A Date to Forget

It was the eleventh anniversary of Shalini’s death and I was feeling forlorn. We had wonderful fifteen years together before Cancer took her away. Our daughter was now a postgraduate student and living with her boyfriend thousands of kilometers from home. Mine was a sad lonely life and it was depressing to be in a room full of men and women chattering away gaily. I was starting to be sorry for having accepted the invitation to this party to celebrate the birthday of my old friend Howard’s young wife.

I was straining the solitary neuron circling my brain for a good excuse to leave when a head with shiny blonde hair popped in the view. The face was bleached white with a small nose, almond shaped pale blue eyes with thick mascara, thin lips with a thick layer of dark lipstick and a protruding chin. It made an altogether pleasant impression to the eye. I was pleased to see the tall owner of the head moving towards me with a glass of champagne in her right hand. The name tag on the lapel of her smart dark grey business suit said Debbie – just that and no surname- in big bold capital letters. We exchanged pleasantries and after some small talk got in a heated discussion about modern classical music. Debbie admired John Cage and Phillip Glass while I stated that they stopped composing music after Webern was shot dead by an American soldier in Vienna. Just as the discussion was turning nasty the dinner was announced and the battle of words did not become a full-scale war.

We separated for the dinner but accidentally met again over coffee. I told Debbie of my status as a widower who lived alone in a modest bungalow in an area that was once fashionable and Debbie told me that she was in the middle of a divorce which was turning ugly. “Imagine having me followed by the private detectives, would you have ever done that?” She protested.
“Of course not, not even if there was foul play. You have to trust each other in an intimate relationship. When you stop doing that, it is over.”
“You hit the nail on the head.”
“Thank you, usually I hit on the thumb.”
“You do have a great sense of humour for a fan of Webern. We should get together and come to know each other a bit better.”
“I can’t wait. How is next Friday for you?”
“Great, I will switch my current appointment and we will meet at Lion’s Den at seven.”
I gulped. Lion’s Den was a notoriously expensive restaurant where the mighty met to decide the fate of global corporations. But one can’t back out after making so much progress with someone who could be an answer to his prayers. “I will make the reservation. Will you like me to pick you up?”
“I don’t know where I will be that afternoon. We will meet at the Den. Don’t be late. I hate waiting, even for a desirable guy like you.”
We parted company. “Debbie is delighted, perhaps at the prospect of an expensive dinner with matching wines” I thought cynically. Frankly, I was not quite sure about what I was getting in to.

I had the blue suit and the red tie cleaned, pale blue shirt washed and hair trimmed. I sneaked out of the office early, had the car washed on the outside and vacuumed on the inside. After resting for an hour, I shaved, showered and dressed. It was just past six thirty when I passed between two life-sized lions, one male and one female, guarding the entrance to the Den. The maitre d’, a middle-aged man in tuxedo, his receding shiny black hair in a pony tail, greeted me with an ingratiating smile and led me to a corner table with two red roses in a vase. I ordered a dry sherry to help me meditate on nothing in particular while waiting for my first date in twenty five years.

Time went slowly, sherry faster. Eventually it was seven, then seven thirty. I was wondering what I should do. We had exchanged a lot of words but not the phone numbers. I had two options; wait longer or have a bowl of soup, tip big and leave. I pulled a loonie out of the side pocket to flip but quickly put it back. I heard the voice I had been waiting for. I looked up. It was indeed Debbie, engrossed in a serious conversation on the cell phone, walking towards me two steps behind the maitre d’. She wore a green silk dress, obviously custom made, and a necklace with a huge sapphire to draw attention to the prominent cleavage. She nodded without the slightest interruption in her speech and sat down. She pointed to my sherry for the benefit of the host and soon was sipping elegantly while listening to the other party. She scribbled a note telling me to order consommé and fish for her with an old vintage red wine. I followed instructions, as is my habit, picking salmon for her and a rare venison steak for myself. A look at the wine list made it clear that the lions don’t go for moderately priced wines. I did what I could to pick a bottle which won’t exceed my credit limit and still please my guest.

