Love Is...

by Haley Hill

  Nick stopped laughing, then winked at me before swinging a punch up towards Ernest’s jaw.

  Elspeth gasped and Chloe grinned as Ernest’s eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the ground, limp and flaccid.

  Outside the ranch house, while Nick and I were deciding our best means of escape, I heard the rumbling of an engine in the distance. It sounded like one of those sit-on lawnmowers, or a turbo hedge-trimmer. While I was wondering why a landscape gardener would choose to conduct his work at midnight on a Saturday, the noise became increasingly louder. It appeared to be coming up the driveway. I squinted my eyes as a cloud of orange dust, seemingly emanating from a large motorised sweetcorn, sped towards the ranch.

  Nick stepped forwards for a closer look.

  Suddenly the horn sounded. It was quite high-pitched, like a mallard’s mating call, and quickly followed by someone shouting and waving their arm frantically out the window.

  ‘Ellie! Ellie!’

  Nick frowned. ‘Is that…?’

  ‘Matthew!’ I shouted, as a figure flung open the door and then ran towards me waving its arms.

  ‘Ellie! Ellie! I found you!’ Matthew jumped into my arms like a puppy reunited with its owner. He reminded me of Rupert.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, trying to prise him off me while at the same time realising we now had a means to exit the ranch hastily.

  ‘I’m coming to New York. Didn’t you get my messages? I need some space from Lucy. I need a few weeks to think. I’ve cashed in my Apple shares. I have money to burn. I miss you, Ellie. I miss my life. I miss me. I miss having fun. I miss the way it used to be.’ He was talking at a million miles an hour.

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ I said, making slow down gestures with my hands, and glancing around me. ‘Where are your kids?’

  Matthew waved the question away. ‘They’re with their mother.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, it’s so great to be here. I’ve been calling you every five minutes, Ellie. Why didn’t you answer your phone? I needed to talk. I couldn’t get hold of you. Is it OK if I stay with you for a bit? In New York, I mean. Not here on a ranch. Not really the ranch-worker type. Although I do have a great pair of cowboy boots from that shop on the King’s Road.’ He glanced down at his Converse. ‘Oh fuck, I forgot to pack them.’

  Nick was frowning. ‘Are you on something, mate?’ he asked, cocking his head.

  Matthew patted down his quiff. ‘I might have had a few of those energy drinks. It was a long drive.’

  Suddenly a voice interjected. ‘He’s in a state of mania.’

  We all turned to see Ernest. He was standing behind us, still wearing his leather trousers, but now with the addition of a waistcoat and a Stetson. He had a lasso in one hand and a rifle in the other.

  Ernest continued. ‘He’s bipolar, and most likely following a long period of depression, he’s now in a manic phase. Which means he’s acting rashly and making ill-considered decisions and believes himself to be indestructible. I suggest you take him to the nearest hospital for medication.’ Then he paused. ‘Either way, I want you all off my ranch now.’ He threw our bags at us, then fired two shots in the air.

  Matthew jumped upwards like a Masai warrior, then began patting his torso looking for puncture wounds. I grabbed his arm and led him towards the car.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Nick said, glancing back and glaring at Ernest.

  Matthew and I climbed into the back seat of the car, kicking the empty Red Bull cans aside.

  Nick climbed into the driver’s seat, looked around and frowned. ‘Why did you rent a Cinquecento in Texas?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s all they had left,’ Matthew said. ‘Besides, I wasn’t really anticipating its use as a getaway vehicle from an armed psychotic ranch owner.’ He glanced back out the window. ‘It’s surprisingly fuel efficient, though,’ he added, ‘and it has heated seats.’ As he went to switch them on by means of demonstration, Nick knocked his hand away, so he could unlock the handbrake.

  As we drove off, Ernest was circling his lasso in the air. Nick gave him the finger out the window.

  It was a three-hour drive back to the airport, during which Matthew entertained us by reliving the entire series of Dallas, complete with uncannily realistic JR Ewing and Sue Ellen impersonations. It wasn’t until the effects of his caffeine binge began to subside that we were able to engage him in a sensible conversation.

  ‘That Ernest dude was a case, wasn’t he?’ Matthew said, tipping up one of the cans of Red Bull to confirm that it was officially empty.

