Even just her name said 'not for me'.
Who calls their daughter Agnes these days? It is way too old fashioned to make any girl grow up with it. You can have an Aunt Agnes, in their seventies, who offers tea and cake each time you visit, and who reeks of lavender from the perfume that she wears. But a girl-friend? Or a wife? Named Agnes? Not for me!
Even twenty-five years before I met her, the name, Agnes, would have been wrong. Madonna was around. It may be a quarter of a century, but actually it is just the amount of time it takes for a girl to grow into a woman, and the twenty-five year old I met should not have been an Agnes. Brooklyn, or Sky, or anything but Agnes. But that was their daughter's name. And it seemed to suit her, which was sad.
It was an awkward dinner, arranged precisely for the purpose of introducing me to Agnes. It was time, my parents said, for me to find a nice girl and settle down. At thirty, I should have begun a family, like my two brothers and my sister. The Deans were a nice family, and their daughter was just the right age.
Of course they were a nice family. They went to the same church. Mr Dean and my father were two of the elders. Mrs Dean and my mother ran the Sunday School, and served the tea and cakes after service, and at the mid-week bible class, where Mr Dean would dissect a verse or two, interminably, to nods and 'amens' from all those present, before my father said a prayer.
Dinner was nice. Nothing amazing. Just nice. No wine was served, of course. Nothing to lubricate the conversation, which was mostly between the two sets of parents, other than the 'how are you getting on in London' questions, which each of us would answer, as briefly as we could.
I held back on most things. There was no need to mention pubs or clubs or raves or house-parties, or casual sex, or online dating, or anything that made life worthwhile. My job was going well, thank-you, and Hyde Park was lovely to walk in, especially now that it was summer, and there were some good concerts in the Royal Albert Hall, which of course meant Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or another of the greats.
Agnes was enjoying her work in the Natural History Museum, and loved visiting Regents park, and the zoo. She had been placed opposite me, so that we could get to know each other, and throughout the meal we certainly exchanged some awkward looks.
She looked like a museum assistant, or a librarian, long blonde hair that had a wave to it, was worn loose and reached the hollow of her back. Large glasses, with amber frames, that did nothing for her sky-blue eyes, and said intelligent, but boring. Attractive enough, but no make up, no eye-liner, no lip-gloss, no nothing.
Even just her name said 'not for me'.
Who calls their daughter Agnes these days? It is way too old fashioned to make any girl grow up with it. You can have an Aunt Agnes, in their seventies, who offers tea and cake each time you visit, and who reeks of lavender from the perfume that she wears. But a girl-friend? Or a wife? Named Agnes? Not for me!
Even twenty-five years before I met her, the name, Agnes, would have been wrong. Madonna was around then. It may be a quarter of a century, but actually it is just the amount of time it takes for a girl to grow into a woman, and the twenty-five year old I met should not have been an Agnes. Brooklyn, or Sky, or anything but Agnes. But that was their daughter's name. And it seemed to suit her, which was sad.
It was an awkward dinner, arranged precisely for the purpose of introducing me to Agnes. It was time, my parents said, for me to find a nice girl and settle down. At thirty, I should have begun a family, like my two brothers and my sister. The Deans were a nice family, and their daughter was just the right age.
Of course they were a nice family. They went to the same church. Mr Dean and my father were two of the elders. Mrs Dean and my mother ran the Sunday School, and served the tea and cakes after service, and at the mid-week bible class, where Mr Dean would dissect a verse or two, interminably, to nods and 'amens' from all those present, before my father said a prayer.
Dinner was nice. Nothing amazing. Just nice. No wine was served, of course. Nothing to lubricate the conversation, which was mostly between the two sets of parents, other than the 'how are you getting on in London' questions, which each of us would answer, as briefly as we could.
I held back on most things. There was no need to mention pubs or clubs or raves or house-parties, or casual sex, or online dating, or anything that made life worthwhile. My job was going well, thank-you, and Hyde Park was lovely to walk in, especially now that it was summer, and there were some good concerts in the Royal Albert Hall, which of course meant Beethoven or Tchaikovsky or another of the greats.
