The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man (5 page)

The next morning is clear and
sunny.  The kind when you’d like to pause for a moment and believe that
summer is just around the corner, but today – no way.  From the word go,
it’s so
hectic,
there’s barely time to think.  It
all kicks off with Miles, who was summoned to a riding school at the crack of
dawn to a horse with a suspected fracture.
For a horse,
that’s life threatening and the owner will be worried out of his mind.
 Meanwhile Emma has spent most of last night sitting in a stable with an
in-foal mare in a very sorry state and has had about an hour’s sleep, if
that.  And now, just to top it all, Beamish has phoned in sick. 
Gastric flu, he says, sounding extremely sorry for
himself
. 
Hmm.
  It might just possibly have been the
whisky.  So, while Emma is catching forty winks in an empty stable, it’s
just Marcus and a rather full diary.

‘Okay,’ he starts.  ‘Let’s sort
this out. 
This yard here.’
  He points to
the first entry.  ‘It’s all vaccinations and other routine stuff. 
Can you phone them and say I’ve been called out to an emergency and will be
over this afternoon?  Miles can cover this one.’ He points to the next
entry in the diary. ‘It’s just down the road from where he is now, and I’ll get
started on the rest.  Think I’ll take Sam, it might speed things up a
bit.  Give Emma another hour’s
sleep
and ask her
to call me.’

And with that, he’s striding out of the
office, wasting no time at all.  Gosh.  How jolly masterful.  I
feel ever so slightly inadequate.  Uncharacteristically quiet, Agnes
raises her eyebrows at me.

The afternoon gets better though. A very
pretty Shetland called Lucy comes in for an ultrasound, and we all spend ages
making a huge fuss of her.  She’s followed by a very shouty little pony
with an equally gobby owner, who’s unfortunately in no hurry to leave. 
Paris cruises by (cerise jodhpurs and classic raybans, hair screwed up in a
sort of pineapple thing on top of her head) but stays all of about ten seconds
once she’s sniffed out the absence of testosterone. 

Miles has sorted out his fracture, which
ended up in the nearest equine hospital and which being Miles, he’s frightfully
worried about.  Emma by now is fully revived and perky as ever, after an
hour’s sleep on a bale of hay.  How do vets do that?  Mind you,
pilots do it too.  They can sleep
anytime,
anywhere it would seem - particularly in my ex-husband’s case.  But
keeping my mind firmly focused on work, I’ve no doubt
Beamish
will be back in the morning - right as rain - and we’ll be back on track.
Marcus, to my surprise, is working his socks off.  I’m not easily
impressed, but dare I say it, without him, today would have been a
nightmare. 

Just before I leave, there’s the roar of
a very expensive-sounding engine from outside, followed by the clip-clop of
very high, very pointy heels as Amanda M-T makes her way into our office for
just about the first time ever.

‘
Hellair
,’ she says in that silly
way that posh people do, as she flips her highlights over her shoulder. 
‘Do I need to register?  Not me personally of course…’ and she giggles in
a girly way as if no-one’s ever said that before, which they have, of course,
gazillions of times.

Agnes steps forward.  ‘Good evening
Mrs Mankly-Talbot.  Can I take it you have a horse that you’d like us to
look at?’

It transpires that Amanda and Dick have
bought Paris a little show-jumper. 
Only a little one.
 
And it only cost thirty five thousand, she tells us, because after all, Paris
does still have the sweet little horse she won at Hickstead on last year, but
apparently this new little one was too good to miss.  She waves her
braceletted wrists around as she gesticulates flamboyantly and then I notice. 
I can’t miss them.  Because Amanda may be stonking rich and drive an
extremely fast car, but she also has massive calves. And I mean woppers. 
As well as a husband called Dick.  I try not to snigger.  It just
goes to show, doesn’t it, that absolutely nobody has it all.

When I get home, I make myself a cup of
tea and settle down to call Leonie.  I haven’t been able to get her out of
my mind.  But it’s Pete who answers.  Not sounding his usual self at
all. I try to draw him out, but to be honest, I haven’t seen him in ages - not
since Arian and I went our separate ways and my efforts are far from
successful.

‘How are you Pete?’ I ask
brightly.  Not that I expect him to tell me.

‘Um, Fine. Thanks. 
And you?
  Leonie says you’re doing well in your new
place?’ His words are slow, as though his brain is floating in glue.

‘It’s lovely.  Come over with
Leonie sometime, I’d love to see you.’  I genuinely would like to see
him. 
Them.
  And slightly selfishly, I think
it would be even better if he reported back to Arian that I’m doing absolutely
just fine on my own...

