Blind Date by Frances Fyfield Page B

who ascended the stairs in ever increasing darkness and knocked at the door. She made herself feel like the working woman she was (words like career woman were hopelessly out of date: any woman worth her salt had a career), remembering her poise, but all the same she was uncomfortably aware that this was no ordinary mission and nothing in her life to date had prepared her for what she should be and what she should say. Patsy had revised her image many times, from punk to shirtwaister to designer dress, from wildly ruffled to well groomed, from sporty to elegant and the other way round, but none of these changes had ever created the image of what she felt now. A thirty-something spinster with money in one pocket and a begging bowl in the other. The door to “Select Friends” was open. There was music in the background, Handel on a harpsichord, tinkling away at a reassuring level. There was a small outer room on this floor with a pretty desk, on which papers and leaflets were stacked against an enormous turquoise vase, containing a display of flowers so large it seemed to fill the room. Tall lilies stood resplendent among yellow and blue gladioli, surrounded by a cloud of fern, a wedding bouquet to dwarf the tallest bride. The smell was overpowering, as if the flowers had stood guard all night with the windows closed. Patsy touched the tallest lily. The bloom was waxen, and a tiny shower of bright orange pollen fell onto the back of her hand. If I filled my house with flowers, she thought, I would have to spend a fortune, and this indication of Select Friends prosperity cheered her. The desk was an antique replica, polished to a shine, without a trace of pollen or dust. The chair beside it was empty. Patsy stood uncertainly, wondering if she should shout hello towards the half-closed door which led from this vestibule. As she paused a voice echoed back at her, “Helloeeee! Do come in dear. Patsy isn’t it? Sorry, we’re a bit behind this morning.”
    Before herstood a smart lady of late middle age, with fashionable glasses and a summer suit of royal blue. The light from a window was behind her, blurring her features as she sat at a second desk, this one far more official than the decorative item beyond. There was a chair facing her, towards which she waved a ringed hand, and more flowers on a wooden filing cabinet to her left and the same smell, overlayed with perfume. The room was like an official bower, reminding Patsy of the waiting room of an expensive private dentist she had once used. Comfort.
    â€œKettle’son,” said Mrs. Smythe, placidly, before launching into words. “Now dear, I know it takes a bit of courage to come to a place like this, but in case you were wondering, it might just be the best thing you’ve ever done. It’s a jungle out there, isn’t it? Beautiful girl like you must have a queue of men waiting in the wings, but that isn’t the point, is it? It’s finding the right kind of man to complement all the things you are. Emancipation hasn’t done us all the favours we might have wished, don’t I know it! I’m willing to bet that the sort of men you meet are either frightened of you or see you as a strong rock to which they can cling like limpets.”
    It was an accurate enough analysis, although Patsy was confused by the speed of delivery. She thought of Ben the impoverished, David the liar and John who had been decent and dull.
    â€œNormally, you see, you’ll meet a small range of men, all at a different stage in their lives to the one you’ve reached,” Mrs. Smythe continued. “Either they’re partnered, married, or still sowing wild oats. It takes them such a long time to realize the importance of stability, poor darlings, and it goes against the grain with any of them to admit it. Not manly, you see. They like saying they’re islands, capable of standing alone. But the men who come to this agency are not like