The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man

by Martyn, Susie

  The practice was started by Beamish, the senior partner, who’s very old school and highly respected for his encyclopaedic knowledge of all things equine. I’d never imagined that a vet’s life could ever be glamorous, but his client list is phenomenal, from Sheikhs to racing yards and the most champion of show jumpers. Quite how such a fumbling, benign country gentleman has become such a legend is to my mind, astonishing, but that, perhaps, is why he is.

  Then there’s awfully nice Miles, who’s very lanky and has worrying down to an art form. His encyclopaedic knowledge of legs and feet extends to equines only, because this is Miles and his entire brain is devoted to his job. He’s also unaware that he’s the current unwitting subject of Paris’s attentions – she rotates them. Every time his car pulls up, I glance at my watch, counting the seconds before she appears, lolling around decoratively in skin tight jodhpurs and long leather boots, batting Cheryl Cole eyelashes provocatively at him, which is a waste of her time because Miles would only notice eyelashes on a horse.

  Emma is the newest recruit, and everybody loves her. She’s blonde, clever and gazelle-like. Maybe not in that order, but you get the picture and if she wasn’t so unassuming I would most definitely have to hate her. Then there’s Sam, the green-eyed vet nurse, with his soft, lilting voice which has a hypnotic effect on both horses and owners alike. I’m convinced he’s secretly a horse-whisperer.

  I share my office with Agnes, who has been there since the beginning and knows absolutely everything about everybody. Not that you’d ever know. She’s fabulously discrete.

  Which leaves Mrs Boggle, the cleaner. Poor Mrs Boggle is one of life’s hard-done-by. She wears dreary clothes, has whiskers on her chin and sighs a lot. Her favourite topics of conversation are death, funerals and Benidorm, so it’s best not to get her started. She comes in three evenings a week on her ancient motorbike that’s like Nick Berry’s out of Heartbeat, and she keeps the office nice and clean, in particular the men’s loo, which personally I wouldn’t touch with a bargepole. She’s an absolute saint.

  And what do I do? Well, I help Agnes in the office, answer phones, (Good morning, Anstruther, Morgan and Willis, how can I help you) make coffee and am not averse to the odd bit of mucking out as long as there’s a warm, velvety horse-nose breathing in my ear.

  But I feel part of a strange little family when I’m here, and rumour has it, we’re about to become extended. His name is Marcus. Marcus Fitzpatrick, actually, which sounds posh - and is far too long.

  Good morning, Anstruther, Morgan, Willis and Fitzpatrick, how can I help you, every time the phone rings?

  I don’t think so. Rumour has it that Marcus is a bit of a whizz kid. Posh and brilliant? Ego the size of a small planet? A few days here will bring him down to earth.

  Elmer comes to work with me, and barks neurotically at the clients, so Agnes makes me shut her in a stable, which is fine because Eric’s there too. He’s Sam’s awesome, elderly terrier with short legs and glinting eyes, who don’t take no shit from no-one. Elmer thinks he’s God.

  Agonising over the choice between my striped top or the plain black one, I plump for black. Infinitely more flattering, but boring, so I add my trademark long patterned socks over my skinny jeans, and finish it all off with my Uggs. My latest funky wellies are safely in the back of my car.

  Today when I get to work, however, there’s already a kerfuffle going on.

  ‘Good morning Louisa,’ says Beamish, his eyebrows bristling as he peers over his glasses at me. He’s immaculately dressed in his old tweed jacket and polished shoes.

  ‘Hi, Lou.’ Lovely Emma’s there too, looking stunning as usual with blond wisps of hair already escaping from her messy ponytail. Even in her shapeless polo shirt and navy workwear trousers, she still manages to make me feel inadequate.

  They’re studying the diary together. Even in this computer age, Beamish still insists that all appointments are written down in the good old-fashioned way, and so we have this huge, hard-backed tome, without which he is convinced the practice would fall apart.

  ‘Morning, all.’ Then I hesitate, because there’s clearly something amiss. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Um. Fine.’ Spoken slightly absently and Beamish’s stock answer to more or less anything.

  ‘Um Beamish, could I possibly have the next two weeks off? Um Beamish, can I order more champagne for our coffee breaks?’ Chances are he’d probably still say ‘Um fine’…

  ‘Oh good,’ I say instead. ‘Excellent.’

