The Romeo Experience

By Margaret Weise

What happens when a woman, who’s old enough to know better, falls instantly in love with a charming, pompous, womanizing misogynist?

It happened so quickly that Jessica didn’t have time to chastise her heart.

Before she realizes it, she’s allowed herself to be mentally, emotionally and verbally abused by Roger, self-professed Romeo, who displays his perfection at every turn.

Jessica realizes she’s in so deep there’s barely a way out, and she’s also become the victim she never thought she would ever be.

Until she fights back.

The Romeo Experience tells the cheeky story of one woman’s valiant battle to restore equilibrium, gain her second wind, and finally give her charming, pompous Romeo the big finger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Weise
• Release date: Jul 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497748491

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Oh, Life is a glorious cycle of song

A medley of extemporanea;

And love is a thing that can never go wrong,

And I am Marie of Romania.

Dorothy Parker

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Jessica fell nerve-rackingly in love with Roger at first sight, and that, she thought, was grotesque. Coming to a halt inside the dance hall, she noticed his chic fawn head, (which was  closer to ground level than she would have preferred had she been in her right mind), bobbing in the jive. He was dancing hectically with a fawn-haired lady whom Jessica thought could be his wife but she hoped not. This surprised her no end. The sight of him bopping to ‘Rockin’ Robin’, his movements punctuated by delighted shrieks judging by his expressions, caused her to pay rapt attention.

The excitement set her earrings jangling at the sheer cut and thrust of him, adoring him instantly as he looked this way and that to make certain no one was about to impact upon his lady. One hundred energetic dancers hustled and thumped on the tightly-packed floor, rocking to the toe-tapping music of the Quicksilver Quintet, the most popular band in the Dagworth Downs area for ten years. Music rolled and throbbed, dancers rocked and bopped as Jessica observed the object of her attention across the dance floor packed with wall-to-wall people.

They seemed to be a couple well suited to each other—he, shortish, five feet four at most with a ring of fawn hair below his barely-perceptible crown, bespectacled and slight. Neatly proportioned but on the compact side, he appeared healthy. To judge by his activity with every bone and muscle in his body moving strenuously, rock and roll was meat and drink to him. Eyes dancing behind his conservative horn-rimmed spectacles, his body was clad in restrained ecru and fawn as he bestowed tight smiles on his partner each time they ended up eyeball to eyeball during their knees-up.

When their eyes meet his lips moved as he shouted something of an amusing nature above the music. The gold in his teeth twinkling, he laughed heartily at his own wit and she smiled politely as, scarlet-faced, he flung her away from him with a brisk gesture that sent her reeling into several exciting revolutions. Meanwhile, he waited for her to cease rotating, dancing around with one leg in the air.

Starry-eyed Jessica thought his lady to be the luckiest female on the planet, in her mind’s eye swapping places. The enamel-skinned partner matched him in height, build and hair coloring, a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles completing the similarity. The only disparity in matchingness was that her eyebrows were more orderly than his, Jessica observed at close range. Despite this discrepancy they might have been a pair of book-ends, appearing as if they had chosen each other innumerable years ago and danced blithely together in small-boned delicacy each week.

In all probability the lady was his wife, Jessica concluded. She fervently hoped this was not so, which caused her to wonder why the subject should matter when this was the first time she had ever laid eyes on the rakish gentleman. It did not seem sane that this unrestrained human being should have such a profound effect on her, she thought as she stood taking critical inventory of the hyperactive gent, but she was struck by the shocking realization that there was no dragging her eyes away.

Dancing docilely with her partner, eventually the spell began to evaporate and she felt as though a large hippopotamus was sitting smack in the middle of her chest depressing the eyes out of her head every time the gent passed by confabulating with his partner. He doesn’t notice I’m part of the same universe. I don’t care a sausage if I never find out his name, she thought, not fooling herself for one minute. Furthermore, he’s just another person and an extremely short one at that. Too short and too old, so even if that lady’s not his wife it won’t matter a hill of beans.

Totally cheesed off with romance and all things pertaining thereto, Jessica Hardy had never imagined it possible to fall in love at first sight, but it seemed she had. Regardless of her better judgment, for the next hours her eyes followed his activities, experiencing bewildered relief as she noticed he danced jubilantly with a series of partners, returning intermittently to the original matching lady. Jessica judged him to be early to mid fifties and the lady of a similar age. At forty-five, she thought he could be of an acceptable age for her, providing he was free, which remained to be seen. Perhaps. Maybe.

