THE HUSBAND HUNTERS

by LUCY LAING

  ‘Oh my God, Bee,’ I can’t believe you’ve done it,’ Tash had said, admiringly. ‘I thought we would have to frogmarch you round to Paul’s house and wait with you whilst you knocked on his door.’

  ‘Oh it was easy,’ I lied. ‘All I did was ring him and ask him for dinner.’ I nearly fainted with my own coolness.

  Rach, Kaz and Soph were as impressed as Tash. They all wanted to come and peer through the window on Saturday night. I was beginning to regret telling them which restaurant we were going to.

  ‘Well we could all wear our Latex masks,’ protested Rach.

  ‘No way,’ I had told her. Rach almost started sulking, so I agreed that she could come in and order a takeaway pizza.

  I hadn’t forgotten that Rach’s hypnotherapy session was due next week and I had planned to be especially nice to her beforehand in case she had secretly harboured any long-time grudge against me going out with Pete Griffiths all those years ago.

  I was also still worried that we had somehow met in a former life too - and that was all going to come pouring out. So ever since her appointment with Soph’s mum had been made, I was going out of my way to be nice to Rach.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she said, when I told her about the pizza.

  ‘Just leave off the Latex mask, Rach,’ I warned her. ‘You’re not stalking Paul this time, you’re checking him out.’

  ‘OK,’ she agreed.

  ***

  I spent the next three days in utter turmoil. It was worse than taking my driving test, or sitting A’ Levels. The anticipation of meeting Paul again - but this time with him as potential husband material - was almost too much to bear.

  ‘What I am going to wear?’ I wailed to Tash down the phone, on the second night.

  ‘Bee, for goodness sake, I remember you meeting him once in your smelly jodhpurs and an old stained sweatshirt after you had been riding one night. You hadn’t washed your hair or put any makeup on,’ reminded Tash.

  ‘Yes, I know, but that was then and this is now,’ I said, as if that made all the difference. ‘Now I want Paul to be so bowled over by me that he wants to marry me. And that means knocking him dead. I thought I might wear my new red polka dot dress from Karen Millen.’

  ‘Very nice,’ agreed Tash.

  ‘But what about the shoes? I don’t know whether to wear my red sling backs, or plain black heels.’

  ‘Go for the red sling backs,’ advised Tash. ‘You look a bit more wanton in those, and you know what they say.’

  ‘No, what?’ I asked, having horrific visions of the girls making me parade naked in front of Paul just in my red sling backs.’

  ‘Men want a housewife goddess in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. You have to be both,’ she said. I grimaced. Perhaps I would have to parade naked in my sling backs like I was in some seedy lap dancing booth if that’s what it took to snare Paul and get a diamond safely on my fourth finger. But I don’t think I could pass myself off as a domestic goddess. The best I can create in the kitchen is my special pasta dish, which in reality isn’t all that special. I just mix a jar of tomato pasta sauce in with some pasta, add some ham, and then sprinkle some cheese over it. I mentioned my worries to Tash.

  ‘Well the red sling backs could constitute the “whore in the bedroom” bit,’ she agreed. ‘But I don’t think Paul will be particularly impressed with the “pasta a la Bee”, she added. ‘I’ve had that pasta dish of yours, and I had to leave half of it.’ Tash said she would bring it up at the next meeting and suggest some cookery lessons for me. ‘After all, you won’t be cooking for him for at least a few weeks, so we’ve got time to sort it out and transform you into a Nigella,’ she said.

  The next day at the office was the Big Day Before. And I couldn’t concentrate on anything at all. I mistakenly booked out David, a young blond male model, for a bikini shoot and Susannah, our stunning new black model whom we’d signed the previous week, out for an aftershave commercial.

  ‘I’m going to get the sack at this rate,’ I fretted to Kaz when I met her for lunch at Saleros later that day. ‘And all because of Paul Hardman. I’m in such a tizz about it. I didn’t give a hoot about our dates at the time, now I feel the whole pressure of the HHC is bearing down on my shoulders. I’ve got to succeed at it, else I’ll be letting all the girls down.’

