by Adele Parks
Too good to be true. Surely.
If that sounds like you I’d love to meet you!
The house is gleaming. I once read on a fridge magnet that a clean house was the sign of a wasted life and I think the pithy slogan might be true; my ironing basket and life are empty.
The boys take, and then take, and then take some more. They give but they are like cruel dictators, they give at random and unexpected moments and they only allow you to bathe in their love for a few precious moments before they demand again. Yet when they go I’ll have nothing. What sort of life is that?
Blow it. What have I got to lose? A sobering question. I press the reply button and fill out a return profile card.
19
Thursday 28 September
John
I spot her immediately. She’s wearing a long leather coat and boots. They are flat boots, which is a shame, but it’s not a bad look for the school gate. She’s chatting happily with a small gaggle of other mothers and is absentmindedly pushing and pulling her youngest sprog’s stroller. The kid is dressed in a fairy costume and is playing with a soft toy in the shape of a rabbit.
They make an attractive tableau.
As I approach, her kid drops the rabbit and it rolls a metre from the stroller. None of the mothers notices. Opportunity has knocked. I swoop in and retrieve the toy, give it a quick rub and present it, with a flourish, back to the little girl.
Of course, by now, the conversation has drawn to a close and all eyes are on me. Greenie mumbles a thank-you but it’s not what you’d call heartfelt.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?’asks one of the women.
Excepting Greenie, this woman is best in show. She beams at me, which is perhaps a mistake as her teeth are crooked and a bit yellow. Good bod though. She’s in a tracksuit and is clearly a dedicated gym bunny. Decent haircut and colour; she looks expensive and groomed but still not a great beauty. Greenie is also wearing make-up but even without it she could knock spots off the other mother.
‘This is an old colleague of mine, John Harding,’says Greenie, without much enthusiasm. The other women proffer their hands for me to shake; they are notably more eager to engage than Greenie is. They introduce themselves by telling me whose mother they are.
‘Ted’s mum, Year Two.’
‘Clara’s mummy, Year One.’
‘Jake and Josh, reception and Year Two respectively.’
‘Mr Harding isn’t a daddy,’says Greenie. She might think this Mr Harding thing is distancing; personally I’m finding the formality a turn-on and I’m fighting an erection. ‘He’s a pal of Mr Walker’s. Isn’t that right?’
Connie has refused to meet my eye so far. She directs her question to my right shoulder. I see that as a good sign. She’s been thinking about me. The ladies are excited at the idea that Craig has a life outside the school and they start firing questions at me about whether he has a girlfriend or not. They comment that I must have a tale or two to tell them. Before I get a chance to reply fully the conversation turns.
‘Look, they’re coming out,’says Clara’s mummy, Year One.
Connie busies herself waving to her daughter and ignoring me. I lean into her ear and whisper, ‘Will you meet me?’
‘No.’She sounds shocked.
‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘You are six years too late for a chat,’she snaps. This time she does turn to face me. I’m aware that the full force of her fury has yet to be unleashed. I can see she is keeping her disquiet in check. Even that excites me. She really is looking lovely.
‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’I tell her.
‘I realize it’s the first time you’ve ever heard the word from me but you’d be wise to accept it.’
She bends down to kiss her kid. See, I like her sense of humour. Even with a kid hanging round her legs and all her mumsie mates in earshot she couldn’t resist a snappy retort. I’ve always liked that in her. I grin but can’t seem to thaw her.
‘I’m deadly serious. I wish you’d stop hanging around here. If it’s for my benefit, forget it. I don’t want you in my life. Go away,’she says firmly.
With that she pushes the stroller away from the school. Her eldest child looks a bit startled and she is only just managing to keep up with her mum’s determined, long strides. I follow them down the street.
‘There’s a lot that wasn’t said.’I’m forced into skipping alongside her, which looks a bit pathetic but women sometimes go for breathless desperation. It might work.
‘Too much was said,’she mutters grimly.
Or it might not.
I try another tack. ‘Nothing heavy. Just a quick catch-up drink for old times’sake.’She stops abruptly and I think I’ve engaged her but I realize she’s just trying to cross the road. She acts out an elaborate version of the Green Cross Code.
‘You might as well agree, because I’m not going to go away and the other mums will start to talk if I keep turning up at the school gate.’
She glares at me. ‘Why is it that you are only this persistent in the early parts of the game and so distant at the end?’
‘Ah, so we are playing a game again.’I can’t hide my satisfaction at this small victory.
She blushes, it might be embarrassment, it might be anger. Either way it suits her. ‘We most certainly are not. Nor will we ever be. Go away.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘No.’
‘You are a bully.’
‘That’s not true.’
Greenie looks around the street. There are dozens of mums, nannies and even the occasional dad shepherding their children into cars or trying to rush them home on foot. The kids all squirm and wriggle constantly. Their coats hang off their little bodies and some step on their own scarves which trail behind them. It looks exhausting. Greenie seems to be looking for someone to rescue her or at least help her decide what to do next. There’s no one to do that.
‘I’m very persistent,’I remind her. ‘Just one drink. What harm can it do?’
