Читать книгу Happy Without Him - Rachel Owens - Страница 6
ОглавлениеChapter One
Saturday, January 26 th
Jenny
“You have to come! It’s against the law to do nothing on Australia Day!”
“I can’t, Ella. I’m so tired after last night. Can’t I just stay here and sleep?”
I’m still recovering from a night out with work friends. Lots of laughs and too many drinks. Then I worked out that since Danielle left and a new girl started, I’m the only single person in my team. This is going to change. Actually, the plan is staying home and doing my Internet dating profile.
“No. Picking you up in half an hour. Get some slap on. Mum has a bloke in mind for you.”
Does she? This perks me up. Maybe I won’t need to do Internet dating! Ella’s mum hasn’t come up with anyone I’d date yet, but you never know. Maybe this one won’t be boring or over fifty-five.
Forty-five minutes later, Ella pulls up. She’s never on time. I’d just have had time to wash my hair ready to meet the new guy after all. Three-year-old Charlie is in the back looking miserable. Kelly is next to him. I squeeze in the other side. I know exactly what Charlie is going to say.
“Where ‘Osie?”
“She’s not coming, mate. She’s with Frank.” This is Ben, Ella’s husband, in the front seat. He’s wearing dark glasses and looking a bit worse for wear.
“Want ‘Osie!”
“He doesn’t like us,” says Kelly, laughing.
“What do you expect?” Ella says. “Mum and Dad’s barbecues are for you to eat, Jen to look for a bloke, and Josie to play with Charlie. You two just forget about him. Sadly for Charlie, Josie is with Frank at some other inferior Australia Day barbecue.”
“Sorry, Charlie,” I say. “Who is the bloke your mum has for me this time, Ella?” I’m trying not to sound too eager but suspect I do.
“The pest control man,” says Ben.
Kelly is laughing again. “She’s already had a pest control man! He had a very funny willy.”
‘I’ve got a willy!”
Ben and Ella are smiling. They are very laid back parents, which is just as well, as Kelly and I usually forget Charlie is there and just have conversations around him. Surely this can’t be the same pest control man? He too lives in the Shire. Dumped me by non-return of text. Didn’t like him, still got upset. Bald guy. Worked for a company called Critterzap.
“What’s he like, El?” I ask.
“No idea. Critterzap came to sort the ants around the pool and Mum gets talking to this guy and asks him to the barbecue. He’s bald, and short, but she says you have to be more open-minded about the hair thing. And the short thing. Lots of nice men are bald and short.”
Maybe Critterzap have more than one short, bald, forty-something operative.
We arrive at the house. Ella’s mum, Sandy, drags me over to meet the pest control man. Oh God. It is him. Can Sydney be so short of men that I am now recycling them? After my awkward “Hi’ and his (does he even recognise me?) indifferent “Hi” back, I scarper. He still has bad breath. He still looks like my ex-husband. Yet I still feel sad he ditched me in the first place, and isn’t the new hopeful I thought he was going to be.
Kelly knows it’s him. She is in fits then notices I don’t find it so funny and gives me a big hug.
“You have to laugh at this. C’mon. It’s hilarious! Stop looking so down. You didn’t even like him!”
“But I was hoping it would be someone I would like. And would like me. For once. I’m going to do Internet dating. He has to be out there somewhere.”
“Whatever, hon. Let’s get pissed. It’s Australia Day! Let’s celebrate that we are here in the sun, not in cold, dark, rainy England.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. Sandy and Big Charlie have done amazing food as usual. The sun is shining. There is a seemingly endless supply of chilled Sauvignon Blanc in Big Charlie’s beloved outdoor bar fridge. I am with great friends and the pool is a delicious relief from the heat.
Australia’s top 100 is on the radio on the way back. The sun is setting and I feel warm and woozy from the sun and the wine. But, as I doze off in the car on the way back to the city, all I can feel is the disappointment of the recycled bug man, not the loveliness of the day. I just need to meet a guy and everything will be good. Everything is good. But I just need to meet a guy.
So, I get home and start composing the profile. He is out there. He is on the dating site waiting for me. I know he is.
Hi, I’m Jen. I’m British, forty, and I love to work out.
Except I hate to work out.
And I can’t admit to being forty.
Everyone lies about their age, I think, but I can’t claim to be sporty. Too much of a whopping lie. Maybe if I lie about both my age and my weight, they’ll at least know I’m not fat and decrepit even if I do have to bribe myself to go to the gym with the promise of a post workout bacon and egg roll.
Try again.
Hi, I’m Jen. I’m British. I’m thirty-six. I’m five three and weigh fifty-five kilos. I’ve lived in Sydney for three years.
I work for a recruitment agency. But I’m not one of those flashy hard-nosed bitch types. I’m more the gentle sort.
Does that make me sound middle-aged? Some matronly type with a Rolodex, ‘Hello, dear. I have just the job for you.’ I’ll scrap that bit. Maybe not even mention work. I’ll just talk about me. What I really like and a bit closer to my real age. And just an inch extra in height. I’ll wear heels anyway, he’ll never know.
Hi, I’m Jen. I’m thirty-seven, slim, a natural blonde, 5’ 4”. I love books and a glass of wine (or two!). I’d like to meet a guy who is fun (like me!) who loves to travel, like I do. But lazing around is good too – I enjoy lingering over breakfast and the Sunday papers at a good cafe. That type of thing. Look forward to hearing from you.
Three Days Later
This didn’t take long! I was pretty happy with my profile in the end, and as it turns out, so was Roy. Maybe it’s a sign. You hear about this – the first one you meet is the one etc. Maybe the one is Roy.
Roy is not a great name, actually, but he looks nice in his profile and would be handsome too if he shaved off his funny little goatee, which I can get him to do if he ends up being my boyfriend. I have this little scenario in my head. Me and him (minus the goatee) at dinner with Ella and Ben, having a great time. And Kelly too, with some yet-to-meet boyfriend, if only she would make the effort.
