You Had Me at Hello

by Mhairi McFarlane

  This doesn’t sound like a ringing commendation to me. Is it positive to praise something as a miniature version of what you’re used to? Unless it’s a bum, I suppose.

  ‘You know Ben’s always gone on about how amazing it was to go to university here …’ she continues. Good for Ben.

  ‘Didsbury is so fab,’ Lucy says.

  ‘It seems to have everything, yeah. We’re going to need to look into schools,’ Olivia adds, coyly.

  ‘Oh, do you have some news?’ Lucy trills, grabbing Olivia’s arm.

  I chew so hard I bite the insides of my cheeks.

  ‘No, just planning ahead,’ Olivia says, casting a look at Ben.

  ‘Awww …’ Lucy coos.

  I feel infinitely sad and already slightly tipsy, a combination that foreshadows disaster. However, I notice Ben also looks like he needs the Heimlich manoeuvre.

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he says to Olivia. ‘A dog will do for now. We’re concentrating on settling in right now, that’s all,’ Ben says, to the table.

  ‘Don’t put it off when you don’t know how long it will take,’ Lucy says. ‘We were trying for how long, with Miles?’

  ‘Eighteen months,’ Matt supplies.

  ‘And that was going at it pretty much every night,’ Lucy adds. I suddenly find the issue of whether this is indeed chicory in my salad absolutely engrossing.

  ‘I read an article in the Mail the other day by some fertility specialist,’ Lucy continues. ‘He said you should have your family completed by thirty-three. How many do you want, Liv?’

  ‘Three. Two girls and a boy.’

  Ben exhales, heavily. ‘You don’t order them from Grattans …’

  ‘And you’re what, thirty-one? You have to get started this instant, right now!’ Lucy says, banging the table and giggling.

  ‘Not right now, one hopes,’ Simon says drily, and I laugh.

  ‘Stop winding her up, Lucy,’ Ben says, with tension in his voice that apparently goes completely unnoticed by Lucy.

  ‘Come on, Ben!’ Lucy wheedles. ‘If the lady wants it, the lady should get it. Titchies are the best fun!’

  I have to look round the room at this for confirmation. She did say ‘titchies’, right?

  ‘Unless you think you’re firing blanks?’ Matt adds, quite seriously, to a this-isn’t-happening face from Ben.

  Wow. Any Matt and Lucy child, I think, must be quite a formula. Matt and Lucy squared.

  ‘He’ll come round,’ Olivia says, patting Ben’s arm.

  Ben looks hunted and takes a swig of his drink.

  ‘What about you, Rachel?’ Olivia says, and all eyes swivel towards me. ‘Do you want kids some day?’

  ‘Uh.’ I have a forkful of green leafy matter stalled halfway to my mouth and I plonk it back down on the edge of my plate, so I don’t look like one of the gorillas in the mist with the vegetation being observed by five Dian Fosseys. ‘It’s not top of my agenda. But, yes. Why not? If I find someone to have them with.’

  There’s an uncomfortable silence: uncomfortable largely due to their matchmaking. I rattle on: ‘And I say, don’t worry about fertility specialists. That’s their job, to tell you to get on and have babies. I’m sure a liver specialist would tell us never to binge drink and heart consultants would say don’t cook with butter.’

  Another clanging silence, even louder than the first. Ben smiles encouragingly. No wonder: I’ve taken his place in the shit.

  ‘You binge drink?’ Matt says, flatly, chasing some rocket round his plate.

  ‘Not – uh. I don’t down bottles of apple Corky’s and urinate on war memorials. I don’t regularly stick to two units at one sitting though. That’s normal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not if you have children,’ Lucy says.

  ‘Of course, sleepless night … and so on,’ I offer.

  ‘And Miles is nearly four now, I don’t want him to be around us, drunk.’

  ‘Well, I should think not,’ I say. ‘At the bottle at his age.’

  Lucy takes it straight, blinking rapidly. ‘He’s weaned and on solids. He’s three.’

  ‘Urm, yeah. I meant …’ I trail off.

  Lucy turns to Olivia and says: ‘Oh my God, I forgot to tell you – we finally got the keys to the villa!’