  ‘Look, Bee,’ soothed Kaz. ‘Even though we all think that Paul is the right man for you, it doesn’t mean to say there wouldn’t be another around the corner if it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Oh yeah - they are lining up to get me down the aisle,’ I grumbled. ‘If it doesn’t work with him, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m going to end up like a dried-up Miss Havisham spinster, madly rocking in my rocking chair in my ancient wedding dress covered in cobwebs, when I’m about ninety.’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Kaz, as my voice started to rise hysterically. ‘We’re all in the same boat. If you get to ninety and you’re still wearing your cobweb-covered wedding dress then we’ll all put ours on too, to make you feel better.’

  I had to laugh at the thought of the five of us sitting in some draughty living room at a care home, all in yellow-stained wedding dresses.

  ‘Well, that’s how it will end up, if the club doesn’t do its job properly,’ I added darkly to Kaz, pushing away my untouched pasta. How on earth could I eat anything when I was going to meeting up with Paul again in approximately thirty-two hours.

  ***

  I felt sick with nerves as I stood at the window of my flat the following night and watched as Paul parked his silver Porsche. He lovingly gave it a pat as he closed the door, and I had to choke back my laughter. I’d forgotten that he used to do that every time he got out of the car. I’ll have to get used to it if I’m to become Mrs Hardman, I thought, as I hurriedly adjusted my silver necklace in the mirror and rushed downstairs to open the door.

  Paul stood there smiling, and I nervously smiled back. ‘Nice to see you again after all this time, Bee,’ he said. ‘You’re looking good,’ he added, looking appreciatively at my Karen Millen dress.

  Paul had never seen me in anything like this before, as I hadn’t made an effort on previous dates with him, so I was pleased at the effect it seemed to have on him.

  I locked the front door, and we walked over to his Porsche, and I slid into the familiar leather seat.

  We pulled up at the bistro a few minutes later, and Paul came over and helped me out of the front seat. I could get used to this, I thought, enjoying the feel of his warm hand on my bare arm.

  I looked up and smiled at him, and he smiled back. So far, so good, I thought. He seems to have forgotten all about me blowing him out last time. We sat down at a small intimate table for two and I studied the menu. When I’d been out with Paul before I’d thought nothing of cramming a burger into my mouth, but now my stomach fluttered with butterflies.

  I ordered a starter of prawns, followed by a salad, so not to look greedy. We began talking about our jobs, and then I noticed him looking intently at me.

  ‘You look sensational, and there’s something really different about you,’ he said, his eyes flicking over me. ‘Before, you were quite cold, like the Titanic iceberg, in fact, but now you seem to have changed.’

  ‘I think I’d better apologise about last time,’ I said, nervously ripping up a bread roll. ‘I didn’t know what I wanted a year ago, and I was a bit confused. But things are different now, and I thought it would be nice to see you again,’ I added, looking at him suggestively from underneath my eyelashes. It had worked for Princess Diana; it would surely do the trick on Paul.

  He laughed and took my hand. ‘Well, it’s certainly nicer to see you like this,’ he said. He told me that since I’d last seen him he had opened up another two advertising agencies. He was doing very well for himself, I thought admiringly.

  ‘So what have you been doing?’ he asked, digging a fork into his steak. I paused for a second. The whole centre of my universe was now the HHC, but I couldn’t very well
confess that to Paul, could I? Oh by the way, Paul, my friends and I have set up this club where we all try and find unsuspecting husbands like you for our friends. I didn’t want him to see me as some mad Amazon warrior type, dancing around him with a spear ready to strike at my prey.

  ‘Not a lot has changed,’ I said, the lies tripping off my tongue. ‘I’m still working at the model agency and seeing all my mates.’

  ‘So have any of them got married yet or anything?’ Paul asked, innocently.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘They are still all happily free and single.’ I almost blushed with the lies I was telling.

