From men to mid life crises, from Botox to Brazilians, from infertility to infidelity, every week Jacqui Leigh gives her personal take on being a fortysomething woman
Dinner date with Mr Bean
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I’m lurking in the ladies having a panic attack. Oh silly silly me, why did I agree? Maybe because I couldn’t actually remember the last time a man took me out for dinner. I mean properly took me out for dinner, by which I don’t mean that night in a gastro pub with Fred massaging my leg under the table.
Dinner out with my ex-husband was just a licence for him to get extra pissed. I would sit there in a state of barely suppressed anxiety, watching him get even more slurry and repetitive than usual as he knocked back double G&T after double G&T in some restaurant we couldn’t actually afford.
Having dinner with my father is probably the nearest thing to what I mean. A nice meal with a self-assured, interesting man who won’t get drunk and can pay the bill without breaking into a sweat or performing complex calculations on a napkin. But dinner with your old man, however nice, just isn’t a date.
And then of course, there was Daniel. Daniel and I didn’t bother with dinner.
Which is probably why when Mr Bean, I mean David, cornered me in the gym and invited me very charmingly to a fancy restaurant in Primrose Hill, astonishingly I heard myself accepting. After all, it’s not as if it would commit me to anything I told myself as later that day I browsed the menu online. ‘Summer vegetables tart, Jerusalem artichoke, radish & herb salad’. Yum. Since meals out for me are the occasional trip to Pizza Express with an eight year old and a Two For One voucher, you can’t really blame me.
If accepting his invitation was my first mistake, my second may have been my outfit. I so rarely get the chance to dress up, I just couldn’t help myself and picked from my simply vast array of evening gowns (not) - a slinky black strappy dress from Whistles, which I’ve only worn once and which I am told shows off my awesomely toned back. It’s only since I hit my forties that I have received compliments for my back . Which makes me wonder what they think about my front. Still there’s got to be some payback for all those lat pulldowns.
Feeling excited and ready to bolt in equal measure, I am led into the restaurant bar by the Maitre D. He’s there, Mr Bean, I mean David, sitting on a barstool. In the instant before he turns, first impressions are favourable. Having only seen him in his sweaty shorts and t-shirt (and also looking kind of silly in a flak jacket on the news), in a suit he looks tall, manly and authoritative. Cuts a dash, you might say (if you were eighty years old).
He’s a man, I tell myself with extraordinary insight and perception. He’s a proper real grown-up with money and a big car and an incredibly interesting job. What the hell was I so worried about?
Then he turns and sees me. Boing! His eyes are hanging out on stalks. Oh shit. Too late. I’m here now, got to go through with it, I tell myself, trying to ascertain how fast I might be able to run in wedges.
But I don’t run and of course, with wine, the very expensive kind, the evening is not excruciating. It’s actually really kind of fun. He’s interesting of course, has amazing stories about work, is funny and entertaining and best of all - he laughs very genuinely at my jokes.
And I would really be enjoying this evening if I didn’t have a sinking feeling about what would be expected at the end of it. Quid pro quo, right? And, yet, if I had to you know, kiss him, would it be so bad? I might even enjoy it. Maybe Mr Bean is an amazing kisser. Maybe I’ll swoon. By this point I’m so tormented, I am no longer listening to a word he’s saying.
Come on Jacqui, I urge myself. Why are you telling yourself you don’t fancy him?! He’s a bloody good prospect for a woman like you. Mid forties, divorced, skint, a single parent? You really think you’re going to get a better offer than this?!
A text pings. I smile apologetically and reach for my phone in case it’s the babysitter.
It’s Daniel. Two words. 'Want you'.
I feel my stomach flip. I haven’t heard from him in nearly three weeks - since his mother turned up. Jesus, I’ve missed him so f**cking much.
I look up at David. ‘Um I’ve just got to nip to the loo.’
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