Young Wives' Tales Read online

  ‘They are not crazy, Sir,’said Mick. He always calls Ralph ‘Sir’, which would be really creepy except that Ralph is American and in America waitresses call rednecks ‘Sir’, so it’s almost become cheeky. ‘This business is in the bag.’

  ‘We can’t afford to be cocky, Mick. The client is a deeply efficient, multinational blue chip and we need to give them the best show. We can’t let up,’I add.

  Mick winked at me, and as soon as Ralph was out of earshot he added, ‘Admit it. This trip to NY is not much more than a courtesy call. We’re going to win the business, the fat bonus and the cred.’

  ‘Absolutely,’I grinned. ‘Not much more than a bit of handshaking.’

  We both see it as a jolly. Mick is thinking strip bars. I’m thinking room service and Bloomingdales. And maybe the odd cocktail. Mick and I could nip to the W Hotel Whiskey bar and I’ve just been told about this amazing downtown eatery called Novel. Everyone goes. There’s a waiting list, obviously, but I’ve never had any trouble with waiting lists. And then we could go to Bar Seine, it’s just had a refit – I stop myself.

  Where is this train of thought leading? I’m no innocent. I know which station this train pulls in at. First, one admires his suit. Next, his smile and then his humour. Then, his thoughtfulness and flashes of brilliance. Next thing, flies are unzipped and lacy underwear is hanging from the chandeliers. I take a deep breath. Things are moving too quickly and in a hazardous direction. Only a few weeks ago I considered Mick to be nothing more than the office Casanova: a cliché and not of any real interest. I steal a glance at Mick. He is tall, dark and handsome, in a very obvious sort of way. This is exactly the sort of way a chap ought to be handsome. I’m not a fan of quirky. But he is not Peter. Not a patch on him. Not my husband. I need to keep that in mind.

  Yes, we’re good together. We are a team. Colleagues. That’s it. The sparring, the banter, the late-night chats about politics, bars and cars are not significant. Mick has been openly enthusiastic about my being dragged on board his project, even though this will inevitably mean that his bonus is split, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s a business guy at the final count and he knows half of something is better than all of nothing, which was the probable outcome of the pitch if Gordon Webster Handle hadn’t responded to the brief of a diverse team. So he saw the sense of having a woman on board. What were his exact words? ‘There’s always room for a pretty little lady.’This vaguely flirty remark is barely worth noticing, it’s just his way. Still, I am grateful that he didn’t resent my presence and try to make me feel uncomfortable, as so many of the traders do. He even went so far as to let Ralph know that I’d come up with an entirely new way of looking at the portfolio which is set to be a winner. He can be charming. Stop.

  Peter. Peter. Peter. Just keep saying his name, I tell myself, as I buckle up and relax into the Club Class seat. Problem is, when I say his name I think of the hurried, dry and painful sex that we executed this morning. We’re both superstitious about flying without making up and so we made an effort. Effort being the operative word. I have to be very careful. Only minutes ago Mick and I were laughing like drains about the cartoons in Punch. If I’m aware that we are becoming a little too familiar and pally, the odds are Mick has projected as far as simultaneous multiple orgasms. I mentioned he was confident. I used to do a great Ice Queen. I think I need to step back into that character.

  ‘Drink, Madame?’The smiley air steward proffers a tray with glasses of champagne and glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, all neatly lined up like soldiers.

  Mick reaches across me and takes two glasses of champagne. He offers one to me and the steward moves on.

  ‘I wanted orange juice,’I say stiffly. Peter.

  ‘Why? It’s free. And it’s champagne. Why would you drink orange juice?’he asks reasonably.

  Peter. ‘I’m at work. It’s office hours.’

  Mick snorts his disgust and downs both glasses of champagne. I stare my amazement.

  ‘What? They are only tiny glasses. You didn’t want any. You said so.’

  Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Mick is my age. He looks and acts much younger. I wonder if the casual observer would think we were the same age. I wish I could stop obsessing about ageing, it’s undignified. But recently I’ve been unable to ignore the fact that everything is sinking, slowing down or scrunching up. And yesterday’s incident at the hairstylist’s didn’t help. Three months ago, with no prior discussion or warning, my hairstylist of eight years announced he was emigrating. I am bereft. I suppose I ought to have been thrilled for him, as he had finally met the man of his dreams (extremely rich, extremely beautiful and extremely dumb). Stephen and his lover plan to hop from beach to beach and follow the sun all year round. I often find myself feeling jealous of gay couples, who have no expectations foisted upon them regarding producing offspring. They can freely follow the hedonistic lifestyle that I grieve for.

  I used to visit Stephen with obscene regularity. I like my hair to be trimmed every four weeks and I like a blow-dry at least once a week, often more frequently. Over the years he has acted as a confidant, a tonic and, of course, a credible style guru. It was Stephen who promised me that he’d tell me when I needed to lose the length on my hair. Brave man. I’ve always worn my hair long; I do not believe a change is as good as a rest. I believe that you ought to find out what suits you and stick with it. While I nod towards hair fashions, in so much as I introduce, and then grow out, a fringe from time to time, I am not a slave to them. I never sported a perm; I am the only woman who can look back at photos of myself in the eighties with any self-respect.

  However, I always knew a day would come when I needed to have my hair chopped. I have a great figure and stunning clothes, so from behind I could be a teenager; long hair helps the illusion for a certain period of time and then long hair becomes ridiculous. But how would I know when the moment had arrived? Would I have the required self-awareness to realize that my long locks were more old hag than fairy princess? I was not sure I would. So Stephen had stepped up to the mic and bravely agreed to assume the role of the person who would tell me when I needed to lose the locks. He loved me that much.

  Without him my chances of arriving at middle age with my dignity are significantly reduced.

  Since his departure, I have simply avoided having my hair cut, constraining myself to regular blow-dries instead. I did not believe there was a hairdresser in all of London who could fill Stephen’s size elevens. But after three months it has become clear that the policy cannot go on indefinitely. I have split ends, for God’s sake.

  Shaun picked up the mantle, or at least the scissors. I’ve been on nodding terms with Shaun for several years now, as he apprenticed at Stephen’s salon. I reasoned that he’d have a similar technique and would have been trained equally thoroughly. But it transpires that Stephen and Shaun went to completely different schools of charm.

  ‘Lucy, it’s time for a change, don’t you think? This style is for kids,’he said the moment the gown was tied around my neck.

  I was too stunned to reply. At first. I remained mute as I processed the fact that Shaun had just broken the news that I’m too old for long hair. Is this the reason Stephen eloped with Marco? Could it be that he isn’t as courageous as I’d thought? Shaun interpreted my shocked silence as approval and started to cut.

  Wordlessly, I watched my blondeness fall into my lap.

  I fingered my glossiness, already longing to glue it back on to my head, but I knew this was not possible. The time is past.

  The cut is…fine. I cannot find fault and I’ve tried. It’s sharp, sleek, smart, short. I tipped Shaun, because if I didn’t he would sense my resistance and what I’m resisting is beyond his control.

  I rushed home, opened the front door and ran upstairs without allowing Eva or Auriol to see me. I locked my bedroom door and only then did I dare look in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. I looked like someone else. I looked older, there’s no gett
ing away from it. I am older. This morning I noticed veins in my thighs. What’s that about? The onset of varicose veins? I still look great when I’m ‘done’but I’ve noticed that it’s taking longer and longer to be ‘done’. I have more moisturizers to apply; the idea of forgoing foundation is impossible.

  The air steward walks past with another tray of drinks and tiny bowls of Bombay mix. Mick reaches past me and confidently helps himself to two more champagnes and two bowls of Bombay mix. This time he doesn’t offer me a thing.

  ‘Can I have water, please,’I ask the steward.

