Love Is…
Love Is…
Haley Hill
‘High drama and lots of laughs’ - Fabulous MagazineDating Agency doyenne Ellie Rigby always thought that helping people find love with the hard part…But now she’s all loved up with husband Nick and has hundreds of matchmaking successes under her belt, Ellie ought to know all there is to know about love.As her struggles to get pregnant put strain on her marriage, and her matchmaking service starts losing clients, Ellie realises she has so much more to learn. So setting off on a global research trip, Ellie makes it her mission to find out what makes love last forever, and whether it’s enough to save her own romance.
HALEY HILL is a fresh new voice in fiction. Prior to becoming an author, Haley launched and ran the Elect Club dating agency – and is an expert in all things dating! She lives in South London with her husband and twin daughters. Love Is… is her second book.
To my grandmother, Grace, whose love life never quite measured up to the romance novels she read.
Keep flirting with the Elvis impersonator, nan, there’s still time.
One of the greatest secrets to happiness is to curb your desires and to love what you already have.
Emilie du Chalet
Contents
Cover (#u297f7491-49fc-5680-90bc-f227c59c67f3)
About the Author (#u5f9440f2-2760-5bf0-8a8c-6e5871a1aa90)
Title (#u4164ee10-988a-55f1-8576-5e9e8078c139)
Dedication (#ua04b7b64-e6b7-5c65-895d-ff638f6b7c22)
Epigraph (#u3f5478b6-3cfd-5d02-b9f9-c61c8d88270b)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_166b8d9f-a74b-5419-bb6e-75dafde52451)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_c1ac6609-466b-5930-958b-c9b9471c602d)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_5105a076-c282-5fe7-a960-26f1aa62e8b3)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_2ca02c52-40d1-5437-9de3-a27e35efa4dc)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_57357dc4-163d-5bd7-9a9c-f0cccf748868)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_4fc3ae4b-d80f-5bb5-a5c3-caa6915f9e86)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_b00f7535-8a85-5faa-b6d5-5fcc88cb9067)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_140d82b2-e830-51d6-b7ad-a56f72258ceb)
I sat on the toilet and stared at the packet.
After years spent bringing couples together, attending their weddings, then their offspring’s christenings, spending more money on baby gifts than I did on my mortgage, surely I deserved my chance of happiness too. Wasn’t that the way this karma thing was supposed to work? I thought Eros and I had a deal.
I glared up at the ceiling to register my protest, then ripped off the cellophane. It must have been about the hundredth pregnancy test I’d bought since our wedding day. I’d tried to restrict it to one per cycle, but invariably I ended up back at Superdrug, clearing the shelves in the family planning section, hoping that a different brand might provide a different result. And I’d tried them all, from the basic two-liners to the early-response super tests complete with digital screen to spell out the result in shouty capitals. And then of course there were the ovulation kits, the sight of which now triggered some kind of Pavlovian response in Nick, sending him on a desperate quest for alcohol before I presented myself wearing Ann Summers lingerie and a ‘you know what that does to your sperm count’ nod at his wine glass.
I continued to stare at the turquoise and pink branding until the colours merged like a Maldivian sunset and my thoughts wandered back to our honeymoon. At the time, I’d believed that all it took was a sandy beach, white linen sheets and a quick flick of the fertility fairy’s wand. And after seven nights of consummating our marriage in a five-star beach hut, as I skipped into the chemist at the airport, I couldn’t have been more certain that the tiny mound of a stomach I’d developed was the manifestation of Nick’s and my future happiness, and entirely unrelated to the ten thousand calories I’d consumed each day at the hotel buffet. I glanced back down at the box and laughed out loud. If only I’d known, I thought.
My phone vibrated. I ignored it.
‘Well, I know now,’ I said to myself as I pulled out one of the tests, ‘that even with the aid of a NASA-engineered ovulation detector, we had no hope of conceiving.’
Our first Harley Street consultation had been over a year ago, but since then, the doctor’s words had been bouncing back and forth in my head like a ping-pong ball.
‘Intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection is the only option,’ he’d said.
He’d gone on to explain in medical terms that I had the follicles of a fifty-year-old heroin addict, my uterine lining was thinner than an Olsen sister, and my ovaries were about as useful as a snorkel in a tsunami.
My stomach churned. This round of treatment was our third and final chance. I took a deep breath and pulled out the test. My heart beat faster. I could feel the pulse in the tips of my fingers. I lost my grip for a second and it slipped from my grasp. I caught it swiftly with my other hand, as if it were the Olympic torch.
I’d learned from the fertility forums that it was better to wee into a container, to ensure the stick was properly immersed, rather than hold it under a stream of urine. The method was more accurate, ‘Mum to Three Snow-babies’ had advised. I rested the test, lid still on, on the cistern and spread the information leaflet open. I already knew it by heart. It didn’t matter. I read it again. Just to be sure.
It is best to conduct the test in the morning after a night’s sleep. The urine is more concentrated.
I couldn’t recall sleeping, although my uncompromised pelvic floor muscles had at least managed to hold off any bladder evacuation.
My hands were trembling as I reached for an old lid from a toothpaste pump dispenser. It was the perfect size for collecting a sample, ‘Here’s Hoping’ had explained on the Fertility Friends forum. I sat down on the toilet and held it under me until I felt warm urine overflowing from the top. Once I’d carefully submerged the test in the container, I closed my eyes, visualising the word ‘pregnant’ in my mind, hoping it might somehow instruct the test to comply. Moments later, when I found myself chanting and rubbing my womb, unwittingly re-enacting a hypno-spiritual video I’d seen on YouTube, I realised that I was in dire need of distraction. Instinctively, I went to call Nick, but then I remembered he had an important breakfast meeting, so instead I called Matthew.
He answered on the first ring.
‘What?’ he asked.
I could hear a child screaming in the background so I raised my voice.
‘The two-minute wait,’ I said.
I heard more wailing and then a noise that sounded like something choking. Matthew issued a reprimand and then came back on the line.
‘OK, Ellie,’ he said, retaining the disciplinarian tone for me too. ‘Move away from the vision board. That photo of you and Nick cradling a Photoshopped baby isn’t helping anyone.’
‘It’s worse than that,’ I said. ‘I was chanting.’
Matthew laughed. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘two minutes is but a mere blip on the timeline of life. I’ve got another seventeen years to get through until these two are off my hands.’
I let out a deep sigh and flopped down onto my bed. ‘It’s not just the two minutes,’ I said. ‘It’s all that came before it too. Surely you understand that?’
Matthew laughed again. ‘Ah, but I do, my sweet.’ He paused for a moment to intercept a further misdemeanour then continued. ‘I remember precisely what preceded this current bout of neurosis.’ He took a deep breath and then exhaled. ‘This all began long before you started fretting about your inability to breed.’
I’d been hoping for distraction not ego annihilation. ‘What did?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ he said, in a manner that implied he was drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Let’s consider Eleanor Rigby’s life journey so far, shall we? What were you doing before this all-consuming quest for conception?’
‘I don’t know, working?’
He sighed. ‘Ellie, you spent five years planning your wedding.’
I went to speak but Matthew continued. ‘Prior to that you spent four years aggressively soliciting a proposal from Nick. Before that you engineered a career that enabled you to personally interview thousands of eligible men.’
‘And women,’ I said, ‘as a matchmaker. I was trying to help people.’
He chuckled. ‘This behaviour, although disturbing enough in isolation, was preceded by many other alarming antics: a shambolic engagement, two disastrous cohabitations, fours years cyberstalking Hugh Jackman, a stretch hyper-parenting a pet rat and six years fanatically coddling two Cabbage Patch dolls.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘Ellie, you’ve been looking for love since the day you were born.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said, pulling myself up from the bed. ‘And FYI, Bungle was a guinea pig. Not a rat.’
Matthew must’ve handed the phone over to his toddler, because all I could hear was the choking sound, then wailing, then manic laughter, then some salivary noises, then more wailing then Matthew coming back on the line.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘That’s what your life will sound like if you get what you wish for.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘It can’t be all bad.’
‘It’s not all bad,’ he replied, ‘but it won’t make you happy. Just like marriage won’t make you happy. And kids certainly won’t make your marriage happy.’ He paused for a moment, seemingly to wipe a child’s orifice, then continued. ‘If you kept abreast of the latest research, as you should, you would know that a recent study showed a couple’s happiness decreases proportionately with the birth of each child.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Who conducted that study?’ I said. ‘Was it you, interviewing yourself?’
He laughed. ‘We’re conditioned to think we need to have children in order to be content, when in fact, if we bother to look at the evidence, the opposite is true.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘Why else do you think Lucy went back to work and left me looking after the little buggers?’
I giggled. ‘You love it really.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I really don’t. I love them, of course, but I don’t especially enjoy sacrificing my every human right in the name of positive parenting.’ He moved away from the phone to confiscate some crayons then continued. ‘Freud said that our need to procreate is driven by a fear of death.’ He went on to adopt a lady therapist voice. ‘Do you fear death, Eleanor Rigby?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘The only one who should fear death is you, if you don’t shut up.’
He was still laughing when I hung up.
I checked the timer on my phone. Twenty seconds to go.
I flopped down on the bed again, feeling the weight of my body sink into the mattress. Nick said he would love me no matter what.
Would he really though? I wondered. Even if I could never give him the sandy-haired children he’d always wanted? The son he could hoist up onto his shoulders and teach what it means to be a man, or the little girl with pigtails reaching for his hand, eyes wide with adoration. What if it was just us? For the rest of our lives. Our union having no greater purpose than to provide comfort to each other in old age. We’d play bridge, grow vegetables and potter around the house. And then we’d die.
Ten seconds to go.
I burst back into the bathroom. Before I reached for the test, I stopped and looked up at the ceiling, retracting my earlier complaint to the Almighty and substituting it with a pledge to reinstate my monthly charitable donations.
I snatched the test from the pot and stared at the screen on the side. The words registered straight away.
Not pregnant.
I looked again, just in case I was hallucinating the ‘Not’. I shook it and then held it up to the light. I knew there was nothing I could do to change it. I threw it in the bin along with the backup test and then went to get ready for work.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_a9ec93c9-266d-5b6f-b643-3bb12d33d83d)
I nudged the front door closed with my shoulder to force the lock into place. A flake of black paint fell onto the front path.
I turned to see Victoria, who was bouncing on the spot, clad head-to-toe in Lycra, ponytail swinging like a metronome.
‘Morning, Ellie,’ she said.
‘Morning,’ I mumbled, pulling my handbag onto my shoulder. I’d hoped I would be able to sneak out before she’d emerged from her five-thousand-square-foot double-fronted mansion for her morning showy-offy jog.
She continued to bounce but at the same time cocked her head. ‘You didn’t reply to my text.’
I sighed. Victoria had been charting my IVF process with the precision of a government agent. This, I suspected, was precisely the reason she’d been lurking by her front door since 7 a.m., jog-ready, to jump out and catch me on my way to work.
I glared at her. A glare that I hoped would say: Do you think my face would look like this if I’d just discovered I was incubating a much-longed-for half-me-half-Nick bundle of cells? No, Victoria. Instead of expressing elation, relief and the warm glow of raised hCG, this face is more befitting an exhausted and dejected woman who has endured two years of invasive medical interventions comprising, yet not exclusive to, double-dose vaginal suppositories, self-administered stomach injections, daily internal scans performed with a dildo ultrasound device, leg-stirrup procedures with disturbing terms such as ‘egg harvesting’ and ‘implantation’, then topped off with a giant needle stuck between my eyes to release my chakra. And all that to be told once again that I have failed to do the very thing that women were made to do.
Victoria screwed up her face. She’d been at the Botox again. ‘Aw, Ellie, no luck?’
I shook my head and made a point of theatrically rubbing my barren uterus.
‘Third time lucky maybe?’
‘Victoria, this was the third time.’
‘Oh yes, fourth then.’ Her bouncing quickened. For a moment, there was a glimpse of empathy in her stretched smile.
I scowled at her. She knew there’d be no fourth attempt.
She sniffed, and started bouncing higher.
‘You could always adopt,’ she said, adjusting her heart rate monitor. And with that she sped off.
I stood on the street for a moment, not realising I was still holding my stomach, and looked up at Nick’s and my house. Against the rows of magnificent Victorian villas, it looked like the neglected stepchild, stuck on the end like an ill-considered afterthought. While its siblings had been sent to Farrow and Ball finishing school, ours had been pebble-dashed and left to fend for itself against the elements. They say a pet chooses the owner and I wondered if that might be true for a house too. As much as I’d tried to fit in on this street, I was starting to doubt I ever would.
Up the road, mothers were bundling impeccably presented offspring into shiny cars. For them, life seemed so easy. Most had met their dashing eloquent husbands at top-tier universities, or later, working in some kind of glamorous grown-up profession. They’d gone on to marry in a grand French chateau or palatial Tuscan villa, then breed effortlessly, popping out rosy-cheeked cherubs every year or so, sometimes two or three at a time, while also advancing their careers, renovating and interior-designing their houses and serving quail eggs as appetisers. They even found time to accessorise with chiffon scarves.
When Nick and I moved here, I wanted to be just like them, but in the past few weeks, the L.K.Bennett riding boots I’d bought on Northcote Road had started to pinch a little.
My thoughts were distracted by the sight of Victoria’s three-year-old Boden-clad daughter marching out of their front gate, followed by an exhausted-looking woman who I presumed to be the latest au pair.
‘Morning, Camille,’ I said, grinning at the little girl a tad overzealously.
She looked me up and down and frowned. It was as though she could sense I wasn’t biologically qualified to be communicating with her. Then she scooted off, her little ponytail swinging briskly. I watched her for a while, then made my way to the station, dodging stylishly swathed pregnant bellies and designer buggies.
I arrived at the Canary Wharf office with a large latte in hand. It felt good to be able to pollute my body again without the potential of embryo toxicity bearing down on my conscience. I pushed open the double doors to reception and took a deep breath. My role as CEO may have been usurped by the venture capitalist’s grandson, Dominic, who’d apparently learned everything there was to know about romantic love at Harvard Business School, but what truly mattered was that the dating agency I had conceived seven years ago was now an international corporation. Matthew might believe my motives were questionable, but over the years I had helped thousands of people find love. I took another sip of coffee and smiled. If that wasn’t a legacy worth leaving then what was?
‘Afternoon, Eleanor,’ Dominic said in his I’m-American-in-case-you-wondered accent. Then he slammed a file onto my desk. ‘Meeting’s in five.’
I gulped down the rest of my latte and leafed through the file, which contained the minutes and action points of the last investor meeting. My smile faded. I pushed it to one side and then switched on my computer, so I could at least reply to a few emails before the investors arrived.
Ten more franchise enquiries. One from Korea.
Matchmaking in Korea? I wondered. Surely they had more pressing things to worry about.
Then one from Victoria and her unnecessarily double-barrelled surname.
Subject title: FW: New hope for IVF-resistant couples.
I deleted it. Then I glanced at my phone. Nick had called five times. I dropped my phone back down on the desk. I knew it was cruel to extend his two-minute wait to an entire day, but I’d decided that a statement such as ‘You have no hope of ever being a father, unless you substitute me for a fresh-follicled twenty-something or we find a psychologically unhinged surrogate on the internet’ was probably best delivered in person.
Suddenly Mandi sped past, wearing an oversized neon pink kaftan.
‘Meeting time, Ellie!’ she shrilled, leaving the throb of luminous pink in my eyes. Dominic strutted ahead of her, clenching his buttocks as though he were harbouring a hamster in his colon. I screwed up my face, wondering if I had just cause to alert the animal authorities.
Then I looked back down and continued with my paperwork procrastination, flicking through the post. At the bottom of the pile was a gold envelope. It looked like a wedding invitation. My stomach flipped. The excitement had never waned. I ripped open the envelope, and pulled out a card. It had a watermarked image of a slim woman, grinning and holding a cocktail. We’ve finally done it! was the quote on the front. I flipped it over and read the back.
Dearest Ellie,
You are cordially invited to the Divorce Party of Cassandra Wheeler (formerly Stud-Wheeler).
Where: The Wheeler (formerly Stud-Wheeler) residence.
When: Friday 14th Feb
Dress to impress.
Please bring a bottle. Or five.
I let out a deep sigh as I slotted it into my divorce party file, which was getting fatter by the day. Then I pulled myself up from the chair to face the meeting and Dominic’s ill-founded plans for my company.
Before I entered the meeting room, I saw Mandi through the glass walls and her latest assistant, sitting beside her, poised to take minutes as though she were at the G8 summit. The investor panel, which consisted of four heavy players in the tech and entertainment industry, were seated in a row opposite Dominic, who’d commandeered his side of the table as though he were hosting an episode of The Apprentice.
He stood up when I entered the room. ‘Eleanor,’ he said, gesturing for me to sit beside him in a smaller chair, ‘so nice of you to join us.’
I forced a smile, then nodded at the investors.
Straight away, Mandi pulled her pink glittery laptop out of her bag, adjusted her headband and smoothed down her kaftan. I studied her ensemble. It was unlike her to wear anything that wasn’t nipped in at the waist and tailored to her ribcage. She clapped her hands, and looked around, then clapped them again, as though she expected the lights to dim. When they didn’t she leaned over and switched them off herself. Then she plugged her laptop into the projector, pressed a few buttons and a map identical in colour to her kaftan appeared on the wall.
‘OK, everyone,’ she began. ‘Are we all ready?’
Dominic sighed.
I nodded and smiled. Mandi’s assistant clapped.
Mandi clasped her hands together and grinned. ‘I have fabulous news. Amazing! The best news ever!’
‘You’re leaving,’ Dominic mumbled.
She ignored him, further dramatising with a drum roll to the table.
‘As of this week,’ she continued, ‘we’ve finally done it. We have matchmakers stationed in every continent!’ She pressed a key on her laptop and suddenly pink hearts popped up all over the globe, presumably identifying matchmaker infiltration hotspots.
She looked around the room and began clapping herself. Her assistant joined in.
‘Yay, everyone!’ Mandi said. ‘Well done, us!’
Dominic raised both eyebrows. ‘Every continent?’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘We have matchmakers in Antarctica?’
Mandi shook her head, as though she were about to reprimand a troublesome toddler. ‘Antarctica is an iceberg, Dominic, not a continent.’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Besides, it’s melting,’ she said. ‘It’s unwise to expand into an economy with diminishing returns. Didn’t they teach you that at Harvard?’
One of the investors closed his eyes and sank into his chair.
Mandi glided over to the map like an air hostess pointing out the safety exits. ‘Ten here…’ she pointed to France ‘…ten here…’ then Germany ‘…and here…’ then Italy ‘…twelve here…’ Sweden. She reached up and pointed to New York. ‘Twenty matchmakers in New York…’ her finger moved across America ‘…five in LA, seven in San Fransisco…’ then down to Australia ‘… eight in Melbourne, five in Sydney…’ The pointing continued, as did Mandi’s list of countries.
Ten minutes later, when I was feeling somewhat dazed, Mandi leaned forward and tapped on the keypad. Suddenly pink hearts started racing across the wall like some kind of customised disco ball. It felt as though they were throbbing in time to the pulse in my head. ‘One hundred and one matchmakers,’ Mandi concluded with a loud applause.
‘We could make a coat out of them,’ Dominic mumbled.
Mandi glared at him, her applause unfaltering. Her intern joined in.
‘We did it,’ Mandi said. ‘It took ten years, but we did it. This is possibly the most exciting day of my life!’
I grinned at Mandi and high-fived her from across the table.
Dominic shook his head as though struggling to release himself from a disturbing dream. Then he stood up and disconnected Mandi’s laptop as if disarming a nuclear bomb. He replaced it with his laptop and went on to present the previous year’s accounts, taking personal responsibility for everything that was profitable and apportioning blame, mostly to me, for everything that wasn’t. Then he concluded with his strategy for the coming year.
‘Client retention,’ he declared, as though he’d discovered the cure for cancer.
I frowned. One of the investors leaned forward.
Dominic continued. ‘Currently we’re retaining clients for an average of six months. If we could up that to twelve, we’d double our profits.’
The investor who was leaning forward, interrupted. ‘Adjusting for client acquisition costs,’ he said, ‘we’d actually triple our profits.’
‘Exactly,’ said Dominic.
Mandi’s hand shot up.
Dominic ignored it.
Mandi coughed loudly.
I gestured at Mandi to speak.
She turned to Dominic. ‘But our job is to match people. To find them partners. We want them to find love and leave our agency. That’s what they’re paying us for.’
‘Yes,’ Mandi’s assistant chipped in. ‘The clients get upset if they’ve been with us for months without being presented with a life partner.’
Mandi glared at her.
Dominic ignored them both. Then he tapped the keys on his laptop.
He continued. ‘You can see from my projections, if we delay matching our clients by a week or so each time, it will prolong the duration of the service, significantly increasing the revenue from monthly subscriptions.’
He pressed a key and a bar graph was projected onto the wall.
One of the investors made a note on a pad in front of him. Another one checked his mobile.
‘Another significant change I propose,’ Dominic said, leaning back expansively, ‘is with technology.’
All four investors sat up straight. The one with the mobile in his hand quickly put it back in his pocket.
‘Apps,’ Dominic declared, this time as though he’d discovered a renewable energy source. He tapped on his laptop and then another graph appeared, seemingly demonstrating a considerable reduction in costs and an exponential growth in profits.
‘Matchmaking apps.’ He smiled a self-congratulatory smile, while pressing keys on his laptop, which projected an array of charts and screenshots onto the wall. ‘If we convert our service to a digital interface, we’ll cut staffing costs by ninety per cent.’
