by Pippa Wright
Unlike that T-shirt, I thought, meanly. I noticed Auntie Lyd was smiling approvingly at Jim; why? She thought gyms were for idiots. And surely Jim was the proof of it – pumped up like a cartoon hero. I bet if you pressed his back his eyes would swivel like Eagle Eyes Action Man. Though Action Man would surely never have submitted to the indignity of blond highlights.
17
When I got to the office the next morning, my email inbox was unusually full. My heart instantly sank with fear that there had been a sudden influx of unsolicited features from mentalists. In the old days they were called green inkers for their usual choice of pen – easily identified and disposed of in the bin. But the broadband, as Percy called it, had changed the entire process, and now every lunatic with a laptop felt qualified to call themselves a writer and submit their rambling thoughts to Country House with stern warnings about copyright infringement, as if we had nothing better to do than steal their work and pass it off as our own. There was a terrible inevitability to most of the submissions. I knew without even looking that the latest batch of hopeful contributors would mostly concern themselves with bluebell woods, Easter bonnets and the pagan origins of Easter itself (all too late for the April issue). Those who’d acquainted themselves more fully with our submission guidelines would be aiming for May instead: May queens, may blossom, maypoles, mayflies, may I please bang my head against my desk in frustration. A rare few would be pitching early for the summer and autumn slots; there was yet another office sweepstake, an annual one on how many articles containing the words ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’ would be submitted for the September issue. Last year’s total had been twenty-four, with Amanda’s PA, Catherine, declared the worthy winner.
But only four of these emails were unsolicited pitches. The remaining fifteen had all been forwarded to me from Ticky via a website which appeared to be called MyMate’sGreat.com.
‘Wow, you sound gorgeous! I am sure I can show you a bit of what you’ve been missing.’
‘Hey Sexy, U R hot. Wanna chat?’
‘One Bad Boy, reporting for duty!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’
‘Bad to the BONE, baby, you know it! Owwwww!’
‘Unsuitability guaranteed, call me!’
And so it continued. I had never seen so many exclamation marks in one place before. It was horrifying.
‘Ticky?’ I said, looking up slowly and trying to keep control of my voice.
She beamed over at me from behind her desk, obviously very pleased with herself. ‘Just seen the emails, have you? Not bad, eh, Roars? Your profile only went live last night and look how many replies you’ve had. Amazeballs.’
‘My profile?’ I asked as calmly as possible. ‘What do you mean my “profile”?’
‘What?’ said Ticky innocently. ‘I thought we agreed you were going to rack them up? So, like, I just wrote you a little dating profile and look how many men want to meet you!’
‘You are unbelievable, Ticky,’ I muttered. ‘A little dating profile? I can’t believe you would do this without even consulting me. These men sound horrendous. I mean, do I wanna chat? How old is he – fourteen?’
‘Yah, see, that is totally why I should be in charge of this instead of you.’ Ticky tossed her blonde mane. ‘Unsuitable, remember? This is not about finding your future husband. Although you never know . . .’
‘Ticky, if one of these men is my future husband I swear to God I will bestow on you our first-born child,’ I said.
‘Like, wow, that’s a step of gratitude too far.’
‘Not out of gratitude, Ticky,’ I growled. ‘Because it will be some kind of freaky mutant gremlin child that I will want to get rid of as soon as possible.’
‘Um, harsh, Rory?’ said Ticky, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘I really could do without your help. At least let me see what you’ve written on this “little dating profile”.’
‘Well, like, yah, of course,’ said Ticky, picking up papers on her desk and shuffling them around in an unconvincing show of sudden busyness. ‘Later, Roars, bit hectic right now.’
‘Ticky . . .’ I warned. Trying to use work as an excuse was pretty desperate; she’d have been more convincing if she’d pleaded a vital appointment for morning cocktails with another of her titled godfathers.
‘Lots to do, lots to do,’ she said, and shot out of the office before I could stop her.
