The Love Market (9 page)

‘No way.’

‘Hear me out.’

‘No. I’m not doing it.’ I fold my arms under my breasts.

He extracts his eyes from my throat. ‘I’m an opportunity for you to make another two thousand pounds. I’ll be a good client. I want the full service, though. The fake date. The whole works. Just like I was any client. Just because you were married to me you can’t hold it against me. No assumed prior knowledge.’

‘You don’t meet the MIS.’

‘What’s the MIS?’

‘You know what it is.’ Minimum Income Standard of sixty thousand pounds that the men have to meet to qualify.

He wags a finger in front of my face. ‘No prior knowledge, remember?’

‘Okay. Mike, you’re not well off enough. You won’t qualify.’

He shrugs. ‘So this is the one time when you can bend the rules a bit. And I’m not asking you to set me up with Angelina Jolie. One of your dodgiest eights will be fine.’

Mike knows that the women have to at least rank an eight on the attractiveness scale. Because research still shows that men are into looks, and women are into money. I hate saying it. I’d hoped we’d all somehow got sensible over time. But we haven’t.

‘I don’t need a pin up. After all, I’m more into personalities than I am looks. I mean, I was married to a gorgeous woman and see what happened there.’

We hold eyes, in the aftershock that follows such a remark. ‘I’m not doing it, Mike.’

‘Will you at least think about it?’

‘No. And I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it. What normal person would do this?’

‘But we know you’re not normal,’ he barbs, in his passive-aggressive way that’s meant to hurt you but he can’t quite pull the punch. ‘And who cares what others think? Most people don’t have an ex in the business, do they? And you’re so good at what you do; why wouldn’t I want to try to benefit from that? I could meet someone else still. Maybe even have another family—not that any other child would ever replace my first.’

‘You know what? I’ve changed my mind. I am going to shut the door on you.’

He cocks his head, trying to win me over. ‘Come on Celine. Is it too much to want to see me happy? Do you hate me that much?’

‘I don’t hate you!’ A pain blazes in me. ‘Why would I hate you? I’m just...’

Puzzled. Why would he insist on the fake date?

Then a thought comes to me. ‘Mike… I hope this isn’t some strategy to get me back.’

I regret saying it the instant it’s out. All the good humour slides right off his face. Then his gaze travels quickly up and down me. ‘You know what, Celine? Even in my darkest moments—because I still get them, far more than I would wish—I would never want to go back to being married to you.’

We stare at one another while my humiliation takes a bow before leaving the stage. This hurts more than I can let on. More than I would have even expected. I go to close the door now. He gently puts his hand out to stop me. ‘Just tell me you’ll think about it.’

I look off to the side of his head, through a spring of tears. ‘Move your foot or I’ll slam this and break all your toes,’ I bluff.

Tense moments tick, and I get a quick flashback to one of our last fights. Mike usually has a personality like a sea before the storm, but he’d occasionally lose his rag. Something that usually came off more funny than threatening. That time, he pelted a shoe at me across the room. It missed me, but hit the Lladro figurine of a little boy that Mike’s mother had given us. Mike knew I’d always hated it, even though he’d loved it. It seemed poignant that he’d broken it. As though, by fighting, we had succeeded on some darker level, in breaking him rather than just an ornament.

Mike studies me closely, then he moves his foot. I am able to close the door. I lean up against it, my breathing racking me. I don’t fully breathe out until I hear the scrunch of gravel under his feet as he walks away.

And I realise one true thing. The thought just floats up from whatever place it comes from. No one will love me like Mike loved me. And that much I know. I know without anyone having to wag their finger in front of my face and tell me.

Aimee sits by the window, swinging a flared indigo denim leg over the chair arm, in the powder blue satin top we just bought her. ‘Why didn’t he come in?’ she asks.

‘I don’t know,’ I shrug, still feeling somehow traumatized by our encounter. ‘I suppose I didn’t exactly invite him.’

She stares at me. ‘What does an orgasm feel like?’ When she sees my face she says, ‘If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll ask somebody else. Granddad. Or Rachel’s mum.’

We face each other in a narrowed-eye stand-off. I am about to take her to task, or at least to ask why she’s asking me this, but I don’t have the emotional energy.

‘Like a sneeze,’ I tell her, trying to be offhand about it. ‘A-choo! Only not with your nose.’

She twirls a long piece of newly blonde hair around a finger. Jacqui just took her to the salon as a treat. She had soft golden highlights put in. It’s nice. Makes her look very grown up. ‘Would it be completely inappropriate of me if I asked you why you want to know this?’

‘I kissed Rachel’s boyfriend.’

I frown. ‘I didn’t know she had one. ‘Where?’

‘On the mouth of course.’

‘I mean, where in the house? I’m assuming you’d go somewhere where Rachel couldn’t see.’
A bedroom? With pants off? I’ll kill him.

‘Outside. No one saw.’

‘You don’t kiss a friend’s boyfriend, Aimee. It’s one of the big no-no’s of life. Are you still jealous because she won a competition? Surely not…’

‘He wanted to do other things.’

He’s dead. And I’m never letting her out of my sight again.

‘And you? What did you want?’ I ask her, feeling burnt out with my sudden inner, quiet panic. She stops playing with her hair, lets her leg just dangle now over the side of the chair. She does look stunning, and I see my daughter through a boy’s eyes. She’s sexy, which is a very odd thought to be having about your own child. ‘I don’t know,’ she says.

‘Is this why you suddenly wanted to come home?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Mr. Bradshaw caught us kissing.’

‘I thought you said no one saw.’

‘Well he did.’

‘And?’

