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Chapter 6 The Ex Factor

Helen

‘Right,’ said Marnie, looking round at the other three. ‘We’re all here. Time to start…Project Love.’ They had gathered in Rosa’s flat, which she now lived in alone, David having shacked up with The Intern—apparently, a nasty break-up was what it took to get a place to yourself in London, even a tatty new-build on the scruffy end of Willesden Green.

Ani groaned. ‘We can’t call it that.’ She was shoving Kettle Chips into her mouth like letters in a postbox. She waved the bag at Helen, who shook her head. She was prone to anxiety-eating and knew that if she had even one crisp she’d probably end up eating Ani’s head, and then it was goodbye four-stone weight loss, hello being lifted out of her house by a crane.

‘Are you going to stay here, Rosa?’ she said, trying to postpone the inevitable.

Rosa grabbed one of her Moroccan-print cushions and stuck it over her face, her standard response to anything divorce-related. ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to sell, I guess. So enjoy this while you can.’ Rosa indicated her tatami matting, her carved Indian table, and all her pretty ornaments. There was a photo of her wedding day over the piano, happy faces pushed together. Rosa in vintage lace, David with a top hat, and, in the background, Ani, Helen, and Marnie—who’d flown in from New York ten minutes before the ceremony—in red bridesmaid dresses, throwing confetti. Helen averted her eyes from it—her dress had been ordered in a size twenty. ‘I spent years decorating this place,’ said Rosa miserably. ‘I thought we’d be here for ever. Or at least until we bought somewhere bigger in the suburbs. He always said I loved Ikea so much, I must have Stockholm syndrome.’ Ani met Helen’s eyes—they’d have to watch Rosa, or she’d slide into another wine-and-weeping marathon.

‘Well,’ said Helen brightly, ‘I love living on my own. Think of all that fun decorating you can do. I’ll lend you my fabric swatches!’

Rosa gave what sounded like a stifled scream into the cushion.

‘Come on,’ said Marnie impatiently. ‘We need to get started on Project Love.’ She was kneeling at the coffee table with a notebook, like a child playing at school. Today she was wearing a daisy-print dress, her hair in clips. She looked younger than the Intern David had skipped off with. Ani was sitting at Rosa’s feet, while she stretched out on the sofa. Helen had the armchair, a fancy grey modular thing David had liked, but which made her nervous she might spill red wine on it.

‘Do we have to do this?’ she said, hopefully. ‘I’ve brought a DVD of Mean Girls.’

‘We do,’ said Rosa, muffled. ‘I’ll probably get fired if I don’t. And I’ve already been dumped and my husband’s left me for a—’

‘We can do it, but we’re not calling it Project Love,’ said Ani, cutting her off.

Marnie pouted. ‘But that’s what it is! A new approach to finding happiness.’

‘No, no, we can’t. It’s too optimistic. We might jinx it.’

‘Didn’t think you believed in that,’ said Rosa, from behind her cushion.

Ani blushed a little. ‘Trust me. When you date a lot, you start to believe anything. Otherwise you’d have to think it was your fault every time something promising turns into an 18-cert horror show.’

‘That’s not the spirit.’ Marnie frowned. ‘Positivity, people!’

‘OK, OK. Let’s call it Project “Maybe we’ll meet a guy who isn’t awful and a liar and a cheat, or who won’t accidentally propose to you, then burst into tears in an Indian restaurant”.’

Rosa removed the cushion and rubbed Ani’s shoulder with her stockinged foot. ‘That won’t happen again. You’ve definitely taken one for the team there. Hey, why don’t we call it the Ex Factor or something? You know, because… exes.’

The others considered it. ‘Did you just come up with that right there?’ asked Ani suspiciously.

Rosa picked at a thread in the cushion. ‘Um… It was Jason’s idea actually. For the article, you know.’

Another look from Ani to Helen. Helen said, ‘Is it “Jason” now then? Not “Scary Editor Surf Dude”?’