  The doorbell of the bistro tinkled, and in walked a bizarre-looking woman. It was a hot summer evening in May, yet this woman was wearing a cream belted overcoat with long sleeves, an orange headscarf, which completely covered her hair, and dark-tinted glasses.

  She looked completely mad, I thought, turning back to my prawns, and then I whipped back around in horror . Oh my God, I’d forgotten about telling Rach she could come in and order a takeaway pizza. The woman was staring hard at Paul and me. He was looking at the woman with a puzzled expression.

  I nearly choked on my wine. It was bloody Rach. I’d told her not to wear the latex mask, but she’d gone all out to disguise herself, and she stood out like a sore thumb. The waiter handed her a pizza box and thankfully she was gone.

  ‘What a strange woman,’ Paul said. ‘Obviously completely mad, being dressed like that in this hot weather. She looks like she has no friends either, ordering a pizza for one. Perhaps we should have asked her to join us,’ he added mischievously, giving me a wink.

  I must have been staring at him in horror, imagining Rach being ushered over to our table in her crap disguise, and then Paul recognising her, and thinking we were both utterly mental.

  ‘I’m only joking,’ he said, breaking me out of my nightmare-like reverie. ‘I don’t want to share you with anyone.’

  Paul dropped me off back at my flat at midnight. It’s all gone well, I thought, as I swung my legs out of the car.

  ‘Do you want to come in for a bit?’ I asked him, fully expecting him to jump at the chance.

  ‘I’d better get back,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’ve still got some work to do.’ I was disappointed. I’d imagined Paul coming in and having a coffee, and then things getting a bit heated on my sofa.

  ‘I remember you never asked me in before,’ he added, playfully touching my cheek.

  ‘Well, things are different now,’ I said, looking at the pavement.

  ‘Shall we go out for dinner again next week?’ he said, kissing me gently on the mouth. ‘And then perhaps I’ll come over for a coffee afterwards.’ I cheered up a bit at that, and waved to him as he climbed into the driver’s seat and gunned the Porsche into action.

  There were four messages waiting for me on my phone when I got back in. Each of the girls had rung, desperate for details.

  Even though it was past midnight, I rang them all up and told them about the successful night.

  ‘There was only one thing,’ I told Rach, after I’d given her a right roasting at the quality of her disguise earlier on. ‘He didn’t want to come in. I thought men were only after one thing, and he would have leapt at the chance to jump my bones.’

  ‘He’s obviously a gentleman,’ said Rach, approvingly. ‘And that’s a good thing for any potential husband material. You don’t want him to see you as a quick one-night stand, do you? We are talking about the rest of your life here.’

  I felt better instantly. Paul respected me far too much to have come in on our first date. There would be plenty of time for all that later on.

  ‘So how was it? said Nick, the next morning when I walked into the agency. ‘Do I hear wedding bells? Do we have one success chalked up for the Has-beens, Hags and Crones society?

  ‘Nick, you know perfectly well what HHC stands for,’ I said snootily, as I walked over to the cappuccino machine and switched it on. ‘If you want to know, my date went absolutely fine. And if you’re very lucky, I might tell you to go and buy a hat pretty soon.’ Nick snorted with laughter as he walked out the door.

  ‘What did you do to him?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Drug him, bag him, and throw him over your shoulder?’ I nearly hurled the cup of coffee at his back. I wasn’t going to let Nick spoil the little bubble of contentment that I was in that morning.

  The next meeting was the following night. It was nice to go to a meeting with some positive good news for once, I thought, as I drove up to the restaurant. I was going to have to watch what I ate tonight, I decided as the seat belt dug a little tighter than usual into my stomach. All these meetings with lots of pasta and garlic bread were starting to play havoc with my waistline. We should perhaps get together in a sushi bar next time.

  The girls congratulated me as soon as I walked in through the door. And there was a bottle of champagne waiting with five glasses.

  ‘Here’s to our first success,’ shouted Kaz, pouring the champagne.

  ‘I’m not down the aisle yet,’ I reminded her.

  ‘But you soon will be,’ said Rach from across the table. ‘From the way Paul was looking at you on Saturday, it looks like it will be sooner rather than later.’

