Third Date

It was an amazing evening. Isobel’s third date, since joining ‘Find Your Mate’, was going well. Being honest, she would admit this was the first time she had been relaxed enough to enjoy herself. Equally, her dinner companion was a huge improvement. He was a little energetic, but great company. She thought his eagerness to please was likely due to him being as nervous as her.

Tom, as his profile named him, claimed this was his first time trying internet dating. Isobel was unconvinced. He seemed quite at home with the ins and outs of a nice meal and the polite conversation was a little too practiced. They had worked their way through food so fine Isobel couldn’t guess the price. It had just been lovely, even if the expense had crept into her mind.

As the dessert dishes were being removed, Tom revealed he worked in antiques, late 19th century. In his spare time, he was trying to complete his first novel.

“What’s it about?” asked Isobel, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

Tom idly adjusted his coffee cup. “It’s a little embarrassing.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded sheepishly. “I worry it will change your opinion of me.”

“I barely know you.”

“Exactly. Hence the risk.”

Isobel sat back in her chair, folded her arms and raised a single eyebrow.

Tom sighed and sat back. “Alright.” He raised a finger. “Remember. You asked.”

“Fair enough,” smiled Isobel.

He glanced to each side, checking who was listening. He leant across the table, encouraging Isobel to do the same. She did so, coming almost face to face. He looked her straight in the eye and smiled wickedly.

“Sex.”

It took a full two seconds for the word to settle in Isobel’s mind. A laugh shot out of her, loud enough to push her back into her chair.

She covered her mouth, blushing. A quick look revealed half the diners were looking her way. “Sorry,” she mumbled to the room. Her gaze returned to find a much-amused Tom.

“You did that on purpose,” she hissed.

“Absolutely,” he grinned. “I don’t often get the chance.” He took a sip of coffee. “You have to admit, it was funny.”

Isobel laughed, despite her embarrassment. “I suppose.” She leant forward, putting her elbows on the table. She looked Tom in the eyes. “Is it autobiographical?”

To Isobel’s disappointment, Tom didn’t flinch. Instead, he leant forward, copying her. He came to a stop, resting his chin on his hands. “That would be telling.” His turn to arch an eyebrow.

For the second time in as many minutes, Isobel blushed. What was going on? Perhaps Chloe, her friend, had been right. So much encouragement for her to get ‘out there’. Nine years of comfortable living with Angus had been difficult to let go. Having consistency in her life had been at the core of her being. She didn’t miss the man – he had been flakey and unreliable for years. She just hadn’t needed to think about a relationship. The apathy and routine nothingness probably explained the reason for its end.

Had she been missing out? Arguably, the past 90 minutes had been the happiest she had felt for the last couple of years. Perhaps this was how a real relationship begun?

Tom tilted his head. “You alright?” He looked concerned. “Have I put you off after all?”

Isobel shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. “Not at all.” She laid her hands flat on the table, fingers just over the half-way mark. “I was just thinking how nice this was.”

After a moment’s thought, Tom lowered one hand and rested it gently on top of Isobel’s.

The warmth of the man’s hand shocked like a burn. The unexpected touch did things to Isobel that she was unprepared for. A finger moved against Isobel’s skin, just a gentle sideways motion. Turning her hand, Isobel accepted the fingers into a gentle grip.

It was the most erotic thing she had experienced for years.

The server broke a long moment of silence. “Can I offer you anything else?” he asked.

Tom gently squeezed Isobel’s hand before letting it go. He reached into his faded yellow jacket pocket.

“No, thank you,” he said to the server. “The meal was excellent.” He pulled out his wallet. “Just the cheque, please.”

“Of course.” The server moved off to retrieve the bill and the card machine.

Isobel fixed a smile on her face and reached into her own jacket pocket, hung on the back of the chair. Professional cellist was a job for a music lover, not someone who ate at this restaurant. She mentally prepared herself for how cheap the rest of the week’s meals were going to be.

Tom caught her motion. “Don’t worry,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ve got it,” he smiled. “It was a lovely meal, but I get the impression this is not your usual haunt?”

The third blush of the evening coloured Isobel’s face. “No,” she admitted. “I’m more a pasta or pizza girl, I’m afraid.”

Tom’s smile broadened as the server returned with the bill. “Not at all.” He spoke to Isobel, presenting his card to the server. “To be honest, I chose this place to make an impression.”

Seeing the server’s expression twitch, as well as the hefty cash tip change hands, Isobel doubted the truth of the story. However, it had been a lovely evening – now a free one. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Well, you certainly made an impression,” she said, gesturing to his yellow suit.

Tom stood and pulled on his lapels, a little frayed at the edges. “This old thing?” The elegant lines of the jacket covered a deep blue pressed shirt. Almost matching pastel-yellow trousers completed his outfit.

Isobel took an offered hand and stood. Her one good dress had seen better days, but was mostly fine. She was sure that Tom’s suit would be off to the dry cleaners as soon as it was removed.

Her date gestured ahead, so Isobel grabbed her jacket and made her way to the entrance. Thanking the woman in charge, she stepped out onto the pavement. The summer evening was pleasantly cool. It wasn’t cold, but habit made her don her jacket.