‘He’s not so scary. He’s quite nice actually.’

‘Is he hot?’ asked Marnie, suddenly interested.

‘Oh, I guess,’ said Rosa, vaguely. ‘I don’t really notice other men, you know. Anyway, he can’t wait to see the piece.’

Helen’s stomach lurched at the thought of the article. This was really going to happen.

‘I don’t mind what we call it, so long as we do it,’ said Marnie. ‘Now what we’ll do is write down our names, then pull them out of a hat. Do you have a hat, Rosa?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s only an expression,’ said Ani. ‘We can just draw them out of a hand.’

‘Oh, OK then, if you want to rob it of all joy and fun and sense of occasion.’

‘Put them in that glass thing,’ said Rosa soothingly. ‘Chuck the tea light out, it’s burned down anyway. Like my marriage.’

Ani patted her reflexively. Marnie scribbled down their names and tore the paper up into four.

‘And are we picking the name of the person whose ex we’re dating, or the one who we’re setting up?’ Helen had a sense of rising panic. Surely this wasn’t going to actually go ahead. She looked around for a candle; maybe she could accidentally-on-purpose set the bits of paper on fire.

Ani looked blank. ‘Also what if we pick ourselves?’ said Rosa. ‘I mean if I picked you…and you picked me…or what if I picked Ani, and then Ani picks Marnie, Helen picks me…’

‘God,’ said Ani, wrinkling her brow. ‘It’s harder than I thought.’

‘Maybe we shouldn’t bother,’ said Helen quickly, though she knew it was hopeless. Once Marnie set her mind on something, resistance was futile.

‘Honestly, guys,’ said Marnie, ‘some top professionals you lot are. It’s very simple. If you get your own name, put it back in. We’re picking the person we’re going to set up. Right?’

Oh God, thought Helen. Why had she agreed to this? And which friend would be the worst to set up? Ani, the cynical perfectionist? Rosa, with the weight of her first post-divorce date, or Marnie, who seemed willing to date anyone, from a FTSE-100 exec to a basically homeless busker?

The pot, a stained-glass one Rosa had got in Marrakesh on honeymoon, went solemnly round. ‘Choose…wisely,’ said Marnie, skittishly. ‘Otherwise your face will melt off like that dude in Last Crusade. Rosa, you go first, it’s your flat.’

Rosa fished, unfolded the square of paper. ‘Drum roll, please. So, I’m setting up…you, Marn.’

‘Whoop! I bet you’ll have a really nice ex for me. Now you, Ani.’

She pulled out a slip. ‘I am matchmaking for…Rosa!’

‘Hurray!’ Rosa clapped. ‘You’ll get me someone good, I know you will.’

Marnie held out the pot. ‘Helz, you choose.’

Quick, do something set it on fire no there’s no candles eat the paper! Eat it! With trepidation, Helen unfolded her paper and read: ‘Ani.’

‘Well, here’s to my future husband,’ said Ani with heavy irony. Helen bit her lip. The pressure! Who would she even choose?

‘OK, my turn.’ Marnie unfolded her paper, just as Helen was working out that there was only one name left and it was—

‘You, Helz,’ said Marnie. ‘Great! I’ve been wanting to set you up for years.’

And Helen had always strenuously avoided it. Because: reasons reasons reasons. Oh God, what if she picked Ed? She wouldn’t. No, surely she wouldn’t. Was that good or bad? ‘Someone nice,’ she pleaded. ‘Not someone who likes going to clubs or taking drugs or a City banker with a fetish for nipple clamps or a part-time stripper.’

Marnie raised her eyebrows. ‘Gary was actually a pretty nice guy, you know. Great abs.’

‘Please. Someone normal. Or, you know, normal for me.’

‘Just trust me, Helz!’ Marnie tapped the table. ‘Right, ladies. Now we’ve got our names, we have to choose a nice ex, then contact them and set them up with our matchmakee.’

