Broken Places (2 page)

‘No, I took a taxi in the end – couldn’t face sloshing through the puddles.’

If she could afford a taxi all the way from her office, they weren’t exactly evenly matched when it came to basic income. Never mind. When searching for a soulmate, higher things than money were involved.

A second waiter came bustling up and proffered her the wine list. ‘A drink for you, madam?’

Eric watched the fellow jealously. This exquisite woman’s lips were made for kissing, but kissing
him
, not some natty Frenchman with fatal Gallic charm.

‘Oh, brilliant!’ she exclaimed, as her eyes flicked down the page. ‘They do Billecart-Salmon Rosé by the glass, and it’s my absolute top favourite.’

Eric had never heard of it, although a quick glance at the wine list revealed it to be a vintage champagne – at
£
20 a glass.

‘I hope you’ll join me,’ she enthused. ‘It really is quite fabulous.’

‘Y … yes, of course.’ He tried to sound less grudging:
£
40 for just two pre-dinner drinks was exorbitant by any standards, but this dazzling
creature’s
company surely justified all manner of expense.

The waiter returned with two stylishly slender champagne flutes,
orgasming
with bubbles and preening on a silver tray.

‘To us!’ she purred, clinking her glass to his.

‘To us!’ he echoed, elated by the fact that she had already turned them into an item – and after a mere five minutes. His mind leapt ahead to the future: marriage, babies, Silver Wedding….

She cocked her head to one side, swilling a little champagne round her mouth. ‘It tastes like apples, don’t you think? Sweet, ripe English apples, smothered in double cream.’

Nervously he nodded. Wine appreciation wasn’t his strong point. Besides, he was still finishing his first drink, so he could taste only Coke, not apples. He quickly switched the glasses over, but the frisky bubbles tickled in his nose, resulting in a mortifying hiccough. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon!’ he spluttered, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. He should have stuck to beer.

‘You’re not allergic, are you?’ Olivia asked. ‘Allergies are really common nowadays, so my GP says. You can even be allergic to yourself, would you believe?’

Yes, he
would
believe and, yes, he
was
allergic, although he quickly changed the subject, recalling Stella’s advice not to mention boring things like health; to avoid all risky topics such as death, divorce or dentistry, and, above all, to be original.

‘So what really makes you tick?’ he asked, emboldened by his
vodka-and-champagne
cocktail, and desperate to distract her from the hiccough.

‘Oh, books!’ she gushed. ‘No question. Which was why I was so enchanted to hear you were a librarian.’

Enchanted
? Was he dreaming? For the average punter, librarians were irredeemably downbeat: menopausal females in cardigans and
grannyspecs
; sad blokes, past their prime, with dandruff and no prospects.

‘It must be so exhilarating,’ she continued, fluttering her long, dark lashes in a disarmingly coquettish way, ‘being surrounded by all that
knowledge
.’

His spirits soared still higher. She truly
was
a soulmate; not following the common view that books were dead and librarians were dinosaurs, but grasping the true appeal of scholarship, the open-sesame of learning. The only thing that worried him was the speed with which she was drinking; gulping down champagne as if she’d just run a marathon and was seriously dehydrated.

‘Let’s have another, shall we? It’s such a brilliant vintage, it just floats across your mouth.’

Suddenly decisive, he opened the menu and set it down in front of her, in the hope of diverting her attention from the wine list. Apart from the cost, if he drank a third glass of anything without some food as ballast, he might lose his grip entirely and start babbling on about death, divorce and dentistry in one long, shaming spiel.

‘Yes, do let’s eat! Food’s another passion of mine. In fact, I eat out almost every night.’

He refrained from comment. The last time
he
had eaten out had been the day his ancient cooker blew up, singeing off his eyebrows (which had grown back paler still). And it had been egg and chips at the local caff, not gourmet, five-star fare.

‘Another two glasses of this, please.’ She gestured to her glass, flashing a smile at the waiter. The wretched man was still hovering obsequiously, probably sizing up Olivia’s breasts, which were, in truth, gratifyingly prominent.

‘What do you suggest as a starter?’ she asked, fixing her eyes on the
menu – captivating dark-chocolate eyes. ‘The ballotine of chicken sounds nice. Or how about the
Piedmont Bresaola, tête de moine
?’

