Bradley Hand
All the digits on one’s hand are named. The thumb has a name clearly indicating it differs from a finger. The index finger suggests its business-like use. The little finger’s name is descriptive and straightforward. The ring finger is the digit traditionally used for the wearing of matrimonial jewelry. The middle finger, however, has an unimaginative name, derived from its central position on the hand. Yet, in recent years, it is the middle finger that has become the most expressive. I am being made forcefully aware of this as I stare across a small restaurant table. Beyond the extended middle finger, is the face of its owner, an angry young woman. This is Lucy, my date for this evening.
The evening had not started well. Lucy arrived twenty minutes late, blaming this tardiness on her father. At least she showed up, I suppose, unlike previous recommendations from the dating agency.
Although, technically, blind dates, I prefer to refer to them as first dates. I feel this generates in the mind of the ‘lucky lady’ my sense of confident optimism. The atmospheric trattoria I usually use for first dates hadn’t been producing results in the romance department, so this time I booked a table at a promising, up-market fusion cuisine restaurant, just off the High Street in the central England town I call home. The menu was certainly more pricey than the trattoria, but I was hoping to impress Lucy, as her photograph on the agency’s website looked most promising, definitely worth the investment.
After successfully negotiating those uncomfortable preliminaries that frequently blight a first date, we sat either side of a small, square table, perused the menu, selected our starters, yet deferred the main course and dessert until later. I selected the Sweet Chili Lotus Root with Chives and Fresh Coriander, while Lucy ‘took a risk,’ as she put it, with the Smoked Salmon Thayar Satham, with Tomato Pickle. She then asked if I thought her selection would contain garlic. I told her no, then quickly reflected that maybe this was her way of subtly hinting at intimate romantic possibilities later in the evening. My confidence suitably bolstered by this small revelation, I turned to the waiter and continued, “I believe a glass of the 2007 Knappstein Hand Picked Riesling will definitely combine well with my choice, and the lady’s starter will be enhanced by the 2007 Laroche Chardonnay Terret.” Turning back to Lucy, I added, “I do hope you don’t mind me choosing for you, but fine wine is something of a hobby of mine,” then lowered my voice and concluded with a subtle attempt at a double entendre, “I feel sure you won’t be disappointed.” The surprised look on Lucy’s face led me to believe she was thoroughly impressed, possibly with my choice of wine or, more likely, the bold step of choosing for her.
During our delicious starters, the ambiance was further enhanced by a genuine Italian violinist who, undoubtedly sensing the growing romantic mood at our table, wandered over to serenade us with an old classic from his repertoire. Impressed with both his delightful playing and exquisite sense of romantic drama, I slipped him a five-pound note, but not so surreptitiously that Lucy wouldn’t notice. I like the ladies I date to know that I think they are worth the extra expense.
Strangely, his soulful rendition failed to ignite Lucy’s romanticism. Maybe it was the slightly spicy starter but, not long after our personal musician had embarked on his heart-rending version of a classic tune, Lucy stood up, placed her napkin firmly on the table, and made straight for the rest room.
When she returned I asked if all was well, but she seemed reluctant to discuss the matter. I can only assume that there was something amiss with the starter.
While studying the menu again for our main course selection, I asked Lucy for her thoughts on Fusion Cuisine. I found her response rather confusing, “Fusion Cuisine? Ha, I’m more used to Fission Cuisine.” She then looked rather embarrassed, and quickly changed the subject. What did she mean, I wonder?
Carrying out research for the evening, I had read promising reports of the Beef Satay with Wasabi Yoghurt and so decided I’d give it a go. Lucy ordered the Curry Leaf Tiger Prawns with Wild Rice Uppama, a brave choice for someone new to fusion cuisine. She then encouraged me, once again, to order an accompanying wine. My earlier selection for the starter had obviously impressed her. “For me, I think, I’ll take a half bottle of the Rioja Crianza, and the perfect wine for the lady’s Tiger Prawns will be …” Here I paused momentarily for effect, “Ah, yes, the Spy Valley New Zealand Sauvignon.” Even if I hadn’t impressed Lucy, the waiter retired with a smile.
Lucy then asked me the inevitable, “What do you do for a living?” So, I told her, “My career is in local government. I run a department of ten employees and am responsible for the administration of an eight-digit budget. I’m the only department head in his thirties, having been fast-tracked for promotion since I joined after my first class honours degree from Durham University.
“Oh, and what about you, Lucy?” I added quickly, “What do you do?”
Rather reluctantly, I thought, Lucy informed me of her job as a Primary School teacher. She didn’t dwell on this too long, but did whitter about having problems with her father. It seems the poor old boy is going a bit ‘gaga’ and Lucy, bless her, has to intervene regularly and help him. It seems Lucy, as his sole surviving relative, is finding all this a bit of a struggle on top of what she assured me is a very demanding job. She would like to find him a place in a rest home. Unfortunately, Lucy’s father has insufficient savings for private care, and so he’ll need to be housed in a home for the elderly run by the local town council.
