I’m having dinner with my parents.  It’s painful.  More painful than a Brazilian.  At least then they don’t prolong the agony by plucking out each single hair one at a time.  A few short, sharp rips and it’s all over.  On the other hand, this torture goes on for hours, one horrible tweak after another. 
They worry about me.  I’m too thin (never!), too pale (admittedly, I’ve forgotten to put freshen up my make-up in my rush to leave the office), too stressed (I’ll give them that one) and too old to be single (no comment). 
            The restaurant is trendy, noisy, not my parents’ cup of tea.  In fact that’s where we should have gone – for a quiet afternoon tea at some posh hotel.  A genteel cucumber sandwich, some assorted fancies and a bit of tinkling piano is much more their scene.  Except that I’m never free to see them in the afternoon – slight snag.  Despite increasingly pointed comments during my mother’s telephone calls, it was months before I could find an evening where I could see them for any length of time.  They don’t like to be out late, now that it’s getting dark early.  My mother is making it obvious that she’s having to shout to be heard above the babble. 
            I know that they worry about me.  They do nothing to disguise their anguish.  The life I lead is completely alien to them.  By the time they were as old as I am now my parents, John and Gilda Stone had married, settled down together and had already produced two daughters.  They had a joint bank account, saved for pensions and had money put away for a rainy day.  My mother had given up the mundane office job she’d briefly held to dedicate her life to looking after her children and my father fully expected to – and did – spend the rest of his working years in their local bank.  Now that he’s retired and they’re both at home all day, I think they have too much time on their hands to dwell on my shortcomings. 
They don’t  want me to have credit card debt.  They don’t want me to pay an extortionate rent on a trendy apartment in London instead of buying a modest little terrace in the suburbs.  They don’t want me to grow old alone.  Two Japanese fighting fish don’t count as not being alone, they tell me with a weary shake of their heads. 
            My job as a press officer for a company who manufactures a high-end brand of perfume – you’d know it, instantly - should make them proud.  Instead, they worry that I fly abroad too often – too many germs, too many terrorists, too many predatory men waiting to drug my drinks and date-rape me.  My parents read the Daily Mail.  At the end of their latest tirade, the rather handsome man at the table next to us gives me a sympathetic look.  Or perhaps he wants to date-rape me.  I wouldn’t mind, actually.  He’s quite nice. 
            I order the chocolate plate – a selection of four different tempting desserts featuring my favourite comfort food.  Already, I’ve wolfed down an entire plate of spaghetti carbonara, intent on proving to my parents that I do actually eat.  Although I know that they possibly wouldn’t class my usual fare of a grande Starbucks’ latte and anything containing 70% cocoa solids as a square meal.  My mother likes to bake and has a hot meal waiting for my father on the table every night when he comes home from the golf club as she did every night when he worked. 
            ‘You’re so busy, Tania,’ my mother complains.  ‘When are you ever going to find time to meet a nice man?’
            Translates to – when are you going to give me two bonny, bouncing grandchildren like your sister has?  My elder sibling, Georgia, lives on a farm with Gerald, her husband - a wealthy, ruddy-faced farmer.  She has no straightening irons, one ageing Land Rover, two children, three cats, four dogs, a dozen hens, a herd of prize-winning pigs (or is that an oink of pigs?) and a life that is very far removed from mine.  Damn my sisters eyes!  If she was as feckless, as footloose, as fancy-free as me then their anxiety would be spread more evenly.  As it is, she gives them no reason to be concerned for her moral welfare – unlike me.
            After the last meal I had with my parents, I did seriously think about joining a dating agency.  Really – they’d managed to rattle my cage so much.  Dashing Dates, it was called - alluding to the fact that it’s set up for people just like me, busy professionals.  But, frankly, I haven’t even had the time to fill in the on-line questionnaire.  I don’t share that fact. 
            Solace in the form of my dessert arrives and, as it does, I notice the man on the next table is presented with exactly the same thing.  We exchange a glance.
            ‘Good choice,’ he mouths.
            He has nice teeth and a full mouth.  I smile in return. 
            ‘When did you last have a holiday?’ my mother asks, pulling my attention back to the table.
            Two years ago (or was it three?) I went to Chiva Som, but even then – while doing yoga, having massages, lying on the white beach – I confess to remaining surgically attached to my Blackberry. 
My parents start on their desserts -  my mother, a selection of seasonal fruits; my father, a sticky toffee pudding – but it doesn’t stop them from picking my life apart.  I tune out of the conversation while more nagging ensues.  The white chocolate ice-cream with a drizzle of caramel sauce is divine.  My tastebuds are transported even if the rest of me isn’t. 
            The man on the next table is also spooning his ice-cream languidly into his mouth.  He’s tasting what I’m tasting and I can tell by the look on his face that he’s enjoying it too.  Opposite him, a petite brunette, drones on.  ‘When did you last have a girlfriend, Ewan?’ she wants to know. 
            He gives a shrug and concentrates on his dessert.
But his companion isn’t easily thwarted.  ‘I’m your sister.  I worry about you.’
Then he catches me looking at him and inclines his spoon towards the tiny fudge brownie on his plate.  I give a surreptitious nod and we tuck into it at the same time.  He raises his eyebrows in approval at the warm, moist cake.  I do the same.  We share a secret smile. 
            ‘You work ridiculous hours,’ she continues pushing a fork, distractedly, into her cheesecake.  ‘How will you ever manage to meet anyone?’
            He’s wearing a sharp suit as if he’s comes straight from the office as I have – but he’s taken his tie off and his shirt is open at the neck.  His hair is ruffled and could probably do with a cut.