He quickly scanned the starters for something he could pronounce – not to mention something cheaper. ‘The soup for me,’ he said, wishing it were homely oxtail, rather than coconut and lemongrass.

‘But that’s frightfully unadventurous! Why not have the game and
foie gras
terrine?’

Fatally weakened by her cleavage, he heard himself agreeing. Her top was so low-cut, he could all but see her nipples – in his mind was kissing them in an ecstasy of bliss.

‘Actually, I think I’ll have that too.
And
the ballotine of chicken.’

What the hell was Ballotine? ‘The chicken as a main course, you mean?’

‘Oh, no – as
well
as. I often have two starters. I have this weird
metabolism
, you see. However much I eat, I’m never full.’

He would have to pawn his bike at this rate, or even ring the bank and arrange an instant overdraft, but he kept his focus strictly on her breasts. He would gladly lose his bike – lose everything, in fact – for the chance to see them naked. ‘And what to follow?’

She pursed her darling mouth. ‘Well, I adore Beef Wellington, but it says they only do it for two. Would you fancy sharing it?’

At
£
45 the double portion,
no
! Best to pretend he was vegetarian, but the lie stuck in his throat. ‘I’m not actually a great meat-eater.’ That was true, at least. Since the divorce, his usual fare was beans on toast. ‘I think I’ll go for the’ – his eye fell on a pasta dish, at a merciful
£
12.90 – ‘the crab linguine.’ Seafood brought him up in a rash, but so would a bill in three figures.

‘In that case, I’ll have the Beef Wellington all to myself. I’m ravenous tonight, so it’ll suit me rather well. And I’ll have the sautéed spinach to go with it, and the lemon-crushed Charlotte potatoes.’

Vegetables were extra, of course. Another reason he had opted for pasta, which could be eaten on its own. He wasn’t mean – far from it. He would gladly buy a woman dinner – indeed, treat her every week, if things went well – but his wallet and this restaurant just didn’t marry up. Even the basket of bread, just set down by the waiter, who had come to take their order, cost a flagrant
£
5.50. Admittedly, it was stone-ground, seed-encrusted and organic, but what was wrong with Sainsbury’s ‘basic’-range white – a mere 50p for a whole family-sized loaf?

Olivia grabbed the largest piece, spread it liberally with butter and began
devouring it at frantic speed. ‘Mm, yummy!’ she enthused, spraying him with half-masticated morsels. ‘I adore this bread, don’t you?’

Since she hadn’t thought to pass him any, he couldn’t give his verdict. Bemused, he watched her seize a second chunk and down it at the same dizzy rate.

‘So, tell me all about yourself,’ she mumbled, between manic gobbles. ‘Do you work at the British Library?’

‘Er, no. I’m afraid I’m not quite in that league.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m in public libraries,’ he explained, ‘and my special interest is community engagement – you know, bringing in new readers amongst the socially excluded, particularly those with mental-health problems …’ The sentence petered out. Not only was he using jargon, but his line of work didn’t sound exactly glamorous. Indeed, Olivia’s expression was already one of mild distaste. Just as well he hadn’t mentioned ex-prisoners or asylum-seekers as amongst those he burned to help.

‘I’ve never met a librarian,’ she commented, dismissively, still chewing hard and speaking with her mouth full. ‘I prefer to buy my books. I mean, if you borrow them from some public source, you never know where they’ve
been
. You could pick up awful diseases – things like AIDS or—’

He dodged the shower of saliva-coated crumbs spraying from her mouth. She was now on piece number three, and clearly viewed the whole large basket as her own private property.

‘Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if all libraries were made to close down – I mean, once the powers-that-be get wind of the real health risks. It’s a bit like doctors not washing their hands in the early days of surgery. It took a while for society to grasp that patients were dying because of the surgeons’ lack of hygiene, not on account of the operations. Oh, great – our starters! Which shall I eat first, Eric?’

