Lessons in Duck Hunting

by Jayne Buxton

  I’ve never done that before. All the times I’ve stood here knowing that David was fresh from seeing some other woman, or about to fall into bed with one, and it never occurred to me to fabricate a love interest of my own, just to save face. Suddenly it seems the most natural thing in the world. It’s not even a real lie. I may not be going out with anyone tomorrow night, but I do have a date with Gary next Friday, and I did just have dinner with Alan. It would be fair to say that I am going out with men. Two different ones in the space of less than two weeks; a third if I can possibly manage it.

  David is looking at me curiously. I wonder if I am radiating something, like a confidence he doesn’t like perhaps. The thought fills me with a self-satisfied warmth. Or perhaps it’s just that I have something on my nose. I give it a surreptitious wipe with the tip of my finger just in case.

  Millie reemerges with her bag and stands beside Jack looking eager. I’ve been waiting for her to express her customary concern about my being abandoned to a lonely weekend, but so far she’s said nothing. Could it be that I am emitting some kind of inappropriate glee at the prospect of two days on my own? Or is it my self-congratulatory frame of mind and newly acquired sense of power that’s coming across?

  “Right then. Let’s go!” says David. “We’ve got pizza to have now, and tomorrow is movie night.”

  They make a comic sight, all trying to squeeze through the front door together, jostling with unruly suitcases and provoking a precarious wobble from the little potted bay tree on the front step. It’s true. I’m not really sorry to see them go. Something’s come alive in me this week, something completely unconnected with family, home and hearth. I can’t put my finger on it, exactly, but it isn’t at all unpleasant, and I’m not going to discourage it.

  MEL IS THE first to arrive. We’ve planned it this way so that she can quiz me on my impressions of the past ten days before everyone else arrives. She’s sitting at the kitchen table now, pen in hand, while I attempt the creation of homemade salsa from some tomatoes and mango. Fresh limes are also required, but I neglected to put them on my shopping list so the remains of the lime cordial bottle will have to suffice.

  “So, let’s start at the beginning. Tell me what you thought about the seminar itself? Did you hate it? Did you want to crawl under your chair? Wallop Marina Boyd with her own microphone perhaps?”

  “Well . . .” I pause, trying to remember the exact sequence of the thoughts and emotions I was experiencing a week ago last Tuesday. “I think I did hate it at first. Or maybe hate is too strong a word. But I was convinced that I was above it, that I would find it quite appalling. And I went into the room with all of my skeptical armor on. More like an observer really. A bit like you.”

  “Right. And then what?” urges Mel.

  “And then I think I realized that the people in the room weren’t freaks. They looked more or less like your normal, average group of women. Like a cross section of the people you might see at the supermarket, or the school gates.”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupts Mel. “You’re telling me you didn’t spot the horror in the fishnet tights and the red boots? Or the one with all that orange foundation? And what about that Caroline woman, the one who’s given up all pretense of living a real life so that she can hunt down a husband on a full-time basis?”

  “Oh, I know. There were a few extreme sorts. People you know are never going to be your best friends. But for the most part I thought they were quite normal.”

  “Right, so what next? What did you think then?” Mel sits back with her glass of wine in her hand, waiting for the pearls to drop from my mouth.

  “Well, I listened to what Marina had to say, and I think I didn’t take it in at first. It sounded a little contrived to me. I really can’t stand all that stuff about the eight Ps—all that marketing terminology. And I found the whole business of sitting in the small group talking about how committed to the course we were to be truly painful. I wasn’t ready for that at all. But, the next bit I was sort of taken in by.”

  “Which bit was that?” Mel is sitting up straighter now, with pen poised.

  “The bit about burying your baggage. It made sense to me that you can’t move on in life until you’ve fully accepted the things that are getting in the way, or eradicated them. Whatever. And you know, I came home and tried that baggage-burying exercise the very next night.”

  “Yeah, so you said. I thought you were joking.” Mel is incredulous. I don’t know what she was expecting. She knows I’m someone who has to do something properly once I’m committed to it. Surely that’s why she picked me for her little charade.

