A Funny Romance

A Funny Romance

The coffee was by now too cold to drink. The scone seemed to be shrinking before his eyes, as it too, cooled rapidly whilst the jam and cream had developed a discernible patina after being exposed to the air for so long. How long had he sat here feeling so lost? He knew exactly where he was of course, it was the same café he visited at the same time every Saturday afternoon. Yet he felt as though his life had somehow reached an impasse, an insurmountable barrier.

He was lost within himself. This was not his real self that sat here, inert, indecisive, tortured by his own inaction. There was an easy solution: simply walk over and talk to her. So why could he not do it?

The situation was literally incredible. No one who knew him would believe nor understand his predicament. His friends, family and followers would not recognize the man almost quivering at the Edwardian-crafted, oak, polished table, in the middle of the Beauchamp Café. Tonight, in fact in only eight hours from now, he would be standing on stage in front of a large audience at the local theatre. There he would regale the crowd with funny stories, anecdotes, musings on life; some of which were thought-provoking, some poignant, but the majority were created to elicit laughter, and this they did most successfully.

So, what had created this great gulf between the man sitting here and the one on stage? The answer was in the form of a radiant creature, a glorious dream from which such beauty emanated that it seemed to dazzle his very soul. There she sat, a mere few feet across the room; yet it could have been a light year, so vast was the distance between himself and his dreams.

Perhaps that was it. Sitting here, she remained a dream, a wonderful illusion. If he spoke to her then the dream would be gone forever.

It was as though he had a double life. One world contained the love of his life, offering a future so happy that it exceeded the bounds of everyday existence. The other world was reality, her response to him would likely forever expunge his conjured bliss, her rejection would sap him of all light. But surely it was worth it, approaching her, if only to end this turmoil, to allow him to resume a not altogether unpleasant life, but one that would be somehow mundane, an ordinary existence of monochrome banality.

There was a chance his dreams may come true. Long golden hair, eyes of indiscernible colour that seemed to reflect light of all hues. The sunshine illuminated her table, enhancing the portrait in his mind of some beautiful deity, not of this world but somehow ethereal, magical. What if she did respond to him what then? Would she then reject his other self, the stage persona who would play practical jokes, write comedy sketches, entertain hundreds, sometimes thousands of others; the persona who had fans asking for his autograph and friends queueing to buy him a drink? She seemed far too reserved, too sophisticated to have such a partner.

And yet, from the moment he had first caught sight of her, he had returned regularly in the hope of catching just one more glimpse. He had discovered that she was there every week at the same time: Saturday, twelve thirty. Always the same order, a slice of Bakewell Tart with tea. Sometimes she hardly touched the food. Dammit, enough of this, he was going to talk to her.

He stood and walked purposefully across the room. As he approached, she looked up, evoking a frisson of excitement that quickly changed to terror as they made eye contact. He continued his walk to the door and left, heart pounding, tears welling in his eyes, tears of anger and frustration with his own failure. An angry inner voice berated him, “Why can’t I say it?” Next week, he told himself, next week I will speak to her.

Time slowed; each moment dragged by. During the day he wandered like a love-struck adolescent, hating himself for his hesitancy, his indecision. At night he transformed into Del de Lancey, raconteur and entertainer, confidently striding the stage, bringing laughter and warmth into the lives of others. This, he knew, could not continue.

He entered Beauchamp’s at his usual time feeling relief and surprise that she had already arrived, a little earlier than her usual time. She appeared to be deep in conversation with Laura, one of the waitresses. He did not miss the irony that, after all his visits, he now knew each waitress by name but had singularly failed in making progress to discover more about his heart's desire.

It was some time before the order was eventually written down and Laura walked towards the kitchens, but not before looking in his direction, throwing him a warm smile. Perhaps Laura was one of his fans from the theatre but, thankfully, she had never stopped to chat. He enjoyed his relative anonymity in his everyday activities.

He found himself waiting longer than usual and used the time to once more wonder if today would be the one when he finally acted to end this inner turmoil, one way or the other.

Some minutes later, Laura emerged from the kitchens carrying a large tray and proceeded towards the table occupied by the girl of his dreams who, curiously, had made a much larger order than usual. Both tea and coffee were carefully placed on the table followed by a large portion of Bakewell Tart as well as scones.

Many of the regular patrons by this time were openly curious as the young lady fumbled in her bag before withdrawing a large piece of paper. This she unfolded, carefully brushing the creases before holding it up towards his table, at the same time mesmerising him with a smile that made his heart skip a beat. On the paper was written in large, bright blue letters:

“Hello, I’m Rebecca. Would you like to join me?”