Young Wives' Tales (23 page)

Daisy bristled. ‘I think she should tell the truth. What sort of relationship can she have with anyone if it starts off with a deception?’

‘There won’t be any relationship if she admits to pushing forty,’muttered Connie ominously. ‘At least not with a sexy man. She said she didn’t want to be giving bed baths and pushing wheelchairs around Bournemouth, didn’t she?’

‘
She
did. Can you just remember I’m here?’I pointed out. ‘Look, I don’t mind knocking a couple of years off my age if it helps,’I said, surprising myself and the others.

‘You’ll only attract shallow men,’warned Daisy. I don’t believe there is any other kind so I’m not perturbed.

‘OK, so what do you want to say about yourself?’asked Con. Bitter and twisted from Holland Park is accurate, but not, I fear, what she was after. I stayed silent. ‘OK then, what are you looking for in your ideal man?’

‘I don’t want a womanizer.’

‘They are unlikely to admit to that,’Luke pointed out.

‘I don’t want a drinker, or a smoker or an actor.’Connie started to type. ‘I don’t want him to have too much baggage – no children or divorces. I don’t want any ambivalence when it comes to sexuality. I so don’t want to be the lifebuoy for a closet homosexual who can’t tell his parents the score.’

‘You watch too much TV,’said Daisy.

‘I don’t want anyone with food allergies, it’s boring. I don’t want anyone who still lives at home. I don’t –’

‘Are you sure a list of “don’t wants” is the best way to go about this?’asked Luke.

‘All the men’s profiles were quite specific about what they didn’t want,’I pointed out. ‘I don’t want anyone who lives miles away; I can’t bear long-distance relationships. I don’t –’

Simon interrupted. ‘Isn’t this supposed to be about you putting your personality forward?’

‘She is putting her personality forward,’said Daisy glumly. ‘Why don’t you just cut to the chase and write, “intolerant, judgemental thirty-something looking for an unrealistic ideal”?’

‘That is so nasty,’I countered with little passion or vehemence, because she was spot on and I don’t tend to argue when I agree with a point. I leave that up to men.

Simon, Connie and Luke looked a little startled, no doubt wondering if a row was about to kick off, but
Daisy is my sister and we’ve said much worse to one another over the years. Believe it or not, I know she means well.

‘Perhaps it would help if we read some of the other female profiles, to give us an idea of the competition,’suggested Connie.

It sounded like a good idea but, oh God, the women’s profiles were heartbreaking. Unlike the men, who had largely gone down the overly demanding, offensively brash and boastful route, the women’s profiles were self-deprecating, touching, desperate. The women had all included a photo. We are intelligent enough to know that no man will take a punt on a blind profile. Besides, it’s better they know about the extra couple of pounds or the frizzy hair up front, rather than have to see the disappointment in their face if it gets as far as a date. They were all sorts of shapes and sizes. Many of the women were actively pretty; all were attractive, more attractive than the men on the site. The average age was thirty-two. This didn’t bother me too much because I felt sure lots of the women were being forced into playing the numbers game; most looked as though they had once danced to Nick Kershaw and Paul Young. My guess was that they were on average four years older than they admitted to. Without exception each woman said she was cheerful and looking for honesty. Their incessant hunt for this quality suggested it was rarer than black diamonds and harder to mine.

There appeared to be two different types. Nervous, shy women who looked as though they wouldn’t say
boo to a goose (these women professed to be outgoing and humorous) and women who tried too hard – they struck semi-provocative poses or madcap I’m-a-wacky-girl poses (these women professed to be intelligent and sincere). None of the women seemed confident enough to say what they really were. Irrespective of the photo style all women claimed to be happy, which seemed unlikely to me.

The five of us silently read the profiles.

‘You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Rose,’said Connie. She was clearly uncomfortable grouping me in with their hopeful but hopeless cases. Articulating what we all know – that I’m just like them – was extremely painful.

‘I want to do it,’I said. And suddenly I was sure I did want to post up a profile.

‘You do?’asked Daisy, not bothering to hide her disbelief.

‘Yes.’I didn’t elaborate.

