by Jayne Buxton
While I’m out, Alan calls again. This time he asks me to return his call, which rather perturbs me. I decide not to do it right away, and instead, spend the rest of Sunday moving between kitchen (for cups of tea and Diet Cokes only) and sofa, reading an Anne Tyler novel and watching a rerun of Casablanca. I’m used to these types of solitary days. When I was younger I remember being terrified by them. Even if all I was going to do was loll around, I wanted to loll around with somebody else. But I’ve grown out of this morbid fear of aloneness, partly out of necessity. A single mother doesn’t have much option. On the weekends she spends without her children she can hardly expect all her friends to drop their families to spend days at the spa or watching old films with her. I’m lucky enough that neither Clara nor Mel have yet had children so they have time to do things like shop and lunch at Harvey Nicks with me every once in a while.
In the middle of the afternoon I hear the beep of a text. It’s from Lisa. There’s this guy I’d call a nose-picking, fascist, dimwit. Interested? She’s obviously fully recovered from her fit of disgust and moved on to wholehearted ridicule. I text her back: Sorry, only interested in nose-picking fascists if also intelligent and rich.
At about six I hear voices outside, a little way down the street, and know that Jack and Millie are home. I make it to the door before they’ve even rung the bell, and stand watching them as they ready their suitcases for the short walk to the house, Jack pulling up the handle and bending down to check that the wheels are straight, Millie pulling my sack onto her shoulder and bending over under its weight.
I give them both hugs as they walk in the door, and everything seems perfectly normal until David says, “Any chance of a beer? I’m parched.”
I’m so staggered by this that my voice breaks a little on answering. “Oh, sure. I’ll just check that I have some. You might have to make do with a cup of tea.”
Jack and Millie rush upstairs to inspect their rooms, and David and I go into the kitchen. It turns out that I do have some beer. Three bottles. I offer one to David, and decide to have one myself. As I’m pouring mine into a glass I’m running through all the possibilities that could have led David to ask to come in. The one I settle on is that he’s got something important to tell me, something that can’t be said over the phone. He’s going to tell me that he and Chantal are getting married, isn’t he? I feel a swilling sensation in my stomach, and I’m glad I’ve had little else besides Diet Coke this afternoon.
I summon up the courage to turn around and go over to the table, but I can’t face actually sitting opposite him so I stand with my bum leaning against the end of the counter next to the table. The newly replaced ceiling light is shining directly down on his head like a spotlight. I attempt a casual smile, before saying “So?”
“Sooo, the kids were great this weekend. Really great. Millie seems much happier. I wanted to tell you that I think it’s great what you’re doing, moving schools. I didn’t think you would pull it off but you have.”
Oh for God’s sake. Get on with it. Put me out of my misery.
“Yes, well I hope it works out. I think it will. Anything has to be better than what she had to endure at Hazlecroft. And to be honest I’ve not been that impressed with the school anyway. Even for Jack. They don’t seem to be able to take account of individual personalities, to understand that a five-year-old boy like him might have a little trouble buckling down to number work, might need a little extra encouragement.”
I’m rambling a bit, because much as I want David to get the torture over with I don’t want to deal with the news. So I have mixed feelings when he begins to tell me about the weekend, what they all did, what they ate, what they said that made him laugh. Any pleasure I might take from the stories is shrouded by the fear of what’s coming next.
What comes next is indeed something to fear, but it isn’t the thing I’d expected.
“So anyway,” he says, leaning forward and planting his beer bottle on the table. “I was thinking that it might be nice for us all to get together, as a family sometime. I know it’s your weekend next week, but maybe we could all have Sunday lunch together. What do you think?”
Lunch next Sunday? Together? What’s going on?
“Oh. I guess that would be fine. The kids would probably like it. You don’t think they’d be a bit confused?”
“Of course not. Surely other divorced parents get together with their kids every once in a while. It’s a perfectly civilized thing to do.”
