The Peacock’s Lair
By Gayle Beveridge
“I’ve got a date,” I called, slamming the phone back on its cradle. I leaned in the kitchen door and called towards Mum, “I’ve got a date”. Before she could say “That’s nice Carolyn”, I was gone, searching for Dad, as if such good news would dissolve and disappear if it wasn’t urgently shared. It would be my first date. There had been no teen boyfriends for me, no stolen kisses before I came of age. I was 22. This would be my first date and it was not just with anybody; it was with Dean.
Dean was a favourite among the girls in our ‘OneCommunity’ Club and currently he was one of three standing for president. He was older, in his mid twenties. His full-bodied, blond hair never seemed to stray from where it was meant to be and a small neatly clipped beard lined up beneath an even neater moustache. He wore smile lines on his face that drew women like metal to magnets and one eye was closed a bit more than the other, a permanent cheeky wink.
I rang my best friend Katie and once I’d convinced her I was neither joking nor mistaken, she offered a plethora of confusing first date advice. Don’t talk too much; don’t’ talk too little. Don’t order messy spaghetti; don’t order expensive things. Wear something sexy; wear something modest. Ask him about himself; don’t ask too many personal details.
Mum altered a fawn-coloured straight skirt she used to wear when she and Dad dated; leant me her best fine cotton V-neck jumper and her pearl necklace. We bought a pair of cream court shoes at the Red Cross Opportunity Shop. Any apprehension I had about the second-hand clothes disappeared when Dean arrived and gushed “I must be at the wrong house; I could never be lucky enough to be dating such a beautiful woman”. I didn’t think I could be happier until I saw the look of pride on Dad’s face as I waved good-bye.
Dean was an absolute gentleman. He opened the car door for me and chatted comfortably as he drove us to the restaurant he had booked. That was how Dean was. When ‘OneCommunity’ was helping our senior citizens with little odd jobs they could no longer do, it was always Dean who chatted with them and made them feel important and less self conscious. It was Dean who organised us and allocated our tasks, kept us efficient and focussed. Leadership fell as naturally to him as following him did to the rest of us.
The restaurant was called ‘The Peacock’s Lair’. Opening the door as we approached, the maître d’ stiffly welcomed Dean back. It was quite intimidating; Dean was obviously no stranger to this. I had never been in a restaurant before and did not want to seem stupid. Dean asked if we had the table he’d requested and the maître d’, who seemed too offended to respond, led us to a small candlelit table with a pristine white linen table cloth. Beside the table was a large copper wall hanging of a peacock with his tail fanned. The tail feathers were intricately painted and looked remarkably true to life. I had a special fascination for peacocks but surely Dean could not have known this.
A waiter brought elegantly decorated menus, handed one to me and placed Dean’s a little too pointedly in front of him. The cover was an iridescent blue-green with a fine, golden filigree outline and the ‘The Peacock’s Lair’ beautifully centred in Old English type. I began to worry about how expensive it would be here, as I was resolved to politely order something less pricey. Inside the menu, high quality paper with a vintage look, listed our choices, superimposed over a picture of a peacock. To my dismay I had a lady’s menu, and in keeping with tradition, it did not display any prices. I had no idea which dishes were the cheaper.
“Order anything you like”, Dean said as if he had read my mind. My cheeks felt warm and I was sure I was blushing. Dean had done all the talking so far and I was acutely aware that I should say something. Don’t talk too little. “This place is lovely”, I squeaked, “Do you come here often”? I was mentally chastising myself and didn’t hear his answer; it was none of my business how often he came here. Don’t ask personal details.
Dean ordered a bottle of wine from a waiter who didn’t speak a word. I wondered if all restaurant staff were as rude as these. “Choose an entrée and a main now, Carolyn”, he said, “We’ll get the dessert menu later”. I didn’t even know what an entrée was and was extremely relieved when Dean recommended a prawn cocktail. I chose a chicken dish for a main and felt terribly exposed when the waiter took away the menu I’d been trying to hide behind.