‘Oh. Yes.’  He says absently, not
sounding like Pete at all. This is very odd.  He sounds tired, rather than
disinterested.  And he’s clearly not in the mood to talk.

‘I’ll ask Leonie to call you, okay?’ he
says.

‘Great.  Thanks.  Bye then,
Pete.’  But he’s gone before I even finish talking.

No sooner have I put the phone down than
it rings again.  It can’t be Leonie already can it?  It’s not. 
It’s Marcus.  You could have knocked me down with a feather.  Marcus?
Calling me at home? 
I must have messed something up
, is the first
thought that comes to mind.  I can’t imagine in a million years why else
he
would be calling
me.

‘Hello Lou.’ 
Tired,
but definitely friendly.
  I breathe out cautiously.

‘Hi Marcus.
 
This is a surprise.’   

Then immediately think
oh shit, he’s
found out that it was me who set him up with the warty horse.

There’s a brief silence. ‘Oh.  Is
it?  Actually Lou...oh look, are you busy, or could I come over?’

I’m flabbergasted.  I’m not sure
what’s going on here.  We’ve never spoken about anything outside of work -
until now.  So either I’ve done something wrong or he thinks I fancy him,
which I most definitely do not.  He’s not my type. 
At all.
  But caught by surprise, I’m not quick enough.

‘Erm, okay,’ I say, not terribly
enthusiastically.

‘Great. 
See you in a minute then.’

Oh fuck
. 
Okay, so I do not fancy him, I remind myself, but nor do I want Marcus in my cottage
in its current state.  He’ll think I’m a complete slut.  Like a
dervish I whirl around stacking magazines, plumping cushions and stacking the
dirty plates more tidily in the sink so it looks like
there’s
fewer of them.  Then, just as the doorbell rings, I catch sight of my
flustered reflection in the mirror. 
Excellent.
 
My normal ‘been through a hedge backwards’ look.
 
Still, it’s too late to do anything about it.  And it’s only Marcus, after
all.  Smoothing my hair, and with a deranged Elmer barking excitedly, I
open the door.

It’s
okay, I tell myself.  It looks as though Marcus has come straight from
work anyway. He’s quite scruffy but actually, I like that. 

‘Hello,’ I say brightly, at the same
time he says
hi
,
then
we just stand there,
smiling self-consciously at each other.  Awkward doesn’t even begin to
describe it and I’ve still no idea what he’s doing here.

‘Um, would you like a drink? 
Coffee?
Wine?’
  I offer.

He looks tempted.  ‘I could murder
a beer if you’ve got one?’ 
Beer.
 
Of course.
  And well, no.  I don’t have any. 
I shake my head.

‘I’m sorry.’

He looks slightly embarrassed at having
asked.  ‘Wine would be good?’

I go to the kitchen where there’s quite
a nice pinot grigio in the fridge.  He follows, making approving comments
about the cottage and asking things like how old it is.  I get the feeling
he’s as ill at ease as I am, which amuses me because I’ve never seen him
anything other than ultra-confident and in control.

I pour two glasses and pass one to him.

‘Cheers.’  We clink glasses and sit
at my battered table. Elmer lays her bedraggled head adoringly on his lap and
drools. 
Fickle bitch.
 

‘How are you settling in?’ I ask
chirpily.
A nice, neutral question.

‘Great, actually.
I’m loving
it!  You’re nice people to work
with.’ 

Oh. I suddenly feel terribly
guilty. 
About Henderson’s bloody horse.

‘Have you worked here long?’ he asks.

‘It feels like forever,’ I answer
honestly.
‘In the best possible way.
 It’s
actually only been about two years. Since my old horse was put to sleep.’

‘Oh.’ He frowns. ‘Do you have a horse
now?’

I shake my head. ‘My husband wasn’t
keen. Said it was too much of a tie if we wanted to go away...’ 

Then I stop because I don’t know what to
say next.
That my husband ran off with a tart, so I shouldn’t have listened
to a single word he said, or the current version, which is that actually, I’m
thinking about getting another one.  Horse that is, not husband.

Marcus surprises me. ‘I did hear about
your husband. And I’m sorry. Er, actually I do know what it feels like. 
Well almost.  I wasn’t actually married, but someone really messed me
about.  I have an idea what it’s like.’

