by Gill Mather
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
About the Book / About the Author
Dedication
Copyright
Chapter 1 A Toe in the Water
Chapter 2 The Placebo Effect
Chapter 3 Milton
Chapter 4 First Internet Date
Chapter 5 Placebo Effect & Probability - The Arsehole Wants A Divorce
Chapter 6 Ordeal by Flunitrazepam
Chapter 7 Internet Date No 2 - Ebden Andrews
Chapter 8 GNO
Chapter 9 Pre-Christmas Business Breakfast
Chapter 10 Justine / Sheila
Chapter 11 Office Christmas Dinner
Chapter 12 Christmas
Chapter 13 Safari Supper
Chapter 14 Justine
Chapter 15 New Year’s Eve
Chapter 16 Markus The Work Experience Lad
Chapter 17 Another Visit from The Arsehole
Chapter 18 The Final Act
Epilogue
THE UNRELIABLE
PLACEBO
GILL MATHER
ABOUT THE BOOK
Anna Duke is a thirty five year old solicitor whose husband, whom she nicknames ‘The Arsehole’ has left her for a younger model to whom she refers as ‘The Backside’. Anna, the central character, narrates the story in the first person singular, present tense. She is persuaded by friends that the best way to get over it is to find someone new as soon as possible. She is by nature contemplative and relates her thoughts as much as what actually happens to her.
She goes on various dates and is interested in how prior information might affect the outcome of these dates; whether, as a pill might cure you if you’re told it’s a sure remedy, similarly a favourable description of a man she’s going to meet may increase the chances of a successful relationship developing.
Finding initially that having very little information about a date doesn't exactly work well, she tries internet dating imagining that she’ll benefit from seeing the on-screen data, but the unexpected happens and she gets more than she bargained for.
Anna’s thoughts on her experiences are many and varied and are expressed in a light-hearted fashion though it troubles her that she may be seen as a light-weight, a person of no substance. At one point a friend says: “Well I don't think it’s so much that you’re not a serious person….but that non-serious things seem to happen to you. I’m sure you’ve got your antenna set to ‘serious’ but it veers off and the unusual and the unlikely just overtake you without you intending it.”
And some difficult and odd things do happen to Anna.
Almost everyone has hopes, fears, neuroses, weaknesses, doubt, theories, leaps of imagination. The narrative takes the reader into Anna’s mind. What she thinks and feels and experiences, she tells the reader about, liberally sprinkled with truisms and her views and opinions. Anna does veer into the realms of fantasy in the natural way in which people’s thoughts can be fantastical or extreme, but never in a dark way. Anna’s upbeat attitude doesn’t lend itself to the dark side, more in fact to the daft side.
Anna’s journey is not easy, her uneven path strewn with potholes, littered with highs and lows. It’s a road many have to travel following a relationship breakdown, striving to get back onto level ground eventually.
‘…. I have not laughed so much reading a book for a long time…it was a wonderful – and wonderfully funny - picture of modern womanhood.’ Val Kershaw, acclaimed author.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gillian (‘Gill’) Mather has been a solicitor for several decades and runs a small solicitor’s practice from her home in Langham, near Colchester. She is a member of Write Now! a writers’ group which meets fortnightly near Bury St. Edmunds in Suffolk and is also a member of Dedham Players. Gill has written other novels published on Kindle under the pen name of Julie Langham.
To Write Now!
For the support they provide and for just being there.
All rights reserved
© Gill Mather 2016
The right of Gill Mather to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact and actual place names, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or to locations or places mentioned in the book is purely coincidental
Chapter 1 A Toe in the Water
SO, MY ARSEHOLE of a husband’s waltzed off with an up-dated version of myself. Yes probably prettier; bigger arse and tits. I only briefly once caught sight of her rear end and got a side-on glimpse of her unnaturally large cantilevered bosom when I saw the Arsehole saying goodbye to a woman. I went up to London to go and see a show with him. I met him in the foyer of his ruddy gym and I determined later that it was her. Obviously brighter than me (she’s a high-flying corporate lawyer apparently, whereas in recent years I’ve contentedly whiled away my working life as a mostly residential conveyancing solicitor waiting for my periods to stop signalling that I might be PREGNANT, or at least I was until himself quit the scene). Seven or eight years younger than me meaning presumably more fecund, though why this would make any difference I don't know since it was me not him who was interested in reproducing. With no doubt more social skills; probably superior to me in just about every possible way, God curse her, strike her dumb and infect her gonads with undiagnosed and untreatable necrotizing fasciitis.
None of the above means that other people know how I should react, how I’m feeling, how I might best overcome the deep sense of betrayal, bitterness, anger, the murderous thoughts. All of that. You have to wonder why everyone thinks they know far better than you what’s best for you. In any given situation, you have only to open your mouth and provide someone with information about yourself for the recipient of this information to hold forth at length on their version of what’s going on and how you should behave going forward, as they now say. You’ve told them the bare minimum, but they nonetheless have an instant, wide and fast grasp on what makes you tick and what would indubitably make you tick actually a great deal better.
