by Jayne Buxton
“I’d better get going. Got some prep to do for a shoot in the morning,” he says.
“Okay. It was nice to see you, wasn’t it, guys?” I say, turning to Jack and Millie.
They both agree that it was, and give David hugs. Then I walk him out into the hall. He shrugs on the jacket he’s left hanging over the banister, a beaten up brown leather thing I’ve always loved.
When he’s opened the door and I think I’m about to see the last of him, he turns around and places his hand on my upper arm and gives it a squeeze. He’s not touched me for two years, so the effect is the same as if he’s pulled me toward him and pressed my hips to his. I can hardly speak. I don’t speak. He smiles and says good-bye and I stand and watch him go.
When he’s out of sight and I’m shutting the door I look down and see a slim white envelope. It must have been shoved through the mail drop this afternoon. I pick it up and open it to find a handwritten note.
Ally
Thought it would be nice to get together for co fee or something. Will you call me?
Tom
0208 947 8891
I exhale noisily, suddenly aware that I’ve been holding my breath. I don’t know if I’m delirious with happiness or terrified. Is it possible to be both? None of this is supposed to be happening. I’d not anticipated any of it, and now it’s all happening at once.
And there I was thinking that all that lay ahead of me was a series of unwanted dinners with a fireplace guru and continuous propositioning by someone with a nurse fetish.
PART 3
CHAPTER 30
PEP TALK
There’s nothing more certain to engender weight loss than stress and lovesickness. I seem to be suffering from a peculiar combination of the two, and have shed four pounds in the past week, most of which has disappeared since Friday. Visceral sensations associated with intense libidinousness, followed by enormous surprise and thwarted hopes: 2 pounds; worry about impending lunch with ex: 1 pound; shock at receiving loving gaze and arm squeeze from ex, followed by astonishment at discovery of note from man earlier pronounced not interested: 1 pound. Then there’s the fact that I left nearly all of my linguine untouched on Friday.
Of course, stress is far too strong a word for what I’ve experienced this past week. A heightened sense of both excitement and trepidation in the face of the new freneticism that seems to have taken over my life would be more accurate. And newfound love isn’t quite right either. I’ve felt the faintest stirrings of an old love, and the hint of something like a new crush. But the combination of all of this is pretty potent, and means I most definitely won’t be needing Weight Watchers.
There’s so much going on in my head and my life right now that I don’t know how I’d cope with another half dozen dating opportunities. Which is why I’ve been revisiting Mel’s e-mail all morning but doing nothing about it. She’s sent me the names of the top three online dating sites, as recommended by people she trusts. There’s one I recognize from its frequent appearance in my in-box: Us Together.com. The two others are Find Your Match.com and Perfect Partnership.com. I wouldn’t know how to choose among them on the basis of any rational criteria, so I opt for PerfectPartnership.com because it starts with a P, and there’s a certain symmetry to that.
Just before lunch I log on to PerfectPartnership.com and begin the lengthy registration process. I know it’s probably breaking some sort of rule to use my work PC for this, but it feels safer somehow. Anyway, I plan to de-register just as soon as I’ve given it enough of a fair shake for Mel to be able to report on it. I’ve spent most of Me’s £1000, so I feel obligated to keep up the appearance of a Program devotee at least.
I’m stumped at the first hurdle, being unable to fill in the box marked NAME. You’re not supposed to use your own name, for obvious reasons, so most people seem to choose pseudonyms that communicate one of three things: funny, cute, or outrageously suggestive. My branding party has left me ill equipped for this, as nothing we came up with seems suitable as a shorthand reference to me. So I fall back on an old faithful and type “Francesca” into the box.
I then fill in all the routine boxes covering age, height, hair color, occupation and so on, before finding myself confronted with an intimidating white space into which I am supposed to type a fiftyword summary of myself. I suppose this would be the perfect opportunity to attach a digital version of my flyer, but I don’t have one and am not likely to ever create one. So I’m forced to write something from scratch. My first attempt is so dull even I am tempted to lie down while reading it. It makes something like intellectual, Catholic, dental hygienist look appealing.
