one had uttered a word since Lawson and Pauline had arrived. It
was as if a spell had been cast and they had all been struck dumb. That suited
Megan. As far as she was concerned, the less blather the better. And she wished
that the man with the moustache would stop gawking at her. He sent chills up
her spine. She was definitely in the wrong place. This was the first time she’d
contemplated, let alone carried through, anything remotely like dinner dating,
and it would be the last, Brenda or no Brenda.
A waitress, her notepad and pen poised, appeared at the table
corner. The bored, deadpan expression on her face turned to irritation when she
realized no one was ready to order. With an audible sigh, she turned and left.
Megan empathized with her, but at least the waitress was being paid for her
efforts.
She turned her attention to the menu in her hands. On cue, her
stomach growled. She’d skipped lunch, expecting that dinner would more than
make up for the missed sandwich.
By the time the waitress returned, taking orders as she worked her
way around the table, Megan decided to bypass the entrée course, sample the
uninspiring sounding Cajun chicken dish, and treat herself to something
chocolate and decadent for dessert. At least that way she had something to look
forward to.
Without the menu to act as a shield, she suddenly felt vulnerable.
She shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, plucking at the fabric at her
waistline. The clingy dress accentuated bumps she would’ve much rather hidden.
It was just another of Brenda’s bright ideas. According to her, black was
supposed to be slimming. Megan would’ve felt far more at ease in the tailored
suits she was accustomed to. One day she would learn how to say no.
Dropping her hands into her lap, she lifted her head and
straightened her back. Then, with more enthusiasm than she actually felt, she
scanned the faces of her dinner companions, smiling and nodding as her gaze met
each of his or hers in turn. She raised her glass of wine and was about to
propose a toast – anything to break the ice – when all heads swiveled in unison
in the direction of the large double doors that led into the room. Biting her
bottom lip, Megan managed to suppress the chuckle welling in her throat. Her
dinner companions, especially the males, reminded her of the old laughing
clowns sideshow attraction with round gaping mouths. Her eyes automatically
followed their stares, but she made sure she kept her mouth firmly closed.
The woman sashaying across the polished wooden floorboards, although
diminutive in stature, would never go unnoticed. She teetered atop high heels,
the muscles in her bare, slender calves elongating in her effort to stay
upright. With every step, the thigh-high split in her black skirt flashed a
provocative patch of naked skin. And if that weren’t enough for the poor
love-starved – or rather sex-starved – men desperate enough to join a dating
agency, there was the plunging neckline that almost reached her navel.
As she neared the table, the newcomer tilted her head and pursed her
ruby-red lips into a coquettish smile, before glancing at Lawson from beneath
her dark eyelashes. Even in the low light the effect was dramatic. Lawson
immediately blushed, a small smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. He
lowered his gaze to the tabletop and twiddled with the stem of his wine glass.
Mata Hari, as Megan mentally christened the raven-haired woman,
skimmed past Pauline to the vacant chair next to Lawson. Before she took her
place at the table, Mata Hari laid her hand on Lawson’s shoulder, bending down
to whisper into his ear. Her lips couldn’t have been any closer to his ear
without touching. If Lawson had been red before, he was now positively glowing.
Megan shook her head. The depths some women would sink to never
ceased to amaze her. But then it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps they
already knew each other, that this wasn’t their first meeting. But if that were
the case, what were they doing at a dinner meant for singles? Her eyes dropped
to the place tag reserving Mata Hari’s spot at the table and read “Linda.”
Quite a letdown after Mata Hari. Linda and Lawson? They say opposites attract.
She lifted her eyes from the place tag only to meet Mata Hari’s, or rather
Linda’s, amused gaze. It was now Megan’s turn to blush.
“Linda. Linda Nichols.”
Megan accepted the hand extended across the table. “Hi Linda. I’m
Megan Brighton.” She extracted her hand, and gestured to her left. “And this is
my friend Brenda.”
At the mention of her name, Brenda immediately snapped out of her
trance and nodded across the table. “Brenda De Luca. Is this your first time?”
Her eyes shifted slightly to the left. “And you, Lawson? Is this your first
time?”
