‘Rory,’ he asked, ‘have you seen Luke? He disappeared off a few minutes ago and I need him for a mail-out.’
‘Oh,’ I said innocently, ‘I thought I saw him heading towards the stationery cupboard.’
Two minutes later there was a roar of horror from down the corridor. Shortly after that Luke ran past my office pulling his trousers up. And ten minutes after that his work-experience placement
was terminated for good.
As the days passed, I failed to hear from any of the supposedly unsuitable men I’d emailed. More profiles appeared in the Close Match section. Malky did not get in touch
– I tried to tell myself that he would have called if only he’d had my number, but who was I kidding? The only unsuitable man who had seemed to have any kind of potential for
suitability had run screaming from my home just like his dog. If this were my own love life, to live as I chose, I would have given up at this point. After all, wasn’t there a whole school of
thought that said being single was a rite of passage for women? That a period outside relationships was all about finding your own identity? It was the sort of thing that Auntie Lyd went on about
constantly: that no woman could truly say she knew herself unless she had spent a significant amount of time on her own. Perhaps Auntie Lyd’s often alarming confidence in her own opinions was
a result of that very independence from someone else’s influence throughout most of her adult life. And yet she’d been so encouraging about my dating unsuitable men. Probably only so
that they would act as a vaccine against the truly unsuitable: that the small doses of bad boys would inoculate me from properly falling for the really terrible ones. Or just put me off men
altogether, I thought, which Auntie Lyd would probably also support.
But I couldn’t give up yet – my column about Malky was about to run and I needed a new date soon. So it was with some relief that, after a week, I finally received an email from
Sebastian the war correspondent. I had suggested in my message to him that we might find something in common due to our journalistic backgrounds – I didn’t think it was necessary at
this stage to let him know that I worked for
Country House
. I would reveal this if it seemed appropriate, much as, I imagined, he would remove his hat to reveal his lack of hair when he felt
it was appropriate. He apologized for failing to reply sooner; he had been testifying at a war-crimes tribunal in The Hague. Like many somewhat shallow people, I was fascinated by anyone who
dedicated their life to issues with real meaning and importance, although I preferred my social conscience to express itself with a remote and hygienic direct debit to Save the Children. Sebastian
could not have impressed me more unless he had revealed that he had personally saved a bunch of orphaned children, Angelina Jolie-style.
He suggested we met on Thursday night outside Covent Garden tube station, and it was immediately clear to me by his innocent plan (I was looking out for discrepancies, of course, anticipating
that all internet daters were lying about something; possibly everything) that he had been telling the truth about being out of the country for years. It felt unkind to overrule Sebastian’s
chosen meeting place, which had most likely been made with good intentions as I had mentioned that I worked nearby, so instead I agreed, specifying the exact spot in which we should meet, to ensure
minimal awkwardness in finding each other. I had no desire to trawl through the crowds accosting any tall, hat-wearing man.
Thursday night was, it turned out, bitterly, bitterly cold and rainy, which made meeting outside any tube station a miserable prospect, but it hardly seemed to diminish the crowds outside Covent
Garden. The expectant horde was wrapped up against the harsh weather and every single man who passed the lit-up windows of Oasis was either wearing a hat or hidden by an umbrella. I pressed myself
against the window under the smallest of awnings, and looked around me for anyone who might be Sebastian. I was suddenly much too aware of how my face might look to a stranger, and not quite sure
how to arrange it – too friendly and approachable and I might attract the attention of random nutters or, worse, the charity muggers who hovered on the fringes of the crowd picking off the
vulnerable and signing them up to direct debits (how do you think I got that Save the Children one in the first place?). Too unapproachable and I might scare off the very man I was here to meet.
Although, thinking about it, a man who had faced down warlords and similar was unlikely to be frightened by a frowning female journalist of five foot five.
I was still composing my face when a gloved hand touched my arm and a voice asked, ‘Rory?’
