Behaving Like Adults (47 page)

In the end, talking to my mother that evening proved harsh comfort, rather in the way that Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup is soothing in theory, but stings the back of your throat. I'd lied to her unforgivably, and now her
generous words bounced off me. Doesn't everyone want to be better than their parents? Isn't that the point of evolution? I was so much worse. But it had started with Stuart. Stuart was responsible for destroying all the good relationships I had.

The next day, I rang the surgery on the dot of nine and – in a rare break-out of luck – got an emergency appointment with my GP at half past. I explained about Dr Goldstein, and said I'd go private. (I'd rather
he
got my money than Stuart.) My GP, whose primary aim seems to be to get you out of his office in under six minutes (when apparently, your official NHS allocation is seven) agreed to write a letter.

Not a moment too soon. At work, Issy and Nick were full of baby stories, gabbling happily about first smiles and breast pumps and different makes of pram. Claudia kept silent, hurling me sour looks with the force and regularity of a putting machine. A padded envelope arrived from my parents, addressed to me. Inside was a pair of the tiniest socks you ever saw, pink and white, they could barely fit over my thumb. I slid them into my desk, and scurried to the toilet to compose myself. Soon, I'd tell them. Soon. And the writ, remember? What are you going to do about that? Twenty-six days,
ages
. It was a relief to distract myself with the business of Girl Meets Boy.

‘Is everything set for tonight?' I asked Claudia, smiling at a point beyond her left ear.

‘Yes,' she replied, addressing my right shoulder. ‘Tabitha from
Glamour
is being put with Xak, this new guy, Jim – a real sweetie, no pretentions, chatty, relaxing to be with, according to Issy – my painter friend Karl—'

‘Eh?' said Nick.

‘He
is
single,' replied Claudia. ‘It's not cheating, he is up for meeting women.
I
think it's a clever idea – he gets a few free dates, Girl Meets Yob gets the benefit of his good looks and sparkling personality. Well, bizarre personality.'

‘I've got friends who'd like to meet women.'

‘Yes, dear, and they can pay.'

‘What, even Manjit?'

‘Manjit's not single!' said Claudia and I together.

‘Nick,' I added, ‘
that
is precisely the sort of trick that journalists like to write about. And Manjit can't keep a secret.'

Nick stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Well, if you must know, Bo has requested a trial separation.
She
went on a date last night. With this awful pompous balding
meeja
bore who works for the BBC. He was wearing beige cords. I think it would be good for Manjit, he's been mooning around the house.'

‘A trial separation, and she goes on a date?' I spluttered. ‘Poor Manjit!'

‘God, she's a cow,' offered Claudia. ‘I wouldn't mind, but she's punching above her weight with Manjit anyway!'

‘A trial separation,' declared Issy, ‘is the emotionally constipated method of saying “I'm not happy in this relationship”. It means she'd like to end the relationship but she lacks the courage to express herself honestly. This is a half-arsed precursor. Disgusting, cowardly, selfish! Weak people who manipulate their innocent partners like that make me
sick
!'

‘Of
course
Manjit can come tonight, we'd love to have him,' I said, trying not to mind that Issy's passion had caused her to accidentally spit on my hand. ‘Tell him it'll be fun.'

‘Should we risk putting him with Tabitha?' said Claudia.

‘He'll be as good as gold,' cried Nick. ‘I'll tell him to talk about Bo in the past tense. It'll be good practice for him.'

‘Hm,' I said.

I was still saying ‘hm', when Manjit arrived at the Date Night wearing a beige suit. Then I saw him tug at his pink and blue tie – any tighter it would have choked him – and my stern heart melted.

‘Oh crikey,' I said to Nick. ‘He is
so
adorable. Go and tell him he doesn't need to wear a tie. Or jacket. Unless he wants to.'

‘You tell him,' said Nick. ‘He was looking forward to seeing you.'

I lolloped over. ‘Hello, you. Would you like a drink?'

Manjit smiled his beautiful smile. ‘Alright, sorry, how are you? Yeah, go on then. A pint of lager, I mean, glass of white, please.'

‘Manjit. You can have whatever you like. Would you like a lager?'

He paused. ‘Yeah, go on, you twisted my arm. How's the self-defence going then? Practising on Nick are ya?'