‘He wanted to kiss me too.’

‘That’s not funny Aimee.’

‘It’s not meant to be.’

‘Pete Bradshaw would not want to kiss one of his daughter’s friends in his house full of thirty teenagers, with his wife there!’

Off goes the wagging leg again. Aimee was defiant, even as a baby.

‘You don’t make up lies about people, Aimee. Somebody might take you seriously and that’s a very dangerous game to be playing.’

‘So I take it you’re not going out boyfriend-shopping tonight then?’ she asks.

I ignore that, and tell her I’m going to bed.

~ * * * ~

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, later when I look in her room. ‘About the boyfriend shopping.’ She pulls a rueful smile.

‘It’s okay,’ I tell her. I go in and sit on the edge of her bed. ‘Are you all right?’

She puts her book down and looks at me, like she’s grasping for the right way to say something, like someone trying to work her way around a speech impediment. ‘It was just weird having Dad leave me at the door.’

‘I’m so sorry… You wish he was coming home with you.’

One hand uncurls from her book and her thin fingers meander down the cat’s belly. ‘I don’t know. Not if you don’t.’

This show of unity touches me.

‘It was just weird.’

I go to stroke Molly as well, and Aimee’s and my fingers meet, briefly. ‘I know,’ I tell her. I remember how I had to share my dad with his new girlfriends, often getting dropped at the last minute, for a better offer. Could I see Mike suddenly dropping visits if he met someone? Neither of us has had to share him before.

‘Mr. Bradshaw never tried to kiss me. I made that up.’

‘I know that too,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

~ * * * ~

I return to my room. My book on physiognomy is fascinating: the assessment of a person’s character or personality from their face. But rather than make me sleepy, it’s got me picturing all of my clients and comparing them against the theory. While I thought a big nose was a sign of a big something else, it’s apparently an indicator of health and vitality. Big ears? More comfortable taking risks. A thinner top lip to the bottom one? Watch out, this person may be serially unfaithful. And a woman’s eyebrows plucked into a tiny line, like my client Kim’s, is a sign of suppressed rage. I get out of bed and pick up a mirror and look at my own face. Definitely not thin eyebrows. Disproportionately tiny ears. I go back to bed, put the book away, lie there looking at ceiling. I still can’t fall asleep. Now Ian Dury’s
Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick
is playing on a never-ending loop in my head, so I decide I might as well check my email.

I’ve a bunch. The first four are from Kim. Speak of the devil. The first one is titled Urgent.

Time is ticking. I haven’t heard from you in a while. Do you have anybody else for me?

The second is titled Urgent!!!

On second thoughts, I’m not sure I can go through with any of this again. Will phone you early in the morning to talk—unless you’re up now? I can’t sleep.

The third is titled IMPERATIVE you read this!!!

I’m having serious second thoughts, Celine. I just don’t think you and I are working out. I’m not even sure you even WANT to match me any more
.

The fourth: Did you DIE?

Sorry, I know you’re going to think I’m overreacting but I have given this a lot of thought. I can’t do this any more. I’ve just had enough. Please prepare a refund for me.

Oh dear.

No one’s asked for a refund before! Of course it’s all poetic justice; I usually charge the women half what I charge the men—mainly because they aren’t such high earners. But in Kim’s case I charged her the men’s fee because I read in the Newcastle Chronicle that she was loaded.

But she’s not getting a refund! Number one, I don’t like to admit failure. Plus I’ve put time and thought into matching her, and every time she brushes through clients writing them all off I lose a bit of credibility with them. But also, I don’t really believe the solution to her unhappy singlehood is to dump me. So by giving her a refund I am failing both myself and her. But if I reply now, knowing her, she’ll be at the other end of the email, and then I’m never going to get to sleep. I’ll wait until morning, until she’s cooled off.

The next one I see is from Fran Kennedy. Fran married Allan, the man I’d matched her with, only, very sadly, Allan now has lung cancer and she often pours out her heart in an email. I open every one she sends me fearing the worst, but true to form in this one, Fran’s spirits are high even though he’s not doing well. I read it several times then type a long reply. By the time I am done, I am sleepy. I’m just about to log out, when another email pops in.

When I see the name, I am so shocked that I lie there inhaling for about half a minute and nearly forget to breathe out.

The name right there before my eyes is Patrick Shale.

Have I just had a painless heart attack?

There’s no message header, so I scroll for the message, part of me thinking I must have fallen asleep and this is a dream.

But there’s no message.

I log out, log back in again. Still a blank where the message should be. I close my eyes, take a breath, open them, and look again. I log off again, pull the plug from the socket, wait a while, stick it back in again, and reboot.

Still no message.

Patrick has sent me a blank email. Why would he do that? And why would Patrick even email me at all, especially as Jacqui and I have been talking about him so much lately?

I smell a rat. A female rat that’s voluptuous with a blonde bob, called Jacqui, and it works as an architect.

I scroll down again just to make sure I’ve not missed anything, and then what I see makes me squeal out loud. Underneath the “nothing” that he has written, there is a small line of text that reads:

On 4/26, Celine Lewis at [email protected] wrote:

Hang on. I wrote?

I
wrote?

I scroll down to read what it is that I supposedly wrote, and there is... Nothing! What?

When I look up, Aimee is standing in my doorway, staring at me as though she’s seeing an alien. ‘You look weird,’ she says. Her eyes instantly go to my laptop.

I realise my face is stuck in a just-been-terrified expression. ‘Sorry...I …can’t sleep.’

‘I heard a noise.’ She frowns at the laptop.

‘I got up for the loo and stubbed my toe.’