‘What if they’re married? Or say no? Or are gay now?’ Helen was still stalling.

‘Then choose someone else.’

Oh dear. It was going to be hard enough to find one person, let alone several. Who could she pick? Someone from school? That guy she snogged at an Ocean Colour Scene gig in the first year of university? She couldn’t even remember his name—Andy something? Not Peter, her nice-but-dull main ex, who she’d dated between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-five; he was happily married with four kids and working in Kent as a used-car salesman. And thinking over her other thin-on-the-ground exes, and knowing Ani’s high standards, she just hoped her friend would forgive her.

* * *

Ani.

‘You look so beautiful, dar-link!’

‘Auntie, I look like a drag queen. That’s an insult actually. They’d look much better.’

‘What is drag queen?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. You know what it means. Like Lily Savage.’ (Or Cousin Mehdi, she added to herself.) Her aunt Zhosi still pretended not to speak English properly, even though she’d been in the UK since she was twelve years old, fleeing Uganda with her parents and brother, Ani’s dad. And also with her second cousin, Ani’s mother. Yes, Ani’s parents were second cousins. Not first cousins—though, as she often felt like explaining, that wasn’t illegal in the UK—but still a little odd, something that made people look at her twice. It also meant family parties, where everyone was related to everyone else and with grudges that went all the way back to the turn of the last century, could be rather fraught.

Ani’s mother came in, glowing in a fuchsia sari and gold jewellery. She blinked at Ani. ‘That looks…different.’

‘Beautiful, no?’ Aunt Zhosi swept a hand to indicate Ani’s face.

‘Well, maybe we can tone down this eyeshadow a bit. You look like you’ve been in the boxing ring, Anisha.’

Ani sat glowering as they pawed at her face, her mother removing some of the fifteen layers of foundation, while her aunt defiantly stuck yet more jewels on Ani’s face. She just looked daft in traditional clothes. Her short hair clashed with her extravagant make-up and clothes, and the lime-green sari her aunt had picked out made her skin look washed out. She held herself all wrong, used to suits, so the fabric hung awkwardly and had to be fixed by the tutting hordes of aunties and cousins (often both in the same person).

‘Mum!’ The door flew open and a teenage girl stood there, hands on newly discovered hips, her turquoise sari hanging perfectly. She said breathily, ‘Mum, Manisha is well pissed off! She says they’ve like put the wrong colour flowers on the plates or something.’

Aunty Z threw up her hands and muttered something in Hindi. Ani assumed it translated as, ‘I have had it with this damn bridezilla, why didn’t I get her to elope?’ The girl, Ani’s cousin Pria—thirteen going on thirty—glanced at her. ‘Um, that colour is like, so not good on you?’

‘Who died and made you Gok Wan?’ snapped Ani.

‘Um, that, like, doesn’t even make sense?’

Ani’s mother chased Pria. ‘Go, go, help your mother. And spit out that chewing gum!’ She rested her hand on Ani’s head, on the vast concoction of clips Aunt Zhosi had stuck in. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart? You don’t wish it was you?’

‘What, getting trussed up and delivered to a man like a package? No thanks.’

Her mother reattached a failing-off rhinestone. ‘You know, I felt the same when my parents suggested I marry Daddy. I was a modern girl, at university—I didn’t want to marry my second cousin. How backward. But now look, we have you and your brothers, and we’ve grown closer each year.’ It was true—Ani’s parents were still sickeningly in love, even after thirty-five years.

‘I just don’t want to be someone’s Stepford wife, Mum. I’m too independent, it wouldn’t work.’

In reply, she got a glare. ‘Is that what you think I am?’ Ani’s mother was a cardiothoracic surgeon, head of her department.

‘No! I just… It’s a lot of pressure, you know. Find a man and quick, but make sure it’s the right man, so you don’t end up with a messy divorce or trapped in a horrible marriage. I don’t know how you get it right.’

