Crow Stone. Jenni Mills

a girl’s taste in men changes over the years. When I was at university, we liked wispy, fairy-looking men. Not men like Martin–Martin was never wispy. He could never have fitted the bill, being gay and built like a prop forward. The men who were popular had no chests to speak of, were practically concave, with narrow little shoulders and bony wrists. They looked like stick men, malnourished, but we thought they were sensitive, intellectual types. Ha.

      I married one. Stupid. Martin told me not to.

      Then, later on, all the nice girls liked a stockbroker. Well, perhaps not literally. Most of them were wankers. But somehow the fashion changed to big butch shoulders, solid jaws, smooth well-cut suits, even a bit of a comforting tummy. Lots of business lunches; it told you he’d be a good provider.

      I missed out on that phase. I was still stuck with Mr Sensitive. Only by then that wasn’t the best description of Nick. We were still supposed to be living together, in the Chiswick house we could only afford with my money. But increasingly I was spending time in Cornwall, at the weekend cottage bought out of my overtime when I was on the oilrigs. I hated Nick’s clever media friends, I hated my job with Shell. So, suddenly it was a weekday cottage, and I was learning how mines work.

      By the middle nineties, rough was in. Horny-handed artisans. Muscles, cropped heads, even the odd tattoo. It wasn’t a bad time to be in the digging business. Lots of opportunities. Martin took most of them, but I had my moments. Mr Insensitive, as we should call my ex-husband, had now left for the west coast to write his media novel, witty and ironic, never completed. He thought of himself as living life in the fast lane, but it was only Aberystwyth.

      I’m thinking all this, sitting opposite Gary Bennett in the restaurant he’s chosen. This afternoon Gary had looked like Rufty-tufty Millennium Man in his hard-hat and faded navy sweatshirt, but tonight he’s staggered me by turning up in a suit, charcoal wool, well cut, well pressed. By comparison I feel scruffy, even if these are my best trousers, with a black cashmere jumper. It’s a relief to discover that he hasn’t bothered to clean the mud off the 4x4.

      His taste in restaurants doesn’t fit either. It’s not exactly my sort of place. Rather too much dark red velvet and wood panelling. We’ve been tucked into a cosy corner, so the waiter doesn’t have to pay us too much attention. The food’s OK, classic French, a bit heavy on the sauces, but what’s underneath tastes fresh.

      Gary’s chewing his way enthusiastically through steak au poivre, which is exactly what I would have expected him to pick off the menu. I’m toying with duck, and a very big glass of red wine. His hands have long, sensitive-looking fingers and he keeps his nails neat and clean. I can’t remember when I last filed mine: the usual mixture of lengths and serrated edges. I lay my fork on the plate and tuck my hands under the table.

      In a moment I’m going to have to say something, but I can’t think what. The conversation hasn’t been too agonizingly stilted so far–his time in Northern Ireland, with the Army, my two years in Canada–but it’s not exactly flowing. I’d better have some more wine.

      His head comes up from his steak just in time to see me reaching for the bottle. He halts his fork before it gets to his mouth, balances it carefully with its morsel of bloody meat on the side of his plate, and says: ‘Let me.’

      Glug glug glug. A lovely smell of blackcurrants comes out of the bottle. But I have a horrible feeling I’m not going to find it such a lovely smell in retrospect. It tastes like Ribena tonight, but it will be battery acid in my gut tomorrow morning. I try to put my hand over the glass, but Gary is intent on filling it to the top. ‘Whoa. You’ll get me drunk.’

      ‘You’re not driving. Someone’s got to finish the bottle.’

      ‘Let the waiter have it.’

      Gary looks outraged. I can’t think why: he told me the company’s buying this meal. Or do they have one of those miserly policies where employees have to pay for alcoholic drinks themselves?

      ‘It’s Gevrey-Chambertin.’

      ‘The waiter’ll probably appreciate it a lot more than I do.’

      ‘Don’t you like it?’

      I feel guilty. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s lovely wine. It’s just that I don’t like getting drunk.’

      ‘On less than a bottle?’

      ‘My ex-husband was an alcoholic. Is an alcoholic, I mean. Leaving me didn’t cure him.’

      ‘Oh. Right.’ Gary ponders this, masticating the last mouthful of steak. He lays down his cutlery. ‘I’m divorced too.’

      Oh, no. I’ve let myself in for an evening of post-marital angst. The polite thing would be to ask him about it, but I can’t bear the thought of hearing how someone else screwed up. Luckily at this moment the waiter pays us his hourly visit. He has that obsequious look on his face that tells you he’s about to ask how we have enjoyed our meal.

      He doesn’t know what he’s got coming.

      ‘Waiter!’ I say, quite loudly, with as much outrage as I can muster at short notice.

      His head snaps up. His hand hovers uncertainly near my plate. ‘Madame?’

      I can’t stand pseudo-French waiters. Especially those who spend most of the evening ignoring you, then expect a giant tip because they remembered to ask you if everything was all right.

      ‘This wine’s terrible. It’s corked.’

      The waiter stares. He can’t believe I’ve just said that. The bottle is more than three-quarters empty. I watch confusion and suspicion dance backwards and forwards across his face. He’s wondering if he dares contradict me.

      ‘But, Madame, the bottle—’

      ‘My husband drank most of it. He’s got a palate slightly less sensitive than pre-cast concrete.’

      You can almost see Gary’s palate, his jaw has dropped so much.

      ‘I took my first mouthful just now,’ I go on, ‘and I can tell you this wine is definitely corked.’

      The waiter looks at my almost full glass. He’s certain I’m lying, but the restaurant’s dark, and he hasn’t been near enough to see me drinking. He looks at me. I see him weighing it up: Tip, no tip? It’s a dodgy moment. If he says he’ll get the manager, I’m stuffed. I try to hold his eyes, not my breath. ‘Would Madame like another bottle?’

      Phew.

      ‘No, thank you. I just expect not to be charged for this one.’

      ‘Of course, Madame.’ He picks up the bottle as gingerly as if it held liquid gelignite. As he walks away, I see him sniff it suspiciously.

      Gary almost has control over his jaw again. ‘What the fuck was that all about?’ He’s trying not to laugh, in case the waiter hears us, but I know it’s all right, he doesn’t mind me making him look like an idiot.

      ‘It’s a trick I learned from my ex-husband. How to drink in posh restaurants for free. It only works in the really snobby ones, where the customer is always right, and a fuss embarrasses them. Of course, Nick would have had the second bottle.’

      Gary is laughing openly now. ‘I really buggered things up, didn’t I? You didn’t like the wine and you don’t like the restaurant.’

      ‘I did like the wine. And the restaurant’s OK …’

      ‘Just pretentious?’

      ‘Yeah. Well. Sorry–is it your favourite?’

      ‘I’ve never been here in my life before. I usually stick to Pizza Express.’

      ‘You could have taken me there, you know.’

      ‘On company money?’

      ‘You’re right, we should sting the bastards. Anyway, we’ve saved them