Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  Now, I was the same as them. And when I thought about this, I saw that I’d always treated the members of Girl Meets Boy as children. Little people who couldn’t look after themselves. I’d nurtured them, fussed over them, loved them. I’d felt compassion, empathy even, and I thought I’d respected them and yet . . . I had never regarded them as equals. But now – in a shock of cold understanding – suddenly I did.

  I found my voice.

  ‘Jeremy?’ I said. ‘Accept the offer on the house.’

  Chapter 49

  ‘SATURDAY WEEK IS Nige’s last night,’ said Claw, singing over the babble of Capital Gold. ‘I was thinking of taking Em and Dee. Evening at the theatre and all that. Do you want to come?’

  I sat back on my heels and rubbed my aching shoulder. The first half hour of painting a wall is a thrill. Then, hot pink or no, it becomes mind-numbingly dull. Not as dull, however, as a Saturday night in front of the TV.

  In the last year of our relationship, Nick and I had spent an alarming number of our Saturday nights in this way. It would have been fine if we’d nipped to the bedroom between Blind Date and Inspector Frost and ravished each other, but we didn’t. Now I was single, there was no question of any ravishing (unless I ravished myself, which took three minutes and was about as satisfying as a lettuce salad) and this felt nearly as bad. If I plot my way through more than one evening a week via television programmes, I get the sense of my life draining away. Partner or not.

  ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Claw, ‘because they keep hinting about getting together. They worry about you, you know.’

  I knew. After I’d told them about Stuart, my normally unpushy parents had become clingy. I’d mentioned it to Issy, who said she’d only seen this behaviour once before, when Eden was born. Dad had taken to ringing me every night at ten, to see ‘how things were’. I would then be obliged to talk. He would listen, in complete silence, with not so much as a ‘really?’ or an ‘mm-hmm’ to encourage me, and I’d keep thinking that either he or the line was dead. I love my father but he has no idea how to conduct a decent telephone conversation. As Woody Allen once said about being sent flowers, ‘the onus is all on the receiver’.

  Mum was as bad. She’d ring at 8 a.m. and wake me up. A flurry of ‘how are you feeling’s would ensue. Then, because I always felt rotten at eight in the morning, I wouldn’t sound as chipper as her mental barometer required, and she’d start to panic and fall into a posting frenzy. One week I received: a fat series of clippings from the Guardian women’s page on Rohypnol, serial rapists and other jolly tales, each sentient phrase dotted with a pink fluorescent asterisk; a rape alarm and a can of hairspray; a huge bottle of vitamin pills and The SAS Urban Survival Handbook; a pink T-shirt nightie from M&S (presumably, to kill any man’s sexual urge on sight). Because my mother didn’t wish to ‘intrude’, she never sent any notes with these parcels, so it was like having a stalker.

  Parental pressure was only alleviated by a call from Michael Mortimer, three days after the offer on the house.

  ‘Good news, Holly,’ he barked. ‘The case Caroline Keats rang you about? The CPS have seen sense and brought charges against that swine, Marshall.’

  If Michael Mortimer hadn’t been Michael Mortimer I would have screamed. Instead, I said, ‘They have?’

  ‘And you can rest assured that their decision to prosecute was partly down to you.’

  ‘It was?’

  ‘Certainly. The police report would have mentioned that there had been a previous allegation.’

  I paused, to see if he wanted to say anything else, but Michael was not a man who wasted words.

  ‘Is there,’ I ventured, ‘a date?’

  Michael said there was and mentioned which court. I scribbled it in my diary.

  ‘Do you plan to attend?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied.

  ‘Think carefully, Holly,’ he said, his tone soft.

  I nodded at the phone. It would be wonderful to watch justice being done. But what if justice wasn’t done? If I attended his trial, would I be letting Stuart back into my head? I was doing so well. After ruling my inner life for so long, he was receding to a dot in my mind’s eye. And I’d made him recede. A tormentor rarely recedes of their own accord. I decided to wait till nearer the time, and see how I felt.

  ‘How’s Nick?’ I said, to change the subject.