Tom arrived beside her, looking slowly up and down the street. “So. Where to now?”

Isobel was confused. Wasn’t this the end of the date? “I’m sorry?”

He stepped forward and gently took hold of both her hands. “It’s an old cliché. Your place or mine?” He smiled broadly.

Isobel was stunned. She couldn’t help but stammer. “I…I don’t think…what do you mean?”

Tom pulled her closer, lifting her hands up between them, almost bringing their hands to her breast.

“You’ve had a good time, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice soft and close.

Isobel tried to step back but couldn’t, such was the now tight grip on her wrists.

Tom’s eyebrows lowered. “Don’t be coy,” his voice a little darker. “Surely you expected this?”

“No!” replied Isobel. Instantly. “Let me go!” She struggled and attempted to pull away, looking about for help. Realisation dawned that Tom had been steadily moving her away from the restaurant. They were now in a darkened spot, apparently chosen for its relative privacy. In the pit of her stomach, Isobel realised this had been a well-planned evening. Likely not the first.

As she struggled, Isobel felt a cold, uneven wall suddenly press into her back. She was out of time. Gritting her teeth, she blessed Chloe for her forethought and abruptly relaxed. Feeling no resistance, Tom stumbled forwards. Isobel ducked and took pleasure in hearing his head hit the stone wall. The sudden motion released one of her hands, allowing it to reach into a jacket pocket. With sudden strength, Isobel yanked her restrained arm backwards, half-spinning Tom around, presenting his face. With a yell of “bastard!” she emptied the illegal pepper spray cannister into the man’s eyes.

Isobel had not tested the spray. Judging by how much it stung her eyes, it was extremely effective.

Tom instantly dropped to a crouch and started attempting to claw his own eyeballs out. “Bitch!” he spat.

Isobel threw the empty can at Tom’s head. “You bet!” she cried, feeling a sense of power she had not experienced before. The elation was short-lived. Tom sprung forward, lunging at her. Pure instinct kept her out of his grasp and off running down the street. She had taken a taxi here. She had no idea where she was – she just ran.

#

After several turns, Isobel was tiring. Still trotting, she ran backwards for a few steps, checking for her pursuer. Seeing the road clear all the way to the corner, she allowed herself to come to a stop. Panting heavily, she thanked her past self for choosing flat shoes. No way she would have got this far in heels. Reaching out, she grabbed the painted spike of an iron railing to lean on. Her wrist ached painfully.

Following the iron fence along, a line of Victorian terraces set back from the somewhat prison-like black bars. All were dark, likely tucked in for the night. Looking into the distance, the end of the road became a cul-de-sac. Fortunate, she thought, that the chase had ended.

Isobel barely finished that thought as she looked back and saw a shadow growing on the pavement behind her.

Rising tightened her chest.

Trapped.

She headed further down the street, desperate for somewhere to hide. To her surprise, one house glowed with warm light. Odd. Only seconds ago it had been completely dark. As she hurried closer, the dark door opened to reveal a short woman, perhaps Isobel’s age.

“You alright?” the woman’s quiet, yet clearly audible voice asked.

With more clarity, Isobel might have wondered how the woman had noticed her in the dark. Her lizard brain crushed most thoughts, seeking safety. She paused as she reached the open gate leading to the stairs below the door.

The figure glanced up the road. “He’s after you, is he?”

Surprise flashed through Isobel’s expression.

The woman nodded and stepped back, a clear invitation. “Come on,” she gestured. “You’ll be safe in here.”

Isobel bit her bottom lip. Glancing back, it was impossible to see the corner with light spilling from the open hallway.

“Hurry,” said the woman, her tone urgent.

Isobel’s thoughts seemed suddenly slow.

“Come on,” urged the woman again, backing into the house.

The movement tugged at Isobel and, before she knew it, she was up the steps and across the threshold. The woman stood at the bottom of a steep staircase, gesturing to a flickering doorway. A promise of a warm open fire.

Comfort.

Safety.

Isobel followed the flickering light, drawn like a moth to a flame.

The door closed. Unheard.

#

The interior matched the exterior. Original features were in evidence, complete with tiled fireplace. Warmth was in abundance, both physically and decoratively. Voluptuous curtains hung around the bay window and throw cushions were everywhere. Colours were pastel browns, yellows, and oranges. The light came from the fire, assorted oil lamps, and an austere iron, candle-filled chandelier. Every inch of the wall was covered with framed art. As she stepped slowly closer, so Isobel saw the paintings were all portraits of seated men. Another step allowed her to realise that every face was the same. Every. Single. One. She leant closer to make sure she wasn’t going mad.

“My husband,” came a voice, suddenly close by Isobel’s ear. The woman had materialised alongside. Isobel could see she was sharply attractive, full, black hair helping to soften the edges. This close, lines in the face added perhaps a decade.

Isobel recovered from the surprise. She smiled. “He must have enjoyed sitting for portraits?”

A dark frown emerged. The woman looked at the images with disdain. “He certainly liked images of himself.” Her eyes glanced upwards. “Didn’t you?” she asked the air.

