The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man

by Martyn, Susie

  ‘Are you sure she’s not being a nuisance?’ I ask for the fourth time. Elmer gives me a look, which I return.

  ‘Oh no, she’s lovely,’ says Mrs Kilburn. Elmer? Lovely? Oh well, I suppose Mrs Kilburn is having a particularly bad day. ‘Flatcoat isn’t she? Such brilliant dogs.’

  In my experience, anyone who thinks that about flatcoats needs their head examined. If you love flatcoats, either you’ve never lived with one or else you’re as batty as they are.

  ‘I had one once. A long time ago,’ she says fondly.

  Ah, that explains it then. Time’s a wonderful healer. Fades the most painful memories. But for once, Elmer is proving quite useful.

  Just then, Stella comes out, with Miles following close behind. Just in case Stella makes one of her faux pas, I should imagine. Her bedside manner continues to be unpredictable, but today she’s under control and though a trifle brusque, she efficiently gives Mrs Kilburn an in depth description of what they’ve done to Parsifal’s insides, telling her that they’ll know more later in the week. But with luck, hopefully he’s out of the woods. Parsifal, however, will be staying with us for a while yet, being kept an eye on round the clock. At times like this, Sam moves in and just lives here. He’s a marvel. It means there’ll be no party for him next Saturday, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  A guardedly positive start to the week then. I cross my fingers that Parsifal will be okay. Mrs Kilburn has gone home and is coming back later with her daughter.

  After that bit of drama, the rest of the day is straightforward. I keep popping in to see Parsifal, who comes round remarkably quickly, though he’s looking a little sorry for himself. He’s quite appreciative of some sympathetic nose stroking, and the ever attentive Sam is never out of earshot. Stella’s gone home, and the other vets are buzzing around in various parts of the county attending to their respective clients.

  Which leaves me alone with Agnes, who takes advantage of a brief lull in the telephone ringing, to ask me how I am.

  I think carefully before answering.

  ‘You know, I’m good. I didn’t expect to feel like this,’ I tell her. ‘My heart’s been broken and I’ve lost my home, but actually, I’m fine.’

  I’m struggling to believe it myself, but it’s the truth. Agnes looks at me.

  ‘It’s early days you know, dear,’ she says kindly. ‘Don’t be at all surprised if it yet catches up with you. You’ve been through rather a lot, Louisa. Any time you need a friendly ear, you know where I am.’

  I can’t help the tears slightly welling up again. Nor can I believe how understanding Agnes is. So much more so than my own mother, who just finds it all an embarrassing inconvenience - and still thinks it’s all my fault.

  ‘Thank you, Agnes. I really appreciate what you’ve just said,’ I say inadequately. Then the phone rings. Usually it would be my duty to answer it, but Agnes turns to take it, giving me a moment to recover my composure. I wish I could tell her how supportive she’s been to me. But I’m not much good at expressing that sort of thing, and I’d probably start to cry again, so I don’t say anything at all.

  Mrs Kilburn arrives later that afternoon, to check on her darling, who’s thankfully looking a little brighter. Her daughter’s with her, in floods of tears. I take them a fresh box of tissues.

  That evening, I go round to see Leonie and Pete. I call first, not sure that this would be the right time to just pitch up uninvited, the way I used to.

  Two very wan faces greet me. But at least they appear to be talking to each other - even if it is strained and awkward. Leonie pours the two of us a large glass of wine. Pete’s drinking orange juice. Contrary to what I’d imagined, it seems that alcohol is not a good thing if you’re suffering from depression.

  Conversation is stilted. In the end, emboldened by the wine, I think, I’ve known Pete for years. I can ask him a direct question. I mean, it’s not as though he has to answer it.

  ‘How are you Pete?’ I ask cautiously. ‘Only Leo said you’d been to see a specialist...’ Oops, was that a bit too full on?

  Pete sighs and looks really miserable. ‘I’ve got to go to this place where they specialise in treating headcases like me. A remedial school for nut jobs…’ He attempts a sardonic laugh. His eyes have a haunted look that never used to be there. The poor man looks completely exhausted.

