The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man (3 page)

Maybe an intimate dinner to celebrate
our anniversary isn’t such a bad idea.  Maybe sea bass or fillet steaks...
Champagne, of course…And
banoffee
pie, Arian’s
favourite, with lashings of double cream, which means a trip to Sainsbury’s.
 But I have to try. 

It’s about half past nine when Arian
eventually does get home and after all the trouble I’ve gone to, I’m
annoyed.  He’s yawning and the atmosphere is instantly awkward as my plans
collapse in front of me.  I’d expected him an hour ago and the sea bass is
brown and shrivelled in a surround of mushy tomatoes.  But there’s no
trace of Thursday’s air of joviality.  He’s pale and drawn, his eyes
unable to meet mine.

He kisses me, with slightly more feeling
than the morning he left.  ‘Pour me some wine?’ he asks quietly. ‘I’ll
just have a quick shower.’

And I’m left just sitting there, my
stomach churning,
a
feeling of foreboding building
inside me.

Another twenty minutes pass.  He
comes back in, his hair still damp and mussed up which I always find incredibly
sexy.  For a moment, I’m tempted to run my fingers through it, to see if I
can’t rekindle a bit of the chemistry that’s been in such short supply lately.
 But he makes no move towards me, just stands drinking his wine.

The atmosphere is killing me but I’m
still not sure what to say.  Nor is he – in fact, neither of us speaks for
ages, until at last, he turns to face me.

‘Lou?’ he says, before turning silent
again, as though he’s fighting an inner battle with himself.  Then he puts
down his wine and comes to sit next to me.  He sighs, deeply, and takes
both my hands in his.  It’s the most physical contact we’ve had in
ages.  Suddenly I’m very afraid of what is coming.

‘There’s something I have to tell you,
Lou…’

His voice is low and serious. Then he
sighs again and when he speaks, his voice is even quieter.

‘I’ve met someone.’ 

And with those three, innocuous little
words, my life changes irrevocably forever.  It’s what I’ve suspected, but
it’s no less of a shock.  As it sinks in, I snatch my hands away, suddenly
dizzy, my heart fluttering out of control.

‘I’m so sorry.’  He sounds almost
beseeching, as if he can’t bear for me to think badly of him.

Sorry… Is that it? 
For
destroying our marriage?
 
For
wrecking my life?
  Just ‘sorry’? The wanky tosser bastard…

‘At work?’
I ask, sounding much calmer than I feel.  I’m stricken, disbelieving, the
breath completely knocked out of me, but I have to know the facts, so my cursed
imagination doesn’t go into overdrive. 

He’s silent again, then reluctantly,
‘Yes.’

I should have guessed as much.  ‘So
you’ve turned out to be one of those pilots after all, that plays away with the
trolley dollies, just like you said you never would,’ I spit viciously at him.

Trolley dollies…Leonie
hates me
using that phrase
.
But I’m determined not to cry in front of him.

‘No.  It’s not like that. I
wouldn’t do that,’ he argues back.  How
dare
he
argue.

‘So who is it then?’ I demand, feeling
tears threatening.

‘Another pilot,’ he mumbles through his
hands.

Oh God.  Don’t tell me he’s
gay.  That really would be the insult beyond all insults. But he can’t
be.  I would have known…
wouldn’t I
?

‘Her name’s Karina. She’s a first
officer. We met about a year ago, and well, we just hit it off,’ he finishes
lamely, his eyes riveted to a spot on the carpet in front of him. 

I bet
they
flaming did. Karina. You can just imagine it can’t you. I certainly can. 
Karina
.
An image of a petite blond in a pilot’s uniform pops into my head, Scandinavian
probably.  I can see her now, long white-blond hair, pouty lips and big
boobs, like the girl in that stupid shampoo advert.  Dead sexy, which
explains Arian’s apparent loss of libido around boring old mousy-haired
me.  I bet they snog on the flight deck when no-one’s looking and have
intimate dinners in all the far flung corners of the globe.  And sex in
all those enormous hotel beds.  My imagination really can be a curse and
as I watch it play out slow-motion in my head, I feel sick.

‘So all this time, all these
nightstops...  They’ve been a smokescreen for your infidelity, haven’t
they? 
Because you’re too gutless to tell me, Arian.
 
So why tell me now? You could have had your fling, got ‘Karina’ out of your
system without me being any the wiser, and we could have got on with the life
we’d always planned together,’ I rage, my voice getting louder and
louder.  But the damage is done, and I already know that it’s far, far too
late.

‘I never planned this, you have to
believe me.  It just happened.’ He sounds so
weak
. How have I ended
up married to a weak man? There’s nothing I detest more.