  I laughed. ‘He’s supposed to be one of the leading psychoanalysts in the world.’

  I went on to explain the tepee vagina, the bulging leather trousers and the Chloe molestation.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Matthew once I’d finished. ‘It certainly beats Clapham, doesn’t it?’

  At the airport, thanks to a quick flash of my corporate credit card, we were able to fly back to JFK that night. There was only a slight delay, when airport security discovered a half-empty can of Red Bull stashed down Matthews’ trousers. However, he managed to charm the security guard by complimenting him on his mullet hairdo. The guard looked genuinely flattered.

  We arrived back at Park Slope in the early hours of the morning, at which point both the streets and Matthew were eerily quiet. I settled Matthew to sleep in the spare room while Nick made coffee.

  When I walked into the kitchen, Nick had his back to me. I stopped and stared. Over the years it was as though I’d forgotten to notice him: his broad shoulders, the gentle curve of the muscles under his T-shirt and the soft frown he has when he’s concentrating. I walked towards him, wrapped my arms around his waist and nuzzled his neck. He smelled of Dunhill cologne and warm skin.

  He turned to me and smiled. ‘Remember that thought I asked you to hold earlier?’ he asked.

  I smiled.

  That night, I knew it wasn’t the dubious couples counselling that had brought us closer, but instead it was the adventure we’d had. And for a short while, the questions I’d been asking about love were silenced.

  Chapter 15

  I rang the doorbell yet again. It was one of those hefty ornate designs with a long metal handle like the old-style toilet flushers. After I’d expended a vast amount of kinetic energy pulling the bloody thing, the result was the faint tinkling of a bell, which one might imagine attached to a tiny fairy’s slipper.

  Matthew stood next to me shuffling from foot to foot.

  ‘Maybe he’s out?’ Mathew said, sculpting his quiff. ‘Let’s go and get some brunch instead. I saw a diner up the highway.’

  I glared at him. ‘You didn’t have to come,’ I said. ‘I was happy to leave you festering on the sofa.’ I hammered on the door this time. ‘You were the one who decided it was imperative I have a chaperone on visits from now on.’

  He patted down his quiff. ‘I said assistant, not chaperone. While I’m here, I will be your research assistant. And your security guard too. To protect you from any leather-clad molesters.’

  I shook my head. ‘You are not going to be my assistant. What’s actually going to happen is: you will come to your senses, preferably in the next twenty-four hours, and then go back to London to be with your family.’

  He tutted. ‘Research assistant,’ he repeated. ‘Anyway, it’s clear you need help considering you’re struggling to enter a house.’ Then he leaned forward and peered through the letterbox.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ he shouted. ‘Anyone home?’

  Moments later a small lady opened the door. ‘Yes, sir, can I help you?’ she asked in a clipped Spanish accent.

  Mathew stepped forward. ‘My colleague and I have an appointment with Professor Sheldon,’ he explained, hamming up his British accent.

  She nodded, then ushered us in. We walked through the expansive hallway, my heels clipping on the tiled floor. There were marble busts displayed on pillars and oil paintings of long dead earls and counts. I wondered for a moment if Professor Sheldon hadn’t had his house air
lifted from a Hampshire estate to the suburbs of New York.

  We were presented to him in the library, which was a long, narrow room at the back of the house. It had moss-green carpets and rows of deeply varnished bookshelves. Professor Sheldon was seated at an expansive bay window that overlooked the grounds. He wore mustard-coloured cords, red socks and a tweed hunting jacket. At his feet were two sleepy wolfhounds.

  He clicked his fingers. ‘Socrates. Plato,’ he said.

  Straight away, the dogs stood up, stretched a bit and then sauntered out the room. ‘So, Miss Rigby,’ he said, pulling out a pipe from his inside pocket, ‘how may I help you?’

  I stepped forward, feeling unsure about what to do with my hands. ‘I’d like to find out more about your research,’ I said, shoving them deep into my pockets.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Well, obviously you’re not here for my thoughts on The Only Way is Essex. Why are you so nervous, girl? Stop fidgeting and sit down.’ He reached for a small sliver tray, at the centre of which was a cluster of tiny blue tablets. ‘Have one of these,’ he said. ‘That’ll sort you out.’

