by Jane Moore
"I've been making calls to Oz on the Lizard Island piece," lies Tab with consummate ease. "Jess stayed at mine last night, so came in early with me."
I simply smile in mute agreement, not trusting myself to say anything. Janice has always intimidated me.
"Good." She smiles thinly, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Feel free to come in early to the office any time you like."
"This isn't an office. It's hell with fluorescent lighting," mutters Tab to her retreating back.
Once Janice has disappeared into her walnut-clad corner lair, I wait a few moments, then retrieve the notebook I'd hastily stuffed into the top drawer of my desk as she loomed.
"That's a good morning's work there," smiles Tab, tapping the cover with a plum-colored talon. "I have a strong feeling the future Mr. Monroe may be among them."
It's 6 p.m. and I'm sprinting, well, more lolloping really, towards the station, my overstuffed handbag on one arm, an overnight bag on the other.
It's Olivia and Michael's seventh wedding anniversary today and he's booked the honeymoon suite at the Dorchester for them. Rather than fork out for a babysitter overnight and have all the worry of the children possibly waking up and being upset by the presence of an almost stranger, I said I'd happily stay over.
It's absolutely no bother for me; in fact, I really relish my own little slice of what I see as an idyllic family life from time to time. I can fantasize that one day I, too, will be living in domestic bliss with a man I adore and our two beautiful children.
It baffles me that women who choose to do that are often regarded as inferior to those who slave away in an office for fourteen hours a day before going back to their empty "home" and heating up a quick microwave meal for one, before falling exhausted into bed and starting the whole soulless process again the next day. I'm all for people doing what they want, but not when they sit in judgment on other people's choices in life, as if they are somehow selling out by opting to concentrate on a successful relationship and parenthood.
To my mind, if you're prepared to study and work hard, and have the gift of the gab, then you can succeed at pretty much any career in life. But achieving a well-balanced, happy home life that takes the concerns of others into account? Well, that's never guaranteed for anyone, however rich, clever, or hardworking you are. Achieving that takes maturity, wise choices, and more compromise and emotional plate-spinning than even the best magician could ever aspire to.
My sister Olivia has the perfect life, the one I would give my right arm for but don't even know where to begin to achieve. She and Michael met in Bristol, where he was studying medicine and she was doing a three-year physiotherapy course. She says that as soon as she clapped eyes on him in her local pub, she knew he was "the one."
Our mother always told us we'd know when he came along. She'd spin us magical tales about when she first saw Dad, and how it felt as if she'd been struck by a thunderbolt. She often chose to omit the less flowery fact that, at the time, he'd been selling her a two-seater sofa in orange tweed.
As an adult, I now realize the circumstances and their alleged exchange of dialogue would change a little with each telling, as she reinvented history in her starry-eyed pursuit of romance. But as children, Olivia and I had unquestioningly absorbed every word and carried the ideal through to adulthood; a giant expectation we would either fulfill or fail dismally at.
Olivia had hit the jackpot with Michael, but my giant expectation had become a millstone round my neck, weighing me down with the assumption that, unless I feel like I have been struck by no less than Zeus himself, the man I'm dating isn't "the one."
The "experts," as they like to call themselves, always say those from broken homes are disadvantaged when it comes to finding lasting love, because they have no blueprint to work from. But what if you have a blueprint of near-perfection, as drummed into me through my formative years by my mother? What then? Believe me, it can be just as inhibiting.
Olivia and Michael live in a large Victorian house at the end of a long, leafy street in Dulwich village, the place where those who previously occupied Clapham's "Nappy Valley" move to once they have acquired a bit more money. Their main reason for choosing the area was so six-year-old Matthew would be well placed to attend the prestigious Dulwich Elementary, with its spacious playing fields so rare in London.
I open the black metal gate with the "Beware of the Dog" sign left by the previous owners, and rush up to the highly glossed front door in British racing green. Externally, everything about the house is conventional. Olivia's only nod to eccentricity is the tinny electronic doorbell that plays Anita Baker's "Ring My Bell." A mortified Michael disconnects it every time they have a dinner party.
