Young Wives' Tales (17 page)

‘Everybody has to grow up eventually, Lucy. Even you. You married Peter Phillips, not Peter Pan. You are thirty-seven.’

I cannot understand her need to say the number out loud. I steal a furtive glance around the restaurant and pray she hasn’t been overheard.

‘You both have to accept your responsibilities now,’says Connie with unbearable smugness.

‘Don’t talk to me about responsibilities. I work with hundreds of thousands of pounds on a daily basis. I have responsibilities towards mega conglomerates and international governments,’I point out tartly.

‘But it’s an entirely selfish responsibility. Your career is like cooking or bathing yourself. It’s about your need.’

‘Which responsibilities are you referring to then?’

‘Auriol.’

I stare at her blankly. Auriol? What does she have to do with Mick?

‘If you have an affair you are putting her at great risk. You must see that.’

‘Yes, I do see that.’Auriol is a spoilsport. I chew my food rapidly and angrily. ‘It’s so maddening that it’s Auriol and all the associated that I needed to have a break from but it was Auriol’s face that forced its way into my consciousness in the PM Lounge and at Bungalow 8 too. Hers or Peter’s. They are the reasons I would not dream of having a fling. But they are also the reasons I need some space.’

‘What do you mean, “all the associated”?’asks Connie with perception.

‘You said it, the responsibilities. The endless car runs to the appropriate extracurricular activities. The constant consideration that must be given to feeding a
child. I mean, when
are
they going to invent something to eat that is free of artificial colours and flavours, gluten free, low in sugar and sodium but tasty too? Answering non-sequential questions is a bore. So is reading books with pictures and dull, overly moral story lines. In short, I’m exhausted by the constant thinking that necessarily goes with being a parent.’

‘But Eva does a large percentage of that, doesn’t she?’points out Connie.

‘Which only makes me a failure.’

‘By whose standards?’

‘Rose’s,’I sigh.

This is the crux. At last, I’ve said it. This is what I want to talk about. Will Connie enter into the discussion with me? When I gained Peter I lost the former intimacy that Connie and I had enjoyed. Naturally he came with a price, doesn’t everything? But right now, I need Con to throw in her chips with me, just for the evening. I might not be worthy but I’m in need.

‘Is there any other standard of parenting? Rose, the gold-medallist, the matriarch supreme. She sets the bar, doesn’t she?’I demand.

‘Oh,’says Connie.

‘Oh indeed.’

Connie pauses and then finally admits, ‘I do know what you mean.’Music to my ears. ‘But you two are very different. Since when did you worry about what Rose is up to?’For longer than Connie could imagine, but I don’t admit as much, I stay silent. ‘OK, so the truth is you work so hard that you outsource all the
arrangements of your daughter’s birthday party. That’s not so terrible. Mind you, I think you’d have outsourced giving birth too, if you could have.’

‘And that is terrible, right?’I query tetchily.

‘Rose, on the other hand, does not have a single interest other than the boys. That’s not healthy either. Wow, who would have thought I’d turn out the balanced one?’Connie grins broadly. I can’t share her joy. Her observation is fair.

‘Connie, do you think I’m a terrible mother?’

‘No. You just have your inimitable own style.’

We grin at each other. Friends again. We can’t resolve my dilemma. We both know that, and indeed I knew that before we even began the conversation and nibbled on the wholemeal rolls. I just needed to air a couple of things.

‘Have you tried talking to Peter?’Connie asks.

‘Not since we got married,’I quip back, and then I flash a look that communicates I deem the conversation closed.

We try to chat about other things. I ask Connie if she has any interesting commissions lined up but her answers are brief and perfunctory. I’m not desperately interested in Fran’s first few weeks at school or Flora’s expanding vocabulary. Connie doesn’t even ask me where I bought my new handbag; normally she shows a proper interest. Conversation all but dries up by the time we order pudding and I begin to wonder whether I have over-shared with Connie. Then I discover the reason for her distracted air. It appears she has to do
some sharing of her own. She waits until pudding arrives. She’s having poached pears swimming in alcohol and cream and a cappuccino on the side. I’m having a double espresso and a cigarette.

‘Guess who I met at the school gates?’she asks.

‘Obviously, I have no idea who hangs out at the school gates, Connie. Nor do I ever want to.’

‘You’d be surprised. It’s really quite good fun. The mums are all lovely. Anyway, you’ll never guess.’