As Dominic continued babbling on about profit margins and shareholder dividends, I gripped the sides of my chair and starting counting back from a hundred, a technique Dr Phil had explored on a recent episode about anger management. I counted slowly and purposefully, breathing deeply as I did, but at fifty-six, I could no longer stand to listen to Dominic’s attempts to brainwash the investors into agreeing to erode every value that the agency had been founded upon.
I stood up and glared at him. ‘Enough,’ I said.
Dominic stepped back. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re excused,’ I said, pushing past him and slamming shut his laptop, bar graph wilting as I did.
Mandi sat forward in her seat. An investor smirked.
Dominic glared back at me. ‘What’s the matter, Eleanor? Are you not concerned about profits?’
‘Of course I am concerned about profits,’ I said. ‘My house is falling down, I’m thirty-six and still wearing Primark shoes. I had more disposable income when I was twenty than I do now. I would love nothing more than a nice fat dividend once in a while. But—’ I turned to the investors ‘—that is not why I am here. That is not why I founded this company.’ I turned back to Dominic. ‘So yes, Dominic, I am concerned about profits. But what I’m more concerned about is our clients.’
Dominic rolled his eyes, as though I was about to suggest we pitch for government-funded matchmaking.
‘This year,’ I continued, ‘we’ve had more divorces than marriages. Did you know that, Dominic?’
He straightened his tie.
‘Last year alone, our clients reported 14,198 failed relationships and 1,239 broken engagements.’
Mandi’s eyes widened.
I continued, ‘Six hundred and seventy-five divorces.’
Mandi gasped.
I leaned forward and connected Mandi’s laptop back to the projector. ‘Mandi’s presentation showed we’re doing a great job. We have contributed to more marriages than any of the online agencies. However, we could do better. We’re helping people find love. But I believe we should extend our service to help our couples maintain their relationships. They need our support.’
Mandi shook her fist in the air like a ‘let ’em ’ave it’ angry cartoon character.
Dominic tried to speak but I silenced him with a glare and continued.
‘We offer a personal service. That’s how we differentiate from all the other dating agencies. The superficial swipe-to-reject dating apps out there are feeding the narcissistic monster that is sabotaging the fundamental principles of marriage.’ I narrowed my eyes at Dominic. ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘if we dehumanise matchmakers, who’s to say we won’t dehumanise daters?’
Dominic shook his head. ‘What does that even mean?’
I sighed, wishing Matthew was there to back me up by citing Freudian and Jungian papers.
Dominic rolled his eyes and began checking emails on his phone.
I whipped out the divorce party invitation and slid it across the table towards the investors.
‘This is the tenth one I’ve received this month,’ I said. ‘We need to take action.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Mandi.
One of the investors nodded.
I continued. ‘No one gets married thinking they’ll divorce.’ I looked the investors in the eyes. ‘No one falls in love thinking it won’t last.’
Dominic glanced up from his phone.
I cleared my throat. ‘We all hope for the best but few of us are equipped to deal with the worst.’
I noticed one of the investors was blinking rapidly and rubbing a tan line where his wedding ring used to be.
‘And how do you propose we do that?’ Dominic asked, as though I’d suggested we populate Pluto.
‘Instead of cutting staff,’ I said, ‘we should recruit more, invest in their training. We should equip our matchmakers with the knowledge and the skills to support our clients.’ I glared at Dominic. ‘That is something even the most nifty app could never do.’
Dominic smirked. ‘Nifty?’ he said, his expression implying that the use of old-lady vocabulary could compromise the credibility of my argument.
I continued, keen to move on. ‘We should train all of our matchmakers as dating psychologists.’
Dominic rolled his eyes again, and let out a why-don’t-we-feed-the-starving-in-Africa-while-we’re-at-it sigh.
I continued, pretending to ignore him. ‘I want us to be pioneers in our field.’
Dominic threw up his hands. ‘Oh, come on, Eleanor, that will cost a fortune.’
The investor with the tan line leaned forward and raised his hand to silence Dominic. Then he stared at me for a moment. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘you’ve got my vote.’
Dominic went to speak but another investor cut him off. ‘Me too,’ he said.
The other two investors nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s do it,’ one said.
The remaining investor, who was also Dominic’s grandfather, turned to him. ‘I’m with Ellie on this,’ he said.
I smiled and, rather smugly, held out my hand to Dominic. He bypassed it, grabbed his laptop and then stormed out of the room, buttocks clenching as he did.
As soon as he’d left, Mandi jumped up from her seat and began clapping wildly.
‘Yay, Ellie!’ she shouted.
Her assistant followed her lead. ‘Yay!’ she said.
Perhaps it was because this was an unusual situation for them, or maybe they were genuinely moved by my proposal, but for whatever reason, the investors began to clap too. That was until one of them must have realised that it was a little odd and stopped. At which point the rest followed and then filed out of the room, checking their mobiles, seemingly trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.
That evening, as I fought my way towards the underground, the wind battered my umbrella and rain swept under it and into my face. I squinted my eyes and pushed ahead. I may have won the case against Dominic—a victory for the relationships of others—but the jury was still out on how Nick would take the news that we had failed to conceive yet again.
The moment I reached our street, my umbrella finally buckled under the elements and, as I waded through a giant puddle on our front path, I wondered if our marriage would survive this storm.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_ef675813-7fd5-5828-a04c-9ff193f79f75)
Before I opened the front door, I noticed the hall light was off. Nick wasn’t home yet.
‘Of course, out drinking,’ I mumbled under my breath, although fully aware there was no one to hear me.
I ruffled my umbrella, drops of rain splattering up the walls, then I bent the spokes back into line and shoved it into the stand next to Nick’s giant work-branded golf umbrella. It baffled me why corporations seemed so keen to advertise that they employed people who played golf in the rain.
After I’d shaken my coat and hung it over the radiator, I made my way into the kitchen. I looked around the empty room, then opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine. It had been almost a year of not drinking, priming my body for reproduction, but now I was looking forward to drowning my non-compliant ovaries in Pinot Grigio.
I leaned against the counter and poured myself a glass. As soon as I took a gulp, my nerves settled and a warm sensation spread through my veins. I took another gulp and gazed up at the ceiling, then back down at our shabby kitchen. I squinted my eyes, trying to superimpose the building plans we’d had drawn up years ago onto the sixties-style laminate shambles in front of me. I knew exactly how it should look. I didn’t have far to go for inspiration. Every house on the street had been knocked through into their side-return and extended out back to create the trademark South West London statement kitchen. I took another sip and wondered if the white gloss Poggenpohl dream would ever be mine.
‘Cheers,’ I said to the peeling work surface. ‘Me and my kitchen, living the dream.’
I took another gulp and then checked my phone. It was 7 p.m. I called Nick. No answer. I took another gulp of wine and called Matthew to rant.
There a clattering noise in the background when he answered. ‘Twice in one day,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m honoured.’
‘Can you talk?’ I asked.
He sighed. ‘I can talk, and I would love to talk. However, the real question is whether I will be allowed to talk.’ There was the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by wailing. ‘Shit. I mean, sugar,’ he said.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked.
There was silence, a muffled sound and then Matthew returned. ‘Little sod keeps falling off his chair.’ There was a faint sobbing in the background. ‘It’s this bloody booster seat. I’m sure it has an eject button. There you go, Zachary. Now eat your pasta.’
‘Shall I call you back?’
‘No, no. Are you OK?’
I took another gulp of wine. I knew he would know better than to ask me directly about ‘the test’.
‘Angelica, leave the vase.’
‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘It’s just—’
Suddenly there was another crash followed by a scream. ‘Fuck. I mean, fudge. Fiddlesticks.’
‘Look, I’ll call you back tomorrow,’ I said.
‘No, no.’ Matthew’s tone had an urgency to it. ‘We can talk now.’ He paused, then made a strange squealing noise. ‘Angelica, sweetheart, please don’t eat the broken glass.’
I grimaced. ‘It sounds kind of hectic there?’
‘Just another day in paradise,’ he said. ‘Zachary, eat the pasta, don’t stick it up your nose.’
I thought for a moment about telling him the result, but I realised he’d probably guessed anyway. Besides, any mention would most likely provoke a diatribe about some study linking new parents to suicidal tendencies.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy coming to a divorce party with me next Friday night?’ I asked.
‘Angelica, I said no! Hang on, Ellie, I should really sweep up this glass.’
I continued, ‘I need some company and Nick’s entertaining clients. Again.’
His pitch suddenly increased. ‘A party?’ he said. ‘One that doesn’t involve soft play, chicken nuggets, or a balloon-wielding entertainer?’
I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’m in.’
‘Don’t you need to arrange a sitter or something?’
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s about time their mother did some mothering.’
The bottle of Pinot Grigio was almost empty by the time I heard Nick’s key in the lock. My throat dried up as I mouthed the words I would say to him. I downed the remainder of the wine, and mouthed them again. It was almost as if the act of saying them out loud would make them more final.
We will never have children.
I’d said it in my mind over and over all day: in the pauses between conversations with Mandi, in the lulls during the investor meeting, while Dominic sashayed around the office. Even wiping my bottom in the toilet had felt melancholic. Mine would be the only bottom I would ever wipe, I’d thought. I’d never change a nappy or lovingly slather Sudocrem on a rashy crack. Every thought seemed to extrapolate into a video projection of never-to-be-realised moments: the first steps, a tender kiss at bedtime, nursing a grazed knee, adjusting a school tie, a comforting cuddle when the world seemed cruel. Being a mother had so many facets. And I would know none of them.
I twirled my empty glass by its stem and looked out beyond our neighbour’s roof at the tiny glimpse of sky. I liked to think my mother and father were up there somewhere, looking down, keeping tabs on the little three-year-old girl they left behind. Suddenly I found myself laughing. It seemed so unfair, almost deliberately orchestrated, to be denied a mother and then to be denied motherhood too. I dropped my head into my hands, knocking the glass to the floor.
Nick rushed into the kitchen. From his furrowed brow and teary eyes, I could tell he already knew. Maybe Victoria had told him, maybe he’d guessed. He smiled, but I knew it was for my benefit. He put his arms around me and pulled me into his damp coat. I hugged him tightly and buried my head in his chest.
After a while, he lifted my chin and looked into my eyes.
‘It’s OK, Ellie,’ he said.
I knew he must be hurting as much as I was, and that now was the time we needed more than ever to love each other, but when I smelled whiskey on his breath, I felt my muscles tense. I pulled away.
‘Well, it might be OK for you,’ I said, with a sharp sigh.
Nick cocked his head, as though trying to make sense of my sudden change of tone.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
He leaned forward and stared at me. ‘You’re saying I’m glad it didn’t work?’
‘I’m saying,’ I began, then paused just to be sure I wanted to continue, ‘you didn’t try as hard as I did.’
He stepped back, eyes wide. ‘Seriously, Ellie? What is wrong with you?’
I glared at him. ‘Wrong with me? You’re the one who’s spent the past year partying like the Wolf of bloody Wall Street. No wonder we couldn’t conceive.’
He frowned. ‘Partying?’
‘You’re out every night.’
‘Working.’
‘Drinking.’
He ran his hands through his hair. ‘You know I hate entertaining. Drinking is the only way I can tolerate a night with those egotistical Neanderthals.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, poor suffering you.’
‘Besides,’ he added, frown turning to a scowl, ‘lately, it’s been preferable to being at home.’
I jumped to my feet. ‘Oh really?’ I said.
‘Yeah, you’ve totally lost it, Ellie.’ He walked to the wine rack and grabbed a bottle of red. ‘If it’s not wheatgrass shots, it’s acupuncture, then there’s those ridiculous “hypnotise yourself into getting pregnant” bullshit podcasts you watch. And if you’re not doing that, then you’re on those barmy forums. You and the army of infertiles, inciting each other to drink five litres of milk or eat a kilogram of cashews, all charting each other’s cycles like you’re in some kind of crazy baby-making coven.’ He paused to unscrew the top and pour himself a glass. ‘Seriously, Ellie, you’ve been a nightmare to live with.’
I snatched the bottle from him. ‘Well, at least I’ve been making an effort,’ I said, pouring a glass. ‘You, on the other hand, have been doing everything you possibly can to sabotage this whole process. You’ve pretty much done the opposite of everything the consultant told you to do.’
Nick grabbed back the bottle and slammed it on the counter. ‘Ellie, I’ve done it all. I’ve had every test under the bloody sun. I’ve had sex on demand. I’ve taken all manner of weird supplements. I’ve even worn ventilated boxer shorts. I’ve tolerated your obsession with trying to control the uncontrollable and now, if I’m totally honest, I’m relieved.’
‘Relieved?’
‘Yes, relieved there’s an end to it.’ He paused. ‘No more fawning over baby clothes, no more debates about buggy brands, or cots versus cot-beds. No more planning our weekends, holidays, furniture, house, careers, around the fact that you might or could potentially in the future be pregnant. No more pseudo maternity wear.’ He gestured to the wrap-around jersey dress I was wearing, bought in anticipation that it might accommodate a small mound in the early summer.
I glared at him. ‘I’m bloated from the hormones. Sorry I don’t feel like prancing around in a pencil skirt.’
He glared back at me. ‘And a sex life would be nice. At least one that isn’t scheduled around the optimisation of sperm quality.’
I stepped back, hand on one hip, the other brandishing my wine glass. ‘So that’s it? Sex is more important to you than having a family.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘If sex were more important to me, then I wouldn’t have dedicated my most virile years to wanking into a plastic cup.’
‘Oh—’ I accidentally sloshed some wine onto the floor ‘—I forgot. I must remember to be grateful.’ I gulped the wine down before I spilled any more. ‘It’s not as though I haven’t made sacrifices too. I’m the one who’s been injecting myself in the stomach every day. I’m the one who quit drinking for two whole years.’
‘Making up for it now though, aren’t you?’ he said.
I continued. ‘I’m the one who’s had an entire medical team peering between my legs and extracting follicles from my ovaries.’
Nick screwed up his face.
‘Oh, I forgot, that’s not sexy, is it? Must remember to be sexy. Must remember to be grateful.’
Nick let out an elaborate sigh. ‘You? Be grateful? That would be a first.’
I scowled at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He sniffed. ‘Come on, Ellie, you’re never happy. You’re always waiting for the next big thing. The wedding, then the house and now it’s this obsession with having children. You can’t keep waiting to live your life. This is it, Ellie. Look around you. This is your life. Just live it, will you.’
I raised my eyebrows and then waved my arms around. ‘Great. A shitty kitchen and a drunken husband. What more could a woman want?’
Nick shook his head and smirked. ‘There are plenty of women who would be more than happy with me.’
I stared at him. ‘Ooh, had loads of offers then, have you?’
He shrugged. ‘I have actually.’
Immediately, I envisaged pert-bottomed interns bending over Nick’s filing cabinet and fluttering their eyelashes. ‘Oh really?’ I said, taking another glug of wine. ‘And?’
Nick sighed, his expression softening. ‘Ellie, I’m married. To you.’
He put his glass down and walked towards me. ‘And I want you back.’ He took my hands in his. ‘I want us back.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_73a2ae6d-0f41-5303-894d-12d472ad0ec9)
Matthew stopped at Cassandra’s front gate and scratched his head.
‘I’m not sure balloons are entirely appropriate for a divorce party,’ he said, gesturing to the bulging bunches tied to each post.
Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Dance Wiv Me’ was blaring out through the open windows and, as we walked up the path, I could see silhouettes gyrating under a disco ball. The sunken roof of the Georgian townhouse looked as though it might collapse with the shame of it all.
I knocked on the door. There was no answer.
Matthew turned to me with raised eyebrows. ‘We could always go for a quick bite to eat first?’ he said.
I glared at him. ‘No. We’re here to support Cassandra.’
Matthew shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘You know how some people are terrified of clowns?’
I laughed. ‘Not all divorced women are scary,’ I said. ‘Besides, Cassandra is a friend.’
He sculpted his quiff in his reflection from the polished knocker. ‘She’s not a friend, she’s a client.’
‘She’s going through a rough time.’
Suddenly raucous laughter bubbled up from the hallway.
‘Yes, sounds like it,’ he said, adjusting his shirt collar. ‘What if I’m the only man here? They might slice off my testicles or deep-fry my penis.’
I knocked again. I could hear Cassandra’s high octave New York drawl approaching the door. ‘Coming!’ she screeched.
She greeted us with the determined smile of a TV presenter. ‘Oh. My. Gaaaad. It’s Ellie!’ She flung her arms around me, nearly knocking Matthew over. ‘It’s so good to see you! Come in, come in. We have tequila.’
I grabbed Matthew’s arm and pulled him in behind me.
Straight away we were thrust into the sitting room and towards the makeshift bar, which seemed sufficiently stocked to survive an apocalypse. Cassandra poured us each tumblers of tequila, then insisted we down them in unison. Afterwards, she leaned in towards me and pointed at Matthew.
‘Is that Nick?’ she asked in a stage whisper. ‘Only I remember him being better-looking.’
Matthew stepped forward. ‘Yes, I am—’
I blocked him with my arm. ‘This is Matthew,’ I said, interrupting whatever mischievous untruth he was about to present to Cassandra, ‘my friend.’
Cassandra looked him up and down and then grinned. ‘Not fair,’ she said. ‘I so want a gay buddy.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘Got one for me?’
Matthew, clearly, sensing an opportunity to avoid the angry divorcees turning on him, suddenly ramped up his camp-o-meter and jutted his hip to one side.
‘Sweetheart,’ he said, flicking his wrist. ‘If you can throw a party like this, I’ll get you a gay boy quicker than you can say Liza Minnelli.’ Then he skipped towards her and started stroking her dress. ‘Is this Diane von Furstenberg? It’s am-az-ing.’
I knocked his hand away after I noticed it edging towards the chest area.
‘Let’s mingle,’ I said.
He poured two more tequilas, before air-kissing Cassandra and squeezing her bottom.
I rolled my eyes as we walked off. ‘Behave,’ I said.
He shrugged his shoulders.
I stopped and glared at him. ‘You’re a married father of two.’
He threw his arms in the air. ‘I am what I am,’ he shrilled, doing his best gayed-up interpretation of Gloria Gaynor, followed by an intricate sidestep across the dance floor. A pretty redhead laughed and joined in dancing with him.
I watched for a while and then pulled him to one side. ‘Impersonating a homosexual in order to take advantage of vulnerable women is exploitative and a gross breach of our host’s trust.’
He downed one of the tequilas. ‘Ellie, a divorce party is hardly the ideal platform to preach moral standards.’
I snatched the other tequila, thought about putting it on the side, then downed it instead.
Matthew did a double eyebrow raise. ‘I see you’re drinking again?’
I nodded, wiping my mouth.
He stared at me for a moment, looking as though he were about to offer something profound. Then, clearly thinking better of it, he put his arm around me and ruffled my hair.
‘Come on, fag hag,’ he said. ‘Let’s dance.’
A while later, once Cassandra had informed the DJ that we had a ‘gay’ guest, it was as though the playlist donned a pair of leather chaps and dropped an E. And despite Matthew’s sterling efforts, which peaked at a rather gymnastic ‘Vogue’ pose, by the time we heard the intro to a remix of the Village People’s ‘In the Navy’ we both agreed it was time for a tequila top-up. Matthew didn’t bother with glasses this time; instead, he just grabbed the bottle. He took a swig and passed it to me.
I took a gulp and looked around the room. The furniture had been pushed to the side and the fireplace hidden behind the temporary DJ booth, but even through my now blurry vision, I could see that this was otherwise an elegant family room. I found myself imagining Cassandra and Dr Stud, or Stud-Wheeler, as they’d renamed themselves, snuggling on the sofa together, bottle of red in front of them, the latest HBO TV series on in the background. I held the image in my mind for a moment, before contrasting it with tonight’s frenzied quest for oblivion and wondered when it was that they had stopped loving each other.
I snuck behind the bar and picked up a photo frame that had been placed face down on a radiator cover. Straight away I recognised the image. It was a photo I’d taken on our singles’ trip to St Anton: the moment they’d jumped off the ski lift together, now freeze-framed forever. I smiled as I recalled the months I’d spent prior trying to persuade them to meet each other.
‘No, he’s too short,’ Cassandra had said, when I’d shown her his profile.
‘I usually date hotter girls,’ Dr Stud had explained, before selecting the profile of a bikini-clad twenty-three-year-old nursing graduate.
I’d always known though that if I could just get them together on the ski trip then they would understand. And they did—well, for nine years at least. I glanced back down at the photo and took another swig. I would never forget the way they laughed together. It was as though they were the only two who knew the punchline. That kind of love couldn’t simply fade to nothing. Could it?
I looked up to see the redhead giggling and then flashing her cleavage at Matthew. I glared at him. Just as I was about to intervene, Cassandra appeared beside me.
‘Gimme some of that,’ she slurred, snatching the tequila bottle from my grasp. I’d forgotten I was still holding it. She took a swig and then turned to me. Her mouth was smiling but her eyes looked vacant. She nodded to the photo. ‘What goes up, must come down,’ she said, surprisingly succinctly. Then she laughed. ‘No one can defy Newton’s theory of…’ She rubbed her temples and swayed a little. ‘Or was it Galileo?’
‘Newton,’ I said. ‘Gravity. Are you OK?’
She took another swig and then wiped her chin. ‘Never better,’ she said, handing the bottle back to me. ‘Right. Speech time.’
