The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man

  The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man

  Susie Martyn

  Copyright © 2013 Susie Martyn

  The right of Susie Martyn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express permission of the author.

  Contents

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  PS…

  If love is the answer, can you rephrase the question?

  1

  I’m where every girl in the world wants to be. Wandering serenely through Tesco’s. In the middle of the night. And there’s no-one here, which is odd…

  Actually, it’s surprisingly peaceful, meandering up and down the wide empty aisles with only some vegetables for company. But hold on just a moment, I can hear something. Or rather someone... Holy moly. Not just any old someone either.

  A positive vision appears around the corner, a knowing smile playing on his lips as I find myself gazing at Zac Efron and Ryan Reynolds, all rolled into one beautiful, jaw-dropping specimen.

  Clinging to his lean, sculpted frame is one of those tight t-shirts that leaves nothing to the imagination – I can make out every muscle, every curve of his tanned, glorious body. As he comes towards me, there’s an intense look in his dark eyes and I’m getting a funny feeling, like goose-bumps all over.

  I close my mouth, smooth my hands over my T-shirt, sucking in my tummy and attempting to look nonchalant, as though I bump into sex-gods in Tesco’s every day. But. Oh crap. I don’t know what to say now, because there is no T-shirt. In fact, I’m horrified to find I’m not wearing anything at all… Where the fuck are my clothes?

  *

  The luminous hands on my alarm clock read just before 3am when my eyes ping open to the sound of the heaviest of April showers hammering torrentially on our roof. I’m still blushing from the realisation that I’m completely starkers in the middle of a supermarket, with a gorgeous stranger giving me the once over - except I’m not of course. I’m at home in my bed, fantasy and reality blurred for a few delicious moments longer as I contemplate the man of my dreams, still unmistakeably here in my head. What a time to wake up, just when things were about to get interesting… But by now, one thing I most definitely am is annoyingly wide awake.

  Okay. So it’s not the first time I’ve had a vivid, outrageous dream and as I lie in bed, I wait for the full-blown assault from my insecurities that always follows. General unease then escalates into complete and unreserved paranoia of mind-boggling proportions, while I explore the entire range of catastrophes waiting to befall me. Bankruptcy, life-threatening illness, divorce… because they’re all there waiting to get me.

  As I lie in my favourite pyjamas (I checked, just to make sure) I toss and turn restlessly, my imagination in full swing, at its absolute, spectacular worst. If I’m going to dream about flaunting myself at gorgeous men, why can’t it be on a tropical island? Or is there hidden significance to dreams about lust among the veg aisle at Tesco’s… More likely I just have a disturbed mind.

  The warm, inert body next to me doesn’t exactly help, emitting porcine snores at regular intervals, every so often interspersed with a particularly hoggish one – the kind that has about four syllables – putting an end to any hope of sleep. Arian is a world class snorer, and not even a well-timed elbow in the ribs has any lasting effect on the din emanating from his nostrils.

  My lovely husband is also a world class duvet-hogger. I tug the covers back over me – he doesn’t even stir, but then Arian can sleep through anything. If the house fell down around us, he’d be oblivious to it, but he’s oblivious to most things these days.

  I know my fears and suspicions will shrink back to normal, only mildly paranoid proportions by daylight. And my imagination, I’m the first to admit, is inclined to get carried away. However, just lately, I’m beginning to wonder whether this is simply in my head, or if indeed something is going on.

  Arian flies large aeroplanes for a big airline. We met six years ago when my best friend, Leonie, married his best friend, Pete. Leonie’s cabin crew and we’ve been the best of friends since secondary school, where with characteristic chutzpah and a few well-chosen words – fuck off you pikey bitches – she stuck her oar in and her finger up at the bullies who made my life a misery.

  Leo’s beautiful, with smooth olive skin and long dark hair. After leaving school, with the same audacity that had endeared her to me in the first place, she lied about her age and pursued her dream to take to the skies. I meanwhile, as was my due, accepted the rather less enthralling option of a secretarial job, in the dingy offices of Carpets-R-Us.

  It might not have been so bad, if only Leo’s life hadn’t been full of excitement. A never ending whirl of exotic destinations, fab shopping and hot men in uniform – I preferred to gloss over the 4am check-ins and the night Tenerife’s - but it all served to make my lacklustre nine to five existence answering dreary Mr McKenzie’s phone seem even more tedious than it was.

  But when we were together we kicked our heels up, determined to misspend every second of our long-awaited freedom. We were far too young, we agreed, to tie ourselves down to just one man, so it was absolutely only fair, we told ourselves, to go on dates with lots of them.

  So many men and so little time. That was us for years, until that fateful nightstop in Tangiers when she met Pete, who was understandably smitten at first sight.