I’M FRANCESCA, A THIRTY-SEVEN-YEAR OLD SINGLE MOTHER WITH TWO YOUNG CHILDREN. I WORK IN MARKETING, AND MY HOBBIES ARE COOKING, HORSE RIDING AND SKIING. I AM FIT AND HEALTHY, AND ENJOY WORKING OUT. I ALSO ENJOY GOING TO THEATER AND EATING OUT; MY FAVORITE FOODS ARE JAPANESE AND ITALIAN.
I’ve taken huge license with the hobbies. The last time I skied I was twenty-eight; these days the only things I seem to cook are fish fingers and sausages, interspersed with the occasional roast for guests—I certainly don’t spend my evenings poring over cookbooks dreaming up menu combinations; and horse riding, while once a passion, is something I manage to do about twice a year. Anyway, who has time for hobbies when they’re working and looking after two children? Surely the best people can manage is doing something they enjoy—and that can’t be classified as either work or childcare—very occasionally.
Perhaps the secret is to say less. Or to underplay your qualities and accomplishments. That way you weed out all the earnest types, and the ones looking for a trophy date. I try again.
FRANCESCA. CLEANS UP REASONABLY WELL. DAUGHTER THINKS AM QUITE CLEVER AT LEAST. NO TIME FOR HOBBIES AS HAVE TWO CHILDREN AND JOB, BUT WOULD ONE DAY LOVE TO SPEND WINTERS SKIING AND SUMMERS RIDING HORSES. WOULD LIKE TO BE ACCOMPLISHED COOK, BUT DAILY EXPOSURE TO NURSERY FOOD AND SEVERE WEEKDAY TIME SHORTAGE HAVE DULLED ONCE PROMISING TALENTS.
That’s better. Anyone who responds to that will have to be halfway decent. There’s not the slightest indication of attainment, and no hint of any intimate action on offer. It should serve my purposes perfectly. I enter my credit card details and press the send button with crossed fingers.
For lunch, I decide to make do with a quick sandwich from Emilia’s Cafe so that I can spend the time running errands. The most crucial one on the list is a trip to Dixons to find out why all my photos are dingy and indecipherable. I know it must be something to do with the indoor/outdoor settings, or the night-flash option, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to rectify the problem.
The helpful chap on the small digital appliances counter, who is identified by his name tag as Don, informs me that, yes, I’ve erroneously been taking indoor photos with the outdoor/nighttime option activated. But there is more. Apparently I’ve got my resolution all wrong. Resolution? Yes, it needs to be at 240 rather than 125. Ahh. Would you like me to change it for you? Yes please, I’d be grateful.
As Don fiddles with the resolution he compliments me on my camera. “This is a beaut,” he says. “My brother has one. He lives in Canada now. Sends me the most spectacular photos of the Rockies and all that.”
“Canada? How wonderful,” I respond politely.
“Yeah. Loves it there. He used to live here, but he met this Canadian girl and that was that. Been there seven years. He met her on the Internet, you know.”
All these years I’ve never actually known anyone who even availed themselves of Internet dating sites. And now here I am, fresh from sending in my own profile, and the first person I get talking to actually knows someone for whom the Internet resulted in happy-ever-after.
“Really?” I say. “That’s amazing. How did that work then?”
“They just got connected through one of those chat rooms, and started writing to one another. Then after about two months, she invited him out there. He knew it was a big risk. I mean he’d never met her or anything, only
seen a picture. But he went. Says it was the best thing he’s ever done.” My new friend hands me back my adjusted camera with a small flourish and a wide smile that forces his cheeks into two pink balls that press up against his round, steel-framed glasses. “Doesn’t always work out like that though, does it? It’s a pretty risky business. I’m divorced five years, but it’s certainly not something I’d want to do.”
“No. Me neither,” I say, placing the camera in my bag. “Anyway, thanks a lot for fixing this. My photo albums would have been filled with sinister-looking pictures otherwise.”
“Pleasure. Anytime. I’m always here.”
