Young Wives' Tales (18 page)

‘What about him?’

He doesn’t look like an axe murderer. In fact if he committed a crime he’d be impossible to identify in a line-up because he looks like two-thirds of the male population: five foot ten, short, brown, slightly receding hair, solid but not overweight, with brown eyes. He’s not especially handsome nor is he particularly ugly. He’s bland. Almost invisible. I see why she thinks we might be suited.

I read his profile. ‘He says that in another life he might have been a golden eagle or Christopher Columbus.’

‘Whereas in this life he’s a wanker,’comments Daisy.

I’m relieved that she’s also offended by his over-inflated
ego. The guy simply doesn’t look the type to have discovered continents.

Connie scours a number of dating sites. I reject sites if registration is free (candidates lack commitment). I reject sites unless photos are included (candidates lack self-confidence). And I reject sites that don’t offer an identification check (candidates lack honesty). She perseveres and finds a fee-paying site with a large number of candidates, with checked IDs, photos and detailed profiles.

Next, I rule out anyone who has read
Harry Potter
.

‘But you’ve read
Harry Potter
,’Daisy points out. She sounds ever so slightly weary.

‘Yes, to the boys. It’s a kids’book. None of these candidates have kids therefore they must be kids themselves.’

I rule out anyone who has read Bill Bryson’s
Small Island
.

‘But you liked that too,’argues Connie.

‘It’s on ninety per cent of the lists. I want someone a little more independently minded.’

Connie starts to speed-read the candidates’profiles. ‘Mad on sport, does Iron man triathlon, etc.’

I stop her there. ‘Next.’

‘Would have been Paul McCartney in a past life.’

‘Paul McCartney is still alive – you can’t be a reincarnation of someone who is still living. Next.’

‘A suitable person would speak English as a first language and would be white.’

We all gasp at the bigotry and chorus, ‘Next.’

‘I’m half Irish, so if you hailed from the Emerald Isle that wouldn’t be a bad thing.’

‘Next,’I call.

‘Why?’demands Daisy. ‘Mum’s Irish. You fit the profile. Keep reading, Connie.’

‘… And solvent in your own right but not a career-minded power-person.’

‘Sounds sexist,’I mumble. ‘Next.’

‘It is important that you don’t smoke, as it is a rather disgusting habit – if you don’t agree then you’re not for me.’I do agree so I stay silent. ‘Weird body piercing and tattoos are also a big no-no!’

I don’t have either but am tempted to rush out and have a job lot done. Nipple, tummy button, eyebrow, lip and tongue and that’s just the tattoos.

‘He ought to respect freedom of expression. Next.’

‘I like to play with computer technology, hi-fi and home theatre.’

‘Boring. Next.’

We continue in this vein for quite some time. I start to clean the boys’trainers while Connie reads the profiles out loud and Daisy assesses my suitability. I interrupt to point out the obvious shortcomings of the candidates. I wonder how long it will take to tire them.

‘This one is perfect,’squeals Connie, suddenly. ‘Listen. The candidate will have depth of character.’

‘Tick,’says Daisy.

‘You must be sociable and enjoy entertaining.’

‘Tick.’

‘Family and friends are important to you, as I have
good relationships with my extended family, friends from childhood, university, etc.’

‘Tick.’

‘Might speak two languages.’

‘Rose speaks three!’cries Daisy excitedly. ‘So double tick.’

Connie continues to read the liturgy of demands. ‘Overall health is important.’

I decode. ‘He wants a thin girl.’

‘You would enjoy your work or have a passion.’

‘I’m passionate about being a mum. But somehow I can’t believe that’s a passion that will pass muster. He’s looking for a woman who runs her own phenomenally successful cottage industry or has an illustrious career in the City.’Anger at his arrogance is blistering and bubbling inside of me.

‘We could put him on a shortlist,’suggests Daisy.

‘Not if he was the last man on earth.’

‘It’s a good thing that populating the planet isn’t dependent on you,’says Connie.

‘He’s totally unsuitable.’

‘Why? You ticked nearly all of the boxes!’pleads Daisy.

‘He’s too demanding.’

‘Takes one to know one,’mutters Connie.