  Why, then, is he so agitated? Ah ha, I can guess. It’s Sylvie.

  It has to be – I’ve seen this happen before. Sylvie Williamson is a valued client with a grown-up Barbie-princess home and a collection of priceless horses who are her babies. As well as extremely wealthy, Sylvie’s a widow, and for reasons none of us can fathom, has the hots for Beamish. Yes, even the middle-aged can get crushes, I’ve discovered. And they’re just as embarrassing as teen ones, because completely out of his depth, there are no end to the lengths Beamish will go to in his efforts to avoid her. I earwig shamelessly on their conversation.

  ‘Um, thing is, old girl,’ Beamish is saying to Emma rather longingly, ‘she has this, er, mighty fine stallion. Pure bred arab. By Indiana’s Dream... Simply extraordinary he is.’

  Beamish looks wistful. He’s rather partial to Arabs, especially when they’re pure bred like this one. He must be off his nut. I knew one once and they’re loonies.

  ‘Point is, er, Sylvie says he’s a little off colour. Seemed perfectly fine last week, but she wants us, er, me, um, to do some blood tests. ‘I say...’ he looks apologetically at Emma, ‘would you mind awfully?’

  Emma pats Beamish’s arm. ‘Of course not, it’s no trouble. If you’re quite sure, you wouldn’t rather go yourself?’ She can’t resist teasing him slightly.

  ‘No. Um. Yes,’ Beamish stutters gratefully.

  ‘Louisa? Please get that phone?’ Agnes’s voice, sounding stern.

  Once the vets are all out on their rounds, things quieten down, though not for long. We’ve a couple of horses coming in for lameness assessments, and they might be sleeping over, so I have two stables to prepare, just in case.

  As there aren’t any clients for her to terrorise, I let my lunatic dog out to help me. Then feel a rush of shame as it hits me. I’ve hardly given Arian a thought.

  Agnes has the afternoon off, leaving me alone in the office which I am positively ecstatic about, but with a list of jobs as long as my arm to ensure I’m kept occupied. She obviously doesn’t think I have any initiative. Mind you, she’s exactly the same with the vets, giving them detailed itineraries, leaving absolutely nothing to chance.

  Once she’s left, I go and ogle at the clients’ horses when they duly arrive, in their all-singing, all-dancing horse box, which I wouldn’t be surprised to find are kitted out with jacuzzis and cocktail bars and disco lights. After all you know what that show jumping lot are like. Not exactly early to bed with a hot water bottle and a mug of Horlicks. No. I’m sure these big horse shows are just one gigantic party, with all sorts of shenanigans going on once the horses are tucked up in bed.

  The only other noteworthy event of the afternoon is a rather supercilious call from Marcus, the new vet-to-be, who in a most imperious manner leaves a message for Beamish to call him.

  ‘I’d really rather talk to Beamish,’ he says haughtily, sounding most put out when he discovers I’m the only person there – and completely up his own arse. ‘Oh, I suppose I’ll have to leave a message in that case…’

  Well, very nice to talk to you too… I think to myself. Simply splendid first impressions all round. Presumably I sound so ditsy that I can’t be entrusted with even a message.

  And then, because I can’t stand arrogance in any shape or form, I decide, most satisfyingly, exactly who his first client will be. Well, I contemplate to myself, he deserves it. There’s a grumpy old sod called Henderson who never pays his bills, with a filthy-tempered horse with rathe
r persistent warts. On its dick. Ha. Perfect.

  Elmer and I get home by six, and it’s not until I’m back in my kitchen that I think back to my suspicions of this morning, but almost instantly I reassure myself. This is Arian, for goodness’ sake. We’re married… Of course he’s not having an affair…

  I know I won’t hear from him before Saturday. We don’t text each other as a rule. It’s never even occurred to me that that’s odd. Perhaps on this occasion, I should call him? He’s my husband after all. But something stops me, because I’m not sure what I’d say. Then it occurs to me too, that these days, we’re spending more time apart than together.

  As all these thoughts resonate in my head, it’s as though I’m digging my head out of the sand. Uneasily, I go upstairs to have a shower. The house is stuffy and airless, and as I go into our bedroom to open the window, something catches my eye.

