Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  I smiled and laughed, which I presumed was what was required. Then I fled downstairs to where the real action was taking place. I could tell it was going to be a successful night, there was an animation about it, people seemed to be in a great mood. Nige was holding court to three nodding women – women are so good at listening to men talk – and Claw was bent in discussion with Georgina and Samson. Everyone looked happy.

  Where was Elisabeth? On cue, my heart sped up. I’d spoken to her twice, earlier, and she’d sworn she was coming. But what if . . . ? That arrogant madam didn’t think she could just . . . ? Did she? I bet she did. I strode up and tapped Nigel on the back. He looked displeased at being made to stop talking.

  ‘Nige – sorry to interrupt – you haven’t seen Elisabeth, have you?’

  ‘Stanton-Browne? Not a sausage.’

  ‘Right. Right.’ Now what? ‘Fine. Look. I might be upstairs for, for most of tonight, I’ve got stuff to discuss with Sebastian—’

  ‘Seb is over there making cocktails and failing to look like Tom Cruise,’ said Nige, nodding towards the bar.

  ‘Yes, well, he’s joining me later. I’ll be in the café doing paperwork till then. You and Claw can take care of things, can’t you?’

  Nige shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  I scurried back to Dr Bottomley, simmering. The nerve of Nige, not believing me. I’d lied, but even so. I dialled Elisabeth’s mobile. It rang – and then it was switched off! She’d recognised my number. She wasn’t coming. Which meant I was stuck with the doctor of philosophy in life insurance.

  Served me right. It was a ludicrous plan. Against the rules. And cruel. It would have been hard to pull off. But I’d have been satisfied even if it had only worked for five minutes before Elisabeth stormed out. Or would I, really? I sighed. Thank heaven she hadn’t turned up. I couldn’t imagine the scene if I’d said I had someone special for her, that I was so convinced that they were made for each other that I’d bent the rules and secured them a private table in the café, away from the hoi-polloi (Elisabeth would have appreciated that phrase) and, guess what, they had the whole evening together!

  Shame on me. Poor Dr Bottomley. He was a pedantic old bore but still. I’d wasted an evening of the man’s life – and by the look of him they were in dwindling supply – because of a mean desire to punish the woman who, through no fault of her own, was dating my Nick. Not your Nick, I corrected myself. I’d become the kind of woman whose problem-pocked relationship is revised as perfect after she’s spent three weeks in the real world.

  I plodded up to the table, where Dr Bottomley was smoking a thin cigar. I wasn’t sure, right now, that honesty was the best policy. (I mean, when is it, ever, really?) He smiled, without removing the cigar from his mouth. The action reminded me of Jimmy Savile. Before I could speak, he was on his feet. ‘Allow me,’ he said.

  Cigar smoke curled around my ears. I found my coat being removed, and a passing waiter imperiously dispatched to carry it to the cloakroom. He shot Dr Bottomley an evil look and I prayed he wasn’t going to stamp on my coat. It had pink lining and I was extremely fond of it. I was about to sit down, when Dr Bottomley laid a heavy hand on my shoulder and said, again, ‘allow me’. He pulled out my chair with a flourish. I was about to sink into it, when Dr Bottomley spun me to face him, grasped both my shoulders and said, ‘You seem tense.’

  I jerked away. My brain did some fast calculations. The memory of his touch burned into my skin. This time, I couldn’t stop the expression on my face, which was teenage girl in horror cartoon meets great green gang of decomposing zombies. If Dr Bottomley saw the look, he ignored it. ‘Now, Miss Appleton. Would you like me to order you a little something from the wine list?’

  One impudence treading on another’s heels! ‘I thought you said you didn’t drink,’ I said.

  Dr Bottomley smiled, showing teeth. ‘Which is another thing from being a wine connoisseur.’

  Just about every organ in my gut clenched in irritation. The joke of it was, that trotting up the stairs after my exchange with Nige, I’d thought of a woman for him. Despite my reluctance these days to pair up anything more than two shoes, a likely partner for Dr Bottomley had popped into my head. Really. She was far too old for Girl Meets Boy, much too middle aged in body and spirit, but I’d kept her on file. The picture she’d sent us said it all. A stern stout figure in a yellow brim hat and pearl earrings, a yellow skirt with matching blouse, belt and bag, and blue eye shadow. She described herself as ‘a lady of calibre’ whose hobbies were ‘admiring old buildings’ and attending ‘prestigious social events’. I doubted she’d be interested in meeting our crew of twenty- and thirty-something men, who described themselves, variously, as ‘a dog lover, yes, but I prefer chicken or fish’ and ‘able to play a tune through my nose’ and whose hobbies, allegedly, ranged from driving in bus lanes to hacking into the Pentagon.

