Читать книгу The Dating Game - Avril Tremayne - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

‘I see,’ David said—so calmly, Sarah wondered what it would take to freak him out. A zombie apocalypse?

‘You said you’d do whatever I wanted, and that’s what I want.’

‘The thing is, my experience of curse breaking is a trifle limited. What are we talking about? Stealing nail clippings? Burning hair? Sticking pins in effigies? Dancing around cauldrons? Eye of newt and toe of frog? That kind of thing?’

She laughed—couldn’t help it. ‘Not quite that.’

‘You relieve my mind.’

‘More White Knight Syndrome, less black magic.’

‘So, I’m saving you.’

‘Yes.’

‘From what?’

‘Spinsterhood.’

‘You want to get married?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘In that case, there’s a problem,’ he said, all apologetic. ‘I’m not the marrying kind. It’s a been-there-done-that kind of thing for me.’

Sarah stared at him for a moment, not comprehending. And then: ‘Oh, I don’t want to marry you. No, no, no, no!’

‘No?’

‘No! Aside from anything else, I couldn’t do that to Lane.’

‘I’m very slow this evening, it seems. So let’s leave Lane out of where she doesn’t belong, and perhaps you could simply give me the specifics of what you want me to do.’

‘Okay, specifically, I want you to analyse why I keep getting dumped, and teach me how to stop getting dumped.’

‘Getting dumped is the curse I have to break?’

‘Yes. Tonight was the straw that broke the camel’s back.’

‘You got dumped tonight?’

‘It’s why I was crying. Although I wasn’t crying over him, you understand.’

‘Of course not.’

‘It’s just that the time frame from the start of a relationship to the finish is shrinking. It used to happen at the three-week mark, and that was bad enough! Really, really bad enough. But then three weeks became two, and two weeks became one, and now this last one? Six days. Six discouraging, disappointing, depressing days! How much abbreviation can a girl take? Soon I’ll be the one-night stand girl, and I will die if that happens!’

‘I can see how dying after a one-night stand would make marriage difficult, but I’m not sure a divorced man is the advocate you need.’

‘I regard the fact you’ve been married as valuable augmentary experience. It gives you an extra insight.’

‘Oh, I’ve got insight into marriage all right.’

‘And into women. I mean, you know a lot about women, don’t you?’

‘There’s no way I can answer that without sounding like an egomaniac.’

She giggled. ‘You do know using the word “egomaniac” unprompted in association with yourself on that subject basically gives the game away, don’t you?’

‘Damn, you got me. Yes, I’m an egomaniac, a boaster, a narcissist.’ He gave a what-can-I-say? shrug. ‘And I do, in fact, know women.’

‘I’ll bet you know men, too.’

‘Not in the biblical sense, I assure you.’

‘Stop making me laugh! I mean you know what men like when it comes to women.’

‘Thank God! I thought you were going to start talking about facials and eyelash tints again.’

‘Not all gay guys do that stuff, you know, and not all straight guys don’t. Talk about stereotyping! But if I promise not to ever mention your eyelashes again, will you help me?’

‘Will you let me paint you?’

‘I’ll even pose naked—that’s how desperate I am.’

‘Naked will not be required.’

‘Okay, not naked. To tell you the truth, that’s a relief.’ She leaned towards him and lowered her voice, despite them being the only two people in the room. ‘I’m not what you’d call Rubenesque.’

He leaned in too. ‘That’s okay—I’m not Rubens. Nevertheless, I’d prefer you to keep your clothes on.’

She straightened and thrust out her hand. ‘Then we have a deal?’

He took her hand, but instead of shaking it he turned it palm up, examining it as he rubbed his thumb across the base of her fingers. ‘The only mistake you’re making is choosing the wrong guys. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘There can’t be that many wrong guys in the world,’ she said, and peered at her palm. What was so interesting about it? Nothing that she could see, although something about the movement of his thumb was disturbing. So much so, she found her fingers curling up over his thumb to stop it.

‘I’m starting to think there are a lot of very stupid ones,’ he said softly.

‘I suppose you’ve never been dumped,’ she said.

‘Kelly Greaves when I was fifteen. Janet Clarke when I was … How old was I? Eighteen? Yes, eighteen. And then …’ He trailed off.