  She starts rummaging in her bag, producing photographs. Lucy hands them to Olivia and Ben and they make noises of interest and approval. It doesn’t seem as if the photos are going to circulate any further.

  ‘Wrong crowd for that last gag, I’m afraid,’ Simon mutters, topping up my suddenly-nearly-empty wine glass.

  ‘Did I say a bad thing?’ I whisper back.

  ‘Absolutely not. I was waiting for the spotlight to swing round to my sperm motility.’ He looks down. ‘Disaster averted, boys.’

  Suddenly I’m back at school, giggling at the back of the classroom. When our laughter subsides, we see the rest of the table are watching us with interest.

  28

  It’s fair to say that Matt and Lucy win the evening’s competition, hands down. Every subject – work, family, holidays, home – seems to come with right and wrong answers. They quickly realise my answers are duds and lose interest in me. I’ve never been skiing, or fretted about the best miles-per-gallon among station wagons, haven’t eaten at places with a Michelin star, don’t have strong opinions on each party’s tax breaks.

  It’s not so much an air of self-congratulation as a thick smog. Being this acquisitive seems so exhausting. I wonder how this game ends, if they’ll finish up in a retirement home competing for who’s got the biggest necklace alarm.

  I sincerely hope that Lucy and Matt are among the few people Ben and Olivia know up here, and they are therefore making a special effort. All my interactions with Olivia suggest she’s a nice enough person, yet around Lucy she seems to become Lucy-ish. Ben is quiet, maybe even subdued.

  After the main course has been served, eaten and cleared away, I excuse myself to the bathroom.

  ‘Use the downstairs one. Before the kitchen, on your left,’ Olivia says.

  It’s as immaculate as the rest of their residence, and I have a pang about my own homelessness. It’s not Sale any more. It’s not Rupa’s palace either.

  Mid-handwashing with something fragrant from a white china pump dispenser, I’m surprised to overhear a muted conversation between Ben and Olivia. From the clanking, I gather it’s taking place over the dishwasher. Something about the tenor of it tells me they think it’s private. I guess they haven’t worked out their new home’s acoustics yet.

  After some debate over which way the plates are stacked, Olivia hisses: ‘Rachel’s sweet.’

  I freeze, while reaching for the hand towel.

  Ben responds: ‘Yeah, she is.’

  Pause.

  ‘And pretty,’ Olivia adds. Ben makes an equivocal noise. ‘Nondescript was a little harsh.’

  I actually suck in air at this. I look at myself in the mirror. Nondescript, slightly bloodshot eyes in a nondescript face. I think: you asked for this. You went looking for it, you begged for it, you knew it was coming and here it is, and guess what? You hate it. I start mindlessly washing my hands a second time.

  ‘I never notice anyone other than you, darling, you know that,’ Ben says with exaggerated gallantry, and Olivia snorts.

  ‘Simon’s keen,’ she says. ‘That’s going nicely, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, Liv, don’t force it, will you?’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘Rachel’s come out of a long-term relationship, she’s going to be a bit fragile.’

  ‘They were engaged?’

  ‘Yeah. Seriously,’ I hear Ben continue, ‘she was with Rhys ages. She was with him when I knew her.’

  ‘Then maybe a fling is exactly what she needs.’

  ‘Why do women always have to interfere?’

  29

  Two courses down, and the booze has really kicked in. Lucy’s giggling has got louder, Matt’s anecdotes are more ris
qué. Simon’s relaxed but he can hold his drink, so he’s giving nothing away. He watches me as I pick up my napkin, sit down again and refill my glass. I feel so hollow, I want to be full of something – it may as well be drink.

  I catch the tail end of a discussion about the best age to get married. (Is it the age Matt and Lucy were wed, by any chance?)

  ‘Are you anti marriage then?’ Lucy asks Simon, covering her mouth decorously as she hiccups.

  ‘You’re not anti, you just haven’t met the right woman, have you, Simon?’ Olivia says.

  She glances at me – Christ, she’s saying this for my benefit.

  ‘I’m not anti marriage per se, I’m anti most marriages,’ Simon says. ‘I’m anti the reasons people usually get married.’

  ‘True love?’ asks Lucy.

