Young Wives' Tales Page 12

  ‘What look are you going for, Rose? Sexy? Understated? Glamorous?’

  I stared at Connie and stayed mute. It wasn’t that I was awkwardly refusing to answer; I simply didn’t know the answer. What am I? The twins’mum. What do I want to say about myself? Very little, except perhaps I could wear one of those signs they hang on hotel room doors: ‘Do not disturb.’

  No one was especially delighted with the fruits of our shopping trip. The cream wool dress reeks of compromise. Connie thinks it’s shapeless but at least it doesn’t expose too much flesh or make me feel as though I’m mutton dressing as lamb. Many of the outfits I tried on made me feel like an impostor – the reverse of a child dressing up in her mother’s clothes. I didn’t look cute, just out of place and faintly ridiculous. Connie accepted the outfit, after the addition of a sparkly scarf and high shoes, and Daisy accepted it because her feet were sore and she couldn’t face traipsing into ‘even one more bloody shop’.

  I am going through the motions. I have been to the hairdresser’s per Daisy’s diktat. I don’t really have a regular hairdresser. I go so infrequently I find that the hairdressers have often moved on in between my visits. So I was ‘looked after’(and I use the term loosely) by a surly-looking teenager who stared at my hair in despair. She cut it too short, insisted I needed a ‘lift’, and then coloured it to a funny horse-chestnut colour and charged me an outrageous £150 for the pleasure. I have bathed in some of the lovely oil that Connie bought me for Christmas last year. I can’t remember the brand name but it came in one of those posh cardboard bags so it must be good stuff. I’ve covered my body with moisturizer (not that I’m expecting my body to get touched). I’m wearing chastity-guaranteeing tummy-tuck knickers and bottom-lifting tights. My new outfit is freshly pressed and lying on the bed, waiting for me. I stare at it and know that it is all wrong.

  It’s drab. I should have bought the cerise cardigan in Monsoon.

  Kevin and I are to meet at a pub local to me, the Lamb and Flag. The telephone conversation, where we agreed this much, was brief and perfunctory. We did not bother to ask one another’s star signs or favourite colours. We did not make jokes about carrying a copy of the Times newspaper and wearing a carnation.

  The tacit agreement is that if things go well between us we might grab a pizza at the nearby Italian restaurant; if they don’t, I’ll leave after a swift spritzer and neither of us will have wasted much time or money. I am relieved that at least the parameters of the date are so familiar. If TV is to be believed, first dates are now exercises in imagination which often culminate in excessive humiliation rather than achieving the goal of getting to know someone a little better. I am more inclined to tolerate Kevin because he did not suggest bowling, ice-skating, paintballing or a visit to a new gallery where I would be expected to have a view-point on whether an unmade bed is art. I do not have the emotional energy, let alone the physical energy, to do anything more demanding than eat pizza and make small talk. That much will require a superhuman effort.

  The moment I walk into the pub is possibly the worst. At least, I hope it is. I can’t bear to think that I might feel more miserable, isolated or vulnerable this evening. We’ve agreed to meet at 8 p.m. I chose 8 p.m. because if everything goes horribly wrong and it’s all over in an hour, being in bed (alone) by 9.30 is almost respectable. If we met at 7 p.m. and it all went wrong, I’d be in bed (alone) by 8.30. A disaster by anyone’s standards.

  I can’t see him. Or maybe I can but I don’t know it yet. The pub’s pretty crowded; mostly there are gregarious groups of people who all seem to live full and meaningful lives. Even so, they pause their conversations and watch me with undisguised curiosity. I feel so self-conscious that I am sure there is an enormous billboard floating above my head announcing my blind-date status. Cautiously, and as discreetly as possible, I try to size up the room. I’m hoping to identify him, judge him and if necessary abandon him before he even spots me. That said, I’ll hate it if I’ve arrived first and have to wait for him. What if he doesn’t show at all? The ultimate humiliation. I make my way towards the bar, trying to look purposeful and at home. I order an orange juice (a clear head is vital and if he no-shows at least I won’t look like a lonely lush). I pause, take a deep breath, gather my courage and then look around the pub.

