Mating Opportunity

THE SMALL GALLERY in the centre of town was crowded with over a hundred visitors. People had to jostle to see the black-and-white photographs that made up the exhibition. The framed pictures were spread evenly along whitewashed walls and the local newspaper in its online review would call them 'work that shows a keen eye for the unusual amid the urban quotidian'. But as Jenny Garrett stood in her posh pink blazer swirling a glass of complementary red wine, she came to a completely different conclusion.

'Dear God...' she muttered under her breath. 'What a boring pile of crap.'

It should be noted that Jenny was already in a bad mood. She had only agreed to give up her Friday evening because her husband Tom had promised Kiera they'd be at the opening. But after making that promise, one of Tom's old university chums invited him for a reunion on his yacht. Apparently, the weather was going to be perfect that weekend. And not only were wives and girlfriends not invited but, to add insult to injury, Tom insisted that Jenny had to go to the opening anyway. 'Kiera's worried that nobody will come and she'll be gutted if

neither

of us show up!' So Jenny had rushed home from work, showered and changed into a smart-casual outfit of black jeans and boots, white polo neck and pink blazer, only to arrive at a gallery so full that people were standing on the pavement outside in the evening sun, swilling glasses of wine or orange juice.

Kiera had greeted her with a kiss on either cheek before rushing off to take care of some business. Jenny got herself a glass of wine from the hospitality table and dutifully went around the gallery - first the two downstairs rooms, then upstairs to a large open space on the first floor. It was here that she stood before yet another photograph of a fire escape on the back of a famous building. 'What is the point of this?' she wondered. The four-page programme said something about the photographer wanting to show the grubby reality behind the glamorous façade, but Jenny thought it was pretentious bollocks.

She looked around the room. There was a mixture of men and women, mostly standing around in groups of three or four, swilling wine and talking in loud, authoritative voices. A few people went around the exhibition in pairs, stopping before pictures and pretending to pontificate. She knew absolutely no one and felt like the only person to have shown up on her own. So much for her mother's declaration that 'Once you're married, you'll always have someone to do things with!'

Jenny turned and began to weave her way back towards the staircase. She was shorter than average height and felt like she was in a maze of men's chests and women's backs. Then a break in the bodies revealed the wooden railing of the staircase. She pushed her way forwards, then froze on the spot. A man was coming up the staircase, a tall good-looking man that she instantly recognised. The present world seemed to plummet down a mine shaft and Jenny was fifteen again, a girl in her school uniform. She was standing with a bunch of other girls and trying not to stare at the rangy six-form boy who walked past with his mates, his dirty blond hair falling into his eyes.

Richard Damborough.

Jenny stood facing the banister rail, her heart thumping, as she saw him reach the top of the stairs. He had changed and yet was somehow the same. The big frame, the swagger, the way he stood upright and scanned the room from the top of his six-foot-plus tower. His hair was cut short and his face was a man's, but that look of wry amusement was still there in his eyes. He was dressed in a quality white T-shirt and oyster-grey cut jacket; he looked classy while still showing off his broad shoulders and solid chest. He held a half-full wine glass in his right hand and had a silver band on the ring finger of his left. Jenny looked past him to see if there was a woman in his wake, but there was just some guy with glasses coming up behind him.

Richard walked a couple of steps in her direction. He made brief eye contact with Jenny, gave her a polite nod and continued to walk past, heading for one of the frames on the wall.

'Richard Damborough?'

Jenny had spoken on impulse. She felt her face redden as the man turned his head and his gaze landed on her. She would have downed her wine if her glass weren't already empty.

'I'm sorry, do I know you?' he said.

'Er ... not sure.'

Jenny turned towards him, holding her wine glass protectively in both hands.

'We went to the same secondary school,' she said. 'St Patrick's?'

'Oh,' he said. 'Yes...'

'You played football for the school team. We used to call you Dick Dambuster.'

'Really...'

'Yes. And you used to go out with a girl in my class.'

'I did?'

'Well,

she

said you did. She could have been lying.'

'What was her name?'

'Maisie Lexington.'

The man blinked in a weird way.

'Crazy Maisie,' he said.

'That's the one.'

'My goodness. That was

years

ago!'

'Yes, it was.'

The man and the woman looked at each other. Then Jenny looked down into her empty wine glass.

