‘Any spare change?’ the man says sullenly again.
Giles peers down at him. ‘It’s my birthday,’ he reads out. ‘And I’m twenty-one! Come on, Holly, I’ve booked us a table at this place just down the road, close to the opera house.’
As we leave the homeless man behind, I find myself turning round, aware of that same old guilt gnawing away.
Giles catches me looking at him. ‘It was probably his birthday yesterday too, and the day before.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘And anyway, if you gave him money it would only go up his nose. Nearly there,’ he says, striding on ahead of me. ‘They’re all addicts.’
No, they’re not.
‘Here we are.’ Giles ushers me through the door of an American restaurant. He clearly knows this place well because the man behind the desk greets him personally, before taking our coats. ‘I’ve booked us a table in the martini bar,’ he shouts over the noise. The place is packed full with successful-looking thirty-somethings. ‘More laid back than the dining room!’ What I reckon he’s saying is he can escape after a drink if we have nothing to talk about. Good tactic. I sense he’s a pro at this dating game.
‘Come and sit down.’ He pulls out a bar stool for me. ‘What can I get you to drink? Tell me about yourself, Holly,’ he says, ‘are you a white or red kind of girl? I’m white. Or we could have one of their famous martinis?’
‘White’s great, thanks.’
Giles grabs the waiter’s attention. ‘Bottle of Chablis, please, two glasses. So,’ he says, returning his attention to me, ‘I think it said on your profile you’ve been married before? Stupid husband, letting you go, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I’m widowed.’
‘Oh shit, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. You weren’t to know. My husband died almost two years ago now.’
‘I’m so sorry, that’s bloody hard. Cancer?’
‘A car accident.’
‘Oh crikey, even worse,’ he says, as if he has a mental scoreboard in his head. A car accident is the bullseye on a dartboard. ‘Do you have children?’
I take my drink gratefully. Despite the dating website saying don’t drink too much I knock back a large gulp. And another. I shake my head.
‘Lucky,’ he sighs as if mentally calculating my predicament’s not quite so bad anymore.
I follow the successful first date rules and move on, asking him about his family. ‘I don’t recommend divorce to anyone, this one was particularly bad.’
‘This one?’ How many has he had, exactly?
‘I’ve been divorced twice.’
‘I’m sorry. And this one was especially awful?’
‘For my bank manager. She took me to the cleaners. Anyway,’ he says, as if he doesn’t want to dwell on his baggage either, ‘it’s all in the past and I’m a free agent now.’ He winks at me, as if his loss is my gain, before refilling my glass. ‘So, what do you do, Holly? I seem to remember you work in advertising?’
‘PR.’
‘I’ve never fully understood what it is you do in PR? Is it a lot of schmoozing, taking journalists out for dinner?’
‘If only,’ I say, laughing since I can’t remember the last time I did that. A breakfast meeting and a croissant is about as swanky as it gets. I also feel slightly patronised. If I knew him better, I might say something. If it was Angus, I’d never let him get away with that. Then again, Angus wouldn’t… Stop thinking about Angus. ‘How about you, you’re a hedge funder, aren’t you?’
‘For my sins.’
‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘Far too long. Even if I wanted to get another job, I’m not sure I could now. Can’t train an old dog new tricks!’
I smile, reminded of one of Angus’s exes who spoke in clichés. ‘Swings and roundabouts finally pushed me to breaking point,’ he’d said on one of our runs.
‘If I’m honest, I’ve never really understood what hedge funders do either,’ I admit. ‘All I know is it involves a lot of money.’