A nice but boring man named Greg Brosnan had been filling a void in her life, squiring her to dances and an occasional movie. Greg was husky-looking and handsome in an outdoorsy way. He was warming to her, holding her unresponsive hand when she would rather not have had it held, making sheep’s eyes at her in the Jazz Waltz, expecting a kiss when she would have preferred to bolt inside the house after a short conversation. Although she appreciated his companionship she could find no other sentiment than friendship in return for his attention. That’s it, she thought, increasingly aware of Greg’s unnerving attachment.

The experience of an unhappy, lonely marriage followed by a lengthy period of being single, rearing her children, then entering and leaving an equally disastrous marriage, had left deep scars on her psyche. When first seeing Roger she had found no way to overcome her residue of grief even though she gave a fair-to-middling imitation of having recovered. All she really wanted was to slip through the rest of her life in one piece. Common sense warned her that her instant attraction was merely foolish imagination, probably a one-sided storm in a teacup. Hard bought experience had taught her to beware of love and romance in every aspect. Fables that make mention of two halves of a whole or soul mates are just that, fables that could lead to disempowerment, she was certain.

But having seen Roger Dangerfield, her opinion in regard to love at first sight changed. Yet there was nothing special about him that Jessica could see to cause her to fall in such a mental heap at the sight of him making a mad dash across the hall or doing his human dynamo act with the perspiration springing up on his forehead and the patch of scalp above it where his hair was in serious retreat.

However, this mental picture distracted her endless times during the following week and the memory of his singularity never faded. His size and features reminded her of a wood-sprite pictured in a fairy tale book, a tiny being with whom she had a one-sided love affair in her preschool days. Yes, that was the attraction, she concluded.

She had been comfortable enough with her heart-free position for years and there seemed no valid reason to change, but that altered. She thought about him until the Westbury Saturday night dance when a quick check of his and the lady’s hands revealed no wedding rings. Jessica noticed he arrived alone, favored the fawn-haired lady with the majority of dances, sat by her during supper, glancing at her as though she were the queen who had recently arrived on the camel train from Sheba, then left alone after the entertainment. The lady did not appear overwhelmed, paying little attention as he sat keenly by her, or bobbed back to her like a piece of flotsam on the tide of life. But apparently he was staking his claim—or so endeavoring.

A month after spotting the fleet-footed lad, Jessica was standing at the doorway midway through the dance, catching a breath of air. The atmosphere inside the hall was humid. The freshening breeze through numerous windows made no impact on the gaseous envelope of many people cavorting around breathing heavily at one another and perspiring profusely. That man, she thought, is never still. I can practically feel the breeze off him as he passes. He’s frenetic the way he dances full pelt all night as if he doesn’t have a moment to spare. She watched him dodge through the crowd to get to his partner, a platinum nymph who looked as though seeing Roger approaching for the Barn Dance was the highpoint of her day. Like the heroine from the pages of an old-fashioned novella, Blondie tilted her head and flipped her hair with her hand, fired up at the sight of him weaving his way to her.

On his arrival she laughed with affectation as if he were the cleverest being in the universe to have threaded a course to her. As the Barn Dance became progressive, in the twirly bits he greeted each new partner with a rush of enthusiasm. During a pirouette he popped in for his own amusement, he bumped into a large pear-shaped lady who did not take kindly to being collided with. She fumed. He beamed, oblivious to her irritation.

It seems there’s a horde of demons hot on his trail or he’s embroiled in a race against time, Jessica thought as he dodged through the crowd in the next dance with his brunette chattering while Roger gazed warmly back at her like a starving kitten looking at a bowl of lush, rich cream. He seems to like that Alice in Wonderland, too, or he’s set his sights on that disinterested lady he mostly favors with his attentions. Does he think he’s living on borrowed time?

Music. Again the busy gent arrives in pursuit of his chief paramour seated in the front row smiling passively like Mona Lisa. Perhaps he fancies he’s a lad about town and Mona Lisa merely figures as the head of a long procession inside his cranium? Jess watched, thinking she was living through a tense vigil fraught with potential.