Without waiting for an answer, she dug an eager fork into the terrine, swallowed a large mouthful, then repeated the exercise with the ballotine of chicken, which resembled a fat brown bolster floating on a lake of creamy sauce. He jumped as she cut into it, sauce spattering over the clean
white-linen
tablecloth, and leaving a yellow stain. She hardly seemed to notice, so intent was she on eating; alternating forkfuls of each starter, and washing them down with her second glass of champagne.

He was so astounded by her messy eating, all conversation died; the ensuing silence filled solely with the sound of rampant chomping. He thought back to the Soulmates site, which did include questions about one’s
eating and drinking habits. For drinking, she had answered ‘rarely’; for eating, ‘sparely but healthily’. ‘Sparely’ was an outright lie, and was it really healthy to eat so extraordinarily fast? At this very moment, she was
emitting
a succession of strangulated gasps, as her speed increased still further and a recalcitrant piece of chicken lodged itself in her gullet.

‘Are you OK, Olivia?’

‘Mm. Just starving! Eating actually makes me hungrier. My mother said I was like that even as a baby. My first word was “More!”, apparently.’

As she talked – and chewed – he could see directly into her open mouth; had no choice but to watch the slimy brown gobbets slithering down her throat. She had mentioned her mother, but that mother had been seriously remiss in failing to teach her table-manners.

She paused, at last, although only for a second. ‘Why aren’t you eating, Eric?’

‘I’m … just finishing my drink.’ In fact, confronted by her greed, he was beginning to lose his appetite – even more so, as a gob of food-and-spittle landed on his face. He moved his chair back, in an attempt to dodge the firing line, but he was still stomach-churningly close.

‘That reminds me, we ought to order our wine – red for my Beef Wellington, of course, but a Chardonnay right now. I’d like some with the rest of my chicken, and it’ll go nicely with your linguine.’

Maybe
she
was paying, he thought, with a surge of relief. Surely no woman would take the initiative like this, then leave him to settle the bill. He couldn’t count on it, however, and even if they agreed to go Dutch, it would still more or less clean him out. He didn’t even want more wine – was in need of some plain tonic water to settle his queasy stomach.

Then, suddenly, she leaned towards him, mouth open, eyes ablaze, and for one dizzying moment, he assumed she was going to kiss him – an advanced French kiss, all darting, pulsing tongue. But all she did was help herself to his as yet untouched terrine. She had already devoured the whole of her own, yet now was cramming in a huge chunk of his.

‘You don’t mind, do you, Eric? I can see you’re not a serious eater.’

Yes, he thought, with rising indignation – I
do
mind. He watched in revulsion as she continued to gobble his starter, only pausing to butter more bread and stuff that into her mouth, as well. Then, turning back to the ballotine, she sloshed another puddle of sauce on the cloth, in her feverish haste to scoop it up. Even her once-pristine top was now patterned with yellow splodges, and sauce had splashed the sleeve of his best suit. He could
hardly bear to look at her as she bolted down her food – and his. A frond of parsley was stuck between her teeth; her mouth was moustachioed with grease, and her champagne glass all smeary from those unappetizing lips.

Literature and art? He all but hooted. Her sole concern was eating for Great Britain, so how could they discuss the things he longed to talk about: the role of fiction in fostering empathy and tolerance; his firm belief that illiteracy must be banished, root and branch; his passion for using books and libraries to help minority groups, underachievers, and indeed anyone in search of knowledge, or that satisfying sense of lives beyond one’s own?

She had barely listened to a single word he’d said, nor had the simple courtesy even to offer him the bread or salt. Even her looks were fast losing their appeal. However blonde her hair or sensational her breasts, how could he be soulmate to someone who thought libraries were a source of plague and pestilence? The whole concept of a soulmate was desperately important to him – had been since his boyhood, when the notion, although impossible in fact, had still been a cherished dream and a future aspiration. Looks were less important than believing in some cause, sharing the same ideals, viewing the world through roughly the same eyes. But this woman
had
no ideals – only a serious eating disorder, combined with a drinking problem. Even if she offered to pay the whole exorbitant bill – even if she was a millionaire – she was still, at base, a slob and, frankly, his overwhelming instinct was to bolt out of the restaurant and keep running, running, running, until he’d put fifty miles between them.

In fact, he had come to a decision: he would rather spend his days alone – for ever, till he died – than settle for a female as gross and gluttonous as this.