***
By now our conversation had petered out and we were sitting in very awkward silence. My palms felt damp and my breathing was very shallow. Why on earth hadn’t I insisted in meeting at the local Indian restaurant, which was in an area familiar to me and where I knew the menu off by heart? It would have been a mild chicken korma for me, and an extra-spicy meat Vindaloo for my date. At least he would have his work cut out there if he’d planned anything dodgy. I mean, it’s not as if you can swallow any Vindaloo dish and still concentrate on any pre-planned action. After the first bite, you’re struggling to down your beer and not choke at the same time, whilst beads of sweat form on your forehead and knock your brain cells silly.
Suddenly we were out of the spooky lane and driving through the grounds of a very select-looking country manor. The wheels crunched on the pebble surface as I slowly drove the car into the parking area and turned off the engine. Well, at least his choice of imprisonment was select. I sighed with relief and stepped out of the car.
Niccolo was quickly at my side and offered me his arm. Despite my earlier qualms about his intentions, I took it gratefully and leaned heavily on him as we made our way to the entrance of what I soon realised was an extremely snooty restaurant.
The maître d’ greeted us at the entrance with genuine warmth in his voice.
“Good evening, Sir. So nice to see you again.” His eyes then travelled over me, taking me in for the first time. He actually looked a bit put out for some reason. He was probably expecting some gorgeous model lookalike, and was flabbergasted that it was only run-of-the-mill me. He cleared his now flustered voice as he continued. “Madam, please enjoy your evening.”
And with that he led us through to the French dining room. I struggled somewhat with my heels on the rich carpet whilst taking in the superior decor. I may be run-of-the-mill, but I knew my French history and I felt that I had stepped back in time. The intricate gilded panelling was a Rococo masterpiece matching that of Madame de Pompadour’s 18th century dining room at the Château d’Asnières. Call me nerdy, I know, but there’s nothing like reading about historical architecture to optimise fantasies of historical romance. It’s a peculiar pastime, but still pales in comparison to Niccolo’s kidnapping techniques.
I sheepishly glanced over at Niccolo as I was thinking this, and was startled to find his intense gaze on me with a warm smile on his sensual lips. At that point I wondered what his motives really were. It was quite an effort to make just to apologise for bumping into me six months ago, and he couldn’t possibly fancy me. Saying that, and I don’t want to sound big-headed or anything, but I’ve had my fair share of chat-up lines when out and about. I’ve got big green eyes that seem to appeal to most of the opposite sex, a J-Lo behind and a front to match – the perfect hourglass. As my Nan often told me, just like Marilyn Monroe, pet, and she really was ooh la la!
Niccolo pulled out my chair for me, in the most chivalrous manner, and I sat down (or, to be more precise, collapsed with relief) as I realised that perhaps I’d let my imagination run wild, and that this was, after all, going to be nothing more than a harmless dinner date.
We began with the normal sort of chit-chat as we tucked into our starters. I chose Salad of Devon Crab, whilst Niccolo went for the Hay-smoked Yellow Beetroot Salad which had Italian leaves or something. He’d informed me that he had grown up in Milan, though his family had moved to the UK when he was fourteen. He was probably feeling a bit homesick for the motherland, and the Italian leaves were perhaps soothing for him.
To my great surprise, I felt more at ease in his company that I would have thought possible, and I was now pretty sure that kidnap had been the last thing on his mind. I really did need to take a break from reading all those crime and thriller novels. I told Niccolo that after getting fired the very day he drove into the back of my car I'd been forced to make a career move, and that I now spent my time looking after my five-year-olds. Ten of them to be precise. He’d looked a bit alarmed for a moment, most probably wondering how on earth had I managed to have a litter of ten (or if indeed that was humanly possible) and where the hell the father was in all of this! I’d laughed at his startled look and explained that I was a primary school teacher. He sighed with relief, and I’m not sure if it was because the actual thought of labour and pushing out ten babies was vertiginous for him (or indeed most mortals), or if he’d worried for a moment he’d be obliged to meet them all and his beige trousers and cream jumper would never be the same again.
“So what do you do for a living?” I asked. I was expecting him to say that he was in the stock market or something.
“I’m a pilot.” He seemed as if he was about to go on and give me more details, but suddenly had to come and slap me on my back in alarm as I started choking on my fizz from shock, mixed with hysterical laughter at the notion that I was having dinner with a pilot who couldn’t even coordinate a car properly down a main high street!
