The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man

by Martyn, Susie

  Torturing myself with memories, I go over and over the last five years in my head. How it all started, from when we met at Leo’s to the first time we slept together. I remember it all too clearly. He loved me then, didn’t he? Or did he? And what about buying our home and all the holidays we’ve been on? Trouble is, by the time I’ve dissected our years together, I’ve convinced myself that firstly, he never really loved me and second, that he’s been having affairs for years. After all, with being away so much, how would I ever have known?

  And then after a whole wretched week like this, somehow I summon the faintest notion of resolve and pull myself together. I have to. I’m not letting the rat ruin my life.

  So, the following Monday, feeling more than a bit shaky, though on the plus side quite a bit thinner, I’m actually back in the office. The words Arian’s left me play constantly in my head as if on a loop, followed by an equally dispiriting divorce, divorce, divorce... I do my feeble best to ignore them.

  It’s business as usual, I keep determinedly reminding myself as I get through the day feeling a little detached from reality. And it’s a very long day. But I manage not to let on to anyone the events of last Saturday, until when the vets have all left for the night, and I’m just going to get Elmer from the stables when Agnes looks up from her desk and says gently,

  ‘Louisa? Dear? Are you sure you’re alright?’

  The ‘dear’ throws me completely off guard and her kind concern makes me crumple. How can she know? But then Agnes has x-ray vision and a sixth sense, not to mention astonishing wisdom – she doesn’t miss anything. I ought to know that by now.

  Despite being the quintessence of efficiency and organisation, Agnes is a really lovely lady. It’s like having a Mum comfort me, except that mine would probably take Arian’s side, which is why I still haven’t told her. But after keeping my secret for yet another day, my nerves are frazzled. Tearfully I tell her about Arian.

  ‘Oh Louisa, how awful for you. I’m so very sorry.’ Agnes comes and puts her arms around me and I can’t contain the sobs any longer. I cry for half an hour, wracking, self-pitying sobs, which leave me emotionally exhausted.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ Agnes pulls my chair near to hers, and unlocking the bottom drawer of her desk, takes out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. I’d always wondered what she keeps in there.

  Her eye catches mine. ‘Strictly medicinal,’ she says firmly, as she pours an inch into each glass. ‘Now, drink up.’ Hers remains untouched as she watches me slurp mine.

  ‘So, have you told your family yet?’

  I shake my head and blow my runny nose. The whisky’s good. It helps.

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to? I know if my daughter was going through something like this, I would want to know.’

  Oh. I didn’t even know Agnes had a daughter.

  She is right of course. Only problem is that my family live miles away, and I can just imagine my parents will want to come and stay, if only to satisfy themselves that I’m alright. And then there’s my mother, who with her accusing ways and her unconcealed adoration of Arian, isn’t exactly the person I need right now. It would do my head in. For now, I need to be alone. I explain this to Agnes, who nods understandingly.

  ‘I still think you should tell them, Louisa. But you could also say that you are staying with a friend for a while. And actually, you know, you’d be very welcome?’

  I’m so touched by her offer I almost cry again, only Mrs Boggle arrives on her motorbike, then stomps in carrying her helmet.

  ‘Good evening Mrs Boggle. How are you?’

  She shakes her head and sighs. ‘Not so good.’

  Agnes and I exchange glances.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t say it,’ says Mrs Boggle, making our eyes glaze over because we know she’s going to say it anyway. ‘But I just knew them Forresters were a bad lot. Been banged up, he has. She has an’ all too, and all them poor kids… Social services are all over ‘em. Told you, didn’t I…’ She shakes her head and heads in the direction of the men’s loos.

  I stare at her, suddenly terrified, that my life is over and I’ll end up miserable with yellow hair, just like her.

  As it is, I drive us home, me and Elmer. I call in at the village shop on the way and search the dusty shelves, sparsely and depressingly stocked with its uninspiring range of goods labelled ‘basic’. They probably have about as much nutritional value as cardboard, but in any case I gather some unexciting staples like plastic bread and tins of cheap beans, telling myself I need to eat, even if I don’t want to. And I pick up some more wine.

