The Lakes District vacation was perfect--just what Clarissa and I needed before returning to a debaucherous weekend in London. By midnight Saturday I wished I'd never come back.
Well, at least, close to London. Gerald invited us to dinner at the French Horn in Sonning-on-Thames. Gerald wanted to take his brother Arthur and other friends out--Arthur just took silk (we had to google this: it meant he could now represent clients in criminal court--something like that).
What it meant to us: Clarissa knows Gerald is kind of a wanker, but she just wants to have fun, and he was the first man to offer himself. Having been out of town all week, we couldn't rustle up any new blood. Relieved that Gerald was now Clarissa's problem, and happy that my "have other people pay for dinner while I'm unemployed" plan was wildly successful, I was more than happy to go.
Gerald and his brother picked us up for the hourlong drive. He and Clarissa wanted to sit in the back together--presumably to paw each other. I stepped into the front seat, reached out to shake hands with Arthur, and suddenly time slowed down again. It does when something momentous happens.
The momentous something: Arthur was unbelievably, catastrophically hot. How could he possibly be related to Gerald? I looked back at Clarissa--I could see she felt equally confused, and cheated. Hmph--not my problem.
I turned back to Arthur. He slammed on the accelerator, hurling us into traffic. "I love to speed," he said. "Sorry if it scares you, I just can't help myself." "Absolutely no problem," I said, "Go as fast you as want, I don't want to stop you." Oh crap, I thought--dear, dear old Dr. Freud would be delighted.
We chatted--Arthur was a good chatter. Great stories about his weird or crazy clients who possibly should have gone to the Big House, but didn't have to because wickedly HOT Arthur used his brilliant skills to get them off. At some point I looked in my mirror, back at Gerald and Clarissa. Ick. They were making out, and Gerald's hand was up her blouse. Why did I do that to myself?
Right now, I need a break from writing. Dinner was both one of my best evenings in England, and my most embarrassing. I'll finish this story after happy hour. Bottoms up.
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