by Jayne Buxton
As I succumb to Sally’s pliant fingers, making an almighty effort to draw as much relaxation and rejuvenation from the experience as I can, I am also willing her to speed up. It all seems to be taking longer than the promised twenty-five minutes. At one point I want to implore Sally to get on with it, to be a little less thorough, but I know this will be unforgivably rude. I close my eyes and my to-do list pops up in front of them where the blank canvas of the truly tranquil should be. Tombola jars, unarranged dental checkups and unmade phone calls to plumbers, ballet teachers and the Inland Revenue are suddenly swimming in front of my eyes, and I can feel the tension rising to the place on my forehead into which Sally is resolutely massaging deep-penetrating vitamin E cream.
Finally, it is over. I thank Sally, press a twenty pound note into the hands of the receptionist—taking care not to chip my newly buffed and shined nails—and rush out of the salon with one sleeve of my coat dangling. I am subjected to a disapproving stare from an incoming customer, for whom I have failed to hold open the door long enough, but I cannot worry about this. I am late, and there is no time for niceties. I am a woman on a mission.
Miraculously, the trains are running with some efficiency. I run from the station as fast as my two-inch heels will allow, slowing down to a mere speed-walk about a hundred feet from the house. Time to gather the sense of calm confidence that will be required of me once I open the front door. As I turn the key in the lock I admire my immaculately groomed nails, glowing gently under the porch light.
“Hello, I’m home,” I shout cheerily. “Sorry I’m so late. Anna Wyatt caught me just as I was leaving the building, and I thought she was going to go on forever. Hope you’ve all been having a nice time.”
I sling my coat on one of the hooks by the door, deposit my bag near the radiator, and walk back to the kitchen, peering into the sitting room on my way past. The house is eerily quiet. There is no one in the sitting room, and, I discover, no one in the kitchen either. I spot three pieces of notepaper laid out side by side on the kitchen table in front of the fruit bowl, in which a single, miserable-looking pear is quietly disintegrating.
Moving closer, I can see that they are all in different handwriting. The first I recognize as Millie’s big, rounded letters.
Dear Mummy
Sorry we couldn’t wait. Daddy said we had to leave. I will miss you. Here are some kisses from me. XoXoXoX
Millie
The second note is from David.
Ally,
Where were you? Tried to call but your phone was o f. Had to leave, as traffic is terrible and we’ll be late as it is. Sorry. See you Sunday night.
David
I sit down heavily on the nearest chair, suddenly overwhelmed by nausea. I’ve missed them. I’ve missed saying good-bye to my babies, and all in the name of vanity. Millie will be distraught. She hates not being able to say good-bye properly. And without my being there to check, Jack has probably gone off without something essential to his Wild West ensemble. What kind of ridiculous idea was it to try to make myself look glamorous for some French woman I’ve never met and a man who is probably so enamored of her that he wouldn’t have noticed me anyway?
I read the third note, which I now see is from Jill.
Ally
Sorry. Had to leave. Hope I did the right thing letting
David take the kids. Thought you would understand. See you next week.
Jill
P.S. Chantal is quite stunning so I was afraid she wouldn’t be very nice, but she seems great. Brought gifts for the kids. Hope that makes you feel better.
Then, scrawled across the bottom of the note in a different colored pen:
By the way, you are out of milk.
CHAPTER 4
PROPOSITION
I am perched precariously on the edge of a bar stool waiting to spring upon a nearby sofa the minute it is vacated by its occupants. I watch them closely, wary of missing my one opportunity to secure a comfortable seat and table somewhat off the beaten track of the bar area, which is filling up with alarming rapidity. Sitting on a cozy sofa in a bar with my girlfriends on a Friday night is an experience I can embrace, but hovering on a metal bar stool amid hoards of overconfident, drunk twentysomethings is another matter altogether.
The couple who have been canoodling on the sofa rise in unison, he helping her on with her coat with a tenderness that only couples who have not yet entered their third week of dating can muster. I slip in behind them as they leave, plonking my white wine firmly on the table to mark my territory. I have only been seated a few minutes when I see Clara’s blond head making its way through the crowd. Being five feet ten, she doesn’t disappear into the sea of jackets as I would, but rather cuts a clean path straight through it. Mel will, of course, be late.
“Ally, you’re here first for a change. You must have been desperate to get out!” she jokes, removing her coat (a sumptuous black cashmere number with fur collar that I covet) and parking herself beside me. We hug, as always, rather than resorting to the two-cheeked air-kiss we have both agreed should be reserved for mere acquaintances.
“So, sweetie. Tell me how you are. Is she really as gorgeous as you feared?” she asks, simultaneously pointing at my wineglass and gesticulating to the waitress.
“I’m guessing so,” I say. “Only I don’t really know, because I didn’t actually see her. I arrived home late, and they had already gone. But Jill left me a note confirming my worst fears.”
“So Jill thinks she’s gorgeous. That doesn’t mean a thing. A lot of French women look gorgeous when they’re all done up, but without the Chanel they are very ordinary. Anyway, Jill could be wrong.”