Don’s words are ringing in my ear as I leave the shop. Internet dating might have worked miracles for Don’s brother, but there’s no denying its riskiness. It’s too late to retract my registration now, but that doesn’t mean I actually have to respond to any of the messages I receive. The delete button could prove to be the handiest dating tool I’ve yet deployed.
Anyway, who really needs Internet dating sights when there are people like Don who are willing to enter into conversation over the counter of an electrical goods shop? It’s seemed to me over the past few weeks that the world is full of people like that. If you were interested in a man like Don you would have no trouble engineering a date with him. All you’d have to do would be to turn up at Dixons with a faulty appliance once a week and he’d soon get the hint. Or, if yours is the Starbucks type, it wouldn’t be difficult to meet him there. I’ve noticed the same bloke sitting at the window counter of the local Starbucks every morning for three weeks now as we drive to school. He’s clearly got a routine, and if you adopted the same one you’d probably find yourself sharing his apple and cinnamon muffin within two weeks.
There really is no shortage of ways to meet men. But meeting a man with that magic, one you can fall in love with? That’s a different matter. And all the dating sites in cyberspace can’t really help with that, can they?
AFTER WORK, AND once the kids are in bed, I settle down on the sofa with the phone in hand to try and muster up the courage to call Tom’s number. I’m not sure why I’m finding it so difficult. It’s only coffee after all. And I know something about him, a whole lot more than I knew about Gary when I agreed to go to dinner with him. Perhaps it’s the tone of voice that’s the obstruction here. Mine, that is. Am I supposed to be cheerful and light, like the friendly neighbor who’s going to support him through a difficult time, offering to babysit Grace when he needs a break? Or am I to speak in the tones of someone who wouldn’t mind being a romantic distraction for him as he works his way back to normalcy? Would I want to be that person? Surely, if I’m not the supportive neighbor there’s nothing else I could be. He’s not about to properly fall for someone when he’s so raw from loss.
In the end I decide I’m making far too much of the whole business. I’ll put to use my neutral tone. Friendly but slightly detached. Waiting to see what happens. I’m halfway through dialing his number when the phone rings in my hand.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Ally?” says a familiar woman’s voice.
“Yes. It’s Ally.”
“Ally, it’s Angie here. From the Savoy.”
“Angie! How lovely to hear from you. How are you?”
“Well, not so great, to tell you the truth. That’s why I’m calling. I thought you might be able to help me sort things out. You seem to have the knack of everything.”
“I don’t know about that. But I’ll try. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, I don’t know really. It’s just that I can’t seem to get on with anything. I leave those seminars all fired up, but when it comes to actually doing anything I’m supposed to I just seem to clam up. I managed that baggage business, but the rest? I’ve done nothing.”
“Angie, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. The pace that Marina sets is pretty challenging, and it’s probably got more to do with her touring timetable than what works for her punters. I’m sure you can do things at whatever pace suits you.”
“But what if it never suits me? What if I just never manage to do anything?”
“Well that’s not very likely. You spent £500. You’d never allow yourself to waste it completely. Anyway, what do you think is stopping you?”
There’s a heavy pause before Angie responds. “I’m terrified. Terrified of making a fool of myself. Terrified of calling people up for those stupid duck thingy’s and having them turn me down. Terrified of asking people what they think I need to change in case they say everything. And I just keep thinking: maybe things are fine the way they are. Why mess them up?”
Whoa. There’s a lot of unburied baggage here. “Angie, I completely understand why you’re afraid of all these things. Were they on that list you buried?”
“No. I didn’t know about all this then. The biggest thing on the list was something my husband always used to tell me. About me being, you know, not particularly adventurous.”
I think I know the kind of adventure she means. “Well, adventurous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But the thing is, Angie, if all this fear is what’s really holding you back—fear of change, fear of rejection—maybe you need to write down all these things you’re afraid of, on a new list, and bury them in a really deep hole. And then maybe you should write yourself another list, with all the good things that could come out of this. And keep that one on your fridge or in your handbag. Take it out whenever you have to do something, just to remind yourself.”
“That’s a good idea,” she says. I can hear her mulling it over.