  Now that is odd. Arian has left his nightstop case behind. Something makes me go and look inside it. I find very niffy socks and boxers, which have obviously been there much longer than just since his last nightstop, which okay, is still not exactly conclusive - but my bad feeling is getting worse.

  Even more uneasy by bedtime, I’ve already resigned myself to another wakeful night. With Arian away, I switch on the TV at the end of the bed, pile his pillows on top of mine and watch ‘Titanic’ for the umpteenth time. Elmer’s lying beside me, which is strictly against house rules, but if my hunch is right, it’s looking more and more likely that Arian’s breaking a few house rules too. Elmer’s suitably smug, then her eyes close and in no time, she’s snoring noisily and letting out the occasional fart, which isn’t that different to Arian.

  An uneventful Friday comes and goes, and it’s late when I eventually wake on Saturday morning, but at least I’ve managed to catch up on some sleep. Elmer doesn’t care. She’d fester in bed all day if I let her. But as I contemplate Arian coming home, there are butterflies in my stomach and I’m filled with a sense of trepidation.

  Maybe an intimate dinner to celebrate our anniversary isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe sea bass or fillet steaks... Champagne, of course…And banoffee pie, Arian’s favourite, with lashings of double cream, which means a trip to Sainsbury’s. But I have to try.

  It’s about half past nine when Arian eventually does get home and after all the trouble I’ve gone to, I’m annoyed. He’s yawning and the atmosphere is instantly awkward as my plans collapse in front of me. I’d expected him an hour ago and the sea bass is brown and shrivelled in a surround of mushy tomatoes. But there’s no trace of Thursday’s air of joviality. He’s pale and drawn, his eyes unable to meet mine.

  He kisses me, with slightly more feeling than the morning he left. ‘Pour me some wine?’ he asks quietly. ‘I’ll just have a quick shower.’

  And I’m left just sitting there, my stomach churning, a feeling of foreboding building inside me.

  Another twenty minutes pass. He comes back in, his hair still damp and mussed up which I always find incredibly sexy. For a moment, I’m tempted to run my fingers through it, to see if I can’t rekindle a bit of the chemistry that’s been in such short supply lately. But he makes no move towards me, just stands drinking his wine.

  The atmosphere is killing me but I’m still not sure what to say. Nor is he – in fact, neither of us speaks for ages, until at last, he turns to face me.

  ‘Lou?’ he says, before turning silent again, as though he’s fighting an inner battle with himself. Then he puts down his wine and comes to sit next to me. He sighs, deeply, and takes both my hands in his. It’s the most physical contact we’ve had in ages. Suddenly I’m very afraid of what is coming.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you, Lou…’

  His voice is low and serious. Then he sighs again and when he speaks, his voice is even quieter.

  ‘I’ve met someone.’

  And with those three, innocuous little words, my life changes irrevocably forever. It’s what I’ve suspected, but it’s no less of a shock. As it sinks in, I snatch my hands away, suddenly dizzy, my heart fluttering out of control.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ He sounds almost beseeching, as if he can’t bear for me to think badly of him.

  Sorry… Is that it? For destroying our marriage? For wrecking my life? Just ‘sorry’? The wanky tosser bastard…

  ‘At work?’ I ask, sounding much calmer than I feel. I’m stricken, disbelieving, the breath completely knocked out of me, but I have to know the facts, so my cursed imagination doesn’t go into overdrive.

  He’s silent again, then reluctantly, ‘Yes.’

  I should have guessed as much. ‘So you’ve turned out to be one of those pilots after all, that plays away with the trolley dollies, just like you said you never would,’ I spit viciously at him.

  Trolley dollies…Leonie hates me using that phrase. But I’m determined not to cry in front of him.

  ‘No. It’s not like that. I wouldn’t do that,’ he argues back. How dare he argue.

  ‘So who is it then?’ I demand, feeling tears threatening.

  ‘Another pilot,’ he mumbles through his hands.

  Oh God. Don’t tell me he’s gay. That really would be the insult beyond all insults. But he can’t be. I would have known…wouldn’t I?

  ‘Her name’s Karina. She’s a first officer. We met about a year ago, and well, we just hit it off,’ he finishes lamely, his eyes riveted to a spot on the carpet in front of him.

