The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man Page 6

  ‘Come and see the garden,’ I suggest, taking me safely out of reach of the newly sharpened carving knife lying temptingly within reach on the worktop.

  We walk outside. The garden’s looking pretty. Arching boughs of roses are in bloom and there are clumps of herbs which release their scent when you brush against them. None of it’s my doing, of course. I don’t know the first thing about gardening. But the air is fragrant and it’s peaceful, so I show it off proudly nonetheless.

  ‘And this,’ I add as Horace nickers at us and wanders over to the fence, ‘is Horace.’

  Dad smiles from ear to ear. ‘So glad you’ve found yourself another one,’ he says quietly, stroking Horace’s soft nose gently. I know he’ll pay for it later. Poor Dad’s horribly allergic to horses, but he’s never able to resist them.

  Mum stares at me. ‘Arian wouldn’t have approved. He always said it was difficult to go away if you kept horses.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, stroking Horace myself to keep from exploding. ‘Arian isn’t here, is he? He’s somewhere else, shacked up with the trollop who shares his rather questionable morals, so I think I’m entitled to my horse.’

  I kiss Horace’s nose and storm back into the cottage, leaving my mother standing there speechless.

  No-one mentions Arian after that. Not for a while, at least, as Mum whinges on about Margaret at the WI who wants to change where they go for their Christmas lunch this year, and moans about absolutely everything. She tells me the lamb is overdone and that it should be pink in the middle, even though I’ve never known her serve up any meat that isn’t so dry it practically chokes you. But she eats every last thing on her plate and even manages seconds, so it obviously isn’t too bad. Dad, as predicted, drinks too much red wine and nods off, absolutely the only way he’s stayed married to my mother for so long. As he begins to snore, right on cue she starts again. She just can’t help herself.

  ‘Darling? Have you tried calling Arian? You have to work at marriage you know. Maybe you should try counselling?’

  I sit at the table resting my head in my hands, wondering how much more of her insensitive comments I can take.

  ‘Men can be fragile creatures you know. They do expect certain things...’

  Oh no. Please no. Do not let my mother be talking to me about sex. That just about does it, and it’s like the top exploding off a pressure cooker. This time, I don’t mince my words.

  ‘Look Mum, I know I’m not perfect, but none of us are. And you seem to have conveniently forgotten that it was Arian who chose to have the affair and Arian who chose to leave. Without any attempt whatsoever to communicate my shortcomings to me, or any attempt to put things right. I’m not sure you’ve really grasped this at all, because the conversation we’re having is clearly one you should be having with Arian, don’t you think?’

  I think she’s got the message, as that’s the final word - thank God. It’s nice to know who you can rely on when the chips are down.

  By the time they leave, I’m drained. I slump down on the sofa, utterly exhausted, in my lowest mood since I moved in here. Even Elmer’s picked up on the vibe and she’s exhausted too, lying flat out, twitching slightly and producing blood curdling yelps as she dreams about murdering small mammals, not even waking when I accidentally tread on her.

  Later on, when Emma calls me to suggest going out for a drink, I nearly say no, until I decide not to let my mother ruin my day. And a nice girly chat is probably just what I need. I agree to meet her at the Hope and Anchor in about an hour.

  In an effort to raise my flagging spirits, I run myself a bath and pour in what remains of my most expensive bath oil while turning up Owl City loud enough to have Elmer fleeing for her bed. But it has the desired effect and half an hour later, I’m feeling human again and looking forward to seeing my friend.

  But when I walk in to the pub and see Marcus there as well, I nearly change my mind. Then I see that the Ben that Emma fancies is there too. Oh bugger. They’ve seen me.

  I pin on my brightest smile and join them. And actually, after a large glass of wine, it’s quite an enjoyable evening, marred only by the fact that Marcus is there. The trouble is, he’s still too good looking and confident. And way too good at everything, even at being nice like when he came round to mine the other evening. Men like that make me feel like a blob. After all, I’m five foot four of not terribly slim, not terribly accomplished, mouse-haired, soon-to-be-divorced woman, while he’s done so many awfully interesting things, which he tells Ben about now, in depth, as they have a man-conversation about extreme sports and who won the footy last weekend.

