Lessons in Duck Hunting

by Jayne Buxton

  “I think Dad loved the glamour of it all,” says his son, “the fact that strolling along as a couple they could turn so many heads.” Damian goes on to recount many tales we’ve all heard, and a few we haven’t. Those who are new to the salon are perhaps surprised to learn that George was once a top model, dancing at Studio 54 with glamorous types like Bianca Jagger. Glamour. Understated elegance. These were words you would naturally associate with George. But he was more than just a man with a cashmere habit. He had real decisiveness and strength, which was never more in evidence than when he thwarted the attempted theft of his Rolex by swinging a hairdryer around by its cord and bashing the armed thug on the temple while everyone else cowered behind the chairs of the salon.

  After the service, the courtyard of the restaurant where we are all gathered is humming with people sharing stories about George. Grant, who’s known George for fifteen years, looks lost. He keeps muttering, “A huge loss. Such a loss,” in his clipped Scottish accent. Grant was the steadying counterpart to George’s volatility and flamboyance, but they shared a wicked sense of humor. If you were ever in the mood to just sit, you could listen to the banter between the two of them over the clip-clip of scissors and steady hum of hair dryers. Today, Grant and Damian huddle together for much of the gathering, perhaps in recognition that it is they who will feel George’s absence the most acutely.

  I don’t know many people here, just the dozen or so I’ve happened to coincide with in the salon over the years. I chat with Elena and her mother Carole for a while, then find myself commiserating with an elegant woman with ash blond hair held in a neat ponytail by a tortoiseshell clip. She looks to be in her late forties, and is wearing the most gorgeous fitted black suit I’ve ever seen.

  “Terrible. Don’t know how we will all cope, do you?” she says, shaking her head before taking a sip from her wineglass.

  “I know. It’s quite unreal, isn’t it? Hard to take in,” I say.

  “Do you want to know what I loved most about him?” she volunteers. “He made me feel marvelous. Even when my life was shit, he made me feel beautiful and special. When I first got divorced, I used to book an appointment with him every week, just so I could come and see him. And he always said to me, Francesca, you are going to be happy again. You will find another man who will adore you. You’ll see.”

  I can hardly believe I’m standing opposite the woman whose name I’ve pinched. A woman who, in a funny way, was partly responsible for the rejuvenation of my own romantic life, or for the mess I’m in, depending on how you look at it. But it makes perfect sense. Of course she would be here.

  Funerals are feeling factories, inspiring immediate familiarity. So I say, “George really admired you. He told me he loved the way you embraced life after your divorce, didn’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “Did he now? Well let me tell you, dear, there was plenty of feeling sorry for myself at the beginning, but he helped me to snap out of it. But what was he doing telling people stories about me?” She smiles mischievously, as if she doesn’t really mind the fact that she’s been discussed at length.

  “He thought it might help me. I’m divorced myself, you see, and I was asking him whether he knew any women who were doing better than me at starting over again. You know, getting out there with some fight in them.”

  At this news Francesca says “Come, come,” and steers me toward a small round table, taking two full wineglasses from a passing tray as she goes. We sit at this table for the next hour, oblivious to the conversation around us. Francesca tells me all about her marriage to a wealthy polo–pony-owning businessman who left her for his secretary. “So predictable it’s sad, don’t you think?” She tells me about feeling miserable and worthless and unattractive. And about all the mistakes she made as she started seeing men again, and the tremendous fun she had making them.

  “It was all worth it,” she says. “Because I found out a lot about myself along the way, and realized I’d been married to the wrong man in the first place. I vowed to find the right one before my fiftieth birthday.”

  “And have you?” I ask.

  “I’m getting close,” she says, smiling. “Very close indeed. I think I might have found him, he just doesn’t know it yet.” She winks at me, then adds, “I turn fifty at the end of the year. So wish me luck.” She winks again and raises her glass. I raise mine to meet it.