  I bet they flaming did. Karina. You can just imagine it can’t you. I certainly can. Karina. An image of a petite blond in a pilot’s uniform pops into my head, Scandinavian probably. I can see her now, long white-blond hair, pouty lips and big boobs, like the girl in that stupid shampoo advert. Dead sexy, which explains Arian’s apparent loss of libido around boring old mousy-haired me. I bet they snog on the flight deck when no-one’s looking and have intimate dinners in all the far flung corners of the globe. And sex in all those enormous hotel beds. My imagination really can be a curse and as I watch it play out slow-motion in my head, I feel sick.

  ‘So all this time, all these nightstops... They’ve been a smokescreen for your infidelity, haven’t they? Because you’re too gutless to tell me, Arian. So why tell me now? You could have had your fling, got ‘Karina’ out of your system without me being any the wiser, and we could have got on with the life we’d always planned together,’ I rage, my voice getting louder and louder. But the damage is done, and I already know that it’s far, far too late.

  ‘I never planned this, you have to believe me. It just happened.’ He sounds so weak. How have I ended up married to a weak man? There’s nothing I detest more.

  ‘Things don’t just happen, Arian. You made a choice, you made it happen. You could have made the decision to walk away,’ I rant, really incensed by now, losing all control as I feel tears pouring down my cheeks. ‘And you’ve broken your marriage vows you lying, hypocritical arsehole. I hate you...’

  Arian is staring at the floor. He hesitates for a moment. ‘There’s something else,’ he adds falteringly, looking even guiltier than before.

  I’m astounded. What else can he possibly throw in now? Hasn’t he said enough? I stare at him bleakly, this stranger that I’m married to, wondering what’s coming next.

  He blurts it out. ‘Karina’s... pregnant.’

  His words are like a physical blow. Actually, it might have been better if he’d said he was gay, because a homosexual husband would be easier than this. A baby. Oh, how I’d love one of those. More than one actually. Funny, but Arian’s never been that keen. And then the penny drops. Heavily. That’s why he’s finally told me, isn’t it? Karina’s called his bluff. She’s clearly not as stupid as he is. I give them about six months before she sees him for what he is.

  But one thing is perfectly clear. If this has been going on for a year, my husband’s been shagging two women at the same time. The thought leaves me numb. Incredulous at his betrayal. But out of nowhere comes a shred of self-preservation, be
cause I already know, I never want to see Arian or speak to him, ever, ever again.

  ‘Get out.’ I hurl what’s left in my wine glass at him, which isn’t enough to soak him, but sends him scarpering from the room. Elmer is looking guilty too, tail between her legs as she skulks neurotically at my side. I pick up the wine bottle and filling my glass to the top, sit down shaking from head to toe, still in a state of total shock as seconds later, the front door slams.

  For two hours I don’t move. I’m completely immobilised, my mind blank. I don’t even cry, just replay over and over the last few hours in my head, as I absorb the reality that my husband has left me. It’s over.

  3

  It’s only once the initial shock subsides that my emotions practically engulf me, as I find myself on a rollercoaster like never before. My world, it seems at times, has completely fallen to pieces and the person who was supposed to be my staunchest lifelong ally, the one person I was meant to be able to count on, he’s the one who’s done this to me.

  Thoughts skip through my head about what must doubtlessly lie ahead. Practicalities, such as splitting our money, joint accounts and other so-called necessities, but the single worst part is telling people, which for ages I can’t bring myself to do.

  Yes, I’m bitter, angry, hurt – I have every right to be. And no, I’m not in denial. I have no trouble whatsoever in grasping the reality of what’s happened, and nor do I wish him to come back. It’s just that I don’t particularly relish broadcasting to the world that I obviously wasn’t good enough.

  Guess what folks, my husband’s found himself another woman. Yes, she’s young and pretty. Blonde actually, oh and guess what, she flies a big aeroplane. That’s right, a jet… And she’s pregnant too, did I mention that? A far cry from flaky Louisa with her mousy hair and weird dog.

  By Monday however, when I should be going to work, I’m an emotional wreck, and for the first time ever I phone in sick. Agnes is sympathetic and tells me she hopes I feel better soon and so for the remainder of that week, I hide myself away, crying for hours on end and wallowing in a feeling of total worthlessness. Life feels beyond bleak, and I can’t imagine it ever changing. Devastated and distraught, I ignore my texts and leave the phone to ring, hardly eating a thing and getting through far too many bottles of wine before starting on Arian’s most expensive brandy.