“I said I was a pilot, not a stand-up comedian!” he chuckled, once I’d got my composure back.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “It’s just as well that we were driving and not flying when we met. I don’t think the outcome would have ended in a dinner date!”
I’d let the word “date” slip out without thinking, but Niccolo’s face turned to thunder. The word, harmless as it was, seemed to have triggered a dramatic change of mood. He was red in the face, he started clenching his fists and looked as if he was about to punch someone. I sank lower and leaned further back into my swanky dining chair to try and get out of his possible striking range. He’d gone deathly silent and just stared over my shoulder, and I started thinking that this was probably a good time to take my exit, at least to the ladies’ room and phone a taxi. This guy was wacko! I certainly wasn’t going back with him in this temper, even if I was the one doing the driving. And all just because I’d said the word “date.” In any case, if this wasn’t a date, then what the hell was it? Jesus! Talk about mood swings. This knocked PMT into a cocked hat.
I was about to stand up and make a quick exit when I heard a husky voice behind me. “Niccolo, amore, what a surprise.”
There was an awkward silence as Niccolo, who now looked like an enraged bull ready to charge, stood to greet the speaker.
I too stood up and turned round – and came face to face with Ms Universe. Silky brown hair cascaded down her back in neat waves, brilliant sapphire eyes sparkled out of her perfect oval-shaped face, and she had a petite nose and generous, sensual lips. I’d have quite fancied her myself if I’d been that way inclined.
She was dressed in a shimmering evening dress that hugged her slim figure – at least, what I could see of it, as she was also wearing a massive fur stole. It looked like mink to me, but as I’m not in favour of wearing fur I can’t claim to be an expert on the various different types. Her expensive perfume wafted over us, enveloping us in its sexy aroma, although it was a bit too strong for my tastes. I had to really twitch my nose to stop me from sneezing right in her face. She was linking arms with a huge American-football-type hunk, who had gone just as red in the face as Niccolo. Both men held out their hands and they seemed to greet each other with genuine affection, despite the lobster look.
It was then that Ms Universe turned to me.
“You must be Niccolo’s new friend. I do love your shoes. Tell me, darling, wherever did you get them from?”
There was a snigger here as she said this, and I glanced down and was mortified to see that in my haste whilst dressing I’d managed to put on two different coloured shoes. They were the same style. As my Nan would have scolded: That's what comes of being greedy and getting the same shoe in different tones. It’s not necessary, pet. And now look what’s happened.
“It’s the new rage, dah-ling,” I slipped back in reply. “And I do love this,” I added, gesturing at her horrid fur stole. “But I’m not familiar; do tell me, is it skunk?” I leaned closer to give it a sniff as she gulped from shock. I thought my rep
ly pretty smooth considering I was still recovering from the shoe mix-up and probably now glowing redder than both men put together. Niccolo and the other guy both looked rather amused at this, and their faces were no longer so puce. Niccolo had quickly moved to my side and had slipped his hand around my waist, holding me close. If it hadn’t been that I had this haughty “Queen” before me I’d have felt quite taken by him.
But something just didn’t feel right. The out-of-the-blue dinner date. The last-minute change of plan, from a simple drink to a three-course meal. And at a really expensive venue. Was this just to impress me? There was really no need. I would have been just as impressed with a pint down at the local and some decent adult conversation.
It seemed to me that I was just being used by Niccolo to get back at what was obviously his ex-girlfriend. If this was what he had planned, it was obviously working, because – to put it mildly – she looked totally pissed off.
Whatever the motive, my dinner date, which had started out like a dream (well, if you overlooked that I actually thought for the first hour or so that I was being kidnapped in a stolen car), was now turning into a nightmare.
Once we were alone again, my conversation with Niccolo came out in stilted threads, with prolonged, awkward silences. We skipped dessert, and I was actually relieved when Niccolo dropped me off back at my place. This time he was behind the wheel; kidnapping obviously wasn't the motive, and – bizarre as this sounds – I felt thoroughly let down.
And that was that. One dinner date from hell. Well, not quite, because if I was honest I was quite taken with Niccolo, but I wasn’t going to let him use me as a pawn. I didn’t even need my Nan to warn me of that!
I deleted his number from my phone and slumped into bed.