Behaving Like Adults (13 page)

I never forgot. And that weekend, all my ghosts and monsters had come back to haunt me. They lurked everywhere, under beds and sofas to snatch at my ankles, tapping at windows with bony fingers. It wasn't only the phone ringing – everything unnerved me. When Emily scratched at the door to go out, I nearly leapt from my skin.

When Nick and I first viewed our house, I asked him if he thought it contained any ghouls. The estate agent wouldn't have told me, obviously. I wished Claudia was still in the business. (She was an estate agent for a year but got sick of lying to people. She was sacked for telling buyers, ‘Don't bother, don't even view it, it's crap.') But Nick walked around and said, ‘There's nothing here.' He has a feel for the aura of a building. I don't. I couldn't even swear to it that
I
have an aura.

I couldn't believe that Nick had been gone just three days. A fine example of an independent woman
I
was. I held a kitchen knife in one hand while I cleaned my teeth. As for the kitchen, I could hardly bear to set foot in it. Still, nothing new there. I was scared of something, but what? I was beginning to suspect that what had occurred with Stuart wasn't good. But I couldn't put a name to it. I'd erased the non-gentlemanly bits, though they had a habit of appearing like old graffiti on a steamed-up window. Had he . . . 
taken advantage
?

No. I am a survivor. I am not prey.

So when Rachel said what she said, I wasn't angry with her. Her words made me blush. Yet I didn't wholly associate them with
me
. It was as if Stuart had done what he did – to? with? – some other girl. Holly (this is the only time I'll talk about myself in the third person) had splintered off from that other girl, like a snake shedding its old skin. Rachel's verdict reassured me. She didn't believe what this other girl had said and that was fine by me. I didn't want to believe it either. It was so unlikely anyway. Men like Stuart, charming, handsome, clever, intelligent men, with careers, didn't do things like that.

My mind refused to let me revisit that night, which was probably very sensible of it, but it also refused to let in much else. What remained was a blurred sense of disappointment. It was like buying a packet of salt and vinegar crisps which doesn't contain sufficient flavourings and a wide enough selection of E numbers to take the skin off the inside of your mouth, and stuffing them in faster and faster, hoping for that delicious soreness kick, knowing it will never come – the feeling of
missing
was similar, but so very much worse.

I looked at Rachel and I wished I had her life. There was certainty in it. Funny, I'd been content with my existence, once. Now it was
not positive
. This numbness had crept up on me, and to my alarm, I found it comforting. Used to bouncing around wanting to achieve everything, I was frightened by this lethargy. These last few days I had had to fight to get out of bed.

Rachel seemed self-contained and serene, like a contented cat. She was a person who sailed through life, success came to her, she attracted it. Not like me, I had to work for it. Don't get me wrong, I
liked
working for it. Until recently. But now, in this slump, I yearned for ease. I was in that state of mind where you buy a lottery ticket because you want everything for nothing. Where you drive through a wealthy area and you look at the mansions and you don't think about people slaving for years to make
their fortunes, you think,
lucky, lucky, lucky
. I felt that nothing good would ever happen to me again.

Emily chose this moment to weave around my ankles, and I thought about Issy's cool clinical explanation of why I liked cats. Apparently it was nothing more than what psychologists call ‘projection', we see our vulnerable selves in these helpless dumb animals (although that's not how I prefer to describe myself or Emily, and I'd also like to think my dental hygiene is a cut above hers). So much for empathy, compassion, no, no, in the end it was all about
me
, the only reason anyone ever bothered to like anyone. I didn't want to think like Issy, but for the first time in my life I was cursed to see that people
were
obsessed with themselves. It was a feat to get them to listen to you, let alone hear you. Rachel was far too entangled in her own dramas to sense mine.

But oddly, I was almost grateful. Her composed presence, after the corrosive loneliness of the weekend, was soothing. The smell of her Clarins
Eau Dynamisante
, the confident ring of her smart voice, it was a cocoon around me. She applauded when I said that Nick had finally gone and when I looked like I wasn't sure I agreed with her, her tone dipped in sympathy. ‘It's rough on you, babes,' she said. ‘I'm sorry. You loved each other very much.'