  I can make out three men who appear to be alone. One is a spotty boy in his twenties. He’s lolling against the end of the bar and must be very drunk even though he appears to be drinking a half pint of lager and lime. Oh dear God, Connie wouldn’t do that to me, would she? I am not a Mrs Robinson and any guy crazy enough to want to be a toy boy would be sorely disappointed in me. But it can’t be him – Connie said Kevin was in his late thirties.

  There is another chap. A wiry, mean-looking fellow, drinking alone in the corner. He looks like a failed actor, someone who never even got a bit part in The Bill. It only takes a moment to work out that this guy is desperately disappointed in the world. He has a thin mouth, angry, alert, flashing eyes and an unkempt appearance. He can’t be Kevin. I couldn’t think of anyone with whom I’d have less in common and I’m sure Connie said that we’d have a lot in common.

  The third and final single man is a stocky, sweating guy sitting at a table near the open fire. I watch as he pulls a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He blows his nose and then mops his brow. Charming. He must be Kevin. He’s chosen the table near the open fire because he’ll have thought that was the most romantic thing to do on a blind date. He’ll have been too anxious to consider that it’s a mild night and the proximity to the fire, or perhaps his nervousness, will cause him to sweat profusely. Not a great blind-date look. It takes a mere moment for me to understand what Connie must have meant when she said we had lots in common. His stomach falls over his belt. His suit is strained across shoulders and arms and not because he has bulging muscles, but because he has a fondness for puddings and pints. I feel something near to pity for him which I find a comfort. Better the chubby guy whose aim is to please than the scowling thesp in the corner, who undoubtedly has an ego inversely proportional to his CV achievements. Emboldened – here goes nothing – I hop off my bar stool, grab my orange juice and start to saunter towards the open fire.

  ‘You must be Kevin,’I assert with a bright smile.

  At that moment a pretty brunette appears from nowhere. She launches herself on to ‘Kevin’. They kiss in an energetic and comfortable way. I’d guess they’ve been dating about six months. Long enough to be cosy; short enough to still want lots of sex. I mumble something about needing to borrow an ashtray, even though I don’t smoke. But the couple don’t hear me anyway, thank God, too engrossed in one another to give the weird lady any attention. I grab the ashtray and fleetingly consider whether I should return to my bar stool or just leave. This whole idea of blind dating is ridiculous. I bet Kevin is going to stand me up and, even if he does arrive, he is bound to be unsuitable in every way. Let’s face it, how can he possibly be a suitable boyfriend? I don’t want a boyfriend.

  ‘Over here, lady. I’m your man.’

  What? I look around and see that the mean-looking, egotistical guy is talking to me. He has an amused look on his face, clearly having watched my spectacle with the impostor ‘Kevin’. I gawk at him, unbecomingly.

  ‘You’re Kevin?’The name doesn’t suit him. I’d have guessed him to be a Hugh or a Lance.

  ‘Aren’t you delighted?’He’s laughing to himself. He’s slouched in the Dralon chair and doesn’t even extend me the courtesy of straightening up. He casts a sharp glance at tubby ‘Kevin’and I see the contempt in his face. He’s skinny therefore thinks he’s better than the other guy. He despises the tubby ‘Kevin’on the spot and therefore he must despise me too, because despite my M & S reinforced underwear it’s still obvious I’ve never been svelte. I dislike him for judging me. I dislike him for not seeing that the other ‘Kevin’must have something wonderful. He has, after all, a pretty brunette clasped to his lips. He’s not the one on the blind
date. I know for certain that there is no way on this earth I am ever going to be able to like this angry, judgemental, lanky Kevin. He’s not my type. This assessment of the status quo takes moments. I wonder how long it will be before I can make a dignified exit.

  ‘While you’re on your feet, mine’s a bitter,’says Kevin.

  I bite my lip to avoid prompting him to say ‘please’, the way I have to with the boys. I trot towards the bar and I add ‘rude’and ‘tight’to his list of faults.

