The Connoisseur

Chapter 3 - Distraction

“Sophe!”

The name cut through the music in Sophia’s headphones; a pulsing, thumping something, she couldn’t name the song.  She took them out, switched the Facebook window back to her essay on in vitro toxicology, and turned away from the laptop just as Julie entered her room.

“Pizza, Indian, pizza, Szechuan,” said Julie, riffling through the stack of junk mail, “Kebabs, Indian, Lebanese – ooh, we have a Lebanese now, we should try it sometime – and this.”

Julie beamed her biggest, giddiest smile.  She held out a crisp pale envelope, hidden at the bottom of the pile.

“For me?” said Sophia.

“Of course.  Who else in this house has a boyfriend who sends letters with wax seals?”

Sophia took the envelope.  “It was one date, Julie, don’t – oh god, it actually has a wax seal.  This guy is ridiculous.”

The cream envelope was printed with a curled border and the ornate handwriting on the front was impeccable: Ms. Sophia Deveaux, 14 Calvin Street, Crossham.  He had probably written it with a swan feather quill, by candlelight, with Bach playing on an antique wireless.  She shook her head, but the smile that came on was irresistible.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Julie, backing out of the room; still grinning.

“Hey, do you want to try that Lebanese place?” said Sophia, casting the letter to one side.  “We could call Roz and Adam, have that end-of-run celebration at last.”

“We had those drinks after the last performance, didn’t we?”

“I thought it might be nice to go out properly.”  Sophia put on her best sad face.  “Didn’t think you’d pass up on a night out.”

The ploy worked.  “Never.  I’ll text the others.  I remember hearing about this place from Kim, she raved about the hummus.”  Flicking through the menu, Julie closed the door behind her. 

Sophia seized the envelope.  She was going to tear it open, but something in the feel of the paper, the roughened texture and the tiny bumps of ink, made her refrain.  She prised it open, careful not to rip it, and unfolded the letter.  More custom stationary; more immaculate handwriting.

Crossham, December 15 2013.

My Dear Ms. Deveaux,

You are hereby invited to a night of music, food, fashion and revelry such as you have never had the pleasure to experience (if I might be so bold as to say so).  Perhaps I am only preparing myself for a calamitous fall by so lavishly describing the evening I have planned.

Or, perhaps not.*

If it pleases you, I will come to No. 14 at 8pm on the 18th of December to pick you up.  If not, I will be happy to rearrange.

My best wishes,

Alexander Hartigan

*P.S. Were I a more modern man, this is where I would have inserted a ‘winking face’.

 Sophia put her head in her hand, let the letter slide to the floor, and laughed under her breath.

*

Thankfully, Alexander was just modern enough to use a mobile.  Sophia called him to confirm and sort a minor detail.

“What should I dress for?”

“Anything.”  His voice on the phone was as sharp as in person.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Pause.  “Does that mean dress to be prepared for anything, or wear anything I like?”

“The latter.”

“Okay.  But casual?  Formal?  Not formal, right?”

“Anything.”

She could tell he was laughing, probably whilst sat in a wingback armchair in his drawing room, as his butler was...no.  A butler was a step too far.

For the next two days, she threw herself into her essay.  The MTS in vitro assay has a valuable advantage over MTT; being soluble, no solubilisation step is needed, saving importance research time and what will he be wearing?  Probably a suit sharp enough to...

Concentrate. 

The ATP (Adenosine Triphosphate) assay holds a further advantage in that it requires fewer sample cells and provides results within Friday is going to be so weird.  Where the hell is he taking...

This isn’t fair, said one voice.

Why shouldn’t I be excited, replied the other?

I should.  But not like this.

This is good!

This is too much.  It’s him.  He’s...odd.

He’s a bit odd, but he’s charming.  And odd is fine.

Yeah, but this is...all-consuming odd.  Maximum odd.  I-can’t-think-about-anything-else-odd.

It’s just a date.

Exactly.  I shouldn’t be thinking about it this much.

Whatever.  It’s just a date.  Yeah?

Yeah.  Just a date.

*

She wore green.  A dress, a skirt, slight heels.  Subtle perfume.  Good for anything, not dazzling, but that was Alexander’s fault. 

It was five to eight.  Sophia sat at the table with Julie, a bottle of white between them.

“Did you get your essay done?” said Julie.

“Yep.  Bit of a rush.  I had to expand the study of the cytokines so much.”

“Oh, those cytokines.”  Julie took a Julie-sized sip of wine.  “Tell me about it.”

“I didn’t know they came up on the psychology MA.”

“All the time.  Doing their cytokiney things.  So annoying.”

Sophia laughed.  Something in the sound wasn’t right.

“You okay?” said Julie.

“Fine.”

Julie grinned.  “Excited?”

It was a tougher question than it should have been.  Sophia thought, drank a little, and played with the glass on the table.  “Yeah.  I’m excited, but this is strange, isn’t it?  He’s definitely his own man.  I don’t know what he sees in me.”

“Oh Sophe, don’t...”

“No, I’m not doing myself down.  Boy’s lucky to have me interested.”

“Yeah he is.”

“It’s just...oh, I’ll give you the verdict tomorrow.”

“Be excited, though.” 

There was a warmth in Julie’s look that Sophia didn’t often see.  “I will.  Thanks.”

They continued drinking.  It seemed wrong to say anything more after that.  One minute passed.  Two.  Three...

Doorbell.

“Good luck,” said Julie, raising her glass.

“Thank you.”  Sophia took the toast, finished her glass and picked up her handbag.

“Back before ten, young lady.”

“You wish.”

*

Thanks for reading this chapter.  Is Alexander going to get away with being so strange?  Do you think he's overblown, or charming, and what might his promised evening involve?  Please vote and comment if you enjoyed this!