La but no la-la 2

PART TWO

THE RESTAURANT was called Sesquipedalian, a word Larry had checked in Ma’s forty-year-old dictionary and was still no more the wiser. Its culinary practice was that of a brasserie but when Larry discovered this was a French word he looked no further.

The Chew and Chat team had told him it was “nearby” but it had taken two bus rides, and one of the services had already closed down. Even at that, he’d arrived two hours early. Sesquipedalian was on the main drag of a village that had almost turned into a town – perhaps a townlet, then. The eatery was already open and this seemed mysterious to monoglot Larry. A menu, scribbled in felt-tip and pinned to the door jamb, was hard to decode but certain faintly familiar phrases seemed to be in a foreign language. No doubt French, something that would have troubled him two days ago; less so now he had a Plan.

Most of the street’s shops were closed, offering no entertainment. However he stopped outside a Gent’s Outfitter with a window display that included a full length mirror. Where, Larry supposed, potential shoppers could inspect themselves and decide if their clothing was shabby enough to need replacing.

No such problems for Larry. As the date had drawn near Ma and Gerry had resorted to ever more feverish preparations. Even buying Larry a new suit. A double-breasted light grey which he now wore, catching the last soft rays of a setting sun. Gerry had definitely approved, saying it made Larry look “sort of solemn”. Ma, who had borne the cost, wasn’t prepared to go that far and had merely nodded. On the bus Larry had pondered “solemn” and decided it meant “wise”. No one, throughout his life, had ever used that adjective to describe Larry and, like Ma, he delayed judgment.

Mostly he killed time sitting in an empty bus station, amazed that he felt so calm. It had to be his Plan. As a mantra he stroked the bulge in his inside jacket pocket. Time to saunter over to his organised destiny

But when Vivian arrived at the reserved table, a fashionable ten minutes late, Larry, sitting, then stumbling to his feet, felt his tripes turn to water. His Plan! It wouldn’t work. He hadn’t allowed for this.

Luckily an over-zealous waitress, fussing with menus, announcing specials in a speak-your-weight voice, and making an over-long pitch for a Sicilian red “chosen specially by our proprietor,” reduced the immediate tension, and Larry had time to catch the breath he’d been shockingly deprived of. Throughout his own preparations for this evening, as throughout his life, he had assumed his computer-chosen soulmate would be visually negligible. In his rare encounters with women it had always been thus. Women who had, to some extent, been his mirror image, lacking confidence, attentive but artificially so. Not exactly unbeguiling but – at best – anonymous. Breathing normally now he realised he had slightly over-reacted to what Vivian wore. The sleek sheath dress in dark green with a somewhat over-ambitious cleavage had temporarily stunned him. Close up her face seemed arguably whispy and her glasses certainly lacked titanium frames.

OK, he could manage. Even if she was properly groomed, seemingly unafraid, poised if not showy  

But hang on. She was clearly waiting, impatient for some form of words. Not surprising since Larry had so far done nothing other than mumble.

Did his mouth creak as he opened it to speak? “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

She frowned and he saw this as adult. Already she was ahead of him. “Sorry for what?” she asked.

He spread his hands as a sign of helplessness. “I’m new to this. Not good at it all. I’d thought of things to say but not for this first… time. When we need a kind of bridge… between two people who don’t know each other.”

“Ah,” she said.

“How do you do it?”

“What makes you think I’m better at it than you?”

Was she mocking him? He cleared his throat but for no good reason. No words available.

She pointed at what would be her chair. He felt a rush of irrelevant gratitude that her nails were not coloured. That was something. She said “In movies the chap says: why don’t we sit down?”

Of course. This was what people did. He started arranging his hands to indicate invitation but she shook her head. “No, I’m wrong. First things first. The question is: who gets to sit where? Who looks out, who looks in?”

Then suddenly, blindingly, he felt calmer. Stepping away from his chair he now palmed his hand. “You should look out. Much better than looking in.” Toying with, but rejecting, what might have been a fatal addition: “at me”.

She laughed and he exalted. A first in all his life! Togetherness with a woman. 

Still smiling she sat down. “There you go. The social graces aren’t that hard.”

Exaltation died. In a million years he could never have called up “social graces”.

Yet as one door closed, another opened. She had picked up the menu; pouting, then let it drop. “All in French. My absolutely worst O-level.”

He, greatly daring: “While I struggled with English.”

She wagged a finger. “Time to stop this inadequacy talk. Talking of movies, we’re neither of us Yanks and they do it all the time. But we too can occasionally use our first names. Just occasionally, not like Yanks. As you know I’m Vivian but I’ll respond to Viv.”

“I put Laurence on the C&C form but I’m mostly Larry. Not that I like Larry all that much.” Why was that? Some kind of echo with Gerry?

“I could call you La. Very Jane Austen. ‘La, Mr Darcy.’ Would you like that?”

And again he was aware she might drift away. He’d seen ten minutes of the TV adaptation of Pride and Prejudice;  reckoned it slow; leaving him with no opinion; unable to follow her. But what about the Plan? There was always that to fall back on. In the meantime her hair was worth considering. More than that. Brownish with wavy patterns. Bent over the menu, reminding Larry that he too needed to do some picking.

Vivian raised her head. “I’m tempted by crudités because it sounds so weird. What about you?”

On the verge of spreading his hands he reminded himself he’d already done that. More, it would be easy to oversell helplessness. “I’m baffled. Is it cheating to ask what these things are?”

She pondered. “It would prove neither of us is clever at dining out.”

“That’s me in a flash.”

“But it’s you who talked about asking for help. Would you do the asking to protect my reputation?”