I made a face. ‘Not lately. But you're the best teacher, really excellent.'

Manjit dipped his head. ‘Ta, Hol. Thanks. Thanks a lot.'

‘I'm sorry to hear it's not going so well with Bo,' I lied. ‘How are you doing?'

Manjit rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Ah, you know. Bit shell-shocked. That's what she wants, though, I can't stop her. What you see is what you get with Bo. She's . . . feisty.'

The word ‘selfish', popped out of my mouth. I handed him his lager.

Manjit sighed. ‘This geezer. I think he was scared of me. I think he thought I was going to beat him up. Like I'd do a thing like that! I think he was taking her to have tea, dinner I mean, at his house. Nothing dodgy, I don't think. He's writing a documentary for Radio Four on the Czech Republic, he wanted her opinion. He's also writing a novel. When he said that, I said, that's brilliant, what, like
High Fidelity
? and his nostrils went all big and he goes – I can't do his voice but he sounded a bit like a girl – he goes, “
My
work is rather more profound than that Dick Lit shit, ‘Gary snogged Julie, oh, Tracey he's such a good kisser, better than Steve!'” And then he and Bo both laughed. I don't think he'd read Nick Hornby, he's not like that at all, but I didn't say nothing, I didn't want to embarrass him in front of Bo. It's not fair.'

‘That was very thoughtful of you,' I replied. ‘Especially
in the face of such bad manners. This guy, what's his name?'

‘Lance.'

‘
Lance?
Blimey. Lance has obviously been badly brought up.'

‘I think he thought I was a bit of a scummer. He lives in Islington. Bo says he's very left wing. I think he thought my hair was too short, like I was a bit rough, you know, National Front-y.'

‘Mm,' I said. ‘That's common. British Asians joining the NF. What a prat.'

‘You reckon?' Manjit looked hopeful.

I grasped his shoulders. ‘Listen to me. Forget Lance, forget Bo. She doesn't deserve you. I know you . . . I know you're very fond of her, and I don't want to criticise your relationship, but, if you don't mind me saying, I think she's acted unfairly. So just enjoy yourself tonight and don't feel guilty. All it is is a bit of chat, lighthearted, nothing heavy. Personally, I think the women here will swoon over you, you are – and I'd say this in front of Nick – bloody gorgeous. You are what they call a catch.'

I stopped short of saying he was too good for Bo. Manjit laughed. He was that one in a million man who was God's gift but couldn't see it. Alright, that one in twenty million. But I was spot on. He got two friendship ticks and two date ticks. Georgina, trainee solicitor, part-time model and full-time flirt, didn't take her panda eyes off him once. All through the break, he talked and she
stared
at him, mouth half open, ready to laugh. When I'd come to tell her their date time was up, she'd pulled an unattractive face. As it was, she'd dragged her chair round the coffee table and was just about sat in his lap. She'd even switched off her mobile.

She had competition, however, from a new member called Verity. Verity was half-Chinese, a research scientist, and wore her shiny black hair in two sticky-out plaits. She was as slender as a reed with impossibly smooth skin, and
I got the distinct impression that Georgina wanted to slap her. Verity certainly came across as a man's woman – preferably, Manjit's woman – but when you talked to her she was friendly and chatty. She giggled at everything Manjit said and she made him laugh too. I didn't hear him once say ‘sorry'. I felt she was far better suited to him than fun-buster Bo.

We'd put Tabitha from
Glamour
with Xak for her last date. If her behaviour at Bernard and Sam's wedding was anything to go by, I thought she'd appreciate it, and she did. She posed for the photographs eagerly enough. Afterwards, when she interviewed me, Xak stood bashful guard nearby, his floppy blond hair hiding his blushes. She kept darting glances at him, but even so, ‘
Manjit
,' she said. ‘I did like Manjit. He was plain lovely. The kind of bloke you want to introduce to your sister.' I could tell she meant it, or she'd have referred to him as ‘Number Three'. (Our members do this alarmingly often, even if they like someone.) Tabitha grinned at me, slyly. ‘Whereas Xak's the kind of bloke you want to keep for yourself. Holly, don't look so nervous. It's been fantastic. Much better than I'd thought, to be honest. This is going to be a
great
piece.'

