by Jayne Buxton
School drop-off completed and car safely deposited back at home I make my way into work, all the while running through the calls and meetings that await me: Meet with Anna to discuss Seville Sunset plan ( help! Not ready yet); harangue two retailers remaining stubbornly opposed to tasting schedule; talk to Andy in production re reported Pure Gold zest-clumping problem (new. Why is this happening?); schedule grove visits to bond with suppliers (when will have time to do this? Who will look after Jack and Millie? Send Nicki instead?); call Paul at agency re new idea for Seville ads (despise suggested shot of sarong-clad couple on beach enjoying view of sunset while tiny jars of marmalade dangle from hooks above beach side bar as amusing rum substitute).
As if this isn’t enough I know I’ll have to deal with two dilemmas on the personal front. Nick has wasted no time in presenting me with the first one.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
ALLY, GREAT TO SEE YOU YESTERDAY. ALAN WONDERED IF HE COULD HAVE YOUR PHONE NUMBER. SHALL I GIVE IT TO HIM?
I decide to ignore Nick’s e-mail (how long can one wait before replying to an e-mail from one’s brother without crossing the line between “understandably busy” and “rude?” One day? Two?). I cannot do the same with Mel’s. She’s pushier than Nick, and if I don’t reply she’ll be on the phone by noon.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
ALLY, HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD WEEKEND. MINE SPENT ENTERTAINING DOM’S MUM AND DAD. THREATENED TO LEAVE HOME WHEN ELAINE EMBARKED ON HER USUAL LECTURE ABOUT HOW MUCH MONEY I COULD SAVE IF I STOPPED BUYING M&S READY MEALS.
COME ON. PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY. ARE YOU GOING TO DO IT OR NOT?
The trouble is I’m truly torn. I veer irrationally between being convinced it’s pure madness to think about attending a seminar run by an American relationship guru and the panicked conclusion that unless I take some sort of proactive control over my love life I’ll end up like the lonely divorcee in the Observer.
I’m mid-vacillation when the phone rings. It’s Mel, and it isn’t even noon.
“Hey Ally,” she announces cheerfully. “What have you decided? Are you going to help me out and have some fun in the process?”
The moment of truth has arrived. “No. I’m afraid I’m not,” I say with what I hope is Herculean firmness.
“Oh Ally, why not?” moans Mel.
“Why not? Because I don’t think romance can be engineered using clever marketing tactics. Because I hate the idea of being in a room full of people so lonely and despairing that they’ll resort to a group seminar to help them find someone. Because I’m just not that desperate. I’m really not.”
“Whoa. I never said you had to take it so seriously. In fact you don’t have to take it seriously at all. You could just go along for interest’s sake, like me. Listen to what she has to say, try out a few of her suggestions, have a laugh. And provide me with some fodder for a good story.”
I guess I never thought of that. All weekend I’ve been agonizing about whether or not to subject myself to this modern form of romantic torture, when in fact, I could just go along for a laugh and see what happens.
“Well, if you put it that way, it doesn’t sound quite so bad,” I say, chewing on my Biro.
“Not only do I put it that way, but I’ll put my money where my mouth is. The magazine is willing to put up £1000 in ‘investment money’ for things like beauty treatments and clothes. It’s all part of the deal.”
Now that’s tempting. £1000, to spend on myself ? I am badly in need of a new spring coat, and a top-to-toe waxing for that matter. £1000 would certainly come in handy.
“Is there a catch? With the money, I mean?” I ask, making one last-ditch effort at a considered rejection of the whole idea.
“No. None at all. The only thing you have to do is spend it on ‘investment’ items specified by this Marina person. But as these are all things like manicures and silk underwear, that shouldn’t be too much of a hardship.”
I consider the proposition for a few moments. The end of the Biro comes off in my mouth and I can feel little plastic filaments on my tongue.
Mel hates silences. She must be worried that this one means I’m going to let her down. “So, what do you think?”
One thousand pounds notwithstanding, I still think it’s a bad idea. “Mel, I just can’t. I would hate it.”