It’s my first date with Roy tonight. I’m dressed a bit more hippy than usual as his profile seems a bit ‘out there’. I have a strange bag made entirely of beige fur that I bought years ago in a moment of pre-menstrual madness. But it kind of goes with the spirit of the goatee and the ‘out there’. Until I get him to shave it off. I’m waiting for Roy in the back room bar at one of the local pubs. The one I don’t go to very often, in case I see anyone I know. My palms seem to be sweating. Ew.
Kelly
Tonight I’m Jen’s secret date spy, discreetly tucked away in the corner with a book (Elizabeth Berg, The Pull of The Moon – this month’s book club choice) some tapas, and a large glass of very necessary white wine. The idea is that whatever she thinks of him, I can provide a second opinion. Because so far, of any of the men she has dated in Sydney, any sane person’s second opinion would have been ‘definitely not’.
So, she is in one corner and I’m in another, trying not to laugh or catch her eye. I need a distraction. I know – not that I’d ever do this Internet stuff - but what would my profile be?
Kelly, forty-one, works as a PA for a firm of architects, has big cloud of hair that loved the eighties. Married an idiot and stayed married to him for far too long. Do you mention you were married? Has Jen? Feels like I would be putting myself up on eBay. How horrible. Oh, look, here he is – Jen’s date arriving to exam his potential purchase.
Bloody hell - the goatee is huge – almost ZZ Top-esque! Far bigger than on the picture she showed me on the website. It must be an old picture, or it grows very quickly. I have honestly never seen a bigger beard in real life. Fortunately, he is quite loud so I can hear him.
“Hi, Jen!” he says. “What the fuck is that?” He points at Jen’s weird furry bag. “It looks like my nut sack!”
Jen has that crestfallen expression she makes that makes me want to cry. ZZ Top man is chortling away at his own joke.
Oh dear. ZZ opens with the sort of thing most men would say after ten pints, and only then if they knew you well. Why would any man think that was an appropriate first date guffaw? And why doesn’t Jen say, “What a revolting thing to say.” (i.e. stand up for herself) or, “Actually, it’s Armani.” (be funny like she usually is). No, instead we get her masking the sad face with an attentive one. Now she’s smiling at him like she really thinks he’s funny. I know what she’s doing. She’s removed the beard and blanked out his opening line and his tardiness at going to the bar. She wants to believe he could work. Because for Jen, the only thing she thinks will make her life work, make her truly happy, is finding a bloke, despite her vast experience indicating the exact opposite. It’s truly baffling. Try wasting too many years of your life on the “we’re not talking” Wednesdays and the dreary DIY weekends of a faltering marriage – you don’t hanker for another man in your life in a hurry. Jen has a boyfriend-shaped box she would do almost anything to fill. She looks way too impressed by her date for me to hope that my date sitting duties are going to end any time soon. Time for another glass of wine. Bloody hell, what a waste of an evening. Ah – maybe not – I think he may be leaving.
Jen
I think our date is over. He shuffles a bit and says, “I have to go now.”
Why do I feel rejected despite being relieved? He is so odd and I couldn’t imagine kissing him. How would I know where his lips are?
“I have to go to the Bay Run.”
The Bay Run is our local part of Sydney Harbour foreshore. It’s a 7km running/walking track. He doesn’t look the type to be running at night. Or during the day, for that matter.
“I have to bury my crystals.”
Oh, God. He pulls three stones out of his pocket. One is pale pink, one pale green, and one is black and tan stripes.
“I need to re-energise them in the earth. Tomorrow I’ll dig them up again. Is that girl over there choking?”
“I think she’s fine,” I tell him, glaring at Kelly spluttering over her tapas.
Josie
Dinner tonight with Frank. And Ella and Ben. God, I’m lucky. Kelly put a drunken status update on Facebook last night. “At Retro with Jen, re-energising our inner crystals!” Whatever that means. I am so lucky. I have a gorgeous boyfriend and no need to go to ghastly places like the Retro looking for a bloke. I have great hair. I have just finished straightening its lovely long silky brownness. Couldn’t help glancing over to my laptop as I did it. There is the picture of Kelly and Jen from last night with Kelly’s big poufy hair filling most of the available space, and Jen, with her Ellen de Generes type hair, nestled next to her. Goodness knows what was so funny. They look like they’re both about to explode they’re laughing so much. It’s such a shame they don’t have boyfriends. Like I say, I’m so lucky to have Frank. Two couples going to dinner is a better way to spend time in your late thirties. And definitely in your early forties as Kelly and Jen are.
My gorgeous Frank’s family are from the Lebanon. He’s about 5’ 10”. Full head of hair, with just a touch of sexy George Clooney-esque grey. When did all the available men go bald? Thank goodness mine has hair. And rich green eyes. And an amazing eye for good clothes.
As Frank says, some men (and women) have the knack of picking out what looks good. Some men (and women) don’t. But he helps me a lot, which is great. Frank would never let me go out in something which isn’t flattering. I’m slim, but a little too heavy in the hips and bum and he’s so good at steering me in the right direction to cover the bad bits. Sort of like my own Gok, but without the “Ooh, your curves are gorgeous!” stuff. Because they’re not, are they? As Frank says, “curves” is just a fibbing way of saying “fat”.
Frank would never be so patronizing. He just tells me when it’s time to go to the gym more often. It’s great having someone so honest. Someone who really cares about the way I look. We’ve been together for five years now, and it’s great he still makes the effort for me. And, of course, I do for him.
Frank has a big, big family so we don’t see each other as much as I would like. But it’s fine, of course. He’s the youngest of seven (seven!) and if one of his brothers is a bit down and needs a catch up over a beer on a night I’m due to see him I don’t feel let down. Frank is always there for his family and I love that about him. I don’t have much to do with mine, so it’s wonderful that he is so close to his.
