Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  ‘Nige,’ I gasped, as the three of us lumbered about the main patch of carpet in a small circle, arms round each other’s necks. ‘The Courts ad!’ As I said it, I realised I was smiling without effort. And, and. His hand was draped heavily on my shoulder, and I wasn’t bothered. This was a great relief to me. I’d felt funny for the last few days.

  The weekend had not been good. I’d missed Nick. The house felt wrong and angry without him. I was hungry, but there was nothing in the fridge, so I ate food you don’t normally eat unless there’s a famine – a can of refried beans, tinned sardines on pasta, a jar of pickled cucumbers. I didn’t feel capable of leaving the premises. When I wasn’t eating processed food, I lay in bed, too heavy of heart and limb to move, quaking at every noise. When the phone rang I jumped but I was too lethargic to answer it. It was all I could do to feed Emily. I sweated a lot but I didn’t wash. Maybe I should have.

  But we’re all allowed an off-weekend, aren’t we? We don’t have to be constantly jetting off to Prague or Barcelona for cultural mini-breaks, squeezing every last brisk minute out of our leisure time and making everyone else feel like sloths. By Monday morning I’d grown so still I could have merely stopped breathing. However. I’d pulled myself back from wherever I’d gone to and had a shower, applied make-up, driven to work. Simple actions that required as much effort as pulling a dead fat man uphill on a rope.

  So. I needed reassurance that I was fine, and here it was.

  Claudia extracted herself from the circle. ‘Hang on,’ she said to Nige. ‘You don’t mean that hyper cheap furniture ad.’

  ‘Oh yes I do!’

  ‘The one set in a sofa showroom?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘With dolly birds draping themselves over the bargain leather?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘And men wandering around with blowdried hair and taupe trousers?’

  ‘Please God by me!’

  ‘Nigel Wilkins, how very naff. I commend you on your lack of class.’

  I giggled. ‘What will you have to do at the audition, Nige?’

  ‘Well.’ Nige dragged his chair into the centre of the room, sat down and crossed his legs. ‘It’s going to be deeply embarrassing. It’ll probably be in a warehouse on an industrial estate. I’ll be in there for two minutes, in front of a camera and a panel of people who’ll require me to make love to a sofa. Or rather, act as if I want to make love to the sofa. I’ll feel like the most enormous fool. Then I’ll have to act like I’m in love with the nest of tables. But dears, it’s money and it’s telly and I want it to be me!’

  ‘You’ve got to practise then,’ I said.

  ‘What!’ Nige couldn’t believe his luck. ‘Now?’

  Usually, I can’t wait to start work. I love the thrill of discovering who’s dropped onto the mat, and the kick I get when something they say clicks and I just sense who to match them with. I even like it when Nige opens what he terms ‘a communiqué from a desperado’ and bellows, ‘Pass me the tongs!’ But right then, I needed to encourage Nige’s good mood in the hope it would be catching. And that meant postponing toil.

  ‘One quick rehearsal,’ I said, ‘then we should get on.’ Claudia nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ said Nige. ‘I’ll have to warm up first though.’

  I’d forgotten this bit. I chewed my pen to keep from snickering. Nige tucked his chair under his desk, bounced to centre stage, rolled up and down his spine, shook out his ankles, breathed deep to open up his resonators, ensuring his vocal passage was free so he could connect with his centre (‘that’s your truth,’ he explained as Claw and I watched, rapt), tried to connect his diaphragm to the roots in his feet (‘for more truth’), allowed the sound to travel up through his spine (‘mmm aaaaaaaaah aaaeeeoooo’), took command of all the vowel sounds, limbered up his tongue by attempting to write his name in the air with it, opened up his range by standing on all fours like a cat, miaowed ‘up and down a wall’ (touching the appropriate body part when he reached the bottom note ‘to focus the sound’), and diligently completed his articulation exercises (‘pepperpot pepperpot pepperpot pepperpot! Many men many men many men many men!’).

  At the end, Claudia and I clapped. Partly to ensure it was the end. I offered Nige my chair – we didn’t have a sofa in the office, the last thing I needed to do with those two was encourage sloth – and he bowed his thanks. Then he pretended to be in love with it. He did a good job. It was an ugly grey chair, one of those orthopaedic contraptions that bullies you into correct posture and spits in the face of style. At one point his lust for that chair was so visceral I looked away. My face screwed up of its own accord.

