Lucy Holliday - A Night In With Grace Kelly

‘OK, well, if you’re OK, Mum, and if you’re all set here for the night, I’ll head off.’

‘Libby’s got a date ,’ Cass sighs, bitterly.

‘Oh! With Dillon?’

This perks Mum up slightly; me going out with Dillon O’Hara was the Best Thing I Ever Did, in her eyes, and she can’t really forgive me for the fact I don’t seem to have any intention of doing it again.

‘No, Mum. Not with Dillon.’

‘Who, then?’

‘No one. Just a guy I met in the street.’

‘Oh, Libby. I know you’re almost thirty-five—’

‘I’m thirty!’

‘… but I still think you ought to be setting your sights a little bit higher than some random man from the streets.’

‘He’s not from the streets ! I met him on the street, right near my flat. He’s a personal trainer, actually, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.’

‘Ooooooh, is he one of the trainers from FitRox?’ Cass breathes. ‘You jammy cow! They were all massively hot. Is it Nathan? Or Kyan? Or Sabrina?’

‘Sabrina’s a girl’s name.’

‘Yeah but, seriously, she was so hot, I’d have done her, too. God . Why does Libby get to go out with a gorgeous personal trainer while I’m stuck at home being Mum to my stupid boyfriend’s kids?’

‘I know. I know. It’s very insensitive of her to point it out,’ Mum says, soothingly. ‘But look, darling: if you talk Zoltan into this place, near Walton-on-Thames, you could even think about putting the kids in the annexe …’

I leave them poring over the iPad, and head out of the room, somehow managing to refrain from banging the door behind me as I go.

*

I reach my flat at eight twenty-seven exactly, let myself in the front door, and just have time to hurtle upstairs to zhuzz my hair and bung on a coat of lipstick before, on the dot of eight-thirty, there’s a knock.

Joel is waiting politely outside when I answer it, and is holding a bunch of extremely lovely dusty-pink roses.

‘If those are apology flowers …’ I begin.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ he says, with a grin. ‘For an apology, you’re really looking at a hyacinth, an iris, or a nice calla lily. These are Looking Forward To A Nice Evening Out flowers. I’d have thought that was obvious.’

‘You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ I smile at him. ‘They’re really gorgeous, Joel, thank you. Oh!’ I add, as I take them from him and notice the branded tissue paper they’re wrapped in, inside the layer of cellophane. ‘And you got them from that place up past the tube! For God’s sake, they must have cost you an arm and a leg up there! You honestly shouldn’t have.’

‘It was worth it. Besides, I’d never have been able to drop the words hyacinth, iris or calla lily so expertly into the conversation if it hadn’t been for the woman who sold them to me. Were you impressed?’

‘Ever so. I’ll just dash up and put these in some water, and then we can get going.’

I should probably, for politeness’s sake, if nothing else, invite Joel up while I bung the gorgeous roses in a sink-full of water, but we’re not quite on that level of intimacy yet, I don’t think. Besides, after Marilyn Monroe, I’m once bitten, twice shy. Even though there’s been no further sighting of Grace Kelly since last night, I’m wary of the worst-case scenario, which is that she’s materialized up there right now and is stretched out on the sofa in full wedding dress, still going on about me being her alter ego, or whatever the hell it was she had me pegged as.

She’s not, as I can see pretty quickly as soon as I get up there. But still. Better to be safe than sorry. I’m pretty inexperienced at this whole dating thing at the best of times; no need to add to my awkwardness by introducing my magical sofa before we’ve even cracked open the first bottle of Pinot Grigio.

‘Shall we start out at that nice pub on the corner of the next street,’ Joel asks, as I re-emerge and lock up the front door behind me, ‘and then we can negotiate what sort of thing we’d like, eating-wise?’

‘Perfect.’

I try not to make it too obvious, as we set off, that I’m looking at him. But he does look good. He’s only wearing jeans, a plain white shirt and dark-brown desert boots, but the combination of these, plus his wonderfully fit body and that chiselled, handsome face … well, it’s a winner, let’s leave it at that.

‘So, what do you like?’ he asks, glancing down at me.

‘Sorry?’

‘To eat. Just so we can get some irons in the fire, dinner-wise.’

‘Oh, right … I’m easy. About food, that is!’

‘That’s good. So you’re not one of those gluten-intolerant, raw-food, permanent health-kick types?’

‘No. But – er – aren’t you one of those?’

‘Should I be?’ He sounds faintly astonished.

‘Well, I just thought, with you being a personal trainer, you might be into the latest health fads and stuff.’

‘Oh … well, up to a point, I eat pretty healthily, I guess. But I’m not one for … sorry, what did you call them? The latest health fads?’

‘That might not be the technical term,’ I say, feeling a bit silly. ‘I’m a bit clueless about all that kind of thing, sorry. And just so I can get this out of the way at the start of the evening, before you make me feel a bit crap about the number of miles you run a week, or anything, I should probably just let you know that I’ve not set foot in a gym in about five years!’

‘I would never make you feel crap about anything,’ he says, in a slightly dismayed tone, as if I’m wildly underestimating him. ‘Least of all your record at the gym. Besides, it doesn’t show. You look, if I may say so, amazing.’

This is generous, because although I’ve done my best, and I think I’ve scrubbed up reasonably well this evening, I think amazing is pushing it.

But fortunately, we’ve just reached the pub, and he’s holding open the door for me, and we’re heading in, which brings to an end this slightly awkward line of conversation.

We find a table, a surprisingly nice corner one given that it’s already pretty packed in here, and then I hang on to it while he goes and gets a bottle of wine from the bar.

‘Red?’ he asks, a couple of minutes later, as he reappears with a bottle and two large glasses. ‘I realized when I got there that I hadn’t actually asked you what you prefer. It’s just a Merlot. Is that OK?’

‘Joel, honestly, it’s fine. Please don’t worry! I’m not fussy.’

Though it has to make you wonder a little bit about the sort of woman he’s used to dating, I suppose: the precise punctuality, the flowers, the checking about my happiness and preferences at every turn. Not that I’m complaining, because obviously his manners are pretty much as exquisite as that flawless skin of his. I just hope he relaxes a little as the evening goes on.

I’m not used to being the chilled-out one, that’s for sure.

‘Good.’ He sits down opposite me and pours us each a well-judged glass: not so big that it looks as if he’s trying to get me drunk, but not so small that it looks miserly. ‘Cheers. And I know I said I wouldn’t apologize again—’

‘Then don’t,’ I say, firmly, ‘because I’m absolutely fine. I mean, I’m pretty well padded.’

The image of me and my well-padded body linger, mortifyingly, in the air for a moment.

Then he chinks his glass to mine again. ‘Bottoms up, I suppose?’

The ice, thank God, has been broken.

I laugh, he smiles, and then he takes a drink from his glass and starts looking – thankfully – a little more relaxed.

‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me a bit more about yourself. I mean, all I have so far is that your name is Libby, and you’re a jewellery designer. A well-padded jewellery designer.’