Husband Hunters

by Genevieve Gannon

  The waiter hovered, impatient to be given a task. Annabel took a large gulp of water. He pounced excitedly and refilled the glass. A few minutes later Archer arrived, brandishing a small bunch of slightly crushed wine-coloured roses and a briefcase that had corners of documents escaping from it.

  ‘So sorry,’ he said, offering the bouquet. ‘There’s no excuse for keeping you waiting. You look fantastic.’

  ‘Thanks. So do you.’ Annabel rose to kiss him.

  Archer had hair the colour of butternut pumpkin, large blue eyes, and fair, freckled skin.

  He ordered a pinot grigio from Western Australia. While they waited for it to arrive, he told Annabel that he had a keen interest in viticulture and hoped to tour the Bordeaux region the next time he got a chance to take a holiday.

  ‘I would love to travel around France tasting cheese and wine,’ she said.

  Mentally she put a little tick in a box marked ‘common interests’, while trying to imagine the two of them tramping up and down muddy vineyards in matching Burberry gumboots.

  They ordered. The waiter, looking shamefaced, told them that the coconut milk used in the sea bass broth had been recalled and they’d had to make a last-minute menu change.

  ‘I’m so sorry about this,’ Archer said, looking embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, it’s not your fault,’ Annabel told him. The box marked ‘manners’ also received a tick.

  ‘Allow us to offer you a complimentary bottle,’ the waiter said, ‘to apologise for the inconvenience of the sea bass not being available.’

  They finished with a brandy and a dessert doused in cognac. By the time the bill arrived, Annabel was feeling light-headed.

  ‘That was lovely,’ she said as Archer walked her to the cab rank. A taxi pulled up and he opened the door for her.

  ‘Well, good night.’ He leaned forward. Annabel offered her cheek, but he went straight for the lips and planted a full kiss. She jerked back — remembering the husband-hunting rules — stumbled, then slipped off the curb and tumbled into the taxi.

  ‘Bye,’ she called.

  She was sozzled. When she got home she climbed into bed without taking her dress off. She looked at the ceiling and whispered the names ‘Annabel and Archer Drysdale’. It had a melodic ring to it. She imagined them immortalised in the painterly style of the front cover of a paperback romance. Him in an akubra, her in leather riding gloves, sitting on top of a walnut-coloured mare overlooking rolling French hills. The title would be An Analyst’s Affair or Love Blooms in a Bar.

  Verdict: Nice smile, attentive, but apologised too much. Rebooked for dinner next Tuesday.

  Annabel woke with the uneasy feeling something was wrong. The world was foggy, but brighter than it should have been at 7am. She looked at her clock.

  ‘Oh my God!’ She had slept through her alarm. She jumped out of bed and into the shower. As she hadn’t done her ironing, she reached for a dress she usually wore to barbeques and disguised it as office-wear with a Karen Millen blazer. There was no time for breakfast.

  Sybilla was waiting when Annabel arrived at work. Annabel shook her hand. The younger woman was about three inches taller than her, very slim, with olive skin and long dark hair. Annabel noticed she was wearing Bally heels and wondered how she could afford them on her junior salary.

  ‘I’ve been following your career for the past five years,’ Sybilla said as she trailed behind Annabel. ‘You have been a real role model.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I worked as a catwalk model throughout university, but I’ve always wanted a professional career. It’s so inspiring that you have been able to make a success of both.’

  As they walked through Annabel’s office doorway, Annabel caught their reflections in the glass: Sybilla, young and fresh, and beautiful without adornment; Annabel, looking like she was wearing a wig that had been through the tumble dryer.

  ‘I don’t know any other agency that has such a commitment to developing a brand’s aesthetic signature,’ Sybilla said. In spite of her young age, her résumé was extensive, but there was something about her that unsettled Annabel. Her sensible self, the inner voice that sat next to her conscience, suspected that it may have been jealousy that caused her to hesitate. The slits of light coming through the venetian blinds in her office were stabbing her eyes, adding to the sensation of being past it.

