The Single Mum's Wish List

by Charlene Allcott

  ‘He’s the best guy,’ I say, and I mean it. Her body relaxes and she lets out a pretty laugh.

  ‘I know he’s not the tallest but he’s so funny and, I don’t know, he’s sorta got something about him. He’s really kind, you know.’ I do know this and I feel embarrassed because I realize that, in a vague, unformed way, I had believed his kindness had been inspired by me.

  ‘He’s tall enough,’ I say, a bit offended on Greg’s behalf. Lisa smiles.

  ‘I guess so. I mean, I usually wear flats so it’d be OK.’ Even in her kitten heels, the top of Lisa’s head only reaches my nose. I don’t know why she would want a tall guy. What exactly would she do with all those extra inches? Put them into storage? Share them with her friends? Lisa’s response is jarring; I didn’t intend to communicate that he was tall enough for her – I meant tall enough for someone, tall enough for anyone – but I can tell that my throwaway comment has greenlit whatever fantasy Lisa has been concocting in her head.

  ‘OK, thanks then,’ says Lisa, and then she turns to start tidying the room, carefully collecting abandoned pieces of paper with sketches of sombreros and lists such as ‘Best Cheeses’. I don’t say anything to her before leaving, which is my way of expressing disapproval, but by the time I reach my desk I worry that leaving without speaking might be like a disgruntled customer not leaving a tip. The waiter doesn’t understand you’re unhappy, they just think that you’re a twat.

  Greg is packing up and doesn’t stop as he says, ‘The theme is definitely not cultural sensitivity, then?’

  I laugh and feel a rush of relief. ‘You know what’s really awkward?’

  Greg looks up. His face is eager and I wait a beat, so I can enjoy this.

  ‘Lisa just asked me if you’re single.’

  Greg’s eyes widen for a second and then he does a little swaggery jig. ‘Still got it,’ he says in an American accent. He returns to packing his bag with no further comment and I worry that I’ve made a faux pas by informing him of Lisa’s crush.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you or anything.’

  Greg removes his jacket from the back of his chair and slips it on. ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Why would I be embarrassed? Lisa’s a cracker.’ He grabs his backpack and swings it over one shoulder.

  ‘Catch you soon, amigo,’ he says with a chuckle.

  ‘Bye,’ I say, and then watch him walk away, his bag bouncing with every step.

  8) Has to be tall.

  Lisa’s comment about Greg’s height makes me think that it might be wrong to have a personal requirement based on physicality but then I recall a string of messages in which I asked George to describe himself and he told me he is tall, so tall he rarely fits completely on a standard-sized bed, and he told me that he had been on the rowing team at university and that the discipline had left him with defined arms, even though he no longer found the time to train that much. I could not resist – although I admit I did not try – imagining myself being enveloped by him, for once feeling dainty and for ever feeling protected.

  Rather than getting ready to leave work myself, I message George.

  Marthashotbod: I can’t wait to feel your arms around me.

  Undeterred83: Be careful what you wish for. Once I get hold of you I might not let go.

  To myself I say, ‘I think I’d like that,’ but I reply:

  Marthashotbod: What’re you up to?

  Undeterred83: Setting up camp. Climbed a mountain today. The altitude effect is crazy.

  What’s crazy is that he climbed a mountain. For fun.

  Marthashotbod: Mountain?! That’s awesome.

  Undeterred83: Maybe we can bag a peak together some day. I love Grasmoor.

  Marthashotbod: Sure.

  And I feel, as I often do when I interact with George, a sense of optimism that makes me a little breathless. He is healthy! He is mountain-climbing healthy, which by my standards is exceptionally healthy. The idea of hiking and climbing and exploring with him is wonderful in theory, although it doesn’t jibe with my lifestyle to date. When I wrote the guidelines I failed to take into account that a successful, tall, exceptionally healthy man may want a mate who matches that. It doesn’t seem fair to offer this perfect specimen of a man a woman made of poorly stitched together scraps. I want him to meet someone whole and happy, someone who deserves to be his equal.

