Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  Rachel seemed self-contained and serene, like a contented cat. She was a person who sailed through life, success came to her, she attracted it. Not like me, I had to work for it. Don’t get me wrong, I liked working for it. Until recently. But now, in this slump, I yearned for ease. I was in that state of mind where you buy a lottery ticket because you want everything for nothing. Where you drive through a wealthy area and you look at the mansions and you don’t think about people slaving for years to make their fortunes, you think, lucky, lucky, lucky. I felt that nothing good would ever happen to me again.

  Emily chose this moment to weave around my ankles, and I thought about Issy’s cool clinical explanation of why I liked cats. Apparently it was nothing more than what psychologists call ‘projection’, we see our vulnerable selves in these helpless dumb animals (although that’s not how I prefer to describe myself or Emily, and I’d also like to think my dental hygiene is a cut above hers). So much for empathy, compassion, no, no, in the end it was all about me, the only reason anyone ever bothered to like anyone. I didn’t want to think like Issy, but for the first time in my life I was cursed to see that people were obsessed with themselves. It was a feat to get them to listen to you, let alone hear you. Rachel was far too entangled in her own dramas to sense mine.

  But oddly, I was almost grateful. Her composed presence, after the corrosive loneliness of the weekend, was soothing. The smell of her Clarins Eau Dynamisante, the confident ring of her smart voice, it was a cocoon around me. She applauded when I said that Nick had finally gone and when I looked like I wasn’t sure I agreed with her, her tone dipped in sympathy. ‘It’s rough on you, babes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. You loved each other very much.’

  Hearing this from Rachel made me want to cry. It’s hard to bear kindness from someone harsh, because it makes you realise that you must be in a sorry state indeed. I nodded, dumbly.

  ‘But babes, he was holding you back, and you knew that. You weren’t happy. Nick is a selfish boy and he’ll never change. He has it all on a plate, why should he? But it’s wretched, letting go. You must think that this is short-term pain for long-term gain. And don’t forget’ – her voice rose to a teasing lilt – ‘Stuart is waiting in the wings.’

  I shuddered without even trying. All the same, I appreciated the fact that Rachel didn’t interpret what I said (I had enough of that from Issy). It was one of the reasons I liked her. She was immoral and outrageous and opinionated but – though she kept it quiet – she had a kind soul. I should give you an example or you won’t believe me. Well. She once had a spectacular row with Claudia, because Claudia went out with a homeless man and let him pay.

  Every evening, on the way home from work, Claudia would pass this guy selling the Big Issue. She’d always say hello. Some days she’d stop and have a chat. She discovered that the man, in his early thirties, had been an engineer. But after a divorce he’d lost his home and his job. His name was Ted, he was now staying at a hostel. She told him a few horror stories about working as an estate agent, and they laughed. Then Ted asked if she’d like to go to a comedy night with him. Claudia hesitated. Then she thought, if the only reason I’d say no is because this man is homeless, I am shallow and should be ashamed. So she said yes. The comedy night cost £8 for two tickets and Claudia was aghast when Ted pulled out a tenner. She argued, but he insisted. She decided that to argue further would offend him. But she was so embarrassed, the next evening she took another route home and never saw him again.

  ‘That,’ Rachel had bellowed across the pub, ‘is outrageous behaviour!’ Claudia should have bought ‘the magazine’ but ‘kept her distance’. At a stretch, she could have bought ‘the poor bloke’ a sandwich, but to ‘lead him on – I mean, would you have slept with him?’ – was a ‘dreadful’ thing to do. She was appalled that Claudia had ‘taken his money’. Claudia became enraged, comparing Rachel to Margaret Thatcher, Marie Antoinette and, inexplicably, the Taliban. Claudia said this was typical of Rachel, denying less fortunate people their self-respect, thinking she knew what was best for them, assuming they were stupid – how did she know what kind of sandwich Ted liked? Far better to give him money and let him buy his own sandwich. ‘He’d spend it on drink,’ said Rachel. ‘And anyway, you didn’t give him money. You took it from him and then you were so ashamed you ran away. And he knew that. You’re a hypocrite, babes. Poor bloke.’