Ticky’s reaction made me even more determined to see what she’d written. How hard could it be to find my own profile? I logged on to My Mate’s Great and searched for women aged twenty-nine in the Greater London area. There were an awful lot of them, smiling hopefully for the camera in a manner that suggested they were fun and uncomplicated and in no way desperate, unattractive or friendless. I say ‘them’, but I should have said ‘us’, because there I was, my profile picture cropped by Ticky out of a group shot at last year’s Christmas party. Underneath, the text declared me to be ‘back in the game’. With deep foreboding I clicked to open up the full profile.
Rory’s friend Ticky says:
Rory is a gorgeous red-headed journalist on a mission. She’s just got out of a long-term relationship with a man who thought spreadsheets were a form of foreplay; now she needs a bad boy to show her what she’s been missing. Do you have what it takes to show a good girl a very, very bad time? If you think you can release the fiery passion that Rory’s been hiding for too long, get in touch.
Unsuitable men ONLY. Nice boys finish last.
That was it. When Ticky came back to the office I was going to wrench that silver spoon out of her over-privileged mouth and use it to beat her to death.
But, perhaps sensing my murderous feelings towards her, Ticky didn’t return to her desk for the rest of the morning. I glimpsed her occasionally, rushing past trying to look busy and preoccupied. And at one point I caught her and Noonoo huddled in a corner discussing something in fierce whispers, but Ticky scuttled away down the back stairs as soon as she realized I’d seen her. So intent was I on exacting my revenge that I entirely forgot about my date with the office intern until I received his email just before lunchtime.
I’ll come and get you in ten minutes.
Let’s go to my club. L
Only at Country House would the teenaged intern be a member of a private club. Unless, I flinched with horror, he meant a nightclub? Did teenagers go to actual clubs at lunchtime these days? What did people wear to go clubbing anyway? Surely not the floral dress I was wearing today. This kind of confusing weirdness was precisely why I had been afraid of dating a teenager; a teenager, I suddenly remembered, who was practically related to Amanda. As if it couldn’t get any worse.
18
I will say one thing for the public-school system. It may turn out floppy-haired right-wingers with a tendency towards floridity in the cheeks and a distinct lack of presence in the chin department, but it really does teach them excellent manners. It was slightly shaming that the person who effortlessly took control of our lunch date was the one who was not yet out of their teens. Luke picked me up from my office and helped me into my coat. He opened doors, and insisted on walking on the outside of the pavement like a Victorian gentleman concerned with protecting me from the splashes of passing carriages. He asked politely about my morning, and I answered politely back. By the time he ushered me up the steps of a red-brick Georgian townhouse in Garrick Street I was beginning to think this was going to be a perfectly pleasant experience after all.
Nor did Luke turn out to have taken me to a nightclub. Although, as I noticed he signed in as Geoff Home, it appeared more likely this was his father’s club than his own. Still, it was reassuringly grown-up – no one was going to expect me to dance on a podium or neck a Wkd Blue or whatever school leavers drink these days. The white-haired maître d’ showed us to a table in the centre of the room, but Luke murmured something in his ear and we were led instead to a more secluded situation in the corner. As he presented u
s with the menus the maître d’ gave me an unreadable smile. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but I flushed guiltily, wondering if perhaps he thought I was one of those schoolteachers who gets arrested for having affairs with her pupils.
We talked about the menu, we ordered, we discussed the work Luke had been doing for Flickers: ‘Mostly, like, going to the shop to get him more Marlboro Lights.’ It was all completely civilized and actually quite enjoyable, thanks to Luke’s impeccable social skills. Why had I worried so much about this date?
Because of the hand on my arse five minutes later. That was why.
‘So,’ Luke drawled, shuffling his chair around so that he was next to me instead of opposite. ‘Why didn’t you reply to my text last night?’
‘It was you!’ I gasped, pushing his hand away. Of course! As horrified as I was to discover that a mere teenager could come up with such filth, I couldn’t suppress a little glimmer of relief that the message hadn’t been from Teddy after all.
‘Yah, totes, who’d you think it was from?’ Luke asked. ‘The old man you went out with last week?’
‘Of course not,’ I lied.
