The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man (4 page)

Unexpectedly she hugs me.  She
smells like a horse.

‘Come round for dinner tonight. I’m not
on call and I’ll cook.’

Gratefully I agree, thinking how
brilliant my friends are.  Agnes too is keeping an eye on me - more than
usual at the moment.  And work is a wonderful distraction, with all these
beautiful horses coming in to the practice.  Agnes sees to it that I’m
busier than ever and from the moment I set foot through the door in the
morning, I don’t stop.  But being busy is exactly what I need and she’s a
slave driver - only I know she’s doing this for me. 

I’ve even started considering that
perhaps it would be a good time for me to think about getting another horse,
now that the opposition that Arian always posed has disappeared.  Yes, a
gentle, loving horse would be infinitely less trouble than any man.

This morning however, there’s an added
distraction, in the shape of our new vet.  And in one glance I just know,
the female clients are going to just love him.  I definitely don’t.
 He’s too cocky, too smooth and far too sure of himself.  I would
imagine he’s probably encyclopaedic about girls and sex.  Oh, and did I
mention he’s extremely good looking in a George Clooney kind of way?  He’s
tall, with brown hair and deep brown eyes, and Agnes has already dispatched him
off to Henderson’s to look at the warty horse.  She gave me such a look
when she saw what was in the diary.  Honestly, it’s not
all
my
fault.  Emma was in on it too.  Emma can’t stand Henderson or his
beastly horse.  It’s only right to share him.

No matter.  Marcus is back from his
baptism of fire in double quick time, warts efficiently dealt with and more
impressively, he’s managed to extract a cheque from Henderson, which is nothing
short of miraculous.  Even I have to admit to being impressed.  Agnes
most certainly is.  She apologises to him about Henderson, saying it was
supposed to have been Emma’s call, and gives him nice clients for the rest of
the day as a reward.

Man-radar on red alert, Paris has
already appeared to suss out the new talent.  I’m sure she must sit in her
bedroom, her eyes glued to her binoculars.  This morning, as she sashays
across the yard, all male eyes turn to stare. 
And with
good reason.
  Her usually dark brown hair is peroxide blonde, with
huge kohl-rimmed eyes a la Katie Price and she’s wearing the tightest jodhpurs
imaginable as she lolls outside one of the stables eyeing Marcus up and down
with no subtlety whatsoever.  She obviously likes what she sees, which
means poor Miles is off the hook.

Marcus’s eyes are out on stalks as he
reluctantly allows me to drag him back into the office. 

‘Who the
blazes is
that
?’ he asks in rather shocked tones, his eyes still pulled in the
direction of Paris.

‘Jail bait,’ I tell him firmly. 
‘Sixteen years old, bored out of her brain cell and goes by the name of Paris
Mankly-Talbot, locally known as PM-T.  She lives up the road in that
little hovel with twenty-six bedrooms, with Mummy who’s extremely
high-maintenance and called Amanda and Daddy, who’s a super-rich hotshot lawyer
in the city - and is called Dick,’ I add helpfully.  And then snigger.

We all go for a drink that evening, to
officially welcome Marcus to the fold.  Our local is the old pub in the
village, and it’s called the Hope and Anchor.  Sam calls it the Dope and
Wanker, which always makes me think of Arian.  There’s a big garden, in
what used to be an apple orchard and
it’s
well within
staggering home distance – at least for me.  They don’t mind dogs either,
so Elmer and Eric do their worst, scrounging shamelessly from all the other
customers, while we pretend not to know them.

There’s blossom on the apple trees, and
though there’s a chill in the air, it’s a wonderfully sunny evening.  We
all drink the deliciously chilled cider that’s a house speciality, except for
Miles, because it’s his turn to be on call tonight.  And after a glass or
two, it seems that Marcus might not be so bad after all.  He certainly has
a glowing recommendation from his last practice. Actually, he’s quite a glowing
sort of person altogether, which rather begs the question.  If they loved
him so much, why the devil has he left them?

After Miles’ phone bleeps and he rushes
off to tend to a horse that’s tangled in a barbed wire fence, the rest of us
order some food.  By the time Elmer and I get home, it’s late. There’s
time only to put a machine load of washing on, before I have a bath and climb
into bed, so it’s not until next morning that I notice the message light
flashing on the answerphone. 
Bloody Arian, no less.
 
Wanting to discuss the house.
  My poor, battered
heart sinks through the floor.