A friend, Sam Brown, came to the door to chat with Jessica. Sam was a squarish bear of a man with black hair grizzling at neck and temples, and a mouth that was creased from smiling. Sam had a talent for conversing long and indirectly, beating round the bush until people had unburdened themselves almost without knowing it, drawing confidences as the moon draws water. The relevant couple danced by and for the twentieth time that night her heart skipped a beat. Jessica debated with herself whether to broach the subject, deciding the only way to find out was ask. After all, she had nothing to lose except Greg, and that did not faze her much.

‘Do you know those people?’ she asked Sam. Two hectic red spots appeared on her cheekbones as she stood feeling emotionally disrobed for the world to see.

‘I know her. Fran Davidson. The chap’s been bustling around for a few months. Haven’t you seen him?’ replied Sam, source of all knowledge.

‘Not until lately. I thought they were married by the look of them,’ said Jessica, trying to appear as if the answer were of no importance to her. ‘But now I’m not so sure.’ Her pulse grew highly activated while conducting the quiz.

‘Fran lives along from my place in Koala Court. She’s divorced or separated,’ Sam reported weightily. ‘He’s a widower, Roger Dangerfield. Lost his wife a few months ago. He used to be a Postmaster-cum-Bank branch manager on the relieving staff but retired to care for her.’

She flashed Sam a look of gratitude. ‘I see,’ she said, heart thumping like a lunatic out on a picnic. ‘Do you know if they’re an item? The ladies confide in you.’

‘Not as I’m aware. He’s taken her to a piano recital but they’re not an item. Fran said Roger thought she was a lady doctor but she had to disillusion him and tell him she’s a mopologist—her jovial way of informing him she’s a cleaner.’ He chuckled in his laconic way, happy to think Roger wasn’t having any luck with Fran, whom he, Sam, coveted intensely.

‘He looks a touch pompous in his own mild way. I wonder how he took that?’ Jess tried to treat the subject matter as trivial, but felt her eyes glazing over with concentration.

‘She didn’t say but she was very amused by the episode. Says she’s not keen on him. Too stuffy by a mile,’ Sam said in his low, earnest drone.

‘Oh,’ Jessica said, thoughts moving at a million miles an hour and alerting her that Fran probably did not desire Roger, judging by the rictus of her smile. Sam’s summary of the situation was probably correct, Jess thought, and Roger would seem to be fair game.

‘He’s restrained and polite. Could be what the doctor ordered for you, Jess,’ Sam suggested, motivated not only by the desire to please but also by the wish to get Roger off Fran’s case. ‘Pleasant, maybe on the oldish side but he’d look after you or I miss my guess. You two may go well together. You could liven him up a little. He could possibly do to have his life brightened.’

‘It’s almost what I’m thinking. You could have read my mind. You think he’s a reliable sort of man?’ Skating round the subject, Jess felt a strong pull towards Roger but wasn’t ready to say so out loud.

‘Seems solid as a rock to me from the few yarns we’ve had. Steady bloke. Don’t forget I suggested him to you,’ he finished with an impish gleam in his eyes.

She laughed as though he had stated something clever. ‘So you did,’ she caroled, heart singing.

She felt as if she had been given an injection of relief, mindful that the object of her interest was free while anticipation moved down her limbs like Novocain. On another level, it was as though she had been given the keys of the kingdom but had no knowledge of how to find the door!

After being submitted to flashes of blinding clarity, the die was cast for Jessie, although periodic confusion continued to eddy around her as she tried to decide what to do in her quest to become acquainted with the hectic gent.

Finally, filled with remorse at her own ingratitude, she proceeded to undo her association with Greg. It was time to translate her wishes into action if at all possible.

When the evening had finished, sitting in the car with Greg outside her home she took his hand and told him, ‘Greg, I’m sorry to say this but I won’t be going out with you again. I don’t have the right feelings so it’s best for us to finish.’

Greg looked at her in disbelief, his face flushing. ‘I thought we were getting along great. How do you know you can’t have feelings for me, love me? You haven’t even tried,’ he replied angrily. His blue eyes with the soft cloudiness of myopia gave her a long look, level and assessing. He seemed to swell with annoyance. ‘I’ve even been paying your way in to all the dances,’ he stated as proof of his good intentions.

She took her time about answering, anxious to get it right and not hurt him. ‘I’ve tried to love you but it hasn’t happened,’ she responded, uneasiness plaguing her.