  And even if she was, I doubted they’d be interested in meeting her. But, before the shoulder-touching incident, she’d bobbed into my head as a viable match for Dr Bottomley. Now, I’d introduce them over my dead body, and his as well.

  ‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t drink alcohol when I’m working, but even if I did, I’m capable of ordering for myself.’ After a pause I added, ‘thank you’, then regretted it. He was out of line, why was I embarrassed? I decided to be blunt. ‘Dr Bottomley,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news for you. I’d hoped to introduce you to a, a woman who applied to Girl Meets Boy, but the truth is, it was to be an off-the-record meeting as it were, and I wasn’t going to charge you – as you know the usual joining fee is £200 – because the fact is, this is an agency that caters specifically for people in their twenties and thirties and so, I’m sorry to say, it isn’t suitable for you, and er, you aren’t suitable for it. My client base requires me to concentrate on, er’ – I searched for a term I thought he’d understand – ‘youngsters, really, boys and, er, young girls.’

  Dr Bottomley reached across the table and patted my hand before I could withdraw it. ‘I also like to concentrate on young girls!’

  At first, I thought I’d misheard. I was speechless. I wiped my hand on my trouser leg. My dearest wish – well, the one that didn’t involve the steak knife and a fifteen-year jail sentence – was that I could verbally annihilate him. But I couldn’t think of a word to say.

  Finally, I found my voice – well, a voice, and what a thin feeble thing it was too. ‘The woman I thought I’d found for you has just rung me and she won’t be coming. She’s got engaged.’

  It annoyed me that I found it necessary to create an excuse. It was a sign of weakness.

  Dr Bottomley made another grab at my hand but I was too fast for him. He said, ‘A pity, but never mind. Now we shall spend the remainder of the evening together.’

  I gritted my teeth. ‘I really don’t think so, I—’

  ‘Miss Appleton, you seem agitated and there is no need. I am simply being sociable, I have no romantic designs on you, I merely ask you to join me for a light meal as a companion, and I think I am owed that much, after being dragged from my home by your so-called dating agency on what appears to be a wild goose chase.’

  My great flaw, or one of them, is that when a man tells me things I believe him. Nick was always feeding me ridiculous stories, usually playing on my ignorance of the countryside, in the hope that I’d repeat one in public – ‘you know that sheep sleep standing up?’ – and embarrass myself. Even though Dr Bottomley’s actions belied his words, I believed him. I also had a wild idea that he might ‘go to the papers’ – for what exactly, I don’t know, but that’s what a guilty conscience does to you.

  He ordered a smoked tuna sandwich. I ordered a coffee and a steak and chips.

  Dr Bottomley fidgeted when I said ‘steak and chips’. I realised that the albatross round his neck named chivalry meant that he felt obliged to pay for our dinner, but he didn’t want to have to cough up more than a tenner. So I scrolled down the wine list and ordered a
bottle of their most expensive champagne.

  After a heavy silence, Dr Bottomley asked if I enjoyed my work. I was about to say ‘yes’ when Dr Bottomley embarked on a lengthy tale about his work, not his profession, no, plenty of time to fill me in on that later, but his committee work. He was a member of several committees and I watched his mouth move and thought that he was the worst sort of person to be on a committee, a person who needed power over others to assert his own importance. Just the sort of person you get on committees. I was wondering how to make my escape, when I became aware of his great grey face leaning into mine. I gave a small squeal, and jumped back. ‘Fancy it?’ said Dr Bottomley.

  ‘What?’ I snapped. He’d leant across the table, his face had felt closer to mine than it was. I told myself to calm down, but I was shaking and sweating.

  ‘I said I recently purchased a new Volvo. A V70. Would you like to come for a drive?’

  I was certain his foot caressed my ankle under the table.

