Behaving Like Adults (2 page)

As Party Night loomed, Claudia tried to encourage me to pick a man off the pile. ‘Come
on
, Holly,' she said, poking the morning's stack of letters with polished fingernails. ‘It'll be like Cinderella in reverse. Just ring one up, and explain who you are. They'll be thrilled. A date with the boss of Girl Meets Yob. Plucked from obscurity to attend your grand ball. The token date. It's the kind of thing that gives blokes a kick. Or – or! or! or! How about this – you could ask Stuart again!'

I choked. Despite my devious plan of skimming off the single cream for myself, after time spent thinking about it, I'd gone off the idea. I felt
maternal
towards these men. Even the thirty-eight year olds. Thus, it would not have been healthy to shag them. Plus, I'd had one bad experience, which I'm unwilling to share because it was
such a disaster. However, as I've just let slip the disaster's name, I might as well tell you, if only so you see what I was dealing with.

A month before, the PA of a solicitor named Stuart Marshall had emailed us, asking for an application form on his behalf. I sent it to her, but couldn't resist adding, ‘Does he make you forge his Christmas cards too?' She replied, ‘That's the least of it.'

Two days later, Stuart's details were delivered – by courier – to our office. Stuart's rapacious misuse of company resources gave him an air of benign familiarity. Despite never having set eyes on the guy, I felt I knew him. Claudia was half in love with Stuart already. She fell on that envelope like it was a fifty pound note.

Nige tweaked Stuart's photograph from her grasp. He arched an eyebrow, drawled, ‘Whiff of the Channel Five Newsreader', and spun it through the air to me. Well. Possibly. Groomed like a racehorse. In blue Speedos. A lot of our clients do that – send us a snap that has more in common with
Readers' Wives
. Nige finds it ‘sad and grotesque', but I tend to find it more
ahhhh
than
aaaagh
. It's only because they want to be accepted. They want to find someone. They're desperate to prove that they're good enough.

I understand that. It maddens me when I tell someone what I do and they sneer. We're biologically programmed to seek out nurturing relationships and yet, somehow, there are people who assume the attitude that this pursuit is
trite
. I tell them that those unable to empathise or forge rewarding bonds with others start by pulling the wings off bluebottles and end up breaking into people's homes and dismembering entire families. It usually shuts them up. So. I was more sympathetic to Stuart than Nige was. Even when Claudia stuck her feet on the desk and started to dissect Stuart's vision of the perfect woman.

‘Jesus Christ, listen to this. ‘“She should have a healthy zest for life” – as opposed to an unhealthy apathy – “she
should be secure in herself and her choices” – blimey, he sounds like
you
, Nige!' (Claudia once overheard Nige telling a fellow thesp that he ‘admired Brad Pitt's choices'. Unbelievably, Nige wasn't refering to Gwyneth or Jennifer, but to the genius decisions Brad made when acting a character. Quite rightly, she's never let him forget it.)

‘“Not needy, but looking to share her passion and vitality,” – what an arse! – “ambitious, but probably already sorted careerwise, able to maintain a balance between work and play, prepared to make quality time for her partner and friends, interests of her own but would share a love of good food, wine, company and exercise. She would enjoy long walks or runs along the beach” – sorry, but who
alive
doesn't enjoy a long sodding walk along the beach? – “and would enjoy riding high when I fly my plane” – good God, is he for real? What does that mean? Is it some sort of filthy pun? I bet it's not his, I bet he hires it.'

‘He probably means his toy plane,' suggested Nige. ‘He runs round the garden holding it above his head, he wants his perfect woman to watch from the upstairs window.'

Agreed, Stuart did sound a little – no, a
lot
– much, but I was intrigued. That superlative sense of self-entitlement always starts me wondering about the mother. Not the father, you'll note. Just the mother. I blame her. What a sexist. Shocking. ‘Go on, Claw.'

Claudia grinned. ‘“She should ideally be at least 5 foot 7 but no taller than 5 foot 9, physically very active” – well, we all know what
that
means! – “have blonde hair” – no! surprise me! – “and be aged between 24 and 29. I would hope she has at least one relationship of respectable length behind her and has lived with a former partner. She should live in Zones 1 or 2” – unbloodybelievable – “however, ideally, she would not have any baggage (i.e. children or be divorced.) She would be a female version of me.” Wow. Holly, you've
got
to go out with him!'

