The Boldness of Red

Author's note. This story was the first one I wrote for Vocal. It was a last-minute submission to a challenge, and I didn't think much about it except that I wanted to play around with heavy-handed metaphors and some ideas around the marks that our parents leave on us. With hindsight, I'm not very happy about how it turned out. I'd even consider elements of it to be quite problematic. Nevertheless, I leave it here as a testament to an ideal that I'm trying to work towards: when you're practicing writing, mediocre and published is better than brilliant and unwritten.

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“A lady”, Mother had always said, “should prepare for a romantic meeting as if she’s preparing for battle”.

Isabel took that advice to heart. She applied her war paint with the deftness and efficiency of a field surgeon; sticks and brushes moving in smooth, practiced motions to conceal scars and blemishes both physical and not; crafting a pristine façade of porcelain ferocity. Her hair she braided into a shining golden helm as she perused her wardrobe.

“What you wear to an engagement will tell a gentleman everything he thinks he needs to know about you. Be conservative and he’ll respect you, but you run the risk of appearing boorish. Be provocative and you’ll snatch his attention, even intimidate him – for a while. Be sure to seize the advantage while you have it”.

Colour, Isabel had found, could be as important as cut in that regard. Black was simple, solid, safe. Too safe. White was a touch more daring, but too virtuous by far. Blues and greens were calming, and might serve to lure her counterpart into a false sense of security; strong colours, but not for today. Today, she wanted the boldness of red. She donned her armour slowly, deliberately: inspecting the fit; the way the colour contrasted her eyes, her skin. Contented, she progressed to the final selection.

She paused on a pair of flats, then waved them away. “Never show weakness to the enemy”. It was heels or nothing. Nothing. She smiled at the thought, though she dismissed it as perhaps a little too bold.

The car was waiting for Isabel as she descended the stairs. She smiled at the driver, who doffed his hat demurely as he opened the door for her.

Isabel settled into the back seat, catching her reflection’s eye as the driver gently clicked the door shut beside her. I even look like her, she thought.

Mother had had a reputation as an elegant, refined woman of impeccable taste and class. A born-and-bred socialite, she had taken the city’s elite by storm before settling down, as was her right, with the most eligible bachelor in town. She appeared to all those who regarded her as someone who had decided precisely how they wanted to appear to the world, and simply made it so. Consequently, since long before her birth, Isabel’s path in life had been etched with her mother’s footprints in too-straight paved streets, sterile with opulence and oozing with glamour.

Isabel remembered scripted conversations with Mother in lounges and powder rooms, where she had extolled the lavish lifestyle she had built for her family and recounted tragic tales of Promising Young Women seduced by the mystery and roguish charm of men from the other side of the tracks.

“I’ve seen it happen to far too many girls your age, Isabel”, she would say, shuddering from the horror of it all. “Mark my words, those boys are more trouble than they’re worth, and they aren’t worth much.” Either Isabel hadn’t fully understood that, or Mother hadn’t. Regardless, the lesson was as ingrained into her mind as Mother’s footprints in the streets of her life.

“A man”, Father had always said, “should get ready for a first date like he’s getting ready for a job interview”.

Thomas smiled to himself as he remembered the tiny man, all smile and moustache under a threadbare flat cap. Father had been a fighter, not by profession but by circumstance, having clawed his way out of poverty through sheer force of will. From his middle years to the twilight of his life, he had striven with single-minded veracity to open as many doors for his son as he could, so that he would have the freedom of opportunity that Father never had.

Thomas tuned up the music and began ironing his best shirt, running through a mental checklist.

1. Know your stuff

“Women like a man who knows what he’s talking about. If you don’t know what you’re talking about, you should be listening instead.”

Thomas had done his research. He knew the restaurant was considered one of the best in the city, and he’d visited with friends earlier in the week so he knew the menus – wine and dinner – like the back of his hand. Isabel liked art, so he knew which artists had contributed to the décor; and she liked music, so he knew which pianist was to be playing this evening.

2. Prepare conversation starters

“Nothing too deep. No politics, religion or philosophy. Have some good questions ready.”

Thomas had a list of questions memorised. He mouthed them in the mirror as he finished point #3:

3. Dress the part

“Dress for the job you want, not the one you have. Yes, I know that sounds like interview advice; that’s why I said they were similar. Just smarten yourself up before you head out, won’t you?”

I’ll do my best, Dad, he thought to himself. He buttoned up the newly-smooth shirt and absent-mindedly knotted a tie to match. Thomas hated ties, but it was part of the ensemble and he was in no position to challenge fashion conventions.

The cool spring breeze ruffled his hair as he stepped out into the lamplit street and began walking towards the bistro. “Never waste money on a taxi when you can walk” was a lesson Thomas had never chosen to un-learn. He checked his watch again while he walked. “Always be 5 minutes early so you have time to settle in” was another one he’d kept with him.

Gently, the car began to slow, pulling to a stop outside a small bistro on the outskirts of town. Isabel thanked her driver and stepped out.

“The dinner table is the battlefield; the gentleman the adversary. He chooses the location, and may think that gives him the advantage. He is wrong”.

Isabel surveyed the terrain. Low ceilings; elegant décor; the soft tremors of a piano… the type of restaurant which managed to maintain a calming atmosphere despite being fully booked. It was to be a genteel conflict, then. Still, best not to lower one’s guard. Gentility is not, after all, equivalent to chivalry.

Her date was, of course, already there. “Always be fashionably late. People should get used to waiting for you, and not the other way around.” Isabel made her way over, slowing down just enough on her approach that Thomas had time after noticing her to rise and pull out her chair.

Thomas smiled at her through faint candlesmoke and tried not to let his nerves show. He made smalltalk as they waited for a waiter to come over, asking about her week, and her journey to the restaurant.

“More trouble than they’re worth, and they aren’t worth much”, Mother’s voice echoed in Isabel’s ears. Mother had succeeded in everything she’d ever started. She’d visited every place, seen every sight, and conquered every foe. And she’d been miserable, having spent the first half of her life frantically building an empire and the second half trying desperately to hold it all together. Isabel looked over the table at the earnest-faced man in his mismatched shirt and tie, and smiled back at him. Some lessons were best left in the classroom.

The waiter interrupted her, arriving with an old mahogany-bound menu. Thomas looked across the table at Isabel, who simply raised an eyebrow. His choice, then. Thomas had learned his way around a wine menu at an early age - Father had loved finding affordable gems. A good white was as cool and refreshing as the spring breeze outside. Rosé was playful and gregarious. But neither was right for today. He handed the menu back, and after a moment the waiter returned to fill their glasses with a deep, crimson wine. The complex aroma of plum, caramel and fennel suffused their senses as the two met their glasses over the table with a gentle clink.

Today was a day for boldness.