Behaving Like Adults (11 page)

That day, I was annoyed by little things. First, the rabbits. Then, two people spelt definitely, ‘definately'. Definite, from the word
finite
, for goodness' sake, don't you know anything?

And thirdly, I opened a letter from a guy who wrote that he didn't like people who ‘picked there nose's'. I took his application and scrunched it up and threw it in the bin. Then I got it out again. He was applying for a date with a girl, not to Oxford University to teach English. Then I threw it back in the bin. I'm sorry but ‘picked there nose's' was
ignorant
. He was stupid. No one has to be stupid. Stupidity is laziness. It's a refusal to apply yourself, it
shows contempt for the rest of the world, it means you're too complacent to bother employing logic. ‘Picked there nose's' betrayed a small-mindedness I couldn't tolerate. I bet he hated Jews and blacks.

‘Darling, darling, untwist your knickers, he's probably dyslexic,' said Nige (any other day the first to cast a stone). ‘You know the state of the educational system these days. Aw. Look at this.
Do you like dogs?
He's answered “Yes. Jack Russells, Westies, Red Setters. Those baggy Japanese ones.” How darling is that? And, Holly, I can't believe you missed this.
What's your greatest asset?
He's written, “My dad's watch”! That's funny, you've got to admit.'

I didn't know what to say, so I said, ‘Has he put an apostrophe after “Dad”?'

‘Oh my
dear
,' sighed Nige. ‘You really got out of bed on the wrong side. I think I'll handle this one, if only to shield him from your irrational hatred.'

My last word was, ‘Just don't put him with anyone clever.'

I returned to my pile, frowning. I
knew
Nige and Claw were exchanging glances and stretching their mouths into shocked shapes behind my back. Fine. Let them. Who was next?

I scrolled, unamused, through people's secrets. That day I wasn't myself. I respect our applicants and I feel humbled by the trust they put in me, Nige and Claw (especially in Nige and Claw). Mostly their quirks go directly to my heart. Our faults are part of what makes us unique. When Nick and I chose the diamond for my engagement ring, I picked an imperfect stone – I think Lavinia, his mother, was secretly appalled, but why would I want a flawless gem, with nothing to distinguish it from any other stone on any other woman's finger in the whole of the western world?

I promise to do my best by the clients of Girl Meets Boy, I'm a regular Brownie Guide. So what was wrong with me?

‘I'm filling in this form because I'm sick of pulling my
mates' friends,' wrote one 25-year-old. ‘And I don't want to approach women at bus stops.' Marginally endearing, I'd give him that. I read on.
What are your bad habits?
‘Thinking it highly amusing to remove my clothes when pissed.' I made a noise like a horse with dust in its nose.

‘Oi, Hol.' Claudia was clutching the phone and jabbing her finger at the receiver. ‘Gwen Rogers. Reporter. From London Local News. Wants to do a piece on us, film a date night. What do you think? Sounds alright doesn't it, good publicity?'

I was pleased to be distracted. ‘Yes. I suppose so. Why don't you pass her over?'

I like to give everyone a chance, but I'm wary of the media. It's like a lion bred in captivity. Presents as big eyed and furry, then you relax and it bites your arm off.

Gwen was very purry. Still, I wondered if Rogers was a nickname. That said, she seemed to be genuine. She liked the idea that we were modern, a club that cool young things (her words, I assure you) could belong to without feeling like losers, she loved that we weren't grimly focused on churning out husbands and wives, that we also catered for those who were interested in making new friends or – self-conscious little snigger – landing a shag, and perhaps it reflected on the difficulty that successful, wealthy would I say? young men and women, what with their starry high-flying careers, found meeting people
naturally
.

She finished her extremely long sentence and I was still wincing at the word ‘shag'. I was having second thoughts about that particular option. Sure, it cut down on bullshit, but there was no denying it was a bit brothelly. And that wasn't just me being a prude. Even Claw had reservations. She said she approved of the option ‘in principle' but hated the way some men rang up wanting to pay for a ‘shag', adding, ‘Have you got any blonde ones?' I'd heard her reply, ‘Hang on, I'll see if there's any sitting in the window. No. Might I suggest you try Amsterdam?'