  New life entered Michael’s voice. ‘Marvellous. Bit of a shock to the system, having the son and heir back at home . . . but marvellous. When the exchange on your house goes through, he’ll start looking for a flat. What are your plans, my dear?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll be looking for a flat too.’

  I’d been putting it off. The thought of going back to a flat after living in a house made my heart sink. If your toilet stopped flushing, twenty-seven faceless people might be responsible, and you’d have to put in fourteen calls to the alcoholic porter (who, you suspected, spied on you with one hand on his binoculors, the other on his willy), who would in turn put in a call to the managing agents, who were like the worst sort of strict parents, rules coming out of their ears, no sense of humour, always wanting money off you. Ten days later, your toilet might be fixed.

  ‘Pity,’ said Michael.

  I tried not to think about the pity of Nick and me, and to concentrate on the pleasing fact of Stuart’s prosecution. I rang Claudia, Issy and my parents, told them the good news. And I hoped that Stuart’s parents knew and were ashamed of him. My parents, who had had less occasion to study the British justice system than I had, were delighted. In the following weeks, they adjusted their fussing to second gear. The parcels and phone calls became less frequent.

  ‘Claw,’ I said. ‘Shall we invite Issy and Frank too? They’d love to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Or at least, they’d love to say that they’d seen it. We could invite Rach as well. She’s probably already going, but it would be nice to all go together.’

  ‘It would be worth having Rach along just so I can hear her say “Would anyone like a can of Diet Cake?”’ said Claw. She grinned. ‘You’re thinking safety in numbers, aren’t you?’ She had a smear of azure blue across her cheek, and a blob of hot pink in her hair, and she still looked glamorous. Like a woman in an advert. Whereas I looked like a woman who had been painting a wall.

  ‘I’m being sociable, Claudia,’ I replied, laughing.

  She hesitated. ‘Tell you what, I’ll ask Mum and Dad if they want to invite some friends too. Then we can all descend on Nige in a great big rowdy group, and if Em and Dee have friends with them, they’ll have to restrain any urge to mollycoddle their middle child. How about that?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  I looked at the clock. Eleven twenty-seven. ‘Tea break?’

  Claw carefully laid her paintbrush across the top of the tin. ‘Hol! You’d make the worst sort of decorator! Tea break every five minutes, skiving off for your nan’s funeral every second day. If it was down to you the quickest job would take a month.’

  I prayed she’d submit to my plaintive expression, and she did. ‘Oh, go on then. I’ll carry on, you go back to sitting on your arse.’

  Trying not to smirk, I removed my overalls and skipped to the Ladies to wash the emulsion off my hands. I sat at my desk, and tore at the first of the morning’s pile of applications – most of which were addressed to me – with relief.

  My gaze settled halfway down the page.

  Describe your perfect night in. ‘Naomi Campbell and Claudia Schiffer coming round in nurse’s uniforms to run me a nice hot bath, cook me dinner and make me feel special before tucking me in to bed and kissing me good night.’

  I scrutinised the accompanying photo. A pale thin guy with glasses, dressed in a toga. Or rather, a sheet, masquerading as a toga. Jim Dillon his name was.

  Under bad habits, he’d written ‘I squeeze the toothpaste from the top’.

  Under Your greatest asset, he’d put ‘My creativity’.

 
; I doubt it, I thought. Then I turned the page and saw that under talents he’d scrawled, ‘wooing women’.

  I took it back.

  Jim Dillon seemed fine, if average. Average jokes, average looks, average desires. ‘A man’ – to quote Jane Austen – ‘whom any woman, not fastidious, might like.’

  I felt a curiously personal sense of disappointment. Try harder, I wanted to say. Be funnier. But then, Holly, I told myself, we aren’t looking for a match for you. There are plenty – well, a few – women who would find your ideal man a nightmare. And Mr Dillon charming. I put his letter aside, and opened the next envelope.

  Describe your perfect night in. ‘A nice meal, a cuddle on the sofa. More cuddling. Unless it’s a night in with my mates.’

  I smiled at the page. Flicked to the photo. Oof. Maybe it was a bad photo.

  Dislikes. ‘People who use the word “lush”. Women who describe themselves as “bubbly”.’