  “Well, I wasn’t,” I say, squeezing the last of the mango juice from the flesh around the stone. “I actually put David in a box— David and the whole idea of us being a family, all that romantic, idealistic stuff—and went outside and buried it. I felt really, really sad. So sad that I cried for at least ten minutes, which is saying something because it was bloody freezing that night. But I also felt relieved. Like I’d made a decision, or gotten rid of something.”

  “Wow. All that from digging a hole and burying a box?”

  “I guess so. Anyway, then I decided to get going on the rest of the homework. You remember our instructions? We were supposed to organize this party—which as you can see, I did—and organize three practice dates with inappropriate men. Duck Decoys, she calls them.”

  “Yeah. I thought you were joking about that too.” Mel is clearly stunned by my conscientiousness.

  “Nope. Perfectly serious. I went out with this friend of my brother’s, whom I’d originally said no to. He’s forty-two, with two girls. Nice bloke but not my type. Then—and you’ll never believe this—I invited an electrician over under the pretense of needing him to fix my lights, and I flirted shamelessly until he asked me out. We’re going out next Friday.” My sense of triumph is undisguised.

  “That’s shocking!” Mel exclaims.

  “Wait, it gets better.” I’m having a really good time now. I can’t remember the last time I had stories like this to tell Mel and Clara. Have I ever had stories like this to tell?

  “At one point, we were standing here in the kitchen, about ten feet apart, just staring at each other. And there was this tension, a sort of heat, just like you see in films when two perfect strangers are about to hurl themselves at each other.”

  “It’s called lust, Ally. You didn’t, did you?”

  “No. I restrained myself. I wasn’t about to have sex with someone I hardly know on my kitchen floor before noon on a Friday. But it sure was a great feeling.”

  “My God, Ally. I don’t know whether to congratulate you or be ashamed for you.” I can tell by her expression that she is not ashamed. This is a funny tightrope we women insist on walking where sex is concerned—enveloping the telling of our sexual desires and exploits in the good girl’s modesty.

  “And you know, the best feeling was not all that desire swilling around between us, but the knowledge that I had made it happen. I felt like I’d been let loose from something. I think that for the past two years I’ve been so focused on keeping my depleted little family going that I’ve been keeping everything all tightly wrapped up, in case anyone should come in and mess it all up. I’m sure I must have been sending off smoke signals that spelled Stay away. Not interested.”

  Mel smiles a self-satisfied smile. Is this something she’s been wanting to tell me for some time?

  “Brilliant. So what about the third duck person?”

  “The third one I haven’t managed to snare yet. But I have one in mind, a lovely American who I’ve bumped into a few times around here. I actually engineered one of our encounters last Saturday—saw him walking along toward the park and practically dragged Jack and Millie there. I’m not sure about him—he’s still recovering from the loss of his wife and he must be pretty raw. But one date wouldn’t hurt. Trouble is, I haven’t seen him again since our accidental park meeting.”

  “Hell of a result, Al
ly,” says Mel, sipping gingerly from her almost empty glass and offering the bottle to me. “I am so impressed.”

  “And I haven’t even been rebranded yet. Imagine what I’ll be able to accomplish then?”

  “And don’t forget the telemarketing. There will be no stopping you once she gets you going on that next week!”

  “Don’t remind me,” I groan, suddenly remembering the parts of Marina’s program of action that most repel me. A spot of successful flirting might have given me a high, but I’m certain I’m not up to the challenge of creating direct mail and telemarketing campaigns for myself. That might be the stage when Marina and I are forced to part company.

  “Anyway,” says Mel. “I have some news of my own. Are you sitting comfortably?”

  “I am now,” I say, plonking myself opposite her.

  “I’m pregnant!” she squeals, with a girlish hunch of her shoulders.

  I leap from my chair and around the table to give her a hug. Mel’s eyes are already moist, and it proves to be catching.

