The Waiting List (Strong Women Book 5)

by Sarah Till

  “It's Lenny, Mum. He’s dumped me.” I saw her mouth turn slightly upwards and couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or was merely sneering through her Botox mask.

  “Oh. Is that all? You've only been seeing him two minutes, haven't you? No big loss, is it? I mean, you weren't that fond of him, were you?”

  “Not that fond of him? That's like asking me if I was fond of nectarines or fond of nuts.”

  “Speaking of nuts, here he is.”

  My father appeared from the kitchen and nodded to greet me. He was wiping his hands on a dirty rag and Mum slowly relaxed her vulture grip on the glass and rested it on the table.

  “Hello, Clementine. How are you?”

  “Not too good, Dad. Lenny's dumped me. Just about an hour ago. I'm really upset about it.” I could feel Mum's stare sear into me as Dad put his slightly greasy hand on my arm. I could smell the sulphur from the matches and an aroma of setting glue. “What are you building?”

  Mum sighed and got up as quickly as her front-bearing load would allow. Dad's eyes followed her as she flopped down onto a sofa in the conservatory with her back to us.

  “You won’t believe it, Clem, you won’t believe it. I'm building a panel depicting the local Sunday League trophy for their clubhouse. It's my first commission!”

  “You should get out more, Dad. No, seriously, why don’t you come round to my house on Sunday? I'll make you lunch. I'm pleased for you, a commission for your models, it'll be a celebration.”

  Dad looked at Mum and she turned and caught his eye, shaking her head almost invisibly. His eyes fell onto the neutral carpet.

  “Maybe another time, Clem. Another time. And don’t worry about your young man. Plenty more pebbles on the beach!”

  “I know. I know. But I am thirty-two. I need to meet someone and get married. I need...”

  “Steady on, Clem, you don't want to be marrying the first frog you kiss. Wait for the prince. Just wait for the prince.”

  That was Dad all over. He talked in clichés most of the time. I wondered how he managed to speak at all when he spent the majority of his time either with Mum or in the shed. About five years ago, I'd called round in the pouring rain and, wet through, I’d dashed upstairs before Mum caught me and ushered me into the lounge. Hunting through the bathroom then the large master bedroom, which had been redecorated since I left home in stark white, I couldn't find a towel. I ran across the landing to the room where my sister had last slept all those years ago. I flung open the door expecting to find her clothes and posters and her CD collection, exactly like they had been. On the day she went out, sixteen years ago, and never returned. They had gone and in their place stood a simple single bed and a plain chest of drawers. Her wardrobes were still there, but Dad's small collection of checked shirts hung inside the gaping space, lost in the huge cavern. A small pile of socks lay on the shelf above and his trousers were stacked over the back of a camping chair. This was clearly Dad's room now Charlotte was gone.

  Since then, I'd watched as the years stretched between them and my mother's disdain for him grew. Her smooth forehead and plumped lips hid a disappointed expression, but her narrowed eyes belied her true feelings.

  “Yes, Dad. Plenty more fish in the sea. Anyway, come round whenever you like. You know you're always welcome.”

  I heard a familiar click in the conservatory and watched as a plume of smoke rose around my mother's head. Dad was gone, no doubt back to his matchstick commission and I was alone in the lounge. I sat for a moment longer, wondering if I should hang around for dinner. I knew I wasn't really welcome and in any case the food would be warmed up Marks and Spencer’s cuisine. She never cooked these days, and even if she did, I would have been wary of finding a false eyelash or fingernail. It was safer to go home.

  Driving home mid-afternoon was much easier than in the rush hour. I'd almost forgotten about the conversation with Lenny until I opened my front door and threw my car keys on the coffee table in the lounge. A pair of his folded-up socks lay on the coffee table, the toes pointing upwards in a crispy frill. Tiny droplets dripped from my eyelashes and I struggled to stop the mascara-laden rivers from forming a torrent on my cheeks. I tried to breathe the way Jenni had told me to do when I needed to calm down. Breathe in for seven, breathe out for eleven. It partially worked and I went to the bathroom to dab at my damp eyes. I was met by Lenny's surprising array of toiletries, far more than my quite expansive range and I tutted at my stupidity. How could I not have known he was a cleanliness freak? All the signs were there. The nagging question that always asked itself at times like this, when I'd invested my whole self in a relationship, brought a familiar refrain of guilt: was I completely fucking desperate?