  I told the girls about Nick’s new name for our club.

  ‘I can’t believe you even told him about the club in the first place,’ said Tash, frowning at me. ‘We don’t want word getting out that we are searching for husbands. It might throw a spanner in the works.’

  ‘Oh, Nick’s not a problem,’ I told her, quickly. ‘He’s an idiot and he’s only winding me up.’ I told the girls that I thought we should maybe change our restaurant venue to a local sushi bar in order to preserve our waistlines.

  ‘Maybe not so much for me as I’ve already bagged Paul,’ I said smugly, ‘but you lot still have to find husbands.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to be in a size sixteen wedding dress by the time you do get down the aisle, do you?’ Kaz reminded me, tartly. ‘Anyway I don’t think I need to worry about anything,’ she added, pulling up her top to reveal an extremely toned washboard-like stomach.

  ‘Okay, okay, it was only an idea,’ I said, ripping into a piece of garlic bread.

  The minutes came in from Kaz the next morning.

  PROGRESS REPORTS.

  * Congratulations to Bee, who has been on one date with Paul. But we have to be careful which venue we choose in future for the next meeting, not for our expanding waistlines, but for the size of her big head. (I fumed at that one. Lambasted in the minutes, in front of everyone, just for passing on a tip. Who does Kaz think she is anyway? It will serve her right if I sit back and don’t say anything, and let her become fat and lardy and then no man will look at her.)

  * Kaz produced the short gym skirt that she has bought for ensnaring James. ‘Lord, can it go any higher?’ Tash had shrieked, putting her hands over her eyes, when Kaz had held it up to her waist. It did look indecently short, but as Kaz pointed out, that was the point of buying the skirt in the first place. Thankfully it did have built-in gym knickers to avoid any embarrassment. Kaz said she did quite fancy James thinking of her in a Marilyn Monroe type way, but we pointed out that standing in the middle of a hockey field with her skirt blowing up in front of a gaggle of thirteen-year-old spotty boys wouldn’t be the best career move she has even made.

  * No progress made for Soph, who reminded us it was her school reunion this week. We let her off, as we have high hopes for a Friends Reunited type wedding. They are really trendy at the moment.

  * Bee’s cooking skills, or rather lack of them, to be sorted pronto. She needs to be quickly turned from into a Neanderthal type woman who cooks an animal leg over an open fire to a Nigella Lawson. Soph said she could boil an egg, would that help. We all looked at her witheringly, at her twenty-five-year-old naivety in the kitchen. I asked couldn’t I just boil an egg, naked apart from my red stilettos, and then Paul wouldn’t care what he was eating. Tash said ab
solutely not and she knew a great recipe for duck à l'orange, which she would teach me.

  * Rach has provided a phone number for a latex mask company, so we can all be fitted with latex masks in case we need to do any furtive snooping and man-following in the future. I had told everyone of Rach’s disgracefully bad attempt at a disguise on Saturday night, so I think Kaz was humouring her on this one. We will look like we are going to rob a bank, like Patrick Swayze’s gang in Point Break if we all turn up en masse at the shop, demanding latex rubber masks.

  *Kaz produced a cartoon drawing of Miss Havisham, the famous bride who wore her cobwebbed ancient wedding dress until the day she died. Soph, who was a bit younger than us, had never heard of Miss Havisham. Tash told her the tragic tale of the woman who was jilted on her wedding day, and from then on she never took her wedding dress off. She died years later in her ruined mansion, ancient and alone, still wearing the yellowed dress.

  ‘The mouldy wedding cake was still on her dining table too, all those years later,’ added Tash, shuddering.

  Soph looked horrified, especially as she’s the only one of us that has been jilted. She quickly promised us that she had never put her wedding dress back on since. We were all instructed to pin the picture to our computers / lockers at work so we could see it each day and remind ourselves why we needed to get down the aisle pronto. Soph kept gazing at hers with a terrified look in her eye. I’m sure she was going to run home and bundle her old wedding dress in the bin straight away.