  16

  Tuesday 26 September

  John

  Jenny didn’t allow Tom to meet up with Craig and me this weekend, but we’ve managed to meet up today because she’s working late or something, and she’s only let him off his leash on the condition that he is home before midnight.

  ‘Why, mate? What happens then? Do you turn into a pumpkin?’I ask.

  Tom shrugs but doesn’t answer. He knows he’s pussy-whipped and there isn’t an admirable way to manage the situation except to stay silent and hope I don’t go on about it for too long.

  ‘She must be a great fuck, mate. To justify this loss of independence, self-respect and various totty.’

  He glares at me, then tries to change the subject. ‘Where’s Craig?’

  ‘Some sort of meeting at the school. I think he said Parents’Association.’

  ‘Does he get paid extra for staying late?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’I shrug.

  ‘Then what can he be thinking?’

  ‘Search me. Should I get us another drink in?’

  By the time I get back to the table with the fresh round, Craig has arrived.

  ‘You’ve had a haircut, mate,’I comment. ‘Looks good.’

  Craig puts his hand up to his hair and blushes like a girl. ‘Thanks, John. I went to that salon you recommended.’

  ‘Keep it down, mate.’I take a mock-shifty, swift look around the pub. ‘People will think we’re benders.’

  ‘You two are getting very close,’says Tom, with a laugh.

  ‘I’d be proud to have Craig as a wife. He’s clean-cut, has a respectable job, he’s good to his mum and dad.’

  ‘Piss off, John,’laughs Craig.

  It feels good, all this joshing about. Truth is Tom, Craig and I would take a bullet for each other, if the need arose; which is unlikely, admittedly. But the point is we are good buddies. Great ones, in fact. We know each other in the true and proper sense, the way only old friends do. We don’t have to impress one another; sometimes we can go out for an evening and we don’t even have to talk to each other and we’d still class it as a good night. The lads know where I came from and they came from the same heap. They know where I’m going and how I’ve got this far. They hauled their asses up parallel greasy poles. Sometimes I feel ashamed of what I’ve come from but mostly I feel ashamed about being ashamed of what I’ve come from. Good honest working-class stock, my family. I come from bad wallpaper, cheap nylon sheets, crap tinned food, but not bad people.

  The lads get that. Not many people do.

  Connie did.

  Jesus. What’s that woman doing in my head again? I boot her out by offering to go to the bar to get Craig’s drink.

  At the bar I make eye-contact with a cutie. I tell the barman I’ll pay for her round. When he lets cutie know that I’ve footed her bill she is predictably gushy and grinning. I don’t bother to talk to her at this early stage of the evening. By buying the drink I’ve stated an interest and got her attention; I can afford to spend a bit of time with my mates before I move in for the kill. It does the ladies good to wait.

  When I get back to my seat Craig is boring Tom with details of the meeting he’s just chaired. Tom is such a decent bloke that he manages not to look fed up and even asks questions at the appropriate time, making a laudable attempt at appearing genuinely interested.

  ‘The mothers are amazing,’gushes Craig. ‘So committed to the school and to their kids’education. We raised just short of two thousand pounds at the summer fair at the end of the last term. Isn’t that fantastic? Principally, that’s what tonight’s meeting was about. We wanted to decide what to spend the funds on.’

  ‘I don’t get all this fund-raising and committees and stuff,’says Tom. ‘In my day your mother only went up to school twice a year, sports day and nativity play. Any more frequently and it was because you’d done something wrong and were due a clip round the ear.’

  ‘Who is on the committee?’I ask.

  ‘Couple of teachers, a parent representative from each class, the local vicar and the odd businessman.’Craig pushes his glasses up his nose and smiles. He’s touched that I’m taking an interest.

  ‘Remind me, what are the tiny kids called?’

  ‘Year One.’

  ‘No, not those ones, before that. The youngest?’

  ‘The youngest ones are the reception class.’

  ‘Is there a parent on this committee to represent the reception class?’I try to sound casual but it’s not a casual question.

  ‘Yes. One from every year group. Why?’

  ‘Who is it this year?’

  ‘A Mrs Finch. Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’I look round for a distraction. ‘Anyone fancy a game of darts or cards?’