  Leonie places her hand on his arm. ‘The specialist says that he’s sure they can help Pete. It won’t be an instant cure, but he’ll be okay.’

  I’m not entirely sure who she’s trying to convince here.

  Pete raises his eyebrows. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ is all he says, before changing the subject.

  ‘Leonie says you’ve got a horse,’ he tries his best to sound interested.

  I tell him about Horace, then get the distinct feeling that it might be better if I left them to it.

  Leonie hugs me goodbye. ‘He’s going to be okay,’ she says quietly. But very firmly. Made of strong stuff, is Leo. Her jaw is set in that way it always is when she’s determined about something.

  I hug her back. ‘I know. Of course he will. I’ll see you soon.’

  Boy. I hate to admit it but I’m relieved to leave them. That was seriously hard work. Pete, Leonie, Arian and I used to talk animatedly into the wee small hours, and have to force ourselves to call it a night. We’ve never been short of conversation, be it putting the world to rights, or the men bitching about the usual work-related issues. In fact, it was usually time that we were short of.

  In fact, by the time I get home, I’m quite maudlin. I don’t know whether it’s what Pete and Leonie are going through, or the conversation I had with Agnes earlier.

  Probably a combination of both, I decide, but by the time I close the front door of my cottage, tears are rolling down my cheeks.

  Elmer grabs my T-shirt in her jaws and does her usual neurotic wagging, accompanied with an attention-seeking whine which is utterly different to the noise that normal dogs make. Tonight, however, I’m grateful for anyone’s attention, even if it’s a flatcoat, and I allow her to curl up on the sofa beside me.

  Feeling truly dreadful, I sit there and sob, extremely sorry for myself. It should have been me and Arian who went round tonight, together, to offer support to our (joint) very good friends, I think miserably to myself... However, one thing transpired while I was there. It would appear that Arian hasn’t been anywhere near for weeks. What sort of a self-obsessed, crap friend is he, I ask myself, wiping away my tears. That thought alone is enough to make me furious.

  Oh my gosh, it’s Friday already. That means its Sylvie’s party tomorrow. My melancholy mood of last night has evaporated and I’m actually really excited, probably because this is the poshest party I’ve ever been to.

  I asked Agnes earlier what she was planning to wear. She gave me one of her looks, before saying she hadn’t decided yet. Perhaps she has an expansive wardrobe of elegant designer evening wear... I expect she just thinks I’m mad, but today I really don’t care.

  Parsifal, the sick horse has made incredible progress under Sam’s tender loving care, plus that of the Kilburns, who have practically lived here this week. We virtually have to push them out of here at night. They arrive first thing, armed with body brushes and carrots, very thinly sliced to aid his fragile digestion, and they take him out for very careful walks. Parsifal looks as though he’s loving every second of it.

  Since Beamish announced his semi-retirement, Miles has been looking stressed and lankier than ever, I would say. He’s lovely, Miles, but definitely a bit too sensitive. I’m not convinced he’s cut out for the additional honour and glory not to mention pressures of joint-senior-partnerdom. He’s a fabulous vet and all that, and his clients love him for how conscientious he is, but that’s precisely why I have my doubts.

  Marcus is the same as ever. Busy, and oh so incredibly super-efficient. Agnes simply loves him. Worships him. In her eyes, he’s everything a vet should be. Honestly, you would have tho
ught Agnes was beyond such idolisation and old enough to know better. He also seems to have become rather friendly with Stella. They’re forever discussing complicated cases when they’re both in the office. And it’s funny, but since Stella’s joined our ranks, I’ve hardly seen Paris at all.

  The only person I can have a sensible conversation about the party with is Emma, who’s as excited about it as I am and on Friday night, she comes round to mine for a glass of wine. We gossip about whether Agnes and Beamish will be going to the party together. Emma too has picked up on the possibility that something might just be going on between them.

  Both of us are quiet as we consider the prospect of Agnes and Beamish as a couple.

  ‘God. They’d be a bit formidable, wouldn’t they?’ Emma’s astounded.

  ‘But, they’ve known each other forever...’ I add. ‘Maybe they’ve had a thing going on for just ages and they’re being incredibly discrete. Either that or we’re all too thick to notice.’