Agnes was enjoying her work in the Natural History Museum, and loved visiting Regents park, and the zoo. She had been placed opposite me, so that we could get to know each other, and throughout the meal we certainly exchanged some awkward looks.
She looked like a museum assistant, or a librarian, long blonde hair that had a wave to it, was worn loose and reached the hollow of her back. Large glasses, with amber frames, that did nothing for her sky-blue eyes, and said intelligent, but boring. Attractive enough, but no make up, no eye-liner, no lip-gloss, no nothing.
A mustard coloured, woollen jumper, that admittedly said she might have reasonable breasts, but nothing else. No jewellery. Long, slender fingers, no polish on her well-shaped nails. She could have looked quite good, but she presented as plain-Jane.
Back at my parents' house that evening, I was quizzed about her. I was non-committal. Saying I would not touch her with a barge pole might have been the truth, but the truth is not always the most diplomatic thing to say. When you visit for your monthly weekend, you just fit in, and, in fairness, I realised later, I might have come across as just as boring at that dinner, as Agnes so obviously was.
Back in London, I could breathe again. Until the envelope arrived. Two tickets. The Royal Albert Hall. Mahler and Brahms. My parents hoped we would enjoy it. They had posted the details to Agnes separately, and given me her mobile number, which Mrs Dean had given to my mother, so that I could call her to arrange when and where to meet.
I made the call, reluctantly. Agnes sounded hesitant. I suggested the foyer, ten minutes before the concert started. There was no point in meeting sooner, or risking a nearby restaurant to eat before the concert. That could even more awkward and boring that the dinner at her parents' house had been. Just do your duty, meet her, sit beside her, walk her to the tube, and say good-bye.
Except I could not do it. I could not keep up the pretence, and just be my parent's son, the way they thought I was. I broke. The first half of the concert, all I could think about was the interval, and getting to the bar, and knowing that Agnes would want a fruit juice, while what I needed was a beer.
We joined the mass of concert-goers, edging closer to the bar itself. I had decided. I was having the beer. I ordered it while Agnes was still hesitating. She looked shocked. Then she decided.
"Could I get a Bacardi and diet Coke," Agnes said.
I looked at her.
"You're sure?"
Agnes looked at me through her amber framed glasses with oh-so-innocent, sky-blue eyes.
"Yes, please," she said. "Can you get me a double, and no ice?"
I placed the order, and I could not help myself from asking.
"I thought you didn't drink?" I said.
"Not at my parents," she said, a slightly impish smile risking being seen.
"Okay," I said. "I get that. I guess I don't drink with mine. But I wouldn't have put you down as a Bacardi girl."
"So what would you put me down as?"
"Fruit juice, I thought," I said. "Or, at most, white wine."
"Well, I thought you'd get some sparkling water. Thank God, you went for beer!"
"So what else don't you do at your parents?"
Agnes at least laughed at that.
"Plenty," she said.
"Tell me," I invited.
"Not yet," she said.
The drinks were set in front of us, and I touched my watch to the device. I gave Agnes the Bacardi and picked up my beer. We touched glasses.
"Cheers," I said. "So can I ask you a question?"
I had decided to stop playing games. To find out who she really was. To risk it.
"Ask," she said.
"Are you a virgin?"
The shock on her face was beautiful to see. Her mouth opened. Still no lip-gloss, but actually she had perfect lips. They pouted beautifully. She stayed like that, open mouthed in shock at what I had just asked.
"No," Agnes finally said, her tone saying that that had been both intrusive, and a stupid thing to ask.
One word, making clear that no one in their right mind would think that a twenty-five year-old in London would still be a virgin.
I pushed it.
"Okay then, what's your number?"
"I thought you have it, don't you? I mean you called me to arrange where we'd meet."
I laughed.
"No, your number," I repeated. "How many have there been?"
Agnes did that beautiful open mouthed thing again.
