The day after Lacybourne, Sibyl called Steve, the paramedic, to tell him she was all right.
In return, Steve had asked her out on a date.
Even though she didn’t know him from Adam, because of her mother’s advice and her continued conversations with her animals (and perhaps a bit of desperation after Lacybourne), she’d accepted his invitation and, tonight, she was with him in a fashionable, popular club in Bristol.
Sibyl did not often date, no man ever met her expectations of what she’d always hoped for, or, more to the point, knew was her ideal. Although she loved to dance, she rarely went out to do it. She preferred doing things like breakfasts with Mrs. Byrne, chats over coffee with Kyle, Tina or Jem or her afternoon rendez vous with Meg then sitting in a pub getting snockered on pints. She spent a great deal of time in her Summer House, concocting lotions, shampoos, and experimenting with the varying, complicated scents that made her spa treatments so popular.
But she thought Steve was a safe bet. He was a paramedic, which was a caring profession. Logically, she thought, being in a caring profession meant he had to have a good heart.
Therefore, being in a busy, loud club with a man who, as a paramedic, had been quite attentive and appealing, but, as a date, was anything but, was a form of torture.
The evening had not started on a high note.
Steve had shown up at Brightrose Cottage and Mallory nearly took a bite out of him.
Scuttling to his car while Sibyl struggled with the snarling dog, he called out from the safety of the space between the car’s open door and body, “Whenever you’re ready!”
Clearly, he’s fearless, she thought sardonically, watching Steve quickly enter his flashy, chrome-plated Masda and slam the door and she gave up that little bit more of the fast-dwindling hope of ever finding the strong, brave, wonderful man she’d always thought she was destined to find.
“God, you look great!” Steve said enthusiastically when she finally entered the car.
She was wearing a pair of low slung, black trousers that had been way too expensive (even on sale) but she had to buy them since they fit her like they were made for her (something that didn’t happen often with her incongruously tiny waist but generous h*ps and bottom). Sibyl also had on a cherry red, satin blouse she’d stolen from Scarlett before moving to England. It had deep darts up each side of her midriff and each side of her spine, causing the blouse to fit snug around her middle and under her br**sts and forcing her to keep a daring amount of buttons open from neck to cle**age. She’d kept her hair down and slid her feet into a pair of high-heeled, sling-backed, bright red pumps that killed her feet because of the seriously pointy toe.
With a good deal of conversation in the car from Steve about Steve (without him asking about her once), after Sibyl and Steve made it to Bristol, he drove around for half an hour looking for the hard-to-find, inexpensive (as in free) parking spot. Once they located this elusive entity and Steve took four attempts at parallel parking into it, they walked, or more truthfully, hiked the long distance from car to club. This meant by the time they arrived they were late meeting his friends and, worse, Sibyl’s feet were killing her.
At the club she stood next to Steve as his mates (who collectively seemed to have more product in their overly-styled hair than Sibyl had used in her life) appraised her. Steve held her close with his arm around her waist, something that was too familiar since they barely knew each other, and he did it like she was a trophy he was showing off.
These good-looking but too trendy men all had woman who hung about behind them. It was as if the women were in some sort of cult that forced them to stand away from the masculine crowd but within earshot should the men ever require anything, like a pint. All of the woman stared at Sibyl with varying expressions ranging from awe to abhorrence. Definitely a close-knit crowd where strangers were not welcome.
And no one bothered to introduce her to any of them, not the men or the women.
They’d been talking for ten minutes and Steve hadn’t even troubled himself to offer her a drink.
“I’m sorry,” Sibyl interrupted quietly in an attempt to be polite. When she had Steve’s attention she tipped the edges of her lips up in a smile and, when she did this, Steve stared at her mouth like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “I was wondering about maybe getting a drink?” She tilted her head, trying to pull his attention from her mouth to her eyes.
He blinked, looking sadly confused, then smiled and said, “Yeah! Great, babe. You blokes want anything?” When all four of the other men lifted their empty glasses, Steve turned back to Sibyl. “That’ll be five pints of lager and, of course, whatever you want for yourself.”
He turned back to his friends and Sibyl stood stock-still, processing the fact that he just gave her his friend’s drink order and expected her to go and get it.
She studied him as if seeing him for the first time. He, too, was good-looking. He, too, was trendy. He, too, was well-dressed. And apparently, like his friends, he, too, thought he was the goddess’s gift to women.
She felt the overwhelming urge to demonstrate to him (without any room for doubt) that he was not when she realised that if she got them all drinks, she could be away from his crowd for at least a few minutes as well as have time to figure out how she was going to make the night end very early.
Therefore, Sibyl stalked to the bar.
But not before hearing Steve say in a loud whisper, “Isn’t she fit?”
She felt the urge to turn on her heel and run, except her shoes would not allow it.
As was usual (so usual, she didn’t notice it) upon her arrival at the bar, the bartender ignored the other people clamouring for a drink and jogged up to her.
“What’ll it be?”
“Five pints of lager, and a vodka lemonade with a splash of lime cordial, lots of ice and a cherry, if you have it,” she answered and smiled at him. The effect of her smile caused the bartender to nod eagerly at her strange drink order, deciding instantly that if they didn’t have cherries, he’d go to the nearest store and steal a jar if he had to.
“You’re pretty.” Sibyl heard this come from the man who was somehow managing to be unsteadily seated on the barstool next to her, looking as if he’d lived there at least a year.
“Thank you,” Sibyl said politely but then turned away.