            ‘When did you last have a holiday?’
            His eyes roll up towards the ceiling and he ponders for a moment.  Long enough ago for him to have to think about it.
            ‘You’re a lost cause,’ she tuts when he fails to answer and then she continues in the same vein as my parents.
            ‘You’re an attractive woman, Tania,’ I hear my mother say somewhere in the distance.  Which is mother-speak for ‘you could be quite pretty, if only you’d make more of an effort.’
            It’s all very well for my mother to have her own theories but it isn’t that easy for us single, career women out there.  Where exactly do you go to meet a decent man these days when you’re the wrong side of thirty?  I go out with my girlfriends – but when I’m having a few drinks with my mates, I don’t want to be bothered with men.  Particularly not the kind of men you meet in bars.  The team I work with is mainly women and any flirtations with my journalistic contacts would be considered unprofessional. 
            My fellow chocolate dessert eater moves on to the tiny china cup of milk chocolate mousse and I follow suit.  It’s light, creamy, heavenly.  We both forget ourselves and, simultaneously, utter an audible, ‘Mmm.’  My parents stare at me.  His sister stares at him.
            ‘It’s nice to see you enjoying your food, Tania,’ my mother says somewhat huffily.  I wasn’t brought up to moan with pleasure in public is what she’s implying. 
            I stifle a giggle and notice that he’s doing the same.  Our eyes meet and his are the most piercing blue – cornflowers, sunny skies, exotic seas. 
My mother muses aloud, ‘I wonder whether Gerald might have any friends who would be suitable for you.’   
I nearly cough out my chocolate mousse.  What sort of dating material is a pig farmer going to roll out for me?  A man with no prospects, but who owns his own Wellingtons?  Someone with a whiff of the pigsty about him?  I dread to think.  The man at the next table is grinning. 
Now we have only the chocolate pudding with glorious molten chocolate sauce lurking inside left to consume.  I toy with my spoon, prolonging the moment.  Then, synchronised, we dive in.  The sponge is as light as air, each spoonful melts in the mouth.  The chocolate sauce is rich, decadent and as close to heaven as I’ve come in a long time.  My chocoholic cohort watches as I brazenly lick a smear of chocolate sauce from my lips. 
            Then, too soon, it’s over.  All my tempting desserts have gone.  ‘Do you want coffee?’  I ask my parents.
            ‘No.  No,’ my mother answers for both of them.  My father looks as if he could murder a quick cappuccino.  ‘It’s late.’  It’s not yet ten o’clock.  ‘We must be going home.’
            ‘I’ll get the bill then.’  I call the waitress over and she waits patiently while we have our customary argument about who’s going to pay.  I win and rummage in my handbag for my credit card.  My mother tells the hapless waitress that her lamb was underdone. 
‘Meat shouldn’t be pink in the middle,’ she says loudly in the style of Fanny Craddock.  ‘Otherwise, it harbours bacteria.’
I try to pretend I’m not related to her as I hand over my credit card and punch in my pin number.  The waitress brings our coats and then moves on to the next table. 
My parents fuss with their outer garments while we prepare to leave and I squeeze in between the two tables on my way to the door.  ‘Goodbye,’ I say quietly to my partner in chocolate consumption while his sister is momentarily distracted, querying the bill with the waitress.  I take my chance and slip a business card into his hand, hoping that my beady-eyed parents haven’t noticed.
‘Goodbye,’ he says in return. 
Well, you can’t say that I didn’t try.  Maybe he might call me one day, if only to discuss our mutual appreciation of chocolate desserts.  I usher my parents from the restaurant into the cold night. 
My mother hugs me and there’s a tear in her eye.  ‘We love you,’ she says.  ‘We only worry about you.’
‘Yes, I know.  I love you too.’
‘When will we see you again?’ she says.
‘Soon.  Soon,’ I promise.  Hailing them a cab, I bundle them inside.  Turning back, I risk a glance inside the restaurant.  The man at the table next to me now alone and he’s punching a number into his telephone.  In my handbag, my mobile rings. 
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘It’s me,’ he says.  ‘Chocolate Man.  Do you have time to go for a drink now?’
‘Now?’  What else am I going home to?  The Japanese Fighting Fish will have time for another scrap.  ‘Sure.’
‘Give me five minutes.  Wait for me at the end of the road?’
‘Okay.’  I hang up. 
            I walk to the end of the street and lurk by a nice art gallery with wrought iron railing outside.  Moments later, Chocolate Man comes out of the restaurant.  He kisses his sister goodbye, hugging her warmly.  When he’s watched her walk away, he turns and heads towards me.
            His smile widens when he sees me.  ‘Thanks for waiting.’ 
            ‘You made my evening a lot more bearable,’ I confess.
            ‘I felt just the same.  My sister loves me, but she loves to nag me even more.’ 
‘My parents are just the same.’
‘Still I’m glad that they aired our single status in public.’  He holds out his hand and shakes mine.  ‘Ewan James.’             
            ‘Tania Stone.’
‘I know.’  He holds up my business card.
I have the grace to flush.  ‘I don’t normally do that sort of thing.’
‘I’m glad that you did,’ Ewan says.
He keeps my hand in his.  ‘I know a great little place just around the corner.  They serve wonderful hot chocolate with whipped cream and a generous shot of brandy.  Does that sound good?’ 
            ‘It sounds absolutely perfect,’ I say as we head off together. 
Who knows we might just be about to make Ewan’s sister and my parents very happy people.

Copyright © Carole Matthews 2007