by Anna Maxted
I glared round the office, daring people to laugh.
Claudia sucked in her cheeks. ‘Hol. Admittedly, it’d be crass to mention it to your date over the first coffee. But at least he’s honest. Poor vaginal hygiene isn’t many people’s favourite thing.’
I puffed air through my nose. ‘Well. Issy might think it shows an intrinsic dislike of women. His form is peppered with words like “totty”.’
Issy looked up. ‘Have you spoken to him, or met him?’
‘No,’ I said.
Issy sighed. ‘Darling, he’s twenty-two. He’s certainly immature, but he’s half-teasing. Under what are your greatest assets he’s written, “My amazing personality when pissed”. And his other dislike is “biting toenails in public”. I wouldn’t be too harsh.’
I must have looked unconvinced, because Issy added, ‘If you like, we can call him in for an interview. If he’s the meshuggener you think he is, he’s bound to let something leak.’
‘Leak?’ said Nige, wrinkling his nose and half his face with it.
Issy half closed her eyes at him like a cat, so I knew he’d said the right thing. She does love to teach people. If she’s in a mood, you can’t hold a conversation with her because she’s not interested in a friendly exchange of thoughts and opinions, she’s looking to trump you.
‘Yes, Nigel,’ she said. ‘People who are capable of doing bad things leak. They say things in jest which reveal a lot about themselves. And even if they don’t, we as human beings are capable of perceiving an enormous amount unconsciously. In the war of evolution we’ve derived a means of rumbling people who are good at deception. It’s a fact that if you film someone who is pretending to be other than they are, if you slow down that film you perceive micro-emotions – for a matter of milliseconds the expression on their face changes. In real life, our minds pick that up. It happens too fast to be seen consciously, but you get a hunch about that person. That’s why female intuition can be explained in scientific terms. If you feel uncomfortable but you don’t know why, the likelihood is your mental apparatus has picked something up. Unfortunately we’re raised to be rational, we see hunches as childish. They’re not. They’re one of the best defences we have.’
Everyone was silent. Then Nige piped up, ‘I’m blown away by this micro-emotion thing. So, what, like this?’ He assumed an expression as follows: angelic, angelic, angelic, devil from hell, angelic, angelic, angelic. We all cracked up, even Issy. ‘More or less,’ she conceded.
Claudia chewed a nail. ‘So, what’s this guy going to leak then?’
Issy paused. ‘What I’m saying is that people are very bad at not revealing themselves. They’ll say something that isn’t socially acceptable but because it’s perceived to be a joke, they get away with it. So, for example, I know of a woman whose new boyfriend joked to her that he’d better go home because she was so sexy that if he didn’t leave he’d rape her. She didn’t laugh heartily but nor did she think much of it. Until the next time they met, when he actually attempted it. Fortunately, her flatmate burst in on them.’
‘Jesus,’ said Claudia.
‘Meeting closed,’ I said.
Everyone looked startled and peeved. I blanked them out and wondered instead at Claudia’s outfit. A gold sleeveless top covered with little gold discs, like disco chainmail, a short denim skirt, and red ankle boots. As the Americans say, Go figure.
‘Hang on, but what about the fixtures for tonight? Haven’t we got to sort out Bernard and Georgina and everyone?’
‘This isn’t a football game, Nige.’
This was unfair of me. Nige takes Girl Meets Boy as seriously as it’s possible to take your understudy career.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Nige,’ I said. ‘I don’t often do this, but I’m putting my foot down. I have a hunch that Georgie and Mike will get on great, and at this late stage I don’t want to start messing with the plan. Don’t worry. Tonight’ – I tried to paint a joyous romantic scene to wipe the scowls off their faces – ‘is going to erupt in a frenzy of sparks. Honestly. It’ll be like the Ark.’
Chapter 12
‘YOU WERE RIGHT,’ said Nige, afterwards. ‘It was like the Ark. A bloody washout.’
I didn’t know what to say so I hummed into my drink. Claudia had been furious, she’d stalked off without a second glance. I was deeply relieved that Issy hadn’t been there to see the monumental pig’s ear I’d made of the evening. Although I imagined that Claw would recount the scenes for her in language as vivid as a rainbow.