I was still gripping the photo frame as I watched Cassandra climbing onto a chair, microphone in hand. I should have intervened. It was clear to everyone that a public and drunken explanation as to why we should celebrate the breakdown of her marriage wasn’t going to end well. However, as much as I wanted to preserve her dignity, part of me was desperate to hear what she had to say. I gripped the photo frame tighter and glanced over at Matthew, who was now cupping the redhead’s breasts through her dress. In the past year the agency’s divorce rate had doubled. Even my own relationship was in distress. I wanted to know why. Because if I knew what was wrong, then I was closer to finding a way to fix it.
Cassandra wobbled on the chair a little, then steadied herself and tapped the microphone. The DJ turned off the music.
‘Hey, everyone!’ Cassandra shouted.
The crowd cheered.
‘It’s great to see you all here tonight,’ she said, looking around the room and holding out her hands. ‘Some of you knew me before…’ she pointed at a few people in the crowd ‘… and some of you knew me during…’ she pointed out a few more ‘…but now, after nine forgettable years, Richard, or Dick, as I now prefer to call him, is finally out of my life…’ She punched the air and the light from the disco ball caught a tear on her cheek. ‘That bastard might have cost me £1.3 million in settlement and my last fertile years, and…’ she pulled the skin tight on her face ‘…given me greater need for Botox, but now I’m rid of him.’ She punched the air again like a motivational speaker.
The guests cheered and clapped and she gestured for me to bring her the tequila bottle.
‘As I said,’ she continued, having taken another swig, ‘some of you knew me before, and some of you knew me during. But everyone will know me after! Let’s get this party started!’
Cassandra jumped down from the chair and the music was replaced by synthesised siren. A group of faux policemen stormed into the room. They had sunbed tans, thick thighs and crew cuts.
Matthew caught my eye, with a ‘can we please leave now?’ expression.
I glanced back at Cassandra, who had begun to emit a noise not dissimilar to that of a mating tree frog.
Matthew immediately abandoned the redhead and shuffled up beside me nervously. The crowd, mostly comprising single women, parted and chanted as the dance troop ripped off their Velcro fastened trousers in one synchronised movement and went on to execute a choreographed ‘stop and search’ procedure, intermingled with an array of dance moves, which Matthew identified as the rear arrest, the handcuff hustle and the truncheon treadmill.
Once the routine had finished, and the only garments that remained were black satin pouches, Cassandra lifted up her skirt and called out to the dancer with the largest bulge. I did a double take. He looked disconcertingly like Nick.
‘Officer,’ she said, slapping her bottom, ‘I’ve been a very naughty girl.’
After she’d manhandled his pouch, she whispered something in his ear and slipped him a fifty-pound note, followed by a cheeky wink in Matthew’s direction.
A short while later, after Matthew had been the non-consensual recipient of an extended lap dance from PC Schlong, he asked me if we could leave. I led him out of the house and closed the door closed behind us. He glanced around skittishly and then sped down the front path to hail a passing taxi.
I giggled as we climbed in. ‘You can’t have the smooth without the rough,’ I said.
He scowled at me. ‘There was no need for him to dangle the bloody thing in my face,’ he said.
I giggled some more.
‘Stop laughing,’ he said, folding his arms and staring out the window.
I leaned towards him and smirked. ‘You’ve still got some whipped cream on your chin,’ I said, still laughing.
His hand flew to his face until he realised I was winding him up. Then he glared at me. ‘Speak about this to no one,’ he said.
After I’d eventually managed to stifle my giggles, I shuffled up next to him.
‘Cheer up,’ I said. ‘We had fun tonight.’
He sighed. ‘Well, I’m glad you had fun while I was being lap-raped by PC Right Said Fred.’
I smirked. ‘So you didn’t have any fun at all? Not even squeezing Cassandra’s bottom?’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Or checking out that redhead’s boob job?’
‘She was asking my opinion.’
I sighed. ‘Because she thought you were gay.’
‘I can be objective.’
I shook my head.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Lucy wouldn’t care anyway.’
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘You have a clause in your marriage contract stating that objective assessment of non-spousal secondary sexual characteristics is permissible?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Something like that.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Is everything OK with you two?’
He folded his arms tightly across his chest. ‘It’s amazing. It really is.’ He forced a smile. ‘Since we chose to breed, our relationship has transcended that tiresome phase of animalistic passion and become a more spirit-centred union.’
I frowned. ‘You mean spiritually centred?’
‘No, spirit. She drinks gin, I prefer vodka.’
I slapped him on the arm. ‘Can you be serious for just one minute?’
He sighed again and then gazed up to the roof of the taxi. ‘What do you want me to say, Ellie? It’s shit. My marriage is shit right now. It hasn’t always been and I’m hoping that it won’t always be, however, right now, it’s shit.’
I turned to him with a scowl. ‘You’ve got two beautiful children, a gorgeous home and a wife who loves you. You’re so lucky, Matthew. You should be grateful.’
‘Oh yes, because you think having a family is the key to your happiness. Ellie, you spent years thinking the perfect man was the key to happiness. When are you going to realise?’
‘Realise what? That you like willies?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘That there is no key…’
I stared at him.
He turned to me. ‘You want to know the truth?’
‘Go on then,’ I said, half smiling.
‘I enjoyed looking at that girl’s boobs tonight, because I’ve forgotten what a normal pair looks like. In the past two years, Lucy’s have been swollen, veiny and grotesque, if not leaking milk or infected. Her nipples have been cracked and furred with thrush. And now, when finally they’ve been handed back to me, empty sacks lined with stretch marks, she worries they don’t turn me on. And, as much as I love her, as much as I want them to and as much as I reassure her otherwise, we both know deep down that she’s right.’ He turned to me. ‘You think having babies will complete the you and Nick white-picket-fence happy-ever-after. Well, it won’t.’
I smirked. ‘You’re just grumpy because you’ve had a ten-inch penis slapped in your face.’
He glared at me. ‘Having kids changes everything, Ellie. I love Zach and Angelica, but Lucy’s the one who wanted them. Then straight away she went back to work leaving me at home to wipe bottoms and boil pasta.’ He looked down. ‘She treats me like I’m staff. You should hear her: “Matthew, pick up the dry-cleaning. Matthew, clean the windows. Matthew, did you call the upholsterer? Matthew, are you listening to me? Matthew. Matthew!” She’s lost all respect for me.’
‘No, she hasn’t.’
He rolled his eyes and let out a protracted sigh. ‘Well, why else did she shag her boss then?’
For the rest of the taxi journey, we didn’t speak. I knew there was nothing I could say that would lessen his pain. I squeezed his hand and we stared out the window.
‘Not a word to anyone,’ he said, as he climbed out the taxi.
I nodded.
‘About PC Schlong, I mean. I have a reputation to uphold.’
I’d prefer to think it was because I was starting to feel like myself again, rather than a fear of ending up like Matthew and Lucy. Or worse, Cassandra and Richard. Either way, as I climbed into bed and snuggled up next to Nick, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months. I leaned over and kissed him. I could tell he’d been drinking again but this time it didn’t bother me. I kissed him again, and he kissed me back.
That night, making babies was the furthest thought from my mind.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_44324466-a6ae-5e34-8f93-f0e8e8e7e881)
First thing on Monday morning, I noticed a voicemail from Cassandra. I waited until I was in the office and had finished my coffee before unleashing the assault on my eardrums. I put it on loudspeaker so I could temper the impact, and also so I could type some emails while I listened.
Unlike the usual mega-volume, her words were slurred and hard to decipher because she was sobbing and then sometimes laughing between them.
‘I’m miserable, Ellie,’ she said and then paused. ‘It’s not the same.’ She sniffed. ‘I want my Dick back.’
When I looked up, I saw Dominic leaning over my desk, hair coiffed, eyebrows raised. ‘She wants her dick back?’ he whispered, laughing. ‘Just what we need: another “they matched me with a post-op” lawsuit.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s not how it sounds,’ I said. ‘She’s just got divorced.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘And you want to counsel these freaks,’ he said, making an inverted comma gesture around the word ‘counsel’.
I shook my head, tempted to prod him with the biro in my other hand.
‘Cassandra isn’t a freak,’ I said, hand still firmly over the receiver. ‘She’s a client. And the Dick that she wants back is her ex-husband. Not male genitalia.’
Just as Dominic was processing what I had said, buttocks most likely twitching as he did, Mandi breezed over. She was wearing a patterned empire line smock, roomy enough to accommodate a sextuplet elephant gestation. I glanced down at her stomach and then back at her face. Despite the rumours circulating the office, I had yet to ask her the question formally. Dominic said it was a matter for HR and advised against it. Besides, once it was public knowledge, I feared Mandi might overload my inbox with a deluge of Pinterest nursery interiors.
Mandi leaned over my desk, eyes wide.
I decided it best to terminate the voicemail, before the entire office became involved.
Mandi leaned in further. ‘Was that Cassandra?’ she asked, holding her hands to her chest. ‘How is she?’ She looked to the floor. ‘That poor, poor woman. Divorce has to be the worst experience for anyone.’
Dominic, who was still leaning on my desk, smirked. ‘Worse than terminal cancer? Death of a child? Being decapitated by ISIS?’
Mandi ignored him. ‘And this is her second time. Simply awful. Is there anything I can do to help? And Richard, how is he? They were so in love, Ellie.’ She wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘So, so in love. How could we let this happen?’
Dominic interjected, with a dismissive flick of his wrist. ‘If it was her second marriage, then statistically, they only had a twenty-five per cent chance of making it work. There is nothing you could have done.’
Mandi narrowed her eyes and poked Dominic in the chest. ‘Would a doctor turn off a life support machine if a person had a twenty-five per cent chance of waking from a coma? No, they wouldn’t.’
Dominic sighed. ‘They turned it off. Not us.’
Mandi scowled. ‘This isn’t Dignitas. We’re a dating agency. We’re supposed to help people.’
Dominic laughed. ‘If only it was,’ he said. ‘There’s a far greater chance of preserving dignity in death than in dating.’
Mandi tutted then turned to me. ‘Ellie?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Cassandra wants him back.’
Mandi held her hands to her chest again and nodded.
Dominic sniggered. ‘Does she really though? Or is she just feeling sentimental after contracting pubic lice from a troop of strippers?’
I stared at him for a moment, wondering how he’d been privy to such classified information from the divorce party. Then I turned back to Mandi. ‘She says she still loves him,’ I said.
Dominic laughed. ‘I thought I still loved an ex when I found an old photo of her topless.’
It was hard to imagine Dominic on a date, let alone in a relationship. I was almost certain he was a sociopath who fantasised about mutilating female body parts in the manner of Patrick Bateman from American Psycho.
Mandi scowled at him, then continued. ‘They were so good together. Perfect for each other. You never saw them on the ski trip, Dominic. Or at their wedding. What would you know?’ Mandi’s chest was flushed now. She turned back to me. ‘I have to help them, Ellie. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.’
Dominic shook his head at Mandi. ‘Get one of your matchmakers to deal with it. You’re a manager now, you have more important things to do.’
‘Nothing’s more important than saving a marriage,’ she said. ‘And besides, Dominic, you should know by now, I’m a matchmaker first and a manager second.’ And with that she stomped off.
Dominic glared at her as she walked away, then turned to me and pointed at his watch to remind me, as he did every Monday, that it was time for our weekly meeting.
‘Another hour of my life I’ll never get back,’ I muttered, as I followed him into the meeting room.
‘Sorry, what was that, Eleanor?’ he asked, as he sat down in one of the executive orange leather seats he’d had commissioned for our meeting room.
I forced a smile. ‘Another intellectually stimulating chat,’ I said.
He looked at me and raised one eyebrow, then took a file from his briefcase.
‘So,’ he said, placing both hands on the table, ‘this dating therapy thing you want to do.’
I stared at him. ‘You mean the coaching programme, which has been formally approved by the investors?’
He nodded and smiled. ‘Well, I believe it could generate more profit than our introductions service.’
I went to smile but Dominic’s enthusiasm was concerning me.
He continued. ‘So the investors and I have spoken and it was unanimously agreed that you should manage this project.’
I stared at him some more, wondering what point he was trying to make.
‘In its entirety,’ he added.
‘I thought that had already been agreed.’
He leaned back and ran his hands through his hair. ‘We expect you to write and deliver the programme.’
I shook my head from side to side. ‘Well, the idea I had…’
‘Yes?’
‘…was to work with the top psychologists and researchers.’
Dominic clapped his hands together with the glee of a fisherman who had just felt a tug on his rod. ‘Excellent, Eleanor. That’s precisely what we were thinking too.’ He glanced down at his file and began flicking through the pages. Then he nodded and pushed the file across the table towards me. ‘You’ll find a comprehensive list of experts in there.’
I opened it and glanced at the first page, which I immediately discovered was a fold-out world map.
Dominic continued. ‘You’ll start in New York; that’s where most of the current research is being done. Using that as a base, you can travel to Long Island and Texas. Then, after that, you’ll move on to Iceland, then Tokyo—there’s some interesting research going on there—then Africa, and finally, you’ll end up back in Europe.’
I leafed through the pages, noting every stop Dominic had listed on my protracted tour of the globe. I closed the file and shook my head.
‘I’m not leaving London,’ I said.
The beginnings of a smirk crept out from the corners of his mouth. ‘But this is what you wanted, isn’t it, Eleanor? To find a cure for heartbreak?’
I pushed the file back towards him.
‘What about Skype? I could easily speak to the experts on the phone. I don’t have to be there.’
Dominic shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, we think you do. That way you can witness and experience any interventions firsthand.’
I screwed up my face. ‘I can’t be the researcher and the recipient.’
Dominic grinned. ‘The investors think you can.’
I stood up, ready to walk out. ‘Well, I’ll have to persuade them otherwise then, won’t I?’
His smirk was at full capacity now. ‘They’ve decided to channel all available resources into the project. So, good luck with that.’
That evening, I arrived home to find Nick in the kitchen, pan-frying tuna steaks. I could see he’d already prepared a salad and the table was set complete with a lit candle.
‘Evening, my gorgeous girl,’ he said, handing me a glass of wine.
I leaned in towards him and rested my head on his shoulder. I knew we’d have to have a conversation about our childless future at some point, but for the time being, I wanted it to just be Nick and I again. Without any complications.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Victoria.
Hurry up. You’re late
I scrunched up my face, remembering a vague acceptance of a dinner invitation last week.
‘What is it?’ Nick asked, sipping some wine.
I sighed. ‘We’re supposed to be having dinner at Victoria and Mike’s tonight.’
Nick’s smile faded. He glanced at the tuna steaks and then at the candle burning and then back at me. ‘But I wanted a night with just us,’ he said.
I leaned over and turned off the hob. ‘So did I,’ I said, ‘but we promised.’
Nick let out a long sigh and then downed the rest of his wine.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘we’d better get a move on, you know what she gets like if her scallops are overdone.’
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and we made our way next door.
We rang the doorbell twice before anyone answered, which, given Victoria’s domestic staffing levels, was quite unusual. There was a bit of a kerfuffle, some scratching at the door and what sounded like a tiny bird chirping, before eventually Olga, Victoria’s housekeeper, opened the door. A bundle of grey fluff rolled out onto the flagstone step. I bent down to pick it up. At first I couldn’t quite tell if the warm little body, with the fast-beating heart, was a cat or a rabbit or something else entirely, but when a pair of big blue eyes stared up at me, and the little tail started wagging, I realised it was…
‘A puppy?’ Nick asked, leaning in for a closer look.
Olga ushered us in. ‘I take Rupert now,’ she said.
‘No, no, He’s fine with me,’ I said, looking down at his furry face and smiling.
‘Careful, he’s likely to pee all over you.’ Victoria strode towards us, looking uncharacteristically flustered. ‘At best.’
‘Oooh, I don’t mind,’ I said, cradling him in my arms. I nuzzled his fur with my face. He smelled like malt biscuits and freshly cut grass.
Nick leaned in closer and stroked him on the tummy. ‘He’s a cute little chap, isn’t he?’
Victoria smoothed down her ponytail. ‘We need to eat,’ she said. ‘Give the hound back to Olga. And make sure you wash your hands.’
Mike didn’t join us until we were seated at the table and from his expression, he was as enthused about the dinner party as we were.
Once Victoria had formally chastised us for being late and thereby being solely responsible for the asparagus’ limpness, she went on to explain Rupert’s arrival.
‘Camille’s therapist suggested we get her a pet.’ Victoria sniffed. ‘She said that given the high turnover of au pairs, it would provide a constant in her life.’ She flicked her ponytail and speared a piece of asparagus. ‘Dr Osbourne has been harping on for months now about maternal attachment. Clearly trying to promote that book she wrote. She’s been on the Lorraine show too.’ She took a sip of wine, then shook her head quickly as if to disperse the alcohol. ‘I was raised by sixteen different au pairs and it never did me any harm.’
Nick started coughing. It looked as though a bit of asparagus had gone down the wrong way.
Victoria glanced around for Olga, then tutted and topped up her own wine.
‘I mean, seriously, what does Dr Osbourne expect me to do?’ she continued, taking a sip. ‘Give up my entire life to bring up my daughter?’
We all sat in silence. I swallowed the last mouthful of cold asparagus and then Mike stood up to pour us more wine.
‘But I bet Camille must love Rupert,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘He’s adorable.’
Victoria sighed. ‘She’s allergic. She’s gone through two asthma inhalers since we collected him from the breeder.’
There was a scratching sound along the floorboards, and suddenly Rupert skidded into the dining room, hotly pursued by Olga.
‘Rupert, Rupert, come!’ Olga shouted.
Victoria scowled at Olga. ‘Quiet,’ she said, ‘we are entertaining.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Victoria,’ Olga said, then tried to grab Rupert, but he bypassed her hand and scooted under my chair.
I bent down and picked him up. His eyes were wide, like a five-year-old who’d just arrived at Disney World. He jumped up and licked my face.
Victoria’s ponytail began to swing violently. ‘Olga, get that dog out of here right now. He’s supposed to be napping.’
Olga held her hands up. ‘I try, but he no want to nap. He want to play.’
Suddenly Rupert lunged forwards and swiped a Parmesan shaving from my plate.
Nick laughed.
Victoria tutted and marched towards me, snatching Rupert from my grasp. Then, arms outstretched, she handed him to Olga and waved them both out of the room.
‘As if having a child isn’t hard enough,’ Victoria said, ‘now I’ve got to train that bloody canine.’
Mike leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘You’re not exactly training him though, are you, darling? Olga is.’
Victoria let out an extended sigh. ‘She knows nothing about dogs. I think they eat them in her country.’ She sipped some wine. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get a dog trainer. As if I haven’t got enough to do already.’
Mike laughed again, though louder this time. ‘Yes, whatever next, you might have to cancel a Pilates session or a lunch or, heaven forbid, a hair appointment,’ he said, taking another gulp of wine.
Victoria swished her ponytail from side to side. ‘Excuse me, Michael—’ she’d taken to calling him Michael since they’d joined the Chelsea Harbour Club ‘—I didn’t give up my career to manage household administration every day.’
Mike refilled his glass and leaned further back in his chair. ‘So, tell us, Victoria. What precisely did you give up your career to do?’
Victoria’s ponytail slowed to a stop and she glared at Mike.
Nick shot me a sideways glance.
I shifted in my seat, hoping Rupert would come skidding back into the room and divert the conversation.
Fortunately, Olga returned instead, with the main course.
‘Filet de boeuf,’ she announced plonking the tray down on the table. ‘And yes, Mrs Victoria, I wash my hands.’
We ate the beef in silence. Occasionally, I glanced at Nick but mostly I just chewed and gazed around the room. Whenever I visited Victoria’s house, I felt as though I’d stepped into the centre spread of Home and Garden magazine. It seemed unfair that she could just swish her ponytail like a wand and get everything she’d ever wished for. My vision board was plastered with images of interiors like this, dotted around the doctored photo of Nick and I with a baby; however, so far all the universe had seen fit to deliver to me was up-cycled furniture from Gumtree. I huffed. Nick and I might not be worthy of parenthood, but surely the universe could spare a chesterfield sofa?
Rupert continued to yelp from the kitchen for the duration of two courses. I kept looking at Victoria, hoping she might soften her resolve and bring him in for a cuddle, but she was still glaring at Mike. Mike looked nonplussed.
‘So, what breed is he?’ I asked, in an eventual attempt to break the silence.
‘Sporting Lucas,’ Mike answered, matter-of-fact, between mouthfuls of crème brûlée. ‘Apparently, the ability to hunt ground vermin is an essential skill for a family pet.’
Victoria shrugged her shoulders, still glaring at Mike. ‘Well, you know what they say about living in London.’
We all looked at her expectantly.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re only ever a metre away from a rat.’
Mike tutted, then scooped another mouthful of brûlée into his mouth.
Rupert was still yelping from the kitchen and now he’d added mournful pines into the mix. It took all my willpower not to run out and soothe him.
‘Maybe he’s trying to tell us something,’ I said.
Victoria narrowed her eyes. ‘What, that we have rats in our house? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just being needy and probably wants more Parmesan.’
I turned to her. ‘Or perhaps he’s distressed? Having been dragged away from his mother and then locked in a huge kitchen by himself.’
Victoria flicked her wrist. ‘He’s nine weeks old; in dog years that makes him nearly one and a half. He’ll get over it,’ she said, pushing her untouched dessert to the side.
I glared at her.
She opened her mouth as if to say something and then closed it again, clearly thinking better of it, which was unusual for Victoria.
Mike stepped in instead, pushing his empty bowl to one side and turning to me and Nick. ‘So, bad news about the IVF then, guys.’
Victoria sat upright in her chair and dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin.
