A Surrey State of Affairs (10 page)

  
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20

I am sorry for wallowing in self-pity yesterday. It does not do to dwell on my problems. Bell ringing last night certainly put them into perspective. Gerald remains in a bad way. A dog may be a man’s best friend, but unfortunately it does not appear to make an adequate replacement for a wife of thirty years who raised two sons and held a certificate in pastry cookery. Gerald’s cheeks are pale, his demeanor hangdog, his clothes soiled. He mopes, moons, and misses his turn at the Reverse St. Sylvester. Something must be done, and I think I know what. Gerald is crying out for a woman’s caring touch. Rupert is not the only man in need of my assistance in this area; my track record in this department may not be impeccable, but duty calls.

There is not what you might call an abundance of single women in the village with an interest in campanology and dogs, but once again a thought has occurred. Miss Hughes. She is the only unattached lady at bell ringing, and I am quite convin-ced that she grew up in the sort of place that was crawling with Labradors. She has never married—something to do with an
orthodontist who ran off with her sister—but love can blossom late, like in those
Saga
advertisements of tanned sixty-year-olds holding hands on silver beaches. And despite the walking stick, she can’t be more than a year or two Gerald’s senior.

As if fate were on my side with matters of the heart, as soon as I got home the telephone rang, and it was Bridget, an old university friend who now works in publishing in London and is practically an expert on Internet dating. As she is a divorcée this is only to be expected, though I thought it best not to ask if she had signed up to “wine lovers” or “large and lovely.” After I had told her that Rupert enthusiastically backed the plan—an exaggeration, I admit, but he did evangelize about the Internet’s ability to connect one with like-minded people when he persuaded me to start this blog, so he can hardly object—she recommended that I look at the dating section of whichever newspaper he reads online. This turned out to be sterling advice: I have just had a look at the
Daily Telegraph’
s Web site, and it does indeed carry a dating service, called Kindred Spirits, that looks most promising. All I need to do now is finesse the wording. “Handsome, professional 26-year-old with own flat and teeth” or “Professional, hand-some 26-year-old with own teeth and flat”? I must get this right. I would hate to annoy him.

  
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 21

A disturbing incident at Church Flowers today. Usually the proceedings could not be more soothing: we meet, we select some seasonal blooms, we arrange, we place them for maximum effect in terms of both catching the light and concealing cobwebs, we stop for a cup of tea, and repeat the above. Today, however, Pru came over to me with a hard look in her eye. Her lips were pursed so that her fuchsia lipstick latticed out into her powdery cheeks. Perhaps she was troubled that I had taken the last
stem of gladioli? Unfortunately not. It appears that the consequences of Rupert’s birthday party continue to ripple beyond the bill for getting the rug dry-cleaned. Pru informed me that, as I had requested, her daughter had fallen “head over heels” for my son, as befitted her “sweet, trusting nature.” I was rather taken aback. As far as I could tell, Rupert had done nothing to encourage Ruth. He had even left her gift—
The Little Book of Clouds
—wedged behind the U-bend of the downstairs lavatory, which is hardly consistent with a
coup de foudre.
Besides, the party was weeks ago.

However, Pru insisted that Ruth was still so smitten with Rupert that she cried herself to sleep at night because he never replied to the photo text message she had sent of herself with a heart painted on her cheek. Apparently, she “felt something click” when she first set eyes on him, and she just knew from the intense look in his eyes that he felt the same. I did not know what to say beyond wondering why it had taken her this long to say something and speculating that Rupert’s contact lenses could have been irritating him, but I thought it best to keep all that to myself. Pru clearly expected a more substantial explanation; I also noticed that the other ladies had put down their blocks of flower arranger’s foam to listen. It was a delicate situation.

On the one hand, I would like Rupert to settle, and Ruth is superficially a very reasonable candidate. She is attractive enough to look the part in a wedding photo, if only she would do something about her frizzy hair, but not so pretty that she would always be chased after by other men. She is a primary school teacher, which indicates an admirable fondness of children, as well as unlimited access to paper supplies. And yet, despite the prospect of numerous grandchildren and an inexhaustible supply of staplers, I can’t help but worry that her evident emotional
volatility would not equip her well for, say, a Christmas lunch with Ivan the Terrible and Mother. I decided that diplomacy was the only option. I also decided that now was not the moment to ask my fellow flower arrangers for help with the wording of Rupert’s Internet dating profile. Instead, I told Pru that Rupert was the shy sort whose silence indicated that he was overwhelmed by emotion; and when she asked for his address to pass on to Ruth, I could hardly refuse.

