I walked through Gunwharf Quays, past the groups of over-perfumed, orange-skinned Saturday nighters, in my kitten-heeled patent pumps, wondering if he would be there already, or if he would make me wait.
And then I wondered, with a snorty giggle, if I would even recognise him in contemporary dress. Did he sport those whiskers as a matter of course? Would he be checking his engraved fob watch, shaking his head over my lateness?
Not that I was late. It was one minute to eight when I entered the restaurant, and I recognised him immediately. He sat at one of the window tables in the curving room, looking out over the harbour, minus whiskers but plus one fantastically well-cut suit and green spotted silk tie. He looked no less distinguished than he had in Victorian mode – in fact, a little more so for the lack of fancy dress.
In front of him stood a bottle of white wine and two glasses.
He looked up and waved two fingers at me. I gave my coat to the waiter and commended my soul to God. I had absolutely no idea where this evening would take me.
‘Montrachet,’ he said, lifting the bottle. ‘I noticed you were drinking a Chardonnay at the ball. Will this suit?’
‘Oh yes.’ I slipped into my seat opposite him, staring fixedly at my wine glass while he poured.
I took a sip at his behest.
‘Lovely. Strange, though, I had you down as a Lambrini type of guy.’
The frown this remark produced was terrific and tremble-provoking.
‘And now I have you down as an impertinent little minx. And we all know what happens to them.’
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, wondering what had come over me. Flippant remarks were a safety mechanism for me, a habit I would have to work on if I wanted to sit down much in the near future. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d recognise me with my clothes on.’
His facial muscles relaxed.
‘I wouldn’t have been ungentlemanly enough to say so but now that you mention it …’
I blushed.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ I told him. ‘It’s usually fish and chips on the harbour wall for me.’
‘I wasn’t sure what to expect,’ said His Lordship. ‘Most of the stories of nights out in Portsmouth I’ve heard have involved fights and strippers.’
‘A bit like my sex life then.’
‘Keris.’ He was warning me.
‘Sorry. My mouth runs away with me.’
‘We can sort that out.’
‘Can we?’
‘Oh yes.’
I tugged at my ear, my nervous gesture of choice.
‘I think it’s the clothes thing,’ I offered after the waiter had handed us menus.
‘Clothes?’
‘If I’m fully dressed, I find it hard to be submissive. Does that make sense?’
He put his head to one side and scrutinised me.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That makes sense. There’s a way round that, you know.’
‘Is there?’