‘It’s just not right,’ she said, gesturing out the window. ‘All those offensive-looking people breeding like there’s no tomorrow, producing the most peculiar offspring.’ She turned to me. ‘And then there’s you and Nick. You’re an attractive, reasonably intelligent couple. Of course you’re by no means thoroughbreds—’ she took a sip of wine ‘—but certainly no reason to defy Darwin’s theory, wouldn’t you agree?’
I nodded, assuming I had been complimented in some obscure way.
Mike took another sip of wine. ‘I read something in the New Scientist,’ he said, ‘about a man’s virility dropping in highly populated areas. Like some sort of natural feedback mechanism.’
Victoria shook her head at Mike. ‘Well, that’s clearly not the case, my darling,’ she said. ‘Have you walked past Asda recently?’
Mike shook his head and continued, turning to me. ‘So,’ he said, ‘reckon you’ll go again?’
I glanced at Nick, who was now topping up his wine.
He took a big gulp. ‘We can’t afford it,’ he said.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘our consultant said it’s best I give my body a break from the hormones.’
Mike smirked. ‘Yeah, and Nick a break too, I imagine.’
Victoria glared at Mike. Had she not been on the far side of a twenty-seater dining table, I imagine Mike would have received a stiletto heel to the testicles.
I glanced back at Nick, who was wriggling in his seat. I was tempted to ask him if he needed the toilet.
Victoria stared at him quizzically. ‘Everything all right, Nick?’
He placed his now empty wine glass down on the table. ‘I had some news today,’ he said.
I scraped my empty crème brûlée ramekin, wondering where it had all gone.
‘I’ve been offered a job,’ he continued.
I sucked a tiny bit of brûlée off my spoon and awaited Nick’s usual post–credit crunch story about a relentless head-hunter pitching a role with worthless share options, fourteen-hour working days and no bonus.
‘It’s a great role,’ Nick said.
I nodded vaguely.
‘Excellent prospects.’
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I said in my head.
‘I’ll be working with a talented team.’
Will be working with? I spun round on my seat.
‘The only thing is…’
Ah, here we go.
‘It’s in New York.’
Suddenly, the spoon slipped from my grasp and spiralled through the air, before ricocheting between the marble fireplace and the mahogany table leg. I reached down to pick it up. By the time my head popped back up, the conversation was continuing without me.
‘Well, I think you should go,’ Mike said. ‘There’s no point being childless in Clapham. It’s like being poor in Paris, get out of here, mate.’
Victoria agreed. ‘Yes, yes, and that ramshackle house of yours. I mean, let’s face it, a renovation can only do so much.’
‘Er, excuse me?’ I raised my hand, partly because I felt like an invisible child with no right to a vote, but mostly because I wasn’t quite sure what else to do. ‘Am I allowed an opinion?’
Nick looked at me from across the table. He seemed so far away. ‘Of course, sweetheart,’ he said, in his high-pitched let’s-placate-Ellie voice.
I wasn’t falling for it. I folded my arms. ‘I don’t want to go.’
Everyone turned to me. Rupert’s yelps had escalated and I could hear Olga in the background trying to soothe him.
‘You aren’t even going to consider it?’ Nick said.
I shook my head. ‘Nope. I love it here. I love our house. I love the parks. I love the people.’
Nick huffed. ‘What do we need four bedrooms for? What are we going to fill them with? Pot plants?’ He stared at me. ‘The parks are full of scooting kids and dog turds. The people…’ he glanced sideways at Victoria and then Mike ‘…well, they’re a bit, you know, self-important, aren’t they?’
‘And they’re so down to earth in Manhattan, aren’t they?’ I sneered at him.
Olga came back in the room with Rupert wrapped up in a blanket. ‘He crying so much, he been sick,’ she said, about to hand him to Victoria.
Victoria waved them away. ‘Not near me. I’m wearing cashmere.’
I opened my arms and gestured for Olga to bring him to me. He scrambled out of the towel and onto my lap.
I looked down at him and the moment his bright blue eyes met mine, the pining stopped. I stroked his tiny head.
Nick coughed. Then I looked up to see Victoria staring at me, her expression had softened. She didn’t need Botox, she just needed to lighten up.
Olga cleared the plates and Nick shuffled up next to me to stroke Rupert. Rupert wriggled out of my grasp and clambered onto Nick’s lap. Nick ruffled Rupert’s fur and smiled.
Victoria let out a sharp sigh. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said.
I looked up. ‘What?’
‘Just take him, will you,’ she said, her tone implying I might be more of a moron than she’d initially anticipated. ‘The dog. Rupert. Have him.’
I frowned. ‘Seriously?’
She glanced at Mike for confirmation. He shrugged his shoulders.
Victoria smiled and then turned to Nick.
‘Well,’ she said, smiled broadening. ‘There’s no way Ellie can go to New York now.’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_c0bb19cb-80db-500c-a649-1e36d5286540)
‘Congratulations,’ Matthew said, after I’d called him the following morning to share my news. ‘You’ve just done what every other infertile couple does.’ He paused to laugh. ‘Seriously, the clinics should affiliate with an animal rescue centre. “Sorry, your embryos were useless but we have an adorable whippet called Wilbur who needs a home. He’s very loving, great with kids. Not that that matters.”’
I ignored him and continued. ‘And Nick wants us to move to Manhattan.’
‘Whoa, what’s going on? First a dog and now emigration? Does he have a green card?’
‘Nick?’ I asked.
‘No, Rupert,’ he replied. ‘Those Yanks are ruthless with their border control.’
‘He’s not a Border, he’s a Sporting Lucas.’
He laughed some more. ‘You’re not allowed to go. Who else will entertain me with their ridiculous life?’
‘I’m not going,’ I said.
There was a pause on the end of the line. Initially, I thought this was because Matthew was taking time to consider the implications on my future happiness, however, the loud slurping noise revealed that, instead, he was just taking a moment to sip his coffee.
I sighed. ‘Does anyone actually care?’ Out of nowhere, Rupert jumped on my lap and gazed up at me.
Matthew sniggered down the line. ‘Of course I care,’ he said. ‘I just care more after coffee.’
‘So I was saying…’
‘Yes, you’re off to Yank land.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m not going.’
‘Why not?’
‘I hate America.’
‘You haven’t even been.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Of course I have. The agency has an office in New York.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, which you’ve visited once in three years, for, oh, what was it, all of six hours?’
‘I’ve been twice actually. And I went to Disney World when I was twelve.’
‘Aha,’ Matthew said, in the manner of a psychotherapist who had just pinpointed the cause of a patient’s neurosis. ‘Florida in the eighties doesn’t count. They were going through a difficult time: all visors and fanny packs.’
I chuckled. ‘And there’s no way I could join a nation who voted for a president who said: “most of our imports are foreign”.’
Matthew sighed. ‘They didn’t vote him in. He voted himself in. And, besides, they have a new president now, only since 2008.’
‘Yeah, one who sided with Argentina over the Falklands.’
‘Ellie, you can’t discount an entire nation based on political knowledge gleaned from a ten-year-old Michael Moore documentary and Perez Hilton’s blog.’
‘I can.’
He laughed. ‘So when you leave, who’s going to look after your clients?’
‘I’ve told you I’m not going. Why isn’t anyone taking me seriously?’
‘I suppose you could work from New York too. At least then you’d be rid of old twatty-pants Dominic.’
‘Are you listening to me?’
‘And the Sporting Lucas. I suppose you can take him with you?’
‘Matthew!’
He let out a deep sigh. ‘Ellie, beautiful, gorgeous Ellie, platonic love of my life.’ He sighed again. ‘When you repeatedly say you’re not doing something, usually it means you are.’
I paced around the hallway, ready to shout down the phone at Matthew that no matter what anyone said, I had no intention of moving to America, ever, when I noticed Victoria peering through the front window.
I attempted to ‘sign’ to her that I was on the phone, an act that I immediately realised could be no more explanatory than my actually holding a real phone to my ear.
She ignored me and started thudding on the door, by which point, Matthew had begun humming Frank Sinatra.
‘Bm ber der der der, start spreading the news,’ he sang, ‘Ellie’s leaving today. She wants to be a part of it…’
I rolled my eyes and hung up the phone.
Victoria bustled in, the moment I opened the door. Her arms were laden with Rupert-related paraphernalia.
‘Morning,’ she said. ‘I forgot a few things.’ She placed the items down onto a large pile in front of me, then smoothed down her ponytail. ‘There’s the mattress for Rupert’s bed.’ She pointed at a thick circular cushion. ‘It’s made from coconut fibres so it’s more breathable. Here’s the pamphlet,’ she said, reaching into her pocket and handing it to me. ‘It’s been clinically proven to reduce the incidence of Sudden Puppy Death Syndrome.’
I glanced at it and scratched my head.
She continued, plucking something else from the pile. ‘This is his heartbeat cushion Olga found at Pets Are Our World. Apparently it settles him…’ she pointed at something else ‘… along with his pheromone spray and plug-in. There’s his brush, made from natural fibres…’ she continued pointing ‘… his puppy shampoo—don’t over-wash him, he’s sensitive—toothbrush, toothpaste.’ She turned to me. ‘Dental hygiene is paramount to prevent future decay.’ She turned back to the pile. ‘There’s one week’s food. He’s on Paula’s Kitchen Puppy meals. They’re grain-free, from ethically sourced meat, with no fillers, and also with added bergamot and dandelion for his liver and kidney. And there are some special grain-free treats in this bag.’ Rupert jumped up, sniffing the packet and wagging his tail. She handed him one. Then reached in her other pocket and continued. ‘I’ve printed off a list of human foods he must not have, under any circumstance, and also a list of garden plants that are poisonous to dogs. It’s best to remove them from your garden just in case.’ She glanced through the kitchen to the back door. ‘Chances are you’ve got some of everything in that overgrown mass back there.’ Then she handed me a bundle of papers. ‘Here’s his pedigree certificate and passport application forms. He can’t go abroad until he’s had his rabies vaccine. His vet’s number is on the back…’ she pointed out where ‘…just below the grooming salon. Also he has a few sessions with his nutritionalist plus a month’s worth of canine psychology sessions to help him adjust to his new home.’ She looked down at Rupert, then back at me. ‘And just in case,’ she added, her expression cooling, ‘here’s the number of a dog therapist in New York.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘If you were to go, it would be immensely traumatic for him and he would need extensive emotional support to adapt to such a change.’
‘But I’m not going,’ I said.
She took a deep breath and looked at me. ‘You’ll take care of him, won’t you, Ellie?’
I nodded, bending down to pick him up. Victoria leaned in to stroke him.
Rupert wriggled, then jumped up into her arms.
Either he’d already been Stockholmed, or, I began to wonder, perhaps Victoria had been kinder to him than she’d let on.
‘So,’ she said, peeling him off her and placing him on the floor. ‘Everything all right with you and Nick?’
I nodded, distracted by Rupert arching his back on my carpet.
Victoria squinted her eyes. ‘Right, OK,’ she said, before giving Rupert one final pat on the head. She shut the door quickly before he was able to follow her out.
Moments later, I caught sight of her running back up the front path. She posted a large envelope through my letterbox. Inside were multiple newspaper and magazine clippings highlighting various shocking facts about the US, including but not exclusive to terrorism threats, obesity crisis, gun crime, poor social welfare and the number of unresolved puppy abductions in New York City.
I stuffed the clippings back into the envelope and left it on the side, then took Rupert, along with the list of poisonous plants into our garden. I’d decided to stay home with him that day to settle him in and show him around.
I pushed open the old French doors and stepped out onto the patio, trying to recall the last time I had actually ventured into the mass of weeds and tangled shrubbery that was our ten-metres-square London garden. It must have been over a year ago when we’d just moved in. I placed Rupert down by my feet and watched him explore. To little Rupert, faced with dense foliage over twice his height, it must have seemed like a jungle. He stepped tentatively forward, then a crow squawked and he ran back between my legs. Moments later, he tried again, this time venturing a little further.
Just as I’d spotted a potentially toxic-looking weed, my phone rang again. It was Mandi.
‘Ellie, where are you?’
Rupert bounded back between my legs. I shifted him away from the plant. ‘At home,’ I said.
Mandi paused for a moment as though she didn’t quite know what to do with that information. ‘Doing what?’
I bent down and tugged at the roots. ‘Weeding.’
Mandi paused again. I imagined her twitching her nose. ‘You need to come in.’
I threw the weed onto the patio. Rupert sniffed it then ran back between my legs. ‘Can’t it wait?’ I said.
‘No,’ she replied, more sternly than Mandi usually spoke. ‘It’s important.’
When I arrived at the office, having transported an increasingly perplexed Rupert in his Louis Vuitton dog carry case, Mandi jumped out at me. She was wearing what looked like an Aztec-patterned tepee with a coordinated neck scarf.
‘Ellie, you’re late,’ she said. ‘Into the meeting room quickly.’ Then she stopped, turned and peered into the carry case. She held her hands to her chest and made a high-pitched squealing noise.
‘Aw,’ she said, ‘a puppy! I absolutely love puppies. Did I tell you how much I love puppies? And kittens, of course. I love kittens. But not as much as puppies. Puppies I simply adore. He is just too cute. Can I cuddle him? Please can I?’ She peered in closer. ‘What’s your name, little fellow?’
Rupert growled. I went to turn the carry case away, assuming Mandi’s attire must have alarmed him, when I noticed Dominic standing behind her. Rupert growled again and then bared his tiny teeth.
Dominic sneered at the carry case. ‘No animals in the office,’ he said. ‘Clause 13.5b on our lease. He’ll need to be removed immediately.’
Mandi waved Dominic away. ‘Oh, get a life,’ she said. ‘It’s not as though he’s running wild, chewing the table legs and weeing up your trousers. Besides, it’s essential Ellie is present at this meeting.’
Dominic’s jaw tensed before he followed Mandi, Rupert and I into the meeting room.
Once we were all seated, Mandi flipped open her laptop. I smiled at her, quietly hoping she was about to unveil an e-petition for which she had solicited a hundred thousand client signatures objecting to my relocation.
She stood up and cleared her throat. ‘Eighty per cent of our matchmaking workforce is women,’ she began.
Dominic sighed and checked his watch.
‘Forty-three per cent of those are mothers,’ she continued.
Dominic rolled his eyes.
‘Our maternity package is grim.’ She looked down and started rubbing her tummy. ‘We offer little more than statutory pay, no child-care benefits and no additional support to mothers at all.’
Dominic sat back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head. He let out an extended sigh. ‘Have you got something to tell us, Mandi?’
She ignored him. ‘If our business is about bringing couples together, then surely our business should also be about preventing couples from separating.’
I leaned forward.
Mandi continued. ‘If we don’t support the family unit, then how can we say we are supporting the couple?’
Dominic sighed again. ‘So let’s cut to the chase, what do you propose?’
Mandi smoothed down her blonde flicks and pressed some keys on her laptop. ‘I’ll email you my full proposal, but, in short, I would like us to provide on-site childcare, flexi-working hours, extended holidays, extra sick pay when children are poorly, priority parking for pregnant women and breast-feeding stations in the office.’
He laughed again. ‘How about prenatal yoga while we’re at it? Or nappy bins in the meeting rooms. A jungle gym in the lobby?’
Mandi scowled at him.
‘What about paternity rights too?’ I interrupted. ‘One of my closest friends is a house husband.’
Dominic rolled his eyes. ‘Men shouldn’t be looking after babies.’
Mandi and I both stared at him.
Dominic shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’re not built for it,’ he said. ‘We don’t have the hormones or the attributes.’ He nodded to my chest and raised his eyebrows. ‘We were meant for world domination, not bottle feeding and nose wiping,’ he said.
I glanced at Mandi, whose mouth was wide open, then back at Dominic.
Dominic smirked. ‘Although the breast-feeding station sounds intriguing.’
I shook my head and stood up to leave.
Dominic followed me. ‘Oh, by the way, Ellie,’ he said, ‘the investors rejected your request.’
I turned to face him. ‘What request?’
‘The request to conduct your research from the UK.’
I stepped back. ‘I wasn’t aware I had formally requested that yet. I didn’t even know a meeting had been scheduled.’
He leaned forward and squeezed my shoulder. ‘I sent you an email. The meeting was this morning,’ he said. ‘You missed it, while you were tending to—’ he glanced down at Rupert, who was now sleeping in his carry case ‘—your dependant.’
That night Nick and I sat in bed together with Rupert nestled between us. Nick had insisted Rupert not be left alone with the weird heartbeat toy on his first night with us.
‘Dogs are pack animals,’ he’d said, seemingly trying to justify his sentimental side. ‘They feel insecure unless the alpha dog is there to protect them.’
A lengthy debate as to whether Rupert would view me or Nick as his pack leader followed, before our conversation moved on to the topic of New York. It wasn’t long until my arms were folded. ‘How many times do I have to say this? I’m not leaving my clients,’ I said.
Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t have any clients any more. When was the last time you actually did any matchmaking?’
‘The business needs me.’
‘You can work from New York.’
‘Well, I’m not leaving Rupert.’
‘Oh, come on, Ellie. You’re not going to let the perceived needs of a nine-week-old canine come between us and our future happiness.’
I stared at Nick. ‘Sorry, whose future happiness?’
He stared back at me.
‘Besides,’ I continued, ‘he’s our responsibility now. There’s no way I would consider rehoming him. He’s been through enough turmoil in his little life already.’
Nick smirked. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that for a second. We would take him with us.’
I glanced at Rupert, then back at Nick. ‘What sort of life would he have in Manhattan?’
Nick laughed. ‘Ellie, we have a Brooklyn budget. I was thinking Park Slope.’ He picked up his iPad and showed me an image on the screen. It looked nice enough, but there seemed to be lots of traffic.
‘What about the pollution?’ I asked.
‘We live hundred metres from the South Circular. I suspect there is a higher concentration of sulphur dioxide on Battersea Rise than there is on Broadway.’
I glanced down at Rupert. ‘I just want to give him the best life we can.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Are you going to fret about his schooling now? Or the cultural clash he might face when integrating with native American breeds?’ He laughed again, though louder this time. ‘Do you think the Brooklyn street dogs are going to back him into a corner, mug him of his grain-free puppy snacks, and say, “Hey, Stan, we’ve got us a Sporting Lucas here. He says he’s from Engerland.”’
I folded my arms more tightly across my chest. ‘What about my friends?’
‘You’ve seen Cordelia once in the past year.’
‘It’s not my fault she chose to move to Woldingham.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘You hardly ever see Kat because she lives north of the river. And when was the last time you saw Matthew?’
‘Last Friday actually.’
Nick turned to me with a frown.
‘He came with me to Cassandra’s divorce party.’
Nick raised both eyebrows. ‘You went to a divorce party? Are you supporting a different cause now?’
‘I’m not supporting divorce, I’m supporting Cassandra.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s a nut job, that one. I don’t even want to imagine what went on at that party.’
I sighed. ‘It was a divorce party, not a swingers party.’
He scowled at me. ‘It’s still weird. And not the sort of place I want my wife hanging out.’
‘Hanging out? I haven’t hung out anywhere since I was fifteen and wore Reebok Classics.’
He smirked.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘it’s my job. You have to respect that.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Your job is to run a business. You have matchmakers to do all the other stuff now.’
‘Ah, thanks for telling my what my job is.’
‘Well, at least I know what it is you do.’
I tutted. ‘I know what you do.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on then?’
I sat up in bed and lifted Rupert onto my lap. ‘You work in finance.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, me and the rest of the working population of London. What precisely do I do in finance?’
‘You manage risk.’
‘Manage? What does that mean?’
‘It means you oversee risk algorithms.’
‘Oversee?’
I huffed. ‘Look, I don’t follow you around all day taking notes. How am I supposed to understand the intricacies of financial technology?’
‘You’re not. But it would be nice if you cared enough to find out the intricacies of my life.’
I forced a laugh. ‘Says he who didn’t even know where his wife was on Friday night.’
‘That’s because I was too busy doing a job I hate.’
‘Too busy entertaining. What a drag.’
‘It is a drag spending time with a bunch of wide boys who think Chateaubriand is a type of wine.’
‘If you hate it so much, why don’t you leave?’
Nick sat back and glared at me. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’
‘But I don’t want to move to New York,’ I said.
‘What about what I want?’
I glanced around the bedroom, then back at him. ‘I can’t believe you’re so quick to give up on our dream.’
Nick sighed. ‘What dream, Ellie? The dream you’ve been spoon-fed by your friends and those silly magazines you read. The dream that involves stripped floorboards, a herb garden, Petit Bateau-ed children and an ultimate migration to Surrey. The dream you’ve been trying to shoehorn your life into since the day we met.’
I looked down at Rupert. His shiny blue eyes stared back up at me. It seemed as though he knew exactly what I was trying to say.
Nick’s expression softened. He leaned towards me and squeezed my hand.
‘We can’t have children, Ellie,’ he said. ‘We have to accept that and move on with our lives.’
I snatched my hand back. ‘I’m not going to leave my clients and I’m not going to leave Rupert.’
Nick pulled himself up in bed. ‘You want to stay here instead? In a town with the highest birthrate in Europe, torturing yourself? And, what, try IVF another twenty times until you’ve bankrupted us or turned into even more of a mental case?’
‘I’m not going to give up.’
‘On what? You don’t even know what it is you’re holding out for.’
Nick pulled up the duvet, turned away from me and switched off the light. Rupert clambered off my lap, climbed onto Nick then back onto me until finally settling in the valley between us.
