The SAS And The Glam That Goes With It

Chapter 3

Arriving home, Sam headed straight to the bedroom where she glared at the contents of the wardrobe, as if, by the power of her gaze alone, something alluring and attractive would leap out at her. She scowled as she flicked through the hangers, finally ending up in the section of slightly dated party dresses that were annually dusted off at Christmastime. Pulling out the best, she held it against her body and regarded herself in the mirror.

In the winter, she would turn thirty, an occasion that she looked forward to about as much as the condemned looked forward to their execution. She did, she admitted to herself, look pretty good, all things considered: she ate well, she ran when her shifts allowed and she had sworn off smoking after being sick at the first drag of a cigarette when she was thirteen. If you looked closely, there were a few straggling grey hairs amongst the blonde, and only the finest lines on her face. She sighed and tried to convince herself that thirty was only a number, not a terminal diagnosis. Plus, nearly thirty or not, she had a date.

Sam critically appraised the dress, shifting one foot forward and then swapping for the other, trying to splay out the skirt. It suddenly seemed terribly old-fashioned and abysmally dull in its cut and colour. In a flash, she suddenly decided that couldn't turn up to meet the enigmatic Captain Price wearing it, and she would have to find something else. She pursed her lips together seriously and went to get her bag: she was on a mission.

Three hours later, as she pulled up outside the flat again, she was grumpy, hungry and clutching a mass of bags that she hoped contained an outfit that would create the illusion of casual sensuousness and confidence that, in reality, was seriously lacking. In a desperate panic, rushing from shop to shop, she had tried on so many different combinations of dresses, skirts, trousers and fancy tops without success that she felt like screaming in frustration. Finally, she'd settled on a close-fitting, satin dress in black, which had come with what she considered an exorbitant price tag that under other circumstances she wouldn't have been prepared to pay. This behaviour was so unusual that she'd been surprised that she'd been allowed to make any other purchases afterwards; she'd been worried the bank would block her credit on the grounds that her card had clearly been stolen by some fashion conscious thief. Exhausted, she flopped down on the sofa, kicked off her boots and let out a groan that came from the very bottom of her soul.

As she sat there, she started to consider the situation: she had committed Thursday evening, and now a decent proportion of her wage, to having dinner with a man she'd met in the street, about whom she knew a grand total of two things: his name and his phone number. It was so far removed from anything she'd ever done before that she started to wonder if it was real. She glanced at the note, pinned to the side of the fridge with the time and place of the date written in dry-wipe marker in capital letters beside it: it was real.

Waiting for dinner, she sat down at her laptop and tried to find out where (and what) Massimo's was. After this, feeling terribly naughty, she'd plugged Captain Price's name into a search engine only to disappointingly come up with a grand total of nothing. John Price was a common name, and the only Captain John Price she could find any reference to was a plump, elderly councillor in Swindon who was definitely not the man she'd met. It was frustrating, but at the same time, it was slightly exciting: he remained an elusive mystery that she was now determined to get to the bottom of.

Wednesday came and went. Suddenly, it was early Thursday evening and she was frantically dusting, polishing and hoovering in preparation for the big event. The horrendous realisation that she might receive an offer to walk home and that she still hadn't actually unpacked since her arrival had dawned together on the way home from work. As many unopened boxes as possible had been tucked under the bed, on top of the wardrobe and, in desperation, shoved into the car boot to give the appearance of a sparse, yet tidy, domestic scene. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, dressed in her underwear and rubber gloves, her hair matted with clumps of dust and immediately panicked.

An hour later she was finally scrubbed, polished and plucked into a state that she considered presentable. After some deliberation, she had twisted her hair up into an elegant knot that she hoped gave her an air of mature sophistication, and hid the fact she was excited like a pubescent girl hoping for her first kiss. She had been trying to not to think about him, about the whole mystery date prospect because the end result was an emotional roller-coaster of anticipation, fear of looking like an idiot and then feeling like an idiot for worrying about the date in the first place; however, despite her best efforts, her stomach was tingling. It doesn't happen every day, so I might as well enjoy it. She thought.

Sam had decided to arrive on time and if he wasn't there, settle down with a cocktail. Massimo's was a well-known bar and restaurant at the edge of the town centre, and, her research had discovered, owned by a minor celebrity chef that she'd never heard of: Sam was a member of the school of cooking whose chief skills were stabbing plastic and punching numbers into a microwave. It was also expensive, and she was thankful that next week was payday.

Standing outside, she checked her watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, before telling herself to grow up and get inside before her hair got ruined. Trying desperately to calm the fluttering in her stomach, she took a deep breath, tossed her hair back and confidently pushed open the door.

Seated in the corner of the bar, nonchalantly sipping at his drink, he was waiting for her.