           
Of course, I knew it would happen, but losing our home seems unbearable. 
My home.
  I’ve come to love quaintly named Plum Tree
Cottage, with its crooked doors and ancient timbers.  The three large
bedrooms, in that imagination of mine, were for the baby Mulhollands I’d always
envisaged would turn up at some point and all around, there is space I imagined
we’d grow into.  It was for ever – like my marriage.

But sadly, there’s no way in the world I
can afford the mortgage.  Arian arranged for a smarmy estate agent to
value it last week, without even telling me - the bastard still has his door
keys - and so smug Martin, with his designer suits and quiffed hair, has been
poking around my home and taking measurements without me even knowing.
 Martin drives a big, expensive car and is always unnaturally tanned, even
in December.  He clearly makes a
lot
of money… His surname ought to
be Slime, not Syme and yes, he really is that bad.  Worse even.  I
should know.  He was in the year above me in sixth form.

I wonder how many of his customers know
about his little property-developing
habit?
  About his little way of snapping up bargains before they’re even on
the market, no doubt at a knockdown price as he sweet-talks the old dears into
almost giving their homes away to him, only for him to re-advertise them a week
later at eye-watering prices…
Definitely a secret millionaire
for all the wrong reasons, our Mr Slime.

I can just imagine him sucking up to
Arian, man to man, having a secret, smug laugh about how the little woman
doesn’t know what he’s up to
. 

‘Oh, don’t worry about a thing,
sir.  This kind of thing happens all the time, ho, ho… We’ll sell this in
no time. Marvellous little family home like this will be snapped up...’

To say I’m furious is an understatement.
 I’m so seething I’m almost incandescent.  Worse, someone is coming
to view it this morning.  
More strangers sniffing around
my home.
  I ought to be tidying everything, according to
Martin. 

‘Mrs Mulholland, you really do need to
de-clutter,’ he told me most pompously.  De-clutter? Isn’t that what those
TV makeover shows tell you to do?  To make the home I don’t want to sell
more appealing.  Actually, I really don’t care that there’s a pile of my
knickers on the kitchen table, and that last night’s dishes are lying unwashed
in the sink. My empty wine bottle collection is quite impressive too. After
all, I am that woman spurned.  Hopefully no-one will like my cluttered
home and I can stay here forever.

I get a call from Smug Martin during my
lunch break.

‘Mrs Mulholland?’ he says in that smarmy
voice of his, sounding far too horribly pleased with himself. My blood runs
cold.

‘Good afternoon Mr Slime,’ I say, on
purpose, my heart sinking as I listen.

Bloody
bloody
wankers, him and Arian.
 
I hate them more than ever.  The first people he showed round have offered
the asking price.  I didn’t think that kind of thing ever happened. 
So to add insult to injury, now I’m homeless.

I can’t help feeling oh
so
sorry
for myself as yet again, I’m consumed by emotion.  First my husband
announces he’s leaving me, and as if that isn’t enough, he rips my home out
from underneath me.  My eyes are prickling again, and inside I’m
screaming, silently, at the unfairness of it all.

‘It may not be a bad thing, Louisa,’
says Agnes most sensibly, when I put the phone down and start wailing. ‘It’s
not going to be easy to get over Arian while you’re living in the house that
you shared.’

I snivel a bit longer then dry my
blotchy face.  I know she’s right – but it’s just too much, too soon. 
I’d rather wait until I’m feeling stronger – but Agnes has other ideas.

‘It may be quite good timing, you know.
 Now, a friend of mine has a holiday cottage that she’s thinking of
renting out long term. It’s only round the corner from here, too.  I think
she’s fed up with the constant stream of people in and out of it, and would
rather just not have the worry. Would you like me to have a word with her on
your behalf?’

My mouth drops open.  Agnes is
truly a miracle. 

‘Please...if it’s not too much trouble.
There’s Elmer of course too. Do you think your friend would mind her there?’
 
My voice quakes.
  I can’t possibly lose
Elmer, now of all times.

‘Leave it to me,’ says Agnes briskly.
‘I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

I feel instantly reassured, knowing that
if Agnes says it won’t be a problem, everything will be fine. And so I end up
pulling myself together and being most sensible, agreeing with her that this
somewhat fortuitous development might indeed be quite a good thing after all.