  This is stunning news. Mel has never really expressed a burning desire for children. She and Dom love their slightly disheveled, bohemian life so much, going to out-of-the way music clubs until late at night, sleeping in until late on weekends, taking weekend breaks at a moment’s notice. They always said they might have children someday, but with Dom being so relaxed and Mel so frenetic and disorganized it just never seemed that someday would arrive. And now it has.

  “Yeah, just when I’ve decided to get all ambitious and fight for an editor’s job. I’ve always had great timing,” she says, but her disgruntlement is transparently shallow. She is clearly thrilled.

  Mel and I stand holding each other for a minute. Then a realization comes over both of us, and we say simultaneously, “Don’t tell Clara.”

  CHAPTER 22

  BRANDING ALLY

  Mel, Lisa, Sara and George are all seated in my sitting room, sampling my homemade salsa and the store-bought hummus when Clara comes into the room. My plan had been to introduce Clara as the life-coach-in-training, but suddenly I don’t see the point. If I can send out predatory signals to an electrician I’ve met only once before, I can surely handle the ridicule and outrage that could result from my telling the truth about this evening.

  “Clara, this is George, Lisa, Sara, and of course you know Mel. Everyone, this is Clara, one of my oldest friends.”

  Everyone raises glasses to Clara, who takes a seat on the fauxsuede poof by the fireplace. Then I take a deep breath and continue.

  “Clara is a successful management consultant with absolutely no desire to become a life-coach. As a matter of fact, I’ve brought you all here under false pretenses. The truth is, I’m taking part in a series of seminars that are supposed to help me find a great man, and I’m required to hold an evening like this to sort of repackage and rebrand me in readiness for the whole exercise. The woman who runs these seminars believes in applying business principles to the search for romance.”

  George looks startled. I feel bad that I’ve forced him to get to grips with a newfangled concept like life-coaching only to deny him the pleasure of experiencing it firsthand. Now he’s being asked to take in the fact that there are businesslike courses for women who want to find husbands. I rush to reassure him.

  “Actually, George, you are part of the reason I decided to attend these seminars. Do you remember when you told me about Francesca, the client who’s taken her romantic life into her own hands? Who refuses to let life pass her by? Well, when Mel here asked me if I’d attend these seminars and allow her to write about my experience for her magazine, I remembered your Francesca and thought Why not? Why not help Mel get her story and maybe learn a few things along the way?”

  “Well, I for one am relieved you’ve come clean,” says Clara. “I’m not sure I’d have been capable of keeping up appearances beyond the first half hour.”

  “My goodness, Ally. You little liar. I should wash your mouth out weeth hair dye for thees!” scolds George. He’s over the initial shock of the deception and on the way to enjoying this with his usual spiritedness.

  “You are one brave woman, Ally,” says Sara. “I saw a channel four documentary about these sorts of seminars. They are scary!”

  It’s only Lisa who’s holding back now. She’s squinting at me from the other side of the room.

  “So, Lisa, what do you think? Are you game to help me and Mel?”

  Lisa leaves an uncomfortable gap before responding. “Well, of course I’ll help, if that’s what you want. But to be honest I find the whole thing laughable. Why would you need a course, or a book or anything else for that matter, to find yourself a decent man? The whole thing is nonsense. And the idea of changing yourself for the sake of a man is just repugnant.”

  She’s never been one to pull her punches, Lisa. Unless, of course, you count remaining silent and compliant for a year while her boyfriend finds new excuses to hide her from his mother.

  “I know it is. I know. That’s exactly what I thought. But I’m more relaxed about it now. Believe it or not, some of what this woman has to say makes sense, and I’ve found it useful. The rest of the stuff, we’ll just have fun with for the sake of Mel’s article. Right, Mel?”

  “Right. Only you’re all sworn to secrecy about who Ally really is. We’re going to use the pseudonym Francesca,” she says, smiling at George.

  “Wonderful,” purrs George.

  Mel gets up and starts offering around the salsa and chips while I refill empty glasses. Lisa’s disapproval is almost palpable, but I’m hoping she’ll be carried along by the others’ enthusiasm. She’ll soon see that it’s only a bit of harmless fun.

