“Because it’s meant to be magnificent, and I felt we deserved a really decent night out.”
I hold his hand tighter, squeezing it gently over and over as the lift rockets us skyward.
“Oh my God,” I say as we step out of the air-conditioned lift and out toward a warm breeze and a rooftop bar that’s a mix of ornate gilt and glass. I look behind, at the commanding gold dome from which we’ve emerged, and mutter, “Wow.”
Out in the distance and far below, the twinkling lights of Bangkok herald another opportunity-filled night. And then a live jazz band begins and I’m overwhelmed, looking toward George for his reaction in the warm night. He’s still holding my hand, his mouth parted as if he wants to comment but can’t find the words, and I suddenly like the feel of his hand in mine; now it’s not for comfort, more for…I’m not sure what for, but he’s not letting go and neither am I. Of all the places I’ve been, I’m going to remember this moment forever. We’re led down a huge column of lit stairs and I’m grateful George is holding my hand, because heels and I are not the best of friends, especially when stairs are concerned. As we reach our table, the night surrounds us, and the candle on the table flickers gently in its tea-light holder.
We sit in happy silence, both of us looking out at the horizon and the buildings, all of which are lower than us, as we listen tothe jazz and allow our water glasses to be filled. The waiter tells us about the restaurant and the array of menus, and then leaves us with drinks choices to make.
“I’m going to eat everything,” George says, and I laugh as his eyes twinkle merrily in the candlelight. We peruse options, showing each other dishes we like the look of and making comments as if we suddenly know what we’re talking about when it comes to food. We land on the tasting menu and decide to throw caution to the wind, allow the chef to plan our dining, the sommelier to execute his own wine pairings for the meal. Five courses, five glasses of wine each, not to mention the cocktails George has just called the waiter back to add to our order. He has such enthusiasm for…everything, and his zest for life is infectious. With George I feel picked up, carried along on his river of boyish charm. I love the ease of our conversations, how we flit easily from topic to topic.
“Worst date?” he throws at me after one of our courses arrives: a delicate crab and cucumber dish. The sommelier walks over with two glasses of delicious white wine, the condensation running down the sides in the evening heat. I eat, drink, and become merry almost immediately. A part of me never wants this evening to end. It’s perfect.
“Worst date…” I ponder. “Oh, I know,” I say, holding in a laugh, and I tell him how I was taken to the cinema by a guy who was so seriously into his musicals that he sang along out loud to every single song duringLa La Land.“I think he thought it was cute. I wanted to die of embarrassment. It was clear I wasn’t the first girl he’d taken to see that particular film. So many people told him to shut up.”
“Cringey,” George offers, shuddering appropriately, and I ask him about his worst date.
“Ah, I think it was my fault it was my worst date,” he confesses.
I inch forward in my chair, put my fingers on the stem of my wineglass. This is my third, as we finish our third course. I’m steadily getting tipsy on wine, full of food, but not tiring of the good company. “Go on,” I prompt nosily.
“Took a girl on a picnic. Found this beauty spot. Ginormous hamper full of posh food—y’know, strawberries and champagne, all those picky bits people usually can’t get enough of, gourmet pork pies and…oh, I don’t know—can’t remember now. We thought we were on our own and started kissing before we’d even eaten.”
“Smooth operator,” I comment.
“I try,” he says with a grin. “And then, while we aren’t looking, a huge dog comes over.”
“Oh, don’t tell me,” I say, “it eats your entire picnic.”
“I wish. He took a huge dump on our picnic mat.”
This has caught me entirely off guard and I snort wine.
“We try to see the funny side, but she’s not really laughing. We bin the picnic mat, take the food, pack it up, move further up the hill. The view’s better. I get the food out and go to uncork the champagne and she peers in the hamper, asks what I’ve bought that’s notmeat-based.I point at the strawberries and she asks about salad and the like, and I have to confess, ‘Blokes don’t really do salad.’ Well, I didn’t do salad back then. Then she tells me, in a really huffy voice, that she’s a vegetarian and I should have known that. After that, I’ll admit the afternoon was pretty much done.”
“Eek,” I say. “That would do it, yes.” As our next course arrives I ask, “Best date?”
He looks around at our surroundings. “This is pretty decent,” and I wonder if he’s making a casual comment or answering my question.
“Is this a date?” I ask him teasingly.
“If it is, it’s up there in my top…one.”
I smile and he winks, dismissing any awkwardness that might have submerged us. But I find feelings of awkwardness don’t come. He lifts his glass and we say “Cheers” in unison.
“Go on then,” I say after a while, “tell me why fit, personal-trainer George, who takes girls on amazing dates to rooftop restaurants, is still single?”
It’s his turn to think and after a while he says, “I think I just struggle with compatibility. It’s not them,” he says without a hint of a smile. “It’s definitely me.”
I wait for more.
“I’m good for a shag, I think,” he continues.
I raise my eyebrow. “Is this you telling me you’re good in bed?”
“No,” he says and the smile returns. “This is me telling you I’mepicin bed. Mind-blowing.”
I laugh, but something deep within tingles.
