Lobster Thermidor
He is already at the booth. His fleshy, speckled hand reaches for my waist and I force myself to melt against his body. His tobacco breath mingles with my Chanel No. 5. Any illusion that we are a grandfather and granddaughter has now likely vanished. I order the most expensive cocktail on the menu and he orders a glass of French Malbec.
‘How was Brighton?’ He asks.
‘It was beautiful. I haven’t seen the sea in such a long time,’ I reply wistfully, knowing that there is little effort required to conceal my lie.
‘My mother used to take me to Brighton when I was a child,’ he smiled as his gaze bounced between my chest and lips, ‘Although, I always preferred the South of France.’
With that momentary back and forth, we revert to our usual roles. A long-winded soliloquy spilling from him and I am a captive audience, indulging his every word. His story of delicious oysters enjoyed in Saint Tropez in 1989 punctuated with my inflated compliments and questions.
He slides a shiny black card across the table, “This is for you.”
I see my name reflecting in platinum above an expiry date and I smile, ‘You make me so happy.’
I reach for it but he slides it back slightly, ‘I hope you can make me happy too.’
My usual rejection strategies exist like bullets in a loaded gun. I cock the hammer. Should I pout and feign offence that I don’t make him happy? Or perhaps, the classic timid virgin card might play better this hand?
His pudgy fingers tap the card, ‘You could go to Italy instead of Brighton. You could have 50 of those handbags. I’ve been looking after you. I want you to look after me too.’
We are interrupted by the waiter with our meals. A shiny red lobster sits on a silver tray. It is split down the middle and he eyes the buttery flesh ravenously. I don’t reply as he devours the meat and gnaws on the shell. His wine stained tongue writhes into the centre of a claw. My stomach turns slightly as my filet mignon bleeds beneath my knife.
His tongue runs against his lower lip, catching a shred of lobster meat, ‘We can discuss terms... I’m thinking twice a month?’
I imagine my faltering hands against his sweating spine. A frail collarbone wedged into my eyesocket. The taste of sandalwood would end up on my tongue and I would wonder if the cologne was an anniversary gift.
A cube of steak melts in my mouth. My tennis bracelet feels heavy on my wrist. The manicured tip of my acrylic nail scratches the weft of my hair extensions. I glance again at the shiny card now slick with lobster grease.
When I return my gaze to his, I see a small desperate man before me. A man who has everything. Except me.
© Emily Westall