  I swept the potions and bottles into a carrier bag and pushed them into the space under the vanity unit. Dinner tonight would be warmed up lasagne from last night and a touch of salad. Friday nights mean lots of dancing, a little drinking and hopefully some exaggerated flirting with someone gorgeous now that I was single again. I pushed the lasagne for one into the oven and sighed. I was upset about Lenny, a sort of sickly upset that pointed more to my own foolishness than a genuine loss. How could I have even imagined that he was the one? How did I get sucked into his spick and span world of strange rituals? Part of me felt sorry for him. It was becoming clear why he had never had a serious relationship; no one would put up with his demands. Why had I gone along with them when others hadn’t? I wasn’t desperate at all. I had my own home, a nice little place with a garden back and front. I had a good job, not an executive position or corporate high-flyer, but it paid the bills with a little left over for holidays. Goodness knows, I wasn’t unattractive, even in modesty I knew that I was pretty. Jenni had told me once that I try too hard. That I go beyond the call of duty. I didn’t really understand what she meant. All I knew was that I had my list and someday my dream man would come along and tick all the boxes.

  The list was in a folder in the bottom of the freezer, a place Lenny would never have looked in his cleanliness inspections. I took it out and unwrapped the cling film I had hurriedly encased it in when I'd been ticking Lenny’s boxes and he had arrived early. The outside was a little damp and stiff, but the paper inside was fine. I took out the three plastic folders and placed them side-by-side on the table. The first one contained some drawings and lists that I'd made as a small child; a picture of matchstick me holding hands with a matchstick anonymous man. Another of me with my fat sausage arms around a brown-haired tall figure. Another of my parents standing far apart. My mother with a triangle skirt and a cigarette smoking in her mouth. My Dad with his eternally bald head and a little smile especially for me. And my sister Charlotte, bigger than me and more important even then but in a different way. She had never known about the lists, and even now, when I had no idea if she was alive or dead, I felt glad to have something just for me.

  These lists were mainly about what I wanted to be when I was older. I'd wanted to be a dancer. A vet. A fireman with man crossed out and woman inserted. I baulked at my career choices as I considered my current occupation. It could have all been so different if my family hadn’t had to undergo the massive upheaval over Charlotte. I could have been anything. Yet I was still just Charlotte’s sister in the eyes of my family. The last word on the page from my five-year-old diary was ‘married’. It was underlined three times in red with golden stars littered around it.

  The rest of the lists were ripped from the back of diaries, notes hurriedly made on trains, at meetings, any time I had a chance to think about my ideal man. I'd realised, of course, that I may not meet exactly the man I wanted, but my margin was five percent. Finally, I'd arrived at the list. I'd spent a full weekend working on it. By the time I'd reached twenty-seven, and all of my friends were married. They were so involved in their relationships that they no longer went on hen weekends or Friday night dancing. Their lives revolved around honeymoons, midnight baby feeds and losing their maternity weight. Mine was still entrenched in the
social scene in the hope that I would finally meet someone who would want to marry me, and want to raise children with me. Someone who loved me. I'd made the list by collating all the information in the folder into common themes; hair colour, eye colour, height, build, temperament, voice. All the physical features were easy, as I could picture what I wanted. The problem was that I wanted someone who hadn’t been married, someone who had no children. I wanted our relationship to be the first adventure of love for both of us. I wanted someone without baggage.

  Of course, I knew that the older I became, the less likely this was. Even so, I never crossed it off my list. I picked the master copy of the list up now and read it.

  Clementine Clooney – The man I will marry.