  I tell Emma all about today’s visitation. She’s suitably horrified.

  ‘Honestly Lou. Your mother could have been a little more supportive, don’t you think?’

  I explain to Emma that I’ve always had the feeling that until I married Arian, I had been a constant source of disappointment to her.

  Emma’s thoughtful, then says wisely, ‘I shouldn’t take it too personally. It sounds like your mother is inherently incapable of approving of anything.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I agree. ‘Except for my wonderful ex-husband of course, whose arse, for some reason, the sun shines out of…’

  Emma and I get a little bit tiddly and giggly. Oops. I really shouldn’t have had that fourth glass of wine, but it has been an exceptionally tough day, even by current standards.

  Marcus keeps giving me odd looks, as if I’ve got a bogey on the end of my nose. I keep checking it just to make sure. And predictably, Emma’s mobile bleeps one of Jerome’s poxy, overpriced updates at her, which has her jumping out of her chair, then dashing outside to analyse its deep and meaningful message in private.

  Which leaves me, Ben and Marcus. Marcus goes to the bar to get another round of drinks in, leaving me and Ben, who’s very handsome and looks like Brad Pitt, with gorgeous eyes and a lovely smile. Lucky Emma. I gaze at the lovely smile a bit. Then he says,

  ‘Erm, I don’t know Emma that well yet, but she seems to do that rather a lot...’

  I like the ‘yet’. I make a note to self to tell Emma he said that. I’m guessing he’s referring to her disappearing act.

  ‘She does, doesn’t she,’ I say bluntly. ‘Has she told you why?’

  He looks at me quizzically, but then Marcus comes back and neither of us mentions it.

  ‘How’s your horse, Louisa?’ he asks me. A nice safe topic of conversation. Hopefully I can manage not to say anything to scare him off this time. It seems I’m developing rather a talent for it. And it’s something I’d rather not become known for. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up being one of those mad old women who people cross the road to avoid. Scary Louisa? Ooh, I wouldn’t talk to her if I were you…she’s a bit of a funny one you know… as if I had two heads and fangs and barbecued adulterous ex-husbands.

  I tell Ben all about Horace and how he’s ended up living with me. And then I discover he used to go out with Daisy Mitchell and knows Horace really well! He must know Daisy pretty well too in that case, so I better watch my mouth. This horse world is far too jolly small, I can tell you. I need to become more like Agnes and learn to be supremely discrete. That would surprise everyone - but my thoughts are interrupted as Emma rejoins us. Looking rather worried.

  ‘You okay, Em?’ Marcus asks her, concern showing on his face. If only he knew why she looked like that.

  ‘Fine,’ she says vacantly. Ben clearly doesn’t know what to make of these unexplained absences. He probably thinks she’s on drugs or something. Right at this minute, she looks like it. Not surprisingly, after that, the evening goes rather flat.

  Although my home is the nearest to the pub, I don’t invite everyone back for coffee. After all, tonight I am a girl on a mission. Alone with my flatcoat and my computer, I lock my door and get to work.

  To start with, I google Jerome Castello. There are endless listings for the man, aside from his daily predictions. He’s been published, it seems, in just about every newspa
per imaginable and is quoted all over the place. What I’m looking for is some personal information about him, but there’s hardly any to be found. I spend a whole obsessive hour, at the end of which I’m on page thirty three of the search listings about him. And then I stumble across something rather interesting.

  It’s actually a forum, and the entry I read is written by a man whose wife was just like Emma. Addicted and dependent, unable to make the most basic decision on her own. Interestingly, this man found Jerome’s home address somehow and wrote to him. Give him his due, Jerome actually met with the man and his wife, and after that, things got better.

  Perhaps that’s the answer for Emma.

  I decide that’s what I’ll do. I keep googling and then on page fifty-four of the search listings, bingo! I hit gold. Jerome’s postal address, and hang on, he’s not called Jerome Castello at all. His real name is Jimmy Crook. Ha ha! How apt. I put together a letter, diplomatically addressed to his famous name of course, about how my poor misguided friend needs his help, and put it in an envelope ready to post.