“So, what do you think might go on your good list?” I ask, wary of allowing any conversational lulls to serve as the wellsprings of new fears. “Companionship? Someone to make you cups of tea in bed? Someone to kiss the tips of your fingers? Someone to take the rubbish out?”
“I’m not sure really. All of that sounds pretty good!”
“Well, if nothing specific comes to mind, maybe it’s a feeling you need to keep in mind. You know what I would do? I would imagine your favorite romantic scene in your favorite movie, and just describe it on a piece of paper. And every time you feel you can’t do something, read that piece of paper and remember all the things you love about that scene, how it makes you feel, what it makes you wish about your own life. Maybe that will help. Because you’ve got to have something fabulous worth shooting for.”
“An Officer and a Gentleman!” she says instantly. “That scene where he rides up on his bike and walks into the factory and carries her out. Then, when she’s in his arms she takes his hat off and puts it on her head. Remember that?”
“There. You see! That will be you. You’ve just got to hold that picture in your mind. It’ll make all this nonsense worthwhile.”
“But that could never be me. Richard Gere isn’t going to ride up and swoop me away from the construction office.”
“No, but your own Richard Gere is. For God’s sake, Deborah What’s-her-name worked in a factory where she probably had to wear one of those hairnet things all day. You sitting in one of your lovely sweaters with your charming telephone manner is five-star glamour compared to that.”
Angie laughs. “You think?”
“Of course. Now, when you hang up the phone, I want you to write down all those fears you told me about and put them in a box and bury them outside. Spit on the list as you put it inside the box, just for good measure. Then I want you to go straight out and rent An Officer and a Gentleman, and watch your favorite scenes until they’re imprinted on your memory. Then tomorrow, try just doing one thing differently. Maybe make one call to someone who might be a duck candidate, or to someone who might know a good duck. That’s all. Will you do that?”
“If you say so,” she says, laughing again. “Thank you so much for talking to me, Ally. It’s really helped.”
“Pleasure. I know just how you feel, I really do. We’re all a bit terrified. And for what it’s worth, I think you can skip the packaging party. I think you’re great
just the way you are. You’re pretty, and warm, and full of life. What more could a man ask for?”
I didn’t mean to be an inspiration, but what else could I do?
CHAPTER 31
PERFECT PARTNERSHIP
If I’d known what happens when you register with an online dating site I’d never have complained about all the Viagra messages in my inbox every morning. The sex enhancement industry has nothing on the dating industry. When I log on to PerfectPartnership.com and open my personalized mailbox I have one hundred and fifty messages. I feel like Bruce Almighty confronted with prayer overload.
The messages are from people like Keen in Kedleston and Hot Sauce, as well as plain old Barry and Len. I can’t face opening all of them, or indeed any of them, and only go to Barry’s out of some peculiar combination of curiosity and dread. His message is titled I’m a horse lover too, and he says:
DEAR FRANCESCA,
I SO LOVED READING YOUR INTRODUCTION YESTERDAY. I’M A HORSE LOVER AND A SKIER TOO. BOTH GIVE ME SUCH A SENSE OF FREEDOM. PERHAPS THAT’S WHY YOU LOVE THEM TOO. YOU SOUND LIKE A WOMAN WITH A FREE AND LOVING SPIRIT. I WOULD LOVE TO GET TO KNOW YOU BETTER. WE COULD SOAR TOGETHER. TELL ME MORE.
FROM A FELLOW FREE SPIRIT, BARRY
If free spirit was what my introductory paragraph communicated there must be some sort of dating site equivalent of Morse code I’m not aware of. I thought I was painting a picture of a mildly harassed but quite nice semisuburban mum. I thought I was managing expectations in the interests of keeping the responses to a reasonable number. Instead, I appear to have conceived an image redolent of Daryl Hannah in Splash. When I go to Hot Sauce’s message I realize the image must also contain elements of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.
THE IDEA OF YOU ON A HORSE MAKES ME HOT. NO TIME TO COOK? I’LL COOK FOR YOU. I PROMISE NOT TO DISAPPOINT. I ALWAYS COOK WITH LOTS OF SAUCE.
AWAITING AN INVITATION TO DINE.