  “What’s he like? The one you’ve set your sights on?” I’m not just making idle conversation; for some reason I’m dying to know the answer.

  “Oh, he’s just lovely. Not perfect, you understand. Not even someone I would have looked twice at ten years ago. But I think I’ve grown up a lot. I feel ready for a man like him. Honest and straight. None of those games. That’s so sexy, don’t you think?”

  I consider Francesca’s words as I watch her pop a quail’s egg into her mouth.

  “You may be right,” I say.

  CHAPTER 38

  LISTS

  Marina thinks lists are a good thing. She says they bring definition to the indefinable, and there’s nothing so indefinable as love. I could use a spot of definition right now, so I make a few lists of my own.

  THINGS I LOVED ABOUT DAVID:

  Milk chocolate eyes. Eyes that you can sink into

  Provocative self-confidence. Bordering on arrogance but v.

  sexy.

  Shoulders

  Mouth

  Hair. Just long enough so your hands could get lost in it.

  Brilliant with images

  That he called me clever and determined and liked it when I

  argued

  Perfect height for me.

  His romanticism. That he thrust himself into our marriage

  like a huge adventure.

  That he loves Jack and Millie and they adore him.

  That he was useless at most mundane domestic tasks, but

  would surprise you with his brilliance at something

  complicated

  Surprises, in general

  The way he looks when he’s leaning against a door frame in a

  loose gray T-shirt, not saying a word.

  THINGS TO (MAYBE) LOVE ABOUT TOM:

  Lovely gray-green eyes. Sad and smiling all at

  once.

  Honest but not maudlin. Can talk about his wife but

  without falling apart. Where does that kind of strength

  come from?

  Lovely warm smile. Maple syrup kind of smile. And that line

  on one side of his mouth when he smiles.

  Very funny. Lovely laugh.

  Stomach?

  Delicious voice. Am sucker for a southern drawl.

  Brilliant with words

  That he could announce something like “We have a

  connection” in the broad daylight of a co fee shop, without

  the safety net of alcohol or darkness.

  Tall enough to pick me up like R. Gere

  Honest. Straight.

  Good father. Takes Grace to park at crack of dawn. Knows

  enough to take supply of digestives to Waitrose.

  Also good at surprises. Note through letterbox v. surprising.

  Co fee shop confession also v. surprising

  The way I feel when he touches me accidentally in the

  cinema, or on purpose when he picks me up from the

  pavement.

  REASONS NOT TO LOVE DAVID AGAIN:

  Big risk. Does he mean it? Can a leopard ever change his

  spots? Why now? Already buried under camellia. Too

  late?

  REASONS NOT TO KEEP SEEING TOM:

  Big risk. Probably not ready to love someone yet. Might be

  transition person. Might be person he wants to make life

  with Grace easier. (But he’s not that sort of person,

  surely?)

  REASONS MUST MAKE DECISION:

  Not fair to string along two men. Is it?

  If sleep with Tom, will
really not be fair to string along two

  men. Will it?

  REASONS TO WAIT AND SEE:

  How can possibly decide now, when known Tom such short

  time?

  Probably will not sleep with Tom anytime soon, so still have

  time before become wicked two-timing trollop

  Surely will soon receive a sign?

  Well, that wasn’t much help.

  CHAPTER 39

  SPLITS

  The trip to Valencia is incredibly poorly timed. George’s funeral and my state of mind are not the ideal backdrop to a three-day meeting in the orange groves, however pleasant that might sound to someone else.

  I’m not miserable, you understand. In fact, I’m giddy with excitement much of the time. Like a girl who’s suddenly discovered she’s the belle of the ball, and is whizzing from one dancing partner to another while her friends watch in jealous disbelief. I’m loving the attention, and the thrill of being thrilled by someone again. If only there weren’t two someones involved.