‘None,’she says, looking at me with uncut defiance. ‘You can’t reach me this time.’
Neither of us believes her and she listens as I give her the address of the pub.
20
Wednesday 4 October
Rose
When I heard Chris’s voice on the phone my first thought was that he sounded younger than I was expecting. I didn’t have the nerve to ask him exactly how old he is. I’ve checked back on his profile but he hasn’t revealed his age there either. On the upside he sounded pleasant, polite and well educated. It appears that he comes from a home county but it’s rather difficult to tell people’s origin nowadays. Prep-school boys want to cultivate a street accent; northerners speak in the Queen’s received. We chatted about the weather (understandably, it has been a glorious and mild autumn, it is notable) and we tried to think of somewhere suitable to meet.
He didn’t offer to take me to a movie or a show, it wasn’t the season for a barbecue with friends, and anyway I always feel hungry after barbecues. Both a walk in the country to visit a stately home and cosying up to watch a DVD required more commitment and assurance of intimacy than either of us were prepared to give at this stage – as did touring the UK and Ireland. In the end we settled on meeting in a restaurant. I had seen a photo of Chris online and so there would be no chance of my walking up to the wrong man this time. Chris asked if I would e-mail a recent photo of myself to him and I agreed, even though I had no intention of doing so. I was not prepared to give up the advantage.
We settled on a Thai restaurant in Notting Hill. He suggested an Indian but I didn’t want to turn pink and sweaty at an inconvenient moment. I arrive ten minutes late and spot him immediately. He is seated in the corner; he has a book on the table but he’s not reading it. I boldly stride forth.
‘You look exactly like your photo,’I say.
Chris seems confused for a moment. Unsure of where he is or w
hy. Then he remembers his manners and gets to his feet. He staggers rather than springs. He’s clearly had a glass or two to steady any pre-date nerves.
‘Is that a good thing?’he asks.
‘Certainly.’He’s tall, blond and all his features are set more or less where they should be. He has a big, easy grin which he’s keen to flash. It’s all I require. And more.
‘I never received your picture,’he says.
‘Is that a good thing?’I ask jokily.
He doesn’t reply, but I assume that’s because the waiter is busily taking my coat, encouraging us to sit down and telling us about specials – rather than because he thinks I’m a shocker. I’m rather pleased with how I’m turned out tonight. Not supermodel, I never will be, but I did treat myself to the cerise cardigan in Monsoon and it is quite fetching. The waiter is becoming increasingly irate as we haven’t taken our seats. Thai restaurants are always extremely neat. Chris and I are making things appear untidy.
Chris orders a carafe of wine by shaking an empty one. He must have arrived early. He then sends the waiter away, saying that we need some time before we order. In fact I’d like to order right away. I’ve hardly eaten today. I had genuine first date nerves, which Daisy and Connie were thrilled about. While I still waver about whether or not I want to be out on the scene again, I have felt more comfortable with the idea of dating Chris than I did Kevin. At least I chose to spend time with Chris. The wine arrives and the waiter pours two generous beakers. The glassware is exactly like that used at school when I was a girl, which no doubt is trendy now and I’m simply not in the know. I miss the traditional wineglasses with a delicate stem. Chris has knocked his drink back before I’ve even had time to suggest a toast.
I see.
Chris starts to talk. He’s amusing but not hilarious. His anecdotes are mostly about his amazing group of friends, who really do sound wonderful. From what I glean, each and every one of them is witty, sporty and successful. He tells tales where he appears ridiculous, which is endearing and, in this case, a show of confidence. He even remembers to ask me the odd question and, more often than not, he waits for the answer before he carries on. I have to admit, I’m having a perfectly pleasant time. Chris is amusing and charming. If not a little manic. But, after a while, I find it impossible to ignore the fact that some of the stories don’t quite fit together. I’m not certain of the sequencing of events, or the names of his ‘best friends’; the same name never pops up twice. Besides this, Chris purports to have lived in several foreign countries. If he is to be believed, he must be about ninety-four now.
I think of the empty ironing basket and tell myself I don’t care. So he stretches the truth a bit; the artistic licence no doubt has something to do with the fact that he’s drunk enough to sink a ship. He’s entertaining and I’ve always allowed charming people more liberties than is sensible. However, after forty-five minutes I’m so hungry that the orchid in the vase on the table is beginning to seem a tempting hors d’oeuvre.
‘Should we order?’I suggest. ‘I’ve been watching other diners enjoy their dishes and everything looks mouth-watering.’
‘Can do.’
Chris doesn’t seem to share my keenness for food although he’s clearly partial to the odd glass. He asks for yet another carafe, joking that they appear small (they’re not), and then he orders food for both of us. I don’t tend to object when someone does this, if they are more familiar with the restaurant than I am and have something in particular which they want to recommend. However, Chris’s manner suggests he’s chosen our meals carelessly. He asked for two of the first starters listed on the menu and two of the first main courses. The waiter suggests some accompanying dishes. Chris agrees without thought and, once again, abruptly shoos the man away. I’d like to think it’s because he wants to be alone with me but I’m too much of a realist.