  Matthew pushed past me and went to grab a tablet. Professor Sheldon pulled the tray back. ‘And who might you be, young squire?’

  Matthew grinned and held out his hand. ‘Matthew Willoby-Warbuton, Ellie’s research assistant.’

  Professor Sheldon smirked. ‘Ah, yes, the Willoby-Warbutons,’ he said, leaning back and rubbing his chin, ‘I know them well. Excellent grouse shooters. How is your father?’

  Matthew glanced at me, eyes wide.

  Professor Sheldon laughed. ‘Don’t panic, boy. I’m just pulling your leg.’ He handed the tray to Matthew. ‘You certainly deserve a Valium for dreaming up that ludicrous identity.’ Then he went to light his pipe. ‘Although I suggest you temper the accent. It’s coming across more Basil Fawlty than Hugh Grant.’

  Matthew took a tablet off the tray, looking more relieved than amused.

  Professor Sheldon offered the tray to me again. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like one, Miss Rigby?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea instead?’ He arched his neck towards the door. ‘Rosa,’ he shouted. ‘Tea, please.’

  Matthew and I took our tea on a weathered brown leather sofa adjacent to Professor Sheldon’s window seat.

  ‘Drugs,’ he said suddenly, after a period of prolonged silence, and then paused to look out the window.

  ‘Drugs?’ Matthew asked, clearly emboldened by the Valium.

  Professor Sheldon turned back to us. ‘Yes, my dear boy. Drugs.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘They might just be the answer.’

  I took a sip too. ‘Drugs to prevent divorce?’ I said, leaning forward. ‘But if you look at the evidence, drug use actually—’

  Professor Sheldon lifted his hand to stop me. ‘Hush,’ he said. ‘And listen. I haven’t finished yet.’ He looked out the window again and then back at me. ‘You said you were familiar with my research.’

  I nodded, although I quickly remembered that I hadn’t actually read any of it. Mandi had sent me his details and I’d meant to read up on it at the couples retreat but I’d had my phone confiscated and then Matthew had arrived and then—

  ‘Miss Rigby, please pay attention.’ Professor Sheldon clicked his fingers. One of the wolfhounds walked back into the room and sat at my feet. ‘Stroke him,’ he said.

  I looked down at his amber eyes and handsome face. He reminded me of a larger, more distinguished-looking Rupert.

  ‘Go on, he won’t bite.’

  I stroked him.

  Professor Sheldon checked his watch. ‘Carry on stroking him,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you when to stop.’

  I stroked his head and twirled his ears while Professor Sheldon went on to describe the neurochemical basis of love.

  ‘It’s common knowledge that dopamine, phenylethylamine and oxytocin set the foundations of love,’ he began.

  I nodded, glancing down at the dog, who then shuffled closer.

  Professor Sheldon continued. ‘We have raised levels of each during the early stages of love.’

  The wolfhound put his head on my lap. I continued stroking him.

  ‘Oxytocin is the bonding hormone.’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know.

  ‘It’s released in both baby and mother during breastfeeding.’

  I nodded, glancing back down at the wolfhound. His eyelids were heavy. I twirled his ears again and he sighed.

  ‘It’s released during orgasm, during prolonged physical contact.’ He placed his tea on the side. ‘And when you stroke a dog, oxytocin is released in both dog and human.’ He checked his watch and then looked at the wolfhound, then at me. ‘You can stop now if you want to.’

  I put my hand back on my lap and the wolfhound pined. I went to stroke him again.

  Professor Sheldon smiled. ‘Like I said it’s the bonding hormone.’

  I stared at him for a moment. ‘I’m still not sure what you’re saying.’

  He looked me in the eye. ‘It takes twelve seconds of uninterrupted physical contact between humans for oxytocin to be released.’

  I glanced down at the dog and then back at Professor Sheldon. ‘The reason couples divorce is because they don’t have time to cuddle?’

