‘I’m the scheme’s founder and chief mentor. Welcome.’ She offers up her hand and, still seated, I receive a firm but clammy handshake.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ I say.
‘Come in,’ she says, before leading me into a windowless office. As she clears several carrier bags of groceries from the desk, Patricia says, ‘When I say welcome I mean welcome to the rest of your life.’ She gestures for me to sit before doing the same. Patricia rests her elbows on her desk and builds a little steeple with her fingers. ‘What brings you here?’ she asks.
‘Uhm, I guess I’m going through a transition and I need some support to, uhm, support me through this, well, transition.’
‘Quite,’ says Patricia.
‘I’m on my own for the first time in a long time and I need to start bringing in more money. I work part-time because I’ve got a little boy, so I want my work to be flexible. I thought starting a business could make that happen.’ I know starting a business isn’t easy – I watched the whole ugly process up close and personal when Alexander started his design company – but whilst I know it will be hard, life already feels hard, so what’s a little more?
Patricia glances up at the ceiling before pulling a wad of tissues out of her cardigan sleeve and blowing her nose heavily. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘allergies. Anyway, let me tell you some more about me. Three years ago, I had nothing.’ Patricia opens her hands suddenly; I guess in case I’m not sure what ‘nothing’ consists of. ‘Nothing at all except this’ – she taps her head – ‘and this.’ Patricia then places her right hand over her heart. ‘Then I launched and I realized I had this business inside me all along and so do you. So why don’t you tell me about your business plan.’ My armpits prickle. I kind of thought she would be giving the plan to me.
‘Well, it’s not quite outlined yet …’
‘Of course,’ says Patricia. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
‘I guess I want to help people.’ Patricia smiles. ‘People like … women.’
‘It’s an under-resourced market,’ she says. We sit in silence for a couple of seconds, until I understand that Patricia expects me to continue.
‘I want to help women …’
‘A business should always be of service. Help them with what?’
I figure that what I need is probably true of everyone else, so I say, ‘I want to help them meet their ideal partner, if they haven’t already. Which in my experience is rare.’
Patricia chuckles. ‘I hear you, sister,’ she says.
I make my face smile. I think, if I can connect with this woman, with whom I can already tell I have little in common, I can do it with women like me.
‘I’ve been invited to a retreat this weekend,’ I say, ‘and I think I could use the experience to work out how to set up one of my own, or maybe I could do coaching.’
I hope that Tashi can still get me a place on the retreat and that she isn’t suspicious of my sudden turnaround.
Patricia opens a new notebook at the first page. ‘Well, your business plan sounds like a simple subscription model: sign them up and sell them something! And of course the dating arena is ripe for the picking. What’s your social media presence?’
‘Limited,’ I say.
‘That’s no problem,’ says Patricia, scribbling ‘limited’ in the notebook. ‘I can help you develop a really clear company message. I’d suggest you start with your market research and then come back to me and we can pull together your avatar.’ I didn’t even see that film, so I have no idea what she is referring to, but I’m excited I’m winning her over.
‘So, shall we get started?’ asks Patricia.
‘Sure, yes please,’ I say.
‘Yes!’ says Patricia, making a fist.
‘Yes!’ I say with more conviction, but I can’t bring myself to mimic the gesture.
‘OK,’ says Patricia, turning to a desktop computer to her right. ‘I just need to take a few details and then we can get you up and out there.’ She spends a minute or so tapping on the keyboard before telling me, ‘The entire year costs eleven hundred pounds, which is the best value you will find for this level of input.’
I want to pick up my bag and run. I came here with the hope of making money, not losing funds I don’t yet have. ‘I can see some hesitation,’ says Patricia, raising a finger, ‘and let me tell you that’s just because you don’t yet believe in your vision … but you will. Every flight starts with a leap.’ I nod. ‘I can see you still have reservations, so here’s what I’m gonna do for you. If you pay a non-refundable deposit of two hundred pounds today, you can pay the rest off in two instalments. Let me offer you this.’ Patricia places her hands flat on the desk. ‘You can think if you need to but thinking has got you where you are today; wouldn’t it be nice to stop thinking and just feel?’