The night had started off well. We met, as we always do, from seven forty-five to ten, in the belly of a bar in West London. It’s owned by an acquaintance of Rachel’s named Seb. Downstairs it’s a private club, frequented by posh people. At times, the density of striped shirts is quite dazzling. Girl Meets Boy is cordoned off a corner and it’s perfect, dimly lit and full of alcoves. Seb is friendly in a professional way – always on autosmile. We certainly buy enough drinks to make it worth his while, and he’s not above chatting up some of our blonder members.
As ever, Sam was the first to arrive. To my surprise, she was wearing red silk bootleg trousers dotted with yellow suns, and a lemon yellow T-shirt. And she’d obviously been to a trendy hairdresser (that, or she’d fallen into a tub of peroxide and been attacked by an octopus wielding pinking shears). She was definitely wearing lipstick and mascara. Detectable only by an expert, but there was an overall impression of glossy. ‘Sam,’ I said. ‘You look great!’ The words ‘What happened?’ hung in the air. Sam also looked surprised. ‘Holly,’ she said. ‘You did this.’
I was aghast. Sam touched my temple. ‘Are you joking, Holly? I asked you to help me sort out a new image. You even booked the hairdr—sorry, stylist for me. I had it done yesterday.’
The memory dumped itself back in my head with a thump. ‘Of course,’ I cried. ‘Idiot me! I must have had a blip.’
I must have done, I thought, watching her stride to the bar, to be noticed by Seb for the first time. (He’s like a dog in that he only sees in certain colours. His vision will not register non-blonde.) What had I been thinking? There is something delicious about orchestrating a makeover for a friend who you think doesn’t make the most of themselves, but I’m not sure it’s delicious-good. When Claudia was five, a well-meaning great-aunt, visiting from Devon, bought her a dead doll. At least, that’s what Claudia decided, because there was no body, just the head. It was human size and grotesque. Little girls were meant to cut its hair and apply blusher to its face, and I’ll bet it was thought up by a fifty-year-old man in a suit. Claudia decided the doll had been beheaded by Captain Hook (her frame of reference was limited, but exact) and gave the doll a death-row skinhead, except for one spooky strand. She then made up the face in white foundation and used the red ‘lipstick’ crayon to recreate blood dripping from its eyes and mouth. Then she hung it by the strategic strand of hair to the doorframe of the guest bedroom, bribed me to remove the light bulbs on the landing, then sat up till late waiting to hear our great-aunt scream. It worked too well and my mother had to call the emergency doctor (who, by the way, charged ‘an arm and a leg’).
I felt bad about the heart tremor, but I’m afraid I approved of Claudia’s actions on principle. Teaching girls aged five that a bare face isn’t good enough! When I itch to perform a makeover on women like Sam, I make myself think of that skinhead doll. It reeks of not accepting people for who they are, and that’s damaging.
I wondered if the new Sam would appreciate being paired with Mike. What with Georgina, and Sam’s baby-wear to babewear transformation, it was his lucky night. Or, at least, that’s what it was set up to look like but I knew it wouldn’t happen. Did I say that?
By eight o’clock, everyone had arrived. Every week, we spend the first half hour chatting and drinking, so that people relax. Nige flirts with the women, and Claudia and I pander to the men. That night, it was an effort on a par with building a pyramid. I knew Bernard had a crush, or maybe he wa
s indiscriminate, but he kept putting his arm on my shoulder and standing too close. I felt my face turn to granite. I brushed off his arm and stepped back. I think I spotted a micro-emotion of hurt, but too bad. You know what you’re doing, I thought. If I had a six foot boyfriend standing right here, you’d keep your distance.
I’d decided that Sam and Bernard weren’t right for each other after all, despite the fact that Sam’s eyes kept flickering towards him. He, I noted, when he wasn’t pawing me, spent a lot of time gazing at her silk trousers. Possibly, that night, Sam would get some ticks. Previously I’d lied to her, telling her she’d got friendship ticks from the men she’d given relationship ticks, so she wouldn’t be disheartened. Maybe that night I wouldn’t have to. She looked a different person from the woman who’d once said to me, ‘I tend to look at a room full of people, judge them, then be what they want me to be’.