In the event, after umpteen costly
meetings with solicitors, Arian agrees, most magnanimously, to split the equity
down the middle.  Oh how generous of him.  He and Karina of course,
with their combined pilot mega-salaries, will be able to afford a huge mansion
with nobs on.  On my meagre wages, I’ll be lucky if I can find a pig sty.
 I resign myself to my new lowly status, which is apparently no less than
I deserve.

In the end, it’s all settled remarkably quickly.
 He doesn’t want any of our furniture, and actually, neither do I. 
After all, everything in our house that we chose together now feels tainted,
and nor do I want anything that reminds me of HIM.  The only exception is
an ancient table that used to belong to my Granny.

He leaves another message, telling me
he’ll be collecting his clothes and old flying manuals. Too late, that woman
spurned re-emerges and wishes she’d thought to burn them before he got
here… 
Or at least unpicked all his crotches.
 
Far more subtle than cutting them up.
 How funny
would it be if he found himself in the middle of Heathrow Airport, a fine
figure of an airline captain basking in all these admiring looks, suddenly
aware of a howling draft around his
privates.
 I
find the idea childishly appealing. Sadly, I’m deprived of the
opportunity.  He comes in while I’m at work and also takes the mower.
Well, it’s hardly as though he’d forget
that.

So then it’s house clearance and that’s
it. 
All done.
  And here I am feeling
surreal, as I stand in the middle of my house looking around at the
emptiness.  All that remains is a collection of boxes and a very large,
battered table.  It’s all happened scarily quickly. Good old Miles is
coming over with a horse box to transport me, Elmer and the table to Agnes’s
friend’s cottage, which I decided to rent while the dust settles, so to speak.
Actually, I didn’t know what else to do.  It’s smaller than Plum Tree
Cottage, but just perfect for one newly single woman and her weird dog.  It’s
quite near the Hope and Anchor, and it’s furnished.  There’s even a
paddock behind, I couldn’t help noticing. 
Which just so
happens to be empty...
  But best of all, I can’t help thinking with
relief, is that with any luck, now this is all over and done with, I really
have no reason to speak to Arian ever,
ever
again. 

But in spite of everything that’s
happened, my new home works a kind of magic on me. Surrounded by fields and
beech woods, the huge trees catch the wind, and the air is full of the sound of
birds.  The peace and quiet is shattered only occasionally by the roar of
a passing car or tractor - a definite advantage of living out the back end of
beyond.  

And there’s the paddock… Fringed with
hedges and knee high in shimmering grasses, it really does need a horse in it -
just to keep it tidy, you understand.

 Most mornings, it’s five minutes’
walk to the practice.  And already, I’m hurting less.  Or maybe it’s
just the change, because Agnes was absolutely right and relieved of the clutter
of my joint life with Arian, and trying to look on the bright side of being a
complete failure as a wife, I do feel rather liberated.  

Emma lives quite nearby, in a snazzy
barn conversion and as she’s single too, we soon start seeing lots more of each
other.  She’s an amazing cook, as it turns out and I’m a more than willing
guinea pig for her mouth-watering recipes. If she hadn’t been a vet, my
multi-talented friend would undoubtedly have been a winner of Masterchef. 
What I don’t understand is why she isn’t fat as a pig. Out of her work clothes,
Emma dresses simply but stylishly, and she’s thin as a supermodel.  If I
cooked the way she did, I’d be eating all the time.  My favourite skinny
jeans are already on the tight side, which I need to do something about. 
Turning into a lard arse is hardly going to improve my self-esteem.  I’m
flabbergasted when she tells me after a few evenings spent together, that she,
too, was married.  And is now divorced.  My mouth literally drops
open.

‘No-one else knows, Lou,’ she tells me
hurriedly.  ‘I’d rather keep it that way too.  I met him before Vet
College, and after I graduated we got married.’  Then she adds sadly, ‘I
was so stupid, and well, young, really.  It never could have worked. 
He wanted to settle down and have a family, and I wanted my career.  I
didn’t study all those years to stay at home and have babies - well, not
straight away, anyway.  So a year later we were divorced and that was the
end of it.’

Just as I’m thinking w
hat a
bastard,
she adds, ‘he wasn’t a bad person.  We just made a mistake.’

‘Oh Emma, I had no idea…’ I say
inadequately, the wind completely taken out of my sails by her honesty. 
Then more bluntly, ‘You don’t look old enough.’

She raises her eyebrows at me.  ‘If
I’d been older, I might have been a little wiser…’ she says soberly. 
‘Anyway, its history and not a mistake I’ll make again in a hurry.’