  The man I will marry is called:

  He will have:

  Light to dark brown hair

  Brown eyes 5’ 8” +

  Medium-sized face

  Athletic build

  Medium-sized ears

  Not too hairy

  The obvious in the trouser department

  A sense of humour

  No children

  No ex-wife

  Not living with his mother

  Medium-sized feet

  Reliable Loving

  Precise

  Generous Plays Guitar

  Loves me

  THE LAST TWO HAD BEEN afterthoughts since, even if he possessed all the other qualities, playing guitar was cool and loving me was a necessity.

  The next plastic folder held eighteen completed lists. I'd dutifully filled in the name of the man I was interested in and, as I got to know him, ticked the boxes. If, by the time three months were up, he hadn’t ticked all but one of the boxes, he was history. I looked at some of the past suitors. Some had about three quarters of the boxes ticked. It was fairly easy to tick the appearance-related ones as they had fairly easy requirements in a Mr Average kind of way. The difficult ones were around kindness and sense of humour. The almost impossible one was the last. Every possibility remained unticked in this box. I quickly placed them back in the folder. No point crying over spilt milk, as Dad would say. Taking the last folder, I snatched Lenny’s list. Again, all the boxes but last were ticked. I felt like screwing the paper up tightly and throwing it in the swing bin, so all traces of Lenny disposed of. Instead, I quickly pushed it inside the past suitor file and tucked it back inside the folder. Out of sight, out of mind, as Dad would say.

  I stared at the fresh, clean list that had been exposed by Lenny’s absence. How could it be so difficult to get a man that ticked all the boxes? I thought about Friday night and all the men we met at the club. Somehow, none of them seemed right. I started to make a list of places I could go to meet men that weren’t pubs or clubs. But before I'd thought of any, the timers on the oven sounded, telling me my lasagne was ready. The next half hour was spent chopping salad, eating, and reading a magazine. The hour after that was spent showering and deciding what to wear. The pink dress or the blue skirt and white t-shirt? By the time the doorbell rang, several outfits were flung nonchalantly around my room and I was wearing the pink dress. I smiled with satisfaction in the knowledge that Lenny would never be here again to tell me to ‘pick that up’ or ‘put that away’.

  I opened the front door and Jenni strode in. As usual, she wore dark blue jeans and a skinny top leaving nothing to the imagination. Her bag was car boot Prada and her thick plaited hair wound around her head, a few stray pieces framing her face.

  “Hey girl!”

  I hugged her.

  “All right, Jenni. I’m nearly ready.”

  Jenni stood in my lounge and folded her toned arms.

  “You all right, girl? Not frettin’ over that fool, Lenny?”

  “How did you know?” I followed her gaze to the overladen bin bags in the hallway. “Anyway, I saw that guy you work with in his car at the end of your road. You know, the ginger one. He mentioned it.” I wondered how Johnny knew about it. Perhaps he had overheard my conversation in the office. “I knew he wasn’t for you. Clem, baby, he was a pure ogre.”

  “Well, he didn’t like you, Jen.”

  “I know!”

  “I had to stick up for you today.”

  “I know!”

  “I’m stupid, aren’t I?”

  “I know!”

  We both laughed and Jenni went to help herself to a drink. In a second, I heard a groan from the kitchen.

  “Oh, Clem. Clem Clem Clem. Not the fucking list again!” She appeared with the crisp white photocopy of the list. I snatched it from her but she snatched it back.

  “Bloody hell, Jenni, give me a chance. I was just getting rid of Lenny’s list.”

  “And getting another one ready. Come on, Clem, just go with the flow. Just let it happen. You can’t make the right man come along. I’ve known you three years now. Three bloody years you’ve been ticking them off against that fucking list. Three years you’ve been so wide of the mark that it’s funny, girl. For goodness’ sake, just go out with someone blond and 5’7” for a change.”

  I retrieved the list and clung possessively to it.

  “No. I know what I want. I’m waiting for someone who ticks all the boxes. Someone with no baggage.”

