A Love Story: That Happiest Of All Things

Introduction

 

The drive into town had been good. Classic FM put him in the correct frame of mind. Classical music honed him for a considered approach. Roads had been clear for early evening and the traffic lights were on his side. It boded well. The weather was fine. It was not raining. A low sun swung lowering in the brisk dusk. His phone flashed but he did not yet attend it. The centre of town was manic, as usual. He arrived at the station five minutes early.

 

Finely dressed, his car recently valeted, the man was meeting a first date. He wore the purple arabesque patterned white shirt he had purchased days’ previous. He wore his cross-panel honey winklepickers. They felt funny on the foot pedals. No one could see the new socks he wore, which were plain black, but comfy. The dashboard had a greasy sheen. The car engine purred. Breathing easily, his mind ran through a probable course of events. He wore his best underwear, because there was every chance, and tapped the steering wheel and toyed with the gear stick, indicating into the taxi rank. Drawing stares from loitering pedestrians for the vehicle’s superbly burnished bodywork, the man was keen to keep his eyes on the road ahead.

 

The date was untypical for him. She was not conventionally attractive. The man had a history of strikingly attractive lovers. He was apt to pride himself on appearances. However, in the present instance he was invited by his date’s cynical sense of humour. His previous relationships had failed. The man himself was becoming more cynical. There followed the logic of his attraction. The rationale of likeminded paradigms had captured his imagination. For the time being, by the idea at least, the man was captivated. Determined to rid himself of his shallow pretentions, he had stole his eyes from more sexually attractive young females as they passed by during his journey to the rendezvous, concentrating on the classical orchestra.

 

The man was at a crossroads in his life. He was in two minds about many things, and through self-discipline hitherto unknown was making decisions. Though uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to be there, the man pulled to a standstill by the train station where he had arranged to collect his date, and opened his window, preparing to receive her.

 

 

Victoria Station has that dark wide open windiness that makes you feel lost even when you know where you’re going. But Moverda Treherne didn’t know where she was going. Moverda was making a brief visit from out of town. She had caught the train from Huddersfield for a date with a man she had been communicating with online. The man’s name was Paul. He lived in Manchester. They’d arranged to meet at The Sawyers Arms, wherever that was. It was on Deansgate, which she had visited previously, shopping with friends.

 

Moverda had started a text to Paul, her date, to ask the bar’s whereabouts, when a car pulled up. With the driver’s side window open and the driver meeting her eyes, the urge to enquire was unbearable. She was a careless and gregarious type. The estate where she had spent most of her life had an incestuous familiarity. Moverda was confident and forthright. She had learnt to grasp opportunities without trepidation. She was drawn to the man with his elbow out of the car window, and asked directions:

 

“Sorry, do you know the way to The Sawyers Arms? It’s a bar. It’s on Deansgate, I think. I need to get there.”

 

Moverda did not know whether she wanted to be on the date with Paul. It was a close call. The decision could easily have been an alternative. She was at a crossroads in her life and struggling to make the right judgements. It had been a while since she had dated. But it felt like time to start again. There was no room in her heart to make the mistakes of the past. She was certain about that. The man she was meeting at The Sawyers Arms, Paul, who was good-looking, was facetious, but had a good job. She was tired.

 

“Yeah, it’s more or less straight down, but it’s a walk. What time do you have to be there?”

 

“Five minutes ago. My train was late. It’s a first date, ha.”

 

The man in the car was dark, and had dark eyebrows and dark eyes, all pupils. His clothes and car were new. He spoke easily. Clearly, he was waiting for someone. He was more appealing than Paul, from what she had seen of Paul.

 

As she spoke, the stranger in the car continued to look at her. She looked at him and realised that they were flirting. She regretted admitting to him that she was late for a date. Maybe he was also waiting for a date. The thoughts told her all she needed to know. Jealousy rose. Tension grew between them, but it wasn’t a bad thing. Although he was a complete stranger, and perhaps because of it, Moverda wished she was dating the man in the car. Then he delivered his next line, which read her thoughts, which scared her and excited her. In this moment she suddenly felt guilty about Paul.

 

“You’re going to make a terrible first impression. Hop in and I’ll save you the embarrassment.”