I may leave Kindred Spirits alone, just for a few days.

  
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 22

3 A.M.

I have woken from a fearful dream. Ruth had chained herself to the railings of Rupert’s flat in Milton Keynes and set herself on fire in the manner of a protesting Cambodian monk. Suddenly, the scene switched to a wedding, Rupert was quenching the flames with vintage champagne, and instead of a wedding dress, Ruth was swathed in white bandages. Poppy was eating the wedding cake and Ivan the Terrible swung from a chandelier by his toenails. I elbowed Jeffrey awake and told him all about it, but when I asked him what it meant he said, “Too much Roquefort,” which I felt lacked either psychological depth or sensitivity of feeling.

  
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24

Perhaps I am psychic after all. Perhaps, despite my misgivings about the sort of people who wear tie-dyed clothing and smell of sandalwood, there is indeed something to the realm of the supernatural. My dream was almost a premonition. Do not be alarmed: there have been no acts of self-immolation on the steps of Conifer Court, the block of smart new flats where
Rupert lives. There has, however, been a disturbing visitation. Rupert called today, and I could tell by the way he called me “Mother” rather than “Mum” that something was up. He de-manded to know how “she” had found out where he lived. I am ashamed to say I feigned ignorance, suggesting that if he meant Ruth, then she must have tracked him down on MyFace or one of those other Internet youth clubs I keep reading about in the newspaper.

Rupert was silent for a few moments, and then said in a softer, frightened-sounding voice: “Do you know what she did, Mum? When I got back from Sainsbury’s yesterday there were Post-it notes, maybe a hundred of them, stuck on my front door in the shape of a heart. In the middle was a Polaroid picture of her with her phone number written on it in black felt-tip pen. She was wearing an angel outfit. It’s creepy. What do you think I should do?”

My first thought was to shop at Waitrose rather than Sainsbury’s, but I bit my tongue. Then I realized that this was, if anything, an opportunity, and asked him if he had any girlfriends that she might happen to see him hand in hand with. At that point he went quiet, and then muttered something about having to rush off to water the cactus. He must be covering up for his shyness. I am more convinced than ever that Internet dating is the only way ahead.

  
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 25

Dear readers, I have had a nasty shock. I feel like the very computer I’m typing on is contaminated. My fingers are sweating. The Internet is truly a wilderness, filled with strange creatures, littered with booby traps. All I wanted to do was visit the
Daily Telegraph’
s dating section on Rupert’s behalf, and I ended up stumbling upon a horrible secret.

Jeffrey had left the computer on overnight, which is not like him. He often sits in his study late at night with a glass of scotch, studying the value of his investment portfolio, coming to bed with a twinkle in his eye. But I digress.

This morning, I noticed that he had left the computer on standby overnight, something he has tended to avoid since Sophie told him that by doing so he was responsible for submerging the Maldives. When I jiggled the mouse to get rid of the screensaver, a picture of a familiar-looking blond girl with a big grin and extravagant cleavage appeared on the screen. Upon closer inspection I realized that I was in fact on the Web site Facebook, registered somehow under Jeffrey’s name, and on some sort of fan page. I realized that the girl in question was that
Blue Peter
presenter latterly more famous for getting caught snorting cocaine with a rolled-up fifty note off the chest of a disheveled rock musician. The fan page contained a display “wall” of comments from admirers, including “shez so hot I used to watch her on telly she could cover me in stiky bak plastic any day” and “nice t
^*
*
s.” With a small stab in my heart I noticed that Jeffrey had simply written “phwoooooaaar!” Well, when I say Jeffrey, I suppose I mean Jeffrey’s Internet manifestation, which consists of his real name and an accompanying picture of Roger Moore dressed as 007. He is clearly living out his fantasy on the Internet. I just feel so hurt that this fantasy includes a perky postadolescent TV presenter who is my polar opposite in looks and dress sense. If he is going to salivate over another woman, the least he could have done is to choose a nice cultured type. What’s wrong with Mariella Frostrup, for goodness sake? Or Nigella Lawson?