Lessons in Duck Hunting

by Jayne Buxton

  I listen to Clara’s sobbing for a minute or so, offering rather lame counsel like “The important thing is not to give up” and “It will be all right, you’ll see,” then the slam of a door signals Jonathon’s return, so Clara blows her nose again and says she should go before I have time to say anything really helpful. I’m not really sure what I would say in any case. I can imagine the awful combination of heartache and regret that Clara must be feeling. Maybe she has left it too late.

  Or maybe her situation requires more dramatic action than whatever it is they’re doing at the moment. Surely there are other things she could be doing before having to resort to IVF?

  NICK AND KATE live in awonderful double-fronted house full of bare oak floorboards and stainless steel appliances. Theirs is the kind of home I’d aspire to if I thought I could ever afford it. It helps that Nick is an architect, and manages builders for a living. When he and Kate found this house eight years ago he knew immediately how to transform it from wreck to Wallpaper heaven on a budget.

  Letting myself in the front door, I am immediately accosted by the glorious smells of Moroccan lamb (a specialty of Kate’s—I’ve had it before) and the bodies of two boys. I am used to Jack hurling himself at me unexpectedly, so I don’t mind when Will and Ollie do it. I squeeze them both, just missing in my attempt to plant a kiss on each of their heads as they escape from under my arms.

  “Hey Will, you’re ten now! Did you get my present?” I shout after them.

  “Yeah, it was great, thanks. I loved it,” Will yells back as he disappears around the corner.

  Kate rushes to greet me, oven gloves in hand.

  “Ally, come in. How wonderful that you could come at such short notice. How are you?”

  “Fine, fine,” I tell her. “How are you guys?”

  “We’re all great. Now come into the kitchen and meet everyone. As usual, we are all squashed in there, sweating away, and the sitting room is practically empty. I don’t know why we have one.”

  I follow Kate through the hall (which is blissfully square and spacious, rather than long and narrow like my own). When we reach the kitchen I can see Nick wrestling with a corkscrew, and another couple hovering by the central island with their wineglasses. Gosh, this really is a small lunch party, I think, a little disappointed.

  Nick gives me his specialty big-brother wink. “Ally, come in. Let me introduce you. Phil and Jackie, this is my little sister, Ally. Ally, these are our friends from down the road, Phil and Jackie. Phil, Ally works in advertising too.”

  Of course, I don’t work in advertising at all. Advertising is like the high gloss world of luxury cosmetics that I left. It is full of bright, slick, fast-talking creative types who mostly work in W1. I, on the other hand, manage marmalade brands from a place that is practically the suburbs. Since leaving Chanel I’ve never fully reconciled myself to the contrast between my old world and my new one. But I feel I must come clean now before I’m made to look a fool in front of Phil.

  “Nick, I’m not in advertising and you know it. I’m a product manager for Cottage Garden Foods,” I say.

  “Excuse me,” says Kate. “Group Product Manager.” She thrusts a gin and tonic into my hands.

  “Whatever. Nothing like the world you’re in,” I say, turning to Phil. He seems nice enough. Open face, friendly eyes. Definitely nothing like the worst of that breed.

  “Really, what products?” Phil asks generously.

  “Marmalades, actually. Ordinary marmalades, luxury marmalades. All types.”

  “Oh, I adore marmalade,” pipes up Jackie. “So much nicer than jam.”

  I can’t tell you how often this happens. My job may not be the world’s most exciting, but people never fail to express an opinion about marmalade. There’s the jam versus marmalade debate, the “How thick do you spread your marmalade?” question, and the “thick-cut versus thin” conundrum. Occasionally, someone will mention Paddington Bear and his marmalade habit. Marmalade can keep most groups going for at least a few minutes. Today we manage almost six minutes before moving on to asylum seekers.

  Eventually sensing a lull in the conversation, Kate breaks away, grabbing me by the arm. “Come into the sitting room,” she whispers.

  I follow her into the sitting room, wondering what secret she is going to share with me. Another baby? She’s going back to work? As we pass through the doors, I see the secret, kneeling on the floor with his head stuck in the fireplace.