“Are you having a good time, Carolyn?” Dean asked. I loved the sound of my name rolling off his tongue. I wished conversation came as easily to me as it did to him, but I was virtually paralysed. “Dean is a lovely name,” I blurted, thinking instantly it was not the right thing to say to a man, although he didn’t seem to be offended.
“It comes from the Latin for presiding official”, he replied, a little cocky and laughing, “I was named to lead”.
“I wonder what my name means.” I mused, but before he could answer, our prawn cocktails arrived and Dean dug into his as though he hadn’t had a meal for days. The fork was as tiny as the prawns so I picked away slowly, one at a time. When the waiter returned to take the dishes way, Dean snapped at him, “She hasn’t eaten her lettuce yet”. The haughty reply, “Nor should she Sir; it is merely a garnish”.
Dean was quiet and sullen. I felt uncomfortable. I looked up at the copper peacock and felt like every eye in its tail was watching me. “In Greek mythology”, I said, anxious to end the silence, “Hera, the sister of Zeus, preserved the eyes of her slain servant Argus, in the tail of her favourite bird, the peacock.” Dean did not respond; perhaps I was boring him. “Argus had been her watchman. Only a few of his one hundred eyes would sleep at any time.” Dean seemed to be gazing at nothing in the distance. “That’s how the peacock came to have the eyes in its tail,” I blustered on.
“What,” said Dean, as our mains were set in front of us. We ate without a word and when we were done, I commented, “I guess you’re nervous about the ‘OneCommunity’ elections this weekend”.
“Of course not”, he bragged, “I will win”. I wondered if Dean knew that a peacock’s tail feathers got their brilliant colours from an optical phenomenon called the Bragg reflection. I wondered if, aside from strutting like a peacock, he knew anything about them at all.
I had opened a flood gate and Dean chatted away outlining all the plans he had for OneCommunity after he was elected. There were to be grandiose weekend retreats, a Guinness World Record attempt at something he was yet to decide upon and massive fund raisers, all to be covered by local press. He stopped long enough to order dessert and coffee without even asking if I would like any.
Finally a waiter placed a bill face down at Dean’s elbow and I felt myself blushing as turning it over, he drew in a breath, “Wow, this was sure expensive”. He left the money on the table and stood up to leave. I hastily followed behind.
The maître d’ opened the door for us. He tipped his head to me, “A pleasure having you here Miss”, and then to Dean, “and will we be seeing you yet again tomorrow Sir”.
Dean talked almost all the way back to my place about the rude staff at the ‘Peacock’s Lair’. I wondered why he went there, as frequently as it seemed he did.
He walked me to the door and when I said good-bye he leaned forward and kissed me. “Remember who to vote for on Saturday”, he said, then he turned and he was gone.
Dad was still up as I walked in the front door. “Back already, Carolyn love” he said, although it was quite late and he looked like he had been forcing himself to stay awake. “Did you have a lovely night then?”
I could feel tears welling up inside me. “No Dad”, I sat at his feet and leant my head on his knee, like I’d done a thousand times before, “I think he only took me out so I’d vote for him in the OneCommunity elections. I should have known someone like him wouldn’t really want to date me. That’s not all, Dad, he was really upset about how much it cost.”
Dad wrapped one big burly hand around mine and caressed my head with the other. “That my dear,” he said’ “is just the proper price a young man should pay to take out a women as wonderful as my daughter”.
I closed my eyes and dreamed of the day I would meet someone really worthwhile. I would recognise him when he came; he would be just like Dad.
About the Author: Gayle Beveridge
Gayle Beveridge was born in rural Victoria, Australia in 1957 and moved to Melbourne with her family in 1968 where she still lives with her husband. Although she had an in interest in creative writing since childhood, she settled into a career as an accountant, and only started to write in earnest as she approached her 50th birthday. Gayle has since won first prize in the 2008 Boroondara Literary Awards for 'Not Dead Yet', been shortlisted in the Positive Words 2007 Short Story Competition for 'The Last Day', and commended in the Best of Times 2008 Humorous Short Story Competition for 'Trolleys International' . Her stories 'The Possum', 'Afternoon Tea in Amberley Lane', 'Trolleys International', 'Not Dead Yet' and 'Snapshot' have been published.