‘And then?’

He let go of her hand. ‘Rebel, when I was twenty-five.’

‘Rebel …’ Sarah realized she still had her hand held out, and dropped it, rubbing it surreptitiously against her thigh to try and stop its strange prickling. ‘Unusual name.’

‘Unusual woman.’

‘What about Margaret, who says you’re so “nice”? Because you know “nice” is how they describe you right before they dump you.’

‘Margaret and I weren’t a dumping in either direction. We were a parting of the ways—or in today’s parlance, a conscious uncoupling.’

‘So basically you’ve been dumped three times in your whole life, whereas I’ve been dumped three times in the past two months?’

‘Er …’

‘Really?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, let me tell you something: it’s no fun. I’ve been dumped in person, over the phone, in quiet corners, at large gatherings, at home, from abroad, and now by text.’

‘Text?’

‘Text! Next time it happens, I’ll probably find out via Facebook. And if that happens, I’ll be entering a nunnery and taking a vow of silence.’

‘Yeah, I think the vow of silence might actually kill you.’

‘And how will you live with that on your conscience, knowing you could have helped me to— Wait! What? Are you saying I talk too much?’

‘Weeeell …’

Long, staring moment. ‘Oh my God, you’re right, I do! You know, Adam’s tried to tell me that but he’s my brother so it doesn’t count. The truth is, though, that I even talked to Clarence—’ gesturing to the bronze head on the shelf ‘—when I was in here on my own.’ She beamed at David, delighted. ‘See? You’re already helping me! I believe you when you say I talk too much!’

He started laughing. He was also shaking his head.

‘Please, David, help me.’

He looked down into her face, and the laughter faded. He lifted his hand, touched his index finger to her right eyebrow, tracing it all the way down to the little black dot at the end. Half-laugh, half-sigh. ‘What the hell.’

‘You mean you’ll do it?’

‘I’ll do it. Sign me up.’

Squealing, she launched herself at him.

David stiffened as her arms came around him, but it was only for a fraction of a second—and then his arms were circling her, tightening, bringing her harder against him. She heard, felt, him breathe in once, deeply, then slowly out. She became aware of the scratch of his jacket against her cheek. A waft of scent, dark and unsafe. A flood of warmth transferring from him to her. And then, the other feeling, the hardness of him against her belly.

The shock of it had her arching into him, head tipping back, eyes colliding with his—only where hers, she just knew, were wide and awed, his were narrowed and watchful, as though gauging her reaction to him. The alertness of that look, while she’d been all about the heat and sensation, reminded her that David Bennett was a man who knew women very, very well. She’d have to be on her guard. The plan was to use him, not fall for him.

‘Right, then,’ she said, pulling out of his arms and readjusting the strap of her now slightly squashed evening bag. ‘That’s a perfect example of something that needs to be fixed. The way I flew at you just then. Too impulsive.’

‘Really? Because I kind of liked it.’

‘Yes, I could tell,’ she said dryly.

‘You sure I can’t persuade you to have sex with me instead of all this other stuff?’

‘Tempted as I am, sex isn’t that missing ingredient you promised to get for me. I can use you much more effectively as my … What would you call it? My male girlfriend?’

‘Er … no. Do not use the word “girlfriend” to describe me!’

‘For a man who doesn’t look like he’d have any insecurities about his sexuality, you really are touchy.’

‘Keep mining that vein and I’ll be forced to prove that I certainly don’t have any insecurities in that area. And very few inhibitions if it comes to that.’

‘Fine. If you’re going to be super sensitive about it, how about wingman?’

‘Better.’

‘So, wingman, back to the way I flew at you a minute ago. You need to train me out of being so impetuous, or at least help me camouflage it.’ She pursed her lips, looking him up and down. ‘I need a little bit of what you’ve got going on yourself.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘Ennui. It’s quite irresistible to women, as I’m sure you know.’

‘Ennui?’

‘A languorous kind of world-weariness. It’s like you’re chronically bored, and yet amused at the same time. Probably by all of us poor fools trying to be the one to shock you out of your ennui.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’m bored at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘And I urge you not to try to shock me out of whatever it is I am. It won’t work.’