  I told him afterwards, ‘That was very convincing. Wasn’t it, Claw?’

  ‘Oh yeah. We’ll probably come into the office tomorrow to a family of little chairs.’

  As it was hard to say if she was being sarcastic, Nige was forced to be satisfied. (Although only a standing ovation from Dennis Hopper and Al Pacino could have accomplished that.) Of course, another great swathe of the morning was then frittered fetching celebratory cups of coffee and KitKats and discussing what makes someone a lead, and the method and the breed of actor who, if cast as a murderer, felt obliged to run amok first and kill five people. I was enjoying myself, until I looked at the clock and saw that it was midday.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘That’s it. Come on. Work.’

  Claw and Nige sighed, wiped the crumbs from their mouths and turned to their desks with regret. So did I. I found it hard to concentrate. I hadn’t told them about Nick moving out, not only because it would have meant another bumper round of coffees and KitKats. They’d have demanded an explanation and I didn’t want to explain. Unless the words are already formed in your head, neatly packaged like a false alibi, explanations can drag you down paths you don’t wish to go. Friends ask bold poking questions and trick you into analysing the whys and the hows of your experience.

  I’d patted earth over my experience so I wasn’t going to allow anyone to dig it up. Now and then a rotting claw sprang from the cold earth but I’d stomp it down again. Anything else wasn’t in my best interest. I started going through applications. Funny, how some women in their mid-twenties still write on bunny rabbit notepaper. And I don’t mean Miffy or Hello Kitty (a cat, I know) or any childhood character that could scrape by as ironic kitsch. I mean earnestly sketched brown creatures hopping about a painstakingly drawn forest glade. I suppose it’s acceptable when you’re seven or seventy, but I can’t condone it when favoured by someone in between. It suggests self-delusion on a grand scale.

  That day, I was annoyed by little things. First, the rabbits. Then, two people spelt definitely, ‘definately’. Definite, from the word finite, for goodness’ sake, don’t you know anything?

  And thirdly, I opened a letter from a guy who wrote that he didn’t like people who ‘picked there nose’s’. I took his application and scrunched it up and threw it in the bin. Then I got it out again. He was applying for a date with a girl, not to Oxford University to teach English. Then I threw it back in the bin. I’m sorry but ‘picked there nose’s’ was ignorant. He was stupid. No one has to be stupid. Stupidity is laziness. It’s a refusal to apply yourself, it shows contempt for the rest of the world, it means you’re too complacent to bother employing logic. ‘Picked there nose’s’ betrayed a small-mindedness I couldn’t tolerate. I bet he hated Jews and blacks.

  ‘Darling, darling, untwist your knickers, he’s probably dyslexic,’ said Nige (any other day the first to cast a stone). ‘You know the state of the educational system these days. Aw. Look at this. Do you like dogs? He’s answered “Yes. Jack Russells, Westies, Red Setters. Those baggy Japanese ones.” How darling is that? And, Holly, I can’t believe you missed this. What’s your greatest asset? He’s written, “My dad’s watch”! That’s funny, you’ve got to admit.’

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘Has he put an apostrophe after “Dad”?’

  ‘Oh my d
ear,’ sighed Nige. ‘You really got out of bed on the wrong side. I think I’ll handle this one, if only to shield him from your irrational hatred.’

  My last word was, ‘Just don’t put him with anyone clever.’

  I returned to my pile, frowning. I knew Nige and Claw were exchanging glances and stretching their mouths into shocked shapes behind my back. Fine. Let them. Who was next?

  I scrolled, unamused, through people’s secrets. That day I wasn’t myself. I respect our applicants and I feel humbled by the trust they put in me, Nige and Claw (especially in Nige and Claw). Mostly their quirks go directly to my heart. Our faults are part of what makes us unique. When Nick and I chose the diamond for my engagement ring, I picked an imperfect stone – I think Lavinia, his mother, was secretly appalled, but why would I want a flawless gem, with nothing to distinguish it from any other stone on any other woman’s finger in the whole of the western world?