‘No, I said as much.’

‘John Harding.’

‘What?’

I’ve heard Connie bounce this particular name across various restaurant tables in the past. I’ve heard her sing out his name with joy and scream out his name with agony that truly seemed unbearable. The last time I heard his name was six years ago and I never expected to hear it again. I never wanted to.

‘John Harding the sleazeball bastard ex-lover?’

‘One and the same.’

‘What was he doing there? Does he have kids at the school? Oh. My God.’

‘No. He’s a friend of the Head’s.’

‘He’s a friend of Mr Walker’s? I can’t see the match.’Mr Walker is a sweetie. Mr Harding is a rat. ‘So, what did you think when you met him? First thought,’I demand.

Connie blushes. ‘I was glad I’d been to the hairdresser’s and my hair was blow-dried straight. I regretted my lack of mascara.’

I see. ‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And was he –’

‘The same.’

‘Now I understand why you think the school gates are fun,’I joke.

‘This isn’t a laughing matter,’says Connie with irritation. ‘Now you know why I was so down on you with Mick. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes as I did.’

I decide to cut to the chase. ‘So are you going to sleep with him?’

‘Jesus, Lucy, what do you take me for?’She looks outraged.

‘There’s a precedent here,’I point out; besides, I didn’t take offence when she assumed the worst of me.

Connie had a brief affair with this man within the first year of her marriage. She made me into her confessor at the time. She didn’t know anyone else who would reserve judgement so she chose to confide every morbid detail to me. What she doesn’t know to this day is that I
did
judge the situation; I just withheld sharing my views. Connie believed that the affair was a monumental, seminal part of her adulthood. She believed that John Harding was a spectacular romantic who was sent from wherever with the express purpose of changing her life. As her closest friend and the person privy to every single conversation and nuance between them, I think that their affair was simply about forbidden sex.

Connie turns scarlet; she’s probably recollecting the
same as I am. ‘That was ages ago, before the children, before the photography. God, I can’t even remember the person I was then. I certainly can’t relate to her. We’ve all grown up since then,’she says sincerely.

‘I thought we’d just established that I haven’t. And I don’t suppose John Harding has either. He doesn’t seem the type. You’ll have to be careful, Connie.’

‘And you too, Lucy. You too.’

‘So? Tell all.’Connie flings herself on to my sofa and beams expectantly. Daisy is sitting on a beanbag and she’s looking at me with the same glee.

‘There’s really very little to tell,’I reply stonily. I pass around a plate of biscuits.

I know I’m not playing the game. It’s been years since any of us dated but I still remember the rules. I ought to supply a bottle of wine and a stack of gruesome, intimate details. Daisy and Connie’s gleaming eyes tell me that they won’t settle for less. But it’s extremely difficult to parade your hopes and the contents of your heart for general entertainment, especially when I haven’t even provided wine because this debrief is slipped in on a Wednesday afternoon. Daisy is supposed to be lesson planning, Connie is balancing a hot cup of tea and a clambering toddler; they’ve found time in their busy schedules to give me their attention and yet I feel horribly uncomfortable with this confessional situation.

‘Details!’the girls chorus in unison. I give in to the inevitability of the situation as gracelessly as possible.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Is he fit?’asks Connie.

‘Not to my tastes but I can see that some women would consider him attractive,’I admit carefully.

‘Is he funny?’asks Daisy.

‘No, unless you mean funny as in odd.’

The girls are not deterred. ‘In what way odd?’

‘A satirical, verging on the nasty, sense of humour. A mistaken belief that I’d be interested in
Lord of the Rings
– anything from the collection of the plastic toys to the director’s cut – and a total disinterest in everything other than himself. He never asked anything
at all
about me.’

‘He’s shy,’insists Connie.

‘Arrogant and egotistical,’I reply firmly.

‘How long did you stay?’

‘We had two drinks.’

‘Well, it’s good that you didn’t leave after the first drink as you’d threatened,’says my sister, ever the optimist.

I crush her iota of hope. ‘I was waiting to see if he’d buy me a drink, as I’d got the first round in.’

‘Did he?’asks Connie.

‘No.’