  Mick points to the in-flight magazine. ‘I’m reading about NY spas – looks like a con to me,’he says.

  In fact I’d been reading the intricacies of the treatment with interest and had decided that breathing pure oxygen was exactly what my skin needed to fight the stagnation, the droopiness and drabness. I shrug.

  ‘Well, it’s good enough for Gwyneth P. and Kate Moss et al. Or, at least, they are named as regular clients of the spa. Of course, they might prefer hot stones being laid on their legs and back.’As I say it, I smile. It’s not easy to believe in these treatments if you deconstruct them too aggressively. Nor is it easy to play Ice Queen with Mick.

  ‘But Lucy, you don’t need any of this crap,’Mick says, handing the magazine back to me. ‘You are beautiful.’

  Apparently, there’s evidence to suggest you generally feel sexier and more emotional in the sky. Flying releases certain endorphins, the ones that you get when you eat chocolate, exercise or have sex, I think. I can’t remember the exact science behind the theory, but I guess it does account for the crazy number of people who join the Mile High Club. Something odd must happen to the brain for anyone to consider shagging in tiny, smelly public loos. Especially as getting in and out of the loo with your partner without being detected by any of the staff requires precision planning. I’m talking from experience. Peter and I have managed it twice. Before I became Mrs Phillips, obviously.

  So it must be the altitude, mustn’t it? That’s the reason why the moment when Mick said I was beautiful was so spectacular. The altitude. I take the champagne off him and we clink glasses. He beams at me. I’ve never been the type of woman to kid myself about men. I know when they want want me and when they just want me around. In the past most men fell into the first category; only a humble few admitted that I was out of their league and they would opt for the second category because being my friend or even associate isn’t a bad second prize. However, since I married and became a mother with all that it entails, reading male desire has become a more ambiguous and hazardous process. I might be getting it wrong, but if I’m not then I’d say more and more men that I meet are opting for category B. I wonder where Mick is to be categorized?

  Accepting the champagne was impulsive and no doubt gives the wrong signal. Although it does taste delicious. What signal do I want to give anyway? I’m only being friendly. We’ll arrive in the afternoon. We haven’t got any work to do until tomorrow. I don’t need a clear head.

  Do I?

  ‘Good haircut, by the way, Princess. Very cute.’

  No, I don’t.

  15

  Monday 25 September

  Rose

  Luke was right about the night class, as is often the case with Luke. The car maintenance course was an almost entirely man-free zone and all the more comfortable for that. There were a few youngsters – teenagers whose parents had made it a condition of car ownership – and the rest of the attendees were women like me.

  Single, responsible and nervous.

  When I got home the boys were in bed and Connie was smiling expectantly. I delayed the inevitable by asking whether the boys had been good. Did they clean their teeth? Did they finish their homework? Connie answered in the affirmative.

  ‘And they were asleep by eight thirty. It’s been a doddle. But now, tell me about the class,’said Connie.

  ‘We learnt how to change a tyre this week and it will no doubt be extremely useful.’

  ‘Good, and what were the other students like? Did you meet anyone like-minded?’Connie is trying and failing to sound casual. Neither of us believes that she wants me to further my education or skill base. She wants me to find a boyfriend.

  I decide to tease her for a moment. ‘I gave my telephone number to two people and even arranged to meet one of them for coffee,’I told her as I flashed a wide grin.

  ‘Tell me more,’she squealed, excitedly.

  ‘Well, Susanne is a hairdresser and divorced eight years ago. She has three daughters. And Helen works in ad sales for the Yellow Pages; she has a long-term partner but he works away a lot and she has no kids so has quite a bit of time on her hands.’

  ‘Women?’Connie could barely hide the disgust in her voice.

  ‘Yes,’I replied calmly. ‘New friends. Potentially. Isn’t that what this exercise is about?’

  ‘Well, yes,’she admitted reluctantly. ‘But weren’t there any men there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘A few boys and the teacher is a chap,’I replied honestly.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Married.’