 

Unlike his proposed date, the girl at the car window was sexually attractive, the man noted. Briefly he carried out equations. Principles rose and quickly fell. All rational evaluations were supplanted by a profound feral urge. Sexual thoughts about the girl enquiring for directions flooded his mind. For the moment he was unable to think outside of these thoughts. As she spoke he schemed, and his proposed date drifted further from consciousness. The man began to rationalise his forthcoming actions in complicated ways. The tension from this soon dissipated and he relaxed into a physical decision. He knew ethically he should not, but yielded to the girl’s lure and chanced an exchange of plans in an impulsive moment. The girl, Moverda, was only partially aware of what was going on in the man’s mind. Similarly, the man was unaware of Moverda’s conscience.  

 

Moverda knew she should not accept the offer of a ride. For safety purposes and ethical considerations it was unthinkable. She considered it. It was a peculiar offer. Was this preparation for kidnap, she thought. Perhaps this was the knight in shining armour moment, too good to pass up. Once he had her in the car, she would be helpless. These opportunities are rare and ought to be seized. She had lived a life of regret. He could rape and kill her. They might be making love several hours from now. Maybe he would just drop her off and be finished with it. Generous types exist.

 

She could not work it out. A tension of confused analysis developed. He was a stranger and another man. Something biological was taking place. But here was a man, with whom there was attraction, offering to take her to another man. It was a man who equally she was just about to meet. And that he wanted to take her to this competitor made her want him even more. So although she knew that she should not, and that she should make her own way to The Sawyers Arms to meet Paul, her instincts dictated otherwise. A woman of intuition and spontaneity, she got into the car. The man in the car would drive her to The Sawyers Arms and Paul, whatever that entailed:

 

“Erm, I don’t know. Oh okay, s’pose.”

 

The car was dark metallic blue. Moverda decided it was her new favourite car colour. It was embarrassing to admit her easy influence. The dashboard shimmered. Classical music played at low volume. It was something orchestral. She was Moverda, she said. His name was Jambit, he replied. Briefly, these exchanges were made. A journey to The Sawyers Arms was travelled in silence. Only the music was audible. Perhaps their breaths were heard. And to each of them their mind’s played. In ways it was tense. In ways it was not.

 

In the mean time, Jambit’s date, the cynical girl, arrived at Victoria Station and waited patiently for Jambit. All along her journey she had imagined that he may not arrive. The girl’s name was Asmanda. She had been stood up many times in her life. She checked her phone and waited. Her cynical sense of humour kept her bleakly entertained as she waited.

 

The journey to The Sawyers Arms was short, but, in the start/stop traffic, they arrived 15 minutes late.  

 

Paul, inside the bar, tapped his fingers, looked around, and checked his phone. He toyed with the idea of ordering a coke but decided against it. Paul had been stood up three times in his life. Two of which had been second dates. He was confident his date was held up and would arrive shortly.

 

“Okay, this is your stop.”

“Aah, okay, thanks.”

“Do you want to go in?”

“Erm, yeah. Sorry, yeah, I have a date?”

“I know, of course. Only hear the company in there is terrible.”

“Oh, right.”

“Yeah, it’s better at this place I know down the road.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, about five minutes away. I’m going there anyway, so it’s no bother.”

“You are? Okay, why not.... I feel bad, though.”

“I feel bad.”

“What should we do?”

“Drink to it?”

 

The cynical girl received a text explaining ‘Sorry’ after 10 minutes of waiting. She was not surprised and made self-deprecating jokes to herself. She had been stood up one more time. A little more cynical, she turned and went back to where she came from.

 

Paul waited another 20 minutes at The Sawyer Arms and then left. He had been stood up four times, two of which had been first dates. This was confirmed for him five minutes later when the text came through. His confidence was dented. No jokes were made. He told himself he didn’t much like the girl.

 

Moverda went with Jambit in the metallic blue car to The Old Nags Head, where again it all started.       

Reviews

[Michael of Gilead]

Interesting interplay....love the style.

[A Soap Mess Stories]

Can't wait to see what happens next.

[R J Askew]

On and on, millions, billions of dates. All those hopes! Not that I'm cynical. I have three kids and am myself totally beyond dates. I will watch with interest how they get on.

[Craig2591]

Interesting story and well written. It makes me wonder where a relationship is going if it starts off with both of them standing someone up.