‘But you’ve talked to me, confided in me. I’ve done the same to you,’ he said, trying to convince her to hang on as he breathed adenoinally into her ear, while at the same time deeply offended by her ingratitude.

‘I can’t help the way I feel or don’t feel, but I’ll always be your friend,’ she murmured while at the same time suffering from boundless guilt.

‘Fat lot of good that is,’ he snapped savagely. ‘A man’s a drongo to be bothered with women.’

Greg felt maligned by Fate, as his wife had cleared off with her gym instructor leaving him with debts and four car-mad sons. He sat staring through the windscreen, the muscles of his cheeks moving while he cracked his knuckles meaningfully.

He was getting on Jessica’s nerves.

‘Please don’t grind your teeth on my account,’ she begged. ‘You’ll wear them down and I don’t want to be responsible for that. It can turn out to be very expensive. I can only be your friend and I’m sorry for hurting you,’ she said, alighting from the car. ‘I can’t make myself fall in love and that’s not a crime, as far as I know.’

‘Thanks for nothing,’ he said coldly, his smile cynical. ‘You’ve blown me out of the water but it’s no use asking for what’s not there.’ His anger drained away abruptly and he added, ‘I’d hoped our friendship would throw out stronger roots. Begun out of loneliness and ended so soon, Regina?’

‘That’s the size of it,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘I’ve cooled off. And Regina was your last girlfriend, remember?’

He left her on the footpath and roared off at a great pace, disgusted at her lame efforts to fall in love with him. The back of his head through the rear window looked huffy indeed as he departed. She thought it rude of him to call her Regina when that wasn’t her name but considered silence to be the better part of valor. Culpability hung over her like a miasma as she threaded her way through the garden beds. I’m crazy to throw away a decent relationship on the chance of getting to know that busy little man. Sure, Greg’s got a down-to-earth nature, pragmatic, no sense of humor and even humdrum. To be human is to be flawed, slightly or moderately. Who’s to say Roger’s more to your taste? He might end up giving you the pip even more than Greg. Serve you right! You’ve made Greg cantankerous as a meat ant because of that short coot. And for what reason? A pseudo-exalted being who doesn’t know you exist. You haven’t even made his acquaintance. It’s pure guesswork.

She tossed the night away, full of worry, enveloped in a sense of failure. Sure she had not closed her eyes for a moment, suddenly she opened them and it was morning, as equally unsettled as the night. She picked up chiding herself where she had left off, disgusted with herself for throwing away substance for shadow. A monologue went on relentlessly in her head for days. Jessica was loath to hurt another’s feelings but was sure Greg would be better off without her. Once he adjusted he would find someone about whom he could be as besotted as she was about the nimble-footed stranger. With a plethora of unattached females out there, once they noticed Greg was freelancing he would be snapped up as quickly as you could say ‘Androgynous.’

She had believed such things as her sudden, undeniable affection for the glamorous wee stranger only happened in fiction, but it seemed fiction borrowed its plots from real life using the dance hall at Westbury as the setting. How many matches had been made to the strains of the Quicksilver Quintet? Jess began to harbor visions of being the heroine in a penny-dreadful, with pearly skin, cerulean eyes, and a mane of grape-colored hair that she tossed about while gazing scorchingly at Roger through it. Her long legs that travelled up to her waist fascinated him and her cleavage made him sit up and take notice, growing favorably disposed towards her at the drop of a hat. On top of these visible attributes she was able to spill remarkably witty sayings and adages where ere she walked.

‘Utterly desirable,’ Roger, in a transport of passion, was fond of saying to her in her head. ‘Utterly.’

But that was only in her head which featured a set of invisible rose-colored glasses.

CHAPTER TWO

Decided only to be undecided

Winston Churchill

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Before she knew it the weekly dance at the Sportsmen’s’ Club rolled round as midweek dances do. The usual breezy crowd attended, including Roger, but not, Jessica noticed with alacrity, fawn-haired Fran of the jiving mode. In his habitual pattern, Roger danced busily with one partner, then another in his have-a-good-time-or-bust style. After the jazz bracket he stood talking to their mutual friend Sam at the edge of the dance floor, running his finger around the inside of his collar in an effort to depressurize himself. Returning to her seat, Jessica paused to greet Sam just as Roger was in the middle of relating an amusing anecdote, smiling sedately in anticipation of his own punch line.