  A blank in my head again. And then, pulsating panic, black fear, the terror of being restrained with an iron grip, hard to breathe, clothes torn, pain shooting through me, it was really happening. It was me that this had happened to, it really was me. I staggered to my feet, gasping for air. I must have made a sound because everyone in the café turned and stared. Dr Bottomley rose to his feet, grasped my upper arms and shook me, hard.

  ‘Get off me!’ I screamed, and shoved him. Fury suffused his face. I blinked, remembered where I was and took a deep choking breath. The white walls of the café blurred, I blinked and blinked to get them back to normal.

  ‘Now look here,’ began Dr Bottomley in an indignant tone.

  ‘No,’ I shouted, ‘you look. How dare you paw me – how dare you. I’ll have you charged with assault. And how dare you lie to me – say you’ve no romantic designs, then grope me at every opportunity. I was going to introduce you to a woman, but I’d hate for any woman to meet you, you’re a disgusting pervert with no respect for anyone.’

  As I sped from the restaurant, people gaped. Dr Bottomley stood frozen with horror, the focus of communal disdain. On my way out I noticed that the waiter he’d ordered to carry my coat was totting up the bill with relish. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t feel able to waltz into the Girl Meets Boy corner. I didn’t want to see anyone. I thought that episode was gone, dead and buried. But it had escaped from its coffin and roared back to life like the killer at the end of a film, vengeful, stronger, worse. I was in Nightmare on Elm Street, captive to the horrors of my imagination. I locked myself in the toilet. I closed the seat, laid paper on it and sat in a ball, eyes fixed and staring (who knew what I’d see if I closed them?), hugging my knees and rocking gently. I want my mummy, said a five-year-old. Look what you did, chided another voice. Nearly left Elisabeth to the mercy of that creep. Thank God it was you and not her. See, this is what happens. You must warn Claudia and Nige immediately.

  At some point I unlocked the toilet and rushed into the bar. The Girl Meets Boy corner was bare, except for Nige and Claw, clinking their wine glasses in a toast.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I gasped.

  Their looks of irritation quickly faded.

  ‘So you tore yourself away from the coffin dodger, did—fuck, Hol, are you alright?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought he was your type – Jesus, Holly, you look like you’re about to faint, what happened? Sweets, it’s twenty past eleven, they all went home ages ago, it was a storming success, if I say so myself. Many many matches were made, but Sweetie, angel, what’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Stuart,’ I said, and burst into tears.

  Chapter 16

  I THOUGHT I’D puke at the sound of his name in my mouth. Claw had a quick murmured discussion with Nige, then jumped into a taxi with me. She didn’t say a word, asked no questions, which was lucky because I was as dumb as a post. She tucked me into bed, fed Emily – ‘Don’t rub your grotesque furred abdomen against my black wool trousers, cat, please, ugh, oh, what’s the point?’ – and slept in the spare room. The next morning, she ordered me to stay at home.

  ‘Nige and I will take care of everything for the rest of the week. You’re overtired and you need a break. It’s been too much for you, what with Nick and now Stuart. I don’t know what you were doing with Professor Creepy – well, of course we snuck down and spied on you, what did you expect? – I’ll expect the gory details when you feel up to it. But don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay. Now, I want you to stay in bed, eat whole packs of biscuits, drink pints of hot chocolate, put that flea-ridden creature to use as a hot water bottle, read Hello! and Heat, and watch your video of The Princess Bride. You’ve got to be well enough to attend your birthday party this Friday, do you understand?’

  I nodded, and shut out the world for three days. Once you’ve slept and washed and checked the locks and done a few circuits round your house with a knife, gee, well, the time just flies.

  Friday lunchtime, five minutes after I put the phone back on its hook, the world intruded in the form of Rachel who rang and shrieked, ‘Happy birthday, babes. I’ve been trying you all morning. Well, twice. How are you? Claudia says you’ve had a mini-breakdown, and that your parents are now staying with her. She didn’t sound thrilled. Now, festivities begin at 7.30 I’m told. Do you know who’s coming?’

  ‘Parents. Claw. Nige. Manjit, maybe. Nick, I doubt. Sam, one of the girls from the agency, we’ve sort of become friends. Gloria—’

  ‘Who’s Gloria?’

  ‘A friend, she also cleans for me—’

  ‘Oh God, Holly. The girl who spilled tea down me. You’re such a champagne socialist.’

  ‘And you’re a revolting snob. Mm, who else? Issy. Frank, Issy’s husband.’