We all sigh. None of us can forgive meanness. ‘He talked about his ex-girlfriend a lot – almost as much as he talked about Grimley and Gandor. He’s currently between jobs and thinking of changing direction. He
no longer wants to be an insurance broker – he wants to write a novel, although he doesn’t read any current fiction as he thinks it’s all junk. He’s saving money to buy a quad bike, so he’s just moved back in with his mother who cooks the best Sunday roast anyone has ever tasted.’

The girls look devastated. Connie rallies first. ‘Well, we never expected you to fall in love on the first date. We just have to keep at it.’

I stare at her with imploring eyes. I wish she’d drop this. I’ve never been convinced that I want to meet anyone anyway. She refuses to acknowledge my silent pleas.

‘I think we need to approach this more scientifically. Have you thought of internet dating?’she asks.

‘Truly, never,’I reply.

‘But it’s the obvious next step,’she insists. ‘Much more controlled. You are able to see a picture of the guy before you commit and you are able to vet interests, etc. You won’t have to waste an evening discovering that he has a passion for quad bikes and an Oedipal complex.’Connie can always make her ideas sound like good ideas, even when they are the opposite. ‘Have you got broadband?’

I’m tempted to deny it.

‘Yes, she has,’says Daisy. ‘She got it to help the boys with their homework.’Traitor.

Connie clearly has a mental list of sites she wants to take me to, she’s done her research. At first I feel a slight flush of excitement and optimism as the home
page shows a number of beautiful couples all smiling adoringly at one another. Maybe it would be nice to meet someone. The couples are eating lobster in candlelit restaurants; they’re flushed with exercise and standing outside ski chalets or picnicking in open fields bursting with poppies; it would take a harder woman than me not to feel squelchy. However, the momentary illusion vanishes when I recognize one of the images.

‘Hey, isn’t that the picture they use on that optician’s advert, the one that’s on the side of buses at the moment? It must be a stock shot.’

Connie ignores me and starts to read aloud from the homepage.

‘Find your perfect partner, browse from over two million singles.’

I don’t think it is a cheering statistic. So many lonely people. Not that I am lonely. I have a full life. But these people must be lonely if they are prepared to put themselves up for public sale (and ridicule). Besides, I’m not good in crowds and two million sounds like a crowded market.

‘OK, let’s do a search. You are a woman looking for …’

I hurriedly grab the mouse from Connie and tick the box ‘Looking for a man’.

‘In the age range?’

‘Forty to forty-five,’suggests Daisy.

‘Too narrow,’says Connie with a tut. She types in 30–50. Once again I lunge for the mouse and click on 35–45.

‘I don’t want a pensioner. I’d end up polishing his Zimmer frame, just as the boys get off my hands.’

‘Meeting for?’

‘Friendship,’I insist.

‘And romance,’Daisy and Connie counter. I allow them to click the relevant box. We limit the geographical search and then click the bar labelled ‘Looking for love’.

It takes a few seconds before a red heart, almost covering the screen, pops up announcing:

Your search of 120 MILES around LONDON for a MAN aged between 35 and 45 has resulted in 489 MATCHES.

‘Wow,’says Daisy. ‘So much choice.’

Only eight matches include pictures. One of them is a picture of Austen Powers, so it doesn’t count. The guy admits to being five foot one, describes his hair as ‘thin’and his figure as ‘stocky’. I think of Peter, tall, dark and handsome, and feel sad.

Connie scrolls to the next candidate.

‘He’s gorgeous,’she says, delightedly. In fairness, candidate number two is very fine-looking. I conclude he must be dull or insolvent because why else would he be using this method to find a date? I read his profile.

A couple of things about myself: love travelling, B-ing sociable, food out, family and friends are important 2 me, yoga daily, gym B4 work, self employed in media industry, happy 2 go out or stay home, movies, theatre (plays + musical). In winter like
2 ski/snowboard, summer like places that amongst other things have gr8 swimming/beaches (St John USVI), play tennis. Happy with life. happy 2 share. Nearly 4got – I like 2 learn about & drink wine.

It takes me a moment to decipher the trendy shorthand and get over his appalling grammar. When I do, my first thought is, I don’t believe him. My problem is I can’t remember having that much time to myself and so I struggle with the concept that anyone else has enough leisure time to be this interesting. I don’t dwell on the profile. Frankly, any man who makes daily visits to the gym is going to recoil in horror at my body, which fails to attend the gym so much as annually. I consider myself lucky if I carve out enough ‘me time’to visit the loo daily. Connie must conclude the same, as she points to the picture of guy number three.