  Connie left, rather deflated, which was a shame because I’d had a great evening. It was fun learning something new and meeting different people. Connie and Daisy’s campaign might have merit.

  I should have noted the grim determination in her goodbye. I was crazy to think she’d accept the slight widening of my social circle as a win.

  So now a date. Oh, heavens above. How did I ever get talked into this? No, not talked into it – bullied into it. I was nagged, harangued, threatened and cajoled. There ought to be laws to protect people like me from people like Daisy and Connie.

  ‘You said the purpose of this exercise was for me to meet people,’I argued.

  ‘It is,’said Daisy.

  ‘You said it wasn’t all about finding a man.’

  Daisy and Connie exchanged guilty glances. We all know what their ultimate aim is.

  ‘I’ve started a night class, per your suggestion, and I have met people there. Why do I have to go on this date?’

  ‘Don’t think of this as a date,’said Daisy, ‘just think of it as expanding your social life in exactly the same way as going for a coffee with Helen is expanding your social life.’

  ‘Except I don’t know this man.’

  ‘We are trying to remedy that.’

  ‘And it’s not coffee, it’s a drink, perhaps a meal.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s in the evening.’

  ‘Yes, but a Monday evening, which is barely an evening. More of an afternoon in date terms.’I stare at her mystified. ‘Rose, just look at it as doing him a favour.’

  ‘I don’t want to do him a favour.’

  ‘I think you are still operating within your comfort zones,’said Connie.

  ‘Once a management consultant, always a management consultant,’I muttered to myself.

  After a couple of days of constant haranguing I realized that they wouldn’t let up and it would be easier to simply get the bloody date over with. Of course it was going to be awful but I began to view the date in the same way as I view a dentist appointment, something that has to be endured but only for a limited period of time.

  My date is with Kevin Morrow. A brother-in-law of a friend of Connie’s. It has come to this, blind dating. The concept is entirely alien to me and yet somehow I knew that one day I would find myself in this place. Kevin, I ask you – does he sound like a sex god, a charmer, a soulmate or even the life and soul of the party? He does not. I walk to my fate like a woman condemned to death. I’m expecting the same amount of fun.

  It surprises me that the concerns I have about dating, now, in my late thirties, are exactly the same as those I had in my early twenties. It’s depressing how little progress I’ve made. I can’t actively dislike this guy because I haven’t met him but I can’t like him for the same reason. In my teens and tw
enties I often went out with guys I wasn’t sure I liked. It was usually the case that I dated boys who my friends thought were ‘sweet’or my mum thought were suitable. Peter was the only guy I dated because he made my heart race.

  Plus, all these years on, I discover that I am still anxious that I’ll run out of conversation. Other ancient concerns include the fact that I’d rather stay in (as there are good things to watch on TV) and, of course, that my bum looks big in everything. My wardrobe was a disaster before I divorced and the passage of time has done nothing to improve matters. Connie tried to be kind. Daisy was more sisterly, therefore ruthless.

  ‘Look, this is funky. This is one of those jersey dresses, right? Eighties fashions are all coming back,’said Connie.

  ‘That’s so old-fashioned, and even when it was fashionable it must still have been awful,’said Daisy in despair.

  ‘I did not buy that in the eighties,’I snapped, grabbing the dress and bundling it to the back of my wardrobe before they could see the label, which would have revealed that the dress was in fact maternity wear. Probably the last time I bought new clothes was when I was pregnant.

  Naturally the dissection of my wardrobe and the diagnosis – ‘sadly lacking’– led to an obligatory shopping trip where the girls dragged me from store to store and we argued over what suited me and what didn’t. Connie shops at trendy retailers that cater for women the size of Barbie dolls, stores all too terrifying for me to even consider entering. Daisy’s tastes are a little more akin to mine and she understands the issues of red hair, but she doesn’t understand the issues of being totally without self-confidence or motivation to shop. I don’t want to go on a date so how could I possibly begin to get excited about what to wear?