tell him brightly. ‘They’re only the first pair we’ve tried.’
Henry and I spend the next hour going through all the frames before deciding that not a single pair of glasses here suits him. We decamp to another optician’s on the other side of the city centre. Only this one has exactly the same makes and models of glasses, none of which make Henry look anything like the glorious embodiments of male prowess in the adverts – and not just because he isn’t naked with Kate Moss’s sultrier sister dribbling on his pecs.
‘How can this be so hard?’ I ask despairingly. ‘There must be five hundred pairs of glasses in this shop – why do absolutely none suit you?’
‘Maybe I’ve got a funny face,’ Henry offers.
‘You have not got a funny face,’ I say. ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with your face. In fact, I wonder . . .’
I stop and look at Henry.
‘Hang on.’ I reach over and remove his glasses. Putting my hand on his chin, I move it to the side to get a better look. Then I move it to the other side to examine that too.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s obvious.’
‘Is it?’
‘Henry, you’ve got a lovely face,’ I decide. ‘It shouldn’t be hiding behind glasses at all.’
I cannot believe this hasn’t occurred to me until now. Haven’t I seen what happens when Miss Moneypenny removes her goggles in the Bond films? Not just that, but it’s absolutely true about Henry’s face. He has the potential to be very good-looking: dark blue eyes, a lovely full mouth and a jaw that’s as chiselled as any belonging to the models on the posters.
As I look into his eyes again, I find him looking back at me.
‘Oh God, I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I?’
‘No, Lucy, you haven’t,’ he reassures me, squeezing my hand. Henry has lovely hands – big, comforting and smooth-skinned, the direct opposite of some men’s hands, which can be such a disappointment. I dated a bloke a few months ago called Simon and, for once, things weren’t going too badly until he decided to hold hands as we walked home. It was like clutching a leaky hot-water bottle – wet and warm and distinctly not nice. Admittedly, I’ve lowered my standards since then.
‘Well, I think we should ditch the glasses altogether and go for contact lenses.’
‘Really?’ He puts his hands in his pockets defensively. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve always worn glasses. I feel more comfortable in them.’
‘What has comfort got to do with anything?’ I ask sternly.
‘Oh yes, I forgot: your high heels cause so many blisters you almost qualify for a disabled badge.’
‘Exactly,’ I reply.
‘Okay. I’ll give them a try.’
This turns out to be one of the best decisions I’ve made all week. Not only does Henry immediately look better without glasses, but the optician who has given him his eye-test and taken his details is extremely attractive. Not as conventionally good-looking as Sean or Jake, but between his sparkly brown eyes and winning smile there is definitely something about him. He emerges back into the reception with Henry and heads to the main desk, flashing me a smile.
‘So,’ muses Sexy Optician as he scribbles a final note on Henry’s file, and hands my friend a receipt, ‘did I hear you say you’re in PR?’
‘No, medical research,’ replies Henry.
‘Excuse me, Mr Fox,’ Sexy Optician says smoothly. ‘I was talking to your friend.’
Henry doesn’t respond.
‘Um, yes,’ I smile, gazing at Sexy Optician. There’s something very appealing about a man in a white coat, I decide. ‘I work for Peaman-Brown in Castle Street.’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ he says, flashing me a flirty smile. ‘So if you had to transform the media image of this company, what would you do?’
‘What, this place?’
‘Yeah,’ he grins. ‘That too hard? Are we too boring?’
‘Oh, God, no,’ I say hastily. ‘Not at all. Well, I’d begin by getting to know the business and its key personnel . .
Henry and I spend the next hour going through all the frames before deciding that not a single pair of glasses here suits him. We decamp to another optician’s on the other side of the city centre. Only this one has exactly the same makes and models of glasses, none of which make Henry look anything like the glorious embodiments of male prowess in the adverts – and not just because he isn’t naked with Kate Moss’s sultrier sister dribbling on his pecs.
‘How can this be so hard?’ I ask despairingly. ‘There must be five hundred pairs of glasses in this shop – why do absolutely none suit you?’
‘Maybe I’ve got a funny face,’ Henry offers.
‘You have not got a funny face,’ I say. ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with your face. In fact, I wonder . . .’
I stop and look at Henry.
‘Hang on.’ I reach over and remove his glasses. Putting my hand on his chin, I move it to the side to get a better look. Then I move it to the other side to examine that too.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s obvious.’
‘Is it?’
‘Henry, you’ve got a lovely face,’ I decide. ‘It shouldn’t be hiding behind glasses at all.’
I cannot believe this hasn’t occurred to me until now. Haven’t I seen what happens when Miss Moneypenny removes her goggles in the Bond films? Not just that, but it’s absolutely true about Henry’s face. He has the potential to be very good-looking: dark blue eyes, a lovely full mouth and a jaw that’s as chiselled as any belonging to the models on the posters.
As I look into his eyes again, I find him looking back at me.
‘Oh God, I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I?’
‘No, Lucy, you haven’t,’ he reassures me, squeezing my hand. Henry has lovely hands – big, comforting and smooth-skinned, the direct opposite of some men’s hands, which can be such a disappointment. I dated a bloke a few months ago called Simon and, for once, things weren’t going too badly until he decided to hold hands as we walked home. It was like clutching a leaky hot-water bottle – wet and warm and distinctly not nice. Admittedly, I’ve lowered my standards since then.
‘Well, I think we should ditch the glasses altogether and go for contact lenses.’
‘Really?’ He puts his hands in his pockets defensively. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve always worn glasses. I feel more comfortable in them.’
‘What has comfort got to do with anything?’ I ask sternly.
‘Oh yes, I forgot: your high heels cause so many blisters you almost qualify for a disabled badge.’
‘Exactly,’ I reply.
‘Okay. I’ll give them a try.’
This turns out to be one of the best decisions I’ve made all week. Not only does Henry immediately look better without glasses, but the optician who has given him his eye-test and taken his details is extremely attractive. Not as conventionally good-looking as Sean or Jake, but between his sparkly brown eyes and winning smile there is definitely something about him. He emerges back into the reception with Henry and heads to the main desk, flashing me a smile.
‘So,’ muses Sexy Optician as he scribbles a final note on Henry’s file, and hands my friend a receipt, ‘did I hear you say you’re in PR?’
‘No, medical research,’ replies Henry.
‘Excuse me, Mr Fox,’ Sexy Optician says smoothly. ‘I was talking to your friend.’
Henry doesn’t respond.
‘Um, yes,’ I smile, gazing at Sexy Optician. There’s something very appealing about a man in a white coat, I decide. ‘I work for Peaman-Brown in Castle Street.’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ he says, flashing me a flirty smile. ‘So if you had to transform the media image of this company, what would you do?’
‘What, this place?’
‘Yeah,’ he grins. ‘That too hard? Are we too boring?’
‘Oh, God, no,’ I say hastily. ‘Not at all. Well, I’d begin by getting to know the business and its key personnel . .
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