The Dating Game

‘Hey, don’t rope me in with any premature ejaculators!’

‘Well, I haven’t slept with you, so I can’t rule you out there.’

‘You’re such a brat,’ he said, laughing.

She poked her tongue out at him, and then looked around again. ‘Seriously, I love this. It makes me think that perhaps you’re going to—’ She stopped herself. It didn’t matter if David Bennett liked her backyard granny flat. He’d never see it. ‘Never mind. Are any of the paintings yours?’

‘That landscape.’ Pointing. ‘The dancers.’ Point. ‘And the still life over there.’ Another point.

She walked closer to each in turn, examining them carefully. They were completely different subjects, but had a common style. Jagged lines, harsh brushstrokes, violent splashes of colour.

‘They’re sort of … brutal,’ she said.

David had come up behind her. ‘I was in a brutal frame of mind at the time. But don’t worry, bluebell, I’m not feeling brutal at the moment; you’ll turn out differently.’

She turned to him. ‘How am I going to turn out? You’re not really going cubist on me, are you? Because I was envisaging something more glamorous, along the lines of Gustave Leonard de Jonghe. Timeless elegance. The kind of portrait you can hang at the top of a sweeping staircase today and it will still look good in fifty years. It’s a matter of … of posterity. I mean, spare a thought for all those people who had their portraits done in the Eighties and now have to look at themselves with mullet hairdos and shoulder pads! Now they could have done with a bit of cubism. But the dress I brought with me has a touch of the 1930s about it, and the Thirties have stood the test of time. Plus, I’m really hoping my feet are going to make it into the painting because the matching shoes are gorgeous.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ David said, and his lips were doing that twitch she’d figured out meant he was trying not to laugh. ‘You get changed and show me, and then we’ll see.’ He gestured to the door leading off the room to the right. ‘The guest bathroom is through there, first on the left.’

‘Okay, but while I’m gone, try to visualize Gustave Leonard de Jonghe’s Dressing For The Ball.’

‘Just be gone, brat, or the only thing I’ll be visualizing is your backside under my hand.’

‘Oooh, promises, promises,’ Sarah said, and as he made a grab for her, she yelped and jumped backwards. ‘All right! Going!’ she said, laughing.

‘Good!’ he said sternly, but he was laughing too.

***

David wasn’t sure what to expect of Sarah’s take on a nineteenth-century painting in a 1930s-style dress, but when Sarah re-entered the room with a ‘Ta-da!’ and a twirl he was momentarily speechless.

She looked good, but in a bad way. An uncomfortable way.

The dress was a rich, deep ruby, with ruching from bodice to hip that made her shape seem sexier than it had last week. And the red shoes? Six inches of wet dream.

‘Did you wear that for your date with Craig?’ David asked, before he knew the words had formed. Not that the question wasn’t reasonable—everything about her dates was within range as far as he was concerned. But the challenging tone that went with them, not so much. Because there wasn’t anything to challenge. He’d practically set the damn date up for her, hadn’t he? She was free to wear whatever the hell she wanted.

‘Of course not,’ she scoffed, apparently either not noticing or not being offended by his tone. ‘A jazz bar screams basic black. But how did you know about the date?’

‘Well, duh, we work in the same office. I introduced you. Of course he told me he was taking you out when I … er … accidentally ran into him.’

‘Accidental, huh?’

‘That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’

‘So I guess you accidentally ran into him afterwards so you know what happened on the date, too.’

‘He’s interstate this week so no, but— Hang on. Why? What hap—’

‘And if I had worn this dress, what would you say?’

‘I’d say it was overkill.’ At least for that dipshit. ‘So what did hap—’

‘Where do you want me to stand?’

‘Not stand, sit.’ He gestured to an armchair. ‘There.’ Pointing to the small table beside it. ‘And up to you, but I poured you a glass of wine to help you relax.’

‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, sitting. She picked up her glass and took a sip. ‘Now what happens?’

‘Now you talk while I sketch.’

‘Talk. Okay. It’s nice and warm in here.’

‘Reverse-cycle air conditioning.’

‘I love your couch.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘The rugs, too.’

‘Glad to hear that, as well.’

‘So … the portrait. What’s it going to be? Watercolour? Oil?’

‘Oil.’

‘Where’s the painting equipment?’

‘I’ve turned one of the bedrooms into a studio.’

‘Why don’t we do the sketching part there?’

‘Because.’

‘I like the view. Through the French doors.’

He stopped sketching and looked at her. ‘Okay. Pause it there, bluebell. Are we doing eye of newt and toe of frog, or are we just going to talk about paint colours and fabric swatches?’

She looked at her lap, tapping one foot, then the other, on the rug, which he assumed was the seated equivalent of shifting foot to foot, which he’d seen her do in the storeroom when she wanted to bolt. And he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

‘What happened on Saturday night, Sarah?’ he asked, and he accepted the challenging tone this time because this he needed to know. If that mongrel had stepped out of line with a girl David had introduced him to, he was going to beat the crap out of him and then make him eat it.

‘Nothing,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Really, nothing. It’s just … I think it was a failure. Sorry to disappoint you.’

Stand down, David. ‘Are you going to give me the details?’

‘I’m not sure there’s a lot to tell. I’m not even sure what went wrong. Or what constitutes an important date indicator, for that matter. So maybe you can ask me questions. For example, does it matter what he wore?’