Then the dam bursts. “Ally, you have to! You can’t say no.” The desperation in Mel’s voice is palpable. I’m so surprised by it that I don’t say anything for a moment.
Mel’s voice goes from desperate to quietly pleading. “Look Al, I wasn’t entirely honest with you on Friday. And I’ve felt really terrible about it ever since.”
“What do you mean you weren’t entirely honest?” I say, now thoroughly alarmed and conjuring up a vision of the seminars that’s even scarier than the one I’ve been carrying around in my head for three days.
“Well, what I didn’t tell you was that I really need you to do this. I mean really. It could make the difference between me keeping my job and not.”
Suddenly I’m the one who feels guilty. Here I’ve been feeling feeble and put-upon while my best friend appears to be having a minor crisis.
“How can that be, Mel? You’ve been at Me forever. Cynthia loves you.” Cynthia is editor in chief of Me, and Mel’s rather formidable boss.
“That’s the point. I’ve been there forever, and I’m getting a little stale, allegedly. Cynthia says she wants to see me regain the fire in my belly. Come up with more creative ideas for stories, and more creative angles on the stuff I write.”
Mel’s sigh is heavy and laden with anxiety. “Al, I’m thirty-seven, and there are all these young journalists pecking at my heels. They’re practically fucking teenagers, bursting with bright ideas and energy. It’s a nightmare trying to stay ahead of them. And I really should be an editor by now. I sort of need to make that commitment, to really go for it. I’m hoping this piece will convince Cynthia I’m up to it. She was thrilled by the idea of it. So that’s why I wanted you to do this so badly. Even though it is kind of, you know, weird.”
Listening to her now I’m finding it hard to get really angry. I can tell she’s expended a lot of angst on this. If my friend needs me to help her re-ignite her career, surely I should help her.
“Oh, all right. I’ll do it. For you and the sodding £1000. But if I really hate it, I’m not going to see it through. Two meetings. That’s all I’m promising.”
“Oh Al, you’re a star!” she whoops. “And I don’t think it will be as bad as you think. I think we’re going to have fun with it. The first seminar is Tuesday night, tomorrow. Can you get a babysitter?”
No wonder she was pressuring me.
“I’ll see if Jill can stay on a bit later,” I say resignedly. “Remember, you owe me.”
“You never know, Ally. You might just end up owing me.”
CHAPTER 9
CONFESSION
The rest of Monday was eaten up by what seemed like an endless series of unsatisfactory meetings. When I’d finished with Mel it was time to meet Anna for the monthly product review. Then the conversation with Paul at the agency took an age (I think he was a little hurt at my rejection of the dangling marmalade jar idea. Perhaps it was his.) and the clumping zest problem proved to be more complicated than I’d expected. (Apparently being something to do with the new machinery, purchased with the express purpose of speeding up production and reducing unit costs, but currently having just the opposite effect. Unless Andy can sort it out I may end up having to round up volunteers for rotating shifts of handzesting.)
So I never did do anything about Nick’s e-mail. Today I’m staring at another one, which is crying out for a response.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
ALLY, WHERE ARE YOU? DID YOU GET MY LAST MESSAGE A
BOUT ALAN? HE CALLED AGAIN—I TOLD HIM YOU WERE PROBABLY OFF WITH SOME ORANGE GROWERS BUT DON’T WANT TO PUT HIM OFF MUCH LONGER.
Damn. I don’t want to insult Nick by telling him his favorite fireplace man and good friend is not fanciable, but I don’t want to go out with Alan either. My every instinct is telling me that a recently divorced, very earnest man with a thick middle and two children approaching their teens will be more trouble than he’s worth.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SORRY NICK. HAVE HAD DREADFUL WEEK SO FAR. AM HAVING MAJOR BLOODY PROBLEMS WITH CLUMPING BLOODY MARMALADE, AND AGENCY IS NOT COMING UP WITH GOODS FOR NEW ADS. ON TOP OF THIS, MILLIE NOT VERY HAPPY AT SCHOOL.