As a computerized Anita warbles on, I peer in through the front window to see Matthew and four-year-old Emily glued to the television and completely ignoring the fact that I am hopping from one foot to another outside. Ah, the bliss of those selfish, guilt-free years. It's such a shame we don't appreciate them at the time.
"Hi!" Michael opens the door, smiling broadly. He looks smart in a black cashmere sweater and black trousers.
"Bloody hell, it's the Milk Tray man!" I tease.
"And this lady loves him." Olivia appears behind him and places her arms round his waist, squeezing tightly. Michael turns and kisses the end of her nose.
"Yeuch." I wrinkle my nose. "Book a room, will you?"
"We have." Michael looks at his watch. "Which reminds me, let's get going so we can make use of it before dinner." He disappears from view into the sitting room, leaving Olivia and me standing in the narrow hall whose walls are covered with family photographs.
"Right!" says Olivia in her best take-charge voice. "The kids are fed. So all that's left is bath, cocoa, and story."
"And what about them?" I quip. I know their routine inside out. "Leave it to me. You go and enjoy yourselves."
"Believe me, we will." Olivia's eyes were shining. "Just think, uninhibited sex without fear of interruption or being overheard by the rugrats," she says, using her pet term for Matthew and Emily.
"Any sex would be nice," I say ruefully.
"You'll meet someone soon, pumpkin." She ruffles my hair. "You'll see. It'll happen when you least expect it."
I look doubtful. "Maybe I should take up jogging. At least I'll get to hear heavy breathing again."
Olivia laughs. "An easier option would be to go out on dates. You never bloody do."
"Actually, I've already had thirty-seven e-mails answering that ad the dreaded Kara put on the Internet."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Really? Blimey, talk about instant gratification. In the old days, you had to wait for a bundle to be forwarded on from your PO box number."
I shoot her a cynical look. "As if."
"Yes, I know I've been lucky. But luck doesn't keep a marriage going. You have to work at it, particularly once you have kids." She bends down to scoop up one of Emily's headbands discarded on the floor. "It just depends on whether you both rise to the challenge. If it's too one-sided, that's when it doesn't work."
"Maybe one of the thirty-seven will rise to the challenge." I'm trying to sound positive. I follow Olivia through to the kitchen at the back of the house.
"Any of them look promising?" She looks at me questioningly.
"I haven't looked at them yet. It's a bit difficult at work. I've just looked at some of the ads placed by men on the general Web site. They're quite a mixed bag."
"Well, once you've got the kids to bed, don't forget Michael's computer is upstairs. You can peruse your thirty-seven potential soul mates without fear of being rumbled."
I smile appreciatively. "I might well do that."
"Ready?" Michael reappears, clutching a large black-leather overnight bag, his jacket slung over his arm.
Five minutes later, I'm standing at the door with Matthew and Emily, waving them off. Neither of the children seems the slightest bit perturbed at seeing their parents disappearing off into the sunset, and I fe
el a warm flush of love for them as I realize it's because I'm here. If it had been Juanita, their cleaning lady and erstwhile babysitter, Emily would no doubt have attached herself to Olivia's leg and been dragged up the garden path screaming like a banshee.
But "Aunty Jess" is the next best thing to Mum and Dad--in fact, sometimes she's even better because she indulges them that little bit more. Tonight, the night I have my future to think of, is no exception.
"Aunty Jess, can I watch my Spiderman DVD?" pleads Matthew, as soon as his parents are out of earshot. He grabs hold of my forearm and squeezes it. "Pleeeeeeeaaaase!"
"Me want to see Anstay," says Emily, referring to the Disney cartoon Anastasia that she's seen at least twenty times already.
Luckily, thanks to Michael's sizable salary as a heart consultant at Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, theirs is a two-DVD-player household. So after their bath, I plonk them down with a mug of cocoa each, watching the film of their choice in separate rooms.