  There was a core of humanity in there somewhere. Even if you had to know what you were looking for. Even if, when Gloria spilt the tea over her lap, it wasn’t particularly apparent. I was so busy trying to eliminate the tannin stain on Rachel’s skirt, it didn’t occur to me to wonder why she was so vehement in assigning blame to ‘the girl’ in my story. Of course, later, I realised that no one likes to think what happened to the girl could happen to them. The safest, the most reassuring thing to think, is it must only happen to stupid women who ask for it. That’s what I thought too. Which meant I couldn’t have been.

  Chapter 11

  CONSIDERING THAT THE ‘careers adviser’ at my school had only ever heard of three careers (law, accountancy and the police force), it’s a wonder that I ended up doing what I do. It’s hard to choose a job that you don’t know exists. I fell into it by chance.

  Before setting up the agency, I worked for an independent publisher. I started out as tea girl and made enough of a nuisance of myself to end up editing romantic novels. I spent my days with the likes of the Count Von Sarsparillo, his craggy jaw, his dark flashing eyes, his brooding castle in Monte Carlo, his Lamborghini Diablo, his throbbing manhood, his fiery Latin temper, his many kindnesses to small animals and poor people – no wonder that coming home to Nick became a bit of a let-down. There was, for instance, no way Sarsparillo would ever wander the house with a pee stain on his jeans. It was doubtful he even peed.

  Anyhow – it must have been about two years ago now – Rachel and I were discussing Summer of the Dark Count. She said it was tiresome to read about the likes of Von Sarsparillo because if you ever did meet a Count, he was fifty-five and short with a flabby chin and insufferable personality. Remove the first vowel from Count to describe him perfectly. Rachel organised parties and yet she found it hard to meet men. None ever turned up alone, they were always superglued to a blonde. She’d exhausted all her friends’ friends, there was no one left. Only fools and drunks approached you at clubs, and frankly, she was no longer prepared to spend her precious leisure time in a hot cramped basement on the remote chance that Mr Wonderful would bowl into it and – on the even more remote chance – take a shine to her. What was one meant to do, put an ad in The Lady?

  That was when I got the only great idea I’ve ever got in my life. I squashed it down, I knew nothing about starting a business and possibly even less about dating. But the idea wouldn’t go away. And I kept thinking, take a risk. If there was one thing I was not brought up to do, it was to take risks. My parents are the most cautious people I know. But I told Claudia and Rachel and they loved it. Rachel, who has more knowledge of the media than I do, suggested we send out a press release announcing the launch of the first twenty-first-century dating agency and await a response.

  Rachel helped me write it, then suggested four journalists to send it to. All rang back within two hours. Rachel nearly passed out, then changed her mind and gave me the number for Companies House. ‘Holly,’ she said. ‘Action it. My God, you can’t lose. Your initial outlay is going to be about a grand on office rent and stationery. A couple of grand at the most – it’s laughable – the press seem happy to do all your publicity for you. Marketing will be your only major expense. You have a winner.’

  That day seemed a very long time ago.

  The next morning – Nick had been gone for five days and counting – I thanked Rachel for staying over and offered to pay to have her tea-stained skirt dry cleaned. (Gloria hadn’t offered.) But my mind was elsewhere. Tonight was Date Night and we were barely organised. I should have prepared a printed list of every Girl Meets Bo
y member attending that evening and who we were matching them with. I should have called everyone again, to see how they were and to check that they were still coming. I should have sent a VAT cheque to HM Customs and Excise, I should have spoken to my accountant . . .

  I hadn’t. I’d been too busy thinking about Nick. Running old tape of our relationship was the only thing that dragged me out of myself. Even the warning signs made me smile – me shouting at him to put his plate in the dishwasher, and him saying, ‘You’re horrible – “Nick! Nick! Nick! Nick!” I’m going to change my name and not tell you!’ Now I found this funny. Odd, how I was more lenient in hindsight.

  I poddled into the office, assumed a smile for the troops’ sake – apparently, you can smile or frown yourself into a good or bad mood if you can be bothered – then smiled for real on seeing Issy. She was sitting at my desk in a blue suit, flicking through the confidential files. Her legs were crossed and she was jangling her left foot. After turning a page, she’d brush her fingers together as if ridding them of dirt. Occasionally, she’d make a note in a large orange notebook. Claudia scowled at me, kept plaiting her hair. Nige was reading The Stage.

  ‘Issy,’ I cried. ‘Welcome!’