I find myself smiling at him.  He’s
being very nice and it’s very odd.  I have to remind myself about how the
female clients are always phoning and asking for him in breathy, girly voices,
as if they’ve got nothing better to do with their day than play horses with the
dishy new vet. 

I gather myself. ‘Well, I’m okay
now.  It could have been worse.  And actually, I’m probably better
off without him,’ I add for good measure, sounding far more of a hardnosed
bitch than I’m feeling.

Marcus shrinks back in his chair,
looking most uncomfortable.  Ha.  Somehow it’s quite gratifying. He
was probably thinking that poor, pathetic Louisa, still mourning the loss of
her wayward husband, would be so very glad of his concern.

By now though, Marcus has clearly
thought twice about coming round here.  He drains his glass rapidly and
stands up. 
‘Right.
Well, I’m glad you’re okay.’
He gives me a quizzical look, which makes me feel rather dishonest. 
‘That’s great. It’s good you’re doing so…fine.  Erm, I’ll see you at work
then.’

And then he’s gone, leaving me more
nonplussed than I’ve ever been in my life.

Another week or so ticks by, and with
each passing day, life gets easier.  People stop picking their way so
carefully around me as they realise, unexpectedly, that I really am just fine
on my own.  
I‘m starting to like that word.
  
After all, I don’t a man to define who I am.  And then something else
truly amazing happens.

Miles comes trudging into the office one
morning, looking even more unhappy than usual and before long Agnes drags out
of him what the problem is.  It takes her all of about thirty seconds.

‘Flaming Daisy Mitchell is the problem,
if you must know,’ he says glumly.  ‘She’s got this horse - well several,
actually. They’re all beautiful animals, but this particular one keeps going
quite lame. He’s not a youngster, and he’s a bit creaky, but in between times,
he’s fine to go hacking.  And today she told me she wants him put to
sleep. 
Doesn’t want the bother of an animal that’s
anything less than straightforward.’

Miles looks really upset and pissed
off.  Unfortunately this kind of thing happens sometimes and it’s probably
better than the poor horse being doped up and sold on to an uncertain future,
but even so. 

‘Oh dear,’ says Agnes.  ‘You really
don’t look happy about this.’

Miles is frowning.  ‘Trouble is
,
he’s a nice old horse with plenty of life in him.  It
just doesn’t seem right.  He’s not even that old.  He’s just an
inconvenience as far as she’s concerned.’

We’re all silent.  None of us like
the sound of this. Then Agnes speaks.

‘Well, it’s perfectly obvious isn’t it?’
she says, quite matter of factly, as if we were all completely stupid or
something.  ‘Louisa should have him.’

My jaw drops wide open. Did she really
just say what I thought she did?

‘There’s an empty paddock behind your cottage.
Louisa. You know perfectly well. And even an old stable in the far corner. Old
Charley Peach owns it. I’ve known him for years. Leave it to me.’ 
All spoken so firmly that none of us dare utter a word.

She despatches Miles off up the drive to
visit Paris’s new horse.  After all, a despondent vet is the last thing we
need moping around the office when we have so much work to do.  And at
least he’s safe from Paris, who still has a massive crush on Marcus. 

Agnes should be Prime Minister.
 I’m beginning to wonder if at the very least she’s a witch, but at any
rate, she’s definitely extraordinary.  Just a couple of hours later, she
tells me that Charley Peach would be delighted to let me have it for a pittance
of a rent and Agnes has already decided that the vets can keep an eye on Horace
(the horse) if he needs them.

And so the next day, when I get home
from work, there is this huge gentle creature, mooching peacefully around in
the long grass behind my cottage. Apparently Daisy Mitchell was delighted to
wash her hands of him and so now it would seem, he is mine. 

Horace is lovely, a real gentleman, with
the most impeccable manners. He’s dark bay with big, kind eyes and likes nosing
gently in my pockets for sweets.  How anyone couldn’t want him is unfathomable. 
It is absolutely love at first sight, as far as I’m concerned.  Not so for
Elmer, who’s extremely jealous and snarls at him.  Then she eats his
droppings.

My days are getting busier.  Seeing
as
it’s
summer, Horace is turned out in the paddock
day and night, but I like to go and spend time with him before breakfast and in
the evenings, after work, I catch him up and groom him and in no time it’s as
though he’s always been here.    

Emma loves him too and is quite
envious.  I’ve told her she can ride him whenever she likes, but she works
such long days, she hardly ever has time.  It’s one evening when we’re
leaning on the paddock fence, waxing lyrically about how brilliant Horace is as
he ambles around up to his knees in grass, that I broach my concerns about
Jerome, the con-man astrologer.  Emma, as I fully expect her to be, is
instantly on the defensive.