What an unexpected and fortuitous turn of events! This is exactly the line of work undertaken by my department. I could turn out to be Lucy’s knight in shining armour. I too began hoping my menu selections were devoid of garlic.
As I sampled the bouquet of the Rioja Crianza, I became curiously unsettled, as if there was an irritating recollection knocking with increasing voracity at the door of my consciousness. Something about Lucy’s father, I think. I decided to allow Lucy to continue her story about his situation, in the hope my mind might be jogged.
Her disjointed accounts of work at school, life with her father, and struggles to get him housed were interrupted by the necessity of ordering dessert. I chose the Iced Mango with Goji Berries and Bitter Chocolate Mousse, and recommend that Lucy should try the spectacular Roasted Sesame and White Chocolate Semi-freddo with Wild Berry Coulis. She agreed, but firmly suggested, in a way only a school teacher can, that we discontinue our journey through the delights of the wine list, and conclude instead with coffee. “Of course, Lucy, but I must insist on a Cognac.”
As we savoured the delights of our desserts, Lucy became distracted by something, and spent a while scavenging within the deeper recesses of her handbag, before producing a rather tattered, yet strangely familiar, envelope and, irritatingly, proceeded to read the letter it contained. My enjoyment was further tainted by the continuing, insistent perception that I was missing something important. The kick of the first mouthful of Cognac, however, did the trick. My mind cleared, and I became aware of just who it might be sitting across the table. But I needed to check my theory. There was a way I could do this without arousing suspicion, I thought.
“Lucy. Is that short for Lucinda?” I asked, suspecting I might be slightly wrong.
Lucy informed me that her name was not, in fact, derived from Lucinda, and my suspicions were confirmed. An apology from me was clearly in order but, it was at this precise moment, that Lucy made me forcefully aware of her middle finger.
Lucida Grande
“Dad, stop, please, I’m going to be late. I know all of this, alright? It’s not like you haven’t warned me so many times before about dating. Look, just hang up, please.”
But instead, I’m compelled to listen to dad telling me about dating when he was young. It’s all repetition.
“Look, I know, I know. Look, dad, I’m going to miss my bus. What? Dad, I’ve known since I was eleven that I’m allergic to garlic, you don’t need to remind me each time I visit a restaurant. I know you care, but …”
Unsolicited advice regarding the perils of traveling on public transport then follows, where to sit, how to hang on tightly to my handbag, messages I’ve heard since I was a girl.
“Yes, dad, I know what mum used to tell me. I know she thought good, sensible underwear was a young lady’s last line of defence. But, dad, I’m not a young lady anymore. I’m not even a … no, never mind, dad. I know, I know. Dad, please, I’ve got to …”
I let the phone fall from my ear as he prattles on about the cost of bus fares these days, not that he’s paid since getting his pensioner’s bus pass, and then desperately watch as the number 29 bus departs from the stop that has been my target for the past ten minutes of walking and phoning. My whole body sinks as the bus recedes into the distance.
Now deflated, I continue, “I’ll call you tomorrow, dad. What? His name is Brad. No, he’s not American. Because the dating agency told me. Look, dad, I’ve got to go. Bye.”
I hang up. I’ve now got twenty frustrating minutes to wait for the next bus, and I’m going to be late for my first blind date in a long while.
A light drizzle accompanies my dreary wait. I fight the moribund thoughts patiently lining up to take their turn to niggle me and spoil one of the few evenings out I can afford. Just like the buses on this route, the next bout of emptiness is never more than twenty minutes away. There has to be more to my life than this. I do hope Brad turns out to be semi-decent. Then I realize I’ve caught myself lowering my standards. Lucy at university would never have entertained thoughts of a ‘semi-decent’ bloke. I’m not hitting middle-age, am I? Should I just return home and give up? As I contemplate this, the next bus arrives, and I automatically step on.
Later, at the restaurant entrance, I am greeted by a middle-aged, Italian man with greased hair (not greasy hair, but greased hair, in other words, the style was intentional) offering to help me out of my damp coat. In assisting me, he manages to touch at least three different parts of my body. Once would have been clumsy, twice, suspicious, but three times? No, he is obviously a groper. What makes it worse is that he’s exactly the kind of man my mum, when she was alive, would use as conclusive proof of “Men!”
I meet Brad at our table, recognizing him, just, from the photo supplied by the dating agency. I make a mental note to suggest they update their database more frequently, particularly the many overly optimistic, possibly computer-enhanced, photographs. So, should we shake hands, hug, or give a peck on the cheek? I hate these moments. I’ll follow his lead. He stands, and offers me his hand. At least he’s not a creepy groper, but why do I get the impression from his demeanor that this is more of a job interview than a date?