I did my best to soothe a new member, Millie, who was keen to reassure me that she had no trouble attracting men. I told her none of the women here had trouble attracting men, the problem was none of them had time to attract men. Millie nodded, sighing. She had slightly protruding blue eyes and when she didn’t smile (which she didn’t) Nige was convinced she looked fishy. ‘I don’t have time to do anything,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been to the gym for months. Last time I went it cost me £700 to have a swim.’ I waved away her concern. ‘That’s fitness tax,’ I replied. ‘It’s like having a TV licence. You might not use it, but you have to pay anyway.’ Millie laughed which made her pretty.
It was time to get to work. Nige and Claw and I sat each of the women down at their own table, and brought over their respective date. Then, for twenty-five minutes, we left them to it. For some reason, Claw and Nige refused to look me in the eye.
Being cold-shouldered gave me the opportunity to peek at the dates. I’d put Sam with Martyn, the guy who, according to Elisabeth was so strait-laced he could have been a priest. At first glance, he didn’t look strait-laced. A shaven head and thick black arthouse spectacles. Of course: this was a uniform popular with the – I’m reluctant to say nerd – earnest person in disguise. The shaven head was used to hide a receding hairline, and the black spectacles had only recently replaced an owly pair of metal frames. Sam and Martyn must have seen something familiar in one another and resented the reminder, because my straining ear made out the words, ‘Ten past eight and eighteen seconds’.
The others didn’t seem to be faring much better. Elisabeth was leaning back in her chair with a face like old milk, ostentatiously inspecting her nails, and Bernard was staring gloomily into his pint. Now and then he’d look around like a dog who’d lost its master. I glanced at Mike and Georgina. Mike was leaning towards Georgie, talking very fast. He laughed at something he’d said and Georgie lifted a hand and wiped her cheek. She had the look of a woman who’d been tricked into attending a live chess match.
Surely Millie was enjoying herself. I’d put her with Xak. Xak (pronounced Zak) was nice to look at, but surprise, he was also nice to the core. Tall, slender with blue eyes, dirty blond hair and adorably shy. He could barely meet your gaze. He worked on the fashion pages of a men’s magazine, was twenty-five years old and had only ever gone out with women who’d asked him. ‘Models?’ I’d said, and he’d laughed. He’d only dated ‘very plain’ (his words) screwed-up women. Here, at last, I thought – the male version of practically every woman I’ve ever met!
I glanced over. Xak looked petrified. Think a picnicker trapped by a bear. Millie was striking off some sort of list, on her fingers. After every strike she’d frown at Xak and he’d nod, meekly. I wondered if he was up to a woman who, by her own admission, had recorded every dream she’d ever had since the age of twelve. ‘What, all of them?’ I’d said, impressed. She’d replied that dreams were messages from our unconscious which we ignored at our peril. This didn’t please me. I have enough trouble keeping up with my emails. Crumbs have incapacitated about forty per cent of my keyboard.
Twenty-two minutes into the first date, ground down by beseeching looks from around the room, I gave in and called time. Everyone sprang from their chairs. ‘This is pathetic,’ snarled Elisabeth en route to the Ladies. ‘Thank God I have my own resources.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. ‘We’ll discuss it later. But I think you’re going to get on great with your next date.’ She didn’t. Nor with the one after that, or the one after that. No one did. Two dozen people went home miserable, brooding on the small yet enormous tragedy of having love to give and no one to give it to.
I told Nige there was no accounting for chemistry and it was nobody’s fault, and while the look he gave me said different, I wasn’t bothered. He didn’t understand. I had chosen pairs who wouldn’t fall for each other instantly, but it was for the best. People who fancy each other make terrible choices. They’re taken in by a wide white smile or the sweet little sigh before speech and then they pay for that naivety for the rest of their lives.
You cannot let your genitals make decisions for you. It’s evolution’s fault, making us want to bonk the whole time. I thought these people would be better off getting to know their dates over time. They’d stand a greater chance of happiness if they weren’t in such a rush to swap germs. They might sulk at first, but I was doing them a favour and eventually they’d realise that.