‘What does that mean?’She nearly always means something, only she doesn’t always say so.

‘Well, I just wonder if you should open your mind a little more. You’re being very dismissive.’

‘I’m simply being efficient at sorting the wheat from
the chaff. A babysitter costs upwards of forty quid a night. I’m not planning on going on countless pointless dates. I can’t afford it.’

‘But you are planning on going on the odd date, aren’t you? Besides, I keep telling you I’ll babysit,’says Daisy, reasonably. How is it that on some occasions someone’s reasonableness is just as annoying as anger or unreasonableness? ‘Look, maybe he’s not quite right but there are dozens to choose from,’she says with a patient smile. ‘Don’t any of them appeal?’

‘No. They don’t and I can’t imagine who will.’I feel pathetic and past it. ‘You have to go, now,’I say finally.

I start gathering up coffee cups. They see I’m not kidding and Daisy assembles her bag and coat while Connie scoops Flora into her padded jacket. I bundle them out of my home without much ceremony. I manage to fling a hazy promise to see them soon and I slam the door closed. I turn from the door, lean on it and then slide to the floor.

It’s too horrible.

How come Peter walks away from our relationship and ends up with a beautiful new wife, a stunning home and another child? I’m left standing still and alone. I hadn’t felt alone until Connie and Daisy started this campaign of theirs. Now whenever I look in the mirror I see what they see. A forlorn, hopeless case. Reading through the profiles of other singletons hasn’t helped me to believe that there’s a great big community out there, just waiting for me to burst on to their scene – it’s left me feeling desolate and inadequate. I wander
back into the sitting room. In her haste to leave Connie has failed to close down the computer. I fight the urge to throw my coffee cup at the screen. What would be the point? I’d have to clear up the broken pieces and mop up the dregs. I’d have to buy a replacement computer.

There is no one to look after me, other than me. What a vile thought. I slump into the computer chair, still warm from Connie, and I fight tears.

The face on the screen belongs to Chris from SW London. He tells me that:

It would be good if you wanted to do similar things to me – restaurant, a movie, a walk in the country, stately home, sitting in watching a DVD, touring the UK and Ireland, bbq with friends when our weather allows it, beer gardens in the summer, a drive to the coast.

It dawns on me – of course I want to do those things with Chris or someone or other. Who doesn’t like movies, walks, beer gardens and drives to the coast? Only lunatics, presumably. But the words on the screen don’t seem real. This guy might be a married man looking for a bit of extracurricular. And even if the words are real and he is telling the truth, how do I make the drives to the coast
my
reality? I don’t know if Chris is worth that effort or even if I’m capable of that effort.

Why am I here?
Chris asks himself. Good question.

A recent visit to my 2 year old godson and his parents helped me decide that it’s time to meet someone special. Am now out
of sync with my friends who all seem to have got married and have kids. I’ve been too busy working and travelling the world to settle down. An attempt to join the single scene by going out the other night made me feel there has to be a better way than shouting over music in smoky dark bars – I hope this is it.

Well, I agree with him there.

A bit about me – lucky enough to have a great family and friends – and a wide range of interests: love exploring new places – whether it’s countries, restaurants or places in the UK and London but also very happy to stay at home to watch a good film with some nice wine. Don’t like snobbery or stuffiness in any form and value honesty, loyalty, humour and those with questioning minds.

Too good to be true. Surely.

If that sounds like you I’d love to meet you!

The house is gleaming. I once read on a fridge magnet that a clean house was the sign of a wasted life and I think the pithy slogan might be true; my ironing basket and life are empty.

The boys take, and then take, and then take some more. They give but they are like cruel dictators, they give at random and unexpected moments and they only allow you to bathe in their love for a few precious moments before they demand again. Yet when they go I’ll have nothing. What sort of life is that?

Blow it. What have I got to lose? A sobering question. I press the reply button and fill out a return profile card.

I spot her immediately. She’s wearing a long leather coat and boots. They are flat boots, which is a shame, but it’s not a bad look for the school gate. She’s chatting happily with a small gaggle of other mothers and is absentmindedly pushing and pulling her youngest sprog’s stroller. The kid is dressed in a fairy costume and is playing with a soft toy in the shape of a rabbit.