‘Yes, I like that about you. Your unshockability.’

‘On the other hand, I might shock you.’

‘Oh, I’m quite sure you will, and I’m looking forward to it. I don’t get shocked nearly enough to suit me.’

‘I hope you still feel that way when I say something that makes you furious. I don’t want you stalking off in a snit when I’m only doing what you asked me to.’

‘I generally don’t stalk off in a snit.’

‘And no punching, slapping, kicking or stabbing me, either.’

‘No punching, slapping, kicking, stabbing,’ she said, giggling at the absurdity of it. ‘Should I be writing these down? I mean, is it going to turn into some giant manifesto?’

‘Depends how hopeless a case you are. Which reminds me—how long is it going to take? We need to set a time limit. Because I’m warning you now, I’m not hanging around for ever to walk you down the aisle.’

‘For one thing, I have a father for that. For another, I don’t want to get married right this second. Marriage is a longer-term goal. For now, I’ll be happy to have a relationship that lasts longer than three weeks. Three weeks and one day will suffice.’

‘Three weeks and one day from when? First date? First kiss? First sexual encounter?’

‘Three weeks and one day from … the first date, I think. How will that fit with your painting?’

‘That’ll work. Let’s aim for mutual satisfaction in six weeks’ time. My painting will be finished by then, and if you haven’t already nailed your guy, you’ll at least be on your way to relationship bliss. Does that sound fair?’

‘Sounds very fair.’

‘We’ll meet every Wednesday at my apartment—say, 8:00 p.m. You’ll pose, and I’ll simultaneously preach at you while dissecting your dating efforts. But since we’re both here now, I’ll do a bonus round for you and start my expert tutelage straight away. Here’s something for the manifesto: how to deal with guys who dump girls by text message. Unlock your phone and hand it over so I can respond to that text. And if I find you’ve already sent something mealy-mouthed, I’m going to … Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but it won’t be pleasant.’

‘I don’t generally do mealy-mouthed,’ she said, digging around in her evening bag. ‘In fact, there was a guy—DeWayne Callaghan, if you ever come across him, feel free to spit on him—who wrote something disgusting about Lane on Facebook once, and I favoured him with such an excoriating critique of his post he was begging for mercy within a minute—sadly, before I had the chance to raise the subject of his own critical failing.’

He was regarding her with a fascinated eye. ‘Which was …?’

‘Premature ejaculation, and how I would have loved to share that all over social media,’ she said, then sighed as she brought out the phone. ‘Ah well, lost opportunities.’

‘Good to know that premature ejaculation is not excused,’ David said, through twitching lips.

‘Nevertheless, I’ll delete what I started so you have a clean slate to work with. Aaaand … here.’ She passed the phone to David. ‘What are you going to say?’

‘I need to read his message first.’ He looked down at the phone. ‘Good God! Lusty Liam? Really?’

‘A misnomer, as it turns out, because he was not lusty. More like Lousy Liam, to be brutally honest. Mind you, there was a Randy Rob who wasn’t randy and a Sexy Sam who wasn’t sexy, as well as a—’

‘Spare me! No, I mean it, spare me!’ He dipped his head and read the message. Shook his head. ‘Good Lord, you really can pick ’em.’

‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.’

‘Don’t worry, bluebell, if there’s a guy out there for you, we’ll find him.’

‘Bluebell?’

‘Would you prefer rhododendron? What about hydrangea? Agapanthus?’

‘Fine!’ she surrendered, laughing. ‘Bluebell it is.’

‘It’s an eye thing. They’re that colour.’

‘What do I call you, then?’ She peered into his eyes. ‘What colour are your eyes?’

‘Bluebell is taken, aside from being way too girly—and remember, do not mention my eyelashes.’

‘Yes your eyes are very blue,’ she said, but as she looked more closely, more intently, she saw they were the most amazingly dark, swirling, drowning indigo. And something about them, framed in those dark lashes and staring right at her, made her heart do a butterfly-like flutter in her chest.

‘They’re the colour of a bruise,’ David said, looking away from her suddenly. ‘So you can call me Bruiser—a good alpha male name.’