  David and I spent Sunday night together, him sneaking back home before dawn. Every fiber of my body told me this was wrong: the children were in the house and might have woken up; we were in our former marital bed, which will confuse matters horribly; things will surely get too cozy if we carry on like this, which will definitely confuse matters horribly. But after writing out my list of all the reasons I’d loved David, I found myself even less capable of steeling myself against them. All the stuff about risk I was somehow able to ignore.

  To make matters worse, the night before the day of my departure for Spain, I crossed the line between confused woman taking reasonable steps to figure out her feelings for two people, and wicked two-timing trollop. It turns out that making the list of all the things I like about Tom made him more irresistible as well. To the list I am now forced to add: nice stomach after all; gracious lover; great kisser. Really great kisser.

  I hadn’t planned for this to happen either. But I hadn’t seen Tom for a week, and when he learned that I would be away for three days he suggested he come over for one drink, leaving Grace to be looked after by a babysitter. When the drink was over and we were standing at my front door, a kiss goodnight turned quickly to a kind of undignified and desperate ravenousness. This time he kissed me unhesitatingly, as if he’d given himself permission. I said, “Stay,” to which he replied by picking me up, wrapping my legs around his hips and moving toward the stairs—at which moment I had a quick flash of Angie with Richard Gere that made me smile. I said, “Not up there. The children,” and pointed toward the sitting room, where we collapsed onto the sofa. From that moment on I wasn’t thinking altogether clearly, and at some point I stopped thinking altogether, but I do remember remarking to myself about the stroke of luck involved in having opted for the fuchsia bra.

  We ended the evening lying on the floor wrapped in a blanket from the back of the sofa, laughing in whispers lest our voices occasion the appearance of a small person at the door. He said, “This is incredible to me. You have no idea.” And I thought, actually, I might. When it was quite late, and my face was still tingling in all the places he’d just kissed it, he said, “Could you do me a favor and stop kissing me or I’m never going to leave. And I have to leave.” I sat on the sofa with the blanket wrapped around me and watched him get dressed. Then I walked him back to the door, and he said, “Let’s try that goodnight thing again. See if it works this time,” before creeping back home to explain to the babysitter why he’d been two hours longer than planned, and on a school night too.

  A couple of days in Valencia will give things a chance to cool down. At the very least, it will keep me away from both of them, and give me some space to think about what I’m doing. And I must think about it. Now that I’ve crossed the line, I can’t just carry on. Francesca might approve of it, but George never would. When I call Clara from the airport, she definitely doesn’t.

  “What did I tell you about straddling two horses, honey?” she asks exasperatedly. “I knew you’d end up doing splits. You’ve got to sort yourself out.” Any minute now she’ll be running out to the bookshop to dig out some advice manual like Choosing Between Two Lovers, or Knowing Your Own Heart.

  “It’s not that easy, Clara,” I say. “It’s not like I planned any of it. If Mel hadn’t gotten me involved in that Proactive Partnership thing I’d never be in this situation because I’d never have met Tom. David would probably not have reappeared on the scene either, come to think of it. I’m sure it was his subconscious fear of my starting to get away that spurred him to action.”

  Clara starts to say something. “Doesn’t that tell you . . .” but my mobile dies midsentence and I don’t catch it all. I have to go to the gate in any case. As I walk toward it I check the time and see that it’s almost three. Almost time for the complicated set of childcare arrangements I’ve made to kick in. David has volunteered to take over from Jill after tea and spend the night, thereby absolving Mel of that responsibility. (Here’s what I meant about cozy. It’s amazing how cooperative your ex-husband suddenly becomes when there’s sex involved again.) Then Mum and Dad arrive tomorrow, for two days. They’ll play backup to Jill at teatime, and do solo duty overnight. The children should get more attention than I could ever give them if I were at home alone with them.