They make an attractive tableau.

As I approach, her kid drops the rabbit and it rolls a metre from the stroller. None of the mothers notices. Opportunity has knocked. I swoop in and retrieve the toy, give it a quick rub and present it, with a flourish, back to the little girl.

Of course, by now, the conversation has drawn to a close and all eyes are on me. Greenie mumbles a thank-you but it’s not what you’d call heartfelt.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?’asks one of the women.

Excepting Greenie, this woman is best in show. She beams at me, which is perhaps a mistake as her teeth
are crooked and a bit yellow. Good bod though. She’s in a tracksuit and is clearly a dedicated gym bunny. Decent haircut and colour; she looks expensive and groomed but still not a great beauty. Greenie is also wearing make-up but even without it she could knock spots off the other mother.

‘This is an old colleague of mine, John Harding,’says Greenie, without much enthusiasm. The other women proffer their hands for me to shake; they are notably more eager to engage than Greenie is. They introduce themselves by telling me whose mother they are.

‘Ted’s mum, Year Two.’

‘Clara’s mummy, Year One.’

‘Jake and Josh, reception and Year Two respectively.’

‘Mr Harding isn’t a daddy,’says Greenie. She might think this Mr Harding thing is distancing; personally I’m finding the formality a turn-on and I’m fighting an erection. ‘He’s a pal of Mr Walker’s. Isn’t that right?’

Connie has refused to meet my eye so far. She directs her question to my right shoulder. I see that as a good sign. She’s been thinking about me. The ladies are excited at the idea that Craig has a life outside the school and they start firing questions at me about whether he has a girlfriend or not. They comment that I must have a tale or two to tell them. Before I get a chance to reply fully the conversation turns.

‘Look, they’re coming out,’says Clara’s mummy, Year One.

Connie busies herself waving to her daughter and
ignoring me. I lean into her ear and whisper, ‘Will you meet me?’

‘No.’She sounds shocked.

‘I’d like to talk to you.’

‘You are six years too late for a chat,’she snaps. This time she does turn to face me. I’m aware that the full force of her fury has yet to be unleashed. I can see she is keeping her disquiet in check. Even that excites me. She really is looking lovely.

‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’I tell her.

‘I realize it’s the first time you’ve ever heard the word from me but you’d be wise to accept it.’

She bends down to kiss her kid. See, I like her sense of humour. Even with a kid hanging round her legs and all her mumsie mates in earshot she couldn’t resist a snappy retort. I’ve always liked that in her. I grin but can’t seem to thaw her.

‘I’m deadly serious. I wish you’d stop hanging around here. If it’s for my benefit, forget it. I don’t want you in my life. Go away,’she says firmly.

With that she pushes the stroller away from the school. Her eldest child looks a bit startled and she is only just managing to keep up with her mum’s determined, long strides. I follow them down the street.

‘There’s a lot that wasn’t said.’I’m forced into skipping alongside her, which looks a bit pathetic but women sometimes go for breathless desperation. It might work.

‘Too much was said,’she mutters grimly.

Or it might not.

I try another tack. ‘Nothing heavy. Just a quick catch-up drink for old times’sake.’She stops abruptly and I think I’ve engaged her but I realize she’s just trying to cross the road. She acts out an elaborate version of the Green Cross Code.

‘You might as well agree, because I’m not going to go away and the other mums will start to talk if I keep turning up at the school gate.’

She glares at me. ‘Why is it that you are only this persistent in the early parts of the game and so distant at the end?’

‘Ah, so we are playing a game again.’I can’t hide my satisfaction at this small victory.

She blushes, it might be embarrassment, it might be anger. Either way it suits her. ‘We most certainly are not. Nor will we ever be. Go away.’

‘No.’

‘Please.’

‘No.’

‘You are a bully.’

‘That’s not true.’

Greenie looks around the street. There are dozens of mums, nannies and even the occasional dad shepherding their children into cars or trying to rush them home on foot. The kids all squirm and wriggle constantly. Their coats hang off their little bodies and some step on their own scarves which trail behind them. It looks exhausting. Greenie seems to be looking for someone to rescue her or at least help her decide what to do next. There’s no one to do that.