Last night started very well. As I was leaving the hairdressers’ I spotted one of those tiny madam shops filled with swish designer clothes, and had a quick look round, and found a beautiful yellow dress with a frilled front that made my décolletage look like two irresistible peaches in a tight bowl. It was v expensive, but I told myself I was going to take the gladiator sandals back, so that was £49 off the price straightaway.
Of course, all the other women at the party were dressed in black, which made me feel like a giant banana, but I’d been half-expecting that. Michael actually recognized me, though he got my name wrong. And I had to sit between two businessmen types who kept talking across my front. Whoever wrote that article last week in the Telegraph about men being boring was absolutely spot-on. They talked about cars so much they even seemed to bore EACH OTHER. (One of them kept yawning, and boasted that he’d got up at 5 to work-out in the gym.)
The food was just wonderful. There was a ‘trio’ of something to start with, and then langoustines, and then something I suspect was veal. (The menu was on the table but out of reach and the boring men wouldn’t stop talking long enough to hear me asking for it.)
And after an almondy dessert we went into an incredible room upstairs with a huge window looking out across London, and a slightly pissed, skeletal woman staggered up and apologised for her husband’s rude behaviour (he’d been on my left) and said that he hadn’t used to be like that, success had gone to his head. And then she described how last week, when service had been slow in The Fat Duck, he’d started banging his knife and fork on the table and shouting: ‘I want my dinner!’ like a two-year-old.
So all in all, it would have been a pretty nice evening even if Michael hadn’t come over a kissed me goodbye. (A mwah kiss, and he had to stand on tiptoe in his elevator shoes, and I got his sweat on my dress.) But then he also gave me his card and said we should do lunch sometime, and I gave him MY card, just in case.
And all the way home in the taxi I kept comparing it to Carla Bruni’s first dinner with Sarkosy and wondering if in the future, I’d be able to say, believably, of Michael, that I was ‘seduced by his physique and intelligence’.
6 comments:
Wow. This all sounds great except for the two boring guys.
Cow isn't familiar with Bruni's first date with the French PM but hopes it went well.
Cow is extremely heartened by the card, the good-bye kiss, that he recognized you and that you weren't wearing the same boring black as everyone else (Hooray for colors!)
So...Cow ponders...will you be calling him? Or wait for him to call YOU?
Moo-ditty-moo-moo-moo!
Dear Topiary, well obviously I'm going to wait until he calls me, and then if he doesn't - call him. Obviously. The timing just needs to be careful. Carla Bruni's biography just came out and she thought that repellent, teeny Sarkozy had 'a seductive physique' and 'five or six brains which are remarkably irrigated'. He took her home after their first meeting at a dinner party, but they DIDNT sleep together. And then he turned up the next day and... I find her terrifying, but she knows how to control men, brilliantly. Love scones x
Cow is hoping Scones has much better luck with Timing than did Topiary.
How fascinating that Carla's first date is intimately known about and published....Cow wonders how people know this stuff...
Moo!
Dear Topiary, what went wrong with your timing, then? I know these things have to be calculated very very carefully. I'm going to wait at least a week, love sconesx
Cow's timing seems to be, by the time the guy figures out Cow likes him, Cow has gotten rejected and left...and then Cow gets labeled as a tease, when that's not the case.
Hoping for better Scones Timing.
Moo!
Dear Topiary, that's terrible. Couldn't you explain in a letter or something, what you really feel? Love scones
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