Lessons in Duck Hunting

by Jayne Buxton

  Thus dismissed, I walk back down the aisle toward my seat. I notice that the audience is now awash with raised hands. Now everyone wants to testify. As I press past the others in my row and sit down, both Angie and Claudia lean in and squeeze my arms. “Well done, you,” says Angie. “I wish I’d accomplished as much. You’re a bit of an inspiration.”

  An inspiration? Oh God, don’t make me that, please. Don’t make me the inspiration for a room full of single women so desperate to change their lives they’ve paid £500 for a series of lessons on how to do it. I’m very happy to make my own quiet progress, but I don’t want to be anybody’s inspiration.

  Marina ends up having to take three volunteers rather than the one she’s asked for, so eager and insistent are the arms waving in the air. With my ordeal over, I can sit back and enjoy other people’s tales from the front. One woman, Christina, tells us how she went out with a Duck Decoy and discovered that she actually likes him a lot. They’re planning another date this weekend. Then a woman with short red hair cut in a bob has us in stitches with her description of her branding and packaging evening. Apparently her friends pulled no punches, and she emerged from the evening with a to-do list three pages long, about which she seems delighted. It’s not until she sits down that I realize that she was once the chronically shy Karen with the shoulder-length red perm.

  I’m half expecting Caroline to rush up there to tell us about her success. But she doesn’t materialize. Either she’s a very private person or she’s not had much luck, which would be pretty sad considering she’s sacrificed her job for the cause. The last story is in fact rather sad, from a woman who was halfway through burying her baggage when she realized she wasn’t ready to do it, and had to dig up her box again. Marina gives her a hug and tells her she’s done the right thing: there’s no point in forcing matters before they are ready to be resolved. Take your time. Try again next week.

  As we are listening, Claudia leans toward me and says, “I’m afraid I haven’t done any of this. I never got that far. But I did sleep with someone in my shiatsu class.”

  She giggles at my surprised expression. “I’ll tell you during the break,” she promises.

  The break can hardly come fast enough. Angie and I huddle together to listen to Claudia. At the last minute, we are joined by Louise, who looks rather nice in a fitted black sweater-dress. The rust suit appears to have been ditched.

  “So. . . ?” I say, lest Claudia have a last-minute attack of discretion.

  “So, there is this man in my shiatsu class. I’ve been noticing him for some time. Anyway, the past two times I’ve been, I noticed he was sort of, looking at me, you know? I could feel it, through my spine. And instead of pretending it wasn’t happening, I started looking back.” She pauses to take a sip of her wine.

  “And then what?” asks Angie.

  “And then, we had a drink in the juice bar after the class, and went on to dinner, and back to my flat and . . . and that was that.”

  “And what’s he like?” asks Angie. “Is he a suitable duck thingy?”

  “I don’t care if he’s a duck or a fucking partridge. All I know is he’s gorgeous, twenty-five, and the best sex I’ve ever had.”

  There is a sharp intake of breath from Louise. She’s probably remembered Marina’s advice not to sleep with a man on the first date. Or perhaps she’s wishing she could have sex like that. Come to think of it, given that she told us she’s never had a relationship, she could be wishing she could just have sex, full-stop.

  “Oh my God,” gasps Angie. “That is amazing. Will you see him again?”

  “I’ve seen him every night since,” says Claudia. “This is my first night off.”

  You see. I wondered what a woman like her needed with a course like this, and I was right. Claudia could have reeled in her shiatsu Adonis without ever setting foot in this place. I’m honestly surprised she’d not managed it before. And she is just the sort that could carry off a proper relationship with a twenty-five-year old.

  “So, I guess you won’t be coming here again?” I say.

  “Oh, I probably will. Keep me focused. And besides, I can’t abandon all of you midprogram!”

  Louise is staring at Claudia admiringly. Claudia returns her stare with a smile, then asks “And how are you, Louise? You look well.”

  Louise stands a little taller, to show off her dress. “Yes, this is new. A friend told me to buy it. She threw out half my clothes and told me to buy some new ones before I lose weight. But I’ve done something better than that. Nothing like you, Claudia. I could never. But something.”

  “What? Tell us,” I say encouragingly.