‘Things don’t
just happen
, Arian.
You made a choice, you made it happen
.
You could have made the
decision to walk away
,’ I rant, really incensed by now, losing all control
as I feel tears pouring down my cheeks. ‘
And you’ve broken your marriage
vows you lying, hypocritical arsehole.
I hate you..
.’

Arian is staring at the floor. He
hesitates for a moment.  ‘There’s something else,’ he adds falteringly,
looking even guiltier than before.

I’m astounded. What else can he possibly
throw in now? Hasn’t he said enough? I stare at him bleakly, this stranger that
I’m married to, wondering what’s coming next.

He blurts it out.  ‘Karina’s...
pregnant.’

           
His words are like a physical blow.  Actually, it might have been better
if he’d said he was gay, because a homosexual husband would be easier than
this. 
A baby
.
  Oh, how I’d
love
one of those.  
More than one actually.
 
Funny, but Arian’s never been that keen.  And then the penny drops.  
Heavily.
 That’s why he’s finally told me, isn’t
it?  Karina’s called his bluff.  She’s clearly not as stupid as he
is.  I give them about six months before she sees him for what he is.
 

But one thing is perfectly clear. 
If this has been going on for a year, my husband’s been shagging two women at
the same time.  The thought leaves me numb.  
Incredulous
at his betrayal.
 But out of nowhere comes a shred of
self-preservation, because I already know, I never want to see Arian or speak
to him, ever, ever again.

‘
Get out.
’  I hurl what’s
left in my wine glass at him, which isn’t enough to soak him, but sends him
scarpering from the room.  Elmer is looking guilty too, tail between her
legs as she skulks neurotically at my side. I pick up the wine bottle and
filling my glass to the top, sit down shaking from head to toe, still in a
state of total shock as seconds later, the front door slams.

For two hours I don’t move.  I’m
completely immobilised, my mind blank.  I don’t even cry, just replay over
and over the last few hours in my head, as I absorb the reality that my husband
has left me. 
It’s over.

It’s only once the initial shock
subsides that my emotions practically engulf me, as I find myself on a
rollercoaster like never before.  My world, it seems at times, has
completely fallen to pieces and the person who was supposed to be my staunchest
lifelong ally, the one person I was meant to be able to count on, he’s the one
who’s done this to me. 

Thoughts skip through my head about what
must doubtlessly lie ahead.  Practicalities, such as splitting our money,
joint accounts and other so-called necessities, but the single worst part is
telling people, which for ages I can’t bring myself to do. 

Yes, I’m bitter, angry, hurt – I have
every right to be.  And no, I’m not in denial.  I have no trouble
whatsoever in grasping the reality of what’s happened, and nor do I wish him to
come back.  It’s just that I don’t particularly relish broadcasting to the
world that I obviously wasn’t good enough. 

Guess what folks, my husband’s found
himself another woman.  Yes, she’s young and pretty.  Blonde
actually, oh and guess what, she flies a big aeroplane.  That’s right, a
jet… And she’s pregnant too, did I mention that?
A far cry
from flaky Louisa with her mousy hair and weird dog.

By Monday however, when I should be
going to work, I’m an emotional wreck, and for the first time ever I phone in
sick.  Agnes is sympathetic and tells me she hopes I feel better soon and
so for the remainder of that week, I hide myself away, crying for hours on end
and wallowing in a feeling of total worthlessness.  Life feels beyond
bleak, and I can’t imagine it ever changing.  Devastated and distraught, I
ignore my texts and leave the phone to ring, hardly eating a thing and getting
through far too many bottles of wine before starting on Arian’s most expensive
brandy. 

Torturing myself with memories, I go
over and over the last five years in my head.  How it all started, from
when we met at Leo’s to the first time we slept together.  I remember it
all too clearly.  He loved me then, didn’t he?  Or did he?  And
what about buying our home and all the holidays we’ve been on?  Trouble
is, by the time I’ve dissected our years together, I’ve convinced myself that
firstly, he never really loved me and second, that he’s been having affairs for
years.  After all, with being away so much, how would I ever have known?

And then after a whole wretched week
like this, somehow I summon the faintest notion of resolve and pull myself
together.  I have to.  I’m not letting the rat ruin my life.

So, the following Monday, feeling more
than a bit shaky, though on the plus side quite a bit thinner, I’m actually
back in the office.  The words
Arian’s left me
play constantly in
my head as if on a loop, followed by an equally dispiriting
divorce,
divorce, divorce..
. I do my feeble best to ignore them. 

