Behaving Like Adults (15 page)

I felt bad about the heart tremor, but I'm afraid I approved of Claudia's actions on principle. Teaching girls aged five that a bare face isn't good enough! When I itch to perform a makeover on women like Sam, I make myself think of that skinhead doll. It reeks of not accepting people for who they are, and that's damaging.

I wondered if the new Sam would appreciate being paired with Mike. What with Georgina, and Sam's baby-wear to babewear transformation, it was his lucky night. Or, at least, that's what it was set up to look like but I knew it wouldn't happen. Did I say that?

By eight o'clock, everyone had arrived. Every week, we spend the first half hour chatting and drinking, so that people relax. Nige flirts with the women, and Claudia and I pander to the men. That night, it was an effort on a par with building a pyramid. I knew Bernard had a crush, or maybe he was indiscriminate, but he kept putting his arm on my shoulder and standing too close. I felt my face turn to granite. I brushed off his arm and stepped back. I think I spotted a micro-emotion of hurt, but too bad. You
know
what you're doing, I thought. If I had a six foot boyfriend standing right here, you'd keep your distance.

I'd decided that Sam and Bernard weren't right for each other after all, despite the fact that Sam's eyes kept flickering towards him. He, I noted, when he wasn't pawing me, spent a lot of time gazing at her silk trousers. Possibly, that night, Sam would get some ticks. Previously I'd lied to her, telling her she'd got friendship ticks from the men she'd given relationship ticks, so she wouldn't be disheartened. Maybe that night I wouldn't have to. She looked a different person from the woman who'd once said to me, ‘I tend to look at a room full of people, judge them, then be what they want me to be'.

I did my best to soothe a new member, Millie, who was keen to reassure me that she had no trouble attracting men. I told her none of the women here had trouble attracting men, the problem was none of them had
time
to attract men. Millie nodded, sighing. She had slightly protruding blue eyes and when she didn't smile (which she didn't) Nige was convinced she looked
fishy
. ‘I don't have time to do anything,' she said. ‘I haven't been to the gym for months. Last time I went it cost me £700 to have a swim.' I waved away her concern. ‘That's fitness tax,' I replied. ‘It's like
having a TV licence. You might not use it, but you have to pay anyway.' Millie laughed which made her pretty.

It was time to get to work. Nige and Claw and I sat each of the women down at their own table, and brought over their respective date. Then, for twenty-five minutes, we left them to it. For some reason, Claw and Nige refused to look me in the eye.

Being cold-shouldered gave me the opportunity to peek at the dates. I'd put Sam with Martyn, the guy who, according to Elisabeth was so strait-laced he could have been a priest. At first glance, he didn't
look
strait-laced. A shaven head and thick black arthouse spectacles. Of course: this was a uniform popular with the – I'm reluctant to say nerd –
earnest person
in disguise. The shaven head was used to hide a receding hairline, and the black spectacles had only recently replaced an owly pair of metal frames. Sam and Martyn must have seen something familiar in one another and resented the reminder, because my straining ear made out the words, ‘Ten past eight and eighteen seconds'.

The others didn't seem to be faring much better. Elisabeth was leaning back in her chair with a face like old milk, ostentatiously inspecting her nails, and Bernard was staring gloomily into his pint. Now and then he'd look around like a dog who'd lost its master. I glanced at Mike and Georgina. Mike was leaning towards Georgie, talking very fast. He laughed at something he'd said and Georgie lifted a hand and wiped her cheek. She had the look of a woman who'd been tricked into attending a live chess match.

Surely Millie was enjoying herself. I'd put her with Xak. Xak (pronounced Zak) was nice to look at, but surprise, he was also nice to the core. Tall, slender with blue eyes, dirty blond hair and
adorably
shy. He could barely meet your gaze. He worked on the fashion pages of a men's magazine, was twenty-five years old and had only ever gone out with women who'd asked him. ‘Models?' I'd said, and he'd
laughed. He'd only dated ‘very plain' (his words) screwed-up women. Here, at last, I thought – the male version of practically every woman I've ever met!

