The Red Dragon is, I suppose, my local, in that it's the closest pub to my house. Saying that it's not actually terribly close, being about a fifteen minute walk away, and I didn't frequent it a great deal. Richard loved the place though, being equidistant from his house in the opposite direction, and hence we spent a few Sunday lunches there followed by a nice walk back to his house. I wasn't all that keen on eating there, what with owning my own restaurant anyway, and I always felt a little put out that Richard knew all the other patrons so well, whilst I often felt like an arm-adornment. I'd arranged to meet Richard - no, it had been arranged by Richard for me to meet - there.
Swirling the ice cubes around my diet coke, I waited for the inevitable text message to say that Richard would be late. Even the text message was late this time. When it did come through - at 8:45 it arrived fifteen minutes after Richard himself should have - I merely glanced through for an indication of when he would be here, not bothering with the excuses. Sighing to myself, I smoothed down my dress and prepared for the wait.
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" came a cheeky voice from behind me. "No, that one won't work on you. How about, call heaven quick, there's an angel missing? No, wait, I'll get it in a minute. Get your coat, you've pulled? What's a worm do? Any of them likely to let me buy you a drink?"
He was tall and athletic, not bronzed exactly but with a weathered look, the sort of tan you only get from working outdoors, and I had a vision of him digging holes in roads for the council which instantly made him less attractive. Still in muddy shorts, so probably a stray from the boisterous group of young men that had obviously just finished football training (although I suppose it could have been rugby. Wasn't cricket though, I could tell that much). Nice smile and cheerful eyes. Reasonably gorgeous, actually, but a little too pretty for my liking. Listen to me, I sound like a connoisseur of young men already.
"You could have just said, 'may I buy you a drink', and then you wouldn't have had to stand there and sound quite so stupid." Ouch. I didn't mean to sound so harsh, but you'll appreciate that this is not a normal period in my life. I'm still dealing with the aftershock of cheating on the aforementioned absent boyfriend.
"Okay, okay, I take the hint," he said, turning to go. What the hell, I figured, I'll only be sat on my own for another half an hour.
"You don't want to go back to your friends having completely crashed and burned, do you? Mine's a vodka and diet coke." I motioned to the stool beside me at the bar. "Best make it a double. You don't have a chance, by the way, but a little company would be nice seeing as my date is going to be late. Just wanted to clear that up." I don't know whether he was as stunned as I was by the authority I managed to project into my voice, but there it was. He ordered the drink and set it down beside my other.
"I'm-"
"What makes you think I care?" I replied, haughtily, with a questioning stare at him over the rim of my glass before sipping demurely. I don't know whether it was guilt going sour in my system like unused adrenaline, or the fading of the buzz the encounter had given me, but something had certainly put me on one.
"So what's with the noisy boys over there?"
"It's er, we are, uh, I'm-"
"Jesus, do you need a bib or something? Are you trying to chat me up or do you intend to stutter and dribble your way into my knickers?"
"But, all-"
"Let me ask you; do you find this the most effective way to approach women? What sort of success rate do you anticipate when you set out of an evening, intending to employ this approach?" I let him sit there in silence, manifesting both confidence and disdain that I didn't really feel. "Is this a routine that would normally find success with ladies of your own age? Or perhaps this is not your normal approach, but rather one of your rugby chums over there put you up to this, sent you on a dare, as it were." Placing my glass down gently on the bar, I swung my foot gently whilst humming a completely different tune from the one on the sound system. He was silent for a moment, and I let the silence hang between us. I was only having a little fun with him after all. His despondence was almost tangible, and when he turned his head and made to have another go, I looked up and opened my mouth to let him have another broadside, but he was no longer looking at me. Richard was standing beside him.
"Hello Caitlin, sorry I'm late," he flustered, pecking me on the cheek. He turned to the young man beside me and smiled.
"It's okay Ben, I think I can take it from here."
"You two know each other then?" I asked, too surprised to worry about the blindingly obvious answer to the question.
"You could say that, yes," said Richard, in his slightly slimy, patronising-students voice. "Since he was about, ooh, so high," indicating with his hand. I have to admit I was starting to panic a little, despite the fact that there was absolutely nothing to panic over. Knowing my luck, this young man would turn out to be the son that Richard is always talking about and that I have yet to meet. In fact, did he not just call him Ben?
"I take it you've had a match tonight?" enquired Richard.
"Sorry," I interrupted, "I was just wondering how you two gentlemen know each other." Disturbingly, they glance at each other for a second before breaking out into an 'all-lads-together' laugh.
"Well, you could say we go way back!" laughed Richard. So this must Ben. Terrific, I mused, even different generations of Richard's family find me attractive. I must be cursed. Thinking so, and musing on the possibilities of breaking said curse and the part that silver bullets and moonlit cemeteries might play in this process, Richard finally put me out of my misery.
"So where is my son?" he asked, and suddenly everything was sunshine and swallows and half-price summer sales.
"Ummm, he's around somewhere, surprised he's not over here actually, trying to get round one of the barmaids (further conspiratorial chuckling). Maybe he's in the loo. Shall I have a look for him?"
"Caitlin, seeing as I finally have Ben here, would you mind if we said hi? If you don't feel up to this, we can do it another time. We've spoken on the phone but I haven't seen him lately. Is that okay?"
"Sure, whatever," I huffed, indignant at not actually receiving even a perfunctory apology for his being late. Glancing over at said noisy boys, I wondered which one was Richard's son. There was one that would soon need a comb-over, he was a contender; a portly fellow, stout of tum and sure of fetlock, was another; and there was one who was clearly slightly older and displayed the same genetic oddities that other mobile phone salesmen I'd encountered had. He was practically dripping with sleaze, self-importance and sweat. I almost shouted him over there and then. Summing up, there was a fat chap who I assumed was the goal minder, or whatever they're called, someone with legs like a giraffe, a wheezy youngster sucking on an inhaler, my new friend Roger 'Skipper' Thornhill whose semen had splashed across my boobs just so recently, and a tall coloured man whose laugh was so deep it sent seismologists into a panic.
Trying hard not to do a slapstick comedy double take, complete with incongruous cartoon klaxon noise, I looked at him again; the beautiful stranger, who'd played havoc with my imagination since I last saw him, was here now. You know the cliché about panic tasting like steel? Actually, it's true. It's a hard-edged, metallic taste, which rises from the depths of your stomach was devastating speed whilst simultaneously draining the blood from your legs. To encounter him again was difficult enough, after the way we'd parted. To encounter him whilst I was with my partner was indescribable. When they manage to come up with a word to describe how I felt after seeing him again while I was with my partner, and his son, and after being hit on by one of his mates, I'll let you know. Leave me your email address or something.
"Ben? Ben!" shouted Richard. I tried hard to look disinterested at which of the young men replied. Had I been standing, my knees would have buckled with relief when comb-over stood up and came over to us.
"Ben, it's my round. What do you want?"
"Same again Dean, cheers. Will you get Ben one as well, he was in our round." The newcomer looked over to the group, proclaiming to Ben that he had got the next one in. The man whose tongue had been in my bum-hole straightened up and acknowledged the shout with a wave of his empty pint glass. Then, with a look of cheery recognition, he saw Richard and ambled over.
