Young Wives' Tales Page 14

  ‘John Harding the sleazeball bastard ex-lover?’

  ‘One and the same.’

  ‘What was he doing there? Does he have kids at the school? Oh. My God.’

  ‘No. He’s a friend of the Head’s.’

  ‘He’s a friend of Mr Walker’s? I can’t see the match.’Mr Walker is a sweetie. Mr Harding is a rat. ‘So, what did you think when you met him? First thought,’I demand.

  Connie blushes. ‘I was glad I’d been to the hairdresser’s and my hair was blow-dried straight. I regretted my lack of mascara.’

  I see. ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And was he –’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Now I understand why you think the school gates are fun,’I joke.

  ‘This isn’t a laughing matter,’says Connie with irritation. ‘Now you know why I was so down on you with Mick. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes as I did.’

  I decide to cut to the chase. ‘So are you going to sleep with him?’

  ‘Jesus, Lucy, what do you take me for?’She looks outraged.

  ‘There’s a precedent here,’I point out; besides, I didn’t take offence when she assumed the worst of me.

  Connie had a brief affair with this man within the first year of her marriage. She made me into her confessor at the time. She didn’t know anyone else who would reserve judgement so she chose to confide every morbid detail to me. What she doesn’t know to this day is that I did judge the situation; I just withheld sharing my views. Connie believed that the affair was a monumental, seminal part of her adulthood. She believed that John Harding was a spectacular romantic who was sent from wherever with the express purpose of changing her life. As her closest friend and the person privy to every single conversation and nuance between them, I think that their affair was simply about forbidden sex.

  Connie turns scarlet; she’s probably recollecting the same as I am. ‘That was ages ago, before the children, before the photography. God, I can’t even remember the person I was then. I certainly can’t relate to her. We’ve all grown up since then,’she says sincerely.

  ‘I thought we’d just established that I haven’t. And I don’t suppose John Harding has either. He doesn’t seem the type. You’ll have to be careful, Connie.’

  ‘And you too, Lucy. You too.’

  18

  Wednesday 27 September

  Rose

  ‘So? Tell all.’Connie flings herself on to my sofa and beams expectantly. Daisy is sitting on a beanbag and she’s looking at me with the same glee.

  ‘There’s really very little to tell,’I reply stonily. I pass around a plate of biscuits.

  I know I’m not playing the game. It’s been years since any of us dated but I still remember the rules. I ought to supply a bottle of wine and a stack of gruesome, intimate details. Daisy and Connie’s gleaming eyes tell me that they won’t settle for less. But it’s extremely difficult to parade your hopes and the contents of your heart for general entertainment, especially when I haven’t even provided wine because this debrief is slipped in on a Wednesday afternoon. Daisy is supposed to be lesson planning, Connie is balancing a hot cup of tea and a clambering toddler; they’ve found time in their busy schedules to give me their attention and yet I feel horribly uncomfortable with this confessional situation.

  ‘Details!’the girls chorus in unison. I give in to the inevitability of the situation as gracelessly as possible.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Is he fit?’asks Connie.

  ‘Not to my tastes but I can see that some women would consider him attractive,’I admit carefully.

  ‘Is he funny?’asks Daisy.

  ‘No, unless you mean funny as in odd.’

  The girls are not deterred. ‘In what way odd?’

  ‘A satirical, verging on the nasty, sense of humour. A mistaken belief that I’d be interested in Lord of the Rings – anything from the collection of the plastic toys to the director’s cut – and a total disinterest in everything other than himself. He never asked anything at all about me.’

  ‘He’s shy,’insists Connie.

  ‘Arrogant and egotistical,’I reply firmly.

  ‘How long did you stay?’

  ‘We had two drinks.’

  ‘Well, it’s good that you didn’t leave after the first drink as you’d threatened,’says my sister, ever the optimist.

  I crush her iota of hope. ‘I was waiting to see if he’d buy me a drink, as I’d got the first round in.’

  ‘Did he?’asks Connie.

  ‘No.’