I know this sounds terrible but somehow it seemed better if they put the request in writing. And, before I'm accused of taking sides, it wasn't as if only the men were interested in pure/impure sex. We had a number of women on our books overjoyed to be able to spell out that yes, they only wanted his body, no, really, thank you for the offer of your personality for the next sixty years, but a few hours of horizontal wrestling was enough, really,
see ya
.

I told Gwen that I'd have to check that my clients were happy to be filmed first. If they were, I was sure it wouldn't be a problem. I know that TV people think everyone is desperate to get on the box (and most of the time they're right) and I wasn't about to grovel. Gwen started pushing for how soon I'd get back to her. I told her as soon as I could which, when you think about it, means nothing at all.

I didn't have to inform Nige and Claw what I'd said, as they'd earwigged. Nige offered to call a few of the more exhibitionisty women, and Claudia said she'd get on to the appropriate men. So to speak. I think they could tell I was feeling harassed.

I flicked through the remaining applications in today's pile.
Describe an ideal night out
. ‘I just hang with the fellas looking for sweet girl attraction.'

What?
(That wasn't a question on the form, that was me.) Who, in all seriousness, would
say
something like that? Who did he think he was, John Travolta?

It hit me that I had no way of knowing who these people were. They told me what they liked and I had to believe them. For all I knew, Mr Hang with the Fellas was a sadistic killer, and I was about to let him loose on Samantha and Elisabeth. (Although, personally, I doubted that any sadistic killer would be a match for Elisabeth, romantic or otherwise.) It wasn't good enough. It was irresponsible. I needed back-up. I needed an expert. A professional, qualified in assessing personalities.

I needed my big sister, clinical psychologist and all-round bossy person, Isabella.

I USED TO
have a pathological desire to be friends with the neighbours. They moved in shortly after we did. A neat middle-class couple, he, white-whiskered and benign-looking, and she, prim and well turned out. Very
Daily Mail
. I was shocked and a little hurt when my attempts at friendship were politely but firmly rebuffed. We trotted out of our front doors at the same time one day, and I said, ‘Hi!'
She
visibly recoiled. He smiled tightly and said, ‘Good morning'. Once, they accepted a parcel for me, informing me so with a terse note ‘package, at No. 47'. I rang their bell, brimming with hope, and she handed it over with a nod, opening the door a crack.

I asked Nick why our neighbours didn't want to be friends. He looked puzzled. ‘Why would they
want
to be friends?'

‘We're neighbours,' I said.

He shook his head. ‘Are you
from
London?'

At one point, I got quite obsessed by it. It wasn't like I was after three-course dinners or even coffee mornings, but a chat now and then, a little personal information exchanged, wouldn't that be nice? Maybe it was us. Didn't they like us? Were we too young? Not respectable enough? As far as I was concerned, we were dream neighbours. We didn't play music loud or late, I was always roaring at Nick to turn down the TV, and we confined our screaming rows to those rooms without adjoining walls. I was determined that Next Door would think well of us.

Now, I didn't give a rat's ass.

I marched up the garden path, eyes down. If one of them came out, I would not say hello, or even smile, I'd show them –
I'd
nod! I'd give her a dose of her own nodding medicine! They could beg me to be friends with them and I'd refuse. Why, they could be Rose and Fred West for all I knew. I couldn't believe that I'd been trying to inveigle my way into their affections. I was older and wiser.

I'd had a gruelling day. After my brainwave, I'd stepped outside and rung Issy on my mobile. She has an office at home and counsels from there. As far as I can tell, she listens to people talk about themselves for fifty minutes then charges them £90. It's a dream job for her, as she's very nosy. She employs a nanny three mornings a week for her daughter Eden, aged four, and the rest of the time (not that there's
that
much left as she's at nursery school every afternoon) she looks after Eden herself. I knew she'd love to – and I mean this in the nicest way – escape from the house occasionally.