  Jenni’s features flashed an unfamiliar emotion for a moment and her dark brown skin flushed even darker.

  “Baggage?”

  “Yes, you know, a couple of kids and a psycho ex-wife. Who wants that? Why?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.”

  It certainly didn’t look like nothing. Jenni’s eyes became slightly moist but then she rallied.

  “Come on? What is it?”

  “Well, my brother’s got a thing for you and he’s got a son. Just that. Suppose you won’t want anything to do with him.”

  I thought about it for a moment.

  “It’s not so much that I don’t want them to have children, as I suppose that’s asking a bit much in their thirties. It’s just that I want to be the most important person in their lives. I don’t want to be overshadowed by some kid. Or an ex who keeps making demands. Is there something wrong with that? I love kids, as I want children of my own. It’s just that I would prefer him not to have kids.”

  I felt terrible now. I'd heard myself sound petulant and selfish and now Jenni was staring at me.

  “OK. Let’s have a look at some of the other things on the list. Hair, eyes. Ears? Height, build, cock size.”

  “Jenni!”

  “Well, you put it on the list. Obviously it’s important. Sense of humour. Loving, yeah, goes without saying. But precise and reliable? Then a little bit dangerous? Aren’t you getting a bit deep there? Plus they’re opposites.”

  “Yes, and when I say reliable I mean he’ll do what he says he will. Precise, well, I mean thoughtful.”

  “Like your dad?”

  “Yes. I suppose. Not exactly that precise, but yes, sort of like him.”

  “And a little bit dangerous? That could easily be translated as ‘trouble’”

  “I don’t want someone who is a complete bad boy, just someone who is a bit cheeky, maybe a little bit naughty. Someone who will talk back and not agree with everything I say.”

  I sat down heavily on a dining chair. Jenni joined me at the kitchen table.

  “So not like your dad? Make your mind up!”

  “I don’t want to meet my dad! Maybe a little like him but also a little like...”

  “Your mum?”

  Jenni smiled and rested her elbows on the table. She had never met my parents but I must have painted a good picture.

  “No. Not like her. He can’t smoke for a start. I don’t want to be going out with someone who smells like an ashtray.”

  “Shall I add that to the list? Any other diva-type demands? C’mon, Clem, we’ve got an hour to waste before we need to be at the bar, so let's have it. You could make a sub-list, a list below each point on the list.”

  I know she was making fun now and smiled along with her. I placed a copy
of the list, carefully folded, in my handbag. It was good that she had a sense of humour about it but I secretly resented her laughing at my list. I was deadly serious about it. She carried on jibing me for a while and all the time I silently defended myself. Who was Jenni to laugh at me? She was beautiful and funny, a fantastic musician and dancer, very creative, and intelligent. Yet she worked three days per week in the local supermarket. She barely had enough money to buy drinks when we went out and never bought any new clothes; the top she wore now was rehashed from four, eight, ten and twelve weeks ago with a new necklace. She played guitar in a bar two nights a week to make up her wages and always stayed in Saturday nights.

  I'd met her at the club about five years ago. She had been there alone and we got talking at the bar as my last unmarried friend smooched into her future with the man of her dreams. Jenni had asked me if I came here every week and took my number. I was secretly pleased as I was seriously running out of Friday night friends and Jenni seemed very reliable. We had been out every week since then, apart from holidays and when Christmas day fell on a Friday. I'd sometimes turned up to see her play guitar, watching as her fingers fluttered butterfly kisses on the strings. I'd been mesmerised and asked her where she had learned to play. There were some questions that Jenni just didn’t answer. She didn’t look embarrassed or awkward; she just ignored them and went on to the next subject. The next subject was never men. She had never, in five years, had a boyfriend. She danced with men and took their numbers but she never went home with them, or even rang them. She was still speaking now, suggesting words for the list.

  “... what about ‘tidy’? Oh no. That would mean Lenny was still in with a chance.”

  “I don’t know why you’re having a go at me, Jen.”