  ‘Most people don’t get married to the person they love the most, they marry whoever they happen to be with when they turn thirty,’ Simon replies. ‘Present company excepted, obviously.’

  Present company excepted is such an elegantly insulting term, I think, given it clearly means present company especially. It’s up there with with all due respect, meaning with no respect whatsoever.

  ‘Listen to this, Simon’s saying everyone marries whoever they’re with at thirty and love’s got nothing to do with it,’ Olivia says, tugging on Ben’s sleeve as he finishes distributing dessert bowls among us and sits down.

  ‘I didn’t say love has nothing to do with it,’ Simon folds his arms. ‘See, this is the problem discussing this with women. They start shrieking. Do most people think, “this person is my destiny” when they tie the knot, or do they think “I can’t be arsed to make the effort to see what else is out there now, the hairline’s on the wane or the waistline’s on the wax, I feel fond, you’ll do?”’

  ‘Even if you have got married thinking that, isn’t it all about whether you’re going to honour your vows?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Hey!’ Olivia play-slaps his arm.

  ‘Of course I’m not saying I did, I’m saying theoretically here your motives matter less than your intentions.’

  ‘All relationships depend on timing,’ I say, careful to look only at Simon.

  ‘Suppose so,’ he says.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Matt says, springing into consultant mode, as if he’s been charged too much by a wholesaler for photocopier ink and is hunting for the flaw in the sums. ‘What’s wrong with settling down without making the effort to “see what else is out there”? How do you know anything better is out there?’

  Simon shrugs. ‘You don’t, if you don’t look. I want the life I choose, instead of letting a life choose me. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t do the “right thing” to reward someone for long service, if you’ve grown out of them. Aim high.’

  Matt’s eyes all but disappear as he squints. ‘Even if you want kids, clock ticking, you throw a stable relationship away …?’

  ‘Stable? Stable is for shelving!’ Simon says, revelling in his role as agent provocateur. Lucy and Matt look horrified.

  ‘But this means you believe in The One?’ Lucy asks, grasping at straws.

  ‘No, dear, I don’t. I’m a hardliner. Or as I like to call it, a grown up.’

  ‘Who’s this lady you’re pursuing if not The One?’ Lucy persists.

  ‘You appear to be confusing a marketing concept for romantic comedies with proven scientific phenomena,’ Simon says, and I start laughing, despite myself.

  ‘What are you sniggering at, Woodford?’ Ben calls, from the other end of the table, forcing me to look at him fully for the first time since ‘nondescript’.

  ‘It’s Simon – he’s so laser-sighted, lawyer snarky.’ I wave my hand: ‘Don’t stop. Sorry. You were saying, “The One”.’

  ‘She doesn’t exist?’ Lucy prompts.

  Simon sighs. ‘There’s a percentage of people on the planet you can be reasonably happy with. The One is in fact one of around six thousand. Then it’s down to who you cross paths with, and when. The period in the middle where you’re in control of your bladder and bowels. Being a member of the point zero zero zero zero whatever per cent club in six billion is still an accolade. Any woman who doesn’t understand that has a poor grasp of mathematics.’

  ‘Or a poor grasp of how lucky she is to be in your six thousand club,’ I say.

  I’m trying to bait Simon. He takes it as collusion.

  ‘Naturally,’ he agrees, and winks.

  I catch Lucy looking revolted, interpreting the exchange as a betrayal of womankind. I get the feeling that quite a lot of things have been flying over her head at a distance that wouldn’t disturb her hairstyle.

  ‘Let’s call time of death on your popularity here, shall we, Simon?’ Ben says.

  ‘You’re a bunch of cynics,’ Simon says. ‘This is actually a rallying cry for romance.’

  ‘I don’t think what you’re describing is romantic,’ Ben says, tartly. ‘Everyone loses their novelty sooner or later. You have a better chance of happiness with someone you know well than an unattainable alternative you’ve put on a pedestal and pursued. Love at first sight and all that stuff is crap. It’s just the thrill of your imagination working on insufficient information. It’s that moment when someone can be anyone. Soon passes. And it’s all the worse because you’ve made disappointment absolutely inevitable.’

  My eyes are inexorably drawn to Ben’s and he feels it, looking away, quickly.