Within minutes, Issy had agreed to come in for two hours, two days a week, to profile suspect personalities for me. I paid her normal fee. Also I said she was welcome to bring Eden, we'd play with her and keep her quiet. (Issy's reply: ‘You have no idea.') I'd skipped back into the office to break the news to Nige and Claw. Nige was cool. As expected, Claw reacted like a rock star on hearing that no minion was available to cut the crusts off her cucumber sandwiches. It was an outrage, a betrayal, the end of the free world as we knew it . . .

A small part of me agreed. I don't know if it's linked to being the eldest child, but Issy runs the gamut of tyranny. Half the time she's imperious, treating us like Blackadder treats Baldrick; the rest of the time she's sulking because we offended her in our sleep or something. She likes to be the boss, but she also likes to be babied.

The family had the worst time of it when she was pregnant. Her husband wasn't allowed to play Dr Dre (too aggressive for the foetus) or Dolly Parton (‘Jolene' made
her weep, as did ‘You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille'). No person was allowed to blow their nose in her presence (this was after a client honked into a tissue during a session and she'd heard a ‘clod of bogey come loose' – she'd had to run into the hall and retch). Frank's best friend was banned from their palatial home, because he polluted the house with ‘a male toilet musk'. Claw, apparently, said disgusting things (harming the child with her negative vibes) and I was selfish for not sending Emily to a cattery until the baby was ten. Issy refused to watch any film rated higher than a PG – for instance
The Jackal
– in case the essence of violence crossed the placenta and the baby grew up to be a serial killer.

Still, Issy
was
an excellent psychologist. So she said.

I unlocked my front door, dropped my bag on the floor. Then I stopped. The radio was on.
I
had not left the radio on this morning, I knew that. Recently addicted to silence, I hadn't turned on the radio for five days. I stopped breathing. A quiet
shuffle
. Someone. In the kitchen. I swallowed. Gasped for air. My eyes seemed to bulge in my head. Nick. It couldn't be Nick. There'd be more of a trail. My feet didn't want to move, my hand crept to the latch. And then I thought, No.

I disagree with people (burglars, basically) who think burgling is a victimless crime. Rachel was robbed a while ago and they stole her grandmother's jewellery – an ebony and ivory necklace, a diamond brooch, emerald earrings, all antique, but far more precious in sentimental value. The insurance company offered her not quite free reign at H Samuel.

But it was the violation of her home that devastated her, cruel others penetrating where they had no right, taking what didn't belong to them, what someone else had earned and valued. I gritted my teeth. Whoever this was in my kitchen,
my
home, my sanctuary – his stealing days were over. I tiptoed to my umbrella – oh it's gorgeous, clear plastic, dome shaped, with a pink rim and handle – the
kind of umbrella I ought to have had when I was four years old. I picked it up, holding it like a spear –
shuffle, clatter
– and crept into the kitchen, my mouth a hard cold line.

Gloria, my cleaner, squealed and dropped a plate.

‘
God
, Gloria, I am so sorry.'

Gloria leant against the cupboard and flapped a hand in front of her face.

‘I thought you were a burglar,' I added, unnecessarily. ‘I forgot you were coming. I'm so sorry, I would have tidied.'

She shook her head. I wondered if she'd actually been struck dumb with fear. This was an unwelcome thought, what with the inevitable lawsuit. ‘Sit down, I'll make you a cup of tea.'

I think I was forming statements that didn't need answers.

Gloria sat down. She's a tiny little thing, and I clean the house before she arrives. I'm not comfortable with the idea of servants. Issy says that's a bourgeois misconception, not understanding that most people, working class or otherwise – if one has to shoe them into a class at all – would rather have
a
job than no job. It's true that Gloria certainly wouldn't thank me for refusing to employ her. She's funding herself through a law degree. Still, every Monday morning before leaving for work, I scrub the bath and toilet, stack the dishwasher, and remove all debris from the floor. All Gloria really has to do is vacuum and spray. She tells me off for it.

This was the first time I'd forgotten. She must have got a fright. Nick had left the spare room in a state.

I switched on the kettle and sat down too. I was panting.

‘I think you scared yourself more than me,' said Gloria.