  We all sigh. None of us can forgive meanness. ‘He talked about his ex-girlfriend a lot – almost as much as he talked about Grimley and Gandor. He’s currently between jobs and thinking of changing direction. He no longer wants to be an insurance broker – he wants to write a novel, although he doesn’t read any current fiction as he thinks it’s all junk. He’s saving money to buy a quad bike, so he’s just moved back in with his mother who cooks the best Sunday roast anyone has ever tasted.’

  The girls look devastated. Connie rallies first. ‘Well, we never expected you to fall in love on the first date. We just have to keep at it.’

  I stare at her with imploring eyes. I wish she’d drop this. I’ve never been convinced that I want to meet anyone anyway. She refuses to acknowledge my silent pleas.

  ‘I think we need to approach this more scientifically. Have you thought of internet dating?’she asks.

  ‘Truly, never,’I reply.

  ‘But it’s the obvious next step,’she insists. ‘Much more controlled. You are able to see a picture of the guy before you commit and you are able to vet interests, etc. You won’t have to waste an evening discovering that he has a passion for quad bikes and an Oedipal complex.’Connie can always make her ideas sound like good ideas, even when they are the opposite. ‘Have you got broadband?’

  I’m tempted to deny it.

  ‘Yes, she has,’says Daisy. ‘She got it to help the boys with their homework.’Traitor.

  Connie clearly has a mental list of sites she wants to take me to, she’s done her research. At first I feel a slight flush of excitement and optimism as the home page shows a number of beautiful couples all smiling adoringly at one another. Maybe it would be nice to meet someone. The couples are eating lobster in candlelit restaurants; they’re flushed with exercise and standing outside ski chalets or picnicking in open fields bursting with poppies; it would take a harder woman than me not to feel squelchy. However, the momentary illusion vanishes when I recognize one of the images.

  ‘Hey, isn’t that the picture they use on that optician’s advert, the one that’s on the side of buses at the moment? It must be a stock shot.’

  Connie ignores me and starts to read aloud from the homepage.

  ‘Find your perfect partner, browse from over two million singles.’

  I don’t think it is a cheering statistic. So many lonely people. Not that I am lonely. I have a full life. But these people must be lonely if they are prepared to put themselves up for public sale (and ridicule). Besides, I’m not good in crowds and two million sounds like a crowded market.

  ‘OK, let’s do a search. You are a woman looking for …’

  I hurriedly grab the mouse from Connie and tick the box ‘Looking for a man’.

  ‘In the age range?’

  ‘Forty to forty-five,’suggests Daisy.

  ‘Too narrow,’says Connie with a tut. She types in 30–50. Once again I lunge for the mouse and click on 35–45.

  ‘I don’t want a pensioner. I’d end up polishing his Zimmer frame, just as the boys get off my hands.’

  ‘Meeting for?’

  ‘Friendship,’I insist.

  ‘And romance,’Daisy and Connie counter. I allow them to click the relevant box. We limit the geographical search and then click the bar labelled ‘Looking for love’.

  It takes a few seconds before a red heart, almost covering the scre
en, pops up announcing:

  Your search of 120 MILES around LONDON for a MAN aged between 35 and 45 has resulted in 489 MATCHES.

  ‘Wow,’says Daisy. ‘So much choice.’

  Only eight matches include pictures. One of them is a picture of Austen Powers, so it doesn’t count. The guy admits to being five foot one, describes his hair as ‘thin’and his figure as ‘stocky’. I think of Peter, tall, dark and handsome, and feel sad.

  Connie scrolls to the next candidate.

  ‘He’s gorgeous,’she says, delightedly. In fairness, candidate number two is very fine-looking. I conclude he must be dull or insolvent because why else would he be using this method to find a date? I read his profile.

  A couple of things about myself: love travelling, B-ing sociable, food out, family and friends are important 2 me, yoga daily, gym B4 work, self employed in media industry, happy 2 go out or stay home, movies, theatre (plays + musical). In winter like 2 ski/snowboard, summer like places that amongst other things have gr8 swimming/beaches (St John USVI), play tennis. Happy with life. happy 2 share. Nearly 4got – I like 2 learn about & drink wine.