  ‘Thank you for coming in at such short notice,’ Annabel said, standing. ‘Applications for the two roles are still open, but your letter and your pancakes were very impressive.’

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ Sybilla said, shaking Annabel’s hand confidently. Her palm was soft and perfumed with cocoa butter. ‘I hope you make a decision in my favour. I feel I could really contribute to your company.’

  Damn, Annabel thought. Textbook. But she didn’t have time to dwell on that now. She had a million other things to get done before date number two.

  Date 2: Tuesday night dinner at Fish on the Rocks. Target: Maroun Karam. Intellectual property lawyer at Slaters Lawyers, dedicated rock-climber. Expectations: Excited about famous profiteroles on the dessert menu.

  Annabel watched Maroun talk animatedly over scallop entrées. He was beautiful, but for some reason she couldn’t quite pinpoint why she didn’t find him attractive. He had roots in Lebanon and lovely brown eyes. He was bird thin and had long, delicate fingers.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he told Annabel earnestly. ‘I’m sick of the games. What’s so taboo about admitting you need someone? Why can’t people say: I want to settle down, how about you?’

  She told him emphatically that she agreed. But her heart ached a little at how transactional it sounded.

  They ordered dessert. Annabel chose profiteroles and Maroun a cheese plate, which he expertly dissected with his pianist’s fingers. When the plates were cleared away and the coffee came, he again raised the topic of marriage.

  ‘I hope I wasn’t too forward, but I believe in speaking my mind. My parents have been married for nearly forty years. An arranged marriage. It worked for them.’

  Annabel thought how her mother had always had a knack for spotting the incompatibilities with her former boyfriends. Perhaps he was right. But she doubted Maroun was the man her mother would choose for her.

  The front cover of their storybook romance would depict her sitting at a desk at the marriage registrar’s office. Dressed in a lavender suit with a fussy blouse underneath, she would be signing a contract with an impassive look on her face. Maroun would be leaning over her shoulder, smiling, with a fountain pen poised so he could add his signature. The title would read A Satisfactory Arrangement. She gave Maroun a weak smile.

  On the street he shook her hand, clasping her right hand with his, then placing his left hand tenderly on top.

  ‘Maybe we’ll meet again,’ he said.

  Verdict: Lovely eyes, family-minded. Rebooked for dinner next Monday.

  The plans for the cocktail party were coming together. After two weeks of being driven insane by Farouk’s internal brand manager, Annabel’s perseverance was starting to pay off. By 3pm all she had to do was drive to the Arabian Nights-themed bar called Azkaban with the paprika samples to meet the company’s managing director. She had a final look over the night’s running sheet. She had designed a series of spicy cocktails that used Farouk ingredients. There was a chilli martini, a saffron Manhattan, a mai tai garnished with mint, and bloody Marys bursting with paprika and cayenne pepper.

  ‘We love it,’ gushed the MD, his lips rimmed with a white Russian moustache. (Another special recipe infused with Farouk-brand cinnamon.) The other senior managers murmured in agreement.

  A swarm of guests arrived at seven on the dot. As Annabel observed the interactions between the men and women, she thought about what Maroun had said. They were sending each other signals. Flirting, retreating, testing for interest or trying to indicate theirs. She imagined what it would be like to have all that done away with; to have your partner chosen for you. Then there was a c
lang followed by a crash and she turned her mind back to work.

  Date 3: Thursday lunch at Mint in Surry Hills. Target: Tom Lavosh, online marketing manager at Ford. Expectations: Positive; remember Tom as very funny.

  ‘It sounds like a huge success!’ Tom said as Annabel rehashed the party over lamb and tabouli. ‘I wish you’d invited me along. Or were you worried I’d steal your sales secrets?’

  He was easy to talk to and pleasing to look at. There was something slightly daggy about him, but in a good way. The dad jokes, the novelty tie — Annabel could imagine him chasing kids around a backyard with a hose pretending to be a water monster. He would star on a paperback romance cover in a chunky knit and grass-stained jeans. The backdrop would be a yard strewn with toys. The cursive title would read Suburban Sweetheart.

  Verdict: Potential. Rebooked for yum cha next week.