Megan gave a small frown. Her friend was never one to be shy, but
even she was taken aback by Brenda’s bluntness. However, she waited in
anticipation for their answers.
“Sadly, no. Mr Right has yet to sweep me off my feet,” Linda said
with a light tinkly laugh. “But maybe,” she paused, running a long manicured
fingernail down Lawson’s shirtsleeve, “tonight’s my lucky night.”
It was at that moment Pauline interjected. “Lawson, there’s some
people I’d like you to meet.” She tapped his hand, pushed her chair back and
rose to her feet. “Come with me.” With a smug grin, she turned to the table.
“Carry on. We’ll be back shortly.”
Megan sympathized with the clearly bewildered man. How could she
not? Except for ordering his dinner, and that’d been done in not much more than
a whisper, Lawson had not uttered one word. Pulled in all directions, he
appeared powerless to do anything about it.
Pauline had Lawson’s elbow firmly in her grip as she propelled him
in the direction of the foyer. The woman in all her wisdom might have
considered it a rescue mission on her part, but Lawson obviously didn’t see it
that way. He kept glancing over his shoulder back at the table. The drooping
jaw, twisted mouth and wide eyes spoke volumes. He really had no idea what was
happening.
As Pauline and Lawson disappeared from sight, Megan turned to
Brenda. “Poor bugger. When I first saw him, I was mystified why someone with
looks like that would need a dating agency. But he’s just so painfully shy.”
Megan picked up her wine and took a tentative sip, swilling it around her mouth.
Brenda flicked her eyes in Linda’s direction. “Doesn’t help when you
have women like her digging their claws in,” she hissed under her breath.
Megan nearly choked on her drink. She glanced at Linda who,
oblivious to Brenda’s catty comment, was using all her wiles on Mr Ginger
Moustache. He was lapping up the attention, his eyes focused on her cleavage.
That suited Megan fine. If he was salivating over Mata Hari, he wouldn’t be
bothering her. Taking another mouthful of wine, she wondered again about what had
possessed her to sign up with a dinner dating agency.
The time between ordering dinner and the first courses coming out
was taking forever. Megan had drunk more wine than she should’ve on an empty
stomach and now started to feel a little light-headed. And besides, she really
needed to pee. Wayne was still talking flat out, plainly unaware he’d lost her
attention way back. She doubted he had stopped long enough to take a breath.
“…bridging finance. Turned it over in three months and invested the
proceeds—”
“Sorry, Wayne…” Megan gathered up her handbag and pushed her chair
back. “You’ll have to excuse me.” Not waiting for a response, she bolted for
the ladies’ toilets.
She’d just stepped into the quiet and still of the white-tiled
restroom when Brenda came barreling after her, swinging the door so hard it
connected with the doorstop with an almighty crash.
Megan made a beeline for the nearest cubicle without a second
thought for her friend’s dramatic entrance. It didn’t surprise her; Brenda
swept through life like a hurricane. Just watching her was enough to exhaust
Megan. Keeping up with her was certainly out of the question.
“Thought you could make a quick getaway without me noticing, eh?”
Brenda’s cheeky laughter reverberated around the room. “No such luck, girlfriend.”
“How did I let you talk me into this again?” Not waiting for a
reply, Megan stepped into the cubicle and snibbed the door behind her.
“It was easy.” More laughter followed.
“Yeah, I know. I’m a real sucker for a sob story. You’d have thought
I’d have learnt by now.”
Brenda continued, making no effort to conceal her mirth. “It wasn’t
a sob story. I don’t want to be single all my life, and I really do need my
best friend for moral support.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll believe you but thousands wouldn’t.” Megan
pressed her lips together in a flimsy attempt to stop herself laughing.
As she emerged from the cubicle, Brenda looked at her with an
overacted innocence, her eyes wide.
Megan shook her head and laughed. “Well, at least life is never
boring with you around.” She rinsed the soap from her hands under the tap, and
flicked the excess water off before turning to Brenda. “But that doesn’t mean
I’m going to let you hook me up with any of those desperadoes.”