‘Are you on BBM?’ said Luke. ‘Only it’s much better than text if we’re going to be in touch a lot, yah?’
I pushed his hand away again.
‘What’s BBM?’ I asked.
Luke looked at me as if I was one of those ancient High Court judges who has to be told who the Beatles are. ‘Um, like, BlackBerry Messenger? Saahriously, you don’t have it?’
‘I don’t have a BlackBerry,’ I confessed.
He shook his head. ‘Mental. How do you, like, keep up with people?’
‘Oh, the usual ways,’ I said vaguely, feeling tragically out of touch. The truth was, it wasn’t as if I was so inundated with emails and texts that I’d ever felt the need to be accessible all the time. A gentle potter round Facebook a few times a week was more than enough for me to feel like I was alive to the possibilities of the internet age.
‘Only,’ said Luke, ‘I’d really like to keep up with you, if you know what I mean. I think an older woman has a lot to offer a younger man.’ He gave my behind another firm squeeze, as if testing for ripeness. Instead of being outraged by his presumption, I couldn’t help laughing at his persistence. I might have considered him a mere infant, but as far as he was concerned, he was quite the debonair ladies’ man.
‘Luke,’ I said, pushing his hand away again, ‘will you please take your hand off my backside before I have to report you to your godmother for sexual harassment.’
Luke pouted at me, drawing his hand back to his lap. ‘It’s, like, not fair to laugh at a man like that,’ he said, looking exactly like a small boy who’s had a toy taken away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, having to stop myself from patting him on the head like a puppy. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just quite hard to take you seriously.’
Luke leaned forward. ‘I really think you should take me more seriously,’ he said. ‘I mean, men my age are, like, at their sexual peak. Just like women in their thirties. It’s the perfect combination.’
‘I’m twenty-nine!’ I exclaimed, loud enough that the maître d’ looked over with an expression that said, I can tell you are, my dear. Whatever do you think you are doing with that teenager?
‘God, Luke,’ I hissed, mortified. ‘Can’t we just have lunch without you propositioning me? People are looking at us.’
‘Like, saahriously, why are you so afraid of your own sexuality?’ Luke asked, his hand sliding once again towards me. ‘You’re a woman in her prime, I’m a man in his prime, what are you so scared of?’
‘I’m not scared of you, Luke,’ I scoffed. But I wondered. I wasn’t scared exactly – frankly, Luke was still enough of a scrawny teenager that I reckoned I could get him into a headlock if I had to. Uncomfortable, though, I would admit to. I wasn’t used to fending off the advances of anyone at all, let alone a horny teenager with wandering hands.
‘Yah? Because I think you’re afraid of what might happen if you let me seduce you.’
I spluttered into my water glass. I felt like a reverse Mrs Robinson. ‘Luke! Seriously. I am not afraid of my sexuality just because I don’t want to sleep with you.’
I had to admire his chutzpah though; it never seemed to cross his adolescent mind that I might be rejecting his advances because I didn’t find him attractive. He was absolutely certain that if there were any issues here, they were mine.
‘Don’t, like, fight it,’ he urged. ‘Ticks said you’ve been with your boyfriend for ever. Don’t you want to know what it’s like with someone else after all this time?’
‘Look, Luke,’ I said. ‘I think you might slightly have the wrong end of the stick here. I’m dating unsuitable men – just dating. Not having sex with all of them. It’s not about that.’ I shuddered at the idea that I would have had to sleep with Teddy to fulfil my remit.
Luke looked puzzled. ‘But, like, why not?’
‘Why not what?’
‘Why not sleep with the unsuitable men? It’s only sex.’
‘It’s not about sex,’ I said. Our main courses arrived and the waiter raised his eyebrow very slightly.
‘It’s always about sex,’ said Luke confidently, unabashed by the presence of the waiter. He lifted a spear of asparagus into his mouth and sucked on the end lasciviously.
‘If you think I find that attractive, Luke, you are very much mistaken,’ I said, starchy as a schoolmarm.
‘I’d find it attractive if you did it,’ he leered.
