I’ve been a writer long enough to recognise when my imagination is running away with itself. I’m writing the backstory to my own life, dreaming up a twin when there’s absolutely no evidence of one. I created the Palmer Twins because of the commercial power of two identical crime-fighting sisters. But now I wonder if I’ve had some sort of fixation on this for the last twenty years.
This is getting me nowhere.
I push all thoughts of twins out of my mind and start getting ready for my date.
Alistair hasn’t sent me a text to cancel, which suggests he hasn’t seen the photo. I consider cancelling myself. I’m not feeling remotely sexy and my tolerance for small talk is minimal. But I shake off my negativity. What do I have to lose? The worst that can happen is he stands me up. Actually, no, the worst that could happen is that he’s a serial killer, but that’s highly unlikely.
I’m in the taxi when my phone pings. I lift the screen, my heart pounding, convinced that it’s the disappointing text I’ve been expecting all day.
Alistair:Can’t wait to finally meet you. Just got to the bar. I’m in a blue polo shirt.
I send a quick message back.En route. I’ll be there in five minutes.
Alistair:Great!
The taxi pulls up outside the bar and I step out, a little unsteady on the four-inch heels I decided to wear. It’s been a while since I had an occasion to wear them. That’s one thing I miss about my life with Scott. Sometimes it’s good to dress up to the nines and turn a few heads. I smooth down the skirt of my dress, the blue shift dress that matches my eyes. Now I’m wondering if I could have gone even more glam. It’s a Saturday so pretty busy, and the three women standing outside the bar smoking are all in low-cut, skimpy dresses with perfect curls cascading down their shoulders, caressing their young skin.
I check myself before the usual comparisons float into my mind. Fifty is not ancient. I still have a yoga-toned body. I still have a curve to my thighs, my hips, my breasts. I’m a bestselling author for goodness’ sake. I have gifts to give this man. I am worthy of him and I have a place here. I take a deep breath and push through into the low-lit bar. Here we go.
I see him right away, sitting by the bar in his blue polo shirt. I realise our blue outfits match. A smile lights up his handsome face, and I’m relieved he looks like his photos and seems genuinely pleased to see me. I like that he’s clean shaven and that his hair is neatly slicked back. I like that his hands rest comfortably on his knees and that his posture is relaxed. Most of all, I like the dimples in his cheeks when he smiles at me.
“Wow,” he says, as I approach. “Wow. You’re stunning.”
I can’t help the rush of blood to my cheeks, girlish and giddy.
We kiss on the cheek, and I take a seat.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks. His eyes are like magnets, locked onto mine.
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” I say.
“Great choice.”
It probably isn’t the most sensible idea. At the back of my mind, I hear Penny telling me that I shouldn’t drink with my medication. She tried to convince me to meet Alistair in a coffee shop in the middle of the day, but I can’t imagine a date without at least a small drop of alcohol to calm the nerves.
Alistair orders a whisky sour, and we decide to take our drinks over to a booth at the back of the bar where it’s quieter.
“I have a confession to make,” he says, leaning close.
I see the sparkle in his expression and wonder what he’s about to say.
“I know who you are. My niece reads your books.” He smiles broadly. “She adores the Palmer Twins. She wanted me to ask you what’s going to happen to Marigold now.”
I laugh. “Ah, no spoilers! Actually, I haven’t decided yet. I don’t always plan everything out. But you can tell her that I’m working on it and that she will never be able to guess it.”
As I sip my martini, a few nerves bubble up from my stomach for the first time. What if I have an episode here in the bar? I picture myself dribbling vodka down my chin, suddenly forgetting how to swallow, or at the bar with the money in my hand, confused about what I’m buying.
“You must have such an amazing mind to come up with all those twists,” he says. “I don’t know how you do it.”
I laugh. “It’s easier to write twists for children and teenagers. Crime writers. Anyone writing mysteries and thrillers for adults. Now they have real devious minds.” I place my martini down on the napkin. “Do you like to read?”
He lifts his hands as though in surrender. “I do but I don’t usually find the time. When I read, I prefer non-fiction.”
“Oh, history and geography, that kind of thing?”
“More science and philosophy,” he says, almost apologetically. “Which I know makes me sound a tad pretentious.”
I shake my head. “It’s only pretentious if you’re pretending to enjoy it. Who is your favourite philosopher?”