“Doubt it,” I respond dejectedly. “You know, it’s not just the fact that she might be pretty that bothers me. It’s the fact that she might be pretty, and nice, and intelligent and that Millie and Jack will grow up admiring her. Am I really going to have to go through life hearing Millie say things like ‘Chantal would never wear that’ or, ‘I wish I could be elegant like Chantal’? Because if I am, frankly, I’m not sure I’m up to it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffs Clara. “Children always love their mothers best. You know as well as I do that you could go around in a high-necked crimpelene blouse and a kilt and Millie would still think you were the epitome of style.”
Just then Mel appears, looking hot and flustered. “Hi, you two,” she says, unwinding her eight-feet-long scarf and dropping her satchel to the floor with a thud. “Sorry I’m late. Hell of a day.”
There isn’t a spare chair in sight, so we are forced to squeeze three to the sofa, with Clara and Mel on either side of me. This makes for quite a lot of tiring head action for me.
Mel tells us why her day has been hellish (editor’s idea for mini-feature sprung upon her during midmorning coffee, followed by train getting stuck in tunnel on way to critical interview for piece due on Monday, topped off with Charlie the cat throwing up all over two pieces from Dom’s collection of rare sheet music). Clara has her own tale of woe.
“Do you know, that after all the business I’ve brought in this year, and all the effort I’ve put into developing the MBA recruitment program, Harrison passed me over for that position on the main board in favor of that PowerPoint–Wanker Jeremy Thistle.”
“That’s outrageous! You’d been more or less promised that position. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing to do, for now. I’ve just got to bide my time, wait for everyone else to discover that Thistle is nothing but a set of power points and beg me to take his place. It won’t take long. He’s absolutely useless, and the only reason they’ve put him there is because they bought his company and have to pretend that he’s an important part of the deal.”
“I don’t know how you can be so philosophical. I’d be spitting blood.”
“I’ve already done that, in the privacy of my own bathroom. You should see the white tiles now,” replies Clara, smiling.
There’s something f
orced about Clara’s smile. Losing the position on the board will have been a real blow. Clara is one of those people who really wants success. She knows she’s smart enough, and strong enough to withstand the pressure of working fifteenhour days. And Lord knows she’s sacrificed enough for it. Jonathon has wanted children for years but she’s always resisted, saying the time isn’t right, that her career would never recover from the maternity leave let alone the inevitable juggling that would follow it. Just over a year ago she relented and they started trying for a baby. With every passing month she seemed to grow more enamored of the idea of becoming a mother, even talking in practical terms about how she would manage to fit it in with her career, which made it all the more difficult when the months passed without any sign of a pregnancy. To lose the much-coveted board position now, when it seems that she may have sacrificed so much to get it, must be a bitter pill to swallow.
We rarely dwell on the question of whether or not Clara is pregnant anymore. For the first few months after she announced to us that she and Jonathon were ready to try, we would receive a monthly report on the results of their efforts. After a while the reports stopped, and Clara made it clear that she wasn’t up for detailed discussions about her cycle or Jonathon’s sperm count, or any of the other reasons they might not be conceiving. Things just went silent, and a shadow seemed to fall over Clara. You would never describe her as deflated, or sad; she’s far too vibrant and strong willed for that. But there’s definitely something different about her. Every now and then you catch her flinching, as if she’s been stabbed by her own thoughts. Then she’s back again, livening up the conversation, giving everyone else the benefit of all her certainty.
“Well here’s to Friday and no more of that kind of nonsense for two whole days,” says Mel, raising her glass.
Suddenly I remember that Mel needs my help with something. “What’s this thing you need help with, Mel? Some article to do with husbands, wasn’t it?”
“Oohh. Thanks for reminding me,” says Mel, leaning to fish something from out of her satchel. She retrieves a crumpled but still shiny brochure and begins smoothing it out on her lap.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” she begins. “You know this trip to New York I went on a couple of weeks ago, to do the research for that piece on the dating habits of American women? Well, I came across this woman, Marina Boyd, who’s from Atlanta, apparently, but is the talk of the town all across the states. She’s this—dating guru, I guess you’d call it, who runs seminars for single women.”
“Oh, I know who you mean,” I interrupt. “Is she the one who thinks we should be spending our days lounging around in kitten heels and bikinis like proper southern belles?”
“Not exactly,” continues Mel. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Her theory is that women need to take charge and ‘manage’ their search for the perfect partner, the way they’d manage a business project. You know, set targets, write action plans, that sort of thing. Apply business principles.”
I take a large gulp of my wine, still unclear where all this is going.
“Anyway, she’s running a series of seminars over here starting next week, and I’ve been asked to cover the whole thing. My editor wants a piece on this Marina person’s whole approach and how it actually plays out in the U.K. She wants me to get the inside story by following one woman and documenting her experience.”
I’m somewhat clearer about where this is going.
“Unfortunately, Ms. Boyd will not allow this kind of intrusion of people’s privacy under any circumstances.” Mel stretches out the Ms. disdainfully and rolls her eyes heavenward. “The most she’ll allow is one visit to one of her seminars. So I’m rather stuck for a real live person who’ll help me generate some genuine insights.”
It’s clear as a bell now. I can almost lip sync the words that come out of Mel’s mouth next.