  Tall and sandy haired (Leo’s word, Pete’s a ginger), he’s besotted. And it was totally his fault I met Arian, then kept meeting Arian at theirs, again and again, because they’re friends.

  As I discovered, pilots can yap for hours - about holding procedures and rostering agreements, and other pilot-ish topics of conversation, such as dwindling pensions and the new junior with the big bazoomas. And then Arian asked me on a date.

  It was easy to be infected by the magic between our friends. One date turned to many, culminating months later in a drunken proposal that surprised both of us. I detected a flicker of surprise on Leo’s face when I told her. Or possibly it was a flicker of uncertainty, which being Leo, she then hid forever behind a mask of enthusiasm and delight.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God!’ Leo had jumped up and down excitedly. ‘When’s the wedding? How did he propose? Oh Lou, this is the best new
s ever! Oh, I’m so excited!’

  All without pausing for breath before she’d dashed off to tell Pete.

  Looking back, her excitement was always greater than mine. Isn’t a wedding, after all, just about the biggest day of your life? The biggest decision you ever make, and worthy of at least some peripheral soul searching before you tie the knot? Maybe for most people – but for me, it was the natural order of things.

  The lead up to our wedding simply flew by, filled with meetings with photographers, florists and of course food tastings, not to mention fittings of my elaborate and frightfully expensive Vera Wang wedding gown. Barely having a moment to think, I allowed myself to go with the flow, and just took completely for granted that this was how it was.

  My mother - Lord bless her - as is her nature, complained about everything and secretly revelled in every stressful minute of it. A total mother-of-the-bride-zilla, she was in her element, organising everything to a degree that gave a whole new meaning to the word, positively terrifying everyone she came across.

  But at last I was doing something she approved of. Oh yes, she was thrilled to bits that her previously slightly disappointing daughter had bagged herself such a good catch. Truth is, I think she was a teeny bit smitten herself, but there was absolutely no doubt that she wanted our wedding to be impressive, with no expense spared, with hundreds of guests, white doves after the ceremony, flowers simply everywhere and those hideous wedding favour things on the table that no-one knows what to do with. She even managed to rustle up ten tiny bridesmaids I’d never even seen before and drafted in a professional speech writer, just in case my poor father let the side down.

  I’m afraid to say that I was happy to take a back seat and let her. And it was an incredible day. But. After it was over, things between me and Arian just ticked along fairly uneventfully, much as they had before. Wasn’t there supposed to be more?

  With Arian away so frequently, it’s like he has a double life - at home he does a bit of DIY and mows the lawn, but the moment he puts on his uniform, he steps into a parallel universe I have no part in.

  And so, in between times, I am quite used to getting on with my own, somewhat less glamorous way of life. In a funny sort of way, it’s worked, or so I thought. My biggest worry has been what to pull out of my extensive and mismatched wardrobe each morning. Until now.

  This isn’t a conclusion I’ve come to easily. And terrified though I am to confront it, there have been rather too many last minute flight changes, more than ever before. He’s extremely amiable these days, when he’s here that is, which is less and less frequently. And he hums a lot in the bathroom. All this, despite the fact that we haven’t had sex for two months, which probably goes a long way towards explaining my night-time fantasies about frolicking with Latino-type males in Tesco’s. But recently I’d go so far as to say that my husband has been avoiding all bodily contact suggestive of intimacy. I know in daylight hours, I’ll convince myself that I’m just being paranoid, that nothing’s changed and it’s the gremlins of the night out to get me again. But...the fact remains. Arian has always liked a lot of sex.

  In the beginning, just being in the same room as him would fill my head with carnal thoughts. Arian would walk through the door after being away for a night and barely say hello before we’d be tearing each other’s clothes off like there was no tomorrow. Even his unpredictable working hours had their use.

  I’m really sorry Mum, we won’t be able to make lunch tomorrow. No, Arian’s just had a week of night flights again and needs to catch up... Yes, poor thing, he’s exhausted…

  Ha. Not much sleeping went on, I can tell you and it was easy enough to overlook any guilt at lying to a mother who’d long ago switched allegiance to her son-in-law.

  Of course the frequency wore off a bit as the years went by, but nothing like this. Two whole months? Preposterous.

  My alarm wakes me at 6am. I long to close my eyes and drift back into oblivion, but I can’t. The space next to me is empty and there are splashing sounds coming from the bathroom, against a background of energetic humming noises. Galvanising my weary body into action, I stagger bleary-eyed down the stairs to make a cup of tea, to be greeted by the mad, black creature that leaps up maniacally and wags her whole body at me.

  Elmer is rather a scruffy flatcoat retriever. There aren’t too many of them about and if you’ve ever lived with one, you’ll know why. Reading my thoughts, she grins madly at me, one eye squinting, while grabbing at my pyjamas with grizzled jaws.