I lay there, listening to Rupert’s gentle snores, watching the outline of his tiny ribcage rising and falling, and wondered what precisely it was that I was holding out for.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_2fa626de-d348-5937-8b7e-4b02ab05b593)
I awoke to a damp duvet and a deep regret for co-sleeping with an eight-week-old puppy. Nick had already left for work. Usually he woke me to say goodbye so it was clear he was trying to make a point. I helped Rupert down from the bed, pulled on my dressing gown and went downstairs.
On the landing, I stopped and peered into the empty room across from our bedroom. The morning rays sliced through the centre of the room, directly across the space I’d planned to put the cot. I’d envisaged one of those old-fashioned bassinets, draped with a broderie anglaise blanket. I redirected my gaze to the walls, which were presently the dull grey of neglect. I’d planned to warm them with Dulux’s Vanilla Sunrise, topped off with a frieze I’d seen in John Lewis which was covered with Beatrix Potter bunnies. My gaze finally settled in the dusty corner opposite me. It would have been the perfect place for a rocking horse. Rupert nudged my leg as if to guide me downstairs.
In the hallway, I stopped again and glanced around the front room. It was still bare aside from a black leather sofa from Nick’s old bachelor pad. It was going to be the playroom, filled with plump cushions and airy wooden trunks overspilling with brightly coloured toys. I took a deep breath and glanced back up the stairs. Nick was right: so many rooms, now with no purpose. I let out a deep sigh. It seemed neither the house nor I would have the chance to fulfil our potential.
A whimper from Rupert distracted me from my thoughts. He was looking up at me, head cocked as if to say: I live here now too, you know. Then he bounded over to the back door and started pining.
Once I’d opened the door, he sprang across the patio slab without hesitation and began rolling in the grass. The sheer delight in his eyes reminded me of a recent episode of Dr Phil, during which he’d iterated the importance of living in the moment. There was a yogi on the show who’d explained the art of mindfulness. At the time I’d found it hard to take the expert seriously; however, now, as I looked up to the sky and inhaled the fresh morning air, I wondered if perhaps Rupert could bring new meaning to my life.
‘That’s fox poo, you know.’ Victoria’s voice hit me from above. I swung round to see her standing on her stadium-sized roof terrace, swigging an isotonic drink from a flask. ‘Hunting dogs love to roll in it. It masks their smell.’
I looked at her, then back at Rupert, who was still writhing in the grass, the orangey brown streaks along his fur now clearly visible.
‘Rupert. No!’ I shouted.
Rupert sprang to his feet and wagged his tail.
I looked back up at Victoria, who was now stretching her calves and smirking.
‘You could have told me,’ I said.
‘What?’ she said, lifting her leg up onto the glass wall around her terrace. ‘That you have fox poo in your garden? It’s been there for months. Along with the dead squirrel.’ She leaned over to stretch. ‘It’s hardly surprising,’ she continued, ‘given that degree of neglect.’ She placed her leg back down and then stared at me for a moment. ‘Why are you still in your dressing gown? It’s ten o’clock.’
I pulled the gown tighter around me. ‘I didn’t sleep so well last night.’
Victoria stared at me for a moment, then screwed up her face. ‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘I hope you’re not depressed. You know I can’t abide depressed people.’ She arched her back into a reverse downward dog, then sprang back up. ‘Or fat people,’ she added. ‘So self-indulgent.’
I watched her shake her hair out of its ponytail and then roll her shoulders before walking back inside. Then I glanced back down at Rupert and the poo smudges around his neck and shoulder. He’d even managed to embed some in his diamanté collar. I scrunched up my nose and carried him at arm’s length towards the bathroom.
According to a website dedicated to the behavioural tendencies of the Sporting Lucas, Rupert should have been delighted with his bath. Although not bred as a water dog, many Lucas-derived breeds were deeply fond of the water, the author of the website had explained, further evidenced by photos of Sporting Lucases enjoying an array of water-themed pursuits. Rupert, however, acted more like a kitten being plunged into concentrated hydrochloric acid, leaping out and desperately scrambling up the sides. I had to hold him down while applying a generous blob of his sulphite-free doggy shampoo.
Just as I was towelling him dry, the residual aroma of fox poo wafting towards me as I did, my phone started ringing. It was Matthew. I put him on loudspeaker and explained my situation.
He laughed loudly. ‘I bet Nick is loving that. Three rounds of IVF and now a dog in the bed. He’s probably wondering if you’re ever going to have sex again.’
‘Thanks, Matthew. That’s really helpful.’
‘You asked.’
‘Er, no actually, I didn’t.’
He continued. ‘So, why aren’t you at work? You’re not leaving for New York already, are you?’
I sighed. ‘No, Matthew. I’m not going. Remember?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said and then paused. ‘So, in that case you’ve taken a day off work to show Dominic you’re sulking.’ He laughed again. ‘Following which, he will undoubtedly issue you with a formal apology, cancel your travel itinerary and transfer his shares to you.’
I sighed. ‘I’m not sulking. I told you, I’ve taken a day off to settle Rupert in.’ Then I paused for a moment, wondering why there wasn’t the usual foray in the background of Matthew’s call. ‘Where are your kids?’
Matthew laughed. ‘I haven’t killed them if that’s what you’re wondering.’ There was a prolonged pause. ‘Although,’ he continued, ‘on a particularly trying day I once masterminded an untraceable and painless way to do it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know, if the need ever arose.’
I sniffed Rupert and then towelled him some more. ‘And when, precisely, might the need to murder your own children arise?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t really thought it through,’ he said and then exhaled slowly. ‘Perhaps if there was a nuclear war and the population of Barnes became zombified and started eating each other. Or there was a localised coup and gangs of machete-wielding rebels began slaughtering families whose children went to private school.’
I shook my head and picked up Rupert’s brush. ‘So, working from the theory that the village of Barnes is still at peace, rather than the set for a real-life depiction of a Will Smith movie, where are they?’
‘Lucy’s taken them on a playdate.’
‘Isn’t she supposed to be at work?’
There was a pause. ‘She’s taking a sabbatical. I’m on strike.’
‘On strike? From what?’ I asked.
‘From domesticity. I still see the kids. Just not all day. And I’m refusing to perform any more household chores. This morning I went to the spa.’
I laughed.
He continued. ‘And today I was going to come to your offices to meet you for lunch, but since you’re sulking let’s go to Barnes Bistro instead.’
I tutted. ‘I’m not sulking.’
‘One-thirty work for you?’
Then the line went dead. I glanced down at Rupert. He looked back at me with an expression that implied he might enjoy a trip to Barnes.
After I’d brushed him and sprayed a still pungent part of his neck with doggy deodorant, there were still two hours to spare before my lunch meet with Matthew. Rather than checking the inevitable emails laden with divorce and heartbreak or barked orders from Dominic, I decided a much more productive use of my time would be to clear the garden for Rupert. I didn’t need Dr Phil to tell me that pulling up a few weeds was an infinitely simpler task than attempting to derail divorce for the masses.
Nick’s unused garden gloves were in the shed, still in their packet. The garden rake and broom still had their tags on. Like most couples we’d had grand plans when we first moved in, but somehow life had taken over and the ideas we’d had, such as laying decking across the patio and packing tubs full with sage and rosemary, never quite came to fruition.
Rupert seemed to enjoy his playtime in the garden, chewing twigs, eating grass and sniffing spiders. Each time I scooped some leaves or weeds into a bag I squeezed it tight just to make sure he hadn’t found his way into the pile. It wasn’t long before I’d filled ten bags with dead plants, rotting leaves, the remainder of the fox poo and the dead squirrel.
Every so often, Victoria would appear on her roof terrace to offer direction. She seemed genuinely baffled as to why I hadn’t arranged a ‘professional’ to do it for me.
Once I had finished, I hosed down the patio and brushed away the remaining mud and dust with the broom. Then I sat on the back step. I had two throbbing blisters on my hands but as I looked around at the courtyard with its high walls and creeping ivy—a pocket of tranquility in the busy streets of London—I couldn’t help but let out a contented sigh. As I did, Rupert jumped into my lap and closed his eyes. My eyelids felt heavy and I was tempted to close mine too, but it was nearly one o’clock and, given the bizarre mood Matthew had been in of late, I knew it would be unwise to leave him unsupervised in a licensed premises for even the briefest amount of time.
After I’d quickly changed my clothes, I looked down at the loose knit jumper and White Company trousers I’d selected, and wondered why I was dressing for the life I wanted rather than the one I had. I briefly considered digging out my old skinny jeans and Topshop T-shirts that I’d packed away in our spare wardrobe, but there was no time. I slathered on some lip gloss, tucked Rupert into his carry case, and set off to meet Matthew.
Just as I walked out of the house, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen, half expecting it to be Victoria complaining that a stray leaf had blown into her espaliered apple trees or else Matthew telling me to meet him at the nail bar instead.
As it turned out, it was an ex-client of mine, Harriet. She and Jeremy were the first couple I matched. But if I’d known seven years ago in the grounds of an eighteenth-century chateau in Versailles that I was committing to their relationship for a lifetime too, I might have reconsidered. Or at least insisted on some kind of matchmaker prenup.
Harriet was sobbing when I picked up. ‘He’s done it again, Ellie.’
I sighed. ‘Oh dear.’
‘I’ve just been through his receipts.’
‘Are you OK?’
She sniffed. ‘No.’
‘So what is it this time?’
‘Three grand.’
I’m not sure what was more disheartening. The fact that her husband Jeremy had spent three thousand pounds on strippers in one night. Or that Harriet, bred of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, had begun using the term ‘grand’ like a character from a Martina Cole novel.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘The Windmill Club.’
I tutted.
‘Can I see you, Ellie? I really need to talk this through.’
I glanced down at Rupert. He wagged his tail. ‘Sure,’ I said, trying to sound as upbeat as I could.
‘I’ve got an hour or so before I have to pick the kids up. Where are you?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be at Barnes Bistro in ten,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a friend with me though if you don’t mind him chipping in? He’s a little eccentric but can be quite insightful sometimes.’
She took a moment to reply. ‘That’s fine. See you there. Thank you, Ellie.’
Matthew was seated at a table and talking to a waiter when I arrived.
‘I want the biggest Brie and Parma ham baguette you have,’ Matthew explained.
‘I’m afraid we only have one size of baguette, sir.’
Matthew rolled his eyes. ‘Well, how big is it?’
The waiter measured out a sizeable-looking baguette length with his hands. Matthew scrunched up his nose. ‘I’ll have two,’ he said, ‘and some fries. And a bottle of rosé.’
I held my hands up. ‘I’m not drinking today.’
Matthew grinned. ‘I wasn’t ordering for you, sweet-cheeks.’
I ordered a mineral water and a seafood salad, then told Matthew that Harriet would be joining us.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘My first attempt at “me time” is being sabotaged by a whiney housewife.’
I sat back in my chair and stared at him, trying to fathom what was going on under that bouffant quiff of his.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
He looked up to the sky as if to ask why he had been saddled with such an unintuitive friend.
I glared at him. ‘Of course I know you’re not OK. I’m just trying to decipher if you’re having a bit of a wobble, or if you’re about to totally go off the rails.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t stress. It’s all manageable.’ His grin widened. ‘At least with a bottle of rosé.’ Then he snatched the bottle from the waiter and began pouring himself a glass.
Once he’d finished his first baguette and most of the rosé, his mood seemed to settle. He even made a few jokes that weren’t entirely at my or the waiter’s expense. I speared the final prawn off my plate and looked around us. For once I hadn’t even noticed the small children and babies dotted around me. I hadn’t engaged a new mother in conversation, hoping her fertility might somehow rub off on me. I hadn’t even remarked about how cute the kids’ menu sounded. I glanced down at Rupert’s carry case and smiled. His eyebrows twitched and he let out a tiny yelp. He was in a deep sleep. I imagined him dreaming about chasing leaves and bounding around the courtyard. What a sweet little world he lived in, full of exciting things to discover and adventures to be had.
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Haley Hill
‘High drama and lots of laughs’ - Fabulous MagazineDating Agency doyenne Ellie Rigby always thought that helping people find love with the hard part…But now she’s all loved up with husband Nick and has hundreds of matchmaking successes under her belt, Ellie ought to know all there is to know about love.As her struggles to get pregnant put strain on her marriage, and her matchmaking service starts losing clients, Ellie realises she has so much more to learn. So setting off on a global research trip, Ellie makes it her mission to find out what makes love last forever, and whether it’s enough to save her own romance.
HALEY HILL is a fresh new voice in fiction. Prior to becoming an author, Haley launched and ran the Elect Club dating agency – and is an expert in all things dating! She lives in South London with her husband and twin daughters. Love Is… is her second book.
To my grandmother, Grace, whose love life never quite measured up to the romance novels she read.
Keep flirting with the Elvis impersonator, nan, there’s still time.
One of the greatest secrets to happiness is to curb your desires and to love what you already have.
Emilie du Chalet
Contents
Cover (#u297f7491-49fc-5680-90bc-f227c59c67f3)
About the Author (#u5f9440f2-2760-5bf0-8a8c-6e5871a1aa90)
Title (#u4164ee10-988a-55f1-8576-5e9e8078c139)
Dedication (#ua04b7b64-e6b7-5c65-895d-ff638f6b7c22)
Epigraph (#u3f5478b6-3cfd-5d02-b9f9-c61c8d88270b)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_166b8d9f-a74b-5419-bb6e-75dafde52451)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_c1ac6609-466b-5930-958b-c9b9471c602d)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_5105a076-c282-5fe7-a960-26f1aa62e8b3)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_2ca02c52-40d1-5437-9de3-a27e35efa4dc)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_57357dc4-163d-5bd7-9a9c-f0cccf748868)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_4fc3ae4b-d80f-5bb5-a5c3-caa6915f9e86)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_b00f7535-8a85-5faa-b6d5-5fcc88cb9067)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_140d82b2-e830-51d6-b7ad-a56f72258ceb)
I sat on the toilet and stared at the packet.
After years spent bringing couples together, attending their weddings, then their offspring’s christenings, spending more money on baby gifts than I did on my mortgage, surely I deserved my chance of happiness too. Wasn’t that the way this karma thing was supposed to work? I thought Eros and I had a deal.
I glared up at the ceiling to register my protest, then ripped off the cellophane. It must have been about the hundredth pregnancy test I’d bought since our wedding day. I’d tried to restrict it to one per cycle, but invariably I ended up back at Superdrug, clearing the shelves in the family planning section, hoping that a different brand might provide a different result. And I’d tried them all, from the basic two-liners to the early-response super tests complete with digital screen to spell out the result in shouty capitals. And then of course there were the ovulation kits, the sight of which now triggered some kind of Pavlovian response in Nick, sending him on a desperate quest for alcohol before I presented myself wearing Ann Summers lingerie and a ‘you know what that does to your sperm count’ nod at his wine glass.
I continued to stare at the turquoise and pink branding until the colours merged like a Maldivian sunset and my thoughts wandered back to our honeymoon. At the time, I’d believed that all it took was a sandy beach, white linen sheets and a quick flick of the fertility fairy’s wand. And after seven nights of consummating our marriage in a five-star beach hut, as I skipped into the chemist at the airport, I couldn’t have been more certain that the tiny mound of a stomach I’d developed was the manifestation of Nick’s and my future happiness, and entirely unrelated to the ten thousand calories I’d consumed each day at the hotel buffet. I glanced back down at the box and laughed out loud. If only I’d known, I thought.
My phone vibrated. I ignored it.
‘Well, I know now,’ I said to myself as I pulled out one of the tests, ‘that even with the aid of a NASA-engineered ovulation detector, we had no hope of conceiving.’
Our first Harley Street consultation had been over a year ago, but since then, the doctor’s words had been bouncing back and forth in my head like a ping-pong ball.
‘Intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection is the only option,’ he’d said.
He’d gone on to explain in medical terms that I had the follicles of a fifty-year-old heroin addict, my uterine lining was thinner than an Olsen sister, and my ovaries were about as useful as a snorkel in a tsunami.
My stomach churned. This round of treatment was our third and final chance. I took a deep breath and pulled out the test. My heart beat faster. I could feel the pulse in the tips of my fingers. I lost my grip for a second and it slipped from my grasp. I caught it swiftly with my other hand, as if it were the Olympic torch.
I’d learned from the fertility forums that it was better to wee into a container, to ensure the stick was properly immersed, rather than hold it under a stream of urine. The method was more accurate, ‘Mum to Three Snow-babies’ had advised. I rested the test, lid still on, on the cistern and spread the information leaflet open. I already knew it by heart. It didn’t matter. I read it again. Just to be sure.
It is best to conduct the test in the morning after a night’s sleep. The urine is more concentrated.
I couldn’t recall sleeping, although my uncompromised pelvic floor muscles had at least managed to hold off any bladder evacuation.
My hands were trembling as I reached for an old lid from a toothpaste pump dispenser. It was the perfect size for collecting a sample, ‘Here’s Hoping’ had explained on the Fertility Friends forum. I sat down on the toilet and held it under me until I felt warm urine overflowing from the top. Once I’d carefully submerged the test in the container, I closed my eyes, visualising the word ‘pregnant’ in my mind, hoping it might somehow instruct the test to comply. Moments later, when I found myself chanting and rubbing my womb, unwittingly re-enacting a hypno-spiritual video I’d seen on YouTube, I realised that I was in dire need of distraction. Instinctively, I went to call Nick, but then I remembered he had an important breakfast meeting, so instead I called Matthew.
He answered on the first ring.
‘What?’ he asked.
I could hear a child screaming in the background so I raised my voice.
‘The two-minute wait,’ I said.
I heard more wailing and then a noise that sounded like something choking. Matthew issued a reprimand and then came back on the line.
‘OK, Ellie,’ he said, retaining the disciplinarian tone for me too. ‘Move away from the vision board. That photo of you and Nick cradling a Photoshopped baby isn’t helping anyone.’
‘It’s worse than that,’ I said. ‘I was chanting.’
Matthew laughed. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘two minutes is but a mere blip on the timeline of life. I’ve got another seventeen years to get through until these two are off my hands.’
I let out a deep sigh and flopped down onto my bed. ‘It’s not just the two minutes,’ I said. ‘It’s all that came before it too. Surely you understand that?’
Matthew laughed again. ‘Ah, but I do, my sweet.’ He paused for a moment to intercept a further misdemeanour then continued. ‘I remember precisely what preceded this current bout of neurosis.’ He took a deep breath and then exhaled. ‘This all began long before you started fretting about your inability to breed.’
I’d been hoping for distraction not ego annihilation. ‘What did?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ he said, in a manner that implied he was drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Let’s consider Eleanor Rigby’s life journey so far, shall we? What were you doing before this all-consuming quest for conception?’
‘I don’t know, working?’
He sighed. ‘Ellie, you spent five years planning your wedding.’
I went to speak but Matthew continued. ‘Prior to that you spent four years aggressively soliciting a proposal from Nick. Before that you engineered a career that enabled you to personally interview thousands of eligible men.’
‘And women,’ I said, ‘as a matchmaker. I was trying to help people.’
He chuckled. ‘This behaviour, although disturbing enough in isolation, was preceded by many other alarming antics: a shambolic engagement, two disastrous cohabitations, fours years cyberstalking Hugh Jackman, a stretch hyper-parenting a pet rat and six years fanatically coddling two Cabbage Patch dolls.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘Ellie, you’ve been looking for love since the day you were born.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said, pulling myself up from the bed. ‘And FYI, Bungle was a guinea pig. Not a rat.’
Matthew must’ve handed the phone over to his toddler, because all I could hear was the choking sound, then wailing, then manic laughter, then some salivary noises, then more wailing then Matthew coming back on the line.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘That’s what your life will sound like if you get what you wish for.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘It can’t be all bad.’
‘It’s not all bad,’ he replied, ‘but it won’t make you happy. Just like marriage won’t make you happy. And kids certainly won’t make your marriage happy.’ He paused for a moment, seemingly to wipe a child’s orifice, then continued. ‘If you kept abreast of the latest research, as you should, you would know that a recent study showed a couple’s happiness decreases proportionately with the birth of each child.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Who conducted that study?’ I said. ‘Was it you, interviewing yourself?’
He laughed. ‘We’re conditioned to think we need to have children in order to be content, when in fact, if we bother to look at the evidence, the opposite is true.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘Why else do you think Lucy went back to work and left me looking after the little buggers?’
I giggled. ‘You love it really.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I really don’t. I love them, of course, but I don’t especially enjoy sacrificing my every human right in the name of positive parenting.’ He moved away from the phone to confiscate some crayons then continued. ‘Freud said that our need to procreate is driven by a fear of death.’ He went on to adopt a lady therapist voice. ‘Do you fear death, Eleanor Rigby?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘The only one who should fear death is you, if you don’t shut up.’
He was still laughing when I hung up.
I checked the timer on my phone. Twenty seconds to go.
I flopped down on the bed again, feeling the weight of my body sink into the mattress. Nick said he would love me no matter what.
Would he really though? I wondered. Even if I could never give him the sandy-haired children he’d always wanted? The son he could hoist up onto his shoulders and teach what it means to be a man, or the little girl with pigtails reaching for his hand, eyes wide with adoration. What if it was just us? For the rest of our lives. Our union having no greater purpose than to provide comfort to each other in old age. We’d play bridge, grow vegetables and potter around the house. And then we’d die.
Ten seconds to go.
I burst back into the bathroom. Before I reached for the test, I stopped and looked up at the ceiling, retracting my earlier complaint to the Almighty and substituting it with a pledge to reinstate my monthly charitable donations.
I snatched the test from the pot and stared at the screen on the side. The words registered straight away.
Not pregnant.
