I hadn’t noticed, as I was focused on my own shopping, but as I walk back to St Peter’s Square, I can’t help but see that the shops have set their stalls fully out for Christmas and it is only the 22 nd November.
I have plenty to think about on the journey back to Altrincham. I certainly feel that Tim Sheldon will find out more, but I keep coming back to Sophia Peroni and Salford into Work, and I also have an ominous feeling that there are more revelations to come from that source.
Dining alone is no fun. I open the wine, and as I switch on the oven, the landline rings.
‘Hello.’ The voice from the past is music to my ears. ‘It’s Wendy, Wendy Davenport. How are you? I’m up in Manchester, visiting my daughter, and wondered if you would like to have lunch tomorrow.’
I’m ecstatic; Wendy is extremely attractive. I suppose I should ask my social secretary (Amelia) to check the diary, but two and a half seconds later the left side of my brain has discussed it with the right side of my brain and we have been able to reschedule.
‘Of course, I would be delighted. Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up at, say, one o’clock.’
‘The Renaissance Hotel, on Blackfriars Street,’ she replies.
‘That’s wonderful! See you tomorrow. Oh! And don’t worry, I’ve no problems for you to help me with this time.’
Placing the phone down, I know I don’t care either way. I rather like Wendy.
The evening has now miraculously become quite pleasant, the dinner for one a gourmet event.
***
I have a good night’s sleep and spend the morning on basic chores for Cyril the farmer. As befits a special lady the Saab gets a wash and valet. I give myself an hour for the drive into Manchester, and the traffic is light, even though the man on the radio traffic report keeps telling me the M6 is busy with football supporters travelling north – maybe a late afternoon kick-off. I should turn it off, but I’d probably miss an important announcement. I arrive early at Wendy’s hotel, the Renaissance on Blackfriars Street, and park on a street meter close by. Entering, I’m walking to the desk to call her room when a vision comes into view: she’s already there and waiting. I feel honoured. We hug and do the French double-kiss on both cheeks routine… and it is lingering.
‘It’s been a while,’ I eventually manage.
‘Yes, I know,’ she breathes, eyes sparkling. ‘Since you helped research my family history I’ve been heavily engaged catching up.’
‘Any surprises?’ I ask.
‘Some good, some bad.’ The sparkle in her eyes is replaced by a cloud for a brief moment. ‘We can talk over lunch,’ she adds, the sparkle returning.
I’m reassured as we stroll arm in arm out of the hotel.
I briefly considered Italian at the Peroni restaurant, but immediately ruled it out as stupid. Instead I’ve booked a table not that far away, at Piccolino on John Dalton Street. I know it still sounds Italian, but it’s November, cold and they have a reputation as doing the best Sunday roast in town.
We are in the main restaurant, and it is full. When the waiter asks about drinks, Wendy goes for vodka and tonic, while I have my usual Bombay Sapphire tonic with lime. Back with the drinks and a bowl of olives, the waiter is handing out menus. I wave them away, and we go straight for their special roast beef for two at £25 for two to share, carved at the table. I also order a bottle of red wine. Yes, I know, but I’m kind of hoping it might be a few hours before I need to get behind the wheel!
The beef, prepared by the restaurant’s in-house butcher in Cheshire, is done to perfection, complete with Yorkshire pudding, horseradish sauce, and all the trimmings. We discuss the latest world news events, before Wendy opens up a little about her family discoveries.
‘I found out I have relatives in Australia
:
, one is an Artist, Irene, living in a place called Woollahra, near Sydney, New South Wales, another also in
I have plenty to think about on the journey back to Altrincham. I certainly feel that Tim Sheldon will find out more, but I keep coming back to Sophia Peroni and Salford into Work, and I also have an ominous feeling that there are more revelations to come from that source.
Dining alone is no fun. I open the wine, and as I switch on the oven, the landline rings.
‘Hello.’ The voice from the past is music to my ears. ‘It’s Wendy, Wendy Davenport. How are you? I’m up in Manchester, visiting my daughter, and wondered if you would like to have lunch tomorrow.’
I’m ecstatic; Wendy is extremely attractive. I suppose I should ask my social secretary (Amelia) to check the diary, but two and a half seconds later the left side of my brain has discussed it with the right side of my brain and we have been able to reschedule.
‘Of course, I would be delighted. Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up at, say, one o’clock.’
‘The Renaissance Hotel, on Blackfriars Street,’ she replies.
‘That’s wonderful! See you tomorrow. Oh! And don’t worry, I’ve no problems for you to help me with this time.’
Placing the phone down, I know I don’t care either way. I rather like Wendy.
The evening has now miraculously become quite pleasant, the dinner for one a gourmet event.
***
I have a good night’s sleep and spend the morning on basic chores for Cyril the farmer. As befits a special lady the Saab gets a wash and valet. I give myself an hour for the drive into Manchester, and the traffic is light, even though the man on the radio traffic report keeps telling me the M6 is busy with football supporters travelling north – maybe a late afternoon kick-off. I should turn it off, but I’d probably miss an important announcement. I arrive early at Wendy’s hotel, the Renaissance on Blackfriars Street, and park on a street meter close by. Entering, I’m walking to the desk to call her room when a vision comes into view: she’s already there and waiting. I feel honoured. We hug and do the French double-kiss on both cheeks routine… and it is lingering.
‘It’s been a while,’ I eventually manage.
‘Yes, I know,’ she breathes, eyes sparkling. ‘Since you helped research my family history I’ve been heavily engaged catching up.’
‘Any surprises?’ I ask.
‘Some good, some bad.’ The sparkle in her eyes is replaced by a cloud for a brief moment. ‘We can talk over lunch,’ she adds, the sparkle returning.
I’m reassured as we stroll arm in arm out of the hotel.
I briefly considered Italian at the Peroni restaurant, but immediately ruled it out as stupid. Instead I’ve booked a table not that far away, at Piccolino on John Dalton Street. I know it still sounds Italian, but it’s November, cold and they have a reputation as doing the best Sunday roast in town.
We are in the main restaurant, and it is full. When the waiter asks about drinks, Wendy goes for vodka and tonic, while I have my usual Bombay Sapphire tonic with lime. Back with the drinks and a bowl of olives, the waiter is handing out menus. I wave them away, and we go straight for their special roast beef for two at £25 for two to share, carved at the table. I also order a bottle of red wine. Yes, I know, but I’m kind of hoping it might be a few hours before I need to get behind the wheel!
The beef, prepared by the restaurant’s in-house butcher in Cheshire, is done to perfection, complete with Yorkshire pudding, horseradish sauce, and all the trimmings. We discuss the latest world news events, before Wendy opens up a little about her family discoveries.
‘I found out I have relatives in Australia
:
, one is an Artist, Irene, living in a place called Woollahra, near Sydney, New South Wales, another also in
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