He is honest about family things, though. He doesn’t want kids. I always thought I would one day, and his handsome family produce the most beautiful children. They’re always there, running around and having great fun at the clan gatherings. The babies are always so adorable, gurgling away, being passed from one relative to another. But it is true what he says. It’s okay when you can hand them back as they start to drool on your good clothes. And then, “Look at Ella,” he says. “Look how she’s gone downhill since Charlie came along.”
Ella and I met in London years ago. Pre-Charlie, she had a great figure and wore beautiful clothes. Frank didn’t know her then of course, but he looks at the photos of those days gone by and says, “Wow, she was hot back then!” Now, she’s not. This might sound bitchy coming from a friend, but nowadays she frumps around in Target (Frank can always spot chain store) and, well, she really needs to get to the gym.
God, I sound horrible. Ella is lovely. I just wish she would make the best of herself. And Ben too. Anyway, dinner with them tonight. It’s hot, and I have a soft, sea green floaty dress I would love to wear, but Frank prefers me in something a bit tighter so I’m in a more structured, shorter black dress from Cue. He hates my hair in a ponytail too, but heck, this heat makes me want to tie it up! Oh well.
I arrive first. This is always the case. Thank goodness for the Daily Mail website to look at on my phone whilst I’m waiting. Ella texts; Charlie is having a tantrum so they’re running late. At three he shouldn’t be having these hissy hits so often. Ella needs to be more organised. Frank texts. He is also late – drama at one of his sisters’ houses, washing machine regurgitating foam all over the place. He is so handy and helpful, but I think this might make him very late, so I will order a glass of wine. He doesn’t like it if I start before him. He calls this “getting a head start”. As well, he says I always take more from a shared bottle than anyone else. Except he can’t say this when we’re with Ben and Ella. He says they are total lushes which is a bit harsh, but at least with them it means I don’t get a Frank frown when the waiter tops up the glasses and mine needs the biggest refill!
Ella and Ben arrive and they are only fifteen minutes late, so dear little Charlie can’t have been having much of a tantrum after all.
“Hola, amigo!” This is Ella. She always tries to use the language of the restaurant we are eating in. Should it be amiga? Anyway, she definitely got a head start in the wine department.
“Hasta luego!” This is Ben. I think his head start started this afternoon. Why is he wearing a Swans shirt? Frank will be mortified. You don’t wear football shirts out to dinner.
“Did I marry an imbecile? That means goodbye.”
“Cheer, cheer, the red and the white! Where is Frank? Did you have a fight?”
This is Ben to the Sydney Swans tune. Whilst poking me in the ribs. He is not nearly as funny as he thinks he is.
“Stop it, Ben! Frank is on his way. I didn’t think it was AFL season?”
“His whole tragic life is an AFL season, Jos. Like I said – I married an imbecile.”
“I’m a good root, though!”
This is also not that funny, but they seem to think it is. Ella kisses Ben on the top of his head, and Ben grins, looking a little, it has to be said, imbecile-like and excessively pleased with himself.
“Whoa, top time this afternoon, Jos! Charlie was having a nap so me and Mrs had a bit of action!’
“The man’s a stud, Jos. A total stud. What can I say?”
Too much information. Really, way too much.
We order the wine and finally my man arrives. He looks less than happy. I stand up to kiss him but he kisses me back a bit tersely.
“Wine breath,” he mutters quietly.
I smile apologetically. “Sorry.”
“Are they pissed?”
“Very.”
“Make sure you don’t go the same way.”
So the night proceeds. Ella and Ben get drunker, and Frank and I stay sober. Ella goes from mildly drunk post coital contentment to quite significantly drunk complaint mode. “Why can’t we move back to London? Or go to Africa to do some voluntary work? Why does it take the offer of afternoon sex to get you away from the re-run of the 2005 Grand Final?”
Ben starts singing again. He is using one of the empty wine bottles as a microphone. “Sky rockets in flight... afternoon delight... oh yeahhhhh baby...”
Ella snorts. I can’t help laughing too. Frank gets the bill and makes sure Ella and Ben pay for most of the wine.
Ella
Genuine Australian. Not a UK visa blow in like the others. Made in the land down under.
How did I end up in a book club with three poms? God.
Ella. Thirty-seven. Jos says Jen is online dating! Can you put your profile on a site for married people who will offer sex in exchange for housework? Buxom Ella, curvy, looks a bit like Dawn French but not that fat (yet). Ella goes like a train and gives great head in exchange for you cleaning her oven. Would I have the energy, though? Last Saturday afternoon’s session was exhausting and I couldn’t help thinking when I was going to get the ironing done, even when Ben was up to his best tricks.
I think I am permanently exhausted. Fed up with a husband who can never be arsed to move from in front of the TV on Saturday afternoons. Oh, the AFL-free London years when Ben was not on his bum with the boys in the red and white. How I bloody miss them. And as Josie said, it isn’t even AFL season. Never fear. There are DVDs of this crap you can watch all summer. Ben actually gets a bit weepy watching re-runs of last year’s final when the Swans won. Such a nail biter. But the lads got there. Oh joy. Then he started watching the 2005 Grand Final. That’s when I lost it and offered sex to make it stop. It isn’t normal to be so addicted to watching a sport. If he’d chosen an eight-year-old match over the (highly unusual) offer of sex with me I would have filed for divorce. Bless the old stick, he chose me. Phew.
Speaking of boys and phew... do I detect the smell of a lugger ours has laid in his nappy? So foul-smelling a can of Glen 20 disinfectant the size of a fire extinguisher would not vanquish it? My beloved remains still couched with Swanies re-runs in footie oblivion, pretending he can’t smell it when they can probably smell it in the next suburb.
Funny, on book club nights Ben manages to change nappies perfectly well, but when I’m around he miraculously has no idea. As a thank you for caring for his child, every book club night, Ben gets some. Mind, I think I am also expressing my appreciation he isn’t Frank. And we’d have heard far too much about Frank at book club as per bloody usual.