The rest of the week was notable for only two reasons. The first was that Manjit dumped Bo. Apparently, she had a habit of kicking him, in bed, if he snored. Or grunted. Or breathed too heavily. Or rolled over. Or tugged the duvet. On average, Manjit received eight kicks per night. They'd been together for three years, two months and seventeen days. Three times three hundred and sixty-five, plus sixty-one, plus seventeen, times eight, minus the three nights Bo had spent with Lance, equalled nine thousand, three hundred and eighty-one kicks.

Well
, on his return from Girl Meets Boy, Bo was in a foul mood. (Despite the ‘trial seperation' they still slept in the same bed, unless Bo chose to go missing.) That night, Manjit dropped off into a contented sleep, let out a snuffle, and Bo attempted the nine thousand, three hundred and
eighty-second kick. Nick and I liked to think it was the admiration he'd received from all the women at the agency – that maybe their friendliness highlighted Bo's disrespect and gave him confidence – but Manjit felt the kick, started awake and realised he'd had enough. He snatched up his pillow, smacked it down hard on the bed, and yelled, ‘Remember that kick, because that was the last time you
ever
kicked me – this ain't love, Bo, it's boot camp, and I've 'ad it. You're 'istory!'

To everyone's delight, Bo was inconsolable.

The second thing was that on Friday morning Dr Goldstein's office called. He had a waiting list, but there'd been a cancellation, and if it was convenient, he could see me on Tuesday at five fifteen.

MY MAIN WORRY
was that Dr Goldstein would think I was a nut. I asked Issy if therapists ever entertained such unorthodox thoughts about their clients, and she said ‘God, yes! At least a quarter of mine are totally mad. They're loons. Crazy. Mental. Insane. Bonkers. Barking. Gaga. Round the—'

‘Alright, Isabella,' I said. ‘I get the picture.' I felt I'd encouraged her to be unprofessional, and been duly punished. ‘God, yes!' was not the answer I'd been hoping for. She should have refused to discuss the people in her care, even in the abstract. I hoped Dr Goldstein wasn't so easily led.

Tuesday at five, I rang the polished bell of a green door on Harley Street. I wondered if the builders on the scaffolding across the street thought I was a nut. I'd tried to dress sane (no
haute couture
or hats with earflaps) but then, look at Hannibal Lecter, so well turned out. I announced myself to the receptionist – I wondered if she thought I was a nut – who pointed me to the waiting room. By then, I was weary of trying to appear in peak mental condition. The two people already sitting in the waiting room were probably also nuts, so it hardly mattered.

The waiting room had green and beige armchairs scattered around its edges and a grand oak table in its centre. The magazines on display were of an altogether finer quality than on the NHS. Current, pristine issues of the
Tatler, Country Life, Harpers & Queen
, broadsheet
newspapers. In the surgery a few days before, I'd picked over an ancient, torn edition of
Woman & Home
. Now, I divided my time surreptitiously assessing the man in the corner reading the
Daily Telegraph
– compulsive obsessive? manic depressive? borderline personality disorder? – and considering the practicalities of moving to a ‘Prominent 17th-Century Country Property in Montgomeryshire', or a ‘Triple Oast And Barn Conversion Dating Back to the 19th Century in Kent (Tunbridge Wells about six miles)'.

Then a tall man with curly brown hair and a smiley face appeared at the door and said, ‘Ms Appleton?'

I jumped up, and he shook my hand. ‘I'm David Goldstein. How are you?'

A trick question, surely.

‘I'm alright,' I replied, deciding that, in the circumstances, ‘fine' was the wrong answer. I didn't want him to think, ‘yeah, really!'

Dr Goldstein led me into a large airy office and showed me to a comfortable chair. This small courtesy was enough to bring a lump to my throat. There were a lot of fat books squeezed onto bookshelves and even more in towering piles on the floor. This reminded me of something Nige once said, when I asked if he was breeding a library on his lounge floor. ‘I like piles of books. They remind me of how intelligent I am.' I wondered if Dr Goldstein thought that too. I noticed that his secretary was right next door, sitting like a large squirrel in what appeared to be a cubby hole, and that he'd left his own door ajar. This struck me as thoughtful and made me feel safe. I gulped.
He
had a box of tissues on his desk too, like Issy. I hoped Kleenex gave therapists a discount.