Convenient to find these two chatting, Jessica thought. In point of fact the scenario bore all the earmarks of divinely arranged intervention. She felt his small, unprepossessing, yet cherubic presence there with Sam to be an omen of heavenly things to come.

‘Happy birthday,’ she said with a smile, touching Sam’s arm in a friendly manner. Fortunately it was his birthday, which added a note of authenticity to the greeting. Color flooded her skin until she was rich red like a prize tomato, while an attack of prickly heat at her neck heralded the onset of a rampaging attack of shyness.

‘Thanks, Jessica. Care to have a drink to help me celebrate?’ Sam asked.

‘That would be nice,’ she replied, quick as a flash, the color in her cheeks deepening several shades. She smiled at Sam, ignoring Roger self-consciously, not anxious to wear her attraction for him like a banner for the world to see.

Pinch me, I’m dreaming, she thought as Sam squared himself up to make the introductions. ‘Roger Dangerfield, Jessica Hardy,’ Sam said. Jessica’s stomach contracted. The world wheeled and sang for her, almost deafening her. God, it’s my blood pressure, she panicked. What if I have a stroke and drop at his feet?

Roger inclined his head regally, showing a nice set of teeth and said, ‘How do you do?’ in resonating tones. It was the first time she had heard him speak and was sure she would expire with excitement while being acutely conscious of his nearness. She backed away to make things easier on herself, meanwhile making an unintelligible sound of acknowledgment. Fawn-haired and silver-tongued, thought she. A quantum leap here. Now he knows I am breathing the same atmosphere as he is. Here I stand on the cusp of getting to know him.

‘Like to join us in the lounge for a birthday drink?’ Sam inquired of Roger who drew back and stiffened as he considered this unplanned interruption to his activities, seeming to have difficulty with things sprung on him out of the blue.

Poking his head forward in contemplation, he nodded. ‘I’ll have a quick drink before the next dance. I have it booked,’ he replied in those sonorous tones which made his statements sound spunky to Jessica’s befuddled ears.

Electrified at being so close, Jessica finally dared to peek at him shyly. She was finding it hard to believe this was happening to her, face to face with the item of her interest at last. Her heart hammered fit to burst while her tongue was seemingly glued down and lifeless, nor could she think of an appropriate word to say. Even when, after what seemed like endless minutes, she thought of a trite remark, it would not emerge from her lips. Her tongue had gone from being glued down to having the composition of cardboard stuck to the roof of her mouth by a wicked fairy.

The trio strolled out to the attached lounge of the club. Jessica, wanting to be facetious but not knowing how, felt like a wooden puppet and wondered who was pulling the strings. The three found a spare table and sat down. The tomato-colored flush still stained her cheeks scarlet, while Roger nonchalantly remarked, ‘My word, there’s some top dancers out there tonight.’ Jessica’s spirit was immediately crushed, certain that he was not including her as a Ginger Rogers of the Dagworth Downs social arena.

‘Now, you two,’ said congenial Sam, looking pleased with himself at having introduced the duo, ‘What would you like to drink?’ His voice was so jocular and loud that Jessica almost jumped out of her skin. ‘I’ll mosey on over and do the honors.’ They all decided on lemon squash, so the affable host toddled off to buy the drinks. Jessica was deciding what expression to wear as she cowered, a mass of jangling nerves, remaining inarticulate. She had sunk further into her plush chair and tried to collect her feverish thoughts while arranging her mouth correctly, aware that this was an occasion of momentous importance to her. Life-changing almost, she decided.

Roger cleared his throat. ‘This will have to be a quick drink,’ he repeated pleasantly. ‘I’ve booked Lee for the next dance.’ His speech was gentle, formal, even slightly archaic in the way he paused here and there, pulling his mouth about before resuming with an elegant, eloquent, ‘Pop!’ of his lips.

She nodded, agreeing silently in the absence of a functional voice box, sitting sparrow like with her applecart completely upset by her primary dream coming true.

‘I’ll say no more. Someone said several excuses are always less convincing than one, so enough said.’ He found the misquoted quote excruciatingly witty, adding as an afterthought, ‘And all that jazz,’ giving the impression of attempting to be debonair without knowing how. She, in her best manner, rewarded him with a timid smile, undoubtedly imparting the conviction that he was going along swimmingly.