  8

  It’s Monday morning. Beamish has called a meeting of all of us, not just the vets. Only Mrs Boggle is allowed to be excused. I wonder what’s up?

  ‘Um, it won’t take er, long,’ he assures us. Just as well. There’s a mammoth list of calls and the phone keeps ringing.

  He clears his throat.

  ‘Erm, I’d like you all to know that after a long deliberation, I’ve um, made a decision to er, partially retire.’ We all look at each other in astonishment. The only person who looks unsurprised by his announcement is Miles.

  ‘As you all know, um, my health hasn’t exactly been, well, perfect, lately...’ So it’s not just a whisky habit then. ‘…and the old er, quack has advised me to slow down. So, um, seems I don’t have too much choice in the matter.’ Poor old Beamish looks rather forlorn. What a bummer.

  ‘Um, Miles, I’m delighted to say, has agreed to er, take on the role of senior partner and in my um, absence, he is at the helm.’ Everyone looks at Miles, who smiles awkwardly, lanky legs stretched out in front of him, looking uncomfortable. ‘You will however have the pleasure of my company on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. So it’s very much business as usual. Erm, that’s all.’

  Except it’s not, is it. Oh, I can see we’re all thinking the same thing. We’ll never cover the workload. We’re going to need another new vet.

  After Beamish’s bombshell, we’re all shell-shocked. But actually, it turns out he’s sixty-five, which is much older than he appears. It probably won’t be long before he retires altogether. This clinches it, I decide. Emma has to sort herself out, because one thing this practice doesn’t need is a vet with personal problems. I’m not entirely sure she’ll share my enthusiasm. And nor does she know, my letter’s winging its way to Jerome as we speak.

  Agnes goes out for lunch with Beamish. Probably a rather swish one, I imagine, as they’re gone a jolly long time. Hmmm… maybe they’ve gone to that little French bistro for an intimate five course dejeuner followed by café and cognac…Or that new Italian I really like which serves the most divine antipasti, all washed down by a bottle of montepulciano… But my daydreaming is interrupted as the phones keep ringing and there’s general firefighting to be done. I’m just putting down the phone when Marcus comes in briefly. He’s got an x-ray due in shortly.

  ‘Bit of a shock, wasn’t it?’ he says thoughtfully, about Beamish’s announcement. ‘I wasn’t expecting that at all. Trouble is we’re flat out already. I’m not sure how we’re going to cover everything.’

  My guess is they’ll do what they always do when we’re a vet short, and end up working dawn till dusk.

  I agree with him, tentatively suggesting that possibly we’ll need a new vet before long.

  ‘I just hope Emma isn’t going anywhere,’ he adds, ‘only I’ve been wondering about her lately. She does seem quite distracted.’

  I’m saved from avoiding an explanation by the timely arrival of his client, a pretty female one, naturally, with fair hair that looks like she’s just stepped out of a salon, which she probably has and all in preparation for her vet appointment. Her equally pretty show pony prances along beside her.

  Agnes arrives back at a quarter to four, cheeks slightly flushed and looking very smiley, all things considered. Seems they had a jolly nice lunch in the jolly expensive, traditional old English Wheatsheaf. Lucky Agnes. Beamish has gone home, so it seems we’re into the one-vet-down thing right away. And we’ll have to break the news to some of our longer standing clients, who’ve known Beamish right since the beginning. Perhaps I’ll impress Agnes by putting together a very official looking newsletter we can circulate to our clients, with a nice smiley picture of Beamish and an authoritative one of Miles - if there is one.

  One of the first clients that the Lower Shagford horse fraternity grapevine connects with is Sylvie Williamson. But of course. I would expect no less. She arrives at the practice in her enormous brand new supercharged, super-shiny range rover, elegantly dressed in a linen suit, and bearing a large, embossed envelope, which she entrusts into the safe hands of Agnes.

  ‘We’re having a little party at the stud,’ she tells us, ‘and I thought, in the circumstances, it might be rather lovely if all of you could join us.’