“So, Ally, this is where you come in. I mean, obviously, I can’t go undercover, ’cause I’m with Dom. And Clara is with Jonathon. So I wondered . . .”
“No, Mel. Absolutely not. It’s one thing to give you a few quotes, but quite another to actually have to go through some charade involving attending God-knows-how-many seminars about how to snag a husband.”
“Ally, wait. Before you say no, let me explain a bit more. You could use another name. No one would ever know it was you. And it might be fun. I heard this person on the radio while I was in New York, and you know a lot of her ideas made sense.”
I look at Clara, hoping for some moral support. I can see immediately I’m not going to get any.
“You know, it’s quite a cool concept actually,” she starts. “It’s obvious that times have changed, and maybe women do need to look at different ways of finding the right man. It’s not that crazy an idea to manage the situation a bit.”
I might have known this would appeal to Clara. She is always going on about business principles, and how they could transform aspects of life that she has deemed shambolic. I’m sure she dreamed up the idea of patient-driven funding for the NHS long before Margaret Thatcher. She is constantly berating her clients for their foggy, undisciplined thinking. Her role as a management consultant, she says, is to impart clarity where there is confusion, to force people to make disciplined choices rather than blindly following the path of business as usual.
Mel picks up on Clara’s receptiveness. “I agree. Times really have changed. I mean, Esther Rantzen has even done a prime time show that’s supposed to help her find a mate! And what about all those speed dating clubs? People don’t want to waste time sitting around waiting for someone to come along. They want to make it happen.”
I pick up the brochure as if it were something rather nasty destined for the bin. On the front cover is a picture of Marina Boyd, and just below this a list of all the benefits of attending her series of seminars:
• Learn how to take action to find a partner instead of waiting around for it to happen.
• Discover exactly what you want in a man; and what you have to offer.
• Experience the fantastic feeling of being in charge!
• Fall in love within one year!
Inside, there are the Eight Essentials of the Proactive Partnership Program, all beginning with P. Planning, includes a section called Get Rid of Your Baggage; Product includes Be Proud of Your Brand and Promotion is followed by the urge to Go to Market! At the bottom of the second page, written in extra-large capitals, is an exhortation as scary as any I have seen in a long while: IF YOU ARE OVER THIRTY YOU HAVE NO TIME TO LOSE. TAKE ACTION NOW.
Blimey. This woman is serious. She’s making me nervous. Suddenly, finding a partner is no longer something I can lazily wish for to enhance my otherwise quite full life, but a matter requiring urgent action.
I shake my head, beckoning to the waitress. I feel the need for some sustenance. Some hummus and crudités. Perhaps a portion of giant-size chips with Thai mayonnaise.
Mel has a strange, manic look in her eyes. “Ally this woman’s talking your language. All this stuff about the four Ps of marketing has got to make sense to you.”
“Actually, its all the Ps that worry me. It’s totally ridiculous, Mel, surely you of all people can see that! The idea of marketing a person in the way you might market a soap powder or a marmalade is just mad. No, it’s more than mad, it’s insulting. I couldn’t possibly take anything like this seriously.”
I look at them both incredulously, unable to fathom quite how two such normal women, women I’ve called friends for almost two decades, could be taken in by such utter claptrap.
“You don’t have to take it seriously,” perseveres Clara. “Just think of it as an interesting experience. But you never know, you just might pick up some good ideas. It’s not as if you’ve anything to lose.”
Clara is right about that. I’ve not had a tremendous amount of romantic success in the past two years. I’ve not looked for it, but I wouldn’t have turned it away if it had appeared on my doorstep. But it hasn’t appeared, on
my doorstep or anywhere in the vicinity.
Di from the Accounts department says that since she got divorced she’s become a target for the inappropriate affections of inappropriate men, including her girlfriends’ husbands and their incorrigible bachelor friends. I’ve not received inappropriate attention from married men, or indeed from many men at all. Quite the opposite in fact. I think I’ve become invisible.
Perhaps the invisibility has something to do with age. Perhaps when your children are in their teens, like Di’s, and you’re deemed to be footloose and fancy-free, you have the appeal of a nubile young creature, but with twice the experience. We’ve all read the literature about women in their forties being in their prime. When you’re in your midthirties with two young children, maybe you fall into the category of “too much like hard work with not enough pay-off.”
Of course it’s possible that the invisibility is self-inflicted. When you’re over thirty, single and surrounded by couples, you’re an automatic object of suspicion. People can’t help but see you that way. So you spend an awful lot of time keeping your eyes down and your hands to yourself in case anyone should interpret you as a threat. In mixed company, flirting is simply out of the question. Invisibility is by far the safest option.
Mel makes one last-ditch effort to persuade me. “Look, Clara’s right. I think it might be an interesting experience, as well as helping me out. I don’t know much about this Marina woman, and I have to admit some of her ideas sound pretty outlandish. But another part of me thinks she might be on to something. I mean, finding someone you like when you’re in your midthirties is a whole lot different than finding someone when you’re at college, or when you’re twenty-five and going out with your friends every night of the week. These women I met in New York certainly know that. My God, they are incredible.”