  It takes me a moment to decipher the trendy shorthand and get over his appalling grammar. When I do, my first thought is, I don’t believe him. My problem is I can’t remember having that much time to myself and so I struggle with the concept that anyone else has enough leisure time to be this interesting. I don’t dwell on the profile. Frankly, any man who makes daily visits to the gym is going to recoil in horror at my body, which fails to attend the gym so much as annually. I consider myself lucky if I carve out enough ‘me time’to visit the loo daily. Connie must conclude the same, as she points to the picture of guy number three.

  ‘What about him?’

  He doesn’t look like an axe murderer. In fact if he committed a crime he’d be impossible to identify in a line-up because he looks like two-thirds of the male population: five foot ten, short, brown, slightly receding hair, solid but not overweight, with brown eyes. He’s not especially handsome nor is he particularly ugly. He’s bland. Almost invisible. I see why she thinks we might be suited.

  I read his profile. ‘He says that in another life he might have been a golden eagle or Christopher Columbus.’

  ‘Whereas in this life he’s a wanker,’comments Daisy.

  I’m relieved that she’s also offended by his over-inflated ego. The guy simply doesn’t look the type to have discovered continents.

  Connie scours a number of dating sites. I reject sites if registration is free (candidates lack commitment). I reject sites unless photos are included (candidates lack self-confidence). And I reject sites that don’t offer an identification check (candidates lack honesty). She perseveres and finds a fee-paying site with a large number of candidates, with checked IDs, photos and detailed profiles.

  Next, I rule out anyone who has read Harry Potter.

  ‘But you’ve read Harry Potter,’Daisy points out. She sounds ever so slightly weary.

  ‘Yes, to the boys. It’s a kids’book. None of these candidates have kids therefore they must be kids themselves.’

  I rule out anyone who has read Bill Bryson’s Small Island.

  ‘But you liked that too,’argues Connie.

  ‘It’s on ninety per cent of the lists. I want someone a little more independently minded.’

  Connie starts to speed-read the candidates’profiles. ‘Mad on sport, does Iron man triathlon, etc.’

  I stop her there. ‘Next.’

  ‘Would have been Paul McCartney in a past life.’

  ‘Paul McCartney is still alive – you can’t be a reincarnation of someone who is still living. Next.’

  ‘A suitable person would speak English as a first language and would be white.’

  We all gasp at the bigotry and chorus, ‘Next.’

  ‘I’m half Irish, so if you hailed from the Emerald Isle that wouldn’t be a bad thing.’

  ‘Next,’I call.

  ‘Why?’demands Daisy. ‘Mum’s Irish. You fit the profile. Keep reading, Connie.’

  ‘… And solvent in your own right but not a career-minded power-person.’

  ‘Sounds sexist,’I mumble. ‘Next.’

  ‘It is important that you don’t smoke, as it is a rather disgusting habit – if you don’t agree then you’re not for me.’I do agree so I stay silent. ‘Weird body piercing and tattoos are also a big no-no!’

  I don’t have either but am tempted to rush out and have a job lot done. Nipple, tummy button, eyebrow, lip and tongue and that’s just the tattoos.

  ‘He ought to respect freedom of expression. Next.’

  ‘I like to play with computer technology, hi-fi and home theatre.’

  ‘Boring. Next.’

  We continue in this vein for quite some time. I start to clean the boys’trainers while Connie reads the profiles out loud and Daisy assesses my suitability. I interrupt to point out the obvious shortcomings of the candidates. I wonder how long it will take to tire them.

  ‘This one is perfect,’squeals Connie, suddenly. ‘Listen. The candidate will have depth of character.’

  ‘Tick,’says Daisy.

  ‘You must be sociable and enjoy entertaining.’

  ‘Tick.’

  ‘Family and friends are important to you, as I have good relationships with my extended family, friends from childhood, university, etc.’

  ‘Tick.’

  ‘Might speak two languages.’

  ‘Rose speaks three!’cries Daisy excitedly. ‘So double tick.’

  Connie continues to read the liturgy of demands. ‘Overall health is important.’

  I decode. ‘He wants a thin girl.’