It’s
business as usual, I keep determinedly reminding myself as I get through the
day feeling a little detached from reality. And it’s a very long day.  But
I manage not to let on to anyone the events of last Saturday, until when the
vets have all left for the night, and I’m just going to get Elmer from the
stables when Agnes looks up from her desk and says gently,

‘Louisa?
Dear
? Are you sure
you’re alright?’

The ‘dear’ throws me completely off
guard and her kind concern makes me crumple. How can she
know
? But then
Agnes has x-ray vision and a sixth sense, not to mention astonishing wisdom –
she doesn’t miss anything. I ought to know that by now.

Despite being the quintessence of efficiency
and organisation, Agnes is a really lovely lady.  It’s like having a Mum
comfort me, except that mine would probably take Arian’s side, which is why I
still haven’t told her.  But after keeping my secret for yet another day,
my nerves are frazzled.  Tearfully I tell her about Arian.

‘Oh Louisa, how awful
for you.
 I’m so very sorry.’ Agnes comes
and puts her arms around me and I can’t contain the sobs any longer.  I
cry for half an hour, wracking, self-pitying sobs, which leave me emotionally
exhausted.

‘Come and sit down.’  Agnes pulls
my chair near to hers, and unlocking the bottom drawer of her desk, takes out a
bottle of whisky and two glasses.  I’d always wondered what she keeps in
there.

Her eye catches mine.  ‘Strictly
medicinal,’ she says firmly, as she pours an inch into each glass. ‘Now, drink
up.’  Hers remains untouched as she watches me slurp mine.

‘So, have you told your family yet?’

I shake my head and blow my runny nose.
 The whisky’s good.  It helps.

‘Don’t you think you ought to?  I
know if my daughter was going through something like this, I would want to
know.’ 

Oh.  I didn’t even know Agnes had a
daughter.

She is right of course. Only problem is
that my family live miles away, and I can just imagine my parents will want to
come and stay, if only to satisfy themselves that I’m alright. And then there’s
my mother, who with her accusing ways and her unconcealed adoration of Arian,
isn’t exactly the person I need right now.  It would do my head in.
 For now, I need to be alone.  I explain this to Agnes, who nods
understandingly.

‘I still think you should tell them,
Louisa.  But you could also say that you are staying with a friend for a
while.  And actually, you know, you’d be very welcome?’

I’m so touched by her offer I almost cry
again,
only Mrs Boggle arrives on her motorbike, then
stomps in carrying her helmet.

‘Good evening Mrs Boggle.  How are
you?’

She shakes her head and sighs. 
‘Not so good.’

Agnes and I exchange glances.

‘I know I shouldn’t say it,’ says Mrs Boggle,
making our eyes glaze over because we know she’s going to say it anyway. 
‘But I just knew them Forresters were a bad lot.  Been banged up, he
has.  She has an’ all too, and all
them
poor
kids… Social services are all over ‘em.  Told you, didn’t I…’  She
shakes her head and heads in the direction of the men’s loos.

I stare at her, suddenly terrified, that
my life is over and I’ll end up miserable with yellow hair, just like her.

As it is, I drive us home, me and
Elmer.  I call in at the village shop on the way and search the dusty
shelves, sparsely and depressingly stocked with its uninspiring range of goods
labelled ‘basic’.  They probably have about as much nutritional value as
cardboard, but in any case I gather some unexciting staples like plastic bread
and tins of cheap beans, telling myself I need to eat, even if I don’t want
to.  And I pick up some more wine.

At the checkout, I stand for ages while
the spotty young shop assistant finishes what appears to be a terribly
important phone call about someone called Tone, only to fix me with her beady
eyes.

‘’Ave you got your own bags?’ she
challenges me.

So I glare back.  She can clearly
see I haven’t so she very sullenly produces one of those nasty thin ones that
tears if you put more than two things in it.  It promptly splits of
course, as soon as I lift it off the counter, so I stagger out to my car, a
bottle of wine under each arm, scattering tins and bread behind me and drive
home.

Home
.
  
For how much longer.
  Because however much I
fight him, Arian will doubtlessly want his share of the house we have shared
for the last few years.  And of course, it’s his salary that’s paid for
most of it.  And of course too, we have no children, to sway the legal
process in my favour.

Now I’ve left work, my mind is full of
Arian again.  When I get home, I collapse on our bed and cry some more.
 To be honest, it’s more like howling than crying, but I think that right
now, I’m entitled to.

About two hours later, when that’s all
over, my topsy turvy emotions flip back to angry again,
which
is much healthier and much easier to deal with.
  Then I entertain
fanciful thoughts of revenge.  After all, hell hath no fury and all
that.  I fantasise for a brief glorious moment.  He’s an airline
Captain isn’t he, a tall, dashing figure in his uniform, striding
all-powerfully through airports around the world…  If only I could sneak
on board and get my hands on that PA system.