  At the checkout, I stand for ages while the spotty young shop assistant finishes what appears to be a terribly important phone call about someone called Tone, only to fix me with her beady eyes.

  ‘’Ave you got your own bags?’ she challenges me.

  So I glare back. She can clearly see I haven’t so she very sullenly produces one of those nasty thin ones that tears if you put more than two things in it. It promptly splits of course, as soon as I lift it off the counter, so I stagger out to my car, a bottle of wine under each arm, scattering tins and bread behind me and drive home.

  Home. For how much longer. Because however much I fight him, Arian will doubtlessly want his share of the house we have shared for the last few years. And of course, it’s his salary that’s paid for most of it. And of course too, we have no children, to sway the legal process in my favour.

  Now I’ve left work, my mind is full of Arian again. When I get home, I collapse on our bed and cry some more. To be honest, it’s more like howling than crying, but I think that right now, I’m entitled to.

  About two hours later, when that’s all over, my topsy turvy emotions flip back to angry again, which is much healthier and much easier to deal with. Then I entertain fanciful thoughts of revenge. After all, hell hath no fury and all that. I fantasise for a brief glorious moment. He’s an airline Captain isn’t he, a tall, dashing figure in his uniform, striding all-powerfully through airports around the world… If only I could sneak on board and get my hands on that PA system.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome on board this flight to Lisbon. Your Captain today is Arian Mulholland, who incidentally is having it off with your First Officer Karina X, much to the consternation of his wife Louisa, who has a thoroughly worthwhile job looking after sick animals.’

  Okay. So maybe the last bit wasn’t so good, but the rest of it... It would be most gratifying. I bet his passengers would love to know how easily led he is - by his penis.

  I shut a slavering Elmer in the utility room with her food. It’s a spectacle I prefer not to watch. Taking Agnes’ advice, I decide the time has come to call my parents. Steeling myself for what I know must follow, I first pour a large glass of wine. And take a very, very deep breath.

  ‘Oh Louisa, I can’t believe it,’ cries my mother, just as I expected, as though it’s my fault that Arian’s had an affair. God! She could be right. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Maybe it is all my fault.

  Dad is a little more sympathetic. ‘Very sorry, darling,’ he says gruffly, not quite sure what else to say. Dad’s always a bit uncomfortable with these sorts of things. ‘Stupid bugger,’ he adds, unexpectedly, sounding angry for a moment. Then quite affectionately, ‘Sure you’re alright?’

  I manage to persuade them not to come hot-footing it over here, telling them I’m extremely busy at work and mythical ‘things’, promising to go over there for lunch next weekend by way of a compromise. Phew. It’s with a sense of relief that I end the call.

  I wonder if Arian’s told Pete? I pick up the phone again, and fortunately it’s Leonie who answers. This time my composure cracks, and I break down when I tell her what’s happened. Ten minutes later, my good friend appears on my doorstep with a wine bottle clasped in each hand. Apparently she was in the middle of painting her nails when I rang. Sure enough, only three nails are a particularly vibrant shade of turquoise. Her beautiful face is etched with worry a
nd her long hair is still damp - dear Leo didn’t even finish drying it before rushing over to my rescue.

  ‘Oh Lou...’ She hugs me and I cry for a bit. I love Leonie. She’s the best. Then I have to tell her what’s been going on under my nose for the last year. She’s astonished. Like me, she can’t believe none of us guessed.

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but Pete’s hardly seen Arian lately, except when we all get together of course. It seemed strange, when they’ve been friends so long, but I just thought well, we all have busy lives, don’t we? And sometimes you and I don’t see each other for ages either...’ She was silent, thoughtful.

  ‘I just can’t believe it Lou. I mean...I’m sorry, but he’s a shit. You’re married, for God’s sake.’

  I could almost hear her imagination working overtime, wondering if she’d notice if Pete were playing away. The shock waves of Arian’s behaviour are rippling through our friends’ lives too.