In fact not that many people know I was hoping to conceive, or at least I haven't told many people. It hadn't become that big a thing but I am now thirty five and it does start to weigh on one a little, but the Arsehole didn't want to try to do anything about it, advance or assist the process in any way.
“There’s plenty of time,” he’d say while enjoying all the benefits of trying for a baby most notably constant sex and no need to bother with pesky contraception. I just hope he’s being a bit more careful now that he’s knocking off Corporate Legal Backside of the Year.
But to get back to other people’s long lists of must-dos, one of them seems to be to find yourself another man immediately. The old adage that you have to get under someone to get over someone keeps coming up. Even my mother says this and more vociferously than the others as it happens, though she doesn't put it quite that way but I expect that’s what she means anyway. Doesn't matter how. Go online, eye up any available talent at work or in work-related situations (yeah like that’s not going to get me into any kind of trouble or send round the word that Anna Duke has finally tipped over the edge); visit speed-dating sessions; attend one of these up-market expensive dinner parties organised for the sole purpose of trying to get people off with others of a similar social class, or just stupid enough to chance two hundred and fifty quid on an indifferent meal taken with a sundry group of strangers; generally put the word around; go out more. None of these appeal.
I reflect on how the Arsehole met the Backside and apparently it was at the gym. The Arsehole works in London and had started to be home late because he’d joined the abo
ve-mentioned gym, a posh one in Mayfair, and he used to go there after work. And then of course he had to go out to a posh bar afterwards so he wasn't getting home until gone midnight sometimes. Does that sound plausible to you? Anyway, the story is that attraction developed over the hyper extension bench - or something - and had progressed via get-togethers with ‘friends we have in common’ to her conveniently situated luxury Docklands apartment, though it was stressed that of course nothing had ‘happened’ until the Arsehole had abandoned the matrimonial home.
True, he did allegedly spend an indeterminate though believed to be short period of time sleeping in his brother’s lounge before making the final break. The brother backs him up on that, though I have no actual evidence that this sofa-hopping did ever take place. But within an indecently minute timeframe, a scintilla in fact, I found that his mail was no longer being delivered to our house and that he was sending round emails and things to everyone giving them his new address and circumstances making it clear that he and the Backside were an item. Everyone generously including me as he’d obviously in his enthusiasm overlooked deleting all my email addresses from his list.
But I digress once again. What I was going to say was that I don't want to meet anyone. For the time being I want to be allowed to fester a little, like a glass of milk that’s been left out for too long and eventually turns into yoghurt. Well if you’re lucky. I want my poor little brain to be given time to adjust to the change. I don't want some other man trying to climb into my under-garments while they and what’s in them are still the right size and shape and consistency for the Arsehole, damn him. My affections are not ready to be invaded by some stranger who looks and sounds and feels and smells all wrong. These things take time. And if the glass of milk turns into a rancid yellow malodorous unedifying mess, well then….well then….I don't know. Maybe I should just stick one small toe into the water and be ready to whip it straight out if it feels like I’m getting scalded. Or worse still, frozen out. As you see, I have the resolve of a wobbly blancmange.
So when, at a business breakfast that I’ve been persuaded it would be a good idea to go to so as to ‘get out more’, Dennis Barrow a local surveyor notices, and I notice him noticing, that I’m not wearing my wedding or engagement rings any more (the same having been wrenched off in a fit of extreme drunken rage on receiving the Hi I’m on the Move email and I’m not at all sure where they are now) asks me if I’d like to go for a drink, I decide on the very spur of the moment to say yes. Having looked in the mirror before leaving the house this morning and having observed that the metaphorical surface of the milk has spots on it that look like bacterial growths, it seems like a reasonable idea to put the glass back in the fridge for the time being and hope that that will arrest the process. The spots are obviously accounted for by the fact that, now I’m on my own and now especially that I’m not expecting to be….expecting any time soon, I’m not eating properly. In fact I’m eating decidedly improperly, mostly chocolates for breakfast, caramel-iced custard-filled doughnuts for lunch and red wine and more chocolates for dinner. Perhaps Dennis will take me out for a good square meal. Though so far he’s only offered a drink.
I consider that in the intelligence, intellectual stakes I ought to be able to keep up with a surveyor and provided I don't break down and tell him how terrible I feel, well maybe we’ll hit it off. He looks all right. I think. He seems nice enough. Actually, I admit to myself, I’ve never before taken the least notice of him. I’ve barely ever spoken to him and I have no idea what his marital status is. Thinking about it, perhaps he just wants me as a business contact who might chuck some work his way. And now I’m unsure of the ground I’m stepping onto, I wish I’d made an excuse. But it’s too late; the die is cast.