After a few minutes awkward small talk while we appraise the starters on the menu, our waiter arrives to take our order. After years spent surviving school meals, where the most challenging item to pronounce is blancmange, the menu here is a bit of a culinary minefield, and the only phrase I actually recognize is ‘Smoked Salmon’, so I order that to play safe (while informing Brad that I’m taking a risk). I’m about to mention that I’ve got a small headache and would prefer a simple glass of cold water with the fish, when Brad tries to sound all 007 and, without consultation, orders me a glass of wine. What arrogance! Do guys really think women go for that sort of thing?
During the starter, I am shocked to realize that the very same greased groper who took my coat, is also employed by the restaurant to serenade couples at their tables with his mediocre violin playing. I really hate that sort of thing, it’s so embarrassing, everyone else in the restaurant looks at you, and you know what they’re all thinking, “please don’t come over to our table.”
Brad seems to think this musical interruption will help add to the romantic charm of our blind date, and he actually encourages the unfolding, cringeworthy event. In the end I have to say something.
“Brad, please, make him go away!” I implore, but to no avail. Brad just wears this pathetically smug grin, tilts his head to one side, and then slips a five pound note into the guy’s waistcoat pocket. I can’t stand the thought of being near that greased, groping violinist so I get up from the table, and storm off to the sanctuary of the toilets.
The quiet solitude of a toilet cubicle affords me an opportunity to appraise the evening so far … a disaster. I feel sorry for Brad, actually. None of this is really his fault. I decide to give the poor guy another chance.
I splash water on my face, re-touch my make-up, and take a long look at myself in the mirror. I’m not getting any younger, then realize what a stupid phrase that is. No one on the planet, throughout the full course of history, has ever got any younger. How many more of these blind dates will I have to endure? Maybe, I’ve been too picky in the past? Maybe, I should be making the most of the few remaining chances I have left before I hit thirty-five?
I return to the table, determined to be as polite as possible to poor Brad.
We discuss the main courses available on the menu. He asks for my thoughts about Fusion Cuisine. I’ve never understood this fad. It seems to me it’s just some sort of trend to make money out of gullible people. I don’t want to offend Brad, so I just make light of the topic by replying that I am more used to Fission Cuisine. Looking after father so much has meant I have time only for microwaved ready meals. Judging by his perplexed expression, I doubt he understood my attempt at humour, so I quickly change the subject by explaining that I should really avoid garlic, but I decline to discuss the boring details of my medical history, and leave it at that.
As we order the main course, I know Brad will again want to show off his knowledge of wine and, being too tired to argue, I say, “You choose the wine, Brad, I fancy something white with the prawns.” The waiter seems happy with Brad’s choices of wine; not surprising, really, given the extortionate prices in this place.
Short of small talk, I ask Brad about his job. Then, after telling me all the boring details (actually it sounded more like bragging), Brad remembers to ask me about my job. I inform him of my career in Primary teaching, and then get a little carried away describing some of the amusing incidents that regularly occur in a class of thirty-four eight-year olds. I guess being enthusiastic about their antics is an occupational hazard. Not wishing to hear any more bragging about Brad’s high-powered job in local government, I quickly move the conversation along to explaining about dad, and his lack of rest home care.
Actually, I’ve been trying for many months to get assistance for dad from the local council offices, but someone there keeps turning down the application. Dad’s such a deserving case, and his application seems to ‘tick all the right boxes’. He’s an army veteran, too. It really annoys me how a country can turn its back on the very people who have given part of the lives in service.
As we eat our desserts, I reflect further on dad’s situation and realize that Brad works in local government, and that maybe he could ‘pull a few strings’ to get dad’s application accepted. I search through my handbag to find one of the council’s rejection letters. Eventually, I locate a rather scruffy, torn envelope and inspect the letter, looking for the name of the person handling my father’s case so I can ask Brad to contact them. And there, under an illegible signature, is printed the name of the department head responsible for care homes, and my father’s continuing exclusion from them, Mr. Bradley Hand, BSc, MA.
I look up from the letter and stare across the table. Bradley. Brad. Of course. The bastard!
Just then, with a look on his face that is both worried and curious, Brad asks, “Is Lucy short for Lucinda, by any chance?”
“Nearly, it’s short for Lucida,” I reply, “but I suspect you may already be aware of that. And is Brad, by any chance, short for Bradley?”
“Yes, it is,” he replies, and hangs his head. “Miss Grande, had I known …”
But I don’t let him finish his sentence. Unable to collect my emotions into any form of coherent and lucid explanation, I simply smile and say, “Allow me to elucidate,” and conclude the evening with a universally recognized symbol of dissatisfaction and disgust.
Michael Smith
Image: Restaurant table set with napkins flowers and wine glasses from Pixabay.com
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