  ALL DURING THE flight I’m wondering how such a good girl could have ended up in such an appalling situation. There’s the not knowing what to do. That’s bad enough. But there’s also the doubt about what I’ve done. In retrospect, I can see that there were better ways to handle every situation in which I found myself. Ex-husband suggests weekend away? Say no, and suggest a few cautious dinners instead. Ex-husband stands at door of hotel room looking unspeakably alluring? No question. Shut door immediately, with ex on other side. Nice-looking man from neighborhood suggests coffee, then evening out? Say must sort out confused relationship with ex first, please. Nice-looking man from neighborhood proves to be more interesting and more gorgeous than first anticipated? Don’t, whatever you do, then sleep with ex-husband in quaint wisteria-clad hotel, and again, in former marital bed. Don’t, whatever you do, compound sins by then sleeping with new man later in same week.

  It’s as if all my good judgment flew the coop one night when I wasn’t looking. Lisa said I ought to unbutton myself and open up a little, but I’m sure she didn’t mean this. I’ve become so unbuttoned I’m in danger of unraveling. My agitation is such that, not only am I shedding ounces by the minute, I have become oblivious to the perils of turbulence. At one point just before our descent I look around me to see my fellow passengers gripping their armrests and seeking out reassurance on the faces of the flight attendants, and I realize that most of the swooping and bumping in the air currents must have passed me by; my stomach has been doing doubleflips for days all of its own accord and it’s a state I’ve grown accustomed to.

  Walking out of the airport into the balmy April air I feel a fragile sense of calm descend over me. I’m quite sure it’s temporary, but I’ll take it all the same. I scan the line of black-trouser–clad, dark-haired drivers leaning against their limousines and taxis, searching for a sign that says “Señora James.” My driver spots me just as I spot his sign, and hurries toward me.

  “Señora James?”

  “Yes. Hello.”

  “Please, let me to take your bag. Señor Rico will to meet you at the hotel.”

  Señor Rico is a liaison officer with the main packing house used by Cottage Garden Foods. I’ve met him once before, when I first started in the business. His job will be to welcome me, see that all my needs are catered to, and escort me on a round-robin tour of the major growers in the area. These friendly visits from product managers and buyers must be amongst the easiest aspects of his job. He doesn’t yet know that we’ve a contract to discuss, but as we’ll likely do this in a lively tapas bar, even that shouldn’t be too painful for anyone.

  The drive from the airport takes us first through a f
ew miles of dry, barren-looking fields, but it isn’t long before we are surrounded by rows of flowering almond trees and acres of orange trees. The blend of early summer evening warmth and almond blossom is intoxicating. I open my window and hold my face up to the breeze and the last warming rays of the waning sun. By the time we arrive at the hotel, and Señor Rico appears at my door to open it, I’m as close to mellow as my inner deliberations will allow.

  Señor Rico, having anticipated that I might be tired after a day’s work and a flight, has considerately left some space in my itinerary. After settling me into my hotel, he says a polite good-bye and confirms that he’ll collect me the following morning. So the evening is mine, to do with as I wish. All I really wish is a gin and tonic in a long bath and a quiet dinner during which I won’t be required to speak.

  My room is dark and cool. Everything is white except the terracotta floor tiles and the single multicolored rug at the end of the bed. I open the shutters and the doors to reveal a minute balcony overlooking a courtyard. A single branch of an almond tree is drooping over one corner of the balcony, partly obscuring the view of the courtyard and the other rooms. Outside, the air is cooling but the light is still bright. It’s that peaceful, unobtrusive brightness of early evening, the brightness of a day that’s lost its edge.

  I go into the bathroom to run myself a bath, then lie down on the bed and pick up the phone. It’s too late to speak to Jack and Millie, but I can find out how they are. David sounds tired when he answers the phone.

  “Hi, it’s Ally. I thought I’d check in and see how everything is going.”

  “Great. Kids are great. I’m managing fine. Still remember where the saucepans are. How are you?”

  “A little tired, but fine. I’m not really required for duty until the morning, so I’ll probably have a quiet dinner and go to bed.”