  “I’ve moved out of my mother’s house. I haven’t found a flat yet, but I’m staying with another PA from work until I do. You know what I discovered? My biggest baggage wasn’t my weight—though obviously that’s a problem. It was feeling like a little girl, still living with my mum. And feeling responsible for keeping her company. I decided just to get rid of that, and moved out. Mum was pretty shocked.”

  We all mutter “Good for yous” and “Congratulations” as if Louise has just bedded several shiatsu instructors in quick succession. She is clearly delighted with what she’s accomplished. Looking at her and Claudia together you’d be hard pressed to say who was emitting the brighter glow.

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING I call Mel to update her. I can hear her furiously tapping at the keys of her laptop as I’m talking.

  “You’re kidding? Twenty-five years old? Good fucking on ’er.”

  “Hmm. Brilliant isn’t it? Everyone seemed to have something to say. Except poor Angie, who just stood there smiling sweetly and being supportive, as she does. When I asked her how things were going she didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Kept deflecting the questions elsewhere.”

  “Maybe she’s found herself a nineteen-year-old but is too embarrassed to say.”

  “Possibly. But anyway, now the really hard part begins. Marina taught us all about self-promotion last night. And place. You’ll never guess what our assignments are this week.”

  “Go on then. Shock me.”

  “First, we have to design a direct mail flyer for ourselves. More on that later. Then we have to start telemarketing, by ringing five people and asking them to introduce us to someone special. And lastly, because you know she likes to do things in threes, we’re supposed to make a Place Plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a plan to help you change your patterns of activity, try out new places, in order to improve your chances of meeting different sorts of men and getting out of whatever rut you’re in. It could be something as simple as shopping at Waitrose instead of Tesco.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound too bad,” says Mel.

  “No. The bad news is the part about the online dating sites. Our Place Plans are supposed to feature at least one ‘visit’ to an online dating site, where we’re supposed to post our brand descriptor and perhaps even a digital version of our flyer.”

  “Fucking hell. You can’t do that, Ally.”

  “I know I bloody well can’t. But it looks as if I might have to if I’m to keep up my end of the bargain. Anyway, don’t you go breaking out in a cold sweat just as the going gets tough. Remember who I’m doing this for.”

  “You’re right. Listen, I’ll help you. I’ll ask around about dating sites, find out which ones are the best. The most civilized. I bet there are loads of people who you’d never suspect using them. In the meantime, you’d better get a move on. It’s already Wednesday, which means you’ve only got two and a half days to get ready for your date with Mr. Electric Bollocks.”

  CHAPTER 25

  CALLING ALL MUMS

  My impending launch into cyberspace has given me an idea. Maybe there’s a website that could help Clara. Maybe mumsworld could help her. Its chat room must be full of mothers who had difficulty getting pregnant at first, maybe even of women trying to get pregnant for the first time.

  Clara�
��s doctors have apparently not been able to come up with any definitive explanation as to why she and Jonathon are not having any success. There is nothing very obviously wrong with either of them. No substandard sperm count or slow swimming sperm for him. No history of endometriosis for her. “Probably just a case of old eggs” was the best the doctor had to offer. If Clara’s reluctant to go the IVF route, I’ll be damned if I know what to tell her. I had no trouble getting pregnant the first time (obviously), and Jack was conceived practically within minutes of David’s saying to me, “Shall we make another baby then?”

  Clara is never going to visit a chat room of her own volition. Buying self-help books (for other people) is one thing; conversing with strangers (who, for all you know, could be mad, immoral or otherwise unsuited to advise you) about personal matters is another. But mumsworld convinced me that chat room conversations don’t have to be that scary. You can always ignore the more outlandish responses.

  Thinking that a little meddling is justified, I post a question to mumsworld. I have to renew my membership first as mine has lapsed.

  DEAR MUMS,

  A VERY DEAR FRIEND OF MINE IS EXPERIENCING GREAT DIFFICULTY GETTING PREGNANT. SHE IS 38 BUT DEEMED VERY HEALTHY, AND THE DOCTORS CAN FIND NOTHING WRONG WITH EITHER HER OR HER HUSBAND. THEY HAVE BEEN TRYING FOR OVER A YEAR, AND SHE IS DESPERATE.

  CAN ANYONE OFFER ANY GOOD ADVICE?