WITH ALL THIS GOING ON, AM NOT SURE I’M IN RIGHT FRAME OF MIND TO GO OUT WITH ALAN. AM NOT VERY GOOD COMPANY. IT’S NOT HIM, YOU UNDERSTAND. IT’S ME. CAN YOU PLEASE EXPLAIN?
I’m perfectly capable of feeling guilty about this for the whole day, even the whole week. I know what it’s like to have your feelings hurt, and I hate doing it to someone else. But I don’t have time to dwell on this today. I’ve hours of blind tastings ahead, followed by an evening in the company of a bunch of desperate singles. Set against the ignominy likely to be on offer at the Savoy this evening, the slight bruising of one man’s ego hardly seems worth a second thought.
Jill was happy to stay and babysit tonight. She’s always saying that I should get out more, and probably thinks that my caginess about where, exactly, I am going this evening is indication of a hot love affair requiring a discreet cover-up. Millie and Jack have been promised later bedtimes as compensation for my absence, so even they are not too put out.
It would appear that I am the only one who is put out. I want to help Mel, but I’d be lying if I said I was anticipating this evening with anything but dread. All kinds of dreadful scenarios are unfolding in my mind: group confessions about why we are all single; rows and rows of pale, overweight, unattractive sorts linking arms in a mutual commitment to finding the perfect partner; obligatory “practice run” dates with the bachelor brothers of fellow seminar attendees. And to top it all off, there will be me regurgitating my feelings about the whole experience for Mel’s article.
Mel and I have decided to meet in a pub close to the Savoy for a drink beforehand. We’ll have to take care not to be spotted together as we enter the hotel, as she’s supposed to be an independent reporter who knows no one at the seminar. My ticket was purchased by Mel’s sister to ensure the seminar organizers wouldn’t be able to trace it back to Me magazine.
At six o’clock I make my way to the back of the Coach and Horses (which, being in the middle of the Strand, is nothing like the quaint country inn conjured up by its name), where I find Mel cradling a beer. She’s ordered me a white wine. She looks tense. I can’t think why. I’m the one who’s going to have to do all the pretending. All she has to do is write about it.
“Hi. Can’t believe how nervous I feel. I’ve never gone ‘undercover’ before,” she says.
“For God’s sake Mel, you’re not going undercover. You’re going as you, writing an article about my experience. I’m the one who’s actually got to endure the experience. Surely I should be the one who’s nervous.”
“Oh, I know. I’m nervous for you. It’s a bit weird, after all.”
“I thought you said it was an ‘interesting concept,’ something that ‘everyone is doing these days.’ I thought you said I might find it pretty enlightening!”
“Well, that’s all true. I’m sure it will be interesting once we’re in there. But from here, I have to admit it does look a little, well, contrived. The whole idea of creating a business strategy for catching a husband.”
“Well, like you said, it’s not as if either of us is going to take it seriously. I mean, I certainly don’t need the advice of some smooth-talking American love-guru to find someone to spend my life with. I’m doing this for you. And you are doing it for a good story. So let’s get on with it,” I say, raising my glass.
Mel clinks my glass and downs a huge gulp of beer. “I really appreciate this, Ally. Honestly. Now, what would you like to be called in the article? You can be anyone you like.”
I don’t have to think for long before replying: “You can call me Francesca.”
CHAPTER 10
UNDERCOVER OPERATION
Entering the high-ceilinged, chandelier-adorned Wessex Room where the seminar is to take place, I can see Mel already seated near the front. There are only about fifty other people in the room, scattered amongst the hundred and fifty or so chairs arranged in rows of ten. (Clearly, the £500 fee for a series of three seminars is beyond the pockets of most people, even those desperate to find a man.) I decide upon a seat in the seventh row. I make my way toward it, squeezing past a thin woman in a dark suit sitting ramrod straight with the seminar brochure folded under her hands on her lap, and a smaller, rounder, far friendlier-looking type wearing a cream sweater set with black trousers and loafers. We are all seated a chair’s distance from one another. Unless this room fills up, I think, it’s going to be a bit of a stretch for us all to hold hands in a show of heart-aching unity.