Anyway, today being Sunday we are heading south to have lunch with Mum and Dad. I can have a good old catch up with my dear old ma.
Charlie is finally changed. Ben straps him into his car seat (to be fair, he is good at that. Charlie’s loathing for being strapped into his car seat is immense). Ten minutes into the drive to the Shire and he is fast asleep. The car is like a baby sleeping pill. Ha. Ben and I always have a good catch up heading to Ma and Pa’s on the Princes Highway.
“If you could be anyone for a week, Ben, who would you be?”
“Adam Goodes! Brilliant player. Indigenous heritage. I’d be a proud first Australian footy legend. Who would you be?”
“Jen.”
“The one with the house? I get that.”
Jen is the only one of us who has a house. Buying a house is a distant dream for Ben and me. We’ll never earn enough money, and the Sydney prices are crazy expensive. But it isn’t just the house.
“I’d have a week of freedom. I’d lie in bed on Sunday mornings reading the papers, watching telly, and eating toast. I’d book a holiday. To Goa. Or maybe Guatemala. Then I’d go shopping for my holiday. And after my holiday I’d do some voluntary work at a women’s refuge or something.”
“That’s a busy week, babe.”
“Well, you know, if it were my life that’s what I’d be planning. I’d have lots of freedom to plan to do stuff.’
“Can I be Jen with you?”
“Thought you were Adam?”
“Jen’s life sounds more fun.”
Jen
Not that I expected him to, or wanted him to, but bearded crystal-burying man never called again. Kelly asked, “Why do you care? He was an idiot.”
I said, “That isn’t the point. I don’t know why he didn’t like me.”
“Maybe he only likes idiots like him?”
I know it makes no sense to feel rejected when I would have rejected him anyway, but I just feel discarded somehow. Like I put my best self out there and said, “Here I am! I am lovely!” and his rejection said, “No, you are not.”
What happens with online dating is this. When I get a wink on the website, it means someone likes me. So far, there have been a few winks. A few winkers, shall we say? Feel free to change a letter there. Here are some extracts from their profiles. I promise I didn’t make any of this up. This is all totally genuine.
“I’m not a big book reader. The last book I read was sixteen months ago and I have forgotten the author. However, I really enjoyed it.”
Portly gent from Bunbury, several thousand kilometres away. Shame. He sounded like a winner, don’t you think?
“I’m debt free, own my own house, and love where I live. I would consider a move for the right person but you’d have to be EXCEPTIONAL!!”
Heavily moustachioed man in EXCEPTIONALLY horrid stripy jumper. Don’t think I’d make the grade. Shame again.
“I am single by choice as I am yet to find someone special. Ladies, I am honest. Looks and size matter. IF U R INTERESTED I NEED A PICTURE. NO PICTURE, NO REPLY.”
Man with no picture himself...
“Family, friends, wofk ar my mane golds..i am grateful for helth and happiness...I like books and last read a book on medievil britian.”
Man with no spell check.
“I need a beautiful woman with a high s*x drive.”
Sixty-year-old from Port Hedland. Even farther than Bunbury. Needless to say, not that beautiful himself.
So, I went into this with high hopes, and now I’m utterly bloody depressed. Even when you have a nice, literate, intelligent online chat with none of this ‘RU’ stuff, it still doesn’t mean they turn out to be anything but disappointing. Like last night’s. Oh look, here’s Kelly ringing to see how it went.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Well, so far you’d found out he was good-looking and he could string a sentence together. By email at least. Plus he had a normal name. How was he?”
“He was sad.”
“Sad?”
“Sad. You know the way he looked kind of skinny sexy in the photo? Well in the flesh it was skinny sad. It was like the light inside him when that photo was taken had been switched off. I asked him when it was taken and said he looked so happy. He said ‘I was. I was on holiday with my ex-wife.’ Then he looked like he wanted to cry.”
“Do men not realise you need to get over someone before you go looking for a new someone?”
“Clearly not. He just wants to fill a gap. He asked if he could see me again.”
“And you said?”
“I said if we were seeing each other and his wife came back on the scene, what would he do? He looked at me like I had asked the craziest question in the world. He said ‘I love my wife. I will always love her’. So I said what would be the point of me going out with him then? He said, ‘Because you are such a good listener, and anyway, I don’t think she will be coming back to me.’”
“Thank God you said no.”
“Even I won’t stoop that low.”
Josie
I can’t believe its February and we still haven’t done book club this year. As book clubs go, it’s a bit lame, to be honest. It’s the curry house, every time. So many bloody calories. Does no one else care about their weight? I regularly tell them how many calories there are in butter chicken, and now when I do, they’ve developed this little routine. They put their hands over their ears and start doing silly Indian accents whilst wobbling their heads. Ella will say something like, “Goodness gracious fucking me Jospinder, calories again, eh? Eh? We need to fatten you up for Frankpal. No meat on those bones!” Whilst pinching my arms. Jen and Kelly will be guffawing and head wobbling too, and it is all very silly and not very politically correct.
And also - and this really gets to me - I dutifully read every book, even if it’s a struggle to get into, and it so often is. But even if I don’t like it half way through, I keep going. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the point of a book club. You give everything a chance and learn about new authors you may otherwise not have bothered with.
Well, the others just don’t play fair like that. I picked a Di Morrissey once. She writes great books. They are informative and exciting. Do you know what Jen said? She said, “Josie, I got ten pages in and couldn’t go further. Not my type of thing.” One of the bestselling authors in Australia, and Jen won’t give it a chance. She’s such a book snob with her English Lit degree.
As for Ella, I think she just comes along to escape dear little Charlie. She tells Ben book club starts at six. You think he’d twig we’re all at work until then and we have to factor in the time to get the train to weird Newtown. Book club, of course, starts at seven, which gives Ella an hour in the Marly (weirdy, studenty Newtown pub) for far too many (shocker) pre-curry glasses of wine.