  ‘They don’t have the time or the inclination. Attraction wanes, we all know that. Attraction drives couples to have sex and solicit physical contact, and that in turn will keep them together. Oxytocin, you see, is the answer.’ He went on to describe a case of a man who fell in love with a porn star. ‘He’d never met her, you see, he’d just watched her movies. And because of the oxytocin released during his orgasm, he’d developed a deep emotional bond with her.’

  I gazed out of the window while he went on to explain that the man in question would wear a dinner jacket before watching her movie and masturbating. Professor Sheldon explained that this response was perfectly logical.

  I glanced beside me at Matthew, who looked as if he had fallen asleep. I poked him in the ribs and he jolted back to life.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure my research assistant got all that.’

  ‘Something about porn and stroking?’ Matthew said, rubbing his eyes. ‘What did I miss?’

  Professor Sheldon smirked. Then he reached down under the window seat and pulled out a large cardboard box. He pushed it with his foot towards me.

  ‘Take a look,’ he said.

  I leaned forward and peered inside. ‘Inhalers?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Nasal sprays. Take one.’

  Matthew jumped up from his seat and grabbed two. He passed one to me.

  I inspected mine. There were no instructions, only a basic label.

  ‘Oxytocin nasal spray,’ Professor Sheldon said.

  I stared at the nasal spray and then back at Professor Sheldon, suddenly realising what he was suggesting.

  ‘Try it,’ he said. ‘Two sprays per day, at a time when you see your partner.’

  ‘Or your dog,’ Matthew added.

  Professor Sheldon ignored him. ‘It changed my and my wife’s life. She couldn’t bear me near her but now she gives me a back rub every night.’

  Matthew giggled. ‘Have you considered upping the dose?’

  Professor Sheldon smirked. ‘It isn’t a sex tool, my boy. It’s a bonding hormone and it should be used sparingly.’ He glanced back out at the grounds again. ‘A natural release of oxytocin is preferable, of course, but this is for more resistant cases.’ Then he stood up and summoned the wolfhounds. ‘The phase-three trial results are excellent. We imagine it will be FDA-approved by March next year,’ he said, reaching for a full-length waxed coat, hanging on a hook by the door.

  ‘Time for a stroll now,’ he said, tipping an imaginary hat. ‘Good day to you, Miss Rigby, and also to you, Master Willoby-Warbuton.’ Then he shouted to Rosa, ‘Get the boy an espresso before he leaves, can’t
handle his Valium.’ And with that he was gone.

  On the way home, Matthew was still quite heavily tranquillised, so while driving I took the time to contemplate the ethics of a neurochemical intervention in love. Logically it made sense. Scientific and technological advancements had enabled us to modify our bodies, our homes, our food and even our moods, so why not modify love? Why shouldn’t we save millions of couples and their families the pain of divorce? I hadn’t thought twice about injecting myself with hormones to increase my chances of conceiving, so why wouldn’t I do the same to increase the longevity of my marriage?

  I drove on, looking out at the tree-lined streets and the American-dream houses, with their basketball hoops fixed to the walls in the front yards. I’d always imagined such homes to be bursting with joyous chaos, pancake breakfasts and freshly squeezed orange juice. However, Mr Montgomery’s statistics didn’t correlate with that image. Perhaps we shouldn’t be so quick to employ Professor Sheldon’s nasal spray? I fixed my eyes on the road ahead, readjusting my jean pocket every once in a while to stop the spray from digging in my leg.

  Once we were back on the main highway, Matthew sprung to life, as though the Valium had been booted off its receptors leaving caffeine to head up the party.

  ‘Waffles!’ he said, like the drunkard from Father Ted.

  I checked my watch.

  ‘It’s brunch o’clock,’ he said. ‘There’s a diner up here I’m sure.’ He began pointing. ‘Look. There!’

  I glanced up at the sign and frowned. ‘It’s a Hooters.’

  He ruffled his quiff. ‘Yeah, so what? They sell food and I’m hungry.’

  I tutted. ‘I’m not eating my lunch surrounded by a bunch of oversexed rednecks. Besides, there’s no way I could explain that one on my expense submission.’

  Matthew leaned towards me and winked. ‘Not even for Key lime pie?’

  My tummy began to rumble. ‘Oh all right,’ I said. ‘But as soon as we’ve eaten we’re out of there.’

  Chapter 16