It would have to do.
* * *
An hour later we arrived outside Café Lulu. Through the huge plate glass windows, the décor and furniture shouted ‘massively trendy’. My stomach was doing an impression of a washing machine on maximum spin.
At the door we were given a covert up-and-down by an Amazonian blonde drenched in an overpowering perfume, who obviously had strict instructions to weed out any riff-raff.
‘You are?’ she barked in an East European accent. Even I had to crick my neck to look up at her. She looked capable of slinging out undesirables by the scruff of their necks. Perhaps she’d been a female wrestler in a former life. I’d managed to text my cousin that afternoon to tell him, rather than ask him, to expect one extra.
We must have passed the test because we were waved over to a set of brightly lit stairs leading up to the private members’ lounge. It was packed. Impressive. Maybe Barney had had to squeeze us in after all.
He was standing at the entrance and barely gave me a glance, far too busy snapping out orders to another blonde sporting a chest of magnificent proportions. With clipboard in hand and wearing one of those headsets with a microphone, she looked as if she knew what she was doing. She smiled at us. Not a single wrinkle or dimple spoilt her foundation. It was only when she asked our names that Barney realised it was me.
‘Blimey, Olivia,’ he gasped, his eyes zeroing in on my cleavage. ‘Have you had a boob job?’
Laced in like a Victorian lady, I was rather proud of the results. Good job I hadn’t gone for the inflatable version. I wouldn’t have put it past him to stick a needle in.
‘Murdered any hamsters lately?’ I didn’t say it, although it was on the tip of my tongue. Another childhood incident. Instead, I managed to muster up a snide, ‘This all looks veryprofessional.’ The unspoken, ‘For an amateur,’ was implied by my surly tone.
Emily gave me an irritated look. ‘Children, children,’ she interceded with a flirtatious smile. She would. Barney was just her type.
‘You’re on table seven, Olivia, and you,’ Barney gave Emily an approving smile, ‘are table twelve. Would you like me to show you to your tables.’
‘No, it’s fine. Just point the way to the bar,’ I said, anxious to put as much distance as possible between us. ‘You’re obviously rushed off your feet.’
Botox Barbie’s smile slipped for a second, her face sour as she muttered under her breath, ‘Hardly.’
My glass of wine was window dressing as my stomach was still on its final spin. It might be a long evening. Emily and I positioned ourselves so it looked as if we were talking to one another, when in fact we were scanning the room over each other’s shoulders.
The room was almost circular, the circumference ringed by alcoves containing tables lit by angular desk lamps. The line, ‘Ve hav vays of making you talk’, ran through my head.
‘Seen anyone interesting?’ asked Emily, tossing her long blonde hair back over her shoulder for the fifth time.
‘I’m trying not to make it seem too obvious.’ I gave my wine another tentative sip. ‘If I catch anyone’s eye they might think I’m desperate.’
‘Olivia, people go speed-dating all the time. They’re probably all veterans.’
And that was supposed to make me feel better?
Dotted around the room were the odd twosome, like us, pretending not to be eyeing everyone else up. A few brave solitary souls, clearly mad or desperate, were busy examining the huge, curved pieces of artwork that hugged the walls.
One man stood out. Nothing mad or desperate about him. If anything, he seemed to preen under the curious glances, self-assured and haughty as he gazed airily around the room as if looking for inspiration before reapplying himself to hisTimescrossword.
It went quiet as Barney strode into the centre of the room to explain the rules of engagement. I thought it was all pretty obvious but Barney had to make a meal of it. At last, just as I was thinking about sidling out of the room, he finished with, ‘Ladies and gentlemen — good luck.’
‘Who does he think he is, head of MI6 sending us off on a mission?’ I whispered, my stomach lurching in panic. Emily tossed her hair again and gave an excited little skip.
I almost expected a bell to ring to start us off, but with an imperious, ‘To your tables,’ Barney clapped his hands and we all jumped like well-trained sheep.
‘Show time,’ sang Emily and sailed off to her table, her hips swinging.
* * *
Searching out table seven, I arrived before my date.
Slipping into the chocolate-brown leather banquette in my allocated alcove, I stuffed my bag at my feet with shaking hands and then hopped back on to my feet.
What was speed-date etiquette? Should I stand and wait, or sit back down?