I’m not sure how much Patricia is right about but she’s right about that. I open my bag and get out an old debit card. As Patricia merrily taps the information into her computer I say a silent prayer to the money gods. The last time I used the card a man called Kalpesh called to tell me that I was in my overdraft’s overdraft, and pretty much implied that if I used it again, the thing would self-destruct.
‘All gone through,’ says Patricia, and I release the breath that I didn’t realize I was holding. ‘Why don’t you go home and email me through a basic business plan and we can start from there.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Oh, of course,’ says Patricia. She roots around in her desk drawer and pulls out a hot pink folder, which she hands to me. The words ‘The Life You Love Starts Today’ are printed on the front.
‘So, I should just go?’
‘Yep, to wherever you feel most inspired. Here’s the thing: it’s really more simple than you think. Every action begins with a thought. Have you ever thought something’ – Patricia clicks her fingers – ‘and just like that it appears, just as you imagined it?’ For the most part I have a thought and the outcome isn’t even in the same family as what I had hoped. I have never imagined something and had it come to pass, until George.
I pop into a coffee shop on the way to work and order a latte with extra foam and expensive syrupy stuff. As I wait, I look around at the other patrons and consider Patricia’s words. To these people there is no reason why I couldn’t be a successful entrepreneur, taking a self-directed break at the start of her amazing day. I decide that if I think it, it is so – what is reality but a construct of the mind?
I walk into the office and straight into Greg. A little of my coffee spills on to his shirt sleeve but he tells me it’s fine as I dab at the stain unsuccessfully with my napkin.
‘How are your teeth?’ he asks when I cease my efforts.
‘My teeth?’ I echo, forgetting momentarily that I fabricated an emergency trip to the dentist in order to meet Patricia. ‘Yeah, good. Great.’ For some reason, I feel guilty lying to Greg. He always looks so earnest. As he smiles at my response, I feel like I’m tainting him with my deceit.
‘You coming to the meeting?’ he asks. I nod. ‘You don’t know what meeting I’m talking about, do you?’
‘Busted,’ I say.
‘It’s the first Christmas party planning committee meeting.’ I wasn’t even planning to attend the party but I let him lead the way to the conference room.
Lisa, an administrator in the training department, is standing authoritatively at the front of the room.
‘Take a seat, Greg,’ she says. ‘We’re just talking about refreshments.’ She says nothing to me. We sit down and Lisa continues, ‘I’m committed to making this the best party we’ve seen in years, so no suggestion is too crazy, guys.’ I look over at Greg but he doesn’t look back at me; he’s watching Lisa with a fierce concentration. I take her in properly for the first time. She has an elaborate braid in her hair and her blue shirt is precisely the same shade as her kitten heels. Everything about her screams enthusiasm. It looks exhausting.
‘Salsa,’ says someone to the
left of me.
‘Great,’ says Lisa, writing the word on a whiteboard behind her. ‘Everyone loves dips and we’ll need something that can last the night.’ She turns back to us, her face flush. ‘Any more?’ The room becomes a cacophony of snack foods; Lisa looks unsettled. ‘Guys! Guys! One at a time, please.’ Her plea goes unheeded; two lads in the customer retainment department start chanting ‘Monster Munch’. Lisa looks a little as if she might cry.
Greg stands up, cups his mouth with his hands and shouts, ‘Oi! Put a lid on it!’ The room falls silent.
‘Thanks, Greg,’ says Lisa. He winks at her in return and she appears flustered. ‘Let’s get into pairs and come up with a bunch of ideas,’ she says. As I turn to tell Greg how stupid it all is, she reaches out to him. ‘Greg, join me.’ He goes to her without even acknowledging me, and then, when I look for someone else to pair with, it seems that everyone has already coupled up. I leave quietly and head to my cubicle. I have bigger things than dip to think about.