'Listen ... I think I've embarrassed you enough.'

'You haven't embarrassed me.'

'That's very nice of you to say.'

'I wasn't being nice.' Richard moved closer. 'I'm just embarrassed because I can't remember your name.'

'That's quite all right.'

'Just tell me.'

Jenny looked up into the man's face. As an adolescent girl, she had wondered what it would be like to be standing this close to 'Dick Dambuster'. And now here she was, the top of her head at about the level of his mouth. Jenny cleared her throat.

'It's Jenny,' she said. 'Jenny Garrett.'

'Nice to meet you, Jenny Garrett.'

Richard offered his hand. Jenny shook it, enjoying the feel of warmth and strength in his grip.

'Nice to meet you too, Mr Damborough.'

He laughed.

'Call me Richard.'

'All right ... if you insist.'

Jenny could feel that her face was red. She let go of his hand and tried to distract him by gesturing towards the photographs with her wine glass.

'So tell me, Richard,' she said in a fake posh voice. 'Are you interested in purchasing any of our fire escape pictures? Or if you're interested, we have a picture of an outside loo?'

Richard laughed and shook his head. However, an older woman nearby was not so amused. She turned from the two women she was talking to and fixed Jenny with a hostile glare.

'Would you keep your voice down, young lady?' she said. 'It's hard enough for women to be taken seriously as it is, without a girl like you displaying your ignorance to the world!'

Jenny's throat tightened and tears sprang from her eyes. The humiliation was so intense, she flew straight to the staircase and pushed her way downwards. The building suddenly felt hot and suffocating and she had to get out before she burst out crying. Dodging elbows and bodies, she got through the lower gallery and stumbled out onto the street. Turning left at random, she walked fast along the pavement and then stopped dead.

She was still holding the wine glass.

For a moment, Jenny was going to put it on the ledge of a nearby shop window. Then she thought of Kiera and worried that the gallery's neighbours might complain. No, she had to take it back. Jenny turned and saw Richard heading towards her. Oh, no! She wanted to disappear, but it was already too late. He came up to her, his face a picture of concern.

'Jenny, are you all right?'

'I'm fine, I'm fine ... I'm just...' She took a breath. 'Look, I'm sorry.'

'What are

you

apologising for?'

'Well ... I do sometimes talk too much.'

'You made a

joke!

Listen, that old battleaxe was the problem, not you!'

'It's nice of you to say that.'

'I'm not being nice! Fuck me, Jenny, were you like this at school?'

Jenny was stung. She looked at Richard and—for the first time—there was anger in her eyes. Richard saw it and nodded with approval.

'That's more like it,' he said.

'Like what?'

'Like you standing up for yourself. It's good to see.'

Jenny frowned, unsure whether she was being patronised or praised. Meanwhile, Richard straightened up and looked down the street.

'Do you fancy a drink?' he said.

'I don't want to go back there,' said Jenny.

'I'm not suggesting we go back. There's a wine bar about ten minutes' walk from here that I quite like. What do you say?'

'But you haven't finished seeing the exhibition!'

'Oh, no! All those fire escapes I'm going to miss!'

Jenny laughed. Then she noticed that she still had the wine glass in her hand.

'Oh, um ... look,' she said. 'I'm just going to—'

Richard took the wine glass from her and placed it on the ledge of a nearby shop window. Then he offered her his arm.

'Shall we?' he said.

*

Jenny knew

The Wine On The Vine,

but she had never been inside. It was slick and trendy, with shiny black tabletops and waiters with starched black shirts and long aprons. There was plush leather seating along the surrounding walls, but Richard and Jenny were led to one of the tables in the centre - tables so tall, they required the patrons to sit on chairs the height of barstools. If you were a woman with good legs, this was a great place to show them off. And as Jenny looked around, she saw more than a few women who seemed to have dressed with that in mind. Feeling short and self-conscious, she smiled at the waitress who stood like a sentinel at the tall table and kept quiet as Richard ordered them both a glass of Chardonnay.

Over their wine, Richard eased her into the conversation. Jenny told him what she had done since school, her university course, her first few jobs. She also told him about Tom, how they had met, his marriage proposal after a year together, and the fact that they had been trying to start a family for the past six months. Richard listened to her story, asking the odd question and nodding seriously.

'So, is Tom "the One"?' he said.