  I promise to do my best by the clients of Girl Meets Boy, I’m a regular Brownie Guide. So what was wrong with me?

  ‘I’m filling in this form because I’m sick of pulling my mates’ friends,’ wrote one 25-year-old. ‘And I don’t want to approach women at bus stops.’ Marginally endearing, I’d give him that. I read on. What are your bad habits? ‘Thinking it highly amusing to remove my clothes when pissed.’ I made a noise like a horse with dust in its nose.

  ‘Oi, Hol.’ Claudia was clutching the phone and jabbing her finger at the receiver. ‘Gwen Rogers. Reporter. From London Local News. Wants to do a piece on us, film a date night. What do you think? Sounds alright doesn’t it, good publicity?’

  I was pleased to be distracted. ‘Yes. I suppose so. Why don’t you pass her over?’

  I like to give everyone a chance, but I’m wary of the media. It’s like a lion bred in captivity. Presents as big eyed and furry, then you relax and it bites your arm off.

  Gwen was very purry. Still, I wondered if Rogers was a nickname. That said, she seemed to be genuine. She liked the idea that we were modern, a club that cool young things (her words, I assure you) could belong to without feeling like losers, she loved that we weren’t grimly focused on churning out husbands and wives, that we also catered for those who were interested in making new friends or – self-conscious little snigger – landing a shag, and perhaps it reflected on the difficulty that successful, wealthy would I say? young men and women, what with their starry high-flying careers, found meeting people naturally.

  She finished her extremely long sentence and I was still wincing at the word ‘shag’. I was having second thoughts about that particular option. Sure, it cut down on bullshit, but there was no denying it was a bit brothelly. And that wasn’t just me being a prude. Even Claw had reservations. She said she approved of the option ‘in principle’ but hated the way some men rang up wanting to pay for a ‘shag’, adding, ‘Have you got any blonde ones?’ I’d heard her reply, ‘Hang on, I’ll see if there’s any sitting in the window. No. Might I suggest you try Amsterdam?’

  I know this sounds terrible but somehow it seemed better if they put the request in writing. And, before I’m accused of taking sides, it wasn’t as if only the men were interested in pure/impure sex. We had a number of women on our books overjoyed to be able to spell out that yes, they only wanted his body, no, really, thank you for the offer of your personality for the next sixty years, but a few hours of horizontal wrestling was enough, really, see ya.

  I told Gwen that I’d have to check that my clients were happy to be filmed first. If they were, I was sure it wouldn’t be a problem. I know that TV people think everyone is desperate to get on the box (and most of the time they’re right) and I wasn’t about to grovel. Gwen started pushing for how soon I’d get back to her. I told her as soon as I could which, when you think about it, means nothing at all.

  I didn’t have to inform Nige and Claw what I’d said, as they’d earwigged. Nige offered to call a few of the more exhibitionisty women, and Claudia said she’d get on to the appropriate men. So to speak. I think they could tell I was feeling harassed.

  I flicked through the remaining applications in today’s pile. Describe an ideal night out. ‘I just hang with the fellas looking for sweet girl attraction.’

  What? (That wasn’t a question on the form, that was me.) Who, in all seriousness, would say something like that? Who did he think he was, John Travolta?

  It hit me that I had no way of knowing who these people were. They told me what they liked and I had to believe them. For all I knew, Mr Hang with the Fellas was a sadistic killer, and I was about to let him loose on Samantha and Elisabeth. (Although, personally, I doubted that any sadistic killer would be a match for Elisabeth, romantic or otherwise.) It wasn’t good enough. It was irresponsible. I needed back-up. I needed an expert. A professional, qualified in assessing personalities.

  I needed my big sister, clinical psychologist and all-round bossy person, Isabella.

  Chapter 9

  I USED TO have a pathological desire to be friends with the neighbours. They moved in shortly after we did. A neat middle-class couple, he, white-whiskered and benign-looking, and she, prim and well turned out. Very Daily Mail. I was shocked and a little hurt when my attempts at friendship were politely but firmly rebuffed. We trotted out of our front doors at the same time one day, and I said, ‘Hi!’ She visibly recoiled. He smiled tightly and said, ‘Good morning’. Once, they accepted a parcel for me, informing me so with a terse note ‘package, at No. 47’. I rang their bell, brimming with hope, and she handed it over with a nod, opening the door a crack.