One time, Ella turned up so hammered she started talking about the wrong book. Kelly and Jen thought this was so funny, but I think it’s just annoying and a bit rude.
Kelly can be like Jen – very dismissive of my choices. One time I picked Fifty Shades of Grey. Every day they were selling a thousand copies of Fifty Shades at Sydney Airport! The man in the bookshop told me. Everyone was reading it. It’s fantastic, and gave me some great new ideas to please Frank. Whenever he’s in the mood and I’m not, I naturally want to get to the same place for him, so I think about some of the things Mr Grey would do. Combine that with Frank’s gorgeous body... well, I’m there in a minute. Kelly declares it to be ‘Fifty Shades of Shite’. I tell you, she is gay.
I nearly walked out on book club for good when we did my favourite book of all time and they were all so bloody rude. Everyone knows, even Oprah, that Eat, Pray, Love is like a Bible for women. Here is a single lady (Hello, Jen?) who, through a holistic and wholesome approach, after a bit of naughtiness, finds love. The world is a finer place with Elizabeth Gilbert in it. She shows us how to nurture ourselves. To learn. To grow. To find spiritual resonance with the world. Surely we all want that. Well, seemingly not. This is the juvenile discussion we got:
Jen: I hate her!
Kelly: I hate her too!
Ella: I liked her in Italy when she got fat.
Jen: Yeah that was good.
Kelly: I hated her most in India.
Ella: Especially when she got thin.
Jen: I hated her most in Bali. All loved up with that bald man. She makes him out to be so good-looking and he’s not – Google him!
Ella: When she was fat was the only time I didn’t want to hit her. You go girl. Keep eating the pasta, lard bucket.
Jen: But then – she lost all the weight!
Ella: I really hated her then!
And so on and so on.
You can see why I seriously wonder why I bother with book club. And tonight’s I have dropped out of altogether as work is just murder. I sent a group text and Jen’s reply was she is drowning in work too and it’d be great if we can rearrange. Ella said, “Fine we’ll do it another time.”
She’ll go out with Kelly tonight and they’ll bitch about what total flakes we are.
Ella
Jen and Josie work in buildings near to each other. They are posh buildings with concierges. We text them to say we’ve left them each a caramel slice with their building concierge for them to collect when they finally leave their desks. God, I’m nice. Except it was Kelly’s idea and my contribution was to write, “You’re a letdown and no longer my friend, loser!” on the paper bags. Kelly added smiley faces to stop Jen getting upset and Josie getting pissy. She is way too nice. She has asked Lucy along too. She says it’s a work thing now, not a book club thing, so it would be mean to not include her. And Lucy always knows if we’re going out because she’s on reception and receptionists know everything. Like I say, Kelly is way too nice.
Lucy says she feels the urge for a chicken schnitzel so we head to P J O’Brien’s. The pub option is always better in the city. The restaurants are too full of suits or tourists.
“How’s Charlie, Ella?” Lucy looks up from her schnitzel and beams at me. She is one of those single thirty-something girls who hears the tick tock of her biological clock and wonders how she is going to find time to meet him/marry him/make babies.
“He’s hard work, hon.”
“Where is he tonight?” This is Kelly, who looks guilty as she always forgets to ask. Although I don’t mind a bit. She never beams when she asks about him. Just looks relieved she remembered. Kelly is not into kids and that suits me fine. I do not want to discuss him all the time. Unlike most mums I know.
“He’s on a Nana Fisher day. No fine if he’s picked up late so Ben can go after work and do his dinner as well.”
“You’re so lucky.” This is beaming Lucy again.
“I know. The other place is $120 a day. Shit toys and bring your own nappies. Ben’s mum’s place is like an all-inclusive resort compared to CuteKidz. And half the kids there are far from cute. Some of them are downright ugly.”
“Oh, Ella! No kids are ugly! I mean you are lucky to have Charlie.”
“It’s not like the Huggies adverts, you know, Luce? Even Kelly would have a baby if it were like that!”
“I might,” says Kelly. “But I can only imagine it being hard. Exhausting hard because it never stops, but also emotionally hard because you love them so much and feel scared something might happen to them.”
That’s exactly it! Kelly is so clever. She is wasted at our place.
“But isn’t that love the best thing that ever happened to you?” Poor Lucy. Discussions like this you can almost hear the clock ticking louder than she talks.
“Sometimes I think it’s the worst.”
“Ella!”
“That lovely stuff you imagine? Soft focus? Mum and bub in a field picking daisies with kid miraculously perked up by kiddie drug? 1% of my life, Lucy. Seriously. 99% of my motherhood life is mess and exhaustion.”
”You can’t say you regret having him?”
“Of course not. I sometimes look at him when he’s asleep and the love washes over me. Like a huge wave. And I torture myself about what would happen if anyone hurt him. I’d kill them. Seriously, I’d have no qualms. Anyone hurt him I’d stab them in the guts. But maybe that big love isn’t the be all and end all. It has some shitty downsides. Plenty of them.”
“I think Ella’s saying you could have a good life without a baby.” Kelly the voice of reason.
“The things you took for granted, Lucy. You have no idea. A night’s sleep and vomit-free clothes. All gone with motherhood. Josie used to be baby mad too. Kel, do you remember? Frank knocked that out of her.”
“If you want it, you want it. It doesn’t ever go away.”
Oh, Lucy. Kelly gives her a hug as she is getting teary over what’s left of her schnitzel. The hug does not help, more tears are coming.
“Luce,” I say. “I walk into my flat and am highly likely to crucify my feet on Lego. The ironing will be glaring at me. The kitchen will be a total mess as Ben can never manage to feed his child, clean up, and put him to bed. From get up time to bed time and often throughout the night as well, my life is a series of things I have to do. Yours is all choices. Do you know how lucky that is?”
I don’t think she does.
