Confessions of a Serial Dater Read Free

shift to me, I panic, because I know that I won’t be able to say anything remotely agreeable.
    What can I do? I don’t want to cause any unnecessary fuss, but neither am I about to concur with such pomposity. Quickly, I stab a whole, unmutilated profiterole and stuff it into my mouth.
    “And you, Rosie. You must see it all the time at your, er, little employment agency.” Guffaws follow. Graham and Cynthia’s are the loudest, I note. Sidney finds it highly entertaining that I match people to the right jobs. I find it highly irritating that he callously dismisses my—I have to say—rather successful “little” agency.
    “Hmmff,” I say, pointing to my mouth. Actually, I think that attempting the whole profiterole might have been a mistake….
    “I bet you find it difficult to fill the lower-paid jobs, don’t you? All those lazy bastards shying away from honest toil?”
    “Hmmff,” I say again, as the huge amount of pastry and cream in my mouth threatens to choke me.
    “Rosie’s agency is doing very well,” Jonathan says very loyally as my face burns, and I gag as I try, ineffectually, to swallow some of the profiterole.
    I think I’m going to be sick. I really think I am going to be sick…either that, or I will be in need of the Heimlich maneuver.
    The handsome stranger raises a questioning do-you-need-help? sardonic eyebrow at me and looks poised to stand and come over. He looks a bit worried. But I am getting worried,too—especially as no one at my table has realized that I might be in danger of expiring on the spot. James Bond to the rescue, I think, as he gets to his feet and as my eyes start to bulge.
    “Yes, but it’s only a second income,” Sidney sneers. “But you’ll be giving it up when the little ones come along. I’ve always said that working mothers are a drain on society—”
    And it’s then, at that moment, that the too-big mouthful of profiterole completely overwhelms me, and I crazily think of turtles. As I start to gag even more, I grab desperately for my napkin and hold it to my face. Just in time to cough and splutter out the whole, sodden, chocolatey mass.
    The sudden silence that envelops our table is painful, despite the noise of the thirty or so other tables in the ballroom. Our fellow diners are flashing Jonathan faux sympathetic smiles whilst mentally congratulating themselves on having such a well-behaved partner or spouse.
    I am mortified. And relieved to be alive.
    I cannot believe I have just coughed up the contents of my mouth in front of these people.
    “Er, sorry everyone.” Jonathan jumps to his feet. “I think Rosie needs some fresh air.” Jonathan tugs at my elbow. “I’m always telling her not to bite off more than she can chew, ha, ha, ha,” Jonathan continues, and I flush with humiliation. And a little bit of annoyance.
    As Jonathan hustles me away from the table, and I hobble along in my too-tight shoes, I am wretched and wishing I were anywhere but here.
    And as we pass the neighboring table, the handsome stranger is smiling sympathetically at me again. This time, instead of winking, he gives me a discreet thumbs-up.
    Kindly meant, but my embarrassment is now complete…
     
    “But what were you thinking, stuffing the whole thing in your mouth?” is Jonathan’s opening sentence as we reach the hotel foyer. Not the right choice of words.
    I bristle a bit more, because I am the injured party and am in sore need of some sympathy and understanding. And my feet hurt.
    “It was the only thing I could think of to stop myself from telling your boss what an obnoxious prick he is,” I say without thinking.
    “Rosie.” Jonathan’s eyes widen in shock, because I’m not usually so blunt. At least, not with him. “That’s a…a bit strong.”
    “Well, Horrible Boss has that kind of effect on me,” I say, sinking into one of the lush, overstuffed sofas.
    “You must remember not to call him that in public,” Jonathan hisses as he quickly checks out the