  By the end of the day on Thursday (my God, these mumsworld women are efficient) there are sixteen replies to my posting. There’s a lot of advice about having sex at the right time of the month, in the right position, and even in the right room of the house. (One that’s been feng shui-ed being the best option.) There’s stuff about eating the right foods and taking the right vitamins, and an entire posting about how to have a boy by controlling your thought patterns. It’s all well intentioned but unlikely to be persuasive to someone like Clara. Except for one down near the bottom, which sounds as if it might have been written explicitly for her.

  DEAR FRIEND,

  THREE YEARS AGO I FOUND MYSELF IN YOUR FRIEND’S POSITION, ONLY I WAS ALREADY FORTY SO IT WAS REALLY BAD NEWS. I WAS WORKING FOURTEEN HOURS A DAY IN INVESTMENT BANKING, GETTING ON A PLANE SEVERAL TIMES A WEEK. MY HUSBAND AND I BARELY HAD SEX, LET ALONE AT THE RIGHT TIME OF THE DAY OR MONTH. EVENTUALLY SOMEONE SAID TO ME, HOW MUCH DO YOU WANT THIS BABY? BECAUSE IF YOU REALLY WANT IT, YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT A PRIORITY. YOUR BODY IS TELLING YOU IT’S TOO STRESSED OUT TO DO ALL THAT IT’S DOING AND MAKE A BABY AT THE SAME TIME, SO YOU HAVE TO MAKE A DECISION. SO I DID. I MADE A DECISION THAT I WOULD GET MYSELF OUT OF THE RAT RACE FOR A WHILE AND FOCUS ON ENJOYING LIFE AND TRYING TO HAVE A BABY. IT WAS A HUGE DECISION FOR US, AND MEANT A LOT OF FINANCIAL SACRIFICES. BUT I KNEW THAT IF I DIDN’T GIVE IT MY BEST SHOT I WOULD NEVER KNOW WHAT MIGHT HAVE HAPPENED. I DIDN’T WANT TO LIVE WITH THAT KIND OF REGRET ALL MY LIFE.

  I AM NOW BACK AT WORK, THOUGH NOT IN INVESTMENT BANKING. AND I HAVE AN EIGHTEEN-MONTH-OLD DAUGHTER. I’M NOT SAYING YOUR FRIEND WILL DEFINITELY BE THIS LUCKY. BUT SHE MIGHT. AND SHE DESERVES TO GIVE HERSELF A SHOT.

  ALICE

  Just below Alice’s posting is another by someone called Monica, insisting that the key to conception lies in hanging upside down for two hours after having sex. Like I said, you have to be prepared to pick and choose when you venture into a chat room.

  Perhaps Alice and Jonathon have been comparing notes. Perhaps they are even both right. Maybe Clara is subconsciously running from a baby by continuing to structure her life in such a way that getting pregnant is an impossibility. Both biological and practical.

  But how do you tell a woman who’s spent the best part of the last seventeen years nurturing professional success that she needs to pull out of the competition in order to become a mother? (Even worse, how do you tell her this may involve the sacrifice of the Joseph suits, Prada handbags and Ferragamo shoes she’s come to see as wardrobe staples?) Clara always insists that there’s no other way to do her job than the way she does it (long hours, lots of travel, playing the power-point wankers at their own game). There’s no way she’s going to be receptive to someone telling her to slow down for a while. The messenger won’t just be shot but hanged, drawn and quartered.

  There has to be another way to encourage Clara to try something new. I can’t think what it might be right now, but I’m sure it will come to me.

  CHAPTER 26

  TIDE POOL CREATURES

  Question: What do I have in common with crabs, anemones, and barnacles?

  Answer: All of us are spineless.

  Alan caught me on the hop last night. Asked me if I’d like to go to the theater the week after next. Not knowing how to say No, I said Yes.

  Now, if my brother were a marine biologist, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  CHAPTER 27

  SOMETHING EXOTIC

  H-A-T. What does that say, Jack? Spell out the letters first, then say them all together.”