Jen
Third time lucky. Hairy crystal-burying guy, sad divorced guy, now hot surfy guy! You would not believe how good-looking he is! I’d just about given up on this Internet dating thing when his wink came through. He just has the one picture but I can see all I need to. Him standing next to a surfboard looking very fit. He is big into surfing which I have never tried, but I’m sure I could learn. He lives up on the Northern Beaches which is a bit far away, but I’m sure we could work that out too.
Hot surfy guy and I have a date. Or do we? Here on the doorstep is hot surfy guy’s much older brother. Bizarrely, he has a skateboard with him. Maybe this belongs to the younger brother.
“Hello, pet!”
The older brother of hot surfy guy is from the North of England.
“Hello. You have a skateboard with you.”
Possibly one of the most pointless sentences I have ever uttered
“Ee, there’s no flies on you! It’s for mobility. Easier for me to get around on wheels. The arthritis is a bit of bugger.”
Oh, God.
“And you’re from… Yorkshire?”
“Spot on!”
“I thought you were into surfing not skateboarding!”
“Not surfed in a while, love. Got into it when I first arrived in 1970. Oh bugger, that’s blown it!”
“I think I’d already worked out you’re a bit older than you said you were on the website.”
“I think you might be too, pet.”
“I’m thirty-eight! I took off one year!”
“Bugger me, love. Thirty-eight? You put thirty-seven. That means forty-five in online dating land!”
“You put forty-nine. What does that mean?”
“Sixty-four. Shall we go? Got a right thirst on.”
So we walked/wheeled to the closest pub I could think of with the flattest route and the least likelihood of seeing anyone I know.
I am coming off that bloody website tomorrow.
Josie
I’m getting to know the streets of Bankstown better than the city. I pull up in front of a large single storey house. This must be it, there are balloons tied to the mailbox. I turn to Frank to say how lucky we are to get a parking space so close, but he’s winding down the window and grinning at the big fella lumbering down the drive, loudly hollering.
“Frannkkiiieee!”
It’s Jeff, Frank’s cousin. I was hoping he might not be here. He always pulls Frank away from me at these big clan gatherings, and chances are, once Jeff has him with the boys, I won’t see him much all night. This is a thirtieth birthday do for some other cousin. Frank has so many cousins, and I think he hardly knows this one, but he wouldn’t agree to a cuddly night on the sofa instead. Last thing I need after a hellish sixty hour week at work is this, and now it looks like I’m going to be ditched anyway. We walk up the drive and into the already heaving house. I could not be less in the mood for a party.
After greeting Frank with a handshake, Jeff puts his big arm around me and I am now nestled in his sweaty arm pit. I know how this goes.
“How is the beautiful fiancée, Frankie?”
“Bro! No engagement! She’s my girlfriend, man. No fiancé talk.”
“The old lady wants more great grandkids!”
Frank’s ancient grandmother has twenty-two great grandchildren. Surely this is enough. Besides, she can barely name any of them. Frank’s girlfriend will not be bearing anymore as he wants her to stay hot and sexy.
“Look at her, man. She’s beautiful. Why would I spoil this figure? I’m keeping her hot and sexy.”
“Good plan, bro. Should have done the same with my woman!”
Jeff’s hand is dangerously near my boob. If Ben did that (not that he ever would) Frank would go nuts. Somehow, it’s okay for Jeff to leer at me. It’s a different culture. I need to embrace the differences, but I could probably tolerate it more if Jeff used a little more deodorant. Also, this conversation has been had a few times and is, I know, mostly for my benefit. Calling me beautiful means Frank now feels he has earned a free pass to leave me for the night. And he does.
I spend the night with the ladies of the family. We gather around the tabouleh and the salads. The men mostly gather around the barbecue and drink a lot of beer. Even Frank.
The girls’ talk is mostly babies. They are all mums and there are, as usual, a couple of pregnant ladies. There are lots of babies and they are passed around. I cuddle a few, which I have to admit is lovely. Frank comes over a couple of times – never when I’m holding one of the babies - and whispers that I’m hot and he can’t wait to get me home. He is pretty drunk which is a bit annoying as he is so against it when we’re out with my friends, but he gets so affectionate and complimentary after a few beers, I don’t mind. Chances are he’ll fall asleep when we do finally get to bed, which suits me, to be honest. I could not be more tired. What I wouldn’t do to be on my sofa watching something on UK TV right now, but Frank doesn’t like nights like that. I know. Next Saturday night I’ll cook, and we’ll ask Ben and Ella over. That way I get a night in and don’t have to drive out west again.
Jen
So I came off the dating website. What the men say they are is so different from what they actually are. I suppose my profile was a bit different too, but only a little bit. Online dating seems to be built on layers of lies and I can’t face it anymore. I have been Googling posh dating agencies. I might give that a go. A more refined approach.
I did, however, have an unexpectedly nice evening with skateboard man. His colossal fibbing even stretched to his name. On the website he was Ryan. A young-sounding choice. His real name is Ron. He is actually called by most people, SB. For skateboard. This is slightly ridiculous, but marginally better than Ron.
Unlike with beardy man or sad man, SB and I managed to have a good old chat. It helped that he’s British, and it probably helped that I didn’t feel I needed to prove anything to him, since I had already ruled out his boyfriend potential. So when I mentioned the cushion room cinema at Govindas and he said, “Ee, pet. That sounds smashing. Shall we go one night?” I don’t really want to, but I don’t mind too much either. As long as he leaves the skateboard at home which he agrees to. So I booked it then got an email from Josie saying she’s doing dinner at hers the same night. Ben and Ella are coming, would Kelly and I like to come too? I really don’t like hanging around couples so I was pleased I could say I already had plans. Needless to say I haven’t told anyone – not even Kelly – that the plan is a night out with a sixty-four-year-old.
So here we are at Govindas restaurant. Considering SB claims to be a bit wary of vege-bloody-tarian food, he is doing very well with it. He’s had three platefuls.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get our seats.” If he eats much more he will explode. I need to get him away from the buffet. We climb the stairs to the cinema room.