  I let her outside; it’s really far too early to be dealing with a demented dog. It’s a beautiful spring morning, and I stand for a moment breathing it in, watching Elmer pogo madly across the grass. Rays of early morning sun are poking through the trees, catching the dew on the grass so it sparkles.

  It’s quiet and still and calms the madness in my head for a moment. I’ve always loved this garden, with its gently sloping grass and gnarled apple trees. There’s an old garden bench among them, my favourite place on Sunday afternoons, curled up on a pile of cushions with a trashy book.

  In the opposite corner, there’s a bigger, very ancient oak, perfect for climbing and even more perfect for just sitting under in the height of the hottest summer, then at the far end is Elmer’s stream, where she wallows for hours.

  Arian appears and kisses me perfunctorily on the cheek. I feel a pang of I’m not sure what. Since when does my husband kiss me like he would his mother? Before, he’d have come and stood quietly behind me, his arms wrapped around me, his lips nuzzling my hair, hinting at far more than just a kiss.

  Tall, with longish hair that’s still damp from the shower, he’s suspiciously bright-eyed and bushy tailed this morning. It’s good to know at least one of us slept well. And he’s annoyingly affable. What is going on with him?

  ‘Sleep well Lou? You were out of it this morning,’ he remarks happily.

  Ironically because I was awake all night worrying about our marriage, buster, I almost say, but don’t.

  ‘Oh, my Lisbon’s turned into a night-stop, so I won’t be back until Saturday,’ he adds oh-so-casually, not one iota of guilt on his face as he carefully avoids eye contact. ‘Still, I’ll cut the grass on Sunday and we could go out with Pete and Leonie then, if they’re free?’

  My stomach lurches and not about the bloody grass. And it’s not that I mind him being away, because I don’t. But today is Thursday. He was supposed to be coming home tonight. Two extra nights away. Just like last week.

  What’s equally annoying is his excessive need to socialise. I see people all day – I enjoy the little time we spend on our own, though of course I love seeing Pete and Leonie. And Arian’s with people all day too, of course, though for the most part, it’s a smelly old co-pilot - or so he’d have me believe.

  ‘Maybe we could have an evening in together, darling, just you and me?’ I suggest as we go inside, knowing Leo’s going to visit her mother.

  ‘To make up for missing our anniversary?’ I add wistfully, in my mind picturing a romantic candle-lit dinner and chilled champagne, abandoned for all the right reasons as we rip each other’s clothes off, unable to wait another second.

  That does it. Now he does look shifty. My stomach ties itself in knots. And still I don’t say anything.

  ‘Um, let’s see when I get back?’ Arian literally grabs his flight bag and runs out of the house without saying goodbye, leaving me standing there, utterly perplexed. What about his case? He must have put it in the car earlier, I decide, more convinced than ever something’s wrong.

  But in spite of the apprehension growing inside me, all I can do now is wait. I don’t have much choice. I know I can’t go on like this, not knowing... So I decide. When he gets back from this trip, somehow I have to talk to him.

  2

  I still work in an office – and anywhere else, it would be as dull as the job as Carpets-R -Us, but as it happens, it’s one of my favourite places in the world, because it’s at the heart of a busy veter
inary practice in Lower Shagford, a little village out of the back of beyond, about eight miles from Winchester and connected to civilisation by miles of winding lane.

  It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of village, with at its buzzing heart, a pub, a chippy, and an archaic village stores, surrounded by a scattering of posh country houses, tatty old cottages and of course, the ubiquitous barn conversions. There are also the infamous allotments, the setting of many a village battle.

  The drive to the practice twists and winds through chocolate-box fields full of pretty cows, until you come to what on first sight looks like a rather run down old farm. On closer inspection however, there’s a jolly expensively tarmacked parking area in front of a stylishly converted cow shed, which has a big window and is my office. Then round in the yard, there are stables and barns deceptively full of impressively high tech vet stuff, like scanners and x-ray machines, and even a horse-sized operating theatre.

  The drive continues on for another half a mile, ending in front of the rather imposing and grandly named Offleigh Manor, home to the awfully rich Mankly-Talbot family. Actually, they’re the only reason we’ve got such a posh drive as they absolutely insist on it for their fleet of expensive cars. Mr M-T works in the city, and has a very tiny wife called Amanda, who has perfect highlights and a tinkly laugh, and waves a hand weighted with gold at us whenever she drives past in one of her Mercedes. However, the only one of them we tend to see is Paris – known as PM-T. At sixteen, she’s a sex maniac and rather prone to crushes.

  Most of our patients are horses, though the odd other animal crops up from time to time. And there’s never a dull moment because as well as the lovely horses, there are the owners, who are mostly a bit bonkers, because if you keep horses, you have to be. I mean, they cost a small fortune, half the year they’re caked in mud and their designer wardrobes are more expensive than their owners’. But if you love your horse, such is your life.