Of course it is. I’m being oversensitive. Perhaps David is trying to drag us into a new mature phase of our divorce, one in which we can become friends of sorts for the sake of our children’s well-being. I can go along with that.
AFTER DAVID HAS left and Jack has gone to bed, Millie and I lie on her bed reading. She doesn’t really need me to read to her anymore, but every now and again I like to do it. I usually read her something completely different from the book she has on the go, something gentle or magical and much more suited to a five-year-old. Tonight it’s Room on the Broom. But before I’ve even got to the bit about the truly magnificent new broom with a nest for the bird and a shower for the frog, Millie rolls over on one side and draws Pooh bear into her arms. I lean down to kiss her, resting my lips on her cheek for a long moment.
Just as I’m switching off the light at the door her voice rises from the pillow.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, sweetheart. What is it?”
“Daddy says he and Chantal aren’t going to see each other anymore.”
I put my own feelings about this news to one side for a minute. “And how do you feel about that, Mill?”
“Fine. It’s okay. She was nice but not that nice. Daddy says you’re way nicer.”
What the hell is going on?
CHAPTER 24
STAR PUPIL
The first person I spot as I am ejected from the fast-moving revolving doors at the Savoy is Angie. She’s wearing another twin-set, pale green this time, and smiling widely as she stands waiting for me. When I reach her, she raises her shoulders in a little shrug and stretches out her grin as if to say, “Isn’t this exciting?”
“Isn’t this exciting?”
“It is a bit,” I say. And I’m not being dishonest. Last night I had difficulty falling asleep, and put it down to anticipation. I’m not quite sure what it is I’m looking forward to—seeing Angie and Claudia again and hearing how they’ve fared, gleaning a few more gems from Marina. Or perhaps just the quietly satisfying experience of sitting listening to Marina go over last week’s tips and knowing that I’ve not done too badly with them. Like the satisfaction drawn from being one of the few in the class who’d actually done the assignment on Female Role Models in Shakespeare.
This evening is also a welcome diversion from thoughts of David. His behavior on Sunday has me thoroughly alarmed and confused. It’s so contrary to the pattern we’ve established. So out of the blue. It’s not that his breaking up with Chantal is so shocking— after all it’s only one in a long line of break-ups, even if his and Chantal’s relationship had looked more substantial than its predecessors. But he’s never suggested Sunday lunch after a break-up before. And Millie’s never come out with anything remotely resembling “Daddy thinks you’re nicer than her.” Has she made it up, or did he really say that? If he really said it, why? Why stir up all those confusing feelings in the children? A child whose romantic sensibilities have been heightened by repeated exposure to Beauty and the Beast and Pocohontas is bound to misinterpret something like this.
Angie and I make our way into the Wessex Room, which is already bubbling over with noise and activity. Women are grouped together in the aisles and at the sides of the room, in twos, threes and fours, some whispering conspiratorially, others giggling aloud. There are a few women sitting quietly in seats, but not many. I spot one in black stirrup trousers with white stilettos who’s clearly not yet had an opportunity to organize her repackaging party.
Angie and I decide
on seats in the middle, about row ten. Just as we are about to sit down Claudia taps me on the shoulder.
“Hello, Ally,” she says in her husky voice.
I turn to face her and she kisses me on both cheeks. Not an insipid double-cheeked air-kiss, but one with genuine, Southern European warmth. I notice that she’s wearing jeans again, but this time with a perfect, crisp white shirt and brown leather belt. Was there ever a sexier woman than this?
“Claudia, hi. How’ve you been?”
“Really well, and you?”
“Fine. More than fine actually. I’ve had quite a good couple of weeks.”
“Really? Do tell!”
I’d like to tell, but just at that moment someone tries to squeeze past us to get to the other side of the room, and then Marina’s assistant is at the microphone saying, “Ladies, would you please take your seats.”