Debbie spooned the consommé into her pretty mouth when her ear was occupied instead of her mouth without letting it cool too much. I marveled at her expertise in handling the conversation. She was obviously negotiating with her soon-to-be-ex on the separation deal. One minute she was gentle, next minute firm, sometimes pleading other times ordering. The conversation did not seem to be getting anywhere and neither party was willing to give up. However, there seemed to have been some progress when Peach Melba and cappuccino arrived. With the last sip of her drink her face lit up in a broad smile, “So we are agreed: allowance of a hundred thousand on the first of every month till I am sixty, I keep the car and the house and you pick up all legal fees. I will leave it with you to get the lawyers to draw up the papers,” she clicked of. “Thanks for being so patient. He agreed to a reasonable settlement only after I threatened to send his intimate pictures with Ottawa prostitutes to the media. Thank God it is over. We can settle down to a fun evening now that the dirty business is done.”

I gave her my address and simple instructions on how to get there. She left saying, “I have to make a quick call.” I tipped ten percent instead of my usual twenty and slipped out without tipping the maitre d’. His glare did not bother me much; I did not intend to return any time soon. Just to make sure I could provide Debbie the fun she wanted, I unwrapped a pill and popped it in my mouth.

When I got home Debbie was waiting next to her car, a recent model import. She was on – you guessed it- her cell talking animatedly. I opened the door and turned on the lights. I led her to the living room and poured two snifters of brandy. She sniffed expertly while holding phone next to her year in her left hand. When I picked up the bottle to refill her glass she raised her free hand and mumbled, “Take me where we can rest in comfort.” I understood this to mean the bedroom. Fortunately, it was the day of maid service and the bed was not messed up as it usually is. I held her free hand and we went up the stairs. She expertly managed to get most of her clothes off without any break in conversation. Then she slid under the covers to my left.

I picked up “Isolde’s Dream”, a collection of my favourite stories, but she did not take the hint. It must have been half an hour and I was starting to doze off when I heard, “Thanks for putting up with me dear, we will keep in touch.” Suddenly wide awake I dropped the book and turned towards her with a smile. “It was Monica, my bosom friend. I had to share the good news with her,” she told me. Then the wretched phone burst into some awful tune, John Cage playing food blender perhaps. She looked at it, “Oh! It is the lawyer. I must talk to him. I will be quick, I promise.”

From her explosive reaction to lawyer’s initial words it became clear that all was not well in Debbie’s world. I covered my ears to protect them from swear words in several languages and to keep my mind as pure as my intentions were. From what filtered through my fingers I guessed that the soon-to-be-ex had reneged and was going to court to stop the publication of pictures. I turned to face the wall and closed my eyes as well. It did not take long before I was in another world oblivious of the torrent of words from Debbie and a few bits of advice from the lawyer whenever he got a chance.

I woke up with a start when I heard what sounded like the front door of the house being shut. The side lamp was on but the space next to me was empty and Debbie’s clothes were gone. I rushed to the window and raised the blind. I saw the import back out of the driveway and shoot off. If I were wider awake I would have understood Debbie’s frustration at my falling asleep and depriving her of the ‘fun’ she was so looking forward to. Instead, I must admit to my preoccupation at that moment with my own disappointment for missing it, though I was relieved to see an end to the infernal cell phone. I went back to bed and the sleep of the just.

I got up at my usual hour, glanced at the headlines, made scrambled egg for breakfast and enjoyed a cup of Kona coffee. Saturday is the grocery day and it was time to head to the farmers’ market. I found my keys but wallet was gone from the suit pocket. Where could it be? There was only one possibility and it explained why Debbie left in such a rush. Although no one likes being made a fool of, I did feel rather sorry for her. A few dollars in cash and a near the limit credit card were poor compensation for the most agreeable settlement slipping through those long fingers with perfectly polished nails.