The waiter dashed over and offered to take the kitten away. But a towering man scooped up the whimpering, fluffy creature and sat him down on the neighbouring chair:
A plate for my feline companion! And your finest cut of beef!
Lets wear something boldskirts barely long enough, blouses plunging like woodland spritesand head out to a swanky restaurant. Show ourselves off and see what the men are made of…
So proclaimed Penelope, the headmistress of a renowned and rather expensive private school. Her profession demanded sophistication, so clever words came to her as easily as breathing.
These sprites were all thirty-five and, by their own reckoning, in their absolute prime for figure-hugging skirts and blouses that revealed far more than they concealed. Deep necklines and flawless makeup completed their battle armour.
Theyd chosen the restaurant carefully: elegant, iconic, and outrageously pricey. But money was rarely a worry for these ladies. Table booked, they nestled into their seats, immediately attracting admiring glances from menand less friendly stares from their partners.
Their conversation, predictably, circled around men. Dreams, desires, expectations. Each longed for her ideal: tall, athletic, handsome, and most importantly, secure. Someone to sweep them off their feet, pander to every whim, never annoy with idle chatter or mundane chores. And if he had aristocratic blood, all the better.
Just not like that lot over there…
They exchanged knowing looks, gesturing toward a trio of cheerful, slightly stout men, each sporting a receding hairline. Their table overflowed with pints, crisps and mountains of steak, their banter revolving around football and fishing. The laughter was hearty and unabashed.
How dreadful.
So very tacky.
Ugh.
Their verdict was unanimous: rough around the edges, unsophisticated, and thoroughly unfit for such dazzling women. But the evenings mood shifted in a heartbeat.
He arrivedstepping out from a gleaming scarlet Aston Martin.
Lord Granville Ashcroft! announced the waiter ceremoniously at the entrance.
The women straightened, senses keen as hounds catching a scent.
Tall, trim, with striking silver at his temples and a suit so perfectly tailored it must have cost as much as a cottage in Surrey. Diamond cufflinks glinted; an immaculate shirt made the image whole.
Oh…
My word…
Mmm…
Their necklines dipped even lower, eyes flashing shameless invitations.
Thats a real man, murmured one.
An aristocrat. And handsome too, sighed another, By the way, Ive dreamt of the Maldives since I was a girl.
The third said nothing, but her gaze was louder than words.
In less than ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the lords table. They glided over, heads high, casting faintly scornful glances at the beer lads.
Lord Ashcroft was polished, quick-witted, spinning tales of stately manors, centuries-old paintings, family lineage. The tension between friends greweveryone knew only one would be asked to extend her evening at his side.
Heaps of lobster, gleaming platters of seafood, aged Burgundy replaced the stress for a moment. The ladies dined, sparing Lord Ashcroft sultry glances, letting their fantasies stray far from dinner. They were glowing, dazzling.
The nobleman sparkled as wellcracking jokes, divulging secret rituals of the upper crust. Now, it barely mattered what invitation hed offer after supper.
There was a tiny garden behind the restaurant. The scents drifting from the kitchen wafted out with such allure, they called to every living thing outside. Soon, a small grey kitten appearedskinny and longing, nosing its way between tables until it nestled right at the lords feet, eyes full of hope.
No luck.
Lord Ashcrofts face twisted in disgust. He nudged the kitten with his foot, sending it tumbling several feet until it hit the leg of the football lads table. Deafening silence swept the room.
I despise these filthy, mongrel creatures! he boomed. In my manor, youll find only purebred hounds and thoroughbred stallions.
The waiter hurried over:
Well sort everything out, terribly sorry
He headed toward the beer table, but one of the men was already on his feeta giant, six-and-a-half feet tall, face flushed, fists clenched. His friends tried and failed to restrain him.
Without a word, he lifted the kitten and placed it gently on the chair.
A plate for my furry mate! he thundered. Your finest sirloin. Now.
The waiter paled and dashed off to the kitchen. The room erupted in applause.
One of the sprites rose, silent, and strode over to the giant.
Shift over. And buy a lady a whisky.
The lord was struck dumb.
Soon, the other two joined her, each casting Lord Ashcroft a withering glance.
They left the restaurant not as one, but in new companya man, a woman, and a grey kitten.
Time passed. These days, Penelope is happily married to the giantthe owner of a major investment company. The other two wed his friends, both prominent barristers. The weddings took place together, one spectacular day.
Now, the ex-sprites lead entirely different lives: nappies, dinners, cleaning, the works. Daughters arrived nearly all at once.
And, for rare grown-up evenings at their favourite restaurant, they dispatch husbands to football or fishing, call in the nanny, and gather to chatter about their own world. Womens talk. Men.
As for Lord Granville Ashcrofthe was arrested a year later. The scandal made headlines: a marriage swindler who tricked trusting women.
As luck would have it, the real men were never touched by such disgrace.
You know who I meanthose three, with round bellies, thinning hair, absent of varnish or chitchat, but brimming with true nobility.
Thats how it goes.
Any other waywell, it just isnt right.