  My ears prick up. What, all of us? Even me? And Mrs Boggle? The large embossed envelope, addressed to ‘all the staff’, contained an equally large embossed invitation, to a summer party at the Amberley Stud, Sylvie’s pad. Golly. I bet it’s not a ‘little party’ at all. Probably the social occasion of the year, if not the decade. How exciting! I’ve never actually been there, though I’ve heard so much about it, I feel I know every inch of the place.

  I commit the date to memory. Easy. It’s the 4th of July, American Independence Day. I’m not missing this one for anything. I feel excited already! Agnes senses my reaction, and gives me one of her looks.

  ‘Thank you very much, Sylvie. I’ll see to it that everyone is made aware of your kind invitation.’ The everyone is emphasised, so that Sylvie goes away satisfied that Beamish will definitely be informed. I’m sure he’ll be there too. Even he can’t wriggle out of this one.

  Agnes is so clever. Wonderful with the clients. I can’t wait to tell Emma, though one of the vets will have to be on call, I suppose. I hope it’s not her.

  ‘Louisa? Could you photocopy this and make sure there’s one for everyone?’ Agnes asks me. ‘Oh, and could you let me have an extra copy to give to Beamish? I could drop it in to him on my way home.’

  That makes me sit up. So Agnes ‘drops in’ on Beamish does she? Hmmm… how interesting. My imagination races away with me. I’ve absolutely no idea if there is or has ever been a ‘Mr Agnes’. Or maybe she’s never met the one. Then another thought wallops me between the eyes. Golly…perhaps she and Beamish are secretly dating and share romantic moments when none of us are watching… Maybe they’ll get married and I can help her plan the wedding…

  ‘LOUISA?’ Agnes’s stentorian voice brings me abruptly back to the present.

  As I work the photocopier, for a fleeting second I entertain the idea of leaving Marcus out. Then I decide I’d never get away with it. Everyone will be talking about Sylvie’s party. Best just hope it’s him that ends up on call.

  Then there’s another bombshell. I call Leonie, just to see how things are, and they’re not. She’s having a total meltdown and on the other end of the phone, is in pieces.

  ‘Pete saw the doctor this morning. Oh Lou, I just can’t believe it,’ she wails. ‘They say he’s suffering from depression... I don’t know what we’re going to do. People who get that never get over it, do they? He won’t be able to work, we won’t have any money and we’ll lose our house...’ and there she is, sobbing her heart out.

  I try to take in what she’s telling me, because I’m having trouble getting my head round this. Ever since I met Pete, without fail, he’s always jolly old Pete with a ready smile and
a joke. He can’t have depression.

  ‘What happens now? What does Pete think? And where is he?’ All these questions come into my head at once.

  ‘He’s upstairs, lying on our bed, gazing miserably up at the ceiling, refusing to talk to me. He did say that he has to see a specialist the day after tomorrow, but that’s about all. Oh Lou, it’s the first time in all the years we’ve been together that he’s pushing me away. I can’t bear it...’ She’s sobbing again.

  I think fast. I’m not sure what to say to her. I’ve never really come across depression.

  ‘Why don’t you ask if you can see the specialist with him? Tell him that way you won’t need to badger him with questions...’ I suggest hopefully. It might work, who knows.

  ‘And if all he’s doing is lying on the bed, why don’t you come and have supper with me tonight? It might do you good to get out for a while.’

  She’s silent, then says, ‘Thanks Lou, I know you’re probably right, but I think I’ll stay at home. I don’t really want to leave him, even if he isn’t speaking to me.’

  I kind of guessed she’d say that because that’s Leo all over. ‘Well, would you like me to come over to you?’

  ‘Thanks, but can we leave it? He’ll go mental if he knows I’ve said anything. Honestly, he’s a different person, Lou.’

  It certainly sounds like it. And I wish I could help - but I’ve no idea how to help them.

  ‘Leo,’ I say in the end, meaning every word. ‘Call me, won’t you, any time, day or night, if you need me. Okay?’ Then I add, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’

  I rest my head in my hands, knowing that however worried I’m feeling, Leo’s feeling a hundred times worse. I go to my computer again and type ‘depression’ into the search bar. Lord. Look at the number of pages here. I don’t know where to start.