And there’s more to gossip about when I
find out that Emma has fallen for a client,
which
isn’t generally considered a good idea, but after her divorce, I doubt she’s
interested in anything serious.  I’ve met him briefly and actually I have
to agree, there’s lots to like.  Ben is very handsome in a serious kind of
way and has a big horse (of course). Well, several actually – it’s how they
met.  There’s a horse at the heart of everything around here.  He’s
even asked her out to dinner, but unfortunately for Emma, she was on call.

I’ve been so wrapped up in myself, it’s
passed me by that I don’t have the monopoly on busted marriages.  The
realisation makes me ashamed, especially when everyone’s been so supportive.

Another thing bothers me too, because
Leo’s gone quiet.  She was often here when I first moved and spent many
evenings devotedly keeping me company and helping, most therapeutically to
dissect Arian’s shortcomings.  But lately, I haven’t seen her.  I’m
sure she’s just busy, but all the same. Something niggles at me and I make a
mental note to call her.

Tonight my mood is buoyant.  Agnes
is coming for supper, maybe Emma too, if she’s not dashing around saving
horses.  I never try and compete with Emma’s superlative talents in the
kitchen, just keep it simple.  Tonight we’re having salad nicoise, which
ought to be within even my modest capabilities, with a freshly baked loaf from
the pub.

But earlier than expected, there’s a
knock at the door.  It can’t be Agnes, because she’s always spot on time,
so I’m expecting it to be Emma, only it isn’t.  I open the door and it’s
Leo.

I’m thrilled that she’s here and as I
pour my friend a glass of wine, she glances around admiringly.

‘It’s lovely here, Lou. I can’t believe
how settled you look, I’m so happy for you.’

           
Then she’s uncharacteristically quiet.

But something doesn’t ring true, because
right now, Leonie doesn’t look as though she could be happy about
anything.  Something’s clearly wrong.

Then she asks, carefully, in a very
subdued voice, ‘Lou? When you thought something was going on with Arian, what
was it exactly that made you suspicious?’

I look at her, dumbfounded. 
Surely not them too?
  Not Leonie and Pete, the greatest
love story among all my friends I’ve ever had?

‘What’s happened Leo?  Is something
wrong?’ 

And suddenly my fear is back, only this
time it’s for my friends.

She sighs.  A very heartfelt sigh
indeed and suddenly I notice that there are shadows under her eyes that were
never there before. 

‘Oh Lou, I don’t know. Pete just isn’t
himself.  He’s distant. 
Bites my head off at the drop
of a hat.
  All he wants to do when he’s home from work is read or
sleep.  And he won’t talk to me.  Not about anything - and we’ve
always talked, about everything, until now...  I just don’t know what the
matter is.  I really think it must be me.  He seems fine with
everyone else…’  Her voice tails off.

I truly don’t know what to say to help
her.  She’s right.  It doesn’t sound like Pete at all. 

‘Just hang in there Leo.  It might
be some work thing on his mind... 
A base check or an
arsey training captain?
  We both know what these pilots are
like...’

Only too well, in my
case.

She raises huge brown eyes to look at
me.  ‘If that’s the case, why doesn’t he tell me?’

‘Maybe he’s a bit under the weather
Leonie, I don’t know.  Have you tried to get him out? 
Or  maybe
just spend some time together?’ 

None of which, of course, made a scrap
of difference with Arian.

Leonie shrugs.  I can tell I’m way
off the mark here.  We’re not really getting anywhere with this.

‘Stay for supper?’ I offer.  Agnes
would know what to say.  ‘Agnes and Emma are coming round.  There’s
plenty for four...’ I try to persuade her.  And it might take her mind off
things for a while.

But Leonie shakes her head. ‘Thanks Lou,
but I think I’ll go. I don’t think I’d be great company.’

Supper with Agnes and Emma is always
fun, though tonight I can’t quite shake my concern for Leonie from my
mind. 

Away from the office, Agnes lets her
hair down just a tiny bit, and listens to me and Emma gossiping with an
indulgent smile, as though we were her babies. When Emma and I start cackling
about initiating Marcus though, Agnes is a touch disapproving.

‘That was just a tad unfair of you,
girls. If I’d spotted it, you would have got Henderson, Emma.’  Her tone
is slightly reprimanding, but there’s the faintest ghost of a smile there too.