‘Sebastian?’ I asked, staring up into a pair of pale-blue eyes, made even paler by the contrast with his darkly tanned face. He had the fair eyelashes of someone who has spent a lot
of time in the sun; I imagined that if he had any hair (he was wearing a hat, of course) it would be bleached to the same whiteness. By the weather, I mean: we are talking rugged and outdoorsy
here, not Jim-style artificiality.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said, ducking under the awning next to me and regarding me with his grave blue stare. ‘Thanks for showing up.’
‘Of course I’m here,’ I laughed. ‘Have you been stood up before?’
‘I’m used to disappointment,’ he said, looking around him with narrowed eyes as if he expected an attack to come from somewhere in the direction of Neal Street. Perhaps he knew
about the chuggers.
‘I don’t expect you’re used to this weather, are you? If you’ve been out in Darfur, I mean,’ I said, shivering in the doorway but not wanting to be pushy and ask
where we were going yet.
He looked down at me, his eyes still narrowed. ‘You’ve obviously never experienced a Kosovan winter.’
‘No – er, no I haven’t. Gosh, no,’ I said, feeling irrelevant and idiotic. I should have realized he was not going to be one for small talk. His mind was probably on much
deeper subjects.
‘This is nothing,’ he said darkly. ‘Nothing.’
I could see that we could be here for some time discussing the relative harshness of winters across Europe. Perhaps Sebastian was so used to the Kosovan cold that it meant nothing to him to
stand here in the rain, but personally I wanted a drink and somewhere warm to sit.
‘Did you have somewhere in mind for us to go?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Somewhere in mind?’
‘For a drink,’ I said, feeling as if I was speaking a foreign language. I began to wonder if Sebastian had ever been on a date before, or if he just usually tumbled into bed with
hard-drinking, combat-wearing female correspondents to a soundtrack of distant gunshots. I understood a lack of interest in small talk, but was my question really so confusing? Surely he knew that
most dates were conducted indoors, especially on a rainy March evening?
He looked around him again and his lip curled. ‘This isn’t really my usual scene,’ he said. ‘You work near here, don’t you? Where do you think?’
Immensely reassured at being given a role to fulfil, I led him through the crowds on Neal Street to the pub on the corner of Shelton Street, but before we’d even opened the door I could
see it was hopeless. Just a look through the brightly lit window showed that it was packed; there would be nowhere to sit. Sebastian’s tanned face already wore an expression of deep
weariness. I couldn’t see him being happy wedged into a corner of the bar with our coats and bags squashed by our feet. He sighed behind me as I declared we’d have to go somewhere else.
I began to panic. What was I thinking, dragging this noble and principled man, exhausted from a trial at The Hague, on a fruitless and frivolous attempt to find an empty pub on a Thursday night?
Everywhere was going to be packed.
I flicked through my mental Rolodex of possibilities and suddenly recalled that Jeremy Wells’s L’Ecluse, Lysander’s favoured restaurant, was just around the corner. Of course
it was far too expensive a place to go for supper but, instructed by Ticky that a first internet date should last no longer than two hours, I had already told Sebastian I was meeting friends for a
meal at eight-thirty. Even I could afford a couple of drinks in the upstairs bar, which, because it was invisible from the street and accessible only by a lift from the back of the restaurant, was
quiet in that expensive-hotel-bar sort of way. I’d only been once before, but it seemed perfect: secluded and grown-up and with, I was sure, enough seats for several convoys of war
correspondents.
Sebastian shrugged assent to my suggestion and we hurried across Seven Dials with our heads down to escape the icy sting of the rain driving into our faces. I risked a painful face/sleet
interface to note with approval that he was at least as tall as he had claimed to be; in fact I had to add in a slightly embarrassing little skip every few paces to keep up with his long strides.
As we approached L’Ecluse, a doorman swung open the door in welcome and we were ushered in.
I had forgotten how starkly modernist the reception area of L’Ecluse was: all white marble and artfully arranged orchids, with a phalanx of stunning greeters standing behind a desk. The
doorman led us towards them before retreating back to his place at the entrance. I smiled at the nearest greeter.
‘Hello, we were just hoping for a drink at the bar, please,’ I said.
‘Certainly, madam, sir. Shall we take your coats?’