  “Alan. Get out of there. You are officially relieved of responsibility for that fire. Nick will have to sort it out later. Come and meet Ally.”

  Alan backs out of the fireplace on hands and knees, and stands up to face me. He has a black smudge across his forehead, but is otherwise very presentable. About five feet ten or eleven. A little on the heavy side maybe. Beige cords. Pale blue shirt. The habitual attire of the middle-age, middle class British man.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Ally,” he says, extending his hand. His voice is dripping with lineage.

  “Alan is a whiz with gas fires,” interrupts Kate, gesturing to Alan to wipe his forehead. “He owns that gorgeous fireplace shop on the New Kings Road. You know the one, Ally?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I say, only half lying. There must be half a dozen fireplace shops on the New Kings Road, so I’m bound to have seen Alan’s at one time or another.

  “All Nick’s clients have fires from Alan,” continues Kate, as if reciting a C.V.

  “Must be lucrative,” I say to Alan.

  His forehead now wiped clean, Alan recounts the story of a house with eight fireplaces that he once did for Nick. He is nice. Not stunning, not even what you would call good-looking. But pleasant enough.

  Kate leaves the room, and Alan and I pass a few minutes talking about fireplaces (mine; his; Nick’s, and why it isn’t working). I begin to think that Alan’s line of work is almost as useful as mine as a catalyst for small talk.

  As we talk I am not really concentrating. My mind keeps drifting off to consider the possibilities presented by today’s lunch. Not the lamb, or the pavlova I’d spied on Kate’s counter, but the possibility that I might possibly fancy this man, that the barren days might be headed for some sort of temporary hiatus. Who needs a seminar series when I’ve got my brother looking out for me?

  Eventually, Kate comes back and announces that lunch is ready. We all shuffle to the dining room, and Will and Ollie are beckoned from the garden. A boy and a girl who look to be about five and seven and presumably belong to Phil and Jackie, follow them.

  Lunch is delicious, as always when Kate is cooking. The children poke at their food, and disappear back into the garden about six minutes after sitting down. The adults begin by debating the war in Iraq and end up in a discussion about schools and house prices, via a few minutes of lighthearted wrangling about whether or not Nicole Kidman has had something done to her forehead.

  All through the lunch, I’m aware of Alan watching me. His watching intensifies as the meal progresses. I know that he’s recently divorced, with two nearly teenage girls who attend a very smart but overly precious school near Sloane Square, and an ex-wife who has apparently fleeced him. (This last part I gleaned, not from him, but through one of Kate’s whispered asides.) He seems a kind man. A good man. A man who can sort out a fireplace. But I’m not interested, which disappoints me more than it should. I’ve gone from high hopes to disillusionment all in the space of an hour and a half’s lunch. Actually, the journey probably took less time than that. I’d realized there was nothing there before the pavlova even arrived.

  The trouble is, Alan appears to be interested in me. I am not so out of touch that I can’t pick up on these things. I suppose I ought to be grateful after my years in the wilderness, but I’m just uncomfortable. I start to send off “politely disinterested” vibes to make it absolutely clear that there is to be no exchange of telephone numbers at the end of this meal.

  As Nick serves the coffee, I suddenly become the focus of the co
nversation. It’s natural I suppose, as I haven’t shared much about myself during the lunch beyond the fact that I’m in marmalade. I know that they must all have been briefed about my situation before I arrived. But I am still surprised when Phil says, with a boldness fueled by three quarters of a bottle of red wine, “So Ally, how do you handle the whole single parent thing? Do you find it hard being on your own?”

  I’m momentarily stuck for words. I could reply that I’ve found it tough, that I’m not cut out for being on my own, that I’m not ready to resign myself to the scrap heap and wish I could think how to meet someone else. I could say that, if you want to know the worst thing about being a single parent, it’s a toss-up between having no one to share in the delights and dramas of raising small children and inhumanly long periods of celibacy. But I’m wary of giving Alan an opening. As it is, he has pushed his pavlova plate to one side and is leaning on the table, staring at me with a disturbing intensity.

  “Actually, I’m pretty content with my life, and busy. Sooo busy you wouldn’t believe it. The kids take up so much time, and then there’s work, and my charity work, and my parents. I really can’t think how I could fit anything else in.”

