Was thinking I was finally getting the hang of waitressing when man walked in at 20:17 with redhead on arm. Emily showed them to table. Went over a few minutes later to take orders. He looked up from menu and smiled. Don’t know what came over me as pen and notepad fell from hands. Was it his smile? Or his clean-cut looks and floppy bangs? Didn’t have time to figure out answers as pen bounced off table and landed on girl’s lap, spraying ink across skirt. Gasped apology before grabbing napkin to blot splotches. Ink merely expanded on fabric, prompting her to shriek. Things got worse. Jenkins appeared at side and began yelling head off, while redhead grabbed handbag and stormed out of restaurant with more curses.
Man, however, remained in seat. I turned to him and said first thing that came to mind: I would personally pay for his dinner if he still wanted it (which, in hindsight, would have cost more than daily pay of ￡12.75). Man smiled and said he wanted small glass of Bordeaux. This placated Jenkins, who retreated to counter with purple face while I scurried off to get order. Brought full 0.75L carafe and basket of bread, face similar shade to wine, before apologizing again and hurrying away.
He lingered at table for twenty minutes or so. Felt his eyes studying me with interest as I bustled up and down. He left when I was in the kitchen. Moved over to clear table afterwards. Discovered ￡20 note tucked beneath glass, even though wine cost ￡3.80. Also saw scribbled note on napkin:
“What an evening. I should reciprocate the excitement. Emily tells me that Monday’s your day off. I’ll be waiting at the Hotel du Vin restaurant on Monday (29 May), from 19:30 onwards. Mark Henry Evans.”
Spent rest of service in daze before slinking home at 23:45. Jenkins dispensed long parting glare (and only gave me ￡11.20 of Mark’s tip after docking ￡5 for “appalling clumsiness”). Am not sure how to respond to dinner invitation (NTS: Should perhaps consider buying new dress on Monday morning).
A disconcerting thought strikes me. Was Mark merely amused by my blistering ineptitude? An amusement that gradually turned to weary contempt over twenty years of marriage? I didn’t write that he had smitten eyes that evening. His eyes, if anything, merely studied me “with interest.”
Perhaps I should consult that Monday’s entry, too. To confirm my suspicions that I’ve merely been fooling myself over the years. Reading more than I should into facts, especially those that brought us together in the first place.
Taking a deep breath, I flip a couple of pages:
05:41: Woke up covered in sweat. Terrible dream featuring Jenkins and his loud snarl, saying I’ll always be useless. Glad I didn’t have to go into Varsity Blues today. Jenkins must have really crept under skin if I’ve started dreaming about him.…
19:35: Showed up at du Vin as per Emily’s advice that women should be fashionably late for dates by five minutes, feeling self-conscious in new dress and heels (Mum was beside herself and insisted on matching shoes when I rang to say that man had asked me out). Ma?tred’ showed me to table where Mark was waiting with dozen roses (half were pink, rest were white). Dashing gray shirt with starched collar, top two buttons undone. Smelled of expensive cologne. Thanked me for coming and gave me flowers before lowering eyes to cleavage (NTS: Should buy another figure-hugging, low-cut cocktail dress with next paycheck).
Began apologizing again, but he lifted finger to lips. Said I did him a favor, as he found redhead’s attentions “asphyxiatingly cloying.” Wasn’t sure what he meant, but gathered he wasn’t too upset with me. Ma?tred’ poured Champagne (noticed bottle was labeled Krug Grande Cuvée 1977, which sounded grand) and presented us with menus. Gulped when saw prices, which averaged between ￡20 and ￡25 for entrées. Asked for pork belly, cheapest I could see. Mark ordered lobster tail before raising toast to “memorable first meeting,” smiling as he clinked my glass.
Found out various facts about him over dinner: Duo (had to gulp) junior research fellow in English literature at Trinity. Finished undergraduate and postgraduate degrees at same college before twenty-third birthday. Tempted to quit academia and hopes to be a writer of some distinction one day. Though the dozen short stories he has written remain unpublished, and he has unsuccessfully submitted them to the Times’s ￡30,000 short-story competition for six years running. Felt sorry for him because I know what it means not to get anywhere. Only son of industrialist who owns Ainsley Manor in Buckinghamshire. Dad hopes Mark will take over family business, but he hasn’t the slightest interest. In turn, admitted that VB was my second job since leaving high school after longish stint as apprentice hairdresser. Didn’t say I’m Mono, but I’m sure he figured that out.
Worked up the courage to ask him why he invited me to dinner. He looked straight into my eyes and said I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. His heart even skipped couple of beats when I came to take his order. A charmer, all right. He definitely has a way with words. So Mark fell in love with me at first sight. Should be flattered.
It’s strange how a diary entry can take on such different connotations twenty years later. I’d interpreted Mark’s words that fateful evening as proof that he fell in love with me at first sight. At least the younger version of Claire wanted to believe this, even learning this assumption as fact. But nineteen-year-old Claire was a romantic, soppy young idiot. These weary, thirty-nine-year-old eyes now see something different.
It was more lust than love. Mark had never loved me, not even from the start. He’d merely wanted to seduce me, as he thought that I was the “most beautiful woman he’d ever met.” That’s what he really said to me that evening. And I read more into his words than I should have.
I force a couple of tears back and turn to the entry dated 2 June 1995:
22:05: Finished dinner. Foie gras amazing; beluga caviar even better. Mark’s world dazzles me. One can develop a taste for these things. Three flutes of Champagne ringing in head as we stumbled out of Midsummer House, twenty-four pink and white roses filling up arms. He invited me back to Trinity room for nightcap, promising to walk me back afterwards. I hesitated. Right then, he gave me another of those smiles. So I said yes. Getting me past porters proved tricky, but Mark soon found unlocked side door. Whisked me to room overlooking dark grassy quadrangle, complete with giant fireplace. Handed me full glass of port, which caused head to spin further.