  I asked Nick why our neighbours didn’t want to be friends. He looked puzzled. ‘Why would they want to be friends?’

  ‘We’re neighbours,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘Are you from London?’

  At one point, I got quite obsessed by it. It wasn’t like I was after three-course dinners or even coffee mornings, but a chat now and then, a little personal information exchanged, wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe it was us. Didn’t they like us? Were we too young? Not respectable enough? As far as I was concerned, we were dream neighbours. We didn’t play music loud or late, I was always roaring at Nick to turn down the TV, and we confined our screaming rows to those rooms without adjoining walls. I was determined that Next Door would think well of us.

  Now, I didn’t give a rat’s ass.

  I marched up the garden path, eyes down. If one of them came out, I would not say hello, or even smile, I’d show them – I’d nod! I’d give her a dose of her own nodding medicine! They could beg me to be friends with them and I’d refuse. Why, they could be Rose and Fred West for all I knew. I couldn’t believe that I’d been trying to inveigle my way into their affections. I was older and wiser.

  I’d had a gruelling day. After my brainwave, I’d stepped outside and rung Issy on my mobile. She has an office at home and counsels from there. As far as I can tell, she listens to people talk about themselves for fifty minutes then charges them £90. It’s a dream job for her, as she’s very nosy. She employs a nanny three mornings a week for her daughter Eden, aged four, and the rest of the time (not that there’s that much left as she’s at nursery school every afternoon) she looks after Eden herself. I knew she’d love to – and I mean this in the nicest way – escape from the house occasionally.

  Within minutes, Issy had agreed to come in for two hours, two days a week, to profile suspect personalities for me. I paid her normal fee. Also I said she was welcome to bring Eden, we’d play with her and keep her quiet. (Issy’s reply: ‘You have no idea.’) I’d skipped back into the office to break the news to Nige and Claw. Nige was cool. As expected, Claw reacted like a rock star on hearing that no minion was available to cut the crusts off her cucumber sandwiches. It was an outrage, a betrayal, the end of the free world as we knew it . . .

  A small part of me agreed. I don’t know if it’s linked to being the eldest child, but Issy runs the gamut of tyranny. Half the time she’s imperious, treating us like Blackad
der treats Baldrick; the rest of the time she’s sulking because we offended her in our sleep or something. She likes to be the boss, but she also likes to be babied.

  The family had the worst time of it when she was pregnant. Her husband wasn’t allowed to play Dr Dre (too aggressive for the foetus) or Dolly Parton (‘Jolene’ made her weep, as did ‘You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille’). No person was allowed to blow their nose in her presence (this was after a client honked into a tissue during a session and she’d heard a ‘clod of bogey come loose’ – she’d had to run into the hall and retch). Frank’s best friend was banned from their palatial home, because he polluted the house with ‘a male toilet musk’. Claw, apparently, said disgusting things (harming the child with her negative vibes) and I was selfish for not sending Emily to a cattery until the baby was ten. Issy refused to watch any film rated higher than a PG – for instance The Jackal – in case the essence of violence crossed the placenta and the baby grew up to be a serial killer.

  Still, Issy was an excellent psychologist. So she said.

  I unlocked my front door, dropped my bag on the floor. Then I stopped. The radio was on. I had not left the radio on this morning, I knew that. Recently addicted to silence, I hadn’t turned on the radio for five days. I stopped breathing. A quiet shuffle. Someone. In the kitchen. I swallowed. Gasped for air. My eyes seemed to bulge in my head. Nick. It couldn’t be Nick. There’d be more of a trail. My feet didn’t want to move, my hand crept to the latch. And then I thought, No.

  I disagree with people (burglars, basically) who think burgling is a victimless crime. Rachel was robbed a while ago and they stole her grandmother’s jewellery – an ebony and ivory necklace, a diamond brooch, emerald earrings, all antique, but far more precious in sentimental value. The insurance company offered her not quite free reign at H Samuel.