  I smiled again. Flicked to the photo again. This was supposed to be an agency for the cute, and this man had a cute mind. I was certain it was a bad photo. It was taken in a booth, and he had deep set eyes – the stark lighting made him look like a criminal.

  Under talents, he’d put ‘Hell, yes’.

  Under Do you smoke? he’d written ‘as if my life depended on it’.

  I tipped back in my chair and surveyed Claudia’s work. Why was I tense about being single when there were men like this out there?

  I zipped through a few more applications.

  ‘How’s it going there?’ said Claw, as I ripped open the last envelope.

  ‘Good,’ I replied. ‘We’ve got some good people.’

  I scanned the final letter. This one certainly rated himself. He’d printed the application form off our website – thank you, Nick – and the typing under talents took up half a page.

  ‘I am an enigmatic figure,’ it began, ‘often seen scaling walls and saving whales. I write award-winning sonnets. I can peel an avocado using only the toes of my right foot. I know the precise location of every item in the supermarket. I wow women worldwide with my lyrical and sensuous oboe-playing. I sleep once a week and when I sleep I sleep standing up. I can chat in Latin. I don’t perspire. Governments beg me to solve their problems; often, I refuse. I have swum with dolphins and spoken with Elvis . . .’

  Reluctant as I was to stop reading, I had to. The millisecond it took to flip over to the photo stretched to an hour. And – there was no photo. I felt irked. How dare you? How dare you be so funny, clever, and – look at this man, Jim Dillon, this is what you should aspire to! – implicitly gorgeous, and not provide visual corroboration. I shuffled the pages clumsily, searching for a contact number. Then I took a deep breath and placed his application on the desk in front of me. What was I doing? My engagement was barely cold in its grave! Oh, but this man. What a jewel. He’d seduced me in two minutes via remote control. I shivered to think what he might do in person. Then, said my conscience sternly, you should do your job and introduce him to the legions of trusting women who have coughed up two hundred pounds for you to find them love. You ought to be ashamed, plotting to skim off the cream for yourself!

  But, I argued. I get this man. I get his sense of humour, the way he thinks.

  Look what happened with Stuart.

  Please. That was uncalled for.

  I sighed. I could only hope he only went for skinny six-foot blondes. Then I’d be saved from myself. I crumpled the paper in my haste to find what he’d said under Your ideal woman.

  ‘Caring, clever, serious, crazy, funny, sarcastic, attractive but not interested that she is, compassionate, tactile, romantic, sexy. A woman who inspires and excites me. A woman with whom I will enjoy growing old, but with whom I can act like a toddler if I wish. A woman who, whenever I see her, takes my breath away with her incredible beauty, inside and out. A woman who is at peace with herself, who will let me be myself . . .’

  ‘Mmgrrff!’

  Claudia looked up. ‘You alright, Hol?’

  ‘Paint fumes,’ I sniffed, thinking please don’t pursue it or I’m going to howl.

  I scanned the top of the page. The berk hadn’t put his name in the box. I felt, I imagined, like the Prince on realising that Cinders had scarpered.

  Heart thumping, I flicked to the bottom of the second page. There was his name. I read it, twice, and blinked.

  ‘Nick Mortimer.’

  Chapter 50

  WHEN ISSY AND Frank bought their first mansion, it was exactly what they wanted. Five bedrooms, large garden, an impressive address. And they paid for the privilege, of course they did. I presumed that Issy, triumphant in her stately new home, would be glad to stop reading all the highly embellished details of inferior properties for sale in the local rag. But no. She continued to scrutinise the section from cover to cover. And I realised she was comparing – to see how well they’d done on price. If she saw the mirage of a bargain basement, it would ruin her day. I saw it as resisting happiness. And what is the point in that?

  When I read Nick’s name, signed in his usual scrawl, I was furious. What? Did he want me to pimp for him? I felt tricked. And hurt, as if he was laying out his wares, parading his freedom, in front of me but not for me. I was about to jump up and bleat to Claudia, when something stopped me. (I got as far as jerking in my chair.) I could take this the wrong way, assume the very worst. Or . . .