‘Alpha? A-ha.’

‘Remember, my eyelashes are not tinted, brat.’

‘But it’s not very romantic. Bruiser.’

‘Neither am I—just for the record. Now come on, it’s time to text.’

‘What am I going to say?’

‘Depends.’

‘On …?’

‘What he means by the “cultural divide” he says is between you. Is he from overseas? Different religion? A lot older? Surely not younger—you only look sixteen yourself.’

‘I’m twenty-four, thank you. And he’s twenty-eight, which is in perfect proportion. Plus he’s agnostic. And he’s lived all his life here in Sydney, except for three months in Tokyo.’

‘Then I don’t get it.’

‘He means cultural as in him liking foie gras while I love pizza. Him being a Moby Dick kind of guy, whereas I’m crazy about Agatha Christie. The fact that he’s an opera buff, but I’m into pop music. I wear a terry towelling dressing gown, and he has a really short kimono, or whatever you call that thing that’s like a kimono only not as fancy. A bit like a— What’s funny?’

‘Oh God, the vision in my head!’ David choked out. ‘He wears a yukata? A mini yukata?’

‘Is that what it’s called?’

‘Yep. And I’m guessing that’s his way of pretending he knows all about Japanese culture because he lived in Tokyo for a few months when he probably knows squat.’ He started laughing again, and that set Sarah off too. He tried to take a breath, failed, tried again and managed it. ‘Sorry.’ Another quick breath. One more. ‘Okay, I think I’ve got it under control—now you get it together, or I’ll start laughing again.’

‘Okay,’ she managed, in a strangulated wheeze of a voice.

‘Sarah!’

‘Sorry.’ Choke, breath, choke, deep breath. ‘Right. Fine, I’m fine.’

‘So that ludicrous message of his is basically saying you’re not cultured enough for him?’

‘To be fair, he has a point,’ she admitted. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I read literary novels, just not only literary novels. I always dress perfectly for any occasion, I know what cutlery to use, chew with my mouth closed, and can hold my own in just about any conversation—I work in PR and events and have a huge range of clients, so that’s kind of mandatory. But I certainly have what you might call unsophisticated tastes.’ She grimaced. ‘You should have seen Adam’s face when I asked him to add Coke to one of his precious single-malt whiskies.’

David’s eyes were heading into fascination territory again.

‘Anyway,’ she went on decisively, ‘it’s now your job to make me worldly.’

‘If you want to present yourself to the world as a foie gras-scoffing, single malt-swilling opera lover, then yes, I can help you pretend to be that. But there are plenty of pizza-loving Agatha Christie readers out there we can target instead.’

‘Have you ever read a book by Agatha Christie?’

‘No, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t.’

‘Ha! You wouldn’t.’

‘Seriously, I would.’

‘Ha!’

‘Enough already with the “Ha!”’

‘So what do you like?’

‘I like pizza, same as you. I prefer wine over beer, cocktails and whisky, and blues over either opera or pop music. And most importantly, I do not wear a yukata and pretend to be Japanese. In fact, if you ever hear that I’ve been caught wearing a yukata outside of Japan, and a mini yukata anywhere on the planet, you’re to shoot me dead.’

‘Shoot you dead,’ she said, eyes brimming with laughter again. ‘Just don’t stab you.’

‘Brat! Still, knowing about the yukata and the foie gras makes the text reply easy.’ Ten seconds later, he was hitting ‘Send’.

‘That was quick!’ Sarah said. ‘What did you— No, what did I say?’

David held out the phone for her to take. The message was short.

Go fuck yourself

Sarah gazed at David in frank admiration. ‘I don’t swear—not when there are so many more fabulous words available—but I have to say, I like that.’ She looked down at her phone again. ‘That’s that bridge burned, then.’

‘Do you care, bluebell?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Good. Now, before we go any further, just for future reference, in the normal run of things you shouldn’t denigrate one guy’s sexual performance to another guy. That’s one for the manifesto.’ He frowned. ‘You know what? I’ll bet Loser Liam would call something a “manifesto”, so we’re going to go for something simpler. What about the rulebook?’

‘The rulebook. Done.’