  Even though I’m getting concerned looks from the rest of my shift teammates, who are racing to the exit, I remain at my desk and pull the list from my bag. I can recite it from memory but I read it again and then I turn it over and start another list on the back. A list of what he might want, but more importantly a list of what I want – for me.

  1)Must be healthy in mind and body and have an outside form that is representative of her inner worth.

  2)Has plans and ambitions and must be taking steps to ensure they are achieved.

  3)Always bold, assertive and unwilling to accept bullshit in any of its presented forms.

  4)Speaks French.

  I cross out the last one. Even a woman with ambition can’t commit to learning French in a few weeks. I feel like I should write more, create a list for myself that equals the one I have outlined for my mate, but it’s so much harder doing it for yourself. Still, I like this girl I’ve described. And I know that a girl like her wouldn’t slug home and watch two episodes of Hollyoaks and feel sorry for herself. She would play with her son, eat dinner with her loved ones, go for a run and reward herself with a long bath. So that’s what I choose to do.

  21

  IT CLEARS MY head hearing the thump of my feet on the pavement. I can’t really think about anything except the burning in my throat and that comes as a bizarre reprieve. I feel a bit of empathy for the crazies I met at the retreat; pain is a short holiday from the incessant whirring of my mind.

  When I get home and go inside, I fall back against the front door and wait for my legs to remember what they’re for. Mum pokes her head around the living room door and eyes me with a mixture of suspicion and contempt. ‘Be quiet,’ she hisses, ‘you’ll wake Moses.’ Any warmth created by our family dinner earlier flies out of the building.

  ‘He’s my son,’ I remind her firmly, assertively, ‘I know what level of noise would wake him.’ Mum retreats without comment. I slowly climb the stairs to take my bath and I hear Moses making the low groaning sound that’s usually a prelude to crying. I swear under my breath and creep into his room. His blanket has been kicked from his body. His eyes are closed but he is twisting his head from side to side; he’s on the edge of awakening but putting up an admirable fight. I carefully place my hand on his chest and start to sing, slow and very low. It’s a Stevie Wonder song that I have used as a lullaby since Moses was safe in my belly and would keep me up with his nocturnal disco dancing. After a few bars I can feel his breathing start to slow and then return to his little snorting snores.

  As I take off my clothes, I catch myself in the mirror. I have a body that would be aptly described as sturdy. It would probably be good for living on a farm in 1923 but it doesn’t fit with any modern-day goals of womanhood. After I had Moses my body didn’t, as they say, ‘bounce back’ – my stomach hangs lazily over the waistband of my pants and my breasts have been left sad and empty. Exercise is several steps in the right direction but, obviously, I have to go on a diet. I have a gig, an ex’s engagement party and a real-life date with the love of my life to prepare for.

  Diets and I have a weird relationship; we’re sort of frenemies. I hate them, I talk endlessly about removing them from my life, but then as soon as I’m in trouble I run right back to them. I have been on various iterations of the following diets: low calorie, low sugar, low fat, low carbs, no carbs, no meat, no wheat, no dairy, no food, no fun. I have failed at them all, evidenced by the fact that I have to keep going on a new one. This time will be the last time, though; I’m ready to start a new life at a new weight. I think in the past it wasn’t that I didn’t have the right d
iet, but the right motivation.

  After my bath I write out a diet plan of one thousand calories a day. It includes a couple of treats a week but most of the good stuff has been removed. I kind of like that, though; I don’t deserve good stuff right now. I never understand it when people try to sell diets by saying they don’t feel like a diet. I think the punishment is part of the process. If I don’t feel like I can never go through this again and want to die, what will prevent me from putting on all the weight again? When I’m done, I feel a bit more at peace. I have a plan for my body, for my life and for love.