Once I know they're engrossed, I sneak upstairs to Michael's study and settle myself down in front of his computer.
Waiting for it to load, then make that torturous, squealy noise as it dials up AOL, I sit and gaze around the small room that would normally accommodate a single bed. The desk is old-fashioned mahogany with a red leather top and brass drop handles on the drawers.
The computer and its accessories take up most of the available space, but there's a little corner left for a framed picture of Michael and Olivia on their wedding day.
I remember it well. I was twenty-seven and maid of honor, a title that only served to hammer home that I had no proper relationship of my own to speak of.
It was pre-Nathan, and I was having a rather patchy fling with Greg, an Australian surfer dude who floated in and out on the tide of life. He was gorgeous and said very little, which I initially took to mean he was from the "less is more"school of thought. Then I realized it was simply because he had absolutely nothing to say. In fact, he was so unutterably thick that light bent round him.
I didn't invite him to my sister's wedding, mainly because I couldn't rely on him to turn up, but also because I knew he'd be way out of his depth with the other guests. And that included the four-year-old twin bridesmaids who were Michael's nieces.
So I went on my own and endured an entire day of looking a fright in tartan (Michael's Scottish) and being asked by just about every other guest if I was going to be next up the aisle. By the end of the day, I was thinking of wordlessly handing everyone a press release that read: "No, I haven't got a rewarding, fulfilling relationship like my sister Olivia. I am the emotional runt of the family, the lost cause."
"You've got mail." The computerized female voice stirs me from my trance and I stare at the screen. The thirty-seven e-mails have now mushroomed to forty-eight. I double click on the first one.
Hi, I'm Simon . . .
I magnify his picture to discover he's very handsome with dark blond hair and a tanned face. It's clearly been taken on a beach somewhere, in that dusk sunshine that's always so flattering. It's the first one, and it looks promising. Not a bad start.
"Shit!" I glance at my watch and leap up. It's 10 p.m. and I've forgotten all about Matthew and Emily watching their films.
I creep into Michael and Olivia's room and Emily is fast asleep in the middle of the bed, her empty mug still clasped in her chubby little hand. The television has clicked off DVD onto ITV, and News at Ten is just starting. I switch it off and pull the covers over Emily's bare legs. I'll sneak in next to her later.
Downstairs, Matthew is still watching Spiderman, obviously second time around.
"Come on, you. Bed." I flick off the machine and ruffle his hair. "Don't you dare tell Mum and Dad I let you stay up this late. It's our little secret."
"OK." He smiles, a mischievous glint in his dark blue eyes. "But only if you read me a bedtime story."
"Oooh, you're ruthless. You're going to go far, you are." I tuck him into bed and grab a Spiderman comic from his bookshelf. I start to read, an Oscar-winning performance even if I say so myself, with all the dramatic "Pows!" and "Bams!" in their right place. But by the end of the third page, Matthew's mouth has fallen open and he's emitting tiny, butterfly snores. Flicking off the bedside light, I sit in the half glow for a while, just listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing and studying his motionless face.
Although I didn't actually give birth to him and Emily, I can't imagine loving them any more than I do. This scenario--married life with two or three children and all the angst, hard work, and sacrifice it entails--is absolutely, 100 percent what I want.
Kara has always said she doesn't want children, which is probably a good thing rather than pass on her grumpy cow chromosome. She says she's too selfish and wants to carry on having a nice car and foreign holidays, as if they were somehow mutually exclusive from parenthood.
It always amazes me how people think a tiny seven-pound bundle is going to control your life, issuing orders from its high chair, banning vacations and insisting that only a sensible, family estate car will do. What utter silliness.
Sure, it's probably easier to holiday in Britain and drive a roomy tank, but if you want to fly off to Barbados and drive a two-seater sports car, you can. And there's not a damn thing little Junior can do about it.