  Annabel spent Friday looking at offices. The agent ferried her around five or six seemingly-identical city spaces that were all airless and overpriced. Each time she scrunched her nose in disappointment.

  ‘There is one more place,’ he said. It was on the fringe of the city. It had three private offices that were cut into an open-plan area that would comfortably accommodate a further six staff members. There was also a conference room, which they would need if they took on more staff. The building was old, but it had charm.

  ‘How much?’ Annabel asked.

  ‘It’s a little more than you wanted to pay.’

  She opened a filing cabinet that was covered in dust. She had calculated a strict budget for the next few months. But she was also aware of a few promising contracts that they were well-placed to put in bids for. If Sweet Success landed even two or three new clients it would need to grow fast.

  ‘Can I let you know on Monday?’ Annabel said.

  Annabel went back to her office and shuffled some figures around on a spreadsheet. She couldn’t afford to take on two fully-qualified staff members and pay the rent at an office that would fit them all. Either she had to forgo the office and hire two new staffers, or hire only one new staffer and get the larger office. Which they wouldn’t need with only one new staff member. The other option would be to hire Sybilla. The entry-level wage would free-up some cash. But something was making Annabel hesitate. She resolved to think about it over the weekend. It was 6pm and she had one more date to get through.

  Date 4: Friday night supper at The Victoria Room in Potts Point. Target: Alexander Pollitt, advertising executive and golf enthusiast. Expectations: Low; regarded Alexander as cocky.

  Alexander was frowning at the menu when Annabel arrived.

  ‘You’re here,’ he said without getting up. ‘Sit. One moment.’ His Blackberry rattled. It was sitting on the table face-up. He looked at the monitor, then flipped it over without answering. Annabel waited silently for it to stop jiggling.

  Alexander had serious lips and a completely bald head. He reminded Annabel of a Greek statue, an illusion that was heightened by the stony colour of his grey suit. He was strikingly handsome. He ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu without consulting Annabel, then recommended the fondue. It arrived with sticks of toasted bread, vegetables and witlof.

  ‘It’s really good with the potatoes,’ he said. ‘Ladies love it. Although it is a bit fatty.’ His phone hummed again.

  He talked at Annabel about his work until the fondue was gone. His agency had been getting heat in the press for signing on to do some work with a plastics company that had been linked to a series of toxic chemical leaks.

  ‘My ex-wife says I’m a corporate whore, but aren’t we all in some way?’ he said, throwing back the last of the champagne.

  Annabel nearly bit her tongue as she snapped a piece of witlof between her teeth.

  The waiter brought the receipt and two after-dinner mints. Annabel loved after-dinner mints, particularly when they were given as a treat by the restaurant. She thought they were a clever little trick, as the customer left with a sweet taste in their mouth, feeling like they got something a little extra.

  She was just about to voice this when Alexander put his hand on the silver tray and swiped up both of the mints. He ripped the corner off the foil packet of one and put it in his mouth.

  ‘I am guessing you don’t want any more saturated fats,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you used to be a model?’

  Annabel opened her mouth to answer, but his phone started to vibrate again. She wondered why he hadn’t kept it in his pocket if he was going to ignore it.

  ‘Jesus!’ he groaned and rolled his eyes. ‘Leave me alone. For Chrissake!’ he shouted at the ringing phone. It fell silent, as if out of fear.

  ‘Well, thank you for dinner,’ Annabel said, standing.

  ‘You’re not interested in a night cap?’ He had an amused look on his face.

  ‘I have an early start,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he smiled insincerely, then winked at a lady at the bar.

  Annabel thought a romance starring Alexander Pollitt would be called The Indifferent Love. It would go something like this: boy meets girl, boy yells at girl until she agrees to marry him, girl is miserable.

  Verdict: Guilty of gross rudeness. Alexander seemed like the type of man who would steal your skin if he thought he could get a good price for it.

  Outside, Annabel drew her coat around herself. Alexander reminded her of Hunter, and the effect had given her chills. Her husband-hunting prospects were not looking good.