Another greeter appeared behind us and as she tried to help Sebastian out of his coat he visibly flinched. I expected in his line of work you learned to be suspicious of the unanticipated
rearguard approach, but he relinquished his coat without a struggle once he realized she wasn’t about to attack him.
A third greeter glided across the marble floor and asked us to follow her to the lift. As she led us through the restaurant Sebastian looked around as if he was being hunted. The restaurant was
quiet so early in the evening, so unless he feared one of the waiters might fly at him with a corkscrew, I thought he was probably safe. I hoped he would be able to relax once we’d passed
through the danger zone and sat down with a drink. The greeter called the lift and we rode up one floor in silence, trying to avoid catching each other’s eyes in the mirrored walls. Sebastian
shifted uncomfortably next to me. He audibly huffed as another greeter appeared to lead us out of the lift.
‘Christ, how many people does it take to get a drink around here?’
‘I know,’ I laughed nervously; it was a bit excessive, and I knew the more staff the higher the bar bill, but it seemed a small price to pay for somewhere warm to sit on a busy night
in the middle of London.
At last we were settled in a red velvet banquette with disconcertingly womb-like plush padded walls. In contrast to the harsh minimalist reception, the upstairs bar was like an opulent opium
den. There were curtains and swags and cushions and carpets, and vases of exotic flowers, all phallic thrusting stamens, that hid yet more hovering and attentive staff. Although there were a few
other people in the bar, the effect of the acres of fabric was to hush everything apart from the tinkling sound of the barman mixing drinks over in the corner. Finally, I thought, running my
fingers through my hat-squashed hair, we can relax. Then I saw Sebastian’s face. He stared about the room as if contemplating a horrific massacre. Perhaps it was all the red giving him
flashbacks of bloodied scenes? When the waiter handed him a drinks menu he actually jumped clear out of his seat.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked him.
He turned his pale eyes on me and they looked strangely flat in the dim light of the bar. ‘I just really hate social injustice,’ he said.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. I mean, I hate social injustice, too – who doesn’t? Maybe some evil dictators or scarily right-wing aristocrats are fans, but surely most
fair-minded people hate social injustice. And yet the way Sebastian had said it was almost an accusation; as if social injustice was something I was directly involved in perpetrating. As if I had
brought him to this very bar to perpetrate it.
‘Mmm,’ I said, dropping my eyes to the drinks menu in a panic. ‘Me too.’
‘I mean, I really hate it,’ he persisted, still staring at me, and I feared that yet again my stupid name had led someone to believe I was a card-carrying posh person with a
background of debutante balls and riding my pony into crowds of the dispossessed, brandishing a riding crop. I should have taken us to the pub after all; I should have realized that a war
correspondent was never going to be comfortable somewhere like this. And nor, frankly, was I.
Sebastian glared around the room, his weather-beaten face contorted into a sneer. ‘This kind of place makes me – I don’t know. Look at everyone. It just makes me want to get
out a gun and mow everyone down.’
I think it was probably at this point that I realized, despite initial appearances, that I was definitely on a date with another unsuitable man. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I was
saved from replying by the appearance of another waiter – not the same one who had given us the drinks menus, of course, that would have been ridiculous.
‘I’ll have a beer,’ said Sebastian, snapping shut his drinks menu and slamming it on to the table.
‘What kind of beer, sir?’ asked the waiter, his pen hovering over the pad. ‘We have Tsingtao, Asahi—’
I could see he was about to launch into a full list of all beer-related beverages that would no doubt infuriate Sebastian further, but Sebastian interrupted him before he could go any further:
‘A beer. In a bottle. Thank you.’
‘Madam?’ said the waiter, turning to me with only the smallest flicker of a reaction to Sebastian’s harsh interruption. ‘May I suggest the cocktail of the day? A muddle
of raspberry liqueur—’
‘Ooh, lovely, yes please,’ I gushed, far too enthusiastically, desperate to make up for Sebastian’s rudeness, and also entirely unable in my discomfort to make a choice from a
drinks menu that contained as many pages as the
Country House
Classifieds section.
Sebastian kept his hat on and, I noticed, had placed himself with his back to the wall to protect himself from rogue greeters and staff.