‘Have you ever read his website Lou?’
she asks.  ‘Only it’s quite uncanny how accurate he can be.  It’s
like he’s talking specifically to
me
…  You should take a look
sometime.’

Perhaps I might, but I’m not telling her
that.

‘And what about the times he gets it
wrong then?’  I add confrontationally and more than a touch
scathingly.  ‘Don’t tell me - he’s always so accurate...’

‘Well,’ Emma is pensive. ‘Usually it
relates to something that’s going on. I don’t know. It’s sort of helpful,
honestly...’ She pauses.  ‘You know, when my marriage went wrong, it was
kind of a comfort.  Everything he wrote seemed to confirm to me that I was
doing the right thing, when I was finding it hard to be sure.’

So that’s how it started.  Jerome
hooked her when she was at her most vulnerable.  Poor Emma, if her only
source of support was reading her stars.  I can see I need some more
ammunition.  I’m determined to expose Jerome for what he really is, which
is a crooked shyster who preys on defenceless women.  I don’t why I think
women particularly.  Nor do I know why Emma is so vulnerable.

 ‘Why don’t you try a whole twenty
four hours without tuning in to Jerome, including deleting those ridiculous
texty things before you read them?’ I suggest brightly.

Emma goes pink.  ‘How do you know
about the texts?’

I give her a look.  I mean, it’s
just
so
obvious. 

‘Maybe.
 I’ll think about it,’ she says, meaning well, but I know she won’t. She’s
an addict, after all.

I give up. 
But
only for tonight.

Miles comes over to check Horace. Or so
he says.  I think it’s just an excuse to come and admire him.

‘Nice old chap isn’t he?’

We hang over the paddock fence again and
gaze lovingly at my beautiful horse.  I do a lot of that these days. 
Terrible time wasters, horses are.

‘I’m so glad you’ve taken him. Any time
you’re worried, just let me know.  He does have his moments.’

Miles really does get
far
too
attached to his patients.

That evening, I get another surprise
visitor, only this one hasn’t come to see my horse. It’s Leonie, looking pale
and haggard, with dark circles under her lovely eyes.  I feel a flicker of
alarm.

After I’ve made a pot of tea, we sit in
the garden, so I can turn my chair and gaze lovingly at Horace.

‘So how’s Pete?’

Leonie sniffs and a tear rolls down her
cheek.  I’m shocked.  I can’t remember the last time Leo cried.

‘Terrible,’ she says, miserably.
‘Something’s dreadfully wrong, Lou.  I even got to the point where I came
out with it and asked him if he was having an affair.  He went ballistic
and threw his coffee mug at the wall.  It really frightened me.  It
was his favourite one, too.  Honestly Lou...’  Her huge brown eyes
looked so sad.  ‘It’s like he hates me.  He can’t stand me being
anywhere
near
him.’

She picks up her mug of tea and sips it,
trying to collect herself.  ‘There’s another thing.  He’s off sick
from work.  Apparently he semi-collapsed down route somewhere, and they
had to fly him home as a passenger.’

I sit there blinking at her.
 Blimey.  That’s serious in the airline business, which is a most
unforgiving environment.  
Poor, poor Pete.
 
And poor Leonie too.
  The whole company will know
by now.  
But far more important than that, there’s
something seriously wrong.

‘At least one thing’s come out of it,’
she sniffs into a tissue.  ‘The fleet manager wants him to see one of
their doctors.  He’s absolutely refused until now, but this time it looks
as though he doesn’t have much choice.  If he doesn’t go, he’s out of a
job - it’s as simple as that.  But he’s said he will and I’m glad. 
If someone can just tell us what’s wrong, then at least we can do something
about it.’

‘When’s the appointment?’ I ask, hoping
it’s soon.

‘Next week.  Not too long.’ 

But nor is it soon enough.

Horace chooses that moment to wander
over and obligingly place his great head close to Leo so she can stroke it.
 Very therapeutic, horses are.  He doesn’t mind the tears rolling
onto his nose one bit and just stands there with his eyes half closed, being
comforting, while  neurotic Elmer growls jealously from her lowly place at
my feet.  He ignores her.  When you’re as wise and noble as Horace
is, a scruffy dog with a loose screw isn’t a threat.

Poor, poor Leo.
 
What can possibly be wrong with Pete? Physically he seems quite okay, that’s
what Leonie says, anyway.  So what on earth can it be?