After the woman held her position, Isobel followed her gaze to the large chandelier, but saw nothing but an intricate cornice rose.

The woman suddenly moved and headed for the door. “You’ll have a cup of tea,” she said, over her shoulder.

“Er…sure,” she said, uncertain if heard. Drifting, her eyes settled back on the portraits. Yep. Same man. All standing, resting on a chair.

Wait!

“Sugar?”

Isobel snapped round to see the woman hobbling into the room. She was bent over, finding it difficult to walk, pushing a small trolley carrying tea-making items. With the top of her head visible, it was clear the hair was thinning. Amazing, thought Isobel, how different someone can look from another angle. She stepped forward to help steer the trolley. The woman looked up.

Isobel gasped and staggered back. “Sorry,” she spluttered. “Who are you?”

An old woman’s face looked back. “I’m sorry, dear?” her voice was weak and wobbly. “There’s nobody else.” She glanced up again. “At least not right now.”

Isobel studied the woman and tried to form thoughts. She imagined the woman at the door with another twenty years of life. It could be the same woman…?

The old lady ignored her and busied herself with pouring tea. “Don’t worry, love,” she said, adding a little milk to cups. “Everything will sort itself out in a minute.” She finished the drinks and finally sank into a chair behind her. Looking around the room, she surveyed it, committing it to memory. “It’s been so long,” she said to herself.

A shaking hand rattled the teacup as she raised it, toasting Isobel. “Here’s to you.” She took a long sip and rested it back on the saucer in her lap.

A long sigh left the old woman’s body and she quietly closed her eyes.

For nearly ten seconds, a horrified Isobel stood immobile. Eventually, she took a step forward and half reached out.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice shaking.

No response.

A shiver shot through Isobel. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms subconsciously.

Cold.

Turning, she moved to warm herself at the fire.

It was completely out. Not even glowing embers could be seen.

How on…

Instinct brought her gaze up to the portraits.

“What?” she cried, stepping back automatically.

After a moment of composure, she stepped closer, getting within inches of the small painting. There was the man, but now he stood in a library, occupying exactly one side of the frame. His hand was outstretched, as if holding hands with someone by his side. Where that someone would have been was a cloudy mess of paint. It was as if the artist had yet to add the man’s companion.

Isobel picked another frame. Different angle but always the same image.

Man and cloud.

Her breaths now coming quicker and quicker, she peered close to one of the larger frames, squinting at the mess beside the man. It was almost as if…

It moved!

Isobel stepped back, tripped over her own foot, and fell into a waiting wicker chair.

As she landed, so she glanced at the ceiling. To her horror, the chandelier was no longer there. Neither was the ceiling rose. Above her hung a cylindrical lampshade, a yellow bulb glowing within.

Eyes wide with fear and confusion, Isobel looked down.

She immediately gripped the armrests so tightly she pushed herself up and out of the seat.

She was in a library.

Not just any library.

It was from the paintings.

Glancing to her side, the old lady was nowhere to be seen. Beyond – the door. In an instant, Isobel was out of the chair and into the…

…Victorian drawing room.

Confused, Isobel spun on the spot. Glassware cabinet, formal smoking chairs, mantlepiece, bay window.

Window!

She strode to the panes and found them dark and opaque. Slamming her hand on the glass did nothing other than sting her palm.

Turning back, her breath caught in her chest. She was back in the library. Panic rose. She dared not look away for fear of change. It had to be a nightmare. Right?

Inspiration retrieved her mobile phone from her jacket. “Hey Siri,” she shouted. “Call the police.”

There was a pause, then Siri responded in its familiar voice.

“I’m sorry. I cannot complete that request right now. Why don’t you stop fighting and accept your new life?”

Isobel stared, wide-eyed, at the phone in her hand before throwing it as far as she could. Fingers curled into fists, she hammered on the window. She knew it was pointless.

It was all she could do.

In mental and physical exhaustion, she slid to the floor. Uncontrollable sobbing took hold for seconds. Minutes. Hours.

Movement snapped Isobel’s attention back to the room. Looking round in fear and resignation, she saw a floor to ceiling picture frame. Everything else had vanished.

No library.

No chairs.

No fireplace.

No door.

Focussing on the painting was impossible. Isobel rubbed her eyes, blinking away stinging tears. From her crouch, the painting was a blur, despite its size. With no other option, she slowly got to her feet. As she did so, two figures began to form on the canvas. Paint flowed from every direction, random chaos resolving into an image of a couple, hand in hand.

Isobel took a step forward.

Then another.

The painting became more and more detailed as she approached.

It was hypnotic.

Three steps later, she stood only arms reach away. The image was still. Settled. The man stood. Tall. Proud. Chin raised. Crisply dressed in pastel Victorian garb, his vaguely familiar dark eyes gazing out from the canvas, straight into Isobel’s soul.

Following the man’s hand, Isobel saw feminine fingers, attached to a sleeved arm leading to a familiar jacket.

Above a familiar dress.

So familiar.

Against her will, Isobel dragged her gaze up.

There was no face.

Blank.

Empty.

A breath.

Another.

The woman in the painting lurched forward and snatched Isobel into the canvas.