'I wouldn't put it like that,' said Jenny.

'But you love him, right?'

'I suppose I do.' Jenny put a hand over her eyes. 'Oh God, that sounds terrible!'

'No, it doesn't.' Richard considered. 'Well, perhaps a bit terrible.'

They exchanged an awkward smile. The waitress had brought them a complimentary dish of pitted olives and a black ceramic tub of cocktail sticks. Richard used one to spear an olive and pop it into his mouth. Jenny watched him chew, part fascinated, part worried that he was thinking she was a complete loser. She cleared her throat and said:

'You know how, in the movies, a man and a woman meet and they just

know

that they're meant for each other?'

'Yes.'

'Well, much as I love those movies, I don't think real life works like that.'

'You don't think people fall in love with each other?'

'Well, maybe one in a hundred. But with all the couples I know, either the man fell in love with the woman and made the first move, or the woman fancied the man and somehow got him to ask her out. There's always one person who

initiates

the relationship.'

'And in your case, Tom was the initiator?'

'Yes,' said Jenny. 'I mean, I

liked

him. It was pretty clear that he was a solid guy, right from the word go. But if he hadn't pursued me and convinced me that he was in love with me, I know for a fact that I wouldn't have pursued

him.'

Jenny downed her last mouthful of wine and stared at the empty glass. It was tall and elegant compared to the sturdy, thick-stemmed wine glass from the gallery. She looked at the man across the table and let her gaze track his masculine contours: the strong, attractive jawline, the straight nose, the clear features. Then she glanced at the ring on his left hand.

'How about you?' she said. 'Did you meet "the One"?'

Richard stretched his fingers and examined the ring on the back of his hand.

'I don't know,' he said. 'Sabrina is a smart, funny, beautiful woman and there are times when I definitely think yes. But then things happen in the marriage and ... well, I find myself wondering about this whole soulmate thing.'

'You don't believe in it?'

'Not as much as I used to.'

Jenny nodded seriously. She was beginning to feel less like a lucky girl on her dream date and more like she was talking to an equal. At thirty-one, she felt a bone-deep disappointment at how the reality of romantic love was so much less than its promises. It was good to see that Richard felt the same way.

The waitress showed up, straight and correct. She removed the empty glasses and asked the pair if they wanted something else. Jenny decided to be sensible and asked for a sparkling water. Richard gave a nod, but then ordered a gin-and-tonic with lime. Jenny instantly regretted her choice, but she smiled and said nothing. After a moment, she realised that the waitress was looking right at her.

'You look like someone who is having second thoughts,' said the waitress.

Jenny was taken aback. The waitress had somehow managed to be direct without being rude, and now she smiled. Her dark hair was pulled back tight into a bun and she had the kind of symmetrical face you saw on billboards and the sides of buses. But Jenny also saw a look in her eyes that was part sympathy, part challenge. Those eyes seemed to say: Are you going to be sensible? Or are you going to choose what you

really

want for a change?

'You're right,' said Jenny. 'I'll have a gin-and-tonic with lime, please.'

'Coming right up.'

The waitress gave Jenny the tiniest of nods and was off, walking away. Jenny's face burned red. Her whole body felt hot and cold, and she didn't know why. She looked over at the man. Richard was looking at her, his eyes locked onto hers. She knew she should look away, but she didn't want to. She kept her eyes on his and the longer it went on, the more she could feel the effects of his gaze in her body. Something was shifting. Her inbreaths were deepening, her skin was feeling sensitive, and her nipples were hardening. The look in his eyes was making her wet. Jenny swallowed and she saw him reach out a hand and place it palm up on the table.

In that moment, Jenny saw her life stop at a fork in the road. It was as clear as if a signpost had appeared before her. She could refuse that hand, lower her gaze and give a small shake of the head. Her life would then take the path back to her marriage, back to her life as it was, back to being Jenny Garrett, a supposedly grown woman who had married a man because it was better than being single and who still ran away from old women with sharp voices.

Or she could take that hand, feel it close in on hers, strong and yet gentle, the man's thumb stroking her delicate knuckles. And her life would then take the path to his bed, to his body on her body, to his glorious seed in her womb. Jenny saw in her mind Richard Damborough with floppy hair and wearing a school blazer - except it wasn't Richard. It was her son. A handsome, broad-shouldered, virile young man, born from her body and loved with every part of her being. All of a sudden, it didn't feel like a choice at all.

