Blind Date by Frances Fyfield Page A

the girl had simply failed to turn up because her mum was ill. Not a question of her seeing him first and running for cover; nor was it a question of him failing to see her because he was taking his specs on and off, wondering which way to present himself, clear-sighted, or comfortingly studious. Owl had never got on with contact lenses, always lost them. So much for stealing a march on the others and getting to the introduction agency first. All he had to his credit for this foolhardy piece of enterprise was a new line in rejection. It was certainly a coup to be dismissed by a girl before he had even met her. He wondered if he would have the courage to go backand try again. He looked round his neat suburban nest which somehow lacked a woman’s touch and wondered, for the umpteenth time, why it was that the total bastards of his acquaintance always had success with the opposite sex, even though they offered nothing and he offered so much. He gave his heart on a plate, only to be asked if it could be eaten cold inside a sandwich. The girl, the one love of his life, she could do whatever she wanted; it would not occur to him to question or curtail. Owl wouldn’t mind at all if she wanted to change the kitchen: in fact he would be grateful. He would not care if she said his choice in everything was lousy, including his clothes, although, come to think of it, he might be a bit sensitive about that. Dad called him bourgeois and Mum called him lovely. He wasn’t fat. He had no undesirable habits. True, he wasn’t charming like Michael, but he wasn’t a pig like Rob or weird like Joe; he had a good job and money in the bank. He was offering fidelity, consistency, adoration and the continuation of the species. What was wrong with him?
    Nothing. That was the problem. Until now he had never thought that he could ever be described as frightening but perhaps she had been repelled by the power of him she had seen from a distance. The thought bucked him up considerably. He bared his teeth. Perfect, white and even. Nice skin. If only that last phone call which had made him five minutes late, had never happened.
    â€œFaint heart,” he told the mirror, “never won Fair Lady.”
    S aturday morning the sun shone brightly, deceptive in its brilliance. In the shadows cast by the buildings across the narrow street where they sat, it was chilly.
    â€œI see you dressed for the occasion,” Patsy remarked. “More than you did yesterday.”
    â€œOhshut up.”
    â€œYou look like Miss Angela. Not exactly a woman of the world. Pretty, though.” Angela was always mentioned, a benchmark to their bolder selves.
    Hazel did not favour girly clothes and yet today, she had worn them: a dress of printed cotton, demure in the extreme, a trifle creased here and there and a bit droopy round the hem, but attempting an image of femininity. Patsy had never seen Hazel in a skirt before, let alone a dress. Hazel had plump, short legs which were not her best feature. To Patsy’s mind, the dress improved the overripe raw material.
    â€œAt least it ain’t power dressing,” Hazel snapped. “The way you look, this old hag will get you a New Man in a pinny with a permanent limp. A male chambermaid.”
    â€œIt’s only a suit,” Patsy protested.
    â€œYeah. Only. You nervous or what? No, course not. You just haven’t got nothing which isn’t suit, or party. Am I right or am I right?”
    She finished her coffee, stood up and hoisted a duffel bag which went ill with the dulcid frock. It looked as if it should contain the kit of a plumber or a selection of lethal weapons. Patsy imagined the IRA carrying around bags like that. Looking as furtive and determined as Hazel did now.
    â€œRight. Your turn first. I’m going shopping. See you later.
Don’t
tell me about it.”
    So it was Patsy who examined the descriptions at street level, next to the men’s outfitters, Patsy