I looked again, just in case I was hallucinating the ‘Not’. I shook it and then held it up to the light. I knew there was nothing I could do to change it. I threw it in the bin along with the backup test and then went to get ready for work.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_a9ec93c9-266d-5b6f-b643-3bb12d33d83d)
I nudged the front door closed with my shoulder to force the lock into place. A flake of black paint fell onto the front path.
I turned to see Victoria, who was bouncing on the spot, clad head-to-toe in Lycra, ponytail swinging like a metronome.
‘Morning, Ellie,’ she said.
‘Morning,’ I mumbled, pulling my handbag onto my shoulder. I’d hoped I would be able to sneak out before she’d emerged from her five-thousand-square-foot double-fronted mansion for her morning showy-offy jog.
She continued to bounce but at the same time cocked her head. ‘You didn’t reply to my text.’
I sighed. Victoria had been charting my IVF process with the precision of a government agent. This, I suspected, was precisely the reason she’d been lurking by her front door since 7 a.m., jog-ready, to jump out and catch me on my way to work.
I glared at her. A glare that I hoped would say: Do you think my face would look like this if I’d just discovered I was incubating a much-longed-for half-me-half-Nick bundle of cells? No, Victoria. Instead of expressing elation, relief and the warm glow of raised hCG, this face is more befitting an exhausted and dejected woman who has endured two years of invasive medical interventions comprising, yet not exclusive to, double-dose vaginal suppositories, self-administered stomach injections, daily internal scans performed with a dildo ultrasound device, leg-stirrup procedures with disturbing terms such as ‘egg harvesting’ and ‘implantation’, then topped off with a giant needle stuck between my eyes to release my chakra. And all that to be told once again that I have failed to do the very thing that women were made to do.
Victoria screwed up her face. She’d been at the Botox again. ‘Aw, Ellie, no luck?’
I shook my head and made a point of theatrically rubbing my barren uterus.
‘Third time lucky maybe?’
‘Victoria, this was the third time.’
‘Oh yes, fourth then.’ Her bouncing quickened. For a moment, there was a glimpse of empathy in her stretched smile.
I scowled at her. She knew there’d be no fourth attempt.
She sniffed, and started bouncing higher.
‘You could always adopt,’ she said, adjusting her heart rate monitor. And with that she sped off.
I stood on the street for a moment, not realising I was still holding my stomach, and looked up at Nick’s and my house. Against the rows of magnificent Victorian villas, it looked like the neglected stepchild, stuck on the end like an ill-considered afterthought. While its siblings had been sent to Farrow and Ball finishing school, ours had been pebble-dashed and left to fend for itself against the elements. They say a pet chooses the owner and I wondered if that might be true for a house too. As much as I’d tried to fit in on this street, I was starting to doubt I ever would.
Up the road, mothers were bundling impeccably presented offspring into shiny cars. For them, life seemed so easy. Most had met their dashing eloquent husbands at top-tier universities, or later, working in some kind of glamorous grown-up profession. They’d gone on to marry in a grand French chateau or palatial Tuscan villa, then breed effortlessly, popping out rosy-cheeked cherubs every year or so, sometimes two or three at a time, while also advancing their careers, renovating and interior-designing their houses and serving quail eggs as appetisers. They even found time to accessorise with chiffon scarves.
When Nick and I moved here, I wanted to be just like them, but in the past few weeks, the L.K.Bennett riding boots I’d bought on Northcote Road had started to pinch a little.
My thoughts were distracted by the sight of Victoria’s three-year-old Boden-clad daughter marching out of their front gate, followed by an exhausted-looking woman who I presumed to be the latest au pair.
‘Morning, Camille,’ I said, grinning at the little girl a tad overzealously.
She looked me up and down and frowned. It was as though she could sense I wasn’t biologically qualified to be communicating with her. Then she scooted off, her little ponytail swinging briskly. I watched her for a while, then made my way to the station, dodging stylishly swathed pregnant bellies and designer buggies.
I arrived at the Canary Wharf office with a large latte in hand. It felt good to be able to pollute my body again without the potential of embryo toxicity bearing down on my conscience. I pushed open the double doors to reception and took a deep breath. My role as CEO may have been usurped by the venture capitalist’s grandson, Dominic, who’d apparently learned everything there was to know about romantic love at Harvard Business School, but what truly mattered was that the dating agency I had conceived seven years ago was now an international corporation. Matthew might believe my motives were questionable, but over the years I had helped thousands of people find love. I took another sip of coffee and smiled. If that wasn’t a legacy worth leaving then what was?
‘Afternoon, Eleanor,’ Dominic said in his I’m-American-in-case-you-wondered accent. Then he slammed a file onto my desk. ‘Meeting’s in five.’
I gulped down the rest of my latte and leafed through the file, which contained the minutes and action points of the last investor meeting. My smile faded. I pushed it to one side and then switched on my computer, so I could at least reply to a few emails before the investors arrived.
Ten more franchise enquiries. One from Korea.
Matchmaking in Korea? I wondered. Surely they had more pressing things to worry about.
Then one from Victoria and her unnecessarily double-barrelled surname.
Subject title: FW: New hope for IVF-resistant couples.
I deleted it. Then I glanced at my phone. Nick had called five times. I dropped my phone back down on the desk. I knew it was cruel to extend his two-minute wait to an entire day, but I’d decided that a statement such as ‘You have no hope of ever being a father, unless you substitute me for a fresh-follicled twenty-something or we find a psychologically unhinged surrogate on the internet’ was probably best delivered in person.
Suddenly Mandi sped past, wearing an oversized neon pink kaftan.
‘Meeting time, Ellie!’ she shrilled, leaving the throb of luminous pink in my eyes. Dominic strutted ahead of her, clenching his buttocks as though he were harbouring a hamster in his colon. I screwed up my face, wondering if I had just cause to alert the animal authorities.
Then I looked back down and continued with my paperwork procrastination, flicking through the post. At the bottom of the pile was a gold envelope. It looked like a wedding invitation. My stomach flipped. The excitement had never waned. I ripped open the envelope, and pulled out a card. It had a watermarked image of a slim woman, grinning and holding a cocktail. We’ve finally done it! was the quote on the front. I flipped it over and read the back.
Dearest Ellie,
You are cordially invited to the Divorce Party of Cassandra Wheeler (formerly Stud-Wheeler).
Where: The Wheeler (formerly Stud-Wheeler) residence.
When: Friday 14th Feb
Dress to impress.
Please bring a bottle. Or five.
I let out a deep sigh as I slotted it into my divorce party file, which was getting fatter by the day. Then I pulled myself up from the chair to face the meeting and Dominic’s ill-founded plans for my company.
Before I entered the meeting room, I saw Mandi through the glass walls and her latest assistant, sitting beside her, poised to take minutes as though she were at the G8 summit. The investor panel, which consisted of four heavy players in the tech and entertainment industry, were seated in a row opposite Dominic, who’d commandeered his side of the table as though he were hosting an episode of The Apprentice.
He stood up when I entered the room. ‘Eleanor,’ he said, gesturing for me to sit beside him in a smaller chair, ‘so nice of you to join us.’
I forced a smile, then nodded at the investors.
Straight away, Mandi pulled her pink glittery laptop out of her bag, adjusted her headband and smoothed down her kaftan. I studied her ensemble. It was unlike her to wear anything that wasn’t nipped in at the waist and tailored to her ribcage. She clapped her hands, and looked around, then clapped them again, as though she expected the lights to dim. When they didn’t she leaned over and switched them off herself. Then she plugged her laptop into the projector, pressed a few buttons and a map identical in colour to her kaftan appeared on the wall.
‘OK, everyone,’ she began. ‘Are we all ready?’
Dominic sighed.
I nodded and smiled. Mandi’s assistant clapped.
Mandi clasped her hands together and grinned. ‘I have fabulous news. Amazing! The best news ever!’
‘You’re leaving,’ Dominic mumbled.
She ignored him, further dramatising with a drum roll to the table.
‘As of this week,’ she continued, ‘we’ve finally done it. We have matchmakers stationed in every continent!’ She pressed a key on her laptop and suddenly pink hearts popped up all over the globe, presumably identifying matchmaker infiltration hotspots.
She looked around the room and began clapping herself. Her assistant joined in.
‘Yay, everyone!’ Mandi said. ‘Well done, us!’
Dominic raised both eyebrows. ‘Every continent?’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘We have matchmakers in Antarctica?’
Mandi shook her head, as though she were about to reprimand a troublesome toddler. ‘Antarctica is an iceberg, Dominic, not a continent.’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Besides, it’s melting,’ she said. ‘It’s unwise to expand into an economy with diminishing returns. Didn’t they teach you that at Harvard?’
One of the investors closed his eyes and sank into his chair.
Mandi glided over to the map like an air hostess pointing out the safety exits. ‘Ten here…’ she pointed to France ‘…ten here…’ then Germany ‘…and here…’ then Italy ‘…twelve here…’ Sweden. She reached up and pointed to New York. ‘Twenty matchmakers in New York…’ her finger moved across America ‘…five in LA, seven in San Fransisco…’ then down to Australia ‘… eight in Melbourne, five in Sydney…’ The pointing continued, as did Mandi’s list of countries.
Ten minutes later, when I was feeling somewhat dazed, Mandi leaned forward and tapped on the keypad. Suddenly pink hearts started racing across the wall like some kind of customised disco ball. It felt as though they were throbbing in time to the pulse in my head. ‘One hundred and one matchmakers,’ Mandi concluded with a loud applause.
‘We could make a coat out of them,’ Dominic mumbled.
Mandi glared at him, her applause unfaltering. Her intern joined in.
‘We did it,’ Mandi said. ‘It took ten years, but we did it. This is possibly the most exciting day of my life!’
I grinned at Mandi and high-fived her from across the table.
Dominic shook his head as though struggling to release himself from a disturbing dream. Then he stood up and disconnected Mandi’s laptop as if disarming a nuclear bomb. He replaced it with his laptop and went on to present the previous year’s accounts, taking personal responsibility for everything that was profitable and apportioning blame, mostly to me, for everything that wasn’t. Then he concluded with his strategy for the coming year.
‘Client retention,’ he declared, as though he’d discovered the cure for cancer.
I frowned. One of the investors leaned forward.
Dominic continued. ‘Currently we’re retaining clients for an average of six months. If we could up that to twelve, we’d double our profits.’
The investor who was leaning forward, interrupted. ‘Adjusting for client acquisition costs,’ he said, ‘we’d actually triple our profits.’
‘Exactly,’ said Dominic.
Mandi’s hand shot up.
Dominic ignored it.
Mandi coughed loudly.
I gestured at Mandi to speak.
She turned to Dominic. ‘But our job is to match people. To find them partners. We want them to find love and leave our agency. That’s what they’re paying us for.’
‘Yes,’ Mandi’s assistant chipped in. ‘The clients get upset if they’ve been with us for months without being presented with a life partner.’
Mandi glared at her.
Dominic ignored them both. Then he tapped the keys on his laptop.
He continued. ‘You can see from my projections, if we delay matching our clients by a week or so each time, it will prolong the duration of the service, significantly increasing the revenue from monthly subscriptions.’
He pressed a key and a bar graph was projected onto the wall.
One of the investors made a note on a pad in front of him. Another one checked his mobile.
‘Another significant change I propose,’ Dominic said, leaning back expansively, ‘is with technology.’
All four investors sat up straight. The one with the mobile in his hand quickly put it back in his pocket.
‘Apps,’ Dominic declared, this time as though he’d discovered a renewable energy source. He tapped on his laptop and then another graph appeared, seemingly demonstrating a considerable reduction in costs and an exponential growth in profits.
‘Matchmaking apps.’ He smiled a self-congratulatory smile, while pressing keys on his laptop, which projected an array of charts and screenshots onto the wall. ‘If we convert our service to a digital interface, we’ll cut staffing costs by ninety per cent.’
As Dominic continued babbling on about profit margins and shareholder dividends, I gripped the sides of my chair and starting counting back from a hundred, a technique Dr Phil had explored on a recent episode about anger management. I counted slowly and purposefully, breathing deeply as I did, but at fifty-six, I could no longer stand to listen to Dominic’s attempts to brainwash the investors into agreeing to erode every value that the agency had been founded upon.
I stood up and glared at him. ‘Enough,’ I said.
Dominic stepped back. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re excused,’ I said, pushing past him and slamming shut his laptop, bar graph wilting as I did.
Mandi sat forward in her seat. An investor smirked.
Dominic glared back at me. ‘What’s the matter, Eleanor? Are you not concerned about profits?’
‘Of course I am concerned about profits,’ I said. ‘My house is falling down, I’m thirty-six and still wearing Primark shoes. I had more disposable income when I was twenty than I do now. I would love nothing more than a nice fat dividend once in a while. But—’ I turned to the investors ‘—that is not why I am here. That is not why I founded this company.’ I turned back to Dominic. ‘So yes, Dominic, I am concerned about profits. But what I’m more concerned about is our clients.’
Dominic rolled his eyes, as though I was about to suggest we pitch for government-funded matchmaking.
‘This year,’ I continued, ‘we’ve had more divorces than marriages. Did you know that, Dominic?’
He straightened his tie.
‘Last year alone, our clients reported 14,198 failed relationships and 1,239 broken engagements.’
Mandi’s eyes widened.
I continued, ‘Six hundred and seventy-five divorces.’
Mandi gasped.
I leaned forward and connected Mandi’s laptop back to the projector. ‘Mandi’s presentation showed we’re doing a great job. We have contributed to more marriages than any of the online agencies. However, we could do better. We’re helping people find love. But I believe we should extend our service to help our couples maintain their relationships. They need our support.’
Mandi shook her fist in the air like a ‘let ’em ’ave it’ angry cartoon character.
Dominic tried to speak but I silenced him with a glare and continued.
‘We offer a personal service. That’s how we differentiate from all the other dating agencies. The superficial swipe-to-reject dating apps out there are feeding the narcissistic monster that is sabotaging the fundamental principles of marriage.’ I narrowed my eyes at Dominic. ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘if we dehumanise matchmakers, who’s to say we won’t dehumanise daters?’
Dominic shook his head. ‘What does that even mean?’
I sighed, wishing Matthew was there to back me up by citing Freudian and Jungian papers.
Dominic rolled his eyes and began checking emails on his phone.
I whipped out the divorce party invitation and slid it across the table towards the investors.
‘This is the tenth one I’ve received this month,’ I said. ‘We need to take action.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Mandi.
One of the investors nodded.
I continued. ‘No one gets married thinking they’ll divorce.’ I looked the investors in the eyes. ‘No one falls in love thinking it won’t last.’
Dominic glanced up from his phone.
I cleared my throat. ‘We all hope for the best but few of us are equipped to deal with the worst.’
I noticed one of the investors was blinking rapidly and rubbing a tan line where his wedding ring used to be.
‘And how do you propose we do that?’ Dominic asked, as though I’d suggested we populate Pluto.
‘Instead of cutting staff,’ I said, ‘we should recruit more, invest in their training. We should equip our matchmakers with the knowledge and the skills to support our clients.’ I glared at Dominic. ‘That is something even the most nifty app could never do.’
Dominic smirked. ‘Nifty?’ he said, his expression implying that the use of old-lady vocabulary could compromise the credibility of my argument.
I continued, keen to move on. ‘We should train all of our matchmakers as dating psychologists.’
Dominic rolled his eyes again, and let out a why-don’t-we-feed-the-starving-in-Africa-while-we’re-at-it sigh.
I continued, pretending to ignore him. ‘I want us to be pioneers in our field.’
Dominic threw up his hands. ‘Oh, come on, Eleanor, that will cost a fortune.’
The investor with the tan line leaned forward and raised his hand to silence Dominic. Then he stared at me for a moment. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘you’ve got my vote.’
Dominic went to speak but another investor cut him off. ‘Me too,’ he said.
The other two investors nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s do it,’ one said.
The remaining investor, who was also Dominic’s grandfather, turned to him. ‘I’m with Ellie on this,’ he said.
I smiled and, rather smugly, held out my hand to Dominic. He bypassed it, grabbed his laptop and then stormed out of the room, buttocks clenching as he did.
As soon as he’d left, Mandi jumped up from her seat and began clapping wildly.
‘Yay, Ellie!’ she shouted.
Her assistant followed her lead. ‘Yay!’ she said.
Perhaps it was because this was an unusual situation for them, or maybe they were genuinely moved by my proposal, but for whatever reason, the investors began to clap too. That was until one of them must have realised that it was a little odd and stopped. At which point the rest followed and then filed out of the room, checking their mobiles, seemingly trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.
That evening, as I fought my way towards the underground, the wind battered my umbrella and rain swept under it and into my face. I squinted my eyes and pushed ahead. I may have won the case against Dominic—a victory for the relationships of others—but the jury was still out on how Nick would take the news that we had failed to conceive yet again.
The moment I reached our street, my umbrella finally buckled under the elements and, as I waded through a giant puddle on our front path, I wondered if our marriage would survive this storm.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_ef675813-7fd5-5828-a04c-9ff193f79f75)
Before I opened the front door, I noticed the hall light was off. Nick wasn’t home yet.
‘Of course, out drinking,’ I mumbled under my breath, although fully aware there was no one to hear me.
I ruffled my umbrella, drops of rain splattering up the walls, then I bent the spokes back into line and shoved it into the stand next to Nick’s giant work-branded golf umbrella. It baffled me why corporations seemed so keen to advertise that they employed people who played golf in the rain.
After I’d shaken my coat and hung it over the radiator, I made my way into the kitchen. I looked around the empty room, then opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine. It had been almost a year of not drinking, priming my body for reproduction, but now I was looking forward to drowning my non-compliant ovaries in Pinot Grigio.
I leaned against the counter and poured myself a glass. As soon as I took a gulp, my nerves settled and a warm sensation spread through my veins. I took another gulp and gazed up at the ceiling, then back down at our shabby kitchen. I squinted my eyes, trying to superimpose the building plans we’d had drawn up years ago onto the sixties-style laminate shambles in front of me. I knew exactly how it should look. I didn’t have far to go for inspiration. Every house on the street had been knocked through into their side-return and extended out back to create the trademark South West London statement kitchen. I took another sip and wondered if the white gloss Poggenpohl dream would ever be mine.
‘Cheers,’ I said to the peeling work surface. ‘Me and my kitchen, living the dream.’
I took another gulp and then checked my phone. It was 7 p.m. I called Nick. No answer. I took another gulp of wine and called Matthew to rant.
There a clattering noise in the background when he answered. ‘Twice in one day,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m honoured.’
‘Can you talk?’ I asked.
He sighed. ‘I can talk, and I would love to talk. However, the real question is whether I will be allowed to talk.’ There was the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by wailing. ‘Shit. I mean, sugar,’ he said.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked.
There was silence, a muffled sound and then Matthew returned. ‘Little sod keeps falling off his chair.’ There was a faint sobbing in the background. ‘It’s this bloody booster seat. I’m sure it has an eject button. There you go, Zachary. Now eat your pasta.’
‘Shall I call you back?’
‘No, no. Are you OK?’
I took another gulp of wine. I knew he would know better than to ask me directly about ‘the test’.
‘Angelica, leave the vase.’
‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘It’s just—’
Suddenly there was another crash followed by a scream. ‘Fuck. I mean, fudge. Fiddlesticks.’
‘Look, I’ll call you back tomorrow,’ I said.
‘No, no.’ Matthew’s tone had an urgency to it. ‘We can talk now.’ He paused, then made a strange squealing noise. ‘Angelica, sweetheart, please don’t eat the broken glass.’
I grimaced. ‘It sounds kind of hectic there?’
‘Just another day in paradise,’ he said. ‘Zachary, eat the pasta, don’t stick it up your nose.’
I thought for a moment about telling him the result, but I realised he’d probably guessed anyway. Besides, any mention would most likely provoke a diatribe about some study linking new parents to suicidal tendencies.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy coming to a divorce party with me next Friday night?’ I asked.
‘Angelica, I said no! Hang on, Ellie, I should really sweep up this glass.’
I continued, ‘I need some company and Nick’s entertaining clients. Again.’
His pitch suddenly increased. ‘A party?’ he said. ‘One that doesn’t involve soft play, chicken nuggets, or a balloon-wielding entertainer?’
I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I’m in.’
‘Don’t you need to arrange a sitter or something?’
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s about time their mother did some mothering.’
The bottle of Pinot Grigio was almost empty by the time I heard Nick’s key in the lock. My throat dried up as I mouthed the words I would say to him. I downed the remainder of the wine, and mouthed them again. It was almost as if the act of saying them out loud would make them more final.
We will never have children.
I’d said it in my mind over and over all day: in the pauses between conversations with Mandi, in the lulls during the investor meeting, while Dominic sashayed around the office. Even wiping my bottom in the toilet had felt melancholic. Mine would be the only bottom I would ever wipe, I’d thought. I’d never change a nappy or lovingly slather Sudocrem on a rashy crack. Every thought seemed to extrapolate into a video projection of never-to-be-realised moments: the first steps, a tender kiss at bedtime, nursing a grazed knee, adjusting a school tie, a comforting cuddle when the world seemed cruel. Being a mother had so many facets. And I would know none of them.
I twirled my empty glass by its stem and looked out beyond our neighbour’s roof at the tiny glimpse of sky. I liked to think my mother and father were up there somewhere, looking down, keeping tabs on the little three-year-old girl they left behind. Suddenly I found myself laughing. It seemed so unfair, almost deliberately orchestrated, to be denied a mother and then to be denied motherhood too. I dropped my head into my hands, knocking the glass to the floor.