‘And I hope you appreciate that I’m batting above the average here when it comes to the rules. We haven’t even left the room and you’re up three lessons.’

‘Are we really?’

‘Don’t talk your head off; no dissing a guy’s bed performance to other conquests; be as mean as you like when responding to break-up text messages,’ he said, holding up a finger per point. ‘And on that note, I’m going to block Lousy Lustless Liam, so hand over your phone again. And then I’m going to put my number in there, et cetera, et cetera.’ He busied himself with her phone, then used it to call his own number. ‘There, now I have your number too.’

‘Okay, so now what?’ Sarah asked, taking her phone.

‘Now, let’s get out there,’ he said. ‘I’m going to shadow you—not obviously, but I’ll be close enough to see what you’re up to. I want to see how you flirt. I’ll give you a sign when we’ve found the right guy for you to pick up.’

‘Oh, we’re starting now?’ She looked at the exit. ‘Out there? Together?’

‘We’re on a tight deadline, bluebell. No time to lose.’ He looked curiously at her when she didn’t move. ‘A few minutes ago you couldn’t wait to absquatulate. What’s the sudden problem?’

‘It occurs to me that I may have got carried away in here. With just you and me, it seemed easy. You have a way of …’ She trailed off, not quite brave enough to suggest he was a master manipulator. ‘Of putting women at ease.’ Nice save, if she said so herself. ‘But Lane and Adam are out there and that … changes things.’

‘Changes things how?’

‘I have no idea how they’ll interpret what’s going on with us.’

‘It’s straightforward. There’s nothing to interpret.’

‘Think of the relationship intricacies. What if Lane doesn’t end up with Adam? What if she decides she wants to pick up with you where she left off?’

‘I told you—past tense.’

‘But Adam won’t want me anywhere near you, regardless, if she dumps him. And he’s not exactly the most forgiving guy on the planet, so he might not want me anywhere near you even if she doesn’t dump him, now she’s waved you in his face like a red flag at a tank.’

‘I think you mean red flag at a bull.’

‘Trust me, I mean tank. And I don’t want to have to watch him kill you over something to do with me.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘And I know I’ll end up hating you if you hurt my brother—if you hurt him emotionally, I mean, because he’d wipe the floor with you physically.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’

‘I might end up hating Lane, too. And even though I want to slap her right now, I love Lane.’

‘So just wait it out for six weeks and don’t hate either of us until our time’s up. You won’t have to see me again and you can mop up the rest any way you want. I’ll even help you do it.’

Her hands dropped, and she regarded him with disbelief. ‘It doesn’t work like that with feelings. You hate people, you like them, you love them, but you do it unconsciously. Even if you’re ambivalent, it’s not something you decide, it just happens.’

‘In my experience, feelings can be controlled.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘I’ve seen it, first hand. In fact, I’m adding that topic to the rulebook—controlling one’s emotions. Meanwhile, bluebell, the choice is yours: confess all, or keep me a deep dark secret. Won’t bother me either way.’

‘How can I keep you a deep dark secret when they’ll see us together out there?’

‘They won’t see us together. Adam dragged Lane off in highly dramatic caveman style ages ago.’

‘What? No!’

‘Why so surprised?’

‘It’s just not him, to go caveman over a woman.’

‘I promise you, he was Grade A Neanderthal. Now don’t make me get all caveman and drag you out to the party.’ Pause, while he searched her face. ‘Are we good, bluebell? All I’m doing is painting you with your clothes on. It’s probably the most innocent thing I’ve done for nine years. Not worth any angst.’

He sounded almost bored. And Sarah felt suddenly, painfully gauche, to be thinking there was anything untoward in what they were doing.

‘We’re good, I guess,’ she said. ‘But I do want to keep it on the down low, at least for now. Until I figure out the … the ramifications, consequences, complications.’

‘Not that there should be any ramifications, consequences, complications, but okay, “the down low” it is. A phrase I never thought I’d hear coming out of my own mouth.’ He reached out a finger, flicked it carelessly against her cheek. ‘Now, let’s go and get you hooked up.’

Sarah smiled, but as they walked out of the storeroom, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d dived headfirst into dangerous seas; the shore of her old life was already receding, the undertow dragging her out of her depth.