Dinner
Simon.
Five years after his divorce Simon finally dared to look for something serious. On paper he seemed perfect a flat in Manchester, a steady job at an engineering firm, a generally pleasant demeanour, he liked to think of himself as kindhearted and downtoearth. Yet the path proved anything but smooth
He was attractive to women, that was no secret, and his colleagues had been eyeing him for ages, as had a few solitary neighbours. They knew him as diligent, calm, with no nasty habits a solid bloke, not a rogue. Hes married, of course, theyd say, who can make everything run so neatly? He even had a son, Tom, which, they thought, made him even more appealing he spent every weekend with him, got along civilly with his exwife June, and generally presented a respectable front.
When the right women finally closed in, the dates started off charming: theatre, cinema, laughing over wine. But the moment the conversation edged toward commitment, Simon would shrink, withdraw, and avoid looking the lady straight in the eye, as if the subject itself tightened a knot inside him.
The girls are useless, one of his mates complained. I told him yesterday Im good at cooking, earn decent money, wont be a burden, and he pretended Id said something else, then bolted home with some urgent business.
And I tried to make myself appealing good looks, a flat but the moment I asked him to move in, he vanished like wind through a door.
A junior colleague, who had overheard, laughed and offered his own verdict. Why bother him at all? He already knows what marriage is, hed be better off on his own. No one calls, no one nags. If you want a bar, go. If you want fishing, go.
There was a grain of truth in the youngsters words the first three years after his split Simon had indeed paced the streets of his mind, wondering why hed rushed into marriage, buried himself in domestic worries at twentyfive, a time that should have been for living. Hed slipped into a reckless phase: evenings in strip clubs, random flings, bringing strangers home. After a year that excess grew tiresome, his soul craved peace. A string of unpleasant incidents followed a lady swiped his wallet, a jealous husband punched him outside his block and he decided to keep his liaisons brief, never letting any stretch beyond a few months.
Life settled into a lukewarm rhythm not terrible, not great. Then a sudden flash of recollection struck him like a hammer: June, his exwife, wasnt so bad after all. At first hed been angry at her for polishing herself after the divorce, for marrying again a year later, but deep down shed simply wanted a better life. They had tried to change each other in youthful folly; the result was a tangled mess. Still, theyd lived together, had a roof, enough money, a decent boy As the saying goes, hindsight is 20/20. Whats the point of lamenting? he thought. Build your own life, dont flutter like a moth from bloom to bloom.
He surveyed his circle of friends a parade of women, pretty and respectable, perhaps a few years younger. At forty, Simon still looked decent; silver at his temples gave him a dash of charm, his smile was warm, yet a sorrow settled in: none of them stirred his heart. No warmth, no spark.
Thus the story began.
He realized the familiar women bored him, while strangers terrified him who knew what they might bring: jealous husbands, noisy children, or worse? Time marched on; he wasnt going to stay forever youthful. He wanted a proper family, perhaps a child of his own. Throwing himself at anyone wasnt the answer.
Then fate, or perhaps a convenient colleague named Gordon, mentioned his sister.
Imagine, shes just arrived from London, all chic in a sleek car, tired of the citys clamor. She wants to settle down somewhere quiet. Shes looking for a decent bloke. Where do I find her a husband?
Simon, halfjoking, recounted his own futile attempts at matchmaking. Gordon laughed, I get it, the more you try, the messier it becomes. My sister isnt the typical type shes all about yoga, kale smoothies, dresses like a university student on a budget.
Simon, intrigued despite himself, agreed to set them up at a modest dinner in a bistro called The Sprout. Gordon promised hed give them a number and step back.
Lydia, Gordons sister, proved elusive. She missed his first call, returned it days later, postponed the meeting several times citing work, and seemed reluctant to meet at all. When Simon finally called a third time, apologising for being a nuisance, she finally offered an hour.
Tomorrow evening, at The Sprout. Dont book a window seat I hate looking out at the traffic, its all grime, she wrote.
Simon arrived fifteen minutes early, shrugged off his coat, ordered a coffee, and watched the entrance. The restaurant was upscale, a weekday, most patrons came in pairs, tucked into cozy corners, speaking softly.
Half an hour later he ordered two Caesar salads, just in case, and asked for a bottle of light white wine to set the table. He called Lydia, but the call went straight to voicemail. He glanced at the door again; perhaps shed stood him up. A fleeting glimpse of a woman outside the window caught his eye; he waved, but she vanished like a passerby.
Better that she didnt show, he muttered. If shed been there, I mightve gotten nervous, my nerves would have been rattled. No point chasing phantom dates.
He settled for a kebab, opened his favourite streaming app, and sipped wine. Suddenly a figure slipped into the chair opposite him, dripping rain from coat, hair, bag, eyes glittering with something strange.