‘Lovely weather, don’t you think?’ asked Sam, who had seated himself a shade back from the table, sipping at his drink and looking from one to the other with the gleam of devilment in his eyes, trying to evaluate his success as a match-maker.

In overwhelming proximity to this being, Jessica could not shed her self-consciousness, but managed to note that even so close as she was, nearness did not detract from the wonder of him. She sat spellbound with a sense of fulfilling an appointment with destiny. When finally able to look directly into his brown eyes, she remained as certain as she had at the moment of setting eyes on him, that this man was too good to be true. If she could have encapsulated that moment in a bottle, keeping herself and the glamorous Roger forever in their red plush chairs in the Dagworth Downs Sportsmen’s’ Club for all time, gladly would she have done it.

However, the mercurial chappie could not be taken out of circulation for long and the instant the music started he sprang up, cheeks flushed, eyes rotating while almost popping out of their sockets, and smiled amiably at his companions. He paused to say in his official postmaster’s voice,

‘Thanks for the drink, Sam, but I’ll have to ask you both to excuse me. I’m having this dance with Lee, as I may have mentioned. See you.’

He shook Sam’s hand and smiled that smile at Jessica, who was thankful to be seated, certain that her legs would not have supported her through the experience. He set off at a gallop for a further performance of perpetual motion while Jessica sat lumpenly, sure she had mucked everything up beautifully. She watched his fawn-and-beige clad back retreat to where Lee, petite and eager was waiting with a kittenish smile and dimpled arms outstretched, her eyes brimming with joyfulness. In the interim since the last dancing outing she had treated herself to a permanent wave and her floridly hennaed hair was positively standing out at right angles to her head. Her pencil skirt was so tight she could hardly walk let alone dance and she had chosen a support garment that lifted her disproportionately large bosom to giddy heights.

Jessica was receiving the overall impression that there was a definite flavor of pursuit about the widow. She was out to snare herself a man without further pussyfooting about, and the man topping the list was Roger who, giving her a smug, ogling look, took her curvaceous form into his arms. Heart sinking, Jessica tried hard not to give into her paralyzing hopelessness, reassuring herself that at least he knew she was in the world. Holding his stomach in, Roger swept Lee off into a Quickstep while she gave him the full candlepower of her smile, her gunmetal grey shoes twinkling along in time with his black patent leather ones.

Sam focused his wholehearted attention on Jess in the way that was his major charm. ‘That didn’t take much stage-managing. How did you get on while I was away?’ he asked, interrupting her thoughts while they finished their drinks and sauntered back into the hall. ‘Got anything in common? Feeling his oats, is he?’

‘Don’t be inquisitive,’ she replied, mysterious-looking. ‘Whatever we have or don’t have in common didn’t come into the conversation.’ After this penetrating statement she bestowed a relieved smile on her friend. ‘Whew! I’m totally nerve-racked! I feel as though I’ve walked across hot stones with bare feet like the island people who psych themselves up like mad.’ So saying, she polished off the subject.

Later in the evening Roger came for the Canadian Barn Dance and although still daunted by his presence, she forced herself to relax and try to make rational conversation as they worked their way through the routine. She tried not to swallow noisily, having the idea that swallowing lumpily would spoil any magnetism he may harbor on her behalf. He whistled tonelessly in her ear with the heavy breathing of concentration and when he spoke to her, his voice was velvety and murmurous.

Unfortunately, she didn’t catch a word, drowned out as he was by the plunking of the Ramsay Rams Plus One, a hapless-looking group of pimply young men with the addition of Plus One, a heavily pregnant woman looking as though it could be Plus Two at any minute.

It was indeed a joyous night for Jessica, having a lemon squash and a Canadian Barn Dance with her love interest. At suppertime as the patrons stood around, Roger sidled up to Jessica, resuming the earlier conversation they had tried to have during the dance, flapping his sandwich in a refined manner, a piece of curried egg plopping into his cup of tea. He seemed unaware of this, so after swift deliberation Jessica decided to keep mum about it. Keeping her end up, she spoke competently without having any idea of the content of the conversation.