  Friday is not supposed to be a workday, but it has ended up as one. Paul Delaney is very excited about the new campaign he and his team have developed, and insists it can’t wait until the following week. So I’m heading in to work for two hours, just as soon as I’ve got the children off to school. The blockage is Jack, whose reading we are attempting to do in the car outside the school gates. Millie is sitting in the backseat reading her own book, while I try to inveigle Jack to read the last half of his.

  Jack examines the page with a screwed up face. “H-A-T. Hop!” he shouts.

  “Come on, Jack. You’re not trying! How can H-A-T make HOP? Concentrate. Let’s try this one.” I point at another word.

  “C-A-R. Caaarruh. Carrot!”

  I can’t take any more of this. I shall probably strangle him if we don’t stop. Is mine the only child in reception who is failing to grasp the point of phonics?

  “That’s enough,” I snap, slamming the book shut. Then, remembering the orange juice incident and my guilt about neural pathway damage, I soften a little. “You did very well, Jack. We can do some more later.” (Shouting at children kills neural pathways, but praise apparently encourages them to sprout like fury.) In his reading record book I quickly scribble a note to his teacher. Mrs. Lindhurst. Jack not fully able to concentrate today. Can we please try this book again tonight? There. At least she’ll know I’ve tried.

  “Ok, you two. Let’s go.” We all get out of the car and head into the school, Millie continuing to read her book as she makes her way to the steps. I’m sure that’s part of what’s made her a target here, a place in which this sort of quiet, unparticipating studiousness is not viewed positively. Brash confidence and energetic engagement are what are required here. Still, there’s no point in dwelling on that now, with just three weeks remaining at the school.

  Three weeks remaining at the school! That means three weeks until Easter break and the spring fete and the tombola jars, about which I’ve done absolutely nothing. I meant to send around a short note to the mothers in Millie’s class asking them all to make up a few jars, or at the very least, collar a few of the ones I know in the playground. But the whole thing somehow slipped off my radar screen. I don’t think it has slipped Ellie Masterson’s, because she’s sidling up to me now with a slightly accusing look on her face.

  “Ally, Helen tells me you’re in charge of jam jars. Is that true?”

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  “Oh good. I took the liberty of making up a dozen.” Ellie hands me a plastic carrier bag clanking with jars. “Have you had many others?”

  Has she sniffed out my inadequacy? I wonder. Has Helen Chambers put her up to this, to encourage me to get a move on?

  “No, not many. I mean a few. From the people I managed to ask. But I really must get around to asking everyone else. Thanks for these. I’m very grateful. And they look so beautiful!” I say, peering into the bag.

  Ellie’s jars are bright and colorful, having been filled with tiny matchbox cars and little shiny beads and all manner of things designed to app
eal to children under seven. Each jar has been lovingly covered in a little circle of green-and-white-checked fabric tied with a ribbon. What a thing to have to live up to.

  On the train I scribble the word tombola in enormous black letters across an entire page of my diary, lest I forget the damn thing again. Then I mull over the planned trip to Valencia for my bonding exercise with the suppliers, which has proved to be more of a headache than I’d even expected. The date that works for me is the week just before Easter, but that’s not convenient for the growers. It’s also a slight problem for Mum and Dad, who are being counted on to babysit. Dad has a long-standing commitment to a golf game with some old work colleagues; Mum has an appointment with a specialist about her bad hip. Both have offered to rearrange things for me (such is the depth of their selflessness), but I know how long specialist appointments take to get, and how funny a bunch of seventy-year-olds are likely to get if their tee off time is messed around with. So I am making alternative arrangements for the first day of my expected three-day absence (consisting of calls to David, Mel and Clara in that order) and have told Mum and Dad to get here when they can on day two.

  Jill isn’t a viable solution because she doesn’t do overnights. She’s got a funny thing (her description, not mine) about sleeping in her own bed at night. Apparently she and her husband never spent a night apart in twenty years, and she isn’t about to desert the marital bed, even now that he’s been dead seven years. And she did forewarn me when I hired her as an after-school sitter two years ago, so I can hardly move the goalposts now. She’s precious to me in so many ways—it’s practically impossible to find someone to cover the inconvenient hours of three to seven, four days a week, for a start. I can forgive her eccentricities. I figure a fifty-year-old widow whose only hobby is the weekly replenishment of her teddy-bear collection is entitled to a few, so long as she’s kind to my children and doesn’t let me down.