I drove home, my mouth agape in one long yawn. I was that tired, the depth of tiredness where you feel that sleep is a poor answer, you need a three-week coma and a glucose drip to restore your energy levels to capacity. I checked the house from top to bottom to top, fed Emily and paid her a compliment (‘Your fur’s so shiny and soft it’s like you’ve been polished’ – I sense it’s part of a cat’s required service), imagined what Nick would be doing now, pulled an elaborate face and fell into bed. Was he thinking of me too? I hoped he also felt friendlier in retrospect.
It was a joy to realise, the next morning, that Nige had his audition and wasn’t coming in. Although Claudia is not the sort who needs back-up to launch a strike, I was relieved when she rang in ‘sick’. I’d brought some Hedex in anticipation which I could now save for a special occasion. I said ‘hm’ aloud. Just me then. It wasn’t ideal, but then nor was company. Why hadn’t Nick rung me? He had about a billion excuses. How was the cat doing? Had he left his cuff links in that silver tin on the bathroom shelf? I missed him. But then, I also missed tripping on the torn linoleum of my parents’ kitchen floor when Dad glued it back to the concrete after fifteen years.
You get used to people, things. I wasn’t mad about change. Every time there was change due in my life I reckon I stalled it for as long as I could – seven days to two years, depending.
Seven days if it was a food choice. Last year, for one crazy week, Martha decided that custard doughnuts were the new black and abruptly ceased production of the jam ones. I was frozen. I couldn’t bring myself to go to Tesco Metro, it would have been like cheating on a wife. But nor could I get round the concept of a doughnut gooey with yellow pus. Need I say, Nige and Claw adapted like a particularly shallow pair of chameleons – ‘Ooh, yes, actually, mm, and long live the cheese fondue while you’re about it!’ I refused to partake.
On day seven, suffering from severe sugar deficiency, I took a small cross bite. On day eight, Martha decided that fashion was, in fact, random baloney, cast out the custard interloper and welcomed back the faithful old jam doughnut. It would have been healthier for me if she had persisted with the pus – I’d have been forced to adapt and move on. The way it worked out, I never learned.
I glanced around the empty office – ludicrous, who did I think was spying on me, Claudia’s poster of Kylie Minogue? – then rang Manjit on his mobile. He’d think I was calling to snoop on Nick but he’d be wrong. Manjit was friendly in an unfettered sort of way, which meant that Bo wasn’t in the room. I explained why I was calling, I wasn’t going to play games. Manjit sounded surprised but pleased. ‘Cool,’ he said, ‘Okay.’ And then, shyly, ‘I’m pleased
you rang, Hol.’
I beamed. ‘Thanks, Manjit, I’m pleased I rang. I nearly didn’t. Well, when are you free?’
There was a pause. ‘Um. Well. Now if you like. I’ve got to meet Bo at two thirty. We’re going to a matinée in town, um, that play, you know, the one with the ghost . . .’
‘Phantom of the Opera?’ It was an effort keeping the shock from my voice. Bo’s theatrical taste is painstakingly erudite. Andrew Lloyd Webber was a departure from her intellectual norm.
Manjit giggled. ‘No! Oh, yeah. Macbeth. Anyrate. I’m free till then. That gives us an hour, easy, and plenty of time for showers afterwards. I’ll ring reception and book us a room, for, for, say, twelve, shall I? Wear something light, yeah? You got the address?’
I nodded into the phone. ‘Got it.’
He cut off, and I twirled my necklace. I felt nervous. Well, too late to back out now. I glanced at the clock. Time to go home and change, shave my legs and armpits – pits! ugh, ugh – clean my teeth. My heart was pounding. Silly. This would be fun. And if, mid-tussle, I gleaned some classified dropette of information about my ex-fiancé, what a perfect bonus.
Chapter 13
‘COME CLOSER,’ SAID Manjit, smiling. Christ, what women would do for that smile. ‘It’s alright, Hol. I won’t bite you.’
I stepped towards him, face red as a poppy. ‘I’m going to be useless, I know it.’
I heard myself say this and squirmed. Since when was I the sort of woman who couldn’t speak badly enough of herself? I used to go crazy at Sam for belittling herself, I’d tell her if you can’t respect yourself, no one else will.