‘
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome on
board this flight to Lisbon.  Your Captain today is Arian Mulholland, who
incidentally is having it off with your First Officer Karina X, much to the
consternation of his wife Louisa, who has a thoroughly worthwhile job looking
after sick animals.
’  

Okay.  So maybe the last bit wasn’t
so good, but the rest of it... It would be most gratifying.  I bet his
passengers would love to know how easily led he is - by his penis.

I shut a slavering Elmer in the utility
room with her food.  It’s a spectacle I prefer not to watch. Taking Agnes’
advice, I decide the time has come to call my parents.  Steeling
myself
for what I know must follow, I first pour a large
glass of wine.  And take a very,
very
deep breath.

‘Oh Louisa, I
can’t
believe it,’
cries my mother, just as I expected, as though it’s my fault that Arian’s had
an affair.  God!   She could be right.  I hadn’t thought of
it like that.  Maybe it is
all my
fault
.

Dad is a little more sympathetic. 
‘Very sorry, darling,’ he says gruffly, not quite sure what else to say. 
Dad’s always a bit uncomfortable with these sorts of things.  ‘Stupid
bugger,’ he adds, unexpectedly, sounding angry for a moment. Then quite
affectionately, ‘Sure you’re alright?’

I manage to persuade them not to come
hot-footing it over here, telling them I’m extremely busy at work and mythical
‘things’, promising to go over there for lunch next weekend by way of a
compromise.  Phew.  It’s with a sense of relief that I end the call.

I wonder if Arian’s told Pete?  I
pick up the phone again, and fortunately it’s Leonie who answers.  This
time my composure cracks, and I break down when I tell her what’s happened.
 Ten minutes later, my good friend appears on my doorstep with a wine
bottle clasped in each hand.  Apparently she was in the middle of painting
her nails when I rang. Sure enough, only three nails are a particularly vibrant
shade of turquoise. Her beautiful face is etched with worry and her long hair
is still damp - dear Leo didn’t even finish drying it before rushing over to my
rescue.

‘
Oh Lou...
’  She hugs me and
I cry for a bit.  I love Leonie.  She’s the best.  Then I have
to tell her what’s been going on under my nose for the last year.  She’s
astonished.  Like me, she can’t believe none of us guessed.

‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but
Pete’s hardly seen Arian lately, except when we all get together of course. It
seemed strange, when they’ve been friends so long, but I just thought well, we
all have busy lives, don’t we?  And sometimes you and I don’t see each
other for ages either...’  She was silent, thoughtful.

‘I just can’t believe it Lou. I
mean...I’m sorry, but he’s a shit.  You’re married, for God’s sake.’

I could almost hear her imagination
working overtime, wondering if she’d notice if Pete were playing away. 
The shock waves of Arian’s behaviour are rippling through our friends’ lives
too.

It’s surprising me though, how I’m
pulling myself together again, but then
self-pity’s
never been my thing.  Just as well in the circumstances.

We drink too much wine and slag off
Arian some more. Call him every name under the sun we can think of.  Leo’s
good like that.  Has an absolutely first class vocabulary.  Somewhere
in the world, his ears must be on fire by now, if not completely incinerated.
Then we start on Karina.
What sort of a woman preys on another woman’s man
,
we ask each other.
What a complete bitch
, we cackle hypocritically to
each other.  What a pair of old crones we are.  Leonie vows to blank
Arian from here on.  
Hmm.
 I appreciate the
show of solidarity, but that may not be so easy, seeing as she’s married to
Pete.

Ages later, Leonie’s had too much to
drink to drive herself home.  She calls Pete, and I don’t hear the
exchange that follows.

He doesn’t stay long, but somehow, I get
the feeling that something’s not quite right. Might Pete have had
an inkling
that Arian was up to something?  He hugs me
anyway, asks me if I’m okay, and I don’t see the look that Leonie gives him.
 I’d always thought Pete was my friend too, but clearly
boys
code and girls code don’t overlap. You know where you are with girlfriends, but
men?  Maybe they just stick together, no matter how appallingly one of
them is carrying on.

Word has quietly filtered around at
work, and though no-one says anything directly to me, I am aware that everyone
knows.  Later, when I’m mucking out a stable, Emma comes to find me.

‘I’m so sorry Lou. Are you sure you’re
okay?’ She sees the look on my face, and adds hastily, ‘Of course you’re
not.  How could you
be.
’