‘Oh Agnes,’ we both crow.  ‘It was
funny
.
Emma’s dealt with
that horse loads
of times.  And
Henderson actually paid. 
Result!’
 
Emma and I high-five each other.

Agnes has the good grace to smile
properly then.  ‘On this occasion, you’re off the hook, girls.  But
don’t do it again.  Really, that poor boy...’

Poor boy my arse.
 
There’s nothing poor about Marcus.  He’s obviously already reeled Agnes
in, hook, line and sinker, along with all the other admirers, female of course,
that are queuing up for his services, veterinary and otherwise, no doubt.

 I’ve also, just recently,
discovered Emma’s guilty secret.  Don’t we all have one? Anyway, Emma’s,
it seems, is that she is addicted, quite seriously I’m finding out, to horoscopes.
‘Astrology’, she’ll tell you, because she thinks it sounds more intelligent.
Can you imagine?  She’s clever, educated, accomplished in her career, very
pretty, and yet relies on a twat like Jerome Castello, ‘astrologer to the
stars’, as he describes himself, to tell her how to live her life.  I ask
you.  Even with my three and a half GCSE’s
,
I’m
not as daft as that.

Emma has updates regularly texted to her
mobile during the day, and pretends to
whoever
she’s
with, be it client or colleague, that it’s an urgent update on a patient. 
It must cost her a fortune.  She is unreservedly and worryingly hooked,
and I’ve decided it’s my mission to cure her.  Well, someone has to.

Jerome Castello must be laughing all the
way to the bank.  There are probably millions of Emma’s who get sucked in
via his website, and before they know it, they can’t function without
subscribing to his super-duper overpriced premier service.  He’s a con
man. He must be.  I plan to do some research and find out more about
him.  I don’t like seeing my friends ripped off.

Half way through the evening, there’s a
bleeping noise from Emma’s direction.  She leaps to attention and grabs
her phone.  It could be a call out from a client, or maybe it’s just
Jerome with an update.  She stands there, listening, uttering the
occasional ‘erm,’ or ‘I see’. 
Then hangs up.
  
Definitely Jerome then.

‘Okay?’ I smile brightly at her, holding
her gaze just a little longer than necessary.

‘Fine.’
 
Just like Beamish.  It must be catching.  But she’s looking guilty.
Ah ha.  She knows I know.

Agnes looks quizzically from one of us
to the other.  This must be the first time in the history of the world
that I know something she doesn’t.

Then Emma’s phone bleeps again, and I look
at her, annoyed actually, that she’s going to let some stupid astrologer
interrupt our evening for the second time.  But this time it’s a bona fide
client, and after taking some details in a highly professional manner, Emma’s
off to save someone’s precious horse.  She exits very speedily, knowing
full well that she’s only putting off the inevitable, and that I’ll be
addressing her problem at the next possible opportunity.

It’s funny really. My new home isn’t far
from where Arian and I lived, but life has changed beyond recognition.
 But it’s crept up on me that
it’s
better, a
realisation that wasn’t entirely welcome at first – but it’s true.  
For starters, I have such great friends, I’ve realised, now I no longer take
them for granted.  And for the most part, I feel really good.  There
have been the occasional blips when I’ve forgotten myself and reverted to a
bawling, snot-nosed wreck, but I always hate myself so much afterwards, I’ve
tried to stop myself, because it’s a simple fact that my marriage is over, and
no amount of self-pity will change that.  Shit happens, and not just to
me, as I’m finding out.

But tonight’s the first night I’ve been
unable to sleep in ages. I ditched those hideous 3am gremlins when I left Plum
Tree Cottage and have slept like a log ever since.  But tonight, for a
change, it’s not about me.  I can’t stop thinking about Leonie, and wonder
what’s going on with Pete.  They have always been so utterly devoted to
each other.  I can’t in all honesty believe they’re headed the same way as
me and Arian, but how can I be sure?  I didn’t see that coming, after
all. 

Leonie adores Pete, loves him with every
fibre of her being. I admire that kind of love.  And I’m a little envious
if I’m honest.  I’m not at all sure I
ever
felt
that way about Arian, nor did I invest the tireless, unselfish, unconditional
effort that Leonie so generously does.  It’s not a welcome thought, but
maybe our relationship wasn’t as great as I’d assumed.   Maybe, like
Emma, I too made a mistake.  I mean, far from falling apart, I seem to be
managing just fine without him. 

On that less than comfortable note, I
fall asleep.