  ‘He can’t make it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘Oh. How do you know?’

  ‘Claudia said so, silly. How are you getting to the restaurant? Would you like a lift?’

  I smiled. ‘Ooh, that would be nice. Yes, please.’

  ‘Good. Can you be ready by seven?’

  ‘Rach, how ugly do you think I am?’

  ‘Funny. What are you going to wear?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘I could lend you a—’

  ‘Please no, I’ll find something.’

  I put down the phone, leapt out of bed and foraged through the wardrobe. I ought to wear pink, it was my birthday. I felt mean for taking the phone off the hook. Em and Dee (our petnames for Mum and Dad) would have tried ninety times, keen to sing the entire Happy Birthday song down the line in a tuneless wail, and assure me that if I didn’t like my present they’d take it back to John Lewis.

  But I’d needed the silence. The memories of Stuart, shoved deep into my subconscious, had sprung from some dark internal attic into broad daylight, stunning me. It had taken me three days to jam them back.

  So far, it had been a peaceful birthday. I’d opened all my cards, all six of them. The older you get, the more meagre your pile of cards. (On his thirtieth Nige sent himself ten enormous cards, as he’d got to know his postman by name and hated the possibility of the man thinking he was unpopular. In fact, Nige devoted so much time and effort into trumpeting the occasion that on the actual day he received thirty-two cards, not including his own.)

  Nick hadn’t sent me anything. But Claw had hinted of a surprise, so perhaps he’d show up at my dinner. Preferably without Elisabeth. I rang Claudia as I was poking through my underwear drawer, trying to locate some celebratory knickers. No one was going to see them, so what did it matter? I couldn’t be arsed (if that was a joke, I apologise) to encase my behind in fancy lingerie for me, even if it was the politically correct choice. I chose granny pants.

  ‘Claw?’

  ‘Birthday girl. How you feeling? Happy bee-day! Issy rang to say Frank can’t make it – work, yawn – but apart from him’ – Claudia said ‘him’ in a disparaging tone, she doesn’t fully trust Fra
nk, she says he’s the kind of man who can wear linen and not look crumpled – ‘everyone’s going to be there, it’s going to be a laugh. What? What? Oh yeah, hang on, Nige wants a word—’

  ‘Hell-o, Sweetness, how are you? Many happy returns from the new star of the Courts ad, as seen on TV! Yes, yes, I know, I can barely believe it. I’m a slut, I really shouldn’t. It tarnishes my art, it’s worse than being an extra – well, darling, the entire point of acting is to be noticed, the entire point of being an extra is not to be noticed – if you’re pure of soul you refuse to do it, but me, I freely admit to being a tart, it’s yet another crime I’ve committed, but tant pis – it’s a rich man’s world! Now remind me, twenty-nine? Remember, until you’re thirty-one, you’re not technically in your thirties. Hugely looking forward to tonight, I plan to dress dramatic, a cheap grey suit and yellow shirt peutêtre, to case myself into the part. I’m just warning you. So we’ll see you at what, seven thirty? Looking forward, big kiss!’

  I was thrilled for Nige, although he was plainly going to be insufferable for the next fortnight. It was impossible not to smile after talking to those two. I rang my parents at Claudia’s, assured them that my chances of survival were high, then spent a glorious chunk of the afternoon reading The Glass Lake by Maeve Binchy. (Like knickers, I believe your reading matter should be chosen for your benefit, not anyone else’s. A good book is a friend to be made yours, to be dropped in the bath, smeared with chocolate crumbs, enjoyed. The most depressing exercise in the world – apart from real exercise, that is – is skimming the Observer’s annual list of pompous people’s holiday reading. Why, not a Jackie Collins or John Grisham among them! It’s all Kafka, Beowulf and The Iliad, untranslated.)

  I finally emerged from the pages of Maeve – like disengaging from a warm hug – and strode to the wardrobe. I hold the world record for time spent standing in front of a wardrobe or fridge, staring into it. An ice age came and went and I picked out a shocking pink halter-neck dress, sixties style. Then I washed my hair, used curling tongs to burn in some bounce, and applied pale pink shimmery lipstick and black and white eyeliner. I assessed my reflection. I looked like Panda Barbie, so I wiped it all off, and changed into black trousers and a brown shirt.