That was a mistake, for there were couples everywhere, highlighting my single status. In the far corner was a table of six men, all wearing suits and probably friends from the City, celebrating something or other. One of the men happened to glance my way and our eyes met. I held his stare for a moment and he surprised me by breaking contact first. I turned back and picked up my glass once more.
“So, what do you do?” the elderly man next to me asked, having finished his oysters.
“I’m a journalist,” I replied.
“Ah, not an easy job these days.”
“Not always,” I said. “And you?”
“I’m a chartered accountant, but due to retire in a few months. Looking forward to it; bloody city!” he said, with some feeling. “How old are you?”
The question came as a surprise, and it made me think.
“Thirty,” I said, having enjoyed the last birthday courtesy of the Vietnam penal system.
“You don’t look it. My daughter is your age but looks ten years older. That’s what comes of having three children in six years. You haven’t any, I suppose?” he asked.
“Sadly, no,” I said, meaning it.
“Don’t be sorry about it, if it hadn’t been for my three children, my divorce would have been relatively simple and much cheaper. What with university fees, weddings and all the rest, my retirement is going to be a shadow of what I’d once hoped.”
“Ah, we make our beds,” I said, as my platter of mussels arrived.
“Don’t we just. Well, enjoy those, they look scrumptious,” he said as he paid his bill.
“Thanks,” I said and was quite sad to see him go. At least he wasn’t a threat.
They tasted as good as they looked, so I was rather involved eating when the man who’s eye I’d met from the table appeared at my elbow.
“Excuse me?” he said.
I had a mouthful of mussel so I looked at him, dribbled a little and nodded. He laughed.
“Sorry, bloody awful timing. Saw you on your own and wondered if you could do with some company?” he said.
I glanced at his table and saw that his party seemed to have broken up. He noticed so must have felt the urge to explain.
“We always meet here after work for a drink. Most of the chaps head home to the little woman for their dinner.”
“No little woman, or no dinner?” I asked, after swallowing what was in my mouth.
Again he laughed as I looked at him in more detail.
His suit was expensive but creased, probably because of his work. His shirt was clean by slightly frayed at the collar and cuffs, and his striped tie looked regimental with the occasional soup stain. I guessed he was around my age, with short hair, thinning a little at the front. He appeared to be in good physical shape, but had an air of arrogance, either from being in the services or a responsible job in the City, or both. He was also slightly familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Besides, my brain was threatening to overload in its current state.
“Neither, unless I grab something on my way home. I’m Richard Cartwright, Rich to my friends,” he said, holding his hand out for me to shake.
“Julianna Blanchard,” I replied, wiping my hand on my napkin and shaking his.
“Love the accent, Canadian?”
“Yes, thanks for not guessing American.”
“I’ve family in Canada, near Vancouver. I’d guess you’re from Quebec, am I right?”
I nodded.
“Look, I’m sorry, just tell me to piss off if you want, but you looked so lonely up here by yourself.”
I shook my head and so he slipped onto the recently vacated stool to my right.
“What brings you to London, or do you live here?” he asked.
“Just visiting. I’m a journalist and have a week or so before moving on. I’m meeting my boss here in a week or so and then I’ll get my next assignment.”
“Cool. You don’t look like a journalist.”
“What do journalists look like?” I asked.
“Not as glamorous as you.”
“Cheap line,” I said, taking another mouthful. Chuckling, he ordered something from the menu.
“Sorry, but you really look far too attractive to go scrabbling about after news stories. Besides, from what I gather, most editors decimate any decent story to sensationalise it to sell papers,” he told me.
“What made you so cynical, the military or police?” I asked.
He gave me a strange look.
“Army, shrewd guess.”
“It wasn’t a guess. You look like an ex-soldier, plus you behave like an officer and have a regimental tie, although I’m not sure which regiment.”
“I was in the Queens Regiment, left as a Captain, but how does a delightful Canadian girl think a British officer behaves?”
“It’s got nothing to do with the nationality, believe me. A little arrogant, cocky and self-assured on the down side, but you have some charm and an ability to turn a disaster into a success,” I said, finishing my mussels.
“My God, remind me not to underestimate the fair sex ever again, that was remarkable,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t allow you the success of your rather feeble tactics, but as I’m feeling generous, why not? A Chablis, please,” I said, pushing my empty glass at the grinning barman.
“So, how is it such a remarkable person as you is single and unattached?” he asked.
“You first,” I countered.
Richard then undertook something that all, okay, most men adore; he talked about himself for nearly half an hour. Actually it was interesting, in a very predictable and rather depressing way.
The elder son of a reasonably wealthy Cambridgeshire farmer, Richard enjoyed similar schooling to myself, in that he was sent to private schools and then to university. Unlike me, his schools were more top-drawer, as he went to Harrow before getting a scholarship into the army, who then paid for his university course at Durham.
He sailed through everything he did, even allowing a little author’s licence for his tale, but seemed only to occasionally fall at the fences of the opposite gender. Probably because he came on to them as being too perfect for his own good and enjoyed telling everyone. I say depressing because he was, in almost every way, exactly what I’d hoped and tried to be, but failed.
Now, at thirty-two, he was working with a commodities Broker in the City, having used the old-boys' network to his advantage. However, while he was telling me about an army junior-command course he attended at Camberley, it dawned on me that we'd met on that very course some six months before I found myself up shit creek in Africa.
I vaguely recalled the course that had something to do with fighting insurgents, but of the other officers on the course, I remembered very little. I only remembered Richard because he thought he was the clown of the bunch and in the end wound up one of the instructors to the extent that they threatened to send him back to his unit unless he knuckled down. We hadn't been more than passing acquaintances, so I doubted whether he'd remember me, had I been still who and what I once had been.
As soon as I realised that I knew him, I felt completely different about him. Initially it was fun flirting and getting to know him, but now I felt threatened and uncomfortable. I know I was being silly, but I didn't want to be reminded of who I once had been.
At the earliest opportunity, I finished my wine, made my apologies and left the restaurant. I glanced back to see a crest-fallen expression on his face as I suspect he thought he'd pulled!
I returned to my hotel suite, made myself a cup of hot chocolate and went to bed. I lay awake for a while, wondering whether I'd ever be able to settle down to being normal.
Normal, what the hell was that?
Chapter Fourteen