  ‘You would enjoy your work or have a passion.’

  ‘I’m passionate about being a mum. But somehow I can’t believe that’s a passion that will pass muster. He’s looking for a woman who runs her own phenomenally successful cottage industry or has an illustrious career in the City.’Anger at his arrogance is blistering and bubbling inside of me.

  ‘We could put him on a shortlist,’suggests Daisy.

  ‘Not if he was the last man on earth.’

  ‘It’s a good thing that populating the planet isn’t dependent on you,’says Connie.

  ‘He’s totally unsuitable.’

  ‘Why? You ticked nearly all of the boxes!’pleads Daisy.

  ‘He’s too demanding.’

  ‘Takes one to know one,’mutters Connie.

  ‘What does that mean?’She nearly always means something, only she doesn’t always say so.

  ‘Well, I just wonder if you should open your mind a little more. You’re being very dismissive.’

  ‘I’m simply being efficient at sorting the wheat from the chaff. A babysitter costs upwards of forty quid a night. I’m not planning on going on countless pointless dates. I can’t afford it.’

  ‘But you are planning on going on the odd date, aren’t you? Besides, I keep telling you I’ll babysit,’says Daisy, reasonably. How is it that on some occasions someone’s reasonableness is just as annoying as anger or unreasonableness? ‘Look, maybe he’s not quite right but there are dozens to choose from,’she says with a patient smile. ‘Don’t any of them appeal?’

  ‘No. They don’t and I can’t imagine who will.’I feel pathetic and past it. ‘You have to go, now,’I say finally.

  I start gathering up coffee cups. They see I’m not kidding and Daisy assembles her bag and coat while Connie scoops Flora into her padded jacket. I bundle them out of my home without much ceremony. I manage to fling a hazy promise to see them soon and I slam the door closed. I turn from the door, lean on it and then slide to the floor.

  It’s too horrible.

  How come Peter walks away from our relationship and ends up with a beautiful new wife, a stunning home and another child? I’m left standing still and alone. I hadn’t felt alone until Connie and Daisy started this campaign of theirs. Now whenever I look in the mirror I see what they see. A forlorn, hopeles
s case. Reading through the profiles of other singletons hasn’t helped me to believe that there’s a great big community out there, just waiting for me to burst on to their scene – it’s left me feeling desolate and inadequate. I wander back into the sitting room. In her haste to leave Connie has failed to close down the computer. I fight the urge to throw my coffee cup at the screen. What would be the point? I’d have to clear up the broken pieces and mop up the dregs. I’d have to buy a replacement computer.

  There is no one to look after me, other than me. What a vile thought. I slump into the computer chair, still warm from Connie, and I fight tears.

  The face on the screen belongs to Chris from SW London. He tells me that:

  It would be good if you wanted to do similar things to me – restaurant, a movie, a walk in the country, stately home, sitting in watching a DVD, touring the UK and Ireland, bbq with friends when our weather allows it, beer gardens in the summer, a drive to the coast.

  It dawns on me – of course I want to do those things with Chris or someone or other. Who doesn’t like movies, walks, beer gardens and drives to the coast? Only lunatics, presumably. But the words on the screen don’t seem real. This guy might be a married man looking for a bit of extracurricular. And even if the words are real and he is telling the truth, how do I make the drives to the coast my reality? I don’t know if Chris is worth that effort or even if I’m capable of that effort.

  Why am I here? Chris asks himself. Good question.

  A recent visit to my 2 year old godson and his parents helped me decide that it’s time to meet someone special. Am now out of sync with my friends who all seem to have got married and have kids. I’ve been too busy working and travelling the world to settle down. An attempt to join the single scene by going out the other night made me feel there has to be a better way than shouting over music in smoky dark bars – I hope this is it.

  Well, I agree with him there.

  A bit about me – lucky enough to have a great family and friends – and a wide range of interests: love exploring new places – whether it’s countries, restaurants or places in the UK and London but also very happy to stay at home to watch a good film with some nice wine. Don’t like snobbery or stuffiness in any form and value honesty, loyalty, humour and those with questioning minds.