Chapter 11
MANDY
Mandy hovered at the stone wall which surrounded the address she’d pulled from Richard’s Facebook page. She watched everyone ahead of her hurry up the path, escaping the drizzle, and prepared herself to follow them.
Although she was generally a confident person in most social situations, when it came to large groups of strangers she clammed up and was prone to becoming tongue-tied. She had no idea what she would say if anyone attempted a conversation with her, so she tried to keep a low profile. It wouldn’t matter if she were a few minutes’ late – nobody knew or was expecting her.
Mandy hadn’t thought twice about throwing a sickie from work, and had told her sisters she’d be out of contact on a course. Even if they did find out that she was lying, they’d probably assume it had something to do with Richard Taylor, her DNA Match, anyway.
She took a packet of mints from her handbag and popped a sugar-free Polo into her mouth. She also took out her handheld mirror and angled it in an attempt to check that she still resembled something presentable after the two-hour-long car journey. She ruffled her hair hoping the damp hadn’t made her curls too frizzy.
Finally, when she heard music begin to play inside, she walked slowly up the path, approached the door and braced herself for what she would confront inside.
If she were being brutally honest with herself, she didn’t know what she was doing there or what she was going to get out of it. She was only aware that she and Richard were destined to share something together, no matter how complicated that might be. So she made her way inside and found a seat at the very back.
She picked up an order of service that’d been left at the end of the pew and flicked through it, trying to calm her nerves. Two guitarists played by the microphone stand at the front, singing along to a ballad that she didn’t recognise. Upon finishing, a man with a sincere smile replaced them.
‘Thank you, Stuart and Derek,’ he began. ‘First of all, I’d like to thank you all for coming. And secondly, on behalf of the Taylor family, I’d like to welcome you all to St Peter and All Saints Church for a special ceremony in memory of our dear friend, Richard.’
Chapter 12
CHRISTOPHER
Christopher stared hard at her through the restaurant window, attempting to decipher her body language.
Amy, his Match Your DNA date, was sitting at the table with her arms folded and her legs crossed at the ankle. She looked nervous, he thought. But according to one of the many instructional YouTube videos he’d viewed, this meant she was defensive. Either one worked for him, as it put him at an advantage.
Amy glanced at the clock on her phone’s display at least once per minute. She frequently fiddled with her hair or tapped her feet against the leg of her chair. She was an attractive woman, he conceded, and looked exactly like the picture she had emailed him, after having been filtered, of course.
Her long, dark hair had a slight wave to it. Fashionable black-rimmed glasses framed her eyes and her use of make-up on her pale skin was subtle. She was of a slim build but did little to advertise it, playing it safe with trousers, heels and a plain blue top and jacket.
Christopher was aware it was perceived to be bad social etiquette to arrive late for a date, especially with a person science decreed had been made for him. But he didn’t care; it was all part of the game. It was betterto keep her waiting and on edge, as then he’d be in control of the situation and maintain the upper hand from the off.
As he bided his time outside the busy restaurant, he caught sight of his own reflection in the window. He’d not been acquainted with a good night’s sleep for some weeks, so had bought a cover-up stick from Boots to dab at the bags and shadows under his eyes. He’d also used a tinted moisturiser he’d obtained from the bathroom cabinet of Number Four to disguise the fact his nocturnal project affected his melatonin levels; he mainly slept during the day.
While he’d found time to shave, he hadn’t been able to book an appointment to get his hair trimmed, so he’d done the best he could with his side parting, using a generous helping of a product that made it look much darker than its usual reddish brown colour. He smiled to himself, satisfied that, unlike many of his former schoolmates, his wrinkles were minimal, his teeth were as near to straight as could be and his features were angular rather than plumped by excess skin. He looked at least five years younger than his thirty-three years.
Christopher straightened the lapels of his tailor-fitted jacket, holding out a little longer until Amy looked like she was about to leave, and then entered the restaurant.
His eyes scanned the generically furnished room as he pretended to search for his date. Her frustration at his tardiness dissipated the moment their eyes locked. To Christopher, it looked as if an invisible force had thrown her back into her chair, as she stammered a nervous, ‘Hello.’
‘Amy, hi. I am so sorry I’m late,’ Christopher apologised, shaking her hand confidently and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘That’s OK, I only just got here myself a few minutes ago,’ she lied and swallowed hard.
‘I was held up at work on a new magazine I’ve been working on,’ Christopher said as he took his seat. ‘And then I got stuck in traffic.’
‘You said in your email you were a graphic designer?’ she asked. As she drank him in he could tell that she was playing it cool.
‘Yes, I’m freelance so I have a quite few projects on the go at any one time.’
‘Who do you design for?’
‘Mainly luxury trade magazines, you know, companies that build yachts or planes and brochures for holiday destinations that you won’t find at Thomas Cook,’ he boasted. ‘It’s very exclusive.’
She didn’t look as impressed as he had hoped, and asked, ‘Where are you based?’
‘I work from home in Holland Park, which is convenient. Shall we order some drinks?’