It was not that I was suddenly and miraculously desperately interested in attracting a man through this site (or indeed by any means, if push came to shove), but I had an overwhelming urge to show solidarity with these women. These brave and optimistic, wonderful, spirited women who still believed in honesty and still hunted for love deserved my support. I decided to put an absolutely truthful account of myself on the website and see what happened. Of course, I realized that an absolutely truthful account of myself was unlikely to attract anyone at all, but I would be doing the other
women a favour. Even the weepy-looking lady from Wiltshire – who rather misguidedly described herself as ‘funny, decent and good’– looked like a sparkly offer by comparison.

‘Why are you always leaving us?’asks Henry. As inaccurate and unfair as this observation is, it stings.

I crouch down next to him and steal a quick kiss. Open affection from the boys is now limited. They are growing up and away whether I like it or not. I have to accept it.

‘Darling, Mummy hardly ever goes out. Practically never in seven years, that’s why it seems as though I’m out a lot recently, but when you compare it with how often you are out at sports clubs or on play dates, it’s really not so often.’

I return to my seat at my dressing-table wondering how much make-up to apply. If I choose to go on the date wearing just lipstick will it give the impression that I’m über-confident or just lazy and lacking in self-respect? That’s the horror of dating – nothing is simple, everything has meaning and significance, even down to how much lipstick I wear. I carefully apply a pale lipstick and mascara. I’ll do. I turn to Henry, hoping he’ll tell me I look pretty, as he sometimes does. He glares at me, still angry that I’m about to abandon him.

I hold my arms wide open to invite Henry in for a cuddle. He hesitates for a moment and then capitulates and throws his little body at me. The idea is for me to comfort him, but as he nuzzles into my shoulder I am
calmed and reassured by the feel of his breath on my neck. I wonder whether I should bother with this date at all. Is it worth disrupting the boys? Is it worth hauling Daisy over from north London to babysit? Is it worth the effort of finding unladdered hosiery? Surely I could date in another ten years or so, when the boys are grown. That way I’d catch the freshly widowed market, a very respectable market to be in, much better than the tired divorcee market.

‘Don’t go,’whispers Henry. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘But Auntie Daisy is coming to look after you.’

‘I know, but I want you to look after me.’

I remember this scenario from over five years ago when I first attempted to date. The twins were less articulate in those days but they were able to clearly communicate their desire to have me around twenty-four/seven by screaming at full throttle whenever I left them with a sitter. If I was ever foolish enough to try to make a dash for the door they would cling to my skirt hem like leeches. They were so all-consuming and so needy I began to concede the battle before it was even fought, cancelling arrangements almost the minute I made them, rather than upset the boys by leaving them. The truth was I enjoyed being needed. And with Peter having made it so damn transparent that I was the last thing on earth he needed, I found the boys’clingy ways rather delightful. But a child is for life and not just for Christmas.

‘OK, sweetheart. Mummy will stay in with you and Sebastian. Don’t worry,’I say, finally.

‘Really?’Henry instantly brightens. ‘And can we watch Pop TV, pleeeese?’

I nod and sigh and pick up the phone. Ian sounds mildly disappointed when I explain I have babysitting problems. He mentions that he’s been looking forward to showing me his antique pen nibs and old Rupert Bear annuals. I cannot bear Daisy’s anger or irritation so I tell her that Ian cancelled. Her disappointment is acute, and while the boys and I have a very pleasant evening playing battleships and building Meccano models I can’t help but share some of her regret.

I arrive at the school gate before eight o’clock, which is a damn awful time of day to be awake but a particularly sodding terrible time when you have a day’s holiday. Normally it’s my rule on holiday not to surface before midday. But I’m not sure what time kids go to school and as the school gate is the only form of contact I can guarantee with Connie, I make an effort. It would have been easier if I could have just rung her but I never kept her number. I can’t even remember deleting it. She was that unimportant by the end. It’s funny how casual we are with our pasts. I consider the hundreds of telephone numbers that have been passed to me and the times I have given out my number and yet there are only a couple of dozen friends’names that have actually made it into my address book. At Christmas I send fewer than ten cards.

