Cleo

The wedding reception was held at the home of Sir Edmund Hillary. Apparently the groom worked with someone who was related to the famous mountaineer. Sir Ed, who was away doing something bold and heroic on the other side of the world, had graciously opened his home to the wedding party. It was a modest, understated home, not unlike the man himself. The walls were a soft yellow and the decor extremely tasteful. Every painting, every handwoven rug, seemed to hold a story of great meaning to its owner.

By the time the gay/married/girlfriended best man walked over and introduced himself as “Philip with one l” I was over him. He was too good-looking to be real. When I discovered the reason for his athletic profile (freshly honed from eight years in the army) and that he’d just entered the professional arena of banking, it was obvious we had no future. To thrash the final nail on its head, he confessed his age. Twenty-six. Practically a baby, he was eight years younger than me. Unmarried, undivorced and childless, he seemed to spring from a completely different (still possibly gay) world. I was practically his mother. Nevertheless, he seemed a nice young man, devoid of the creepy complexities so many males were burdened with. And I hadn’t forgotten the shrink’s advice. If I drank a lot of wine and didn’t tell a soul, and he was crazy (or desperate) enough to consider it, he had definite one-night-stand potential.

I told him I didn’t go out much at night, but I did do lunch. I scribbled my work number on a paper napkin. He seemed startled by my offer. Not that he had any reason to. I was more than happy to take on the role of Mother Confessor and counsel the poor boy on his love life. Or just be friends. I was O-pen.

Next morning at work I studied the phone. No one called, except for a disgruntled reader and the same old Heavy Breather in his phone box. It didn’t ring significantly the next day, or the next week, either. By the time the third week came around I’d forgotten all about “Philip with one l.” Which is why, when he eventually did call, he had to remind me who he was and how we’d met at the wedding.

“Oh, God, it’s that army-banking kid,” I sighed after we’d hung up.

“Maybe he wants instructions on how to find the nearest kindergarten,” Nicole said.

“He’s invited me to a play,” I said.

“A playground?”

“No, a proper play. A theater dinner, or a dinner theater or something.”

“I have to warn you…” Nicole said, pointing her pen at me. “Apart from the age difference…”

“You don’t have to warn me. He just wants someone to talk to.”

“He’s way too conservative for you.”

Red flags have been waved in my face at several important crossroads, resulting in profoundly unimaginable consequences. One was at primary school, when a bossy art teacher instructed the class that if anybody dared put their fingers in her wet pottery clay they would be in bigger trouble than anyone in this god-fearing world could imagine. Another was at journalism school, when a tutor said in unequivocal words I had no future whatsoever as a columnist. As I listened to Nicole, a familiar, thistly sensation prickled the base of my spine. Its message was the same as the last two times: You think so, do you? Well, let’s see about that.

After work that day I flitted through the part of town famed for strip clubs and thrift shops, and picked up the perfect outfit to impress a conservative young banker—a black satin Chinese pantsuit with flamboyantly embroidered trimmings. It was gorgeous.

The Kiss

Nothing is more damply magical than a kitten’s kiss.

Cats kiss. Cleo did it all the time. It starts with a gentle head butt, a raising of the chin, a narrowing of the eyes, followed by a fleeting union of lips. Hormones are presumably exchanged. Nothing beyond that is asked, except perhaps a soothing stroke. A cat kiss is complete in itself.

Philip with one l was late. Too late to be even considered half-fashionable. He’d obviously forgotten that he’d asked me out to see some trashy play, or that I’d gone out of my way to arrange it for a weekend the kids were at Steve’s. I was that forgettable. Hot rashes of emotion prickled up and down the back of my Chinese jacket. My skin stuck to the unbreathable fabric, which was proving itself not even a distant cousin of any upmarket natural fiber. Insult flared to anger. I didn’t want to see him, anyway. What on earth would we have to talk about? To think I’d gone to the trouble of buying a new outfit.

If Philip with one l had the nerve to show up now I’d demonstrate Helen could be spelt with two ll’s. Nicole and Mary would have words to say about this at work on Monday. He’s not worth it. You’re too good for him. What a dick.