He almost panicked trying to work this one out. Then saw her grinning and recognised it put him in a good light. Beckoned the waitress.

THE ORDERS were quickly taken since the waitress sensed their linguistic shortcomings and edged them away from controversial choices. (“No, those are snails.”)  But Larry’s relief was short-lived when he alone was asked about drink. Having listened to his ums and ahs the waitress abruptly suggested two glasses of red and they were on their own again.

Throughout, Vivian had held him in scrutiny, saying little. Now she spoke: quietly, “Look La… No, that doesn’t sound right. Look Laurence, you’d admit to being shy, wouldn’t you?”

“Well… “

Briskly. “Nothing wrong with shyness. And you’re not alone. I’ve done a lot of weeping after coming home from parties.”

His mouth opened and stayed open. Ma would have said he looked sackless.

Vivian shrugged. “Why should I fib? But here’s the point. We’re on a date which isn’t a date. Dates happen between humans. A machine organised ours. I’m not exactly proud about that. We need to prove we’re human. So start asking questions. There’s skads I’d like to know about you but I’ll give you first dibs. Ask me a question and we’ll take it from there.”

On reflection he should have been terrified. But no,  she made it appear logical. Perhaps the as-yet untouched Plan added stiffness to his backbone. “Yes, I am shy. I don’t get out much and I live with my mother.” How easily the words came.

“My mother’s… er… quite strict. I work in Gascoigne’s mail room and it’s a nothing job. I’ve been taking driving lessons but I doubt I’ll pass the test. For holidays…” That, however, was the limit to this confession. His monotone took on a shriller pitch. “Oh, what the hell. My life’s dull. It’s all there on my C&C biog. Were you desperate? It doesn’t look like it.” 

IT WAS AS IF she was smiling to herself. “Perhaps I was desperate. Who knows? Why do people pay good money to open their heart to an algorithm? But I didn’t choose you out of desperation. I had six hopefuls and the other five lied their heads off. As a living I fact-check manuscripts for a publisher. Time to time I despair of humanity. So many untruths. You were only one that didn’t decorate what you were.”

Their starters had arrived and now they both knew what crudités looked like. “Just a sort of salad,” said Larry. “Nothing very weird, nothing very interesting.” He paused, feeling entitled to skate his eyes over those brown wavy patterns. “Your turn.” 

Both, in tandem, reached for their wine glasses. Larry, feeling slightly more at ease, waved to the waitress.

Vivian didn’t seem disposed to ask her question just yet. The main course – a casseroled lamb shank – was despatched to the accompaniment of monosyllables, Vivian leaving half the meat untouched.

She sighed as if about to sit an exam. “You don’t think much of yourself, then? Has it always been that way?”

Larry had just finished his fourth glass. For him Vivian had changed. Had become more like a neighbour he’d chatted to over the dividing wall. He liked her, felt he could trust her. Time to put a modified version of the Plan into action.

“Far as I can remember I was a normal child. But that was then and I had a father; he took me fishing. When I was twelve he simply disappeared. No more fishing. No one explained why. As I grew older I thought I had to stay with Ma. Felt she’d been badly treated. But later I couldn’t help thinking Dad left Ma because of Ma. By then there seemed to be no options. Ma’s not a happy mother and I guess I’ve caught the same infection.”

Vivian seemed to be staring into his very soul, as if she knew the Plan existed. “Leave,” she said. “You’re still very young.”

“And do what? What have I got to sell? No one wants a mail room orderly who’s scared of the future. In any case I may have to leave Ma because that’s what she wants. Until then…” And this time he did spread his hands. Aching somewhat.

Vivian sat up straight. “Look, I’ve got on with you tonight. In fact…”

But Larry, horribly tempted, knew he couldn’t afford to hear the end of that sentence. The Plan must roll. He took Vivian’s hand then dropped it hurriedly. Holding hands didn’t fit.

“I’m here for the shittiest of reasons which I’ll explain. You’ll understand and you’ll go your way. But before that… it’s been… this hour…” He was becoming angry with himself and words escaped him. He gasped with irritation. “I just can’t say. I’m such a… ahhh. Hell’s bloody bells. An hour gone and you know more about me than… Look, I’m grateful… very. Perhaps something good will happen. Whenever.”

Haltingly he explained and Vivian grimaced at Gerry’s instruction about car drivers being preferred. Otherwise she said nothing.

Larry concluded. “So I wasn’t here to make friends with you, even if that happened. But I won’t go along with what they want. I’ll just tell Ma and Gerry we fell out and it’s no go. But that leaves you. I've lied to you. Wasted your evening. That always seemed a bad thing; it’s even worse now I know you.” He paused perhaps for physiological reasons. Swallowed. “Perhaps this too is shitty. I have some money; it’s all I can think of. As you can see I’m not good at what some say are relationships. Please take it.”

This time she took his hand. “No I won’t take it, La. Hey, I think I like La; it suits you. No cash, but I’m asking for your number at Gascoigne’s. A huge warning here. It won’t be a big deal; tonight we haven’t even mentioned my problems. I could turn out to be something of a female shit. But I’m remembering those weekly pieces in The Guardian magazine; couples, randomly chosen, who go out together and report back. The final point they’re asked: Any future meetings? We the readers hope it’ll be roses but more often it’s: ‘Perhaps. But only as friends.’ How about that, La? Then who knows?”

“But… but I’m still a shit. Always will be.”

“Shittiness isn’t a permanent state, La. And there’s something else. I only drank one glass, didn’t touch the second. That’s because I came by car and I’m going to drive you home. That’s an irony we can share and laugh about at, say, Macdonalds. Not something Ma and Gerry would appreciate.”