When a friend of mine, Amanda Mullins, called Friday night and suggested I go to bed early in preparation for the ball she and her husband had invited me to, I did just that. Though it was early, like early morning, by the time I got to bed and late afternoon when I woke up and vowed to never drink again.
I was therefore most excited, and somewhat hungover, to attend the Prestfelde School Summer Ball, an annual knees-up for the sort of well-to-do parents whose incomes could afford its offspring’s private education. And so, as a childless, single, twentysomething male, I expected to fit right in, though perhaps bore more likeness to its pupils than parents.
The Mullins had invited me – and I was flattered – because they couldn’t think of “another single guy” and, frankly, it doesn’t get any more single than this. They had a spare seat on their table that needed filling and my ass stepped up – and sat down – to the job. I didn’t really give much thought to whom I might be sitting next to, or whether my attendance made an even number and therefore some lucky lady’s night.
Was this a blind date?
When Amanda’s husband, Steve, picked me up yesterday afternoon for a little pre-ball drinkage that question was answered. No, Steve was not my date. She was inside, finishing her nails, and while Steve ran in to collect her, I spoke to her neighbours and realised that this was very much a date.
“She looks absolutely stunning,” one said. “She’s doing her nails last.”
“Yep,” I said. “That’s the way I do it.”
Then out she came – Juliet – and, true to her neighbour’s word, looked, and this is no overstatement, absolutely stunning. I suddenly felt tiny in my suit and swore that the guy who had rented it to me had only convinced me that it fit because it was late in the day and they didn’t actually have my size. Bastard.
“Hi,” I said, extending a hand from somewhere in my massive dinner jacket. “I’m San.”
“Nails,” she said.
“Right.” And the evening would continue, in a mostly awkward fashion. “We can just wave.”
And, as we left, three children did, waving at Juliet and staring at the boy that sat beside her, not much older than themselves. Staring back at little Alvin, Simon and Theodore, I realised that they were her kids and I was on date with – in its literal sense – a MILF. And she looked stunning - tall, dark, handsome in a feminine way, and in a sexy black dress that plunged in all the right places. She even looked like a certain soap star I’d harboured strong feelings for. This was going great, I thought. But things were about to get worse.
Drinks with the Mullins became an open discussion about kids and grandkids even. And since I’m not long out of my own childhood I could at least bring a different perspective to the table. When Juliet left to go outside for a cigarette I decided to take up smoking and join her. It was then that we realised the twelve years between us. “That’s a whole person!” she exclaimed. “That’s almost a teenager.”
I tried to downplay it by stepping a little closer and giving it the old, “you’re as young as the person you feel,” but in saying so, sounded about twelve.
The evening continued in much the same way. She popped out for a smoke, I joined her, said something wildly inappropriate, and generally ballsed it up. I asked her to dance however, which I thought was rather appropriate, since we were at a ball, but she insisted that she didn’t. This, like my sudden smoking habit, was untrue, and I soon found myself swinging into her on the dance floor. It seems we were both with other people and, at least, having a good time, albeit not with each other.
And while Juliet swung with Steve – or so it seemed – Amanda asked how it was going.
“Yeah good,” I said. “I think. I mean, I haven’t actually seen her very much.”
“I’m sorry, San,” She said, genuinely apologetic. “I thought you were the same age - that you might have something in common.”
“She’s 34.” I said. “And yeah, I suppose, she likes Coldplay.”
“I like Coldplay!”
“Everybody likes Coldplay.” We both burst into laughter with this and, while the house band segued into a rather jazzy version of ‘Yellow’, took to the dance floor. The disco lights dimmed a predictable colour and, looking around at all the parents, all tuxes and ball gowns aglow, I realised that for one night, with their kids tucked in bed, they were in their twenties again. Amanda was totally drunk, Steve was dancing outrageously with my date, and I think someone was even smoking a spliff outside. And everybody was liking Coldplay.
And when I kissed Juliet goodnight I knew that in the morning she’d be in her thirties again, and I wondered if, in ten summer’s time, I might be here, in my thirties, acting twenty and with kids of my own. It was a sobering thought. And, with it, I vowed to never drink again.