There’s a rare gap in conversation so I take the opportunity to ask, ‘What do you do, Chris?’
‘Do?’
‘For a living.’
‘Oh. This and that,’he replies vaguely.
I’m not the sort of girl to demand a 75K salary from a date but I would rather Chris was a little more specific.
‘Where do you do this and that?’
‘In an office.’
‘Right.’I’m unsure how to probe further without appearing rude.
‘I’m the guy that times the sequences on traffic lights,’says Chris as he pours himself another tumbler of wine. My glass is still full.
‘So you are a town planner. You work for the council?’
‘I suppose,’replies Chris with a shrug and another big smile.
His casual attitude seems a little out of whack with his carefully crafted profile. I wonder if one of his witty friends helped him write it. It doesn’t matter, but I remember that he claimed his reason for not meeting Ms Right was that he was too busy working and travelling, which suggests a more serious approach to his career than the one he’s displaying now. Then again, maybe I’ve projected my ideas on to his profile. He hasn’t lied to me. Chris nods towards my full glass and says, ‘Keep up.’
This conversational track clearly bores him so I try another approach. ‘Have you had much response to your internet ad?’I ask boldly.
‘Quite a lot. You are my third date, Rose.’
‘How am I faring?’I ask with a giggle. As I make the joke, the last thing I expect is a serious response. For a start, Chris hasn’t been serious or considered about anything tonight, and secondly, who would really want to know where they stack up in this type of pageantry. But Chris chooses to take me at my word.
‘You’re doing fine, Rose. You’re a bit uptight, but that’s nerves, right? Nothing that a couple of glasses can’t cure.’I’m beginning to get the sense that Chris thinks there isn’t anything that can’t be cured by a couple of glasses, from common colds to murderous psychotic tendencies. ‘I bet we can have a few laughs. Hey? You’re up for it, aren’t you? I can tell. I’m good at reading people and you strike me as a bit of a goer, underneath it all.’
I want to laugh out loud. Never have I been so badly misjudged. I could take offence, and normally I would, but there is something liberating about Chris’s careless attitude to life and I find I can’t get cross with him.
Chris pours more drinks and starts to entertain me with stories about his last holiday to Canada. The conversation becomes increasingly difficult to follow. I’m no longer certain if Chris went to Canada last month or last year. Or if he travelled with friends or went to visit family. He’s slurring his words and when the food arrives he can’t scoop the rice into his mouth without dropping most of it on his lap. The experience is not dissimilar to eating with the twins.
Eventually he decides that coordinating chat, food and alcohol is too much. He’s finding it difficult to focus on anything – a train of thought or a khao soy. He surrenders.
‘Tell me about yourself, Rose,’he says with another slack and charming smile.
I realize that it hardly matters what I say. The guy is one step away from comatose and not poorer company for the fact. He’s not an aggressive drunk or a violent, obnoxious or angry drunk. He’s more of a sleepy drunk. His eyelids seem to be lead weights. I feel motherly towards him. I also know that our relationship, such as it is, is going nowhere. I’m not planning on seeing Chris again. Although I imagine if I did we could have another perfectly pleasant evening, perhaps even the same perfectly pleasant evening because he is unlikely to remember much about tonight and we could do exactly the same thing all over again. No harm done. But not much progress either. This evening, or a repeat of it, does not take me far enough away from the empty ironing basket.
And isn’t that what it’s all about? Progress. Oughtn’t tonight to be about us getting to know one another a smidgen better? Obviously it’s not going to be. Chris isn’t giving much away, and even if I spilled the entire contents of my heart he would not keep the facts in mind and might very well pass me on the
street tomorrow and fail to recall me at all. He’s clearly a nice enough guy; nice enough for his friends to take the trouble to write a convincing profile and post it on the internet in an attempt to find him someone who’ll care for him. But he’s a drunk, and as such not someone I would ever consider bringing into my life or the life of my boys.
‘Come on, Rose. Don’t hold back on me. Tell me all about yourself.’Chris has a blob of green curry sauce on his chin. It’s a little distracting.
All about me.
‘I’m divorced. I have twin boys, they are seven, eight in December. My husband left when they were fifteen months.’
I normally say my husband and I split up when the boys were…etc. etc. It’s much more sanitized. It doesn’t blame Peter quite so much. But I dispense with the nicety. Chris is too drunk to notice the distinction.
‘Must have been tough,’slurs Chris.
This is the stock response, because of course everyone knows that it’s not an ideal situation. Normally I comment that these things are often for the best and that we are all managing marvellously, that we all get on very well, etc. etc. Tonight I can’t be bothered.
‘Yes,’I admit. ‘It was. It is.’
‘Did he meet someone else?’
Chris asks this question in a way which gives the impression that he could not care less about the answer. No doubt he’s dated a number of divorcees in the past and he knows the script. I find his indifference strangely inviting; less threatening than the probing sincerity of the women who used to invite me for coffee and wave a box of tissues. I felt confiding in them was an imposition. They cared too much.
‘Yes, he did.’