SB has that embarrassing older person’s habit of over-engaging. Bored ticket man is greeted by him with, “Hello, sir, and a very good evening to you! Which of these fine cushions do you recommend?”
Once we have chosen our spot, the intertwined Chinese couple we will be sitting by get it.
“No snogging, you two. I’ll be keeping an eye!”
I think they have no clue what he just said to them, which is something at least.
SB creaks down onto his cushion and I plop down onto mine. Moments later, there is a terrible smell and it is gathering strength. I look at the Chinese couple who have pulled their t-shirts over their noses. I look at SB who looks sheepish. I think he may be responsible for one of the smelliest farts in history. I knew he shouldn’t have eaten all those cauliflower fritters.
Les Miserables starts. SB insists on singing along with the song that Susan Boyle did. The love of my life was a huge Susan Boyle fan and I get a bit teary. Luckily, SB doesn’t notice as he nods off and starts snoring. I elbow him and he wakes up with a violent start and a, “What? What?” He was properly asleep.
Then, he spots the Chinese couple. They probably live in a flat with ten other people including two in the living room, so this is likely as close as they will get to intimacy. SB has a look of wide-eyed wonder. He nudges me and stage whispers, “He’s not just snogging her, he’s feeling her titties!”
“Shhhh!” I say, trying not to laugh. I’m sure the Yorkshire accent makes him sound twice as loud.
Chinese boy comes up for air and catches SB’s eye. SB gives him the thumbs up. ”Go on, my son!” he says.
Everyone must have heard as there is chorus of shushes and tuts. SB is chortling. So am I. Someone in Les Miserables is singing very badly and out slips another SB fart. A noisy one this time, a big phaaaaarrrp that is blatantly him. “Excuse me everyone,” says Ron
“Shhhhh!”
“You gross stinky man!” says the Chinese girl.
Getting SB off his cushion at the end of the movie is no easy task. After a few, “I’m stuck loves” and “Ee, bloody ‘ells” ticket man gets him under the armpits and heaves him up. On the way down the stairs we pass the entrance for the restaurant.
“That were bloody smashing,” he says to the lady at the till.
She smiles at me. “Your dad is a sweetheart.”
Kelly
Jen can’t believe I’m having dinner with two couples. “It’s bad enough,” she says, “that we get invited along like a lesbian couple, but you’re going on your own? To be a gooseberry?”
“It’s hardly gooseberry with two couples who have been together for God knows how long! It’s not like they’re going to get all lovey dovey or anything. These are our friends. We’ve known them for years. Why does it matter that they are two couples?”
“Rather you than me.”
God love her. I’m sure if she could stop thinking that the whole world should be like Noah’s Ark, she’d have far less of an issue being single.
Josie’s flat is lovely. She’s buying it; not something I could ever imagine being able to do, and she doesn’t have to have a lodger. It’s in a new building so close to the city she can walk to work. Sleek, slate grey kitchen with a dining area. A super white comfy modular lounge. All open plan with a balcony. Not much of a view, but you can see some twinkly lights so you know you’re in the city. I arrive first. She looks a bit frazzled.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“If you could do the salad, Kelly, that would be great. Its only lasagne and that’s in the oven, but it took longer than I thought to get the table ready and I haven’t straightened my hair yet.”
“Well, the table looks lovely.” It does too; all white table cloth and white flowers, like something out of a magazine. “And your hair looks pretty straight to me.”
“No. Frank likes it super straight. Are you okay with this salad stuff while I sort myself out? Do it anyway you like.”
“Will do. Go do your GHD thing.”
After five years, would you not be over this looking perfect for him thing? Weird.
Ella and Ben arrive and are full of excitement.
“We’ve sponsored a Third World kiddie!” Ella is scrolling through her phone, looking for the picture. “This is him. Teflon!”
“Teflon?” I ask. “Did I hear that right?”
“Like the saucepans?” Josie emerges with hair looking very similar to the hair she went into her bedroom with fifteen minutes ago.
“We thought it gave him a certain durable quality,” says Ben.
“So he won’t go croak on us,” adds Ella
“It’s an amazing thing to do,” says Josie. “Too many children suffer in this world. I would do it too, but the mortgage on this place is crippling.”
She looks quite shiny-eyed as she says this. I don’t buy the ‘Frank and I don’t want kids’ thing. She’s like Lucy. Lights up when kids are mentioned. Or in this case, looks sad when she thinks about kids suffering.
“Frank’s running late,” says Josie. “He’s had a crisis at work, all quite exciting. He’ll tell you about it when he gets here.” Frank manages the warehouse for a fast food chain so I’m not sure how much excitement this could produce, but still.
“What happened, Jos?” asks Ben.
“My lips are sealed. You’ll have to wait until he gets here.”
Frank arrives eventually and he’s looking all puffed up and pleased with himself. We have nibbles (low cal), and beef tomato and mozzarella starter, then the lasagne, which is delicious. Josie is a great cook. Sad thing is, Jen would love an evening like this. Ben and Ella are so funny. Frank can be a bit odd and he is clearly itching to make his guess-what-happened-at-work announcement, but this is fun. This is a fun night. I don’t give a stuff I’m a single amongst couples, it makes no difference.
Oh, wait for it. Frank is going to spill.
“I know you want to know what happened.”
“Tell,” says Ella. “Tell us now.”
“Okay.” Frank pauses dramatically. “Wagga Wagga restaurant ran out of caramel sauce.”
The table is silent. Three people are looking at Frank with bewildered expressions. One is looking at him like he just announced he’s found a cure for cancer.
Ben snorts. “Is that it, mate? Seriously, is that it?”
“No,” Frank answers, a bit huffily. “The main thing is what I did to save the situation.”
“This is the best bit,” says Josie. “Just listen to what Frank did!” She is genuinely looking at him like he saved someone’s life, but surely no one ever died from lack of caramel sauce.
“I chartered a plane.”
“Isn’t that amazing?” says Josie. “Frank chartered a plane to get caramel sauce to Wagga.”