Once, when Olivia was bit squiffy from too many gin and tonics, she confided in me that, although she would never admit it to anyone else, she felt slightly superior to women who chose not to have children. She said she pitied them for not ever being able to know the strength of love between a mother and her child.
"I loved my carefree, single years," she murmured. "But if they stretched on endlessly without contrast, they would seem very empty indeed."
I knew what she meant. At thirty-four, I'm bored sick of my single, selfish life. I want that contrast Olivia spoke so passionately about, but the big question is, am I going to get it? And from whom?
Occasionally, a woman I work with tells me how envious she is of me and my uncomplicated existence. She has three lovely children and a solid, if unremarkable, marriage, but said she longs to do what she wants, when she wants.
"No, I envy you," I replied.
"Yeah, right," she said ruefully, before wandering off to the local grocery store to get her family's tea.
Some women genuinely enjoy life without the major responsibility of incumbents. But I'm not one of them. I can only liken it to craving a slice of chocolate cake when, say, family life is chocolate free. A day at a health spa with your girlfriends, swigging champagne and not worrying about getting home or having a hangover in the morning--that's your slice of chocolate cake.
But imagine being able to have it whenever you want. Huge, unlimited, stodgy slices of it. See? Loses its appeal, doesn't it? Well, that's the prolonged single life for me. Unappealing.
I kiss Matthew on the forehead and creep out of his bedroom, edging back down the stairs to the mezzanine level, where Michael's study is. Shutting down the computer, I fold up the piece of paper with twelve names written down--the dozen potentials chosen from forty-eight replies.
Stuffing it into my jeans pocket, I sigh as I watch the power drain from the screen. I want family life and it doesn't seem to be coming my way via the usual routes. So I'll just have to take matters into my own hands.
Tomorrow, I'll whittle the twelve names down to three and arrange my first foray into cyberdating.
Four
Hi, I'm Simon. I'm 35, of athletic build, and have a black belt in judo. I'm about to get my pilot's license, but to fund my passion for flying I have to work occasionally as an account manager for a West End advertising agency. But don't tell my mother that's what I do, she thinks I'm the doorman in a brothel! The woman of my dreams will be equally adventurous, but most of all, great fun.
I thought Saturday lunch was good place to start. Broad daylight, informal, as long or, more importantly, as short as I like.
It's a surp
risingly warm, sunny day for late May, and I have arranged to meet Simon at Buona Sera, a lively Italian restaurant down a small side street in Covent Garden. I have already told him, via e-mail, that I have a hair appointment at 2:30 p.m. A complete lie, of course, but I figure that if he turns out to be loathsome, then I need a good ploy to get away. And if we hit it off, then it's a good ploy to leave him wanting more. I'm a genius.
Being a Taurus and obsessive about punctuality, I get there slightly early and settle myself outside in the sunshine. Taking the seat with the best view of the entrance, I figure I'll also get a good few seconds advance warning of what I've let myself in for. So far, only an elderly couple and a lone woman have arrived after me.
Ten minutes later, I have read the menu so many times I could sweep the category in Jeopardy. Glancing around in frustration, I look across the street and notice a man standing motionless, staring in my direction. It looks vaguely like the man in the photograph, but I can't be sure.
He walks across the road towards me. "Hi, are you Jess?"
Wow. Now he's come into sharp focus, I can see the Web site picture doesn't do him any justice. He looks like a young Harrison Ford, what Madeleine and I would describe as an "NGR," "no gin required."
In answer to his question, I nod mutely.
"Hi, I'm Simon." He extends his hand for me to shake, but looks utterly ill at ease. Probably because, up to now, he thinks he's about to have lunch with Helen Keller.
I flash him my best smile. "Nice to meet you."
Nope. That hasn't loosened him up. His eyes darting nervously around him, he finally directs his gaze somewhere over my right shoulder.
"Do you mind if we eat inside?"
I frown slightly. Because it's a beautifully sunny day, all the other tables outside are now taken, meaning my early arrival had nabbed us a prime piece of real estate. I feel irritated at the thought of having to give it up. "Why?"