  I gather a family bag of crisps, two Kit Kats, a slice of Victoria sponge cake and a bottle of pinot grigio, because before every diet there must be a really big blowout. You have to eat so much of the wrong kind of stuff that when you wake up in the morning you don’t actually want to eat again anyway. As I work my way through my stash, I do what I always do – I revisit all my Facebook photos, analysing my body throughout the years. There’s a period in 2012 when I definitely look a lot thinner than I thought I did. As I scroll I get a message from George.

  Undeterred83: I’m bored. Entertain me.

  I pour myself another glass of wine before replying.

  Marthashotbod: How can you be bored, you’re in Africa.

  Undeterred83: I’m bored because I don’t have you.

  Marthashotbod: Good point. What are you doing?

  Undeterred83: Nothing. In my cabin, having a beer. What you wearing?

  There it is. The text message that every guy sends at some point and every girl, depending on how drunk or horny or needy she is, can choose to embrace or ignore.

  Marthashotbod: Wouldn’t you like to know?

  Undeterred83: I would actually. That’s why I asked.

  I am wearing a pair of my dad’s old pyjamas. The elastic is all but gone from the waistband, which is partly why they were chosen.

  Marthashotbod: Knickers. Black ones.

  Undeterred83: And?

  Marthashotbod: A smile.

  Undeterred83: Awesome.

  I relax now as I realize there isn’t much to this sexting business, just suggesting you’re semi-naked and up for it. Alexander and I started dating at a time when mobile phones were basically a tool for logistics and not the actual method of dating.

  Marthashotbod: What are you wearing?

  Undeterred83: Cargo shorts. I’d rather be wearing you though.

  OK, I recognize this juncture. This also happens in the physical realm. The moment when the man tries to push his luck and the woman grants or denies him access, a dance performed since the dawn of time.

  Marthashotbod: I have a feeling you would wear me well.

  Access granted.

  Undeterred83: I would. I would wear you out.

  Marthashotbod: How long would that take?

  Undeterred83: As long as you needed.

  I unwrap a Kit Kat whilst I think about my reply. It could be a good opportunity to educate him, but if the universe has listened he won’t need direction and men hate being told what to do in bed. I eat a finger of chocolate to see if the sugar helps to kickstart my creativity, and he writes:

  Undeterred83: And as long as you needed again.

  OK, that works for me. To the point, without being totally, obnoxiously obvious about it. There was a guy in my university halls like that; we called him the cheerleader because he would announce every act as if you both hadn’t just been there to experience it – ‘Yeah, grab my arse! Whoo, condom on!’ I lick some chocolate off my fingers before typing:

  Marthashotbod: I can’t wait to get you out of those shorts.

  Undeterred83: You can’t! I can’t wait, I think you’re lucky I’m not there now.

  Marthashotbod: Not long to wait though.

  Undeterred83: Too long, please let me have a preview.

  And here we have it: the question every girl must also answer. To send pictures or not to send pictures? I’ve heard all the horror stories and I know all the rules – no identifying features, nothing too graphic – but still, I’ve never sent a risqué picture to a guy, not even Alexander. The concept doesn’t offend me; I get it – the teasing, the anticipation. It’s like how I sometimes look up a restaurant’s menu online and choose what I want to eat the day before I visit. What scares me is offering a guy solid, undeniable evidence of my flaws, something he can refer back to. The mind is fluid and creative; it will airbrush cellulite and stretch marks from a memory. A picture does not lie.

  Everything with George feels like an adventure, though. I get the sense that if I do everything differently maybe this time will be different. I take off the pyjamas and then wrap myself in a bath towel. I take twenty-four different pictures of myself lying across the bed. It takes me quite a few minutes to find one that has enough skin showing to be considered sexual, if not sexy, which also hides enough of my body for me to feel OK sending it. Once I have selected the shot, I crop and edit it to the point where I can almost look at it comfortably, and then I send it before I lose my nerve. George doesn’t reply for four terrifying minutes but when he does he says the only thing I wanted to hear.

  Undeterred83: Wow.

