Cowboys & Englishmen

Chapter 4.

I ordered a bowl of the most garlic enriched soup I'd ever tasted, and slurped it so noisily I knew it would put off even the most persistent date. It was vile, thick with Stilton and gross globules that stuck in my throat, but I engrossed myself in getting to the bottom of the bowl. I was committed. And he talked about himself, about his homes in far flung countries, his pompous meetings from the week before and then he told me a joke I didn't get, about some dignitary he'd met the day before. And he guffawed. The only way I can describe his laughter is to get you to imagine a horse, neighing. He sprayed me with saliva as he chortled to himself, just as mum rejoined us for the main courses.

Am I the most patient person in the world, of perhaps the most insane? The jury is out. I stayed, wiping myself down with napkins, as he continued to shake in his seat, still tickled by his convoluted joke, teeth extended, arms strapped over his stomach.

'Isn't Tark just a hoot?' Mum slapped my arm, gazing fondly at the increasingly repellent man. 'And your father adores him.'

'Your father is my hero.' Tarquin announced, suddenly serious, his eyes misty. 'I worked for Mr Belvedere for three years.' He recounted, gazing off into the distance as if recalling some wistful, romantic memory. 'It's a wonder we haven't crossed paths before, my dear.'

How old was this guy? He looked like a badly aging thirty something but talked like a sixty year old. I'd barely spent five minutes in the same room with my dad over the past ten years. It wasn't such a surprise that we hadn't met at some fancy pants event, full of the upper class, brown nosing one another.

Mum cleared her throat. 'Well, Samantha has been.....off on an adventure.'

I raised my eyebrows at her. She still saw my choice to lead a different life as just a jaunt. A silly sabbatical, before I rejoined the ranks, even though I'd gladly relinquished her way of life, knowing it just wasn't me. It never was me.

'I decided to find my own way in life, Tarquin. I don't need my fathers name or his fortune to have a life.'

'Lets change the subject.' Mother and I had been over this a thousand times before, and I didn't relish her friend 'Tark' weighing in. Our main courses were served and my mothers eyes grew three times their normal, judgmental size. I'd ordered the duck and the steak, two main courses. Was I eating my feelings? Yes. And in this Michelin starred restaurant I'd eat enough to last me till the dreaded wedding. I also hoped the excessive food might stop Tarquin looking at me.

'Dear God, Samantha, you're hardly built for so many....calories.' He shot at me, a look of sheer terror in his eyes. Now you're probably wondering why I didn't fly off the handles and throw the bitter tasting yet stupidly expensive champagne in his face and storm off. Or stand up, my chair falling behind me as I waved my arms in anger calling him every name under the sun. And then some. But the truth was, that in my mothers circles, it seems completely normal to comment rudely on the weight of others, image being one of the most important assets to a society gal. I was used to these mindless morons.

'What about your dress. It's slim fitting darling?!' Mum cried, in horror, as I forked a huge lump of steak through my lips. I tried not to snigger, as I savoured the char grilled meat.

And then I remember. The dress. Crap. Well, as they say, no time like the present. Although I'd have gladly left here tonight without it being mentioned, even if come the wedding day I might have some explaining to do.

'The dress. Well....' I took a deep dramatic breath, feeling my captive audience staring at me. 'I was walking through the park, and someone.....' I paused for effect. 'Someone mugged me.'

'Someone mugged you?' My mother grabbed my hand and held it so tightly I was worried she'd cut off my circulation. I swear, my fingers were already turning purple. Her grey blue eyes fixed on mine. Was this concern I saw on dear mums face?