  Clara then hands out the notes I’d faxed her earlier in the week when I was still intending to position her as the one in charge. The first page of the notes contains guidelines about what, exactly, is in the frame for a repackaging session. The list is pretty daunting, even for me, who’s seen it before. It contains twenty-five items, including makeup, jewelry, clothing (formal and casual wear), perfume and posture. Even my breath and laugh are up for grabs. Lord knows where we will start. Or who will have the courage to start.

  I’m suddenly reminded that I’m the one who needs the courage. With all the excitement of the past week, and the chat with Mel, I’d managed to ignore the fact that I’m due to come in for something of a drubbing this evening. I might even get my feelings hurt. I console myself with the thought that it will be better to be told about my glaring faults now than to continue on blissfully unaware of them for another twenty years.

  George, God bless him, starts us off. “You know I theenk you are perfect, Ally. Een almost every way. I find eet very hard to tell you to change anytheeng.”

  But. There is a big but coming.

  “But,” he continues. “I theenk you could use a stronger scent. Or more of the one you use. I hardly ever smell perfume on you, and I am standing preety close.”

  What a relief. If we’d started out with a revelation about halitosis I’m not sure I’d have coped. But too little perfume? That I can handle. I could even say to George that the reason he can’t smell my perfume is because his senses have been dulled by daily exposure to hair spray fumes.

  I’m unsure as to what to do next. Clearly, there is a need for some sort of facilitator for this session after all, and I glance at Clara imploringly. She picks up the baton, in her usual take-charge manner.

  “So, does anyone else agree with George? Could Ally do more with her perfume? Or do with more perfume?”

  The others give the impression of deep thought, then Sara says, “Well, I’m not one to talk. I always smell like baby spew. But now that you mention it, I’ve never noticed any perfume on Ally. I don’t think it would hurt. Charles always notices when I smell nice, and I always mean to put perfume on. But I usually forget.”

  I’ve worn Chanel No. 19 for fifteen years. I’ve tried other perfumes—the Kenzos, and Josephs and Poisons—but always found th
em cloying. Chanel is light, and delicate and pretty, Number 19 even more than Number 5 or Coco. I’m not willing to give it up. But I will consider indulging in the eau de parfum instead of the less expensive eau de toilette if greater impact is required.

  “Good. I like that idea.” I announce. I want them to know I am open to suggestions. There’s nothing worse than someone who asks for feedback then sulks upon receipt of it.

  Clara, having been redesignated chairperson, tries to keep the conversation flowing. “So, any feedback from anyone else?”

  Again, Sara pipes up. She’s really entering into this. Perhaps she’d like this done to her next.

  “Well, again, I’m really not one to talk, because I hang around in old tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts all the time. But then again, I’m not trying to meet Mr. Right. So I would say, Ally, that perhaps you need to invest in some really nice, new casual wear. Tracksuit bottoms are fine, but what about something with a bit of an edge. And a pair of those DKNY trainers with the stripes? I just think it would help if you looked a little jazzed up even when you’re being a slob.”

  She’s right, of course. She and I occasionally go for long pseudo-aerobic walks on the common (a large part of the aerobic aspect consisting of our constant chatter), and I inevitably put on my oldest clothes. I’ve tended to reserve what little there is of my clothes budget for work wear and smart weekend wear like my Max Mara sweater. But now that I have £1000 to spend, I really should splurge on some nice sloppy wear.

  “Yup. I like that idea too,” I say to everyone. “Those blue horrors are going straight in the bin after you all leave.” I’m a makeover party dream. Has there ever been anyone so amenable to constructive criticism?

  “And you know what?” says Mel, who I’d thought wasn’t supposed to be a participant in this process. “I would try to lose that bit of weight you keep moaning about. You are pretty damn good for thirty-seven, Ally, and if you weren’t going out there dating again I would say, don’t bother. But those extra pounds tend to sit right on the stomach, just above the jeans. Believe me, I know from experience. And you just don’t want to have to worry about them when you contemplate flinging your clothes off and making love with some near stranger on the kitchen floor.”