  ‘Why did you want to know who was on the committee?’probes Craig.

  ‘Do you fancy one of the mothers?’asks Tom. He smells a story.

  ‘Not likely, he was bewailing the fact that the yummy mummy counter is pretty low,’says Craig.

  I ignore them. I plan to go on ignoring them but it’s hard because they are both staring expectantly at me.

  ‘It’s nothing much. Just that the other night when I was meeting you, Craig, I bumped into someone I used to know. That’s all.’

  ‘Ex shag?’asks Tom.

  ‘Ancient history,’I confirm.

  ‘Jesus, John. Is there anywhere that we can go in this world and we won’t find souvenirs from your past?’He’s grinning. He enjoys hamming up my Jack-the-lad image. ‘So, how ancient is this ancient history?’

  I pause. An image of Connie’s nervous face flashes in front of my eyes. She would not want her kids’headmaster to know that she consorted with me while she was a married woman. I feel a strange urge to protect her.

  ‘Well, she has a kid that’s four years old or something. So that must mean we had a fling about eight or nine years ago,’I lie. ‘Before she got it together with the guy she’s now married to.’

  In a way this version of the events is true. Connie was married when I met her but she didn’t really get it together with her husband until way after she said ‘I do’.

  ‘So who is it? Do I know her?’asks Tom.

  ‘I don’t think I want to know,’says Craig. ‘It will be hard to shake hands with the woman at parents’evening if I know she’s had a history with you.’

  ‘I knew her as Constance Green. I don’t know her married name,’I lie, again to protect her.

  Tom recognizes the name immediately. ‘Greenie? That’s what you called her, wasn’t it?’I can see he is scrabbling round his mind trying to recall details. He raises his eyebrows as the facts start to slip into place. No doubt he has remembered that the affair didn’t take place as long ago as I’ve made out and that she was married. ‘Wasn’t she ’– I shoot him a warning look. Tom clocks it and perhaps he considers his alternative question less disruptive. ‘Wasn’t she mad?’

  ‘About me. Probably, she’s just a woman,’I quip.

  ‘She became a photographer, didn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You must be talking about Mrs Baker,’says Craig. ‘She’s a lovely lady. Wonderful family. She’s married to a great guy.’

  ‘That’s nice,’I comment.

  ‘Did you break her heart?’Craig sounds fed up with me.

  ‘Who knows, mate? I broke her willpower and her moral code. At the time that’s all I was aiming for.’

  Craig looks irritated. I wonder if he’s go
ing to tell me that Greenie was too good for me. He often says that about women I date or shag; he repeatedly said it about the one I married.

  ‘Look, I didn’t deflower her, if that’s what you’re thinking.’I try to defend myself. ‘Most women want their first date in a coffee shop and their first sex in the missionary position, it’s safe and comfortable. Connie was the kind of woman who favoured cocktail bars and swinging from chandeliers. Believe me, we were evenly matched.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Mrs Baker being that way,’says Craig. He’s blushing and I feel I’ve just told a kid Santa doesn’t exist.

  ‘Well, she was.’I take a gulp of my pint.

  ‘Yes, she was,’confirms Tom; he’s grinning.

  ‘Oh God, not you too?’It used to be the case that Tom would sometimes have my sloppy seconds.

  ‘No, I don’t mean I know from personal experience – just the stuff John told me at the time.’

  As is always the case between me and Tom, I shared all the grimy details. Tom knew that I met Greenie at work. She was a strange contradiction from the onset. On the one hand all prim and proper and constantly protesting, ‘I’m married, leave me alone.’On the other, she spelt out that she was gagging for it. It was fun while it lasted. Tom knows that we shagged in parks, across desks, at my flat and in hotel rooms. I’ve told him all that. He might even know that for a time I found her fascinating, although I’ve never told him that bit. But we are good mates and he might have picked up on it. Tom is watching me very carefully. I feel uncomfortable under his observation.

  ‘Is it me or is it hot in here?’I ask.

  ‘It’s you,’says Craig.

  ‘Greenie was the last bird before you married Andrea, wasn’t she?’asks Tom.