Nick rushed into the kitchen. From his furrowed brow and teary eyes, I could tell he already knew. Maybe Victoria had told him, maybe he’d guessed. He smiled, but I knew it was for my benefit. He put his arms around me and pulled me into his damp coat. I hugged him tightly and buried my head in his chest.
After a while, he lifted my chin and looked into my eyes.
‘It’s OK, Ellie,’ he said.
I knew he must be hurting as much as I was, and that now was the time we needed more than ever to love each other, but when I smelled whiskey on his breath, I felt my muscles tense. I pulled away.
‘Well, it might be OK for you,’ I said, with a sharp sigh.
Nick cocked his head, as though trying to make sense of my sudden change of tone.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
He leaned forward and stared at me. ‘You’re saying I’m glad it didn’t work?’
‘I’m saying,’ I began, then paused just to be sure I wanted to continue, ‘you didn’t try as hard as I did.’
He stepped back, eyes wide. ‘Seriously, Ellie? What is wrong with you?’
I glared at him. ‘Wrong with me? You’re the one who’s spent the past year partying like the Wolf of bloody Wall Street. No wonder we couldn’t conceive.’
He frowned. ‘Partying?’
‘You’re out every night.’
‘Working.’
‘Drinking.’
He ran his hands through his hair. ‘You know I hate entertaining. Drinking is the only way I can tolerate a night with those egotistical Neanderthals.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, poor suffering you.’
‘Besides,’ he added, frown turning to a scowl, ‘lately, it’s been preferable to being at home.’
I jumped to my feet. ‘Oh really?’ I said.
‘Yeah, you’ve totally lost it, Ellie.’ He walked to the wine rack and grabbed a bottle of red. ‘If it’s not wheatgrass shots, it’s acupuncture, then there’s those ridiculous “hypnotise yourself into getting pregnant” bullshit podcasts you watch. And if you’re not doing that, then you’re on those barmy forums. You and the army of infertiles, inciting each other to drink five litres of milk or eat a kilogram of cashews, all charting each other’s cycles like you’re in some kind of crazy baby-making coven.’ He paused to unscrew the top and pour himself a glass. ‘Seriously, Ellie, you’ve been a nightmare to live with.’
I snatched the bottle from him. ‘Well, at least I’ve been making an effort,’ I said, pouring a glass. ‘You, on the other hand, have been doing everything you possibly can to sabotage this whole process. You’ve pretty much done the opposite of everything the consultant told you to do.’
Nick grabbed back the bottle and slammed it on the counter. ‘Ellie, I’ve done it all. I’ve had every test under the bloody sun. I’ve had sex on demand. I’ve taken all manner of weird supplements. I’ve even worn ventilated boxer shorts. I’ve tolerated your obsession with trying to control the uncontrollable and now, if I’m totally honest, I’m relieved.’
‘Relieved?’
‘Yes, relieved there’s an end to it.’ He paused. ‘No more fawning over baby clothes, no more debates about buggy brands, or cots versus cot-beds. No more planning our weekends, holidays, furniture, house, careers, around the fact that you might or could potentially in the future be pregnant. No more pseudo maternity wear.’ He gestured to the wrap-around jersey dress I was wearing, bought in anticipation that it might accommodate a small mound in the early summer.
I glared at him. ‘I’m bloated from the hormones. Sorry I don’t feel like prancing around in a pencil skirt.’
He glared back at me. ‘And a sex life would be nice. At least one that isn’t scheduled around the optimisation of sperm quality.’
I stepped back, hand on one hip, the other brandishing my wine glass. ‘So that’s it? Sex is more important to you than having a family.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘If sex were more important to me, then I wouldn’t have dedicated my most virile years to wanking into a plastic cup.’
‘Oh—’ I accidentally sloshed some wine onto the floor ‘—I forgot. I must remember to be grateful.’ I gulped the wine down before I spilled any more. ‘It’s not as though I haven’t made sacrifices too. I’m the one who’s been injecting myself in the stomach every day. I’m the one who quit drinking for two whole years.’
‘Making up for it now though, aren’t you?’ he said.
I continued. ‘I’m the one who’s had an entire medical team peering between my legs and extracting follicles from my ovaries.’
Nick screwed up his face.
‘Oh, I forgot, that’s not sexy, is it? Must remember to be sexy. Must remember to be grateful.’
Nick let out an elaborate sigh. ‘You? Be grateful? That would be a first.’
I scowled at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He sniffed. ‘Come on, Ellie, you’re never happy. You’re always waiting for the next big thing. The wedding, then the house and now it’s this obsession with having children. You can’t keep waiting to live your life. This is it, Ellie. Look around you. This is your life. Just live it, will you.’
I raised my eyebrows and then waved my arms around. ‘Great. A shitty kitchen and a drunken husband. What more could a woman want?’
Nick shook his head and smirked. ‘There are plenty of women who would be more than happy with me.’
I stared at him. ‘Ooh, had loads of offers then, have you?’
He shrugged. ‘I have actually.’
Immediately, I envisaged pert-bottomed interns bending over Nick’s filing cabinet and fluttering their eyelashes. ‘Oh really?’ I said, taking another glug of wine. ‘And?’
Nick sighed, his expression softening. ‘Ellie, I’m married. To you.’
He put his glass down and walked towards me. ‘And I want you back.’ He took my hands in his. ‘I want us back.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_73a2ae6d-0f41-5303-894d-12d472ad0ec9)
Matthew stopped at Cassandra’s front gate and scratched his head.
‘I’m not sure balloons are entirely appropriate for a divorce party,’ he said, gesturing to the bulging bunches tied to each post.
Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Dance Wiv Me’ was blaring out through the open windows and, as we walked up the path, I could see silhouettes gyrating under a disco ball. The sunken roof of the Georgian townhouse looked as though it might collapse with the shame of it all.
I knocked on the door. There was no answer.
Matthew turned to me with raised eyebrows. ‘We could always go for a quick bite to eat first?’ he said.
I glared at him. ‘No. We’re here to support Cassandra.’
Matthew shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘You know how some people are terrified of clowns?’
I laughed. ‘Not all divorced women are scary,’ I said. ‘Besides, Cassandra is a friend.’
He sculpted his quiff in his reflection from the polished knocker. ‘She’s not a friend, she’s a client.’
‘She’s going through a rough time.’
Suddenly raucous laughter bubbled up from the hallway.
‘Yes, sounds like it,’ he said, adjusting his shirt collar. ‘What if I’m the only man here? They might slice off my testicles or deep-fry my penis.’
I knocked again. I could hear Cassandra’s high octave New York drawl approaching the door. ‘Coming!’ she screeched.
She greeted us with the determined smile of a TV presenter. ‘Oh. My. Gaaaad. It’s Ellie!’ She flung her arms around me, nearly knocking Matthew over. ‘It’s so good to see you! Come in, come in. We have tequila.’
I grabbed Matthew’s arm and pulled him in behind me.
Straight away we were thrust into the sitting room and towards the makeshift bar, which seemed sufficiently stocked to survive an apocalypse. Cassandra poured us each tumblers of tequila, then insisted we down them in unison. Afterwards, she leaned in towards me and pointed at Matthew.
‘Is that Nick?’ she asked in a stage whisper. ‘Only I remember him being better-looking.’
Matthew stepped forward. ‘Yes, I am—’
I blocked him with my arm. ‘This is Matthew,’ I said, interrupting whatever mischievous untruth he was about to present to Cassandra, ‘my friend.’
Cassandra looked him up and down and then grinned. ‘Not fair,’ she said. ‘I so want a gay buddy.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘Got one for me?’
Matthew, clearly, sensing an opportunity to avoid the angry divorcees turning on him, suddenly ramped up his camp-o-meter and jutted his hip to one side.
‘Sweetheart,’ he said, flicking his wrist. ‘If you can throw a party like this, I’ll get you a gay boy quicker than you can say Liza Minnelli.’ Then he skipped towards her and started stroking her dress. ‘Is this Diane von Furstenberg? It’s am-az-ing.’
I knocked his hand away after I noticed it edging towards the chest area.
‘Let’s mingle,’ I said.
He poured two more tequilas, before air-kissing Cassandra and squeezing her bottom.
I rolled my eyes as we walked off. ‘Behave,’ I said.
He shrugged his shoulders.
I stopped and glared at him. ‘You’re a married father of two.’
He threw his arms in the air. ‘I am what I am,’ he shrilled, doing his best gayed-up interpretation of Gloria Gaynor, followed by an intricate sidestep across the dance floor. A pretty redhead laughed and joined in dancing with him.
I watched for a while and then pulled him to one side. ‘Impersonating a homosexual in order to take advantage of vulnerable women is exploitative and a gross breach of our host’s trust.’
He downed one of the tequilas. ‘Ellie, a divorce party is hardly the ideal platform to preach moral standards.’
I snatched the other tequila, thought about putting it on the side, then downed it instead.
Matthew did a double eyebrow raise. ‘I see you’re drinking again?’
I nodded, wiping my mouth.
He stared at me for a moment, looking as though he were about to offer something profound. Then, clearly thinking better of it, he put his arm around me and ruffled my hair.
‘Come on, fag hag,’ he said. ‘Let’s dance.’
A while later, once Cassandra had informed the DJ that we had a ‘gay’ guest, it was as though the playlist donned a pair of leather chaps and dropped an E. And despite Matthew’s sterling efforts, which peaked at a rather gymnastic ‘Vogue’ pose, by the time we heard the intro to a remix of the Village People’s ‘In the Navy’ we both agreed it was time for a tequila top-up. Matthew didn’t bother with glasses this time; instead, he just grabbed the bottle. He took a swig and passed it to me.
I took a gulp and looked around the room. The furniture had been pushed to the side and the fireplace hidden behind the temporary DJ booth, but even through my now blurry vision, I could see that this was otherwise an elegant family room. I found myself imagining Cassandra and Dr Stud, or Stud-Wheeler, as they’d renamed themselves, snuggling on the sofa together, bottle of red in front of them, the latest HBO TV series on in the background. I held the image in my mind for a moment, before contrasting it with tonight’s frenzied quest for oblivion and wondered when it was that they had stopped loving each other.
I snuck behind the bar and picked up a photo frame that had been placed face down on a radiator cover. Straight away I recognised the image. It was a photo I’d taken on our singles’ trip to St Anton: the moment they’d jumped off the ski lift together, now freeze-framed forever. I smiled as I recalled the months I’d spent prior trying to persuade them to meet each other.
‘No, he’s too short,’ Cassandra had said, when I’d shown her his profile.
‘I usually date hotter girls,’ Dr Stud had explained, before selecting the profile of a bikini-clad twenty-three-year-old nursing graduate.
I’d always known though that if I could just get them together on the ski trip then they would understand. And they did—well, for nine years at least. I glanced back down at the photo and took another swig. I would never forget the way they laughed together. It was as though they were the only two who knew the punchline. That kind of love couldn’t simply fade to nothing. Could it?
I looked up to see the redhead giggling and then flashing her cleavage at Matthew. I glared at him. Just as I was about to intervene, Cassandra appeared beside me.
‘Gimme some of that,’ she slurred, snatching the tequila bottle from my grasp. I’d forgotten I was still holding it. She took a swig and then turned to me. Her mouth was smiling but her eyes looked vacant. She nodded to the photo. ‘What goes up, must come down,’ she said, surprisingly succinctly. Then she laughed. ‘No one can defy Newton’s theory of…’ She rubbed her temples and swayed a little. ‘Or was it Galileo?’
‘Newton,’ I said. ‘Gravity. Are you OK?’
She took another swig and then wiped her chin. ‘Never better,’ she said, handing the bottle back to me. ‘Right. Speech time.’
I was still gripping the photo frame as I watched Cassandra climbing onto a chair, microphone in hand. I should have intervened. It was clear to everyone that a public and drunken explanation as to why we should celebrate the breakdown of her marriage wasn’t going to end well. However, as much as I wanted to preserve her dignity, part of me was desperate to hear what she had to say. I gripped the photo frame tighter and glanced over at Matthew, who was now cupping the redhead’s breasts through her dress. In the past year the agency’s divorce rate had doubled. Even my own relationship was in distress. I wanted to know why. Because if I knew what was wrong, then I was closer to finding a way to fix it.
Cassandra wobbled on the chair a little, then steadied herself and tapped the microphone. The DJ turned off the music.
‘Hey, everyone!’ Cassandra shouted.
The crowd cheered.
‘It’s great to see you all here tonight,’ she said, looking around the room and holding out her hands. ‘Some of you knew me before…’ she pointed at a few people in the crowd ‘… and some of you knew me during…’ she pointed out a few more ‘…but now, after nine forgettable years, Richard, or Dick, as I now prefer to call him, is finally out of my life…’ She punched the air and the light from the disco ball caught a tear on her cheek. ‘That bastard might have cost me £1.3 million in settlement and my last fertile years, and…’ she pulled the skin tight on her face ‘…given me greater need for Botox, but now I’m rid of him.’ She punched the air again like a motivational speaker.
The guests cheered and clapped and she gestured for me to bring her the tequila bottle.
‘As I said,’ she continued, having taken another swig, ‘some of you knew me before, and some of you knew me during. But everyone will know me after! Let’s get this party started!’
Cassandra jumped down from the chair and the music was replaced by synthesised siren. A group of faux policemen stormed into the room. They had sunbed tans, thick thighs and crew cuts.
Matthew caught my eye, with a ‘can we please leave now?’ expression.
I glanced back at Cassandra, who had begun to emit a noise not dissimilar to that of a mating tree frog.
Matthew immediately abandoned the redhead and shuffled up beside me nervously. The crowd, mostly comprising single women, parted and chanted as the dance troop ripped off their Velcro fastened trousers in one synchronised movement and went on to execute a choreographed ‘stop and search’ procedure, intermingled with an array of dance moves, which Matthew identified as the rear arrest, the handcuff hustle and the truncheon treadmill.
Once the routine had finished, and the only garments that remained were black satin pouches, Cassandra lifted up her skirt and called out to the dancer with the largest bulge. I did a double take. He looked disconcertingly like Nick.
‘Officer,’ she said, slapping her bottom, ‘I’ve been a very naughty girl.’
After she’d manhandled his pouch, she whispered something in his ear and slipped him a fifty-pound note, followed by a cheeky wink in Matthew’s direction.
A short while later, after Matthew had been the non-consensual recipient of an extended lap dance from PC Schlong, he asked me if we could leave. I led him out of the house and closed the door closed behind us. He glanced around skittishly and then sped down the front path to hail a passing taxi.
I giggled as we climbed in. ‘You can’t have the smooth without the rough,’ I said.
He scowled at me. ‘There was no need for him to dangle the bloody thing in my face,’ he said.
I giggled some more.
‘Stop laughing,’ he said, folding his arms and staring out the window.
I leaned towards him and smirked. ‘You’ve still got some whipped cream on your chin,’ I said, still laughing.
His hand flew to his face until he realised I was winding him up. Then he glared at me. ‘Speak about this to no one,’ he said.
After I’d eventually managed to stifle my giggles, I shuffled up next to him.
‘Cheer up,’ I said. ‘We had fun tonight.’
He sighed. ‘Well, I’m glad you had fun while I was being lap-raped by PC Right Said Fred.’
I smirked. ‘So you didn’t have any fun at all? Not even squeezing Cassandra’s bottom?’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Or checking out that redhead’s boob job?’
‘She was asking my opinion.’
I sighed. ‘Because she thought you were gay.’
‘I can be objective.’
I shook my head.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Lucy wouldn’t care anyway.’
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘You have a clause in your marriage contract stating that objective assessment of non-spousal secondary sexual characteristics is permissible?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Something like that.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Is everything OK with you two?’
He folded his arms tightly across his chest. ‘It’s amazing. It really is.’ He forced a smile. ‘Since we chose to breed, our relationship has transcended that tiresome phase of animalistic passion and become a more spirit-centred union.’
I frowned. ‘You mean spiritually centred?’
‘No, spirit. She drinks gin, I prefer vodka.’
I slapped him on the arm. ‘Can you be serious for just one minute?’
He sighed again and then gazed up to the roof of the taxi. ‘What do you want me to say, Ellie? It’s shit. My marriage is shit right now. It hasn’t always been and I’m hoping that it won’t always be, however, right now, it’s shit.’
I turned to him with a scowl. ‘You’ve got two beautiful children, a gorgeous home and a wife who loves you. You’re so lucky, Matthew. You should be grateful.’
‘Oh yes, because you think having a family is the key to your happiness. Ellie, you spent years thinking the perfect man was the key to happiness. When are you going to realise?’
‘Realise what? That you like willies?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘That there is no key…’
I stared at him.
He turned to me. ‘You want to know the truth?’
‘Go on then,’ I said, half smiling.
‘I enjoyed looking at that girl’s boobs tonight, because I’ve forgotten what a normal pair looks like. In the past two years, Lucy’s have been swollen, veiny and grotesque, if not leaking milk or infected. Her nipples have been cracked and furred with thrush. And now, when finally they’ve been handed back to me, empty sacks lined with stretch marks, she worries they don’t turn me on. And, as much as I love her, as much as I want them to and as much as I reassure her otherwise, we both know deep down that she’s right.’ He turned to me. ‘You think having babies will complete the you and Nick white-picket-fence happy-ever-after. Well, it won’t.’
I smirked. ‘You’re just grumpy because you’ve had a ten-inch penis slapped in your face.’
He glared at me. ‘Having kids changes everything, Ellie. I love Zach and Angelica, but Lucy’s the one who wanted them. Then straight away she went back to work leaving me at home to wipe bottoms and boil pasta.’ He looked down. ‘She treats me like I’m staff. You should hear her: “Matthew, pick up the dry-cleaning. Matthew, clean the windows. Matthew, did you call the upholsterer? Matthew, are you listening to me? Matthew. Matthew!” She’s lost all respect for me.’
‘No, she hasn’t.’
He rolled his eyes and let out a protracted sigh. ‘Well, why else did she shag her boss then?’
For the rest of the taxi journey, we didn’t speak. I knew there was nothing I could say that would lessen his pain. I squeezed his hand and we stared out the window.
‘Not a word to anyone,’ he said, as he climbed out the taxi.
I nodded.
‘About PC Schlong, I mean. I have a reputation to uphold.’
I’d prefer to think it was because I was starting to feel like myself again, rather than a fear of ending up like Matthew and Lucy. Or worse, Cassandra and Richard. Either way, as I climbed into bed and snuggled up next to Nick, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months. I leaned over and kissed him. I could tell he’d been drinking again but this time it didn’t bother me. I kissed him again, and he kissed me back.
That night, making babies was the furthest thought from my mind.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_44324466-a6ae-5e34-8f93-f0e8e8e7e881)
First thing on Monday morning, I noticed a voicemail from Cassandra. I waited until I was in the office and had finished my coffee before unleashing the assault on my eardrums. I put it on loudspeaker so I could temper the impact, and also so I could type some emails while I listened.
Unlike the usual mega-volume, her words were slurred and hard to decipher because she was sobbing and then sometimes laughing between them.
‘I’m miserable, Ellie,’ she said and then paused. ‘It’s not the same.’ She sniffed. ‘I want my Dick back.’
When I looked up, I saw Dominic leaning over my desk, hair coiffed, eyebrows raised. ‘She wants her dick back?’ he whispered, laughing. ‘Just what we need: another “they matched me with a post-op” lawsuit.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s not how it sounds,’ I said. ‘She’s just got divorced.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘And you want to counsel these freaks,’ he said, making an inverted comma gesture around the word ‘counsel’.
I shook my head, tempted to prod him with the biro in my other hand.
‘Cassandra isn’t a freak,’ I said, hand still firmly over the receiver. ‘She’s a client. And the Dick that she wants back is her ex-husband. Not male genitalia.’
Just as Dominic was processing what I had said, buttocks most likely twitching as he did, Mandi breezed over. She was wearing a patterned empire line smock, roomy enough to accommodate a sextuplet elephant gestation. I glanced down at her stomach and then back at her face. Despite the rumours circulating the office, I had yet to ask her the question formally. Dominic said it was a matter for HR and advised against it. Besides, once it was public knowledge, I feared Mandi might overload my inbox with a deluge of Pinterest nursery interiors.
Mandi leaned over my desk, eyes wide.
I decided it best to terminate the voicemail, before the entire office became involved.
Mandi leaned in further. ‘Was that Cassandra?’ she asked, holding her hands to her chest. ‘How is she?’ She looked to the floor. ‘That poor, poor woman. Divorce has to be the worst experience for anyone.’
Dominic, who was still leaning on my desk, smirked. ‘Worse than terminal cancer? Death of a child? Being decapitated by ISIS?’
Mandi ignored him. ‘And this is her second time. Simply awful. Is there anything I can do to help? And Richard, how is he? They were so in love, Ellie.’ She wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘So, so in love. How could we let this happen?’
Dominic interjected, with a dismissive flick of his wrist. ‘If it was her second marriage, then statistically, they only had a twenty-five per cent chance of making it work. There is nothing you could have done.’
Mandi narrowed her eyes and poked Dominic in the chest. ‘Would a doctor turn off a life support machine if a person had a twenty-five per cent chance of waking from a coma? No, they wouldn’t.’
Dominic sighed. ‘They turned it off. Not us.’
Mandi scowled. ‘This isn’t Dignitas. We’re a dating agency. We’re supposed to help people.’
Dominic laughed. ‘If only it was,’ he said. ‘There’s a far greater chance of preserving dignity in death than in dating.’
Mandi tutted then turned to me. ‘Ellie?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Cassandra wants him back.’
Mandi held her hands to her chest again and nodded.
Dominic sniggered. ‘Does she really though? Or is she just feeling sentimental after contracting pubic lice from a troop of strippers?’