Her mother watched her in the mirror. ‘Do you feel under pressure, sweetheart?’

‘Um…a bit. Like, Manisha’s three years younger than me and she’s getting hitched, and I don’t even have a boyfriend.’

‘We won’t push you into anything, Anisha. We aren’t going to take you to India and marry you off. As long as you’re happy. But you don’t seem happy. All this dating and meeting all these boys—do you even like any of them?’

‘Some. Now and again.’

‘Do you want to share your life with someone?’

Ani thought of her cousin, the year-long extravaganza of family parties, and the boys she’d seen with her parents for six months before, the frantic planning, the beauty regimes, the diets. Manisha, always Ani’s chubby cousin, beside whom she could stuff herself with sweets with impunity at family gatherings, had lost three stone and was now an irritating size eight who talked about nothing but ‘gluten free, innit’. This was only the engagement party and there were a thousand people coming. Of course, Ani didn’t want that. She sighed and said in a small voice: ‘Yes. But it has to be the right person. I have to be sure.’

Her mother’s hand stroked her forehead. It was cool, and smelled faintly of antiseptic, just like Ani always remembered. ‘Well, if you want, Daddy and I can make some enquiries. That’s all it would be, you know—we can just introduce you to some boys. No pressure.’

She put her hand over her mother’s, stilling it. ‘Thanks, Mum. I’m not saying no. Maybe you’d do a better job—I’m not really managing it myself. But not yet, OK? I have a date, anyway,’ she said, stretching the truth slightly. ‘Not from online. Friend of Helen’s.’ She didn’t know how to explain the Ex Factor. She’d have to find a way to hide Rosa’s paper when the article came out. Her parents always read it, wanting to support Ani’s friends.

‘Oh, good!’ Her mother was visibly cheered. ‘I’m sure he will be lovely. Helen’s such a nice girl. Daddy always calls her when he needs to fix the computer.’

And what kind of exes would she have? Ani hadn’t known Helen to even fancy anyone since that guy Ed, who had somehow ended up dating Marnie. She’d always been mystified as to why Helen wasn’t more annoyed about that. And who would Ani herself choose for Rosa, so vulnerable and broken? Why had she let herself in for such a mad idea? Ani shook her head, dislodging another three rhinestones.

* * *

The engagement party went by, as parties do. All that planning for a few hours of speeches and glitter. Despite herself, Ani enjoyed it, the music, the clapping, the smiles on the faces of her family, Manisha looking so pretty and so genuinely happy. As Ani sat, her feet aching in the gold heels Aunt Zhosi had forced on her, her grandmother (also her great-aunt, confusingly,) toddled over and pinched her cheek. ‘Good and plump! Such a healthy girl.’

Ani winced. ‘Hi, Bubs. Here, sit down.’ She pulled up a seat for the wiry little woman.

Her grandma shook her head. ‘No seats needed, thank you, I’m not dying. How about you, my Anisha? When will it be your turn? When will you meet a nice boy?’

‘Um, I don’t know, when the male population of London stops being such a bunch of useless babies?’ She thought fleetingly of the handsome barrister, Adam Robins. That was the kind of man she needed. Suave. Successful. Not on the rebound. Yet any time she met one she said something to drive them away.

‘You can meet a nice girl instead if you like. We wouldn’t mind. Mrs Kapoor’s granddaughter had a wedding with an English girl. They both wore saris!’

‘Thanks, Bubs. Sadly I don’t think that’s an option.’

Her grandmother peered at her. ‘It’s your job, Anisha. Spending all that time divorcing people, it can’t be good for you.’ She tapped her own scrawny chest. ‘Your heart. It must suffer.’

Ani would have contradicted her, saying she didn’t divorce people, she just helped when things were already broken. Gave them the gift of a dignified ending. Offered an exit when there was no hope. But it was possible her grandma was right about her heart. She just had to hope that the crazy project might work.