I'd tipped back on my chair to listen, and I nearly fell off it. ‘What? I'm nothing like that woman! No one is! And
you know what I'm like about flying. I panic if the pilot has a weak chin. Anyway. Why
me?
What have
I
done?'

I looked beseechingly around our cramped little office – paper everywhere, it seemed to grow from the walls and breed on the floor – hoping for Nige's support. When he pursed his lips, I knew I wasn't going to get it.

‘It's what you haven't done,' he said. ‘You need to take action, Holly. Show Nick that it's over. I know you're still fond of each other, but it's not wise, him still lurking round the house. You need him to witness that you've moved on to better things. Claw is right. Stuart is just the pissing contest that Nick needs. You needn't tell Stuart who you are. I'll ring him, tell him Girl Meets Yob is giving him a free, er, trial. If we deem an applicant to be, ah, a
VIP
, we don't put them straight into a speed dating session. We assign them what we call a “free-range” date with an elite
counterpart
that's unsupervised and can last as long as they wish. How's that sound?'

‘Like bullshit,' I said.

Claw started banging her fists on the desk, shouting ‘Yes, yes, yes!'

While I am old enough not to be intimidated by two people disagreeing with me, I am also wise enough to know when to save my breath. ‘I'll think about it,' I lied. Well,
I
thought I was lying, but my mind had other ideas. It danced around Stuart the whole day. I want to make this clear, I wasn't
attracted
to Stuart – I'm not an insane sadomasochist who doesn't know Hitler's CV when she sees it – but Nige was right.

I
was
still fond of Nick, dangerously fond. We'd gone out for five years, most of which were good, great even. And then, we'd coasted. We were two parallel lines, always close but never together. Occasionally, we'd have a passionate row, during which many promises would be made. But not kept. Nick admitted that he didn't know how to make an effort in a relationship. I was his first, as he put it, Big One. Incidentally, when I say ‘effort', I don't
mean he didn't send enough roses or stud the walls with little love notes (although he didn't). I mean he didn't talk much, wash enough or seem to take particular pleasure in my company. Don't do me any favours.

But, if I had to pinpoint the single factor that drove me to Stuart, it was the Febreze. As Claudia and Nige hummed about me, murmuring, ‘Go
on
, Holly, oh
please
, it'll be
fun
, etc', I thought of Nick, too lazy to shower, spraying his stinky feet with Febreze (‘Safely eliminates odours on fabrics and kills the bacteria that cause them'). And then a ripple of hard-done-by billowed airily through me and I thought, ‘Ah, why not? What harm can it do?'

How long have you got?

I THOUGHT I
was good at reading people. Is there anyone in the world who
doesn't
think they're good at reading people? I shouldn't have trusted myself. My judgment had already proved faulty with Nick. Why did I presume to know Stuart? The truth is, I'd painted my life into a corner. Instead of freeing me, every choice I'd made hemmed me in. It's a pity to regret, but I did. I needed an escape. And if you're dying in a desert, you'll see hope in air and dust.

I refuse though, to begin with Stuart. He'd love that, if I began with him. The best way to gall people who wish you ill is not to give them space in your head. There's a great put down in
Casablanca
, where Peter Lorre says to Humphrey Bogart, ‘You despise me, don't you?' He replies, ‘Well, if I gave it any thought I probably would.' I think that's funny. So, I'll start with me and Nick. Five years ago, when I met Nick, he was helping a duck.

I was driving through one of the quainter parts of London and I saw this duck waddling along the pavement. A thin young man with a cigarette hanging out his mouth sauntered behind at a respectful distance from madam's tailfeathers, ushering her away from the road. Everyone was ignoring them. Londoners are good at this. We can ignore
anything
. That disappoints me. I get a kick when I say hello to the ticket guy at my tube stop, and he says, ‘All right, darlin',' and gives me a high five. It turns my city into a village.