Angie, Claudia and I sit down next to one another. I can’t see Louise or Katherine or Nancy, but I’m sure they’re here somewhere. The scary enthusiast, Caroline, is sitting in the first row, and two rows behind her I can see Mel’s favorite, the one in the fishnet tights and red boots. Mel herself is of course nowhere to be seen; she wasn’t allowed to come and will have to rely entirely on my interpretation of the evening.
A sparkling Marina comes to the podium dressed in a long, cream silk skirt and blouse, her blond hair pulled back into a neat ponytail to reveal an extremely significant-looking gold necklace. She is greeted by even more rapturous applause than two weeks ago, if that is possible. She stands looking around the room for half a minute, waiting for the applause to die down. When it doesn’t, she gives us her signature hand signal.
“Hello, ladies. How are you tonight?”
A chorus of “Fines” rises from the audience. I’m slightly surprised to find that my voice is amongst them; for someone historically so uncomfortable with things done in herds, I seem to be taking to this rather naturally.
“Well I’m so glad to hear that,” says Marina. “And I had a feeling I would hear it, because people are usually feeling pretty good after the first seminar. That seminar will, I hope, have opened up your minds to new possibilities, and new ways of fulfilling them. It will have shown you that you have nothing to fear. That you can take your love life into your own hands.” Marina pauses dramatically and looks around the room. I swear she settles her gaze upon me for longer than the nanosecond she grants other people.
“Last time we learned about the first four Ps of The Proactive Partnership Program: First, the importance of Planning—which is all about making this a priority and getting rid of your baggage; second, the importance of the Product—that’s you—and understanding how to brand it; third, Packaging, which is really just about making the best of yourself; and finally, Practice! Getting out there, experimenting, expanding your ideas about what is your type. Tonight we’re going to cover the next three Ps: Promotion, Place and Props. But first, I want to hear all about how you all got on, as, I’m sure, do the friends you have made here.”
The room is momentarily filled with the hum of exchanged asides. Then Marina gives us our instructions. “What I’d like to do now,” she begins, “is to ask a few brave women, who think they’ve had a good two weeks, to stand up and tell us about it. Then I’d like us all to split into small groups much as we did last time, and exchange stories with one another. Success stories and the other type too. That way we can help those who are struggling more than others. Now, who has a good story to tell? It doesn’t have to be perfect. I’m not expecting you all to have checked off all of the first four Ps. All I’m looking for is a little progress, perhaps on one or two of them.”
We all look around us, wondering who is going to volunteer. Then begins a silence that gets more excruciating by the second. Marina is looking left and right trying to encourage someone to come forward. Claudia elbows me in the ribs and whispers, “You said you’d had a good couple of weeks.” I ignore her. I feel pretty good about what I’ve done in the past two weeks, but I’d rather share it in a small group than a large one.
But it’s too late. Marina, who clearly has eyes like a hawk, has spotted the rib elbowing and, desperate as she is for a volunteer, has decided that I’m to be it.
“You, the blond woman in the middle. You look like you’d like to tell your story.”
Bugger. Perhaps if I just sit here she’ll realize that she has made a mistake.
“Would you like to come up here and stand with me?”
No, I would not. But I do. I inch my way along my row and out to the aisle, then begin what seems like an unbearably long walk to the podium, aware that all eyes are upon me. I’m wishing I’d worn something more striking, with heels, rather than this straight-from-work look of gray trouser suit with flat black boots.
When I reach Marina she stretches out her arms as if to pull me toward her. In fact, she just takes my right hand and squeezes it. She must be trying to take the edge off my imminent mortification.
“So, you are?”
“Ally James.”
“Hello, Ally. So good to meet you. Can you tell us how the past two weeks have been for you? Have you had any luck, any great experiences, any revelations?”
Staring at the sea of expectant faces in front of me I’m wishing I was making a presentation about the different production processes deployed in the making of fine-cut and coarse-cut. Or doing another stint on Danny Gray’s Food of the Week show. Or even single-handedly stuffing three hundred jam jars with trinkets for a tombola stall. Anything would be better than this.