  It’s surprising me though, how I’m pulling myself together again, but then self-pity’s never been my thing. Just as well in the circumstances.

  We drink too much wine and slag off Arian some more. Call him every name under the sun we can think of. Leo’s good like that. Has an absolutely first class vocabulary. Somewhere in the world, his ears must be on fire by now, if not completely incinerated. Then we start on Karina. What sort of a woman preys on another woman’s man, we ask each other. What a complete bitch, we cackle hypocritically to each other. What a pair of old crones we are. Leonie vows to blank Arian from here on. Hmm. I appreciate the show of solidarity, but that may not be so easy, seeing as she’s married to Pete.

  Ages later, Leonie’s had too much to drink to drive herself home. She calls Pete, and I don’t hear the exchange that follows.

  He doesn’t stay long, but somehow, I get the feeling that something’s not quite right. Might Pete have had an inkling that Arian was up to something? He hugs me anyway, asks me if I’m okay, and I don’t see the look that Leonie gives him. I’d always thought Pete was my friend too, but clearly boys code and girls code don’t overlap. You know where you are with girlfriends, but men? Maybe they just stick together, no matter how appallingly one of them is carrying on.

  Word has quietly filtered around at work, and though no-one says anything directly to me, I am aware that everyone knows. Later, when I’m mucking out a stable, Emma comes to find me.

  ‘I’m so sorry Lou. Are you sure you’re okay?’ She sees the look on my face, and adds hastily, ‘Of course you’re not. How could you be.’

  Unexpectedly she hugs me. She smells like a horse.

  ‘Come round for dinner tonight. I’m not on call and I’ll cook.’

  Gratefully I agree, thinking how brilliant my friends are. Agnes too is keeping an eye on me - more than usual at the moment. And work is a wonderful distraction, with all these beautiful horses coming in to the practice. Agnes sees to it that I’m busier than ever and from the moment I set foot through the door in the morning, I don’t stop. But being busy is exactly what I need and she’s a slave driver - only I know she’s doing this for me.

  I’ve even started considering that perhaps it would be a good time for me to think about getting another horse, now that the opposition that Arian always posed has disappeared. Yes, a gentle, loving horse would be infinitely less trouble than any man.

  This morning however, there’s an added distraction, in the shape of our new vet. And in one glance I just know, the female clients are going to just love him. I definitely don’t. He’s too cocky, too smooth and far too sure of himself. I would imagine he’s probably encyclopaedic about girls and sex. Oh, and did I mention he’s extremely good looking in a George Clooney kind of way? He’s tall, with brown hair and deep brown eyes, and Agnes has already dispatched him off to Henderson’s to look at the warty horse. She gave me such a look when she saw what was in the diary. Honestly, it’s not all my fault. Emma was in on it too. Emma can’t stand Henderson or his beastly horse. It’s only right to share him.

  No matter. Marcus is back from his baptism of fire in double quick time, warts efficiently dealt with and more impressively, he’s managed to extract a cheque from Henderson, which is nothing short of miraculous. Even I have to admit to being impressed. Agnes most certainly is. She apologises to him about Henderson, saying it was supposed to have been Emma’s call, and gives him nice clients for the rest of the day as a reward.

  Man-radar on red alert, Paris has already appeared to suss out the new talent. I’m sure she must sit in her bedroom, her eyes glued to her binoculars. This morning, as she sashays across the yard, all male eyes turn to stare. And with good reason. Her usually dark brown hair is peroxide blonde, with huge kohl-rimmed eyes a la Katie Price and she’s wearing the tightest jodhpurs imaginable as she lolls outside one of the stables eyeing Marcus up and down with no subtlety whatsoever. She obviously likes what she sees, which means poor Miles is off the hook.

  Marcus’s eyes are out on stalks as he reluctantly allows me to drag him back into the office.

  ‘Who the blazes is that?’ he asks in rather shocked tones, his eyes still pulled in the direction of Paris.