Anyhow, I got the urge to offer the man and the duck a lift. I decided there was no way this guy was a lunatic, as
he was helping a duck. So I swerved across the traffic and buzzed down my window. ‘Excuse me,' I said, launching into one of the silliest sentences I've ever spoken, ‘do you and the duck need a lift anywhere?' Then it struck me that the duck might be his pet. He could be taking her for a walk, and I'd just busybodied in there. In the smarter parts of town you can act like a complete nut and get away with it, so long as you own the matching bag.

So I was grateful when the man took the cigarette out of his mouth and smiled. ‘It's very kind of you,' he said, ‘but I think being in a Golf might scare her. I wouldn't want her getting in, you know, a flap.' He giggled at this bad joke, which made me smile, he then looked at me again. ‘But you could always leave the car and help me get her back to the pond.' I parked on a double yellow, and together we directed Jemima towards her pond. We got as far as the Chinese restaurant when, very sensibly, she decided to fly the rest of the way. We returned to a parking ticket.

‘You might as well make the most of it,' said Nick. ‘Do you want to get an ice cream?'

Our relationship was not about being adult. Some couples race to become less liberal clones of their parents. Nick's best pal Manjit chose Bo, a woman who clamps down on fun like it's illegal. When Nick showed Manjit a new purchase – a shirt with a design of a cat, a cockerel, a donkey, a bird and a beaver on its back, plus the beautifully embroidered words, ‘pussy, cock, ass, tit, beaver' – Manjit said mournfully, ‘I wouldn't be allowed that.' Same when he saw the two electric love hearts dangling from the Golf's rear-view mirror.
Tacky
.

I felt sorry for Manjit, although privately I wondered what Bo could actually
do
to him if he bought a shirt like Nick's. Tear it off his back? Ignore him for a month? Refuse to leave the house with him? Stop hauling him to classical concerts and her school reunions? Manjit, buy the shirt. (He didn't, so I could only presume that in some way, he enjoyed the childish relief of relinquishing free
will, one of the few advantages of shacking up with a dictator.)

Maybe Nick and I weren't so different after all. We gave each other permission to behave like babies. On the face of it, that was good. In any romantic movie, the universal code for ‘these people are meant to be together' is a shot of the guy sitting opposite the girl in a diner gazing at her adoringly, as she stuffs down a burger, talks nonsense with her mouth open, oozing gunk, her cheeks bulging with bun, mustard dribbling down her chin – i.e., the precise opposite of how a woman eats on a date. The point is: it's okay to act like you're five, you are officially in paradise.

With Nick I acted more like I was five than when I
was
five. I was quite a serious kid. It took me until I met Nick to realise I'd passed up on half my childhood. Nick would say, ‘Remember the episode of
Fawlty Towers
when Basil attacks the Mini?' and I'd blush and say, ‘No.' He'd recall the time he bet Manjit that he could eat three tins of golden syrup, won the bet, but alas, puffed up and spent three days in hospital. Or when he and Manjit went exploring on their bikes and found a dead bullet by the stream. High on good citizenship, they'd sped it to the local police station, where officers had to practically stuff their hands in their mouths to keep from laughing.

To me, this was idyllic, a marvellous adventure tale,
Tom Sawyer
meets
The Secret Garden
. My upbringing was fine, nothing wrong with it. Just a little more cautious, conservative. Our TV was black and white, toaster-sized and kept in a cupboard. I was a bookworm. Whereas Nick lived the dream, I read about it. My parents are wonderful people, old-fashioned in their innocence, never expecting much. The first time we went on holiday to Portugal, I remember my father blinking in pleasure because the hotel had a pool. My mother looked cowed at her good fortune. It hurt me to see it in their eyes,
what have we done to deserve this?

While they were keen to give us – me, Claudia and our
big sister Isabella – whatever we wanted, it never occurred to them that we could want more than we were given. Which was, books. Visits to stately homes. Museum trips. Two thousand piece jigsaws of English country gardens. Love. My parents never wanted more than they were given. My mother would have bitten off her tongue before she complained about anything. Her old friend Leila once gave her a cotton tissue-holder for Christmas. It must have cost 5p. A garage wouldn't dare give it you free with your petrol. Mum had bought Leila a painting by a local artist she admired.