“It cost $100,000,” says Frank.
‘Why?” asks Ella. “Could they not make do with the strawberry or chocolate flavour?”
“Oh no,” says Josie. “The brand must be protected which means everything must always, always be available. Everything. Have you never noticed they never run out of anything? That is down to Frank.”
‘The brand must be protected’ was said simultaneously with Frank. Honestly, truly, they said it at the same time. And smiled at each other. Adoringly. Oh God. This is not a joke.
“$100,000 would have fed Teflon’s family for years,” says Ella.
“That’s capitalism,” says Frank with a shrug.
“That’s fucking insane,” says Ben.
I feel this may lead to a falling out so I change the subject quickly. “We need a new date for book club, ladies. I know Jen can do the 12th, can you?”
Jen
Book Club. Newtown Curry House. 12 th February 7.00pm. Then 7.30pm. Then 8.00pm. Finally started at 8.10pm. Josie was having a crisis at work (again). Book Choice Jen’s, Elizabeth Berg, The Pull of the Moon .
Most book clubs pick newish publications but we usually try to pick older books so Josie and Ella can get them from the library. I always buy them, a little treat for me, as does Kelly, who then passes them onto Fanny, her funny lodger. Fanny doesn’t go out much. Who would with that name? Books keep her in her room so Kelly doesn’t have to deal with her weirdness so much. She is a Goth and a huge Dr Who fan. So odd.
Ella can’t buy them as she is bankrupted by the robbers who run Cutekidz Childcare, and Josie has to spend all her spare cash on looking as good as possible for Frank, the axis on whom her world revolves.
Here is Sukhpal, our favourite waiter. “Hello, my friends, my Butter Chicken Ladies! Always, always is butter chicken! Maybe tonight try something different? Lamb saagwala? Chef special! Try it! Try it!”
Bless Sukhpal. He knows we won’t. It’s a big deal if anyone has so much as madras. We should call this ‘The Butter Chicken Book Club’ we eat so much of the stuff. Except Josie, of course. She says it’s too fattening. I envy her figure, but her resolve is so waring. The two driving forces of Josie’s life; her avoidance of food, and adoration of Frank. I have promised myself I won’t be like her when I finally find the right man. It’s not very nice for your single friends if you constantly carp on about your boyfriend and it’s also a bit boring. Tonight is typical. In The Pull of the Moon the main character leaves her husband. Josie opens the discussion.
“I can’t say I liked this book much. She just left him for no real reason. How could you do that? I could never just leave Frank like that.”
“Well, their marriage was a bit flat, wasn’t it? I think that’s the point of the title. The pull of something else. The moon representing women in ancient mythology, isn’t that right, Jen? She was pulled away by her female desire for something better. That’s how I read it, anyway.”
Kelly is so clever. She defers to me, but has no reason to. She comes up with the most insightful comments at book club.
“I thought she just left him because he was a knob.”
Whereas Ella, doesn’t.
“The thing that resonated most with me,” I say, “was when she was in a shop and saw that couple. The woman picked something off the shelf and went ‘Look at this hon!’ and the bloke just went kind of ‘humpf.’ So she puts it back, feeling a bit sad and crushed.”
Kelly is laughing. “Was that plot critical? I must have missed it!”
“No.” I say. “Not plot critical. It just struck a chord, you know? I’ve been that woman a few times in relationships. All bounce and enthusiasm, and the guy is all ‘whatever.’”
“Frank gets enthused shopping! You just need to find the right guy, Jen.”
Worse than her talking about Frank all the time is when she gets all sad for poor single me. I do that enough myself, I don’t need anyone else doing it.
“It’s not about shopping, Jos. I’ll give you an example. That last guy I went out with...”
“Number fourteen, known as G3.”
Kelly keeps a record of them for me. It’s meant to make me laugh, but honestly, it can be as depressing as Josie’s sympathy.
“That one,” I say. “Well, he did a trip to Malaysia, and went to one of those orang-utan sanctuaries. He has pictures of himself with a baby one. Sometimes they just come up to you and take your hand. One climbed up on his shoulders.”
“Wow, that is amazing!” Kelly says. “Bless the baby primate with no taste, but what an experience. I think I would have cried.”
Even Josie looks impressed by this. “Just think, you could have a honeymoon in Malaysia. Ten days at Langkawi and a side trip to an orang-utan sanctuary!”
Another thing. For someone who says she doesn’t want to get married, Josie talks a lot about honeymoons.
“That is going straight on my bucket list!” says Ella. “I’m going to run away from Ben and Charlie and work at an orang-utan sanctuary.”
“So we all think it would be an incredible experience? Not just in a cute way. This is an endangered species, one that might not even exist in fifty years time. He is up on your shoulders, hugging your head. He chose you. They don’t place them there. It’s not an animal theme park. I’m looking at G3 like you are looking at me now. How amazing, etcetera. And he said, ‘It was alright, I suppose.’”
“That’s it?” asks Kelly.
“Yes. In fact, to be completely accurate, what he said was, ‘S’alright, I suppose.’”
“To be fair,” says Josie, “Frank wouldn’t be that interested in baby orang-utans. His favourite part of the trip would be the cocktails and getting a good tan on the beach.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Not his choice of trip. But travel was the thing G3 said he was into. And not beach travel. Adventure. Jungles. Trekking. Wildlife. Travel was pretty much his only hobby. But when it came down to it, there was no enthusiasm, no embracing the memory. I seem to meet so many men like that. They’re all, ‘So what?’ and I’m all, ‘Ooh, wow, look!’ The balance is off.”
“You need a ‘Wow, look at that!’ type of guy,” says Ella.
“I do. I really do. Is it too much to ask? Am I being super fussy?”
“Honestly, Jen?” This is Josie with her sympathy for singles tone again. “I think you might be. My book choice this time and it’s a newbie! Sorry, but it was a Christmas gift and I need to read it. Matthew Green, Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend.