I look around the room, trying to take in the other attendees. I’m genuinely curious about just what sort of woman would come here of her own volition. Twisting my neck around to stare at those seated behind me would be massively indiscreet, so I can only evaluate those in front of me. At first glance they all look remarkably normal. There are a few bad outfits, and a couple of suspect hairdos (the worst of which, I decide, is the shoulder-length perm sported by the freckled redhead sitting directly in front of me), but aside from this there is nothing particularly abhorrent. I don’t know what I expected (outward signs of desperation? the physical marks of repeated romantic failure?) but it certainly wasn’t this.
There is a woman in the third row I would describe as extremely attractive. Beautiful, even. She has short, dark hair and glorious skin. Not the brown skin of the sun bed or a short break in the Maldives, but the deep olive complexion of the Spanish or Italians. She’s wearing a simple black polo neck and jeans, and a pair of slim, black-rimmed glasses on her nose. Why on earth would someone like that need to come to a seminar like this? She must have men falling at her feet everywhere she goes. I conclude that she must be a journalist for a rival magazine to Me. Come to think of it, half of these people could be undercover journalists.
As I scan the room I am making superhuman efforts not to catch Mel’s eye. I needn’t worry. She is staring at her notebook, no doubt even more conscious than I about the need to keep up the pretense that we are strangers to one another. I allow myself one turn of the head to the back of the room, less to examine the attendees than to establish just how full the room is. I am shocked at what I see. In the five minutes I’ve been sitting here, almost all of the back rows have been filled. Women are sitting side by side, and there is the gentle murmur of polite introductions; ours is one of just a few silent rows with awkward-looking spaces between seated attendees.
Conscious of appearing unapproachable, I lean across the chasm represented by the chair between myself and the woman in the cream twin-set. “So, what made you decide to some here?” I ask.
The woman relaxes appreciably. Perhaps she has also been aware of looking like the seminar equivalent of a wallflower.
“Oh, well my sister lives in the States and has heard Marina Boyd speak. She says she is just fantastic, and that these seminars have changed the lives of some of her friends. So I thought, what the heck, I’ll give it a try. I’m not having much luck otherwise!”
Ah. So that is the connection. These women must all be linked to America in some way, through brothers, sisters, friends or colleagues. Perhaps some of them are American themselves. How else to explain the popularity of seminars like these in a country of people dedicated to the maintenance of decorum and the stiff upper lip?
“How about you?” ventures my neighbor
. She has rosy cheeks and eyes that smile out from beneath the fringe of her thick, sandy-colored bob.
What am I going to say now? I’ve not thought carefully enough about this. I’ve asked a seemingly innocuous question and inadvertently trapped myself into having to reveal things I’d not planned on revealing. How much of the truth—about me, and David, and the past two and a half years—am I prepared to bare?
Not much, as it transpires. “Me? A friend of mine bought me the ticket and practically forced me to come. I’m just here to see, really.”
My twin-setted friend looks a little crestfallen at this answer. I realize that I’ve managed to insult her already by insinuating that this is all a joke to me. It’s clearly not a joke to her, or she wouldn’t have spent £500 on a ticket. I’ll have to watch myself, or I’ll have made a roomful of enemies before the coffee break.
Suddenly the murmurs die down and a hush descends upon the room. Bottoms wiggle on seats to get comfortable, and backs are straightened in anticipation of the appearance of our speaker on the podium. I’m not aware of what it is that has signaled to everyone else that the show is about to begin, until I notice an officiouslooking woman who must be Marina Boyd’s assistant struggling to lower the microphone.
Then Marina Boyd appears from behind one of the two screens at the front of the room, and the room erupts in spontaneous applause. I am caught off guard by this, not having realized that I would be in the presence of such perceived greatness (which I can only assume is the result of a lengthy feature interview on Oprah), so it’s a few seconds before I join in. Marina basks in the warmth of the applause for a moment or two, then raises and lowers her hands to quiet it down.