  I know none of this will actually put him off, but it will give me a ready-made excuse to decline the inevitable request for my phone number while allowing him to save face. It will not be about him; it will be about not wanting to be in a relationship.

  I’ve heard that one before. “I just can’t be married,” David had said, with the self-importance of someone who’d discovered some self-evident and laudable character trait.

  I am grateful for the opportunity to help Kate with the dishes while everyone else slumps in front of the malfunctioning fireplace. Once this has been accomplished, I make noises about having to get back for the kids, and plan my escape. I venture into the sitting room to say good-bye to everyone, taking care not to set in motion a round of cheek-kissing that could get me into trouble. Amidst “Nice to meet yous,” I give friendly waves to people, which seems acceptable given that I am already wearing my coat and the air of someone in a hurry.

  Freedom secured, I make the journey back to the safety of South London. I arrive home an hour and a half before Jack and Millie are due back, which gives me just enough time to make the house feel warm and inviting, as if someone has been in it all day. I turn on the heat and run around turning on lights and plumping up the pillows on their beds. I take out the whites from the washing machine, and replace them with a pile of darks (mostly school uniforms). I have just finished putting the lovingly sorted socks into drawers when I hear the doorbell.

  When I open the door, Millie jumps in and hugs my legs, leaving David standing there with Jack slumped on his shoulder. Thankfully, Chantal is nowhere in sight. I had kept on my Max Mara sweater just in case.

  “Fell asleep ten minutes ago,” he whispers. “Busy weekend.”

  There is nothing quite so appealing as a sleeping five-year-old boy. His cheeks are pink and squashed against David’s shoulder, and his mouth wide open like a choirboy’s.

  “Could you take him straight up?” I whisper back. David tip-toes up the stairs with Jack while I help Millie with her bag.

  “It’s lovely to see you, darling. We’ll have some tea and you can tell me all about it. How does cheesy pasta sound?”

  “Great,” yawns Millie.

  “Come on then. Let’s go in the kitchen.”

  I put some water on to boil as David comes into the kitchen. This is something that still makes me uncomfortable. Somehow it is bearable to see him at the front door, in the sitting room, or somewhere else entirely. But here, standing in the kitchen stirring cheesy pasta sauce, it is too difficult. It’s like a scrap of false intimacy in an otherwise cool and businesslike relationship.

  “How was your weekend?” he asks.

  “Fine. Good. Were the kids good?” I reply.

  “Great. Really great. I’ll be going then. I may have to call you about the next time. I’ve got some complicated work things coming up, so we might have to reorganize the dates a little. We’ll see.” Then he turns to Millie. “Good-bye gorgeous. Thank you for a lovely weekend. Give me a hug that will last me till next time.”

  Mille obliges, pressing her head deep into his stomach. This is even worse than David watching me make cheesy pasta. I concentrate on opening the spaghetti packet.

  When the hug is over I walk David to the door. “ ’Bye then. Let me know what you want to do,” I say as he opens the door and disappears into the black.

  “Will do,” he shouts back from the pavement. “See you.”

  And that is it. Short. Sharp. A fairly typical handover. Maybe one day we will have learned to sit together for an hour discussing the children, the weekend, the rest of our lives. But for now, this is the best we can do. We are much better on the phone.

  MILLIE IS SO DROOPY she can hardly eat her pasta. I sit with her in front of Sleeping Beauty for half an hour after tea, but I can see that she won’t last long. At eight I lead her up to bed and she’s gone within two minutes.

  I’m pretty tired myself, though it can’t be from an overabundance of physical activity. I put it down to the red wine consumed at lunch and all the sock sorting. After drying and folding the uniforms and watching the Antiques Road Show, I’m desperate to go to bed with a good book and the rest of yesterday’s Observer. Halfway up the stairs I remember Clara and decide to check in with her first.

  “Clara? Hi, it’s me. How are you feeling?”

  Clara is no longer shaking and sobbing but there’s an unmistakable grayness in her voice. “Oh, I’m all right. Better than this morning. We went out for lunch and drank two bottles of bordeaux, so that helped. Now I’m trying to sober up sufficiently to make sense of this wretched report about the future of the telecoms industry.”