“Don’t be shy, Ally. I could tell you had something to say to us. Please don’t worry about it.”
Now I’m starting to feel like a five-year-old child who’s volunteered for show-and-tell then, once at the head of the classroom with the prized object in her hands, finds the challenge of speaking aloud in front of fifteen other five-year-olds all too much. Get a grip, woman.
“Sorry,” I say. Always a bad start, that. Solidifies the image of ineptitude that has already crept into the audience’s minds. “I have to admit that I was somewhat skeptical when I came here last time. I just wasn’t sure that this sort of thing would work for me.” I stop myself from making disparaging remarks about the eight Ps, which I think are contrived, and the concept of promoting oneself, which I’m sure I’m going to find laughable.
“But after the seminar I decided just to give it a go. To do the things you’d suggested. I guess I saw it as a bit of a challenge. I started by burying my baggage in the garden, and I was amazed how good this felt.”
“Tell us, Ally, what exactly was your baggage? We’d all love to hear,” interrupts Marina.
Oh, hell. Here we go. “Well, I’m divorced. And I think I’d been hanging on to the idea of my ex, and the whole notion of keeping that family unit in tact. Not that I wanted to get back together with him. That wasn’t it really. But at the same time, I didn’t want to let him go. And I realized I just didn’t want to let go of the possibility of having that perfect family.”
The low hum of deep sighs and sympathetic “Ahs” disperses the silence in the room, communicating understanding and egging me on.
“So, anyway, I took a picture of that perfect family and put it in a box and got rid of it. Silly, isn’t it?” Of course I know Marina won’t think it silly. She invented the whole idea. But there is something silly about it that has to be acknowledged.
Marina ignores my remark and encourages me to continue with a barely perceptible nod of her head. It’s a subtle gesture, much like the gently waving arms.
“Anyway, I felt better after that. It probably sounds trite, but I felt as if I’d made some sort of decision. So I went ahead and organized my branding party, which turned out to be a laugh. My friends gave me some good feedback; one of them said that I’d been communicating hostility somehow, and that I needed to change that.”
“Good, good,” says Marina, turning then to the audience. “Do you see, ladies? Packaging isn�
��t just about what we wear or how we do our hair. It’s about body language, too. Go on, Ally.”
“Well, there’s not much more actually. Except that I did organize two out of three of those practice-run dates you suggested. I went out with one man I’d turned down before. He wasn’t my type and I knew I didn’t fancy him, but I went.”
“And what did you learn from that, Ally?” She doesn’t let up, this woman. She’s determined to draw every last drop of insight from my stories in case no one else volunteers.
“I’m not sure really. That he liked me. That I am likeable, I suppose.” This must be the right answer, because Marina is nodding her head and smiling meaningfully.
I press on. “Then I did something I still can’t believe I’ve done. I called up an electrician that I remembered being quite nice, and made an appointment for him to come and fix all the broken lights in my house. And while he was there, I flirted like I’ve never flirted before. I made it so obvious that I was interested that he couldn’t possibly mistake my intentions. I had expected to have to go all the way and ask him out, but in the end he asked me. We’re going out this coming Friday.”
A spontaneous cheer erupts from the audience, and Marina has her hands pressed firmly together, pointing upward against her lips, not in prayer, but in glee. When the cheering and clapping subside, Marina turns to the group, presumably to summarize the learning points from my story. She’d better be going to sum up, because there isn’t any more. I’ve no intention of talking about lust under the extractor fan.
“That, dear ladies, is what I call success. By being proactive, and putting herself out there, Ally has discovered some things. Some very valuable things. That she can move on. That she is likeable. That she can flirt, with results. And besides all of this, she’ll soon have had two dates in two weeks. That alone is good for the soul. Far better than sitting home eating pot noodles in front of the TV. Thank you, Ally, for sharing this with us. Now, would anyone else like to tell their story?”
