Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,25

watch. It’s 7.20 p.m. and I’m five minutes late. Perfect timing. Nevertheless, my heart is beating too fast and I glance at myself self-consciously as I see my reflection in shop windows.

For a moment, I stand outside the restaurant. It’s not too late. I can turn around and go home. But the maître d’ sees me and flings the door open. ‘Madam,’ he says in a pretentious manner as he takes my coat. I smooth down my dress and ease a gold-and-black throw around my shoulders.

‘Mr Morrison is already here.’

I glance around the small restaurant. There is no one even faintly resembling the swarthy good looks of Rory Morrison’s profile picture. My heart sinks as I follow the maître d’. A man jumps up and extends his hand.

‘Lydia, it is so wonderful to meet you. And you look absolutely stunning!’ he gushes as he pumps my hand up and down. ‘Please, please take a seat.’

Alas, he doesn’t look so stunning. I suppose with a large dollop of artistic license or some serious photoshopping, his profile picture could have been him, but it must have been taken a decade earlier when he was fit with a full head of hair and wasn’t approaching twenty stone. His eyes are kindly, but his jowls are flabby, and he has a large cold sore on his upper lip. There is a shiny tinge to his pale grey suit. I focus on his eyes. Yes, they are nice. Bright, the colour of conkers on a sparkling autumn day.

‘How are you, Lydia? I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you in the flesh!’

I wish I wasn’t wearing the new, revealing dress. I should have trusted my gut. It’s too much. Even though it is warm in the restaurant, I will keep my throw around my shoulders.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a glass of champagne, and then I thought we could have a nice bottle of red, or if you prefer, white is fine too…’

‘Thank you, but I’ll just stick to one glass of something. I’m driving.’

The disappointment makes his double chin wobble.

‘Cheers!’ he says, lifting his glass towards me. I watch as he takes a large gulp. Could I find this man attractive? If I could just look at his eyes. He would have to sweep me off my feet with his charisma and humour, and even so, I can’t imagine myself wanting to kiss those lips.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ Rory urges. ‘What do you do?’

‘I have my own business.’

‘You’re an entrepreneur!’ he exclaims.

‘Well, not exactly. I have co-directors.’ I wonder how he would react if I said that one is dead and the other is a suspected murderer; that the police still haven’t closed the investigation into my deceased husband.

‘In what sector?’

‘We’re in craft supplies.’

He puts his glass down on the white tablecloth and claps his hands. ‘I knew I recognised your photograph from somewhere. You own Cracking Crafts! You won businesswoman of the year. Good heavens, I never thought I would be having dinner with you!’

I squirm. Cracking Crafts makes me a target for gold-diggers, which was another of the reasons I didn’t want to do internet dating. I wish I hadn’t been persuaded by Cassie. She told me it would be fine. If I use my maiden name, then any searches wouldn’t link me to the business.

‘Why is a beautiful, successful woman such as yourself going out on dates?’

I have steeled myself for this question, but it isn’t phrased how I assumed it would be. Evidently, this man doesn’t read the local papers. A relief.

‘I want to meet someone, I suppose.’ But not you, I think uncharitably. I give myself a mental kick. Give this man a chance. I take a swig of champagne as the waiter arrives with the menus.

‘Are you divorced?’ Rory asks, leaning forwards.

‘Um, no. I’m widowed,’ I stutter. I find it hard to say that word.

He frowns. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘And you?’ I ask.

‘Divorced for six glorious years. She left me. I thought it was the end of the world at the time, but now I realise it wasn’t. I get to meet beautiful, intelligent women such as yourself.’

I stare at the menu and we sit in silence for a moment until the waiter comes over to take our order.

‘I’ll have the smoked salmon mousse and the chicken, please,’ I say. ‘And I’m extremely allergic to peanuts.’

‘I will ensure the kitchen are aware of that,’ the waiter says, underlining the word allergy on his notepad.

Rory selects