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‘There’s a new restaurant opened in Cranway, right by the canal, The Barge Brasserie.’ Mike pulls an apologetic face as he perches on the edge of the sofa. ‘I’ve already made a booking for tomorrow night. I didn’t think you’d be doing anything.’
Is that how dull my life is? Mike is so convinced that I’ll be sitting alone on a Saturday night that he doesn’t even need to check with me first? The sad thing is that he’s right.
‘Is that OK?’ He picks up the DVDs of Out of Africa and The Lion King and fiddles with them.
How can I say no now? My resolve and my heart soften. I know that Mike has really been looking forward to this. Plus I look at the DVDs in his hands and wonder how much more Out of Africa and The Lion King I can watch. Pining for something that I can’t have isn’t doing me any good at all.
‘That’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘What time?’
‘Pick you up at seven-thirty?’
‘Seven-thirty it is.’ I won’t be home from work until at least six-thirty so that’ll be a quick turnaround. But it’s just Mike so he won’t be expecting me to look like Nicole Kidman on a red carpet night.
The Barge Brasserie used to be a ratty old canal-side pub, serving stale sandwiches and drinks that tasted of cleaning fluid. Now it’s had a multimillion-pound revamp and is unrecognisable. The dining room is warm, cosy and a stainless steel fire slap-bang in the middle is a stunning and functional centrepiece. The tables and chairs are thrown together eclectically, no chain uniformity here and the effect is very pleasing.
The menu, too, is appealing and Mike orders a steak and I order a prawn curry. My neighbour and I have eaten out together dozens of times, but usually it’s a pizza-and-glass-of-plonk sort of dinner. This is altogether different. Tonight, Mike is wearing a very smart shirt that I haven’t seen before and I’m worried that he’s bought it specially for the occasion, so I don’t comment on it at all. Thankfully, I have thrown on a frock, so I don’t feel underdressed.
‘This is nice,’ he says, surveying the restaurant.
‘Lovely.’
‘I’ve heard very good things about it.’
Our table is by the window and due to judiciously placed lighting, the canal is beautifully illuminated. In summer this will be a wonderful spot, popular with families, I’m sure. Tonight, it seems to be the haunt of romantic couples. Damn.
‘It’s a long time since we’ve done this,’ Mike remarks as we settle ourselves in seats facing each other.
I’m not sure that we’ve ever done it at all.
A bottle of champagne turns up. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘For us?’
‘I took the liberty,’ Mike admits. ‘No harm in pushing the boat out every now and again. Besides, we’ve not had chance to celebrate your return from Africa.’
‘I only went for a week, Mike,’ I protest.
The waiter pours our champagne into tall flutes.
‘A week too long,’ Mike says as he lifts his glass to mine. We clink them together and then sip at the bubbles. ‘You haven’t really said much about it,’ he notes. ‘Was it all you hoped it would be?’
More, I want to say, so much more. And I want to tell him about Dominic, but how can I in this situation? Clearly Mike thinks that this is more than two mates having a rare night out together and I don’t want to burst his bubble, so I keep quiet about my Maasai warrior and say, ‘It’s a lovely country and the camp was excellent. I’d love to go back one day.’
Oh, how I’d love to, I think. How I’d love to pack a bag and go back there next week.
Dinner arrives and it’s every bit as excellent as Mike had been led to hope.
‘That was very lovely,’ I say when I’ve finished my crème brûlée for dessert. ‘An excellent meal.’
‘And excellent company,’ Mike says.
I flush. ‘Thank you.’ Asante. Even when I’m not trying, the smattering of African words that Dominic taught me still spring to mind.
Gazing across the table, I drag my thoughts back from the Maasai Mara and think instead of Mike, this kind man, and how much nicer he is than the likes of that hideous Lewis Moran. I wonder why I haven’t fallen for him before now. If Dominic hadn’t arrived on the scene, would this evening have made me feel differently about Mike? How can I tell? How can anyone tell? If fate hadn’t played its fickle hand who knows how things might have turned out.
Mike drives us home. He had just one glass of fizz which means that I’ve knocked back the rest myself. In the car, in the warmth, my resistance feels very low. Now that I’ve had a taste of love and I know what I’m missing, I want to feel strong arms around me, holding me, loving me. My body is pining for Dominic, but Dominic isn’t here. It’s raining and the rhythmic clack of the windscreen wipers is making me deliciously drowsy.