Simon, startled, rose and gestured for her coat. She hesitated, then shrugged it off, placing it on his lap. He tried to break the ice.
Lydia, would you like a salad? Ive ordered wine, have a look at the menu, tell me what youd like. Ive got kebab for myself. Honestly, I thought you wouldnt come.
She replied, Ive been out there, watching through the window. Could I have some fried potatoes?
Certainly, if theyre on the menu, he said. Ah, no fries, but we have a roast with potatoes and mushrooms. Ill fetch your coat for the cloakroom.
Before he could move, Lydia scooped up the Caesar, devouring it as if she hadnt eaten in days, washing it down with wine, chatting animatedly with the waiter. When Simon returned, her plate was empty.
Right, Simon, she muttered, shes a strange sister indeed looks like shes walked out of a starving land, but shes actually quite nice.
He took his seat again, studying her more closely. She was modestly dressed, not flashy, as Gordon had described, with a natural glow no makeup, hair untouched by dye, a figure that was curvy where it should be, not gaunt.
She sat silently, eyes flicking to the waiter, as if waiting for a dish that might never arrive. When the potatoes finally appeared, she devoured them in one breath, then leaned back, sighing in content.
God bless you! This is delicious, I never imagined food could taste this good. People work for money just to eat like this every day. You dont need a fancy car or a mansion; you just need a chance to sit in a restaurant once a week, she proclaimed, eyes shining.
Simon, taken aback by her childlike candour, smiled. She spoke without trying to impress, saying things he hadnt prepared for.
I never thought about it after work I just want to go home. Sometimes a simple plate of dumplings feels perfect in front of the telly, in my pyjamas, on the couch she said.
Its because youre comfortable, Simon replied, feeling a swell of pride. You think money can buy that feeling? A tuna steak for two thousand pounds? Where does that money even come from?
He didnt answer, but her praise made him straighten, puff up a little. She laughed, grateful, and then, as if remembering a cue, placed her hand over her heart and said, Thank you, truly. You have no idea how grateful I am.
Lydia he began.
She was about to leave, but Simon, still flustered, shouted after her, Could we meet again tomorrow? May I call you?
My phones gone missing why? she replied.
Exactly why I couldnt reach you I liked you, even if just a little. Ive been waiting since yesterday, he said, cheeks flushing.
Lydia blinked, a rose tint to her cheeks.
Lydia had come to the city almost by accident. Friends had coaxed her from her small hometown, promising a life of ease. Youll earn far more than your pitiful twentythousand pounds here, meet a rich man, your life will become a fairytale, youll travel abroad, they said. She left a job at the local clinic, believing a cheap flat with roommates would be her first step.
Her mother, whod long chided her for staying put, urged her onward. Her brother, indifferent, didnt mind the burden. Shed married once, but her husband fled after a year, citing a work posting, left her with a divorce and a label of dull and unattractive. She returned to her mother, who then tried to set her up again, but Lydia found work at a hospital, pulling night shifts and sleeping in a staff room to avoid worrying her mother.
The first year went well she worked in a bakery, bought a decent phone, had a proper flat with a bath, and an orderly life. Then the other girls disappeared: one returned home, another married, a third moved away. Lydia was left alone, juggling rent and bills, scraping what little she could. She tried to take in other girls as flatmates; after a week the place was flooded, a fight broke out, and the landlord evicted everyone, demanding repair costs. She sold her phone to pay debts, ending up with barely a penny in her cramped dormroom, surviving on rice and boiled water, the scent of fried potatoes haunting her.
One evening, a striking woman with bright white hair, high heels, and glittering nails stepped out of a sleek car, glared at the restaurant window, muttering, What a wretch, a beggar, before slamming the door and roaring away. Lydia stared, hoping to spot a fellow pauper, but only wellgroomed diners and a solitary man waving a hand.
She wondered, Do I look that desperate? Or is my hungry gaze so pitiful that someone might pity me? After a moment, she walked toward the man, who offered her a modest meal. When the truth emerged, Lydia felt the ground give way, while Simon laughed aloud, recalling how hed once thought she was mad.
They walked together down a drizzling street, laughing, and at the parting Simon bought her a bag of groceries, escorted her back to her dorm, and vanished around the corner. No phone number exchanged, no promise of more.
Lydia felt a sudden, sharp sadness. She liked Simon, felt perhaps he liked her too. Yet why would a handsome, welloff man notice a plain village girl with no sculpted figure, no long lashes, no plush lips? For a fleeting instant she felt awkward, as if shed found a kindred spirit in a cold city.
Foolish me, dreaming too big, she whispered, looking at herself in the mirror. Be glad he showed some kindness, didnt demand payment for a dinner.
She cleared the groceries, then noticed a hastily folded slip of paper in a bag. Expecting a receipt, she unfolded it and laughed at the simple, neat penstroke: Meet me tomorrow for dinner, same place, 7p.m. Simon.