  ‘Having high standards doesn’t mean you’re never pleased, it means you’re rarely pleased, Benji.’ Simon’s voice has become slightly brittle. Now Lucy isn’t the only one with a vague sense of things whizzing over her head.

  I feel pressure to break the ensuing silence.

  ‘Here’s what I don’t get. A marriage where you’re madly in love for as long as it lasts and then go your separate ways is a failed marriage. Yet you can be together for decades and be miserable and it’s officially successful, by virtue of staying put. No one would say someone who was widowed had a failed marriage.’

  ‘Because marriage is supposed to be until death do you part. By definition you’ve failed if you’re apart and both still alive,’ Ben says, looking at me levelly. ‘Or one has killed the other.’

  ‘OK, well … the criteria still shouldn’t be so crude. “Successful for a limited period” instead of failed. And maybe “enduring” would be more appropriate than successful for the ones who are together but aren’t happy.’

  ‘Oh lord,’ Simon says. ‘You’re one of those people who thinks competitive sports should be banned from sports days, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m one of those people who thinks sports days should be banned altogether.’

  ‘Sure you aren’t down on marriage because you’re not getting married any more?’ Lucy says, artlessly revealing ‘nondescript’ wasn’t the only information about me that got bandied.

  This renders me speechless. It’s far too much, even for my blood alcohol level.

  ‘I’m not down on marriage,’ I say, in a small voice.

  ‘Who’s for coffee?’ Ben interrupts, brightly.

  30

  The next day, I have an important and considerably less nerve-shredding social occasion: I’m cooking a roast lunch for my three closest friends. Ordinarily I might regret peeling carrots when I could be getting nicely oiled in a gastropub, yet the dinner party has reminded me how glad I am to have friends who are neither a) Matt or b) Lucy.

  Rupa’s palace appears well equipped at first, largely due to her pristine range cooker. On investigation it turns out this flat is the equivalent of those ultra-sleek modern hotels with nailed-shut cupboards and nowhere to put your sponge bag. Even my ingredients haul from Tesco Metro on the narrow counter makes the place look like a school’s harvest festival. As I sweat over the pans and flap the oven door open and shut and wish the chicken was less my skin tone and more Olivia’s, I reflect on how Ben’s wife floats around on a velvet cloud, rolling on castors. She didn’t break a sweat
serving dinner for six last night, and it was all done with such confident élan. When I cook for people, I nervously watch them start chewing, preparing to apologise. And I can’t possibly accomplish it without stress. (‘Just chuck a rustic bowl of pasta in the middle of the table and invite everyone to dig in, what could be easier?’ THE PUB.) I catch sight of the ghost of my hassled face in Rupa’s glass splash backs and think how Olivia and I are more like different species than members of the same gender.

  Confusingly, Rupa has an extravagant dinner service – white, square, edged in silver leaf – so the table setting is easy, but no utensils, and I left most of mine behind. When Caroline arrives, I have to rush back to stir the carrots with a bread knife and check the chicken’s firmness with a chopstick.

  ‘It’s fascinating to see a consummate professional at work in their natural habitat,’ she says. ‘Like a Heston Blumenthal gastronomic laboratory. Look! A foam!’

  I catch a pan just as it boils over.

  ‘Ungrateful bitch!’

  ‘Haha. Are we waiting to see if Ivor’s wearing that ridiculous train driver hat so you have something to serve the mash in?’

  She gives an evil cackle and grabs an olive from the dish on the counter, an unstoned Queen Green disappearing inside the sticky oval of her lip-glossed mouth. You know how everyone wears less constrictive trousers and a greasy ponytail on a Sunday, among their nearest and dearest? Not Caroline.

  ‘Cheers,’ Caroline says, holding up her wine and taking a deep swig. ‘Oh, it’s nice to get out of the house.’

  She closes her eyes, leaning back.

  ‘Graeme could’ve come too,’ I say, secretly glad he hasn’t. He’s always restless, off home turf. He’d be prowling around inspecting the fittings and finding fault. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Graeme, as such, and obviously he’s a great fit with Caroline. He’s just a fit with all the parts of her that are most unlike me. We survey our mutual roles in Caroline’s life with a kind of benign befuddlement as to what she sees in the other.