I glanced over. Xak looked petrified. Think a picnicker trapped by a bear. Millie was striking off some sort of list, on her fingers. After every strike she'd frown at Xak and he'd nod, meekly. I wondered if he was up to a woman who, by her own admission, had recorded every dream she'd ever had since the age of twelve. ‘What,
all
of them?' I'd said, impressed. She'd replied that dreams were messages from our unconscious which we ignored at our peril. This didn't please me. I have enough trouble keeping up with my emails. Crumbs have incapacitated about forty per cent of my keyboard.

Twenty-two minutes into the first date, ground down by beseeching looks from around the room, I gave in and called time. Everyone sprang from their chairs. ‘This is pathetic,' snarled Elisabeth en route to the Ladies. ‘Thank
God
I have my own resources.'

‘I'm sorry,' I told her. ‘We'll discuss it later. But I think you're going to get on great with your next date.' She didn't. Nor with the one after that, or the one after that. No one did. Two dozen people went home miserable, brooding on the small yet enormous tragedy of having love to give and no one to give it to.

I told Nige there was no accounting for chemistry and it was nobody's fault, and while the look he gave me said different, I wasn't bothered. He didn't understand. I had chosen pairs who wouldn't fall for each other instantly, but it was for the best. People who fancy each other make terrible choices. They're taken in by a wide white smile or the sweet little sigh before speech and then they pay for that naivety for the rest of their lives.

You cannot let your genitals make decisions for you. It's evolution's fault, making us want to bonk the whole time. I thought these people would be better off getting to know their dates over time. They'd stand a greater chance of
happiness if they weren't in such a rush to swap germs. They might sulk at first, but I was doing them a favour and eventually they'd realise that.

I drove home, my mouth agape in one long yawn. I was that tired, the depth of tiredness where you feel that sleep is a poor answer, you need a three-week coma and a glucose drip to restore your energy levels to capacity. I checked the house from top to bottom to top, fed Emily and paid her a compliment (‘Your fur's so shiny and soft it's like you've been polished' – I sense it's part of a cat's required service), imagined what Nick would be doing now, pulled an elaborate face and fell into bed. Was he thinking of me too? I hoped he also felt friendlier in retrospect.

It was a joy to realise, the next morning, that Nige had his audition and wasn't coming in. Although Claudia is not the sort who needs back-up to launch a strike, I was relieved when she rang in ‘sick'. I'd brought some Hedex in anticipation which I could now save for a special occasion. I said ‘hm' aloud. Just me then. It wasn't ideal, but then nor was company. Why hadn't Nick rung me? He had about a billion excuses. How was the cat doing? Had he left his cuff links in that silver tin on the bathroom shelf? I missed him. But then, I also missed tripping on the torn linoleum of my parents' kitchen floor when Dad glued it back to the concrete after fifteen years.

You get used to people, things. I wasn't mad about change. Every time there was change due in my life I reckon I stalled it for as long as I could – seven days to two years, depending.

Seven days if it was a food choice. Last year, for one crazy week, Martha decided that custard doughnuts were the new black and abruptly ceased production of the jam ones. I was frozen. I couldn't bring myself to go to Tesco Metro, it would have been like cheating on a wife. But nor could I get round the concept of a doughnut gooey with
yellow pus. Need I say, Nige and Claw adapted like a particularly shallow pair of chameleons – ‘Ooh,
yes
, actually, mm, and long live the cheese fondue while you're about it!' I refused to partake.

On day seven, suffering from severe sugar deficiency, I took a small cross bite. On day eight, Martha decided that fashion was, in fact, random baloney, cast out the custard interloper and welcomed back the faithful old jam doughnut. It would have been healthier for me if she
had
persisted with the pus – I'd have been forced to adapt and move on. The way it worked out, I never learned.

I glanced around the empty office – ludicrous, who did I think was spying on me, Claudia's poster of Kylie Minogue? – then rang Manjit on his mobile. He'd think I was calling to snoop on Nick but he'd be wrong. Manjit was friendly in an
unfettered
sort of way, which meant that Bo wasn't in the room. I explained why I was calling, I wasn't going to play games. Manjit sounded surprised but pleased. ‘Cool,' he said, ‘Okay.' And then, shyly, ‘I'm pleased you rang, Hol.'

I beamed. ‘Thanks, Manjit,
I'm
pleased I rang. I nearly didn't. Well, when are you free?'

There was a pause. ‘Um. Well. Now if you like. I've got to meet Bo at two thirty. We're going to a matinée in town, um, that play, you know, the one with the ghost . . .'

