Three's a crowd

It was a running joke. Born from boozy after work catch ups with my happily and not so happily married friends, I had told them my ideal date would be an outrageous, over the top flourish. A testament to my independence and singledom.

I would be dressed to the nines: a designer black wool crepe off-the-shoulder number, sophisticated, with diamond accessories, elegant buckskin strappy leather stilettos, and one of those gorgeous 1950s three-quarter length coats with the wide collar and a clutch purse to match in some sort of deep jewel-coloured brocade.

The limousine that called to pick me up would be classy – something vintage with soft leather seats.

And this was the best bit. There was a distinguished, driver of course, a silver fox type. But there would be not one, but three buff escorts, one to hold the door, one to light my cigarettes and one to top up the cocktails.

We would go to the theatre and see a great play, then swirl on to dinner and witty conversation at a gold class restaurant before heading to a late-night club to play billiards and do a little old-style cheek to cheek dancing.

None of it was a prelude to a debauched sexual romp later, it was all about feeling glamourous, desired, but not devoured.

There would be lots of laughter and smart repartee, people would part and wonder who this exciting woman was – it would be a delicious bit of role play.

The evening would end with a sleepy drive home, three lingering kisses on the cheek as they galanty bid me farewell at the doorstep.

So, when my 50th birthday rolled around and I had prepared to ignore it by lying low – home delivered pizza and Netflix – I was stunned, if not a little troubled by the news that the “gals” had decided to make my fantasy real.

They sent a formal note – “Your fantasy date is booked for Saturday August 9 – be ready by 6.30 pm sharp – the limousine will be waiting”.

First thought…don’t be ridiculous! Second thought, I don’t fit into my little black dress. Third thought, what amazing friends I have.

But just like those great paintings that sit in your mind but never quite translate on to the canvas the way they should, my fantasy date was destined for disaster.

I did my best with the fashion. I went to the hairdresser and had my nails done a shimmering pink. I bought a new dress because at 50, the days of a body hugging, thigh-revealing dresses were long gone. I did have a beautiful russet coat and some diamante bling that passed muster.

Looking in the full-length mirror as the doorbell rang, I had cold feet. Despite the gloss – I could see my face was melting – there was nothing full, fresh, and fabulous about me anymore. I was in half a mind to hide in the cupboard put on my best masculine tone and shout – “she ain’t here”.

But something inside me said be brave. “Older but bolder” I intoned as I opened the door.

Yes, there were three of them. A tall sweet looking boy with huge muscles bulging from what looked like an extremely uncomfortable tuxedo, a much thinner dark-haired fellow with a Daliesque moustache wearing a strange velveteen lounge suite, and another more mature blue-eyed guy who just looked very tired.

They smiled good evening and after some subtle jostling for position, Blondie took one arm, Dali the other and old Blue-eyes brought up the rear.

The car was absolutely beautiful. A silver 1929 Dodge with step boards and rich red leather seats.

The driver was immaculate in a matching grey chauffeur's uniform, highly polished buttons, and shoes so shiny, their reflection would have allowed me to touch up my lipstick. His hat was drawn low, so I hardly saw his face, but his voice had a touch of Sean Connery about it - perfect.

“Good evening, madame, I wish you a very happy birthday and a pleasant night,” he said as he opened the door.

There was more jostling as the escorts climbed in and still more when we got to the theatre – clearly my fantasy would have been simpler with two or four escorts – three was just proving clumsy.

We were turning heads though - but I couldn’t tell if people were wondering if I was a VIP or just a weird old lady with three mismatched sons.

In other company the play would have been compelling. But by act two, Blue-eyes was softly snoring on my left and Blondie and Dali were secretly holding hands like strangers in the night - exchanging glances.

The standing ovation was enough to rouse Blue-eyes from his slumber. As we headed out of the foyer, I was more than ready for a nerve-steadying cigarette, when three Zippos flipped opened at once, the flames forcing me back on my heels and causing one of them to snap.

Now, inelegantly hobbling back to the limousine, I ducked in and we drove off to the restaurant.

Blue-eyes remarked that he was inordinately hungry before napping some more and Blondie and Dali attempted to discuss the play, then slipped into a fevered conversation about how many pounds Blondie could lift at the gym.

When the car backfired and the driver quipped “Excuse me, I do beg your pardon madame!” it was the funniest thing I had heard all night – and we shared a chuckle at the joke.

And not one to allow me to hobble into such a salubrious establishment, the chauffeur looked at my feet and said, “size 7”, before going to the car boot and pulling out a pair of black leather slip-ons which fit like a glove and delivered unbelievable relief to my stiletto-stressed feet.

With escorts in tow, I entered the highly rated French restaurant, and we made our way to our table. Hungry for a tip at the end of the evening, Blondie and Dali battled over who should pull out my chair. Blue-eyes had already plonked himself down and was scanning the menu.

The food was extraordinarily good but poor Dali had a raft of allergies and took an age to find something he could eat. Blondie was after an exceedingly rare steak, no trimmings, and a salad no dressing. Blue-eyes had three courses and gobbled them all down like a teenager – with a “wow this is yummy” punctuating every third mouthful.

I ate pate followed by beef bourguignon with some delicious Merlot.

I ordered profiteroles for dessert and shared them with the boys. Blondie and Dali were more and more taken with the romance of the evening and had begun to whisper sweet nothings to each other. Blue-eyes was ordering a pint of lager. The last thing I felt like doing now was dancing.

Blue-eyes burped. I knew it was the time to draw the curtain on my fantasy.

I ordered another bottle of the soft, luscious Merlot and decided to take it with me.

It was clear the escorts were dying to leave so I gave them all a tip, dismissed them and sauntered back to the limousine feeling a little bit silly and at the same time a little bit wise.

I always did know the right time to take my leave.

No stilettos made my approach rather stealthy, and as I got to the car, I could see the chauffeur in all his authentic glory – his hat on the passenger seat revealing a head full of relaxed curls of silver and brown, radio tuned in to the sounds of the seventies and a little plate of cheese and apples on his lap. He was adorable.

I hopped into the front seat with my trusty bottle of Merlot. His eyes twinkled and instinctively he popped the glove box and produced a couple of small wine glasses and a corkscrew.

We looked at each other and just laughed, knowing there was a lot to talk about and the wine was fine.