Now that the words are out, a shaft of doubt drives through me. What if he chooses a meeting with Scarlett over me? I watch him closely. He is obviously surprised — I'd even go so far as to say shocked.
“What exactly do you mean by dinner?” His words are cautious.
“Food. In a restaurant. You and me. No one else.”
His eyes flare, and then his lopsided grin appears. “Let me get this straight,” he says. “You're asking me on a date?”
I squirm. The trick to dealing with Anders is always to have the upper hand, and somehow, I've lost it. “I'm asking if we can spend some time together outside of work, to see if we might get on well. Or not.”
“Okay,” he says. “But I have a couple of stipulations. One, I choose the restaurant. Two, I pay.”
I nod. He can have his alpha-male bullshit control freakery. Besides, if he picks the restaurant, I’m certainly not paying for it. Imagine if I got stuck with the bill for the tasting menu at a Michelin-starred place.
“Excellent. And Cora, can you block out my diary for Friday evening? Mark it as…” he pauses, eyes glinting, “'wedding planning'.”
I twist my lips to show my disapproval. “Keep that up and you'll be dining alone, my friend.”
I turn on my heel, leave his office, sit down at my computer, and block out his evening. I mark it:prostate exam.
I hear the exact moment he spots the calendar notification. His laugh is explosive.
Cora in Her Twenties
Anders is waiting for me. I can tell he hasn't been home to change. Although most of his clothes look identical, his black jeans have a rumpled look and his T-shirt bears the same logo as the one this morning. In a way, I'm glad of it as I'm still in my workwear. I took advantage of having no Effie to schedule a chiropractic appointment. I spend so long in front of a computer, my neck and spine always ache.
We look like two colleagues meeting for a drink after work and that’s good. No pressure. Except his eyes light up when he sees me, and his grin has everything to do with sex and mischief and nothing at all to do with company gossip.
The way he takes my hand when I'm close enough is a marker. This doesn't happen when we are at work. I must admit I like it. His hand is big and warm, and it swallows mine; his grip firm but gentle. My fingers seem to nestle inside his perfectly. And something weird is happening to me, as if every particle of my body is perking up and going:Oh, what's this?
I return his smile with one of my own, and suddenly there seems so much between us — so much on the table, far more than I had intended for this one first step. My tongue creeps out to lick my bottom lip and my teeth scrape back over it. It's a sign that I'm nervous. But I'm so close to Anders I can see his reaction in his eyes, and my body is screaming a new song:Sod the food, let's go and fuck.
Anders tugs me lightly forward, and before I know it, we've stepped over the threshold into the restaurant. The maître d' is hovering. He checks Anders's reservation before guiding us to a table for two.
The restaurant is dark-panelled, dimly lit by glittering crystal chandeliers. The chairs are velvet covered; the tables laid with white linen. It exudes elegance and discretion. This is not the place for business dinners or group parties, but for private tête-à-têtes and anniversary celebrations.
The ambience is unhurried and old-fashioned, reminiscent of the days before cars and computers. I take a breath and slow myself down, reminding myself we don't have to rush. We have all nightifI want it. Menus appear, and Anders and I suddenly find ourselves face-to-face outside of the work environment. I wonder if we'll find anything to talk about. All those first date icebreakers are useless. There's so much I already know about him. Hell, I even know his shoe size.
We wave away the drinks menus as both of us are driving and concentrate on choosing food. After the waiter has taken our orders, I ask, “Do you have a first date getting-to-know-you process?”
“I'm not sure,” he says. “I haven’t had a first date in a while. Although I wouldn't call it a process, certain topics do come up.”
“Favourite colour, favourite movie, favourite band?” I suggest.
“Yellow,Ready Player One, Green Day.”
Nothing odd there except, “Yellow?” I look at him.
“What's wrong with yellow?”
I haven't been on a date in years — nearly a decade in fact. But I'm pretty sure yellow is not a common choice for men. My eyes drop to his chest. “So why do you always wear black?”
“Because it's hard to get jeans in yellow,” he says. A joke? Did he just make a joke?
“You realise you've just thrown down the gauntlet.” I raise one eyebrow. “From now on I'm going to look for any item of men's clothing that I can find in yellow. I will take great pleasure in presenting it to you and I will expect to see it worn.”
He shrugs. “And I will take great pleasure in receiving it. If you gift it, I'll wear it. Deal.” He pauses. “Your turn.”
We’re interrupted by the arrival of our food and I’m glad of the extra thinking time. No-one has asked me about my interests in a long time. When the waiter finally departs, I raise my eyes to his. At work, I make a habit of avoiding his direct gaze but if we are doing this, I can’t avoid the connection. Bracing myself, I say, “Blue.Pride and Prejudice. Adele.”