  ‘Jail bait,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Sixteen years old, bored out of her brain cell and goes by the name of Paris Mankly-Talbot, locally known as PM-T. She lives up the road in that little hovel with twenty-six bedrooms, with Mummy who’s extremely high-maintenance and called Amanda and Daddy, who’s a super-rich hotshot lawyer in the city - and is called Dick,’ I add helpfully. And then snigger.

  We all go for a drink that evening, to officially welcome Marcus to the fold. Our local is the old pub in the village, and it’s called the Hope and Anchor. Sam calls it the Dope and Wanker, which always makes me think of Arian. There’s a big garden, in what used to be an apple orchard and it’s well within staggering home distance – at least for me. They don’t mind dogs either, so Elmer and Eric do their worst, scrounging shamelessly from all the other customers, while we pretend not to know them.

  There’s blossom on the apple trees, and though there’s a chill in the air, it’s a wonderfully sunny evening. We all drink the deliciously chilled cider that’s a house speciality, except for Miles, because it’s his turn to be on call tonight. And after a glass or two, it seems that Marcus might not be so bad after all. He certainly has a glowing recommendation from his last practice. Actually, he’s quite a glowing sort of person altogether, which rather begs the question. If they loved him so much, why the devil has he left them?

  After Miles’ phone bleeps and he rushes off to tend to a horse that’s tangled in a barbed wire fence, the rest of us order some food. By the time Elmer and I get home, it’s late. There’s time only to put a machine load of washing on, before I have a bath and climb into bed, so it’s not until next morning that I notice the message light flashing on the answerphone. Bloody Arian, no less. Wanting to discuss the house. My poor, battered heart sinks through the floor.

  Of course, I knew it would happen, but losing our home seems unbearable. My home. I’ve come to love quaintly named Plum Tree Cottage, with its crooked doors and ancient timbers. The three large bedrooms, in that imagination of mine, were for the baby Mulhollands I’d always envisaged would turn up at some point and all around, there is space I imagined we’d grow into. It was for ever – like my marriage.

  But sadly, there’s no way in the world I can afford the mortgage. Arian arranged for a smarmy estate agent to value it last week, without even telling me - the bastard still has his door keys - and so smug Martin, with his designer suits and quiffed hair, has been poking around my home and taking measurements without me even knowing. Martin drives a big, expensive car and is always unnaturally tanned, even in December. He clearly makes a lot of money… His surname ought to be Slime, not Syme and yes, he really is that bad. Worse even. I should know. He was in the year above me in sixth form.

  I wonder how many of his customers know about his little property-developing habit? About his little way
of snapping up bargains before they’re even on the market, no doubt at a knockdown price as he sweet-talks the old dears into almost giving their homes away to him, only for him to re-advertise them a week later at eye-watering prices… Definitely a secret millionaire for all the wrong reasons, our Mr Slime.

  I can just imagine him sucking up to Arian, man to man, having a secret, smug laugh about how the little woman doesn’t know what he’s up to.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about a thing, sir. This kind of thing happens all the time, ho, ho… We’ll sell this in no time. Marvellous little family home like this will be snapped up...’

  To say I’m furious is an understatement. I’m so seething I’m almost incandescent. Worse, someone is coming to view it this morning. More strangers sniffing around my home. I ought to be tidying everything, according to Martin.

  ‘Mrs Mulholland, you really do need to de-clutter,’ he told me most pompously. De-clutter? Isn’t that what those TV makeover shows tell you to do? To make the home I don’t want to sell more appealing. Actually, I really don’t care that there’s a pile of my knickers on the kitchen table, and that last night’s dishes are lying unwashed in the sink. My empty wine bottle collection is quite impressive too. After all, I am that woman spurned. Hopefully no-one will like my cluttered home and I can stay here forever.

  I get a call from Smug Martin during my lunch break.

  ‘Mrs Mulholland?’ he says in that smarmy voice of his, sounding far too horribly pleased with himself. My blood runs cold.

  ‘Good afternoon Mr Slime,’ I say, on purpose, my heart sinking as I listen.