Marthashotbod: I’ve just had a really exciting meeting about the new business I’m starting.
Undeterred83: Awesome! What’s the business?
Marthashotbod: I’m working on the vision now so I’ll let you know when I’ve really got it down.
Undeterred83: I’m so impressed by your work ethic, I’d love to start my own thing. Can’t wait to chat to you about it. Only eleven weeks till I’m back on British soil!
Marthashotbod: I know! What’s stopping you? From starting your own thing.
Undeterred83: You always know exactly what to say. There’s nothing stopping me. I had a challenging time a few years ago but I did the work, cut out some shit, started meditating and I feel really confident now.
Marthashotbod: It’s so important to work on yourself. I’m going on a meditation retreat next week.
I’ll confirm with Tashi when she comes in for the evening shift. I won’t mention that when she sent me an email to let me know she had reserved me a place, I sent it to junk.
Undeterred83: Man. I swear you are perfect for me.
I don’t reply because there is nothing more to say. I can’t remember the last time someone wanted me, no strings attached – no trial period, no training necessary.
10
ABOUT ONCE A month I take my mother out for coffee. I think for her it’s a tangible representation of a legitimate mother–daughter relationship and for me I get to have all my wrongdoings outlined in one contained hour. Nine times out of ten she picks a tearoom on the seafront; I think she likes the high footfall. It means she gets to show her friends and acquaintances what a wonderful bond we have and if I’m lucky, after subtracting all the pleasantries she stops to exchange, she only spends ten or twenty minutes engaging with me.
I really don’t mind my mother’s commitment to community cohesion because I love being around her when her attention isn’t focused on me. She’s the sort of person who draws you in from across a room; she just has this wonderful, uplifting presence that makes people (and small dogs) want to be around her. Conversely, ten seconds into any interaction with a new person, I become convinced I have a bogey on my face and then spend the entire conversation focused on how quickly I can get away to rectify this. My extraction is always forced and awkward and more than once it’s been the case that my suspicions have been confirmed.
I suggest that we go and collect Moses from nursery together and stop on the way for a catch-up. In the tearoom, I buy my mother a symbolic slice of chocolate cake. It is symbolic because my mother will not touch it. Ivy Ketch claims to have no prejudices; in fact she is fond of saying, ‘I am against nothing,’ and then pausing to allow any onlookers to glory in her beatific aura. She’s almost right; my mother is against nothing – she is against everything and everyone. There is one thing, however, that she reserves a special kind of hatred for, the kind of disgust that one would usually find aimed at the far right or perpetrators of child abuse: fat. Fat on herself, fat in her line of vision and most of all fat, actual or potential, on her only daughter. My mother’s personal attitude to fat is to head it off at the pass – she eats little and not very often; one of my earliest memories is sitting in a high chair watching her bob along to a callisthenics video. Over the years her methodology may have changed – power walking, aerobics, Zumba – but the aim remains: avoiding fat, avoiding even the merest implication of fat, at all costs.
I always found it slightly odd, this anti-fat stance. She was born into a Jamaican family that was large in all senses of the word. Ample curves weren’t just the norm, they were positively coveted. As a child, one of the places I felt safest was in my grandmother’s tiny kitchen in her retirement flat in south London. She would pile steaming white rice into a bowl before adding a generous knob of butter; this would melt into the grains, creating a satisfying glaze which would coat my lips as I ate. Sometimes my mother would tut as I scraped the bowl clean but my grandmother would simply offer me a refill, to which I always said yes. Partly because, then and now, I exist in a permanent state of hunger, but mostly because I loved to see the joy in her eyes. She would pinch my cheek and say, ‘What a way you fat and roun’ and pretty,’ and her words were like clutching a hot water bottle to my stomach.