  Issy swivelled. ‘Holly, I’m surprised. What time do you call this?’

  Claudia glared at me from behind Issy’s back. Then, in case I hadn’t got it, scrawled ‘told you’ on a piece of A4 and held it up.

  I beamed. Issy doesn’t frighten me. Her bullying ceased to have an effect when I turned, let’s see now, twenty-seven. ‘Looks like ten past ten, to me,’ I replied. ‘Why, what do you make it?’

  ‘Holly,’ said Issy, rising from the chair so that I couldn’t look down on her. ‘If we’re to work together, I need to set a few ground rules. I’m here for two hours, and I expect you to be here for the duration, otherwise it is not an effective use of my time.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, before she could get up to speed. ‘Nige, your turn to get in the coffees. We’ll have a meeting at half past.’

  ‘Tea for me, Nigel. Lots of milk, no sugar.’

  ‘You don’t drink tea!’ cried Claudia. ‘You’re just saying that to be difficult!’

  ‘Oh grow up,’ replied Issy, which is what she always says to Claudia when Claudia is right.

  I blocked out the lot of them, and riffled through my rough notes for that evening. Date Nights are a miracle of organisation. Even if I had rung each member to re-check their availability, I couldn’t be sure they’d actually turn up unless I rang them again three minutes before they were actually due. Everyone is so impressive there’s no telling if they’ll be whisked off to Rome or New York for business at a moment’s notice.

  Each person is given a card, and assigned four twenty-five minute dates, as I think I’ve mentioned. That night, we were expecting twenty people. Four of them were on second dates, which means that the previous week they’d both ticked the same box, indicating that they’d like to meet up again and hoped to be more than friends.

  Usually it’s all I can do to stop myself crying with joy. I feel like a mother hen whose chicks are all grown up. You look at the quiet signs of their delight and you feel it in your heart. On those nights I feel so exhilarated I end up lying awake till four in the morning grinning and – not crying, that’s too dramatic – eye leaking at the ceiling.

  But that day I was unmoved. Except that my stomach lurched every time I thought of my women going off into the night with strange men. Although, and I had to remember this, they weren’t strange men. They were lovely men, like Bernard. The mainstay of Bernard’s letter to Girl Meets Boy was the country cottage he owned in ‘rural Devon’. And the boast that he’d recently taken up cricket. I’d winced, but the next line had torn my heart as if it were a tissue. ‘I have never,’ he wrote, ‘really found that special someone with whom to enjoy life’s ups and downs.’

  ‘Nige,’ Claw had said, nodding at me, ‘Kleenex alert. Holly’s got a saddo.’

  This double indignity had forced me to cease grizzling, for two reasons. First, it’s humiliating to be read like a picture book, and second, it would have alerted the guards further to the fact that Bernard was – I object to the word ‘saddo’ – not strictly Girl Meets Boy material. He was a little elderly, at forty. Our cut-off line was thirty-eight. But, just this once I’d made an exception. I reckoned Sam and Bernard would get on great. He seemed sweet and he wasn’t bad looking. And his dress sense was hideous which I felt she could relate to.

  Nige booted open the door, balancing four styrofoam cups in a precarious tower stabilised by his chin. The other hand was clutching a greasy paper bag bulging with doughnut shapes. He set down his wares on the desk formerly known as mine but now apparently Issy’s, and said, ‘Three coffees, with milk, and one tea, no milk, two sugars?’

  ‘N—’ began Issy. Then, ‘Oh, for . . . give it here.’

  Claudia took a huge bite of doughnut to stifle her laughter and a splodge of jam flew out and landed on the open page of Issy’s orange notebook. Nige and Claudia were on the floor. Issy sighed deeply, ripped out the page and threw it in the bin. And missed. By the time I’d settled everyone down I knew exactly how Arnie’s character felt in Kindergarten Cop. (One of my favourite films, if you’ll keep that to yourself. ‘Dere iss no bat-room!’ being the best line.)

  I began the meeting by reeling off the (unchecked) list of candidates and my pairing suggestions.

  ‘On what basis?’ Issy barked, after my first couple. Georgina and Mike.

  I flapped a folder at her. ‘Based on what they’ve said in their application forms, what they’ve said when we’ve spoken to them on the phone and what we’ve observed on meeting them at previous Date Nights.’

  Issy nodded, a sharp up–down nod.