I sit in my car and watch the harassed mothers come and go. Some of them are managing to keep up appearances and beam and wave to one another. A few look grim but determined as they drag reluctant kids
through the gate. Others are out and out furious and are yelling at their kids to get a move on/pick up their bag/gloves/feet/stop hitting their sibling. One or two look distinctly anxious as their kid totters out of sight. The vast majority look as though they dream of a good night’s sleep. I thank God I’m a man.

I mean one day I’ll want to go in for all that having kids business. Jesus, it’s pretty much my duty to pass on these fantastic genes. There was a time I thought I might have a kid with Andrea, but it wasn’t to be – good thing as it happened. Connie no doubt thinks it’s my destiny to be a Sunday father but that’s not what I’m after. One day, when I’m ready for the kid thing, I’ll do it and I’ll be doing it for keeps.

Finally, I see Connie. I bide my time. I allow her to take her daughter into the school and then when she re-emerges I get out of the car and block her path.

‘Hi,’I beam.

She looks confused, as though for a moment she doesn’t know who I am.

‘Hello.’Curt.

‘Where’s the little one?’

‘Flora goes to nursery on Tuesdays and Wednesdays so I can work.’

Lucky break. I’d wondered how we’d factor in the brat. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

‘No.’Connie starts to walk away.

This is becoming part of our ritual now and I’m not in the least bit fazed by it. We’ve said all we have to say to one another, right? No, we haven’t, not by half but
she’s not expected to know this. I have twenty minutes left in the parking bay before I have to move the car. I know I can persuade her to have a coffee with me within ten. Maybe five.

‘How about a croissant? I bet you haven’t had breakfast, rushing mum and all that.’

‘Ha!’Connie’s exclamation escapes her mouth, surprising us both by the look of her.

‘What?’I ask.

She stops dead in her tracks. ‘Do you know how much I used to long to hear you say something like that? To invite me for a coffee. To say something,
anything
, that meant you were interested in a chat rather than just a shag.’

That’s the thing with Connie, she is totally incapable of keeping her cool and playing her cards close to her chest. She’s so emotional, passionate, some would probably say volatile. I’m depending on this character flaw of hers.

I hold my arms open in a gesture of conciliation and I shrug, boyishly. It’s a good look, I’ve used it countless times and it’s always worked, even when dismissing misdemeanours far more grave than being tardy with an invite to breakfast.

‘Well, they say good things come to those who wait.’

She scowls. She starts to walk away again but this time her pace is slower, less determined.

‘I’ve had breakfast, thank you. I never leave the house without having it, no matter how rushed things are.
Luke always sees to it that I eat something because he knows I get ratty otherwise.’

I realize that she’s trying to make a point here. I don’t know her as well as her husband. I don’t know something I should know or I’ve forgotten something she told me about a million years ago, blah, blah, blah. Some girl-point. It’s irrelevant. I’m encouraged by the fact that she’s prepared to row with me; it shows a level of engagement that I can exploit.

‘Well, you never used to eat breakfast.’The sentence, innocent enough, is of course explosively loaded.

Connie turns scarlet. ‘I was always in too much of a hurry to leave your scuzzy flat,’she argues unconvincingly.

‘I’ve sold that now. Got myself a place in Marlow. Nice place. Doesn’t smell,’I laugh. ‘I even had one of those interior decorator women in, to do it up nicely.’

‘That’s such a waste of money,’she says tartly. ‘Couldn’t you come up with the ideas yourself?’

‘Not the ideas, no.’

She shoots me a look. Somehow, she’s sensed that I had sex with the interior decorator. Spooky. I pretend not to notice the tension.

‘There’s lots of space. It’s on the river,’I add casually. Message is – I’ve grown up, I’m solvent. I’m not asking her to marry me, I just want her to know that I’m the sort of man women do want to marry.

‘Do you suffer from floods?’

See, that is so typical of a woman. Professes to hate me, wants me out of her life, now, right now, but
is interested enough to want to know if my gaff floods.

‘No, I put all the anti-flood measures in place.’Message is – I’m a responsible adult. She gets it. I see that she’s relaxed a little.

‘It’s a long commute,’she observes.

‘I get sent all over the country. It doesn’t really matter where I’m based. At the moment the company are paying for a flat just off High Street Kensington while I do this job with the BBC.’