Being with Alexander didn’t do a lot to curtail my body issues. He was always very supportive of my endeavours to lose a few pounds but perhaps a little too supportive. He saw my body, obviously – how could he miss it? – but I never got the impression that he held an opinion on it, negative or positive. I’ve noticed it’s become a trend for young women to complain about comments on their figures received from men in the street. I always read another article and think, it’s all right for you with your peachy face and your high breasts, ’cause the thing that no woman ever admits is that they don’t want men to talk about their bodies, but then again they really, really do.
Before James, Leanne briefly dated a guy (the stupid one) who was entirely unsuitable for her. Wally (I never discovered if this was a nickname or his given one) was a walking, breathing stereotype of the British working-class man. He had a job in construction and a potty mouth. Whenever the conversation became too involved he would procure a dirty, crumpled edition of the Sun from somewhere and become immersed in the copy until the discussion returned to safer ground. I didn’t get it; I didn’t want to get it. My friend was bright, refined and disciplined, and he was an oaf. Then one day we were out for a pint and apropos of nothing he said to Leanne, ‘You’ve got such a great arse.’ As I watched her pretend to be embarrassed I understood.
Not for the first time I worry that when George first lays eyes on me, he isn’t going to like what he sees. The only dating advice my mother has ever given me is that ‘men decide with their eyes’; she said this as she gifted me a girdle. Irritated as I was by her crassness at the time (the girdle went directly from the bag to the bin), I have to admit my father, a man whose only passion in life is the dunkability of his evening biscuit, unreservedly adores her. Whatever Mum might say, I don’t think his dedication is based solely on her waistline. I was around ten when I became fully aware of the fact that my parents had a relationship outside of raising me. As much as it grossed me out, I took note of the way my father would kiss my mum as soon as he stepped in the house, before removing his coat; I would see him watching her in crowded rooms, smiling as though he had a secret. Whilst I can’t imagine a life without cake, I would give it up for love like that.
A woman wearing a canary yellow tracksuit stops at our table. ‘Heeeellllo, Ive,’ she coos. ‘That dessert is divine! You’re in for a real treat.’
Mum gives a little laugh. ‘I’m sure,’ she says. ‘We missed you at bums and tums last week.’
‘Oh, I haven’t got time at the minute,’ says the woman. ‘I’m in training for a 5k.’ She bends her arms at the elbow and swings them back and forth by her sides several times.
‘Oh, good for you, honey,’ says Mum. ‘Let me know if you want sponsors or anything.’
‘These people, you’d think she was doing a triathlon – such a bloody fuss. I do 5k round the supermarket.’
‘At least she’s trying,’ I say. I dip my finger into the icing of the slice of cake and pop it in my mouth. Big Bird was right, it is delicious.
‘Barely,’ says Mum, her face briefly contorting in disgust.
‘Well, I’m doing the half-marathon,’ I say. I have no idea why. The closest I’ve ever got to a marathon is watching an entire season of Grey’s Anatomy in one weekend. Then I see my mother’s face; confusion gives way to something approaching pride and I decide that I am doing a half-marathon. I know at least that I want to be the kind of person who does a half-marathon.
‘A project is just what you need! And with all that training, when you see Alexander he won’t know what’s hit him.’ I open my mouth to protest but stop myself; she’s actually right. I can’t wait to feel lean and comment-worthy and accomplished and spiritually superior, but the person I want to impress is not Alexander but George.
11
‘WHAT DO YOU take to a retreat?’ I ask Tashi as I climb into her green Nissan Micra on Friday morning.
‘Just an open heart,’ says Tashi.
‘So, I won’t need my hair straighteners?’
‘No,’ says Tashi, ‘I don’t think so.’
I smack my left hand on the dashboard. ‘Then I’m good to go.’
Tashi tells me she has been meditating twice a day in preparation for the weekend. ‘You have to train your brain,’ she says. ‘Being present is like a muscle. Have you ever meditated before?’
The Single Mum's Wish List Page 7