  I wanted to say, ‘Look, Issy, if you want more information, say so, don’t nod then go silent, it feels like manipulation.’ So I did.

  Issy opened her mouth but Claudia was quicker. ‘Whoa, whoa, wait a sec – Georgina and Mike? When did you decide that? Georgina can’t go with Mike. They wouldn’t get on in a million years. Georgina is a trainee solicitor and a part-time model, she’s fun, confident and she wears those fabulous knee-high boots and pencil skirts, and Mike—’

  Nige was nodding. ‘Mike,’ he added, ‘is a sweet guy, but he works in IT for godsake, and he told Claudia last week that he’s never eaten an avocado and never intends to, he only likes “English” food. Won’t touch pasta or pizza. I’m amazed we took him on in the first place, and I bet I know who sneaked him in as well. Georgie is an A and Mike is a C. If anyone, Mike could go with Sam. But other than her, we’re going to find it hard to match him with anyone. If we put him with Georgie, she’ll ask for her money back.’

  I looked at them, amazed. ‘But Mike is so, you said it yourself, Nige, he’s so sweet. He’s . . . gentle, and nice, and respectful.’

  Claudia snorted. ‘Right. And that’s just what women want. Sweet and nice and DULL, Holly!’ She opened her mouth so wide I could see to the back of her throat. ‘Yaorn! He’s dull! He’s parochial and boring and he wears plastic shoes. Georgie would spit if we—’

  ‘I’d like to add something to that, if I may,’ said Issy. ‘It’s a common error to assume that to be successful, both members of a couple have to be on the same level of attractiveness. What you should be looking for is balance—’

  ‘Genius, Issy, opposites attract! Did they teach you that in shrink school?’

  ‘Excuse me Claudia, can I finish what I was saying? Thank you. The gist of what Nigel says is correct, Holly. A woman like Georgina, good-looking, ambitious, we presume, no doubt well-travelled, is unlikely to be attracted to a man so – we can deduce from the food preferences – unadventurous, conservative and unstylish – I’m thinking of the shoes.’

  Claudia nodded, grudgingly.

  I felt picked on. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘Forget Georgina for a minute. Elisabeth. Elisabeth’ – I smiled at Issy – ‘Elisabeth Stanton-Brown
e is hard to please. She hates men who wear marigold gloves and use umbrellas. She wants to meet a third decan Piscean.’

  ‘A truly terrible series of dates in the Zodiac,’ offered Nige. ‘Prone to addiction, depression, tediously sensitive—’

  ‘I thought I might put her with Bernard. Theybothlikesport!’ I added as the office erupted.

  ‘Bernard?’ shrieked Claudia and Nige in a shrill chorus. ‘Are you crazy?’

  Issy raised a hand. ‘On what evidence?’

  I handed Issy Bernard’s letter and Elisabeth’s application. Issy scanned them, frowning. ‘Holly, darling. I see your point but this is a common error. To pair people because they both like sport is not advanced thinking, it’s what you’d expect a computer to do. You have to ask why they like sport. The whys are truer indicators of compatibility than the whats. And look. Bernard likes cricket because it’s not too strenuous, and he enjoys the Britishness of it, he likes how the wives make tea, and how civilised it is, and if he can’t play he’s more than happy to watch. Traditional is not the word. As for Elisabeth she loves skiing, the speed of it, the danger, the glamour of it, the fact she’s good enough – and good-looking enough – to race down a mountain in jeans and a bikini.’ Issy paused. ‘Hol. I don’t mean to be rude but seriously. How could you ever think these two would hit it off?’

  I looked up. Everyone was staring at me like I’d grown an extra ear. (Nige, like I’d grown an extra toe.) Now I don’t mind being disagreed with, but I’d have preferred to delay it beyond the first five minutes of Issy’s employment.

  ‘Well, fine, okay,’ I said, assuming a stern, business-like expression and resisting the temptation to shout, I am the boss! ‘It’s useful to have your professional opinion, Issy, but this isn’t really what I wanted from you. I was hoping you’d help weed out the weirdos, especially the ones who do a good job of disguising themselves.’ I shuffled my sheets. ‘This guy, for instance.’ I shoved Mr Hang with the Fellas at her. ‘One of his dislikes,’ I added, ‘is poor vaginal hygiene.’