Still a little inclined to get her words mixed up, she looked almost at ease in his presence and was able to smile a lot as her lips were no longer in a state of paralysis, while the nervous prickling at the back of her head had subsided. Certain by this time that it would be possible to overdose on joy, she did not wish to appear over anxious, so rapidly excused herself as soon as she had finished her tea, and bolted.

You are totally hopeless, she chided herself on the way home, taking the worst possible view of the encounter and never considering that fabulous Roger may be as jumpy as she was. All you had to do was to make reasonably intelligent responses to his comments and you blew it most of the time, either tongue-tied or babbling like an idiot or looking like a stunned mullet. Bombed out. Pitiful. What a stiff, pointless conversation. Discombobulated you! What a numbskull he must think you are. There won’t be any second chances for you to flounder around. And other painful cogitations.

A brief, reeling vertigo overtook her as she reached the safety of her bedroom, when she finally realized that she had been close to HIM, danced with, spoken with HIM and had survived the trauma. Once in bed she lay contemplating her partial happiness, grateful that she had almost been able to conduct herself adequately in the company of this person who had impressed her so strongly. Perhaps with a bit of luck he had not thought her quite as unfortunate as she had appeared in her own estimation.

She lay in the dark reliving every moment she could recall of the brush with Fate, how he had danced with her, holding her at arm’s length as though they had both been sterilized for surgery, stood near her to talk at suppertime. She planned with relish the witty and memorable tidbits she would impart to him at their next interview.

By morning Jessica was fairly sure the marvelous stranger had been attracted to her and she had not conveyed the agitated condition of her nervous system. In her fantasies her phrases were not monosyllabic, but flowed melodically, originating in the genius category. Waxing loquacious, she had asserted the positive side of her personality until he, with the eyes charmed out of his head, saw fit to propose a long term relationship, the nature of which remained beyond her capacity to even hope for, but was full of bright, reckless laughter and the ability to read each other’s thoughts.

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The timing of this great romance was late November and the Christmas party round had already begun. Jessica and her colleagues in the office at the local Courthouse had been paying into a fund, saving for a slap-up night out pre-Christmas. Her workmates had spouses or partners to take. Jessica did not. She had intended to ask Greg but had postponed the invitation with the chimera of Roger uppermost in her mind. Fortune favors the brave, she admonished herself, and on the strength of this wisdom picked up the phone at least fifteen times on Thursday until she almost had herself in a state of catatonia. No, she decided. That’s an island off Greece.

Working herself up to top pitch, cold as an icicle in spite of the heat, she lurked around the phone until she screwed up her courage and rang him, quaking in her sandals, expecting a resounding ‘No,’ or at least a definite ‘Maybe.’ When he picked the receiver up and said ‘Hello’ into it just like a normal person she almost keeled over from fright. Some vague and meaningless patter followed while Jessica desperately tried to make her voice sound normal. The telephone did wonderful things to his voice, causing it to sound dark and runny exactly like black strap molasses.

Sick in the stomach, she put the proposition to him, and to her surprise he immediately registered startled interest, replying ‘Yes.’ Jessica, who had never considered herself to be the victim of naiveté, failed to realize the eager response had more to do with the desire for the slap-up smorgasbord than for her good self. Winded, she sat down on the stool of the phone-table with a thud. The bait had served its purpose, as Roger was prone to enjoying a good meal, especially a cost-free one.

His words had an electrifying effect on her causing her to feel ever so slightly insane. She went on to inform him after a considerable pause, ‘The dinner’s tomorrow night at seven,’ unable to credit her good fortune. She had no small talk and no flirtatious banter, only blank incomprehension for the moment.

‘I’ll pick you up at a quarter to. You must tell me where you live, though,’ he replied in carefully modulated tones, attempting flippancy by ending with a snort of levity.

She explained, wanting only to get off the phone before he could change his mind, this gentle and pompous little man of her dreams. ‘See you then,’ she said tremulously and replaced the receiver, petrified. Her equilibrium shot to pieces, her eyes went blank. The plot thickens, she thought, almost feeling herself to be the mistress of her own destiny and not quite sure what she was going to do with it. Her blood strangely exhilarated, she wanted to laugh and cry with unspeakable joy, a victim of an adrenalin rush as powerful as the Niagara Falls.

The dinner was arranged in the town’s exclusive restaurant, ‘Harry’s Bar and Diner,’ which was booked out for Christmas parties