I tell my friend Sharon about Dennis’s offer and my doubts. Sharon has the solid marriage, the faithful husband, the two children, the smug air of complacency and the spreading midriff. She’s enthusiastic and sweeps aside my fears that he has an ulterior mercenary motive and a purely business relationship in mind. We go online together and bring up the website of the firm in which he’s a partner. We read his profile. But while it gives his hobbies (golf, squash and computer games - “Hmm” says Sharon frowning), it doesn't give any details of his personal circumstances such as ‘Happily married to Tracey with six children, Dennis has little time for extraneous activities and mostly sits glued to a monitor playing World of Warcraft when he’s not shagging his wife in an effort to produce the seventh offspring.’ But then it wouldn't.
“His photo looks OK,” say Sharon. I hope this isn't indulgent friend-speak for “What a tosser!” but actually he does look quite sophisticated and urbane in the pic, right down to the sidelong look and raised eyebrow. “I should go for it.”
I sigh. It can't do any harm and we’ve already exchanged mobile numbers. Anyway, perhaps he won't ring me.
I ASK AROUND AT work about Dennis trying not to be too obvious. Sadly almost no-one knows anything at all about him until I casually ask the commercial partner who they use for rental valuations etc and it turns out to be Dennis a lot of the time. He even apparently sits on tribunals. And he also acts as an arbitrator in leasehold rent reviews and other commercial disputes.
“What you mean small stuff? Newsagents and things?” I ask.
“Blimey no!” exclaims the partner Ned Hemmings. “Shopping centres, large building developments, industrial estates. That sort of thing. Fucking great stuff.” Ned puffs out his chest and tells me that if he’s got a “fucking enormous case on”, he always sends it to Dennis.
This of course worries me. That Dennis holds an elevated position in specialised commercial property circles now makes me think that he’s way above my own batting order. I mean an arbitrator is like a sort of judge as is sitting on a tribunal. I do wish I hadn't asked now. And I daren’t ask Ned about Dennis’s marital status. I can't think of any way I could innocently introduce that into the conversation. Or what Dennis is like as a person. I can't tell him I’m going out on a date with Dennis. Ned is the world’s most assiduous gossip. They say women are the worst gossips. Don't you believe it. When it comes to newsmongering and scandal, Ned is at the top of the game. And it would all come out wrong anyway, as though I’m deeply interested in Dennis when all I actually want is a little forewarning and forearming.
So instead I go back home that evening and look up on the internet all I can on computer games and there are a bewilderingly, hopelessly large number of them. I give up. Squash I know nothing about and five minutes online convinces me that I don't want to either. Golf seems a bit more accessible to the average person. We’ve all seen (and in my case switched over from) TV programmes featuring men in checked trousers driving buggies along windswept Scottish fairways with a large crowd standing back huddling in their mackintoshes and grimly trying to stop their umbrellas from blowing inside out. As an effective means of exercise, golf has always puzzled me as it seems so sedentary. Still, Dennis looks fit enough. As this thought hovers in my head, my mobile suddenly goes.
“Hello it’s Dennis.”
“Oh.”
“I thought we might firm up on that drink we spoke about the other morning. Or we could go to a restaurant if you like.”
I instantly forget about my need for a decent meal. “Oh, a drink’s fine,” I stammer thinking about my last glimpse of his manly torso in his business suit. I blush charmingly and just hope it doesn't show in my voice. It’s horrible the amount of information your voice can unwittingly convey for you.
“Well OK. Anywhere you’d especially like to go?” he says.
I wonder what sort of drinking establishments commercial property arbitrators might frequent and all inspiration abandons me. “I….um….you know….quite like country pubs. Though,” I hurry on, “perhaps a town bar would be better. You know when you bear in mind the driving and….er….”
Cutting quickly to the heart of the issue as any judge faced with hopelessly ignorant indecisive opposing p
arties would, Dennis says masterfully: “Well where do you live Anna?”
I name the village.
“So,” he says , “one of us at least would have to drive anyway. Look isn't there a nice pub there called The Sorcerer’s Kitchen?” He sounds a bit strained; a bit irritated. I’m not making a good impression. “How about going there this Friday. If of course you’re not doing anything.”
“No, no that’s fine.”
“Right. Text me your address and I’ll come and pick you up about seven thirty. Is that OK?”
“Yes. Great. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Me too,” he says but I can't detect any smile in the voice. He sounds in a hurry in fact to get away. “’Bye then.”
“Yes. Goodbye.”
Phew! I feel as though I’ve been hit by a steam roller. Run right over in fact. I’m not up to all this. The Arsehole damn him was used to my many weaknesses and insecurities. Unaccountably I start to feel weepy. It’s been two months; not that long. And though I have no intention whatsoever of ever in the whole wide world having the Arsehole back ever, two months isn't long enough by any measure. I consider texting Dennis to call off our meeting. But I quickly type in my address instead and send it before I have a chance to let any more doubts upset things.
If Dennis turns out to be sweet and kind and caring and understanding, then maybe it’ll be all right. But if he’s horrid and cold and distant and judgmental, there’s no chance whatever. I do so wish I’d been able to speak to someone who knows something about his personality, good or bad. But I’m going to have to go in there blind.