Hearing this from Rachel made me want to cry. It's hard to bear kindness from someone harsh, because it makes you realise that you must be in a sorry state indeed. I nodded, dumbly.

‘But babes, he was holding you back, and you knew that. You weren't happy. Nick is a selfish boy and he'll never change. He has it all on a plate, why should he? But it's wretched, letting go. You must think that this is short-term pain for long-term gain. And don't forget' – her voice rose to a teasing lilt – ‘Stuart is waiting in the wings.'

I shuddered without even trying. All the same, I appreciated the fact that Rachel didn't
interpret
what I said (I had enough of that from Issy). It was one of the reasons
I liked her. She was immoral and outrageous and opinionated but – though she kept it quiet – she had a kind soul. I should give you an example or you won't believe me. Well. She once had a spectacular row with Claudia, because Claudia went out with a homeless man and
let him pay
.

Every evening, on the way home from work, Claudia would pass this guy selling the
Big Issue
. She'd always say hello. Some days she'd stop and have a chat. She discovered that the man, in his early thirties, had been an engineer. But after a divorce he'd lost his home and his job. His name was Ted, he was now staying at a hostel. She told him a few horror stories about working as an estate agent, and they laughed. Then Ted asked if she'd like to go to a comedy night with him. Claudia hesitated. Then she thought, if the only reason I'd say no is because this man is homeless, I am shallow and should be ashamed. So she said yes. The comedy night cost £8 for two tickets and Claudia was
aghast
when Ted pulled out a tenner. She argued, but he insisted. She decided that to argue further would offend him. But she was so embarrassed, the next evening she took another route home and never saw him again.

‘That,' Rachel had bellowed across the pub, ‘is outrageous behaviour!' Claudia should have bought ‘the magazine' but ‘kept her distance'. At a stretch, she could have bought ‘the poor bloke' a sandwich, but to ‘lead him on – I mean, would you have
slept
with him?' – was a ‘dreadful' thing to do. She was appalled that Claudia had ‘taken his money'. Claudia became enraged, comparing Rachel to Margaret Thatcher, Marie Antoinette and, inexplicably, the Taliban. Claudia said this was typical of Rachel, denying less fortunate people their self-respect, thinking
she
knew what was best for them, assuming they were stupid – how did
she
know what kind of sandwich Ted liked? Far better to give him money and let him buy his own sandwich. ‘He'd spend it on drink,' said Rachel. ‘And anyway, you didn't give him money. You took it from him and then you were so ashamed you ran
away. And he
knew
that. You're a hypocrite, babes. Poor bloke.'

There was a core of humanity in there somewhere. Even if you had to know what you were looking for. Even if, when Gloria spilt the tea over her lap, it wasn't particularly apparent. I was so busy trying to eliminate the tannin stain on Rachel's skirt, it didn't occur to me to wonder why she was so vehement in assigning blame to ‘the girl' in my story. Of course, later, I realised that no one likes to think what happened to the girl could happen to them. The safest, the most reassuring thing to think, is it must only happen to stupid women who ask for it. That's what I thought too. Which meant I
couldn't
have been.

CONSIDERING THAT THE
‘careers adviser' at my school had only ever heard of three careers (law, accountancy and the police force), it's a wonder that I ended up doing what I do. It's hard to choose a job that you don't know exists. I fell into it by chance.

Before setting up the agency, I worked for an independent publisher. I started out as tea girl and made enough of a nuisance of myself to end up editing romantic novels. I spent my days with the likes of the Count Von Sarsparillo, his craggy jaw, his dark flashing eyes, his brooding castle in Monte Carlo, his Lamborghini Diablo, his throbbing manhood, his fiery Latin temper, his many kindnesses to small animals and poor people – no wonder that coming home to Nick became a bit of a let-down. There was, for instance, no way Sarsparillo would
ever
wander the house with a pee stain on his jeans. It was doubtful he even peed.

