Sassy scolded me over these arrangements. “Why didn’t you demand that he pick you up?”
“Because he doesn’t drive at night. Which means if he picks me up, I’m trapped. I’m on his schedule. At least if I have my car I can get away if I have to.”
As it was, I was making him start the date much earlier than he would have liked, at 6:00 p.m. He wanted to start it at 8:00, which meant the date might go on until 11:00. I didn’t want to be with Arnold at an hour that could be construed as “bedtime.”
When I pulled into Arnold’s driveway, he was waiting for me outside. I thought that was sweet of him, but mostly he wanted to show me where to park my car so it wouldn’t get towed and the neighbors wouldn’t complain.
We went inside the house. Arnold shut the door and locked it.
I hoped Arnold would not turn out to be a psycho killer.
This reminded me of what Emma had said about the men online: “Just don’t be a psycho killer.” It was extraordinary how this sentiment still crossed all demographics, dating methods, and ages.
If Arnold were a seventy-five-year-old killer though, he’d have to be pretty stupid to murder me. Everyone knew about our date and he’d be the first suspect.
I took a deep breath and reminded myself to be nice.
I wasn’t feeling nice. I was feeling uncomfortable and a little bit loaded for bear. I was angry for allowing myself to be put in this situation even though it was only for three hours and it was one meal and what was wrong with me?
I reminded myself of what Ron had said, of what society would say to women like me: I should be grateful to have a date with a man like Arnold.
And so I did the usual: I admired his contemporary art, which he’d bought years ago when he owned a gallery and had hung out with artists. I oohed and ahhed over his rare book collection. When he offered to take me on a tour of the house, I agreed. The rooms were masculinized modern spaces with lots of windows, metal, and glass. There was no clutter. Everything was in its place, a place, I sensed, that had been its place for a very long time.
Despite the airy spaces, the house wasn’t particularly large. Within seconds of the tour, we were in his bedroom.
A wall of windows framed an expansive vista of lawn and gardens. I admired the view.
The scenery, however, was not the best part of the bedroom.
Did I want to know what the best part of the bedroom was Arnold asked.
“Sure,” I said gamely.
He grinned. “The bed. I’ve had it for twenty years,” he said proudly. “This bed has brought me good luck. I’ve had a lot of great sex on that bed.” He paused and looked at me meaningfully. “And I hope to have a lot more in the future.”
I took a better look at the bed. The sheets were slightly rumpled, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Arnold had been having some kind of “go” at it before I’d arrived. I pictured him naked on the sheets, his great white belly sluicing from side to side.
“Well, bully for you,” I said. I suggested that I needed a drink.
An open bottle of red wine and two glasses sat on the counter in the kitchen. It had that sort of dusty, neglected air that kitchens get when no one uses them.
I apologized and said I didn’t drink red wine. Only white or rosé.
“But Ron told me you drink red wine. I asked him and he said you drank red and so I went out and got us a nice bottle.”
I wanted to point out that Ron didn’t know a thing about me and so it was illogical to ask Ron what kind of wine I preferred. I didn’t say it, of course. Instead, I attempted to negotiate.
“I’d prefer white if you have it.”
“Are you sure you don’t want the red? It’s a really good bottle. And don’t worry about drinking. You can always spend the night here.”
“Hahahaha.” My sarcastic laugh hid a head rush of hot annoyance. I thought about making some excuse and leaving, but I couldn’t think of one that would warrant such a response without making me look crazy and causing a furor among the social set who had condoned this pairing.
In other words, I wasn’t yet ready to be socially ostracized in order to get away from Arnold.
He showed me his pool next. It was small and kidney shaped. “Do you want to go swimming?” he asked.
“No thanks.”