‘
Phantom of the Opera
?' It was an effort keeping the shock from my voice. Bo's theatrical taste is painstakingly erudite. Andrew Lloyd Webber was a departure from her intellectual norm.

Manjit giggled. ‘No! Oh, yeah.
Macbeth
. Anyrate. I'm free till then. That gives us an hour, easy, and plenty of time for showers afterwards. I'll ring reception and book us a room, for, for, say, twelve, shall I? Wear something light, yeah? You got the address?'

I nodded into the phone. ‘Got it.'

He cut off, and I twirled my necklace. I felt nervous. Well, too late to back out now. I glanced at the clock. Time
to go home and change, shave my legs and armpits –
pits!
ugh, ugh – clean my teeth. My heart was pounding. Silly. This would be
fun
. And if, mid-tussle, I gleaned some classified dropette of information about my ex-fiancé, what a perfect bonus.

‘COME CLOSER,' SAID
Manjit, smiling. Christ, what women would do for that smile. ‘It's alright, Hol. I won't bite you.'

I stepped towards him, face red as a poppy. ‘I'm going to be useless, I know it.'

I heard myself say this and squirmed. Since when was I the sort of woman who couldn't speak badly enough of herself? I used to go crazy at Sam for belittling herself, I'd tell her if you can't respect yourself, no one else will.

Manjit laughed. ‘You're gonna be magnificent. I can tell just by looking at you. Have a drink.'

I lunged for the bottle, took a large swig, started choking. Manjit sprang forward and patted my back. But softly, so I didn't mind.

‘Breathing?' enquired Manjit. ‘Luverly. Let's get started. First thing, Hol. I'm not going to teach you anything fancy. No Bruce Lee high-kicking martial arts stuff. That's pointless. That's for films. That's not gonna get you anywhere. Anyrate, I don't like kicks. They take years to learn, and they don't work. You lose your balance. You need to keep both feet on the ground. The only time you kick someone is if they're on the floor. And if they're on the floor, you shouldn't be wasting your time. And um, it's slightly illegal. You should be running away. So. We're gonna concentrate on a few simple techniques that work. We're going to repeat 'em and repeat 'em, until they're instinct. And as we practise, you'll find out what feels right, what works for you, yeah?'

I nodded, eyes wide.

‘Excellent. Quick word though. Your best defence? These' – he pointed to my mouth and eyes – ‘and these.' He pointed to my legs, shivering in lycra shorts. I squeezed my knees together to stop them knocking. For the last ten years I'd been meaning to buy some cool workout trousers, cheekily flared at the ankles. But I hadn't and my exercise outfit screamed loud as fluorescent orange that I'd last frequented a health club sometime in autumn 1994.

‘Let's warm up while we're talking. Alright. Roll the shoulders back. Untense. Worst thing, in a fight, is to be tense. Slows you right down. If you want to strike, you have to unclench your muscles before you can move your arm, yeah? Like this, see? Slower. As opposed to this,
whap!
'

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Best case scenario?
No
fight. You're walking down the road, that's not a time to be daydreaming. Not in this day an' age. Me, I mentally classify every geezer walks towards me. White, male, six foot, one hand in pocket – like,
why?
You gotta think,
why
is he walking towards me with one hand in his pocket? Is that how people walk? I don't think so. What's he concealing? A knife? Check, if they've got one hand down by their thigh. To me, that says concealed weapon. And thing is, Hol, sounds daft, but if he ain't close up, he can't attack you. Cross the road. He crosses, cross again. Fuck 'im. Don't be embarrassed to make a scene. Scream, dance, act crazy. Whatever he wants off you, he doesn't want trouble. An' another thing. People come up, ask you the time. No
way
. You don't have it. What do you do, telling the time? You bend over, squint at yer wrist – well, bloodyell. You give 'em a nice opportunity to snatch yer bag, whip out a knife, whatever. I don't have the time. Yeah, but you got a watch. It's broken. Here's another thing. Someone on the street, asks you a question, you
don't have to answer
. They ain't a teacher! This ain't school! Not polite? Bugger that! You're a nice polite girl, Hol, well brought up. But from a safety point of view, that
ain't good. That's what they're counting on, yeah?'