I DID WHAT IT SAYS
“DO you plead Guilty, or Not Guilty?”
“Ohh, Guilty,” I said. “It was a guilty pleasure. So, definitely guilty. Naughty, but nice.”
There I’d said it. Easy enough. Don’t know what there is to get nervous about. Guilty.
I suppose I’d better explain what’s happening. I’m in court, that much is obvious to you. If it isn’t you should have gone to Specsavers.
About two months ago I met a fella. He had everything – good looks, money, style, nice car. He was an advertising executive and he told me I was the best a man could get. He told me a lot more, as you’ll see.
As soon as I’d agreed to the first date I knew it was a mistake. He called at my flat, stepped inside a moment, spotted the television and said: “Hello Tosh, got a Toshiba?”
From then on, infuriatingly, he would call me Tosh, a nickname, a private joke between us though I preferred my given name Melanie. I’m Melanie Clarke. Hi, and after this little story you’ll never see me again. Anyway it’s not a Toshiba. I don’t even think they make them anymore, to they?
I threw on my beret, rather chic I thought, and I was ready. “If you want to get ahead, get a hat,” he said. His name was Troy. Well, it could be wouldn’t it?
He asked where we should go and I said I fancied the new restaurant in town, Pepper Amy’s.
“It’s a bit of a beast,” he said and laughed. He actually laughed and managed to sound like one of the Cadbury Smash Martians. I should have turned around then, but you don’t do you. You ignore the alarm bells, make you mind up to see it through. Besides I was hungry.
He was well mannered, I’ll give him that. Actually opened the car door for me. “Vorsprung Durch Technik,” he said as he did so.
We were shown to our seats and asked if we wanted a drink. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night. Best stay sober, girl, I said to myself and asked for a fruit juice. What flavour, he asked? Orange, I said.
“Kia Ora? We all adore a Kia Ora.”
“Britvic,” I said, just to be awkward.
“Ah, the most natural thing under the sun,” he said and I dread to think what slogan he might have come up with had I asked for a cranberry.
“I’ll have probably the best lager in the world,” he told the waitress, who handed us our menus.
They were leather bound books and if you are nearby, do pop in, the choice is amazing. Troy was impressed, too. “Let you fingers do the walking,” he advised.
Our drinks arrived. “Good things come to those who wait,” he said, lifting his pint up to catch the light. “It’s a bit gorgeous,” he said.”I’m only here for the beer. It’s what my right arm’s for.”
“Right, okay!” I said, getting the message.
We ordered our meals.
“One chop or two?” asked the waitress.
I was hungry and I had no intention of seeing this fella again after tonight so it was definitely going to be his treat, so I said two.
“Double your pleasure, double your fun,” he observed and that stumped me and it must have shown on my face because because by way of explanation he added: “Wrigley’s Doublemint.” Then he did that laugh again: for mash get smashed. Yeah, I could get smashed I thought.
And so we settled in for the meal and tried to accustom ourselves to each other the way you do on your first date. Only date, last date, in this case. Our meals arrived and they were indeed generous portions. I can definitely recommend the place.
“Wotalotigot,” he declared.
“Smarty pants,” I said. God, what was up with me, joining in.
I think my blouse was a little too low cut for the occasion because he kept saying, “Hello boys,” at intervals throughout the meal, though he may have been talking to his roasters.
The wine was good, too. It was A Santa Margerhita Italian. “A great wine for a great encounter,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
Inwardly I swore, outwardly I smiled. Deep breath, I told myself. See it through. Home by eleven, in bed my half-past. Alone!
The food was excellent and the gravy obviously the chef’s own recipe. “Ahh, Bisto,” he inevitably said, but it wasn’t.
“Well,” he declared with satisfaction, “that was finger lickin good,” even though he hadn’t used his fingers or licked them or even had chicken. He’d had the scampi. “They’re Grrrrrreat,” he declared.
Time for dessert and I dived back into the menu, not least so I could have a few moments quiet deliberation to myself. It was time to start thinking of escape. Good God, he might ask me back to his place. .in which case I’d plead a headache, but he’d have tablets handy and nothing acts faster than Anadin. Upset stomach then, but I could hear the Plink, Plink, Fizz of an instant cure. What then? Think hard girl, think!
I looked down the list of sweets and had to do a double-take. By the pastries I read ‘perfection by confection’, but when I looked a second time, it wasn’t there. Huh?
“Pick one Tosh,” he encouraged me.
Grrr! Actually, I must have said it aloud, because he said, “Who’s put a tiger in your tank.”
The waitress returned to take our plates. She was a shapely girl, but knew what she was about and picked up everything using both hands. Lift and separate, I heard her say. I swear it.
“Pardon?” I said.
“The list makes you salivate… the dessert menu I mean,” she replied, nodding towards the leather folder in my hand.
“Er, of course,” I said and searched for something that would not involve a slogan. I went for plain and simple ice cream and cleared my bowl in double-quick time and there, I am not joking, printed on the bottom of my bowl I read the words: Haagen Dasz creamery Made like no other,” and as I read the message the words blurred in front of my eyes and slowly faded and disappeared and the words Horton Days Crockery rose as if by magic.
Troy’d gone for the apple tart and custard and I could see he relished every mouthful. “Devon knows how they make it so creamy,” he declared, patting his stomach.
And the bill arrived and I resolved again to let him take care of it. Out came the plastic. “Thank God I didn’t leave home without it,” he said. I could see it was HSBC, the world’s local bank! Aaargh! He was getting to me.
“I’ll leave the tip,” I said.
“For everything else there’s Mastercard,” he said.
And that about did it. I couldn’t take any more. Inside I was screaming: “Say something normal!” If he tried it on when we got home and I’d cut his flexible friend off. He’d got me at it now.
The Maitre D handed me my coat. “For the journey,” he said.
“What?” I demanded sharply.
He looked hurt. “I just said, I hope you have a safe journey.”
Safe? But how was I to deal with him? I felt my mind was about the explode. I prayed for a sign. I virtually staggered outside and there, right in front of me was the answer: an advertising hoarding next to the bus stop.
My mind screamed: “What am I going to do?”
And the poster said Christian Dior POISON.
“Is that the answer?” I asked myself.
And it must have been because on the next poster along was a tick. Correct. See? Under it were the words Just Do It.
So I did. I invited him back.
“A drop of Bells?” I asked. “Afore ye go?”
I am always polite.
It wasn’t the coffee. That was good to the very last drop. But he had tea and you only get an ‘Ooo,’ with Typhoo.
And an Aaaarrrggh, come to that. Especially when you add a sprinkle of weedkiller. Kills down to the roots.
Recent Comments