Jenny placed her hand into Richard's hand. Just as she'd imagined, his grasp was strong and yet gentle. He smiled at her and there was relief in his eyes. She felt her knuckles being stroked by his thumb.

'I'm so glad I went to that stupid gallery opening,' he said.

'So am I,' said Jenny. 'So am I.'

*

The taxi ride from the wine bar to Richard's apartment took just over fifteen minutes. For most of that journey, Jenny sat with Richard in the back seat, shamelessly snogging him. It was not only the great pleasure of making out with such a hunk of a man that she loved - it was also the feeling of sweet revenge on the girls of her adolescence. All those popular, pretty girls who monopolised the good-looking boys, flouncing around like God's gift to the world. And here was 'poor little Jen-Jen', about to get screwed by the man of

their

dreams.

Jenny felt Richard's hand on her breast as his mouth travelled over her neck, her face, her lips. She could feel his saliva as it dried on her cheek and she loved it. She wanted him to lick her all over. Grabbing his head by the hair, she went for his tongue and circled her face against it. Then she French-kissed him fiercely, before pulling away and pressing her forehead against his. Richard's breathing was heavy and she could feel his erection as she sat on his lap.

'Fuck me, Jenny,' he murmured. 'You have a wild side.'

'It's you, Mr Damborough. You bring it out in me.'

The taxi reached its destination. Richard lived in a building that used to be a warehouse in the eighteenth century, but the area had since been gentrified, with trees planted and the old buildings renovated and turned into luxury apartments. Richard's apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building, with a state-of-the-art security system and a four-person lift. Jenny looked around in wonder as Richard led her upstairs and to his front door. He used three keys to unlock it, then opened it wide and gestured for Jenny to enter. She gave a playful bow of the head and walked in.

There was a narrow hallway that led to the main living space. On one side wall were neatly installed coat hooks and shoe racks, and Jenny immediately saw a woman's coats, jackets and shoes. One cream-and-brown American-style leather jacket with puffed sleeves just demanded to be touched. It felt soft and pliable under her fingertips. Jenny heard the front door being locked, then she turned to see Richard bending down to take off his loafers.

'No shoes in the house?' she said.

'We have a neighbour who complains about "marching boots" on his ceiling.'

'Fair enough.'

Jenny bent to unzip her own boots. She looked over at the man and said:

'I like your wife's taste in clothes.'

'Yeah, so do I.'

'Where is she, by the way?'

'Majorca.'

'On holiday?'

'Kind of.' Richard placed his shoes on a rack. 'A friend of hers is getting married and so a bunch of them flew out to Majorca for a three-day hen night.'

'Oh...'

'Yeah.'

Jenny pulled off her second boot and placed the two of them next to a pair of fawn suede pixie boots. It occurred to her that Richard's wife might be fucking some handsome Spaniard even as they spoke. It would serve him right.

'Do you want a drink?' said Richard.

'Not really,' said Jenny. 'Glass of water, perhaps.'

'Sure.'

Jenny walked into the apartment proper. To the left was a kitchen area where Richard was now preparing a glass of iced water. There were three small spotlights over a marble-topped kitchen island, but the rest of the living space was in darkness. On the other side of the island, she could see a wooden dining table and chairs, then past that the shapes of a modular couch unit facing a giant flatscreen bolted onto the wall. And beyond all that was a wall of windows that looked out onto the silhouettes of rooftops and trees, interspersed with tiny lights from windows and streetlamps.

Jenny took off her pink blazer and made her way through the dark room to the windows. After a few minutes of gazing at the view, she began to see the river through gaps between the buildings. This view would probably look better in the daytime. She felt Richard come up behind her and heard the clinking of ice in a glass.

'You have a beautiful home,' she said, taking the water.

'Thank you,' he said.

He had a glass of orange juice in one hand, but he put his other arm around the woman's shoulders from behind. Jenny leaned back so she was resting against his chest and put her free hand on his arm to let him know it was wanted. They stood close together, bodies against one another, looking out at the view. It felt cosy, even domestic, and Jenny felt a burst of intense happiness. She couldn't wait to make love, but she didn't want to rush things either. She wanted to savour this closeness, this intimacy.