  Annabel woke suddenly. Her breath was short. Her skin was hot and slick with sweat. She snapped on her bedside lamp. She was alone. Hunter was five suburbs north. She had dreamt he was standing in the corner of the room, watching her angrily in the darkness. But it had just been a dream.

  She wanted water, but couldn’t quite find the courage to leave the safety of her Sheridan bed. Instead she rolled over and pulled the heavy sheets up to her chin. But she left the lamp on.

  Sunday morning’s sky was a crisp blue. Dew shone on blades of grass. It was the type of day that made you want to put on a vintage pea coat and accessorise it with a straw basket bursting with celery, tomatoes and a baguette. Annabel decided to walk to the Leona deli, a place that sold exotic foods imported from all over the world. She loved to look at the unusual packaging and leaf through the expensive cook books. Preserved meats hung over the counter in string hammocks. Everything was home-spun and pungent.

  She bought some cheeses — a smoky Gouda and a piece of Stilton — relishing their smells and the way they were imperfectly hacked from a larger wheel. She also picked up some salmon ravioli and resolved to try harder to learn how to cook. Annabel loved to eat, but the chemistry of cooking eluded her.

  Passing a fruit shop, she picked up a bag of dates and some Granny Smiths to go with her cheese. She lingered by the herbs, putting her nose close to the leaves. She wanted to buy some but didn’t have the first idea how to use fresh herbs. It occurred to her that a herbs and spices guidebook could be the perfect product for Farouk Spices to develop. She paid for the fruit and headed home to write down the idea.

  She was walking past the Poirot cinema when she caught the smell of popcorn. The Poirot was a beautiful old Art Deco building the same colour as the apples Annabel had just bought. It still had all of its original light fittings in jewel-shaped glass casings. She wandered inside to browse the posters. Generally, the Poirot ran art house or classic films.

  At the snack bar she spotted a familiar face.

  ‘Hello there,’ Patrick Bodenheimer waved. Even though it was a Sunday he was dressed in a vest and tie.

  ‘Hello!’

  ‘Jason would run a mile if he saw us standing here like this,’ he said, lifting his extra-large cup of Coke.

  Annabel laughed. ‘If only you’d been drinking that at the party. Was he very mad?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. I don’t really know him,’ Patrick shrugged.

  ‘He had an affair with my friend,’ Annabel blurted. ‘Sh
e didn’t know he was married. That’s why I did it.’

  ‘The cad! He deserved a dunking, then,’ said Patrick.

  ‘I don’t know why I told you that,’ Annabel said. ‘It’s just, she’s got such a tender heart, and he stomped on it.’

  ‘Did you tell her about your confrontation?’ His was a slow, meditative way of speaking, as if he considered each word very carefully.

  Annabel shifted on her feet. At first, she had wanted to go to Clementine immediately and report the blow she had struck against the enemy. But the thing that sparked the rage had been Jason’s wink.

  Patrick was waiting for an answer.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Actually I wasn’t sure whether I should tell her. What do you think?’

  ‘Do you think it will make a difference if she knows?’

  Annabel felt Clementine needed to know about it. But she also feared it would hurt her. There was something else that stopped her. Strangers at parties, if they saw Annabel talking to their husband, would wind their arms around their partners and guide them away. She didn’t want Clementine to think of her like that. It had been only a short time since they had reunited at the wedding, but already Annabel was coming to cherish her old friends again. Daniela with her bawdy bravado and Clementine with her focused intelligence. Clementine had vowed not to see Jason again, so what difference did it make?

  ‘She’s trying to move on.’ Annabel changed the subject. ‘You’re not wearing a flower today.’

  Over a second martini at the Jensen party, Patrick had told her that he almost always wore a bud in his button hole.

  ‘I knew I was going to be in the dark all day,’ he gestured towards the entrance to the main cinema. ‘I didn’t think it would be fair on the flower.’

  ‘Which film are you seeing?’

  ‘Kind Hearts and Coronets. Do you know the Ealing Studios? The Poirot here is running a retrospective for the next few months. This is where you’ll be able to find me every Sunday afternoon until July.’