  I snatched at the envelope. He had addressed it to me. Where was my sense of optimism? Come to that, where was my sense? The old Holly was forever being teased by Nick for her sunshine outlook on the world. Now, I was more cautious. But green shoots of the old me were growing amid the rubble and I couldn’t help wonder at how thin the line between caution and idiocy. Like most of us, I’d been knocked about a bit by life and yet I realised my instinct was – still was – to think the best of people. I didn’t want to be like Issy, stubborn against the chance of happiness. I wanted this to be a love letter.

  So maybe it was.

  I rang Rachel. ‘You will, of course,’ I said, ‘be attending your darling’s last night of glory?’

  ‘Babes,’ she replied. ‘Every night I attend to Nige is a night of glory, hah hah!’ Faced with silence, she simmered down. ‘Oh, babes, silly me, you mean his play!’

  Why hadn’t I guessed those two were made for each other? They were frightful in exactly the same way.

  ‘I do, and the plan is that we all go. Me, Claw, Camille, Issy, Frank, my parents. You.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like being tacked on the end of a list, babes,’ she replied in a jovial manner that I had no time for.

  ‘Ha ha funny, well you’re not. I want you to tack Nick on the end of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  That was the trouble with Rachel. I think it ran in her family. They rarely performed to expectation. They were posh and rich and yet Mummy and Daddy dressed like tramps. They were thoroughbred English, yet seemed to have lost the national trait of reserve around the time Drake sent the Armada packing.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I just want you to invite him. In fact, I demand it.’

  Rachel’s gravelly voice came rasping down the phone like a nailfile being scraped.

  ‘Babes, you aren’t going to do anything tacky like ask him to marry you in front of the entire audience are you?’

  I blushed to the bone.

  ‘Oh bloody hell, Rachel, yes I was going to, actually!’ I could hardly get the words out. I hate when you have a secret and people guess it. It’s so rude. And it makes you look so unoriginal.

  ‘I think we can do better,’ she said.

  We?

  For once in my life, I decided to do the girl thing and prepare for my proposal. I even had a facial. It was as bad as I remembered. At various points, the mortician, sorry, beautician tried to choke me in steam then suffocate me under a tissue. A succession of creams were patted on and patted off and the torture was interminable. As a finale she tapped all over my face with her finger pads as if tryi
ng to unlock a secret doorway. I tried to look grateful but my reflex thought was ‘this is bullshit’.

  By the time Saturday came, despite the hydrated skin, I was constipated with fear. My parents had chosen to invite Lavinia and Michael. Nige and Rach were in on the plan – by necessity – but this only made me more uptight. And the plan? Having rejected the ‘tackiness’ of proposing to Nick in front of a huge audience, we’d decided that I’d wait for everyone to disperse after the show. Claudia, Camille, Issy, Frank, Nick and both sets of parents would remain in their seats, having been told that Nige was going to grandly descend from backstage and chaperone them to the after-show party. Then the curtain would rise, I’d appear and pop the question.

  It could, of course, end in disaster, with Nick shouting ‘No!’ and running out of the auditorium. Secretly, I thought it would have been rather romantic to have proposed in front of a huge crowd of people I didn’t know. Romance is only tacky to those not emotionally involved in it. If the feeling behind the action is genuine, heart-shaped balloons and giant teddy bears are the most beautiful gestures in the world. Of course, if Nick did shout ‘No!’ and run out of the auditorium, I’d look a fool, but that’s also a part of romance – running the risk of looking a fool because love is all and you’d do anything for it.

  Nige summoned me to his dressing room just before curtain up, to ‘run through the plan’.

  ‘I look at you,’ I said, ‘and I feel I should have worn more make-up.’

  The painted one laughed and fluttered his eyelashes. He was surrounded by good luck cards and bottles of champagne and bouquets of flowers and was in his element. A familiar red shawl draped across the window hid the dead pigeon.

  ‘You look divine, sweetheart. So you know what to do? The second the curtain falls, Peggy, the utter dear’ – the 93-year-old usher who had led me to Nige’s dressing room – ‘will be waiting for you. She’ll lead you to backstage left. Then you walk to centre stage, wait for the curtain to rise, and give our Nick the fright – sorry – the night of his life!’