Page 109 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas
“Kate,” he said, laying a warm kiss on her frozen cheek. “You look lovely. I’m so glad you agreed to see me.”
“Well,” said Kate breezily. “Far be it from me to turn down a swanky dinner. You normally have to put your name down at birth to get a table.”
“I have connections,” said Richard. His confidence made Kate’s stomach flip, and she had to rein in the urge to toss her hair about and giggle.
As it turned out, Richard knew the restaurant manager—Richard seemed to know a lot of people; they played rugby together on Sundays and the manager owed Richard a favor.
The pub was old and had been restored sensitively. Dried hops hungfrom the oak ceiling beams, and the floors and door frames were as reassuringly wonky as Kate remembered.
They sat at the bar and Kate bought the first round. They talked amiably enough, consciously ignoring Richard’s major faux pas with Edward, although Kate determined she would broach the subject before the evening was out.
“Both the kids have got parts in their Christmas plays,” said Richard. “Plus, they’ve each got matinees and evening performances and you can’t not have someone in the audience for each one, so me and their mum are on a kind of mad shift rotation all next week, dashing between school and preschool.”
“Never a dull moment,” said Kate.
“Chance would be a fine thing,” said Richard.
“You get along well with your ex, then?” Kate asked.
“Oh God yeah, amazingly well,” said Richard. “I mean you’ve got to really, haven’t you, for the kids. It’s not their fault their parents fucked it up.”
“I’ve met three fathers on the dates so far, all of whom get on really well with their exes,” said Kate. “It’s been a revelation; I have a newfound respect for single fathers.”
“Well, I don’t say we’re the norm,” said Richard. “I suppose it’s down to maturity. And, you know, social evolution: men not having to be stiff-upper-lipped anymore.”
Kate was about ready to throw her knickers at Richard-the-new-age-father when a waitress came and ushered them to a table near the open fire. Kate noticed the way the waitress looked at Richard: all hooded eyes and suggestive red lips that pouted whenever he spoke to her. Kate was gratified to note that this peacocking was lost on Richard. In fact he seemed to take every opportunity to touch Kate in a waythat announced to everyone that she was his sole focus: his hand on the small of her back as they walked, a brush of her hand with his, a touch to her cheek, gentle fingers that teased her hair back off her face.
They sat down and perused the handwritten menus.
“Kate,” said Richard. “About Edward.”
“We don’t have to talk about that now,” said Kate, whose mind was weighing up the creamy garlic mushrooms on sourdough toast against the salt-and-pepper calamari to start.
“I don’t it want it hanging in the air above our heads,” said Richard.
Kate reluctantly put the menu down.All right then, she thought,we are doing this now.
“I don’t usually behave like that,” said Richard.
“Good,” said Kate. “I wasn’t impressed. Macho bullshit has never done it for me, I’m afraid.”
“At the time,” said Richard, “I suppose I thought it was a bit of a romantic gesture?”
“Threatening someone with violence is not my idea of romance,” said Kate. “It smacks of being a stalker. I won’t lie to you, I seriously considered giving us a miss after that performance.”
“I know,” said Richard. “And you’d have had every right to. I don’t know what I was thinking. But I want you to know it will never happen again and I’m sorry.”
Kate looked at him. His expression was contrite, his dark eyes genuine, pleading.
“Apology accepted,” said Kate.
“Does this mean I’m off probation?” he asked.
“Let’s leave that in place until we’ve gone a couple more dates without you threatening to maim anyone,” said Kate.
“Fair enough,” said Richard.
Kate went for the calamari followed by the slow-roasted pork belly. Richard had pâté crostini to start and pan-fried duck breasts with cherries for his main course.