Anyhow – it must have been about two years ago now – Rachel and I were discussing
Summer of the Dark Count
. She said it was tiresome to read about the likes of Von Sarsparillo because if you ever did meet a Count, he was fifty-five and short with a flabby chin and insufferable personality. Remove the first vowel from Count to describe him perfectly. Rachel organised parties and yet
she
found it hard to meet men. None ever turned up alone, they were always superglued to a blonde. She'd exhausted all her friends' friends, there was no one left. Only fools and drunks approached you at clubs, and frankly, she was no
longer prepared to spend her precious leisure time in a hot cramped basement on the remote chance that Mr Wonderful would bowl into it and – on the even more remote chance – take a shine to her. What was one meant to do, put an ad in
The Lady
?

That was when I got the only great idea I've ever got in my life. I squashed it down, I knew nothing about starting a business and possibly even less about dating. But the idea wouldn't go away. And I kept thinking, take a risk. If there was one thing I was
not
brought up to do, it was to take risks. My parents are the most cautious people I know. But I told Claudia and Rachel and they loved it. Rachel, who has more knowledge of the media than I do, suggested we send out a press release announcing the launch of the first twenty-first-century dating agency and await a response.

Rachel helped me write it, then suggested four journalists to send it to. All rang back within two hours. Rachel nearly passed out, then changed her mind and gave me the number for Companies House. ‘Holly,' she said. ‘Action it. My God, you can't lose. Your initial outlay is going to be about a grand on office rent and stationery. A couple of grand at the most – it's laughable – the press seem happy to do all your publicity for you. Marketing will be your only major expense. You have a winner.'

That day seemed a very long time ago.

The next morning – Nick had been gone for five days and counting – I thanked Rachel for staying over and offered to pay to have her tea-stained skirt dry cleaned. (Gloria hadn't offered.) But my mind was elsewhere. Tonight was Date Night and we were barely organised. I should have prepared a printed list of every Girl Meets Boy member attending that evening and who we were matching them with. I should have called everyone again, to see how they were and to check that they were still coming. I should have sent a VAT cheque to HM Customs and Excise, I should have spoken to my accountant . . .

I hadn't. I'd been too busy thinking about Nick. Running old tape of our relationship was the only thing that dragged me out of myself. Even the warning signs made me smile – me shouting at him to put his plate in the dishwasher, and him saying, ‘You're horrible – “Nick! Nick! Nick! Nick!” I'm going to change my name and not tell you!' Now I found this funny. Odd, how I was more lenient in hindsight.

I poddled into the office, assumed a smile for the troops' sake – apparently, you can smile or frown yourself into a good or bad mood if you can be bothered – then smiled for real on seeing Issy. She was sitting at my desk in a blue suit, flicking through the confidential files. Her legs were crossed and she was jangling her left foot. After turning a page, she'd brush her fingers together as if ridding them of dirt. Occasionally, she'd make a note in a large orange notebook. Claudia scowled at me, kept plaiting her hair. Nige was reading
The Stage
.

‘Issy,' I cried. ‘Welcome!'

Issy swivelled. ‘Holly, I'm surprised. What time do you call this?'

Claudia glared at me from behind Issy's back. Then, in case I hadn't got it, scrawled ‘told you' on a piece of A4 and held it up.

I beamed. Issy doesn't frighten me. Her bullying ceased to have an effect when I turned, let's see now, twenty-seven. ‘Looks like ten past ten, to me,' I replied. ‘Why, what do you make it?'

‘Holly,' said Issy, rising from the chair so that I couldn't look down on her. ‘If we're to work together, I need to set a few ground rules. I'm here for two hours, and I expect you to be here for the duration, otherwise it is not an effective use of my time.'

‘Fine,' I said, before she could get up to speed. ‘Nige, your turn to get in the coffees. We'll have a meeting at half past.'

‘Tea for me, Nigel. Lots of milk, no sugar.'

‘You don't drink tea!' cried Claudia. ‘You're just saying that to be difficult!'

‘Oh grow up,' replied Issy, which is what she always says to Claudia when Claudia is right.

I blocked out the lot of them, and riffled through my rough notes for that evening. Date Nights are a miracle of organisation. Even if I
had
rung each member to re-check their availability, I couldn't be sure they'd actually turn up unless I rang them again three minutes before they were actually due. Everyone is so impressive there's no telling if they'll be whisked off to Rome or New York for business at a moment's notice.