I was beginning to get the feeling Luke would have found it attractive even if I’d been eating an egg sandwich with my mouth open while wearing a polyester fleece onesie. Not that I was so devastatingly attractive that he couldn’t help himself, but because he was so full of hormones that he saw every single action of mine as some sort of sexual come-on.
‘Well, I’m not going to do it,’ I said, sharply cutting my asparagus into small pieces as a warning. A warning he failed to read. It was quite remarkable how he could manage to shovel food into his mouth with one hand while his other snaked around my rear.
Luke tossed his fringe out of his eyes to better look at me. ‘But sleeping with unsuitable people is like dating unsuitable people – if you don’t try it, how do you know you won’t like it?’
‘Well, Luke,’ I said. ‘Would you sleep with another man just to discover you didn’t like it?’
‘Oh yah,’ he answered, perfectly confidently. ‘But every time I’ve slept with a guy, it’s made me realize I’d rather be with a girl. See how it works?’
I gaped at him. I’d thought my argument was watertight – weren’t public schoolboys supposed to be conservative homophobes? Although perhaps that was just to cover up for what happened at those all-boys schools.
‘Yah,’ Luke continued. ‘Makes sense to try everything at least once, right? Which is why you totes need to be sleeping with the unsuitable men. At least some of them. Just dating is cheating; you’re not really putting everything into it. If you know what I mean.’
I wondered if he did have a point. Not that I should be shagging everyone who was unsuitable, but was I holding myself at a remove from it all? Hiding myself behind the ‘work project’ excuse to protect myself from anything real? Although it seemed likely to me that Luke’s argument was less about unsuitable men in general, and more about getting his eighteen-year-old self laid.
‘Because, like, you’re using the fact that you think I’m unsuitable to stop yourself from really looking at me as a man, yah?’ said Luke. ‘You’ve made up your mind already about me being too young, you’re just going through the motions on this date. Not, like, allowing yourself to think of me as someone you should deffo be boffng totes because I’m unsuitable.’
‘Maybe,’ I said thoughtfully, more to myself than to Luke. Maybe I was using the unsuitability criteria to stop myself taking any of this seriously. That way I could convince myself I was trying to get
over Martin while actually remaining as hung up on him as ever. Maybe I did need to get more involved with the unsuitable men than just chaste social encounters in restaurants.
Luke’s eyes lit up. ‘Captain of Debate Soc at school,’ he said proudly, his chest puffed out. ‘Knew I could turn you. Are you free tonight?’
‘No, Luke,’ I spluttered. ‘I meant maybe I should be taking the dating more seriously, not maybe I should be shagging you.’
Luke folded his napkin up on the top of the table. ‘That’s what you say now,’ he said, smiling with satisfaction. ‘But I can see you’re coming round to it.’
‘We should be getting back to the office,’ I said, pushing his hand away yet again.
‘Oh yah,’ he agreed. ‘Plenty of time, Rory Don’t worry, I’m not giving up on you yet.’
19
Like any dreaded appointment, the editorial meeting seemed to come round far more frequently than a mere once a week. It felt like only hours ago that we last sat in this airless room, looked down on by generations of aristocratic Bettertons from their gilt-framed portraits. Also looked down on by Amanda, but not from within a frame, and for different reasons. There was something about the room, and the fact that it had remained unchanged for decades, that gave me the feeling that, rather than attending a series of editorial meetings over my years at Country House, I had in fact attended just one never-ending meeting, in which the same conversations looped endlessly around and around. The speakers might change, editors might be replaced, but the Country House calendar was bigger than any of them. Even Amanda’s much-vaunted editorial changes, as outrageous as they seemed to Martha, were still constrained within it, almost unchanged from when the magazine had been founded: every year we had to cover the game season and the Game Fair, have a heated debate about hunting (not much of a debate, of course, we were firmly pro), find a fresh angle on Henley, Goodwood and the Derby, and provide sufficient coverage of innumerable charity and society events that our readers could feel, even if they were not in possession of a country home themselves, that they were in some way a part of that world.