  “Did you and Jonathon work anything out?”

  “What is there to work out? I’m not pregnant. I’m probably not going to get pregnant, but we’ll keep trying I guess. He says how am I ever going to get pregnant when I’m in Zurich or Paris half the time when I’m ovulating, and that maybe I’m subconsciously running away from getting pregnant! Which is a bit rich don’t you think? It’s not as if I can do anything about that. Travel goes with my job. What am I going to say when the chief executive of the largest telco in Europe asks me to a board meeting? Sorry, I can’t, I’m ovulating that day. And I don’t see Jonathon volunteering to live on his illustrator’s earnings.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to this, as she’s clearly not in the mood for a lecture about cutting back or traveling less. Anyway, perhaps my role is to help her stay light and optimistic. I’m sure her conversations with Jonathon are weighty enough.

  “Anyway, you wouldn’t be the only one who’s running away. I think I just ran away from a man. And it wasn’t even subconscious.”

  LYING IN BED, I scan the paper but can’t find much of interest. Some days it is like that. The news is just plain un-newsworthy. I am about to discard the paper and pick up my book when I spot a headline on the “Private Lives” page.

  I’m a forty-five-year-old divorcee. I have a good job and three great children, but I’m terrified I’ll never meet another man.

  Then, in the body of the letter:

  I have not had a relationship in the nine years since my marriage ended. I never seem to meet anyone, and can’t see how I ever will. Friends think I have a good life, but I’m saddened by the thought that I will never be part of a relationship again. I just don’t want to be alone.

  There are four letters from other readers offering advice. “Just remember,” says the last one, who apparently spent fifteen years dating a depressed alcoholic followed by a man who lived hundreds of miles away before finding, at the age of forty-seven, the love of her life. “It’s never too late. Try not to feel too desperate—it will show. Be happy and you will be a magnet.”

  So I’m not alone. It is not weird or pathetic to want to find someo
ne. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to wait fifteen years and make do with a depressed alcoholic and a no-hope long distance affair in the interim. And I refuse to believe that a series of husband-hunting seminars designed for overly assertive New Yorkers represent my only alternative.

  CHAPTER 8

  ENTRAPMENT

  Sometimes I worry about Jack. Can a fascination with guns, swords and handcuffs be healthy for a five-year-old? Shouldn’t he be kicking toilet rolls around the kitchen like a young Johnny Wilkinson?

  At this moment he is having a fight with himself. This involves repeatedly hurling himself to the ground having been punched by an imaginary enemy, each time emitting an “uuhhhh” to rival Yul Brenner’s guttural outbursts in The Magnificent Seven. To the side of him sits an enormous stuffed Father Christmas (an item that seems somehow to have escaped the ritual packing away of the decorations in early January) that has been handcuffed to the banisters. And all this before eight-fifteen in the morning. There is something unnatural about the whole thing, and I am grateful for the absence of curious bystanders.

  It is now time for Jack to leave the O.K. Corral and put on his school shoes. I begin with the best of intentions, deploying all the persuasive powers available to me at this time in the morning. When this fails to register with Jack, I am forced to remove the handcuffs from Father Christmas and go through the one-two-three routine: If Jack’s shoes are not on by the time I get to three the handcuffs will be mine for a week. He scrapes home just in time, aided and abetted by my deliberately slow counting and the introduction of two and three-quarters into the number sequence. This is expressly forbidden by Toddler Taming, the source of the counting trick, but I cannot see how a child of Jack’s nature would manage anything within three counts without being granted some sort of leeway.

  Once Jack’s shoes are on the rest is a piece of cake, since Millie is already standing waiting by the door. We pile into the car in a hurry to escape the lashing rain, and Horrid Henry greets us with his customary raspberry. Just as I am about to pull away from the curb I spot a man with a stroller coming toward us. It’s the same man I saw on the weekend, only this time he’s unable to feign quite the same degree of casual disregard for the stroller. Today the rain and the wind are just too strong, and a two-hands-on-the-handle, head-down sort of determination is required.