A Girl's Guide to Fairy Tales

Chapter Seven (part 2)

Dana’s accountant, Benjamin Howell, had not been in a relationship for some ‘considerable time’ she had told me. It made me wonder if she had set us up together out of pity.

Anyway, with rehearsals finishing a little later than scheduled, which was entirely expected considering we hadn’t got away on time for the past two weeks, I had dashed straight home to get changed.

By home, I meant Dana’s portraiture studio, which had been guest to every four legged, furry and feathered friend you could imagine. The hallway was currently lined with a carpet of cat and dog hair, which I had yet to clear up even though it was one of the conditions of me living there rent free.

Another one of Dana’s rules was she must also be allowed access to the front room studio whenever she wished, as she had insisted an artist could never tell when they were going to be inspired. But she never went upstairs – allegedly.

Still, rent free was rent free and a girl could put up with a lot if it was of benefit to her.

As for Benjamin, I had figured an accountant would desire an intelligent and classy woman on his arm so in honour of the occasion I discarded my contacts in favour of my reading glasses, something I rarely did but I felt it suited the part. My scarlet red, strapless Donna Karen number was the only dress in my wardrobe that didn’t need to be sent to the dry cleaners, so that would have to do.

In order to tone down its x-rated appeal, I threw on a little lace bolero, black tights, gave my face a natural look with dewy lips and left my breasts un-hoisted to lessen the cleavage. I grabbed the black Modalu bag Dana had stupidly left at mine and ran out the door where the taxi was waiting.

Dana had arranged for a table at 2 Fisher Street on Benjamin’s advice and I was only marginally late, which really meant twenty minutes. Yet my pace remained steady as the waiter led me through the buzz of conversation from the other tables.

The furnishings were plush and modern with no real colour theme and my heels clicked sophisticatedly on the tiled Tuscan-style floor.

My journey ended at the cosy table for two by the unlit, open fireplace where the dark haired, green eyed, sharply dressed stranger stood to help me with my chair.

‘Wow, as an accountant I thought I had a gift with figures but it seems you do too. You look –’ Benjamin Howell abandoned his sentence in favour of a stare and despite my unenhanced cleavage, he still looked downwards. ‘You look wonderful.’

A demure girl would blush Isobel, go go go. I gasped softly and turned my head towards the fireplace on which stood several burning tealight candles.

As Benjamin took his seat opposite me, I stole a glance. His skin was luminous. How a man could achieve such a clean shave without razor burn or a single cut was beyond me? That was one of the main reasons I had chosen to wear tights tonight after a major falling out with my own razor.

‘You must be Benjamin Howell,’ I bowed delicately like one of Jane Austen’s heroines. ‘I hope.’