  We sip our wine.

  ‘What about Miles?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ replies Emma, amused. ‘Oh Louisa, you don’t fancy him do you? You’d be wasting your time. Miles is already married - to the job. Every girlfriend he has lasts all of about a week, once they find out that they’ll always be less important to him than someone’s manky old horse. I mean, put yourself in their shoes.’

  I can, and frankly it’s not appealing. Not that Miles is the tiniest bit fanciable – he’s a bit like a daddy-long-legs.

  ‘Oh Emma. I don’t know how you can even suggest that. Anyway,’ I say. ‘It’s not as though I even want to meet a man. Not now. A man is the last thing I need. I mean, I’m not even divorced yet, am I. I’m still married.’

  Emma just looks at me.

  ‘Not for much longer,’ she says - very firmly. ‘And, if your perfect man just happened to materialise right in front of you, don’t tell me you’d turn your back on him, because I don’t believe for one minute that you would.’

  Maybe she’s right. If he actually exists, which is not very probable at all.

  12

  It’s Saturday! The day of the party! God. I’m sounding like a teenager. What is wrong with me? I need to get out and socialise more, preferably with people other than vets.

  I’ve already decided that I’m going to have a gloriously self-indulgent day which means Horace, of course, is part of it. After all, what better way to start the day can there possibly be than some relaxed meandering around the countryside on the back of a beautiful horse?

  This morning, the sun is shining brightly through the trees and the soft, warm air smells of summer. I forget my cares and because Horace is now fitter, we venture a little further, through open fields and shaded woods, cantering along a grassy path until suddenly, he stumbles and sends me flying.

  I leap up, unhurt, but when I look at Horace, my precious horse is standing holding his off-foreleg pitifully. Talking to him gently, I try to coax him forward but he refuses to put any weight on it. And okay, so I work at a vets, but with my own, beloved horse suffering in front of me, I go straight into panic mode.

  Emma’s the first person I call. Her bloody phone is switched off. It’s pointless leaving a message because I need someone NOW if not sooner. I try Miles. Ditto. What is going on? So I call the practice number. A calm, recorded message in Agnes’s voice tells me my call is being forwarded to the vet on call.

  Oh please hurry... I’m willing someone to pick up. Poor Horace hasn’t moved and I’m terrified it’s the lameness that Miles warned me about, back with a vengeance.

  At last. A vet answers. It’s Marcus. Of course. Crisply, he asks me where we are.

  I haven’t a clue how to explain.

  ‘Er, past my house, up the lane, about half a mile down the first bridlepath on the left, then right into an enormous field...’

  There’s silence, then he says wearily, ‘I’ll come and find you. Just keep your phone switched on, okay?’

  Horace and I wait for what seems like ages. My poor horse still hasn’t put his sore foot to the ground. My cursed imagination is working at warp speed, as I contemplate all sorts of hideous possibilities like broken legs and pulled tendons, or even the worst case scenario, which is that no-one can help him and there’s only one thing we can do.

  Eventually, I hear my name being called. Very distantly. Marcus. I jump up and down and wave my arms just a bit. Not too much though, I don’t want to startle the patient. Fortunately he sees me. He strides over, carrying, I notice with relief, his vet bag. Slowing his pace, he approaches Horace quietly and strokes his shoulder. Horace responds with a throaty whickering noise.

  ‘What have you done to yourself, old fellow?’ Marcus asks him gently, and by now I can’t hold back the tears.

  Horace is looking very sorry for himself.

  ‘Right,’ Marcus says. ‘Can I take a look?’

  Gently he runs his hands down Horace’s leg and lifts up the foot that Horace is nursing.

  ‘Louisa? Have you even looked at this?’ His voice is just a little exasperated. ‘Your poor horse has trodden on something. It’s cut into the sole. No wonder he’s sore.’

  Sure enough, when I look, there’s an indentation and what looks like a thin slice into the sole of his foot. Marcus puts the hoof down.

  ‘I’ll tape something round it, just to get you home and I’ll give him a shot, just in case there’s any infection. He’ll be lame for a bit, but he’ll be fine.’