  22

  AFTER THE ENGAGEMENT invitation from Tom, I have been avoiding my emails, which is why I missed three from Patricia. Three on top of the two I had previously ignored. When I still don’t respond, she switches her weapon of choice to the phone and I slip up one morning when I answer a call from a withheld number.

  ‘I’ll assume that it’s because you’re off living your best life that you haven’t been in touch,’ says Patricia. Her tone is curt, rather than full of its usual frothy exuberance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘my kid’s been sick.’

  ‘Kids get sick all the time,’ she says. ‘The world of business doesn’t stop for a head cold.’ I tell her I’ll be in to see her as soon as I can. I take the folder she gave me and also a leather-bound notebook I bought to fill with all my business ideas, which both remain empty.

  When I arrive at her office Patricia starts speaking before I even sit down. ‘You’re late on your next instalment, so I’m sorry but I’ll have to charge you a fee,’ she says. When she says this she does actually sound sorry, as if she has no control over the appearance of this fee; the fee, capable of independent thought, has simply turned up, determined to ruin my day.

  ‘I guess I’ve spent longer on the research period than I thought I would.’

  ‘OK,’ says Patricia, the bounciness back in her voice, ‘what have you got so far?’

  I fumble with the hem of my T-shirt. ‘I guess I’m not much further than where I was.’

  ‘Right. Let me just pull up your details.’ Patricia taps briskly on her keyboard. ‘OK, you want to set up a support service for lonely women.’

  I wince. ‘I want to help women. I guess I want to support women to find something better than they have had in the past.’

  Patricia types as I speak. She hits the ‘enter’ button with a flourish and then turns back to me. ‘And what experience do you have of this?’

  ‘Of what?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, what have you experienced in past relationships?’ This is the big question; moving forward is not just having a list of what you want but having a sackful of non-negotiables too, all the things you will never again tolerate.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. Patricia looks confused. ‘I mean, no passion, no joy. A relationship should be two amazing people coming together to become two really amazing people together. In my past relationship it was like two average people coming together and making the other less than average.’

  Patricia nods slowly. ‘So you’re saying you have to work on yourself before you commit to a relationship?’

  Am I saying that? ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  Patricia takes off her glasses and smiles at me conspiratorially. ‘Let me tell you a little secret. My partner, Phil, adores me.’ As Patricia says the word ‘adores’, she elongates its vowels and r
olls her eyes. ‘I mean, he literally worships the ground I walk on. That definitely happened because I had my house in order before I took up with him.’ I glance down at Patricia’s chest. On her red blouse is a small stain, toothpaste I think. ‘Also, he gets a bit of the other, whenever he wants. No questions asked.’ I have questions, but this is not the time. ‘So, tell me about your current relationship,’ says Patricia.

  ‘I’m not in a relationship right now.’ I think of George. ‘Not quite.’

  Patricia puts her glasses back on. ‘Well, this is a problem,’ she says. ‘How can you educate others on something you have not done yourself? I mean, where’s your test model?’

  ‘That makes sense,’ I say. I feel a familiar hot sensation behind my eyes, and noticing what is threatening to occur, Patricia hands me a couple of tissues from her sleeve. I take them and dab at my eyes before blinking a few times to try and stem the flow.

  ‘Listen, this is what I’ll do,’ says Patricia. ‘Just get me this instalment and I’ll put your account on pause. You need to invest in yourself right now. Get some therapy, get a bit of a makeover, find your dream guy and then teach other women how to do it.’ Patricia is smiling and nodding as if this is the most revolutionary idea ever conceived.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve already tried therapy …’ I say.

  ‘OK, I see what’s happening here: you need a clear-out. A soul clear-out. You can’t become the phenomenal businesswoman I know you can be without saying cheerio to this scared little creature.’ As Patricia says this she waves her hand in my direction. I think the comment is sort of mean but I’m pleased that she referred to me as little. ‘Let’s go on a field trip – this one’s on the house.’

  Patricia takes a minute to pack her belongings into a vast tapestry bag and apply another layer of lime green eyeshadow. She leads me out on to the main road and sets off purposefully.