  He fiddles around in his bag and the injection is over with before Horace has even noticed.

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t even have a look...’ he says, more than a little accusingly. ‘Still, the main thing is he’ll be okay. Just keep it poulticed for a few days, and I’ll take another look next week. Are you okay to lead him home from here?’

  I nod. As usual, Marcus has managed to make me feel utterly inept. But, to be fair, this time I’ve screwed up all on my own. If I’d exercised some common sense and kept my cursed imagination in check, instead of freaking out I could easily have dealt with Horace myself.

  ‘Right. I’ll be off then,’ he says brusquely.

  It’s only late morning when Horace and I get home, but it feels hours later. I fuss over him and poultice the foot and wrap it in loads of bandages, with Horace loving every minute of it.

  After all the drama of the morning, I skip lunch and think instead about this evening, looking forward to wearing my new dress. It’s fitted, with a shortish skirt, in a soft, sage green, and I found some girly sandals that look great with it, because on heels I wobble precariously.

  After a cup of coffee, I’m just putting my feet up for five minutes, when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Marcus.

  ‘Um, I just thought I’d check on the patient,’ he says, sounding a lot less arsey than earlier on. I’m still wearing my filthy jodhpurs from this morning. My T-shirt isn’t much better.

  ‘Come and see for yourself,’ I say, and we go to find Horace.

  Gratifyingly, Horace whinnies at me. At least, I assume it’s at me and not Marcus. No matter, he wanders over to us, only marginally lame now.

  Marcus climbs over the fence to inspect my poultice.

  ‘Not bad,’ he says. And actually smiles slightly at me.

  ‘Oh.’ I say. ‘Jolly good.’ I never say ‘jolly good’ about anything.

  Then he says slightly apologetically, ‘Um, sorry if I was a bit abrupt this morning. Actually, I was as relieved as you were that there was nothing seriously wrong.’

  ‘Well, better get on,’ he adds, climbing back over the fence. ‘See you at the party tonight?’

  ‘Um, yes. And thanks Marcus.’

  The afternoon is more relaxing, and later on, I run a hot bath, and soak in it for absolutely ages until I notice that my fingers are looking rather prune-like. Hmmm - glamorous prune is not quite the image I’m seeking to cultivate this evening. I’d been thinking more along the lines of wowing
my work colleagues and everyone else for that matter, revealing my as yet undiscovered beauty, so I hop out, wrap myself up in my fluffiest towels and collapse in front of the TV for an hour or so with my nail varnish. Then I forget the time and end up in a mad rush. But for the first time in my entire life, my makeup goes on just how I want it to and my hair doesn’t look too bad, even considering its mousiness. My gorgeous dress feels as good as I remember when I tried it on in the shop, ditto my shoes and with a generous spray of my favourite DKNY, I’m ready to go half an hour ahead of schedule.

  Emma’s come round, looking breathtakingly stunning in her floaty Grecian dress, her long blond hair in shiny waves hooked behind her ear. A glass of champagne as we giggle together before leaving for Sylvie’s seems like a perfect idea. I’m getting more excited by the minute.

  It’s not always great having a friend who looks like she ought to be on the cover of Vogue, but I love Emma and I’ve long resigned myself to being forever in her shadow. And Ben won’t be able to take his eyes off her.

  The Amberley Stud is everything I’ve been told – and more. Hidden behind vast wooden gates, tall flaming torches flank the drive as our taxi sweeps round in front of the house in all its glorious magnificence.

  Emma and I follow the flow of guests around the side of the house onto the lawns – and it’s hard to know where to look first.

  It’s all so glamorous, like setting foot into a parallel universe that’s not remotely connected to everyday life. All around us there are beautiful people, in Dolce and Gabbana, or Balenciaga, drifting around, sipping champagne out of crystal glasses and sampling caviar proffered by attentive waiters. Okay. Maybe I’m slightly exaggerating, but there’s definitely an other-worldliness.

  Emma nudges me with her elbow, and points. There’s PM-T, looking like a porn star in a tight low-cut red dress and surrounded by a crowd of equally gorgeous young things, mostly staring at her boobs and as expensively kitted out as she is. What are her parents thinking of?