I stared at him for a moment, wondering how he’d been privy to such classified information from the divorce party. Then I turned back to Mandi. ‘She says she still loves him,’ I said.
Dominic laughed. ‘I thought I still loved an ex when I found an old photo of her topless.’
It was hard to imagine Dominic on a date, let alone in a relationship. I was almost certain he was a sociopath who fantasised about mutilating female body parts in the manner of Patrick Bateman from American Psycho.
Mandi scowled at him, then continued. ‘They were so good together. Perfect for each other. You never saw them on the ski trip, Dominic. Or at their wedding. What would you know?’ Mandi’s chest was flushed now. She turned back to me. ‘I have to help them, Ellie. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.’
Dominic shook his head at Mandi. ‘Get one of your matchmakers to deal with it. You’re a manager now, you have more important things to do.’
‘Nothing’s more important than saving a marriage,’ she said. ‘And besides, Dominic, you should know by now, I’m a matchmaker first and a manager second.’ And with that she stomped off.
Dominic glared at her as she walked away, then turned to me and pointed at his watch to remind me, as he did every Monday, that it was time for our weekly meeting.
‘Another hour of my life I’ll never get back,’ I muttered, as I followed him into the meeting room.
‘Sorry, what was that, Eleanor?’ he asked, as he sat down in one of the executive orange leather seats he’d had commissioned for our meeting room.
I forced a smile. ‘Another intellectually stimulating chat,’ I said.
He looked at me and raised one eyebrow, then took a file from his briefcase.
‘So,’ he said, placing both hands on the table, ‘this dating therapy thing you want to do.’
I stared at him. ‘You mean the coaching programme, which has been formally approved by the investors?’
He nodded and smiled. ‘Well, I believe it could generate more profit than our introductions service.’
I went to smile but Dominic’s enthusiasm was concerning me.
He continued. ‘So the investors and I have spoken and it was unanimously agreed that you should manage this project.’
I stared at him some more, wondering what point he was trying to make.
‘In its entirety,’ he added.
‘I thought that had already been agreed.’
He leaned back and ran his hands through his hair. ‘We expect you to write and deliver the programme.’
I shook my head from side to side. ‘Well, the idea I had…’
‘Yes?’
‘…was to work with the top psychologists and researchers.’
Dominic clapped his hands together with the glee of a fisherman who had just felt a tug on his rod. ‘Excellent, Eleanor. That’s precisely what we were thinking too.’ He glanced down at his file and began flicking through the pages. Then he nodded and pushed the file across the table towards me. ‘You’ll find a comprehensive list of experts in there.’
I opened it and glanced at the first page, which I immediately discovered was a fold-out world map.
Dominic continued. ‘You’ll start in New York; that’s where most of the current research is being done. Using that as a base, you can travel to Long Island and Texas. Then, after that, you’ll move on to Iceland, then Tokyo—there’s some interesting research going on there—then Africa, and finally, you’ll end up back in Europe.’
I leafed through the pages, noting every stop Dominic had listed on my protracted tour of the globe. I closed the file and shook my head.
‘I’m not leaving London,’ I said.
The beginnings of a smirk crept out from the corners of his mouth. ‘But this is what you wanted, isn’t it, Eleanor? To find a cure for heartbreak?’
I pushed the file back towards him.
‘What about Skype? I could easily speak to the experts on the phone. I don’t have to be there.’
Dominic shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, we think you do. That way you can witness and experience any interventions firsthand.’
I screwed up my face. ‘I can’t be the researcher and the recipient.’
Dominic grinned. ‘The investors think you can.’
I stood up, ready to walk out. ‘Well, I’ll have to persuade them otherwise then, won’t I?’
His smirk was at full capacity now. ‘They’ve decided to channel all available resources into the project. So, good luck with that.’
That evening, I arrived home to find Nick in the kitchen, pan-frying tuna steaks. I could see he’d already prepared a salad and the table was set complete with a lit candle.
‘Evening, my gorgeous girl,’ he said, handing me a glass of wine.
I leaned in towards him and rested my head on his shoulder. I knew we’d have to have a conversation about our childless future at some point, but for the time being, I wanted it to just be Nick and I again. Without any complications.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Victoria.
Hurry up. You’re late
I scrunched up my face, remembering a vague acceptance of a dinner invitation last week.
‘What is it?’ Nick asked, sipping some wine.
I sighed. ‘We’re supposed to be having dinner at Victoria and Mike’s tonight.’
Nick’s smile faded. He glanced at the tuna steaks and then at the candle burning and then back at me. ‘But I wanted a night with just us,’ he said.
I leaned over and turned off the hob. ‘So did I,’ I said, ‘but we promised.’
Nick let out a long sigh and then downed the rest of his wine.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘we’d better get a move on, you know what she gets like if her scallops are overdone.’
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and we made our way next door.
We rang the doorbell twice before anyone answered, which, given Victoria’s domestic staffing levels, was quite unusual. There was a bit of a kerfuffle, some scratching at the door and what sounded like a tiny bird chirping, before eventually Olga, Victoria’s housekeeper, opened the door. A bundle of grey fluff rolled out onto the flagstone step. I bent down to pick it up. At first I couldn’t quite tell if the warm little body, with the fast-beating heart, was a cat or a rabbit or something else entirely, but when a pair of big blue eyes stared up at me, and the little tail started wagging, I realised it was…
‘A puppy?’ Nick asked, leaning in for a closer look.
Olga ushered us in. ‘I take Rupert now,’ she said.
‘No, no, He’s fine with me,’ I said, looking down at his furry face and smiling.
‘Careful, he’s likely to pee all over you.’ Victoria strode towards us, looking uncharacteristically flustered. ‘At best.’
‘Oooh, I don’t mind,’ I said, cradling him in my arms. I nuzzled his fur with my face. He smelled like malt biscuits and freshly cut grass.
Nick leaned in closer and stroked him on the tummy. ‘He’s a cute little chap, isn’t he?’
Victoria smoothed down her ponytail. ‘We need to eat,’ she said. ‘Give the hound back to Olga. And make sure you wash your hands.’
Mike didn’t join us until we were seated at the table and from his expression, he was as enthused about the dinner party as we were.
Once Victoria had formally chastised us for being late and thereby being solely responsible for the asparagus’ limpness, she went on to explain Rupert’s arrival.
‘Camille’s therapist suggested we get her a pet.’ Victoria sniffed. ‘She said that given the high turnover of au pairs, it would provide a constant in her life.’ She flicked her ponytail and speared a piece of asparagus. ‘Dr Osbourne has been harping on for months now about maternal attachment. Clearly trying to promote that book she wrote. She’s been on the Lorraine show too.’ She took a sip of wine, then shook her head quickly as if to disperse the alcohol. ‘I was raised by sixteen different au pairs and it never did me any harm.’
Nick started coughing. It looked as though a bit of asparagus had gone down the wrong way.
Victoria glanced around for Olga, then tutted and topped up her own wine.
‘I mean, seriously, what does Dr Osbourne expect me to do?’ she continued, taking a sip. ‘Give up my entire life to bring up my daughter?’
We all sat in silence. I swallowed the last mouthful of cold asparagus and then Mike stood up to pour us more wine.
‘But I bet Camille must love Rupert,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘He’s adorable.’
Victoria sighed. ‘She’s allergic. She’s gone through two asthma inhalers since we collected him from the breeder.’
There was a scratching sound along the floorboards, and suddenly Rupert skidded into the dining room, hotly pursued by Olga.
‘Rupert, Rupert, come!’ Olga shouted.
Victoria scowled at Olga. ‘Quiet,’ she said, ‘we are entertaining.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Victoria,’ Olga said, then tried to grab Rupert, but he bypassed her hand and scooted under my chair.
I bent down and picked him up. His eyes were wide, like a five-year-old who’d just arrived at Disney World. He jumped up and licked my face.
Victoria’s ponytail began to swing violently. ‘Olga, get that dog out of here right now. He’s supposed to be napping.’
Olga held her hands up. ‘I try, but he no want to nap. He want to play.’
Suddenly Rupert lunged forwards and swiped a Parmesan shaving from my plate.
Nick laughed.
Victoria tutted and marched towards me, snatching Rupert from my grasp. Then, arms outstretched, she handed him to Olga and waved them both out of the room.
‘As if having a child isn’t hard enough,’ Victoria said, ‘now I’ve got to train that bloody canine.’
Mike leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘You’re not exactly training him though, are you, darling? Olga is.’
Victoria let out an extended sigh. ‘She knows nothing about dogs. I think they eat them in her country.’ She sipped some wine. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get a dog trainer. As if I haven’t got enough to do already.’
Mike laughed again, though louder this time. ‘Yes, whatever next, you might have to cancel a Pilates session or a lunch or, heaven forbid, a hair appointment,’ he said, taking another gulp of wine.
Victoria swished her ponytail from side to side. ‘Excuse me, Michael—’ she’d taken to calling him Michael since they’d joined the Chelsea Harbour Club ‘—I didn’t give up my career to manage household administration every day.’
Mike refilled his glass and leaned further back in his chair. ‘So, tell us, Victoria. What precisely did you give up your career to do?’
Victoria’s ponytail slowed to a stop and she glared at Mike.
Nick shot me a sideways glance.
I shifted in my seat, hoping Rupert would come skidding back into the room and divert the conversation.
Fortunately, Olga returned instead, with the main course.
‘Filet de boeuf,’ she announced plonking the tray down on the table. ‘And yes, Mrs Victoria, I wash my hands.’
We ate the beef in silence. Occasionally, I glanced at Nick but mostly I just chewed and gazed around the room. Whenever I visited Victoria’s house, I felt as though I’d stepped into the centre spread of Home and Garden magazine. It seemed unfair that she could just swish her ponytail like a wand and get everything she’d ever wished for. My vision board was plastered with images of interiors like this, dotted around the doctored photo of Nick and I with a baby; however, so far all the universe had seen fit to deliver to me was up-cycled furniture from Gumtree. I huffed. Nick and I might not be worthy of parenthood, but surely the universe could spare a chesterfield sofa?
Rupert continued to yelp from the kitchen for the duration of two courses. I kept looking at Victoria, hoping she might soften her resolve and bring him in for a cuddle, but she was still glaring at Mike. Mike looked nonplussed.
‘So, what breed is he?’ I asked, in an eventual attempt to break the silence.
‘Sporting Lucas,’ Mike answered, matter-of-fact, between mouthfuls of crème brûlée. ‘Apparently, the ability to hunt ground vermin is an essential skill for a family pet.’
Victoria shrugged her shoulders, still glaring at Mike. ‘Well, you know what they say about living in London.’
We all looked at her expectantly.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re only ever a metre away from a rat.’
Mike tutted, then scooped another mouthful of brûlée into his mouth.
Rupert was still yelping from the kitchen and now he’d added mournful pines into the mix. It took all my willpower not to run out and soothe him.
‘Maybe he’s trying to tell us something,’ I said.
Victoria narrowed her eyes. ‘What, that we have rats in our house? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just being needy and probably wants more Parmesan.’
I turned to her. ‘Or perhaps he’s distressed? Having been dragged away from his mother and then locked in a huge kitchen by himself.’
Victoria flicked her wrist. ‘He’s nine weeks old; in dog years that makes him nearly one and a half. He’ll get over it,’ she said, pushing her untouched dessert to the side.
I glared at her.
She opened her mouth as if to say something and then closed it again, clearly thinking better of it, which was unusual for Victoria.
Mike stepped in instead, pushing his empty bowl to one side and turning to me and Nick. ‘So, bad news about the IVF then, guys.’
Victoria sat upright in her chair and dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin.
‘It’s just not right,’ she said, gesturing out the window. ‘All those offensive-looking people breeding like there’s no tomorrow, producing the most peculiar offspring.’ She turned to me. ‘And then there’s you and Nick. You’re an attractive, reasonably intelligent couple. Of course you’re by no means thoroughbreds—’ she took a sip of wine ‘—but certainly no reason to defy Darwin’s theory, wouldn’t you agree?’
I nodded, assuming I had been complimented in some obscure way.
Mike took another sip of wine. ‘I read something in the New Scientist,’ he said, ‘about a man’s virility dropping in highly populated areas. Like some sort of natural feedback mechanism.’
Victoria shook her head at Mike. ‘Well, that’s clearly not the case, my darling,’ she said. ‘Have you walked past Asda recently?’
Mike shook his head and continued, turning to me. ‘So,’ he said, ‘reckon you’ll go again?’
I glanced at Nick, who was now topping up his wine.
He took a big gulp. ‘We can’t afford it,’ he said.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘our consultant said it’s best I give my body a break from the hormones.’
Mike smirked. ‘Yeah, and Nick a break too, I imagine.’
Victoria glared at Mike. Had she not been on the far side of a twenty-seater dining table, I imagine Mike would have received a stiletto heel to the testicles.
I glanced back at Nick, who was wriggling in his seat. I was tempted to ask him if he needed the toilet.
Victoria stared at him quizzically. ‘Everything all right, Nick?’
He placed his now empty wine glass down on the table. ‘I had some news today,’ he said.
I scraped my empty crème brûlée ramekin, wondering where it had all gone.
‘I’ve been offered a job,’ he continued.
I sucked a tiny bit of brûlée off my spoon and awaited Nick’s usual post–credit crunch story about a relentless head-hunter pitching a role with worthless share options, fourteen-hour working days and no bonus.
‘It’s a great role,’ Nick said.
I nodded vaguely.
‘Excellent prospects.’
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I said in my head.
‘I’ll be working with a talented team.’
Will be working with? I spun round on my seat.
‘The only thing is…’
Ah, here we go.
‘It’s in New York.’
Suddenly, the spoon slipped from my grasp and spiralled through the air, before ricocheting between the marble fireplace and the mahogany table leg. I reached down to pick it up. By the time my head popped back up, the conversation was continuing without me.
‘Well, I think you should go,’ Mike said. ‘There’s no point being childless in Clapham. It’s like being poor in Paris, get out of here, mate.’
Victoria agreed. ‘Yes, yes, and that ramshackle house of yours. I mean, let’s face it, a renovation can only do so much.’
‘Er, excuse me?’ I raised my hand, partly because I felt like an invisible child with no right to a vote, but mostly because I wasn’t quite sure what else to do. ‘Am I allowed an opinion?’
Nick looked at me from across the table. He seemed so far away. ‘Of course, sweetheart,’ he said, in his high-pitched let’s-placate-Ellie voice.
I wasn’t falling for it. I folded my arms. ‘I don’t want to go.’
Everyone turned to me. Rupert’s yelps had escalated and I could hear Olga in the background trying to soothe him.
‘You aren’t even going to consider it?’ Nick said.
I shook my head. ‘Nope. I love it here. I love our house. I love the parks. I love the people.’
Nick huffed. ‘What do we need four bedrooms for? What are we going to fill them with? Pot plants?’ He stared at me. ‘The parks are full of scooting kids and dog turds. The people…’ he glanced sideways at Victoria and then Mike ‘…well, they’re a bit, you know, self-important, aren’t they?’
‘And they’re so down to earth in Manhattan, aren’t they?’ I sneered at him.
Olga came back in the room with Rupert wrapped up in a blanket. ‘He crying so much, he been sick,’ she said, about to hand him to Victoria.
Victoria waved them away. ‘Not near me. I’m wearing cashmere.’
I opened my arms and gestured for Olga to bring him to me. He scrambled out of the towel and onto my lap.
I looked down at him and the moment his bright blue eyes met mine, the pining stopped. I stroked his tiny head.
Nick coughed. Then I looked up to see Victoria staring at me, her expression had softened. She didn’t need Botox, she just needed to lighten up.
Olga cleared the plates and Nick shuffled up next to me to stroke Rupert. Rupert wriggled out of my grasp and clambered onto Nick’s lap. Nick ruffled Rupert’s fur and smiled.
Victoria let out a sharp sigh. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said.
I looked up. ‘What?’
‘Just take him, will you,’ she said, her tone implying I might be more of a moron than she’d initially anticipated. ‘The dog. Rupert. Have him.’
I frowned. ‘Seriously?’
She glanced at Mike for confirmation. He shrugged his shoulders.
Victoria smiled and then turned to Nick.
‘Well,’ she said, smiled broadening. ‘There’s no way Ellie can go to New York now.’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_c0bb19cb-80db-500c-a649-1e36d5286540)
‘Congratulations,’ Matthew said, after I’d called him the following morning to share my news. ‘You’ve just done what every other infertile couple does.’ He paused to laugh. ‘Seriously, the clinics should affiliate with an animal rescue centre. “Sorry, your embryos were useless but we have an adorable whippet called Wilbur who needs a home. He’s very loving, great with kids. Not that that matters.”’
I ignored him and continued. ‘And Nick wants us to move to Manhattan.’
‘Whoa, what’s going on? First a dog and now emigration? Does he have a green card?’
‘Nick?’ I asked.
‘No, Rupert,’ he replied. ‘Those Yanks are ruthless with their border control.’
‘He’s not a Border, he’s a Sporting Lucas.’
He laughed some more. ‘You’re not allowed to go. Who else will entertain me with their ridiculous life?’
‘I’m not going,’ I said.
There was a pause on the end of the line. Initially, I thought this was because Matthew was taking time to consider the implications on my future happiness, however, the loud slurping noise revealed that, instead, he was just taking a moment to sip his coffee.
I sighed. ‘Does anyone actually care?’ Out of nowhere, Rupert jumped on my lap and gazed up at me.
Matthew sniggered down the line. ‘Of course I care,’ he said. ‘I just care more after coffee.’
‘So I was saying…’
‘Yes, you’re off to Yank land.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m not going.’
‘Why not?’
‘I hate America.’
‘You haven’t even been.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Of course I have. The agency has an office in New York.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, which you’ve visited once in three years, for, oh, what was it, all of six hours?’
‘I’ve been twice actually. And I went to Disney World when I was twelve.’
‘Aha,’ Matthew said, in the manner of a psychotherapist who had just pinpointed the cause of a patient’s neurosis. ‘Florida in the eighties doesn’t count. They were going through a difficult time: all visors and fanny packs.’
I chuckled. ‘And there’s no way I could join a nation who voted for a president who said: “most of our imports are foreign”.’
Matthew sighed. ‘They didn’t vote him in. He voted himself in. And, besides, they have a new president now, only since 2008.’
‘Yeah, one who sided with Argentina over the Falklands.’
‘Ellie, you can’t discount an entire nation based on political knowledge gleaned from a ten-year-old Michael Moore documentary and Perez Hilton’s blog.’
‘I can.’
He laughed. ‘So when you leave, who’s going to look after your clients?’
‘I’ve told you I’m not going. Why isn’t anyone taking me seriously?’
‘I suppose you could work from New York too. At least then you’d be rid of old twatty-pants Dominic.’
‘Are you listening to me?’
‘And the Sporting Lucas. I suppose you can take him with you?’
‘Matthew!’
He let out a deep sigh. ‘Ellie, beautiful, gorgeous Ellie, platonic love of my life.’ He sighed again. ‘When you repeatedly say you’re not doing something, usually it means you are.’
I paced around the hallway, ready to shout down the phone at Matthew that no matter what anyone said, I had no intention of moving to America, ever, when I noticed Victoria peering through the front window.
I attempted to ‘sign’ to her that I was on the phone, an act that I immediately realised could be no more explanatory than my actually holding a real phone to my ear.
She ignored me and started thudding on the door, by which point, Matthew had begun humming Frank Sinatra.
‘Bm ber der der der, start spreading the news,’ he sang, ‘Ellie’s leaving today. She wants to be a part of it…’
I rolled my eyes and hung up the phone.
Victoria bustled in, the moment I opened the door. Her arms were laden with Rupert-related paraphernalia.
‘Morning,’ she said. ‘I forgot a few things.’ She placed the items down onto a large pile in front of me, then smoothed down her ponytail. ‘There’s the mattress for Rupert’s bed.’ She pointed at a thick circular cushion. ‘It’s made from coconut fibres so it’s more breathable. Here’s the pamphlet,’ she said, reaching into her pocket and handing it to me. ‘It’s been clinically proven to reduce the incidence of Sudden Puppy Death Syndrome.’
I glanced at it and scratched my head.
She continued, plucking something else from the pile. ‘This is his heartbeat cushion Olga found at Pets Are Our World. Apparently it settles him…’ she pointed at something else ‘… along with his pheromone spray and plug-in. There’s his brush, made from natural fibres…’ she continued pointing ‘… his puppy shampoo—don’t over-wash him, he’s sensitive—toothbrush, toothpaste.’ She turned to me. ‘Dental hygiene is paramount to prevent future decay.’ She turned back to the pile. ‘There’s one week’s food. He’s on Paula’s Kitchen Puppy meals. They’re grain-free, from ethically sourced meat, with no fillers, and also with added bergamot and dandelion for his liver and kidney. And there are some special grain-free treats in this bag.’ Rupert jumped up, sniffing the packet and wagging his tail. She handed him one. Then reached in her other pocket and continued. ‘I’ve printed off a list of human foods he must not have, under any circumstance, and also a list of garden plants that are poisonous to dogs. It’s best to remove them from your garden just in case.’ She glanced through the kitchen to the back door. ‘Chances are you’ve got some of everything in that overgrown mass back there.’ Then she handed me a bundle of papers. ‘Here’s his pedigree certificate and passport application forms. He can’t go abroad until he’s had his rabies vaccine. His vet’s number is on the back…’ she pointed out where ‘…just below the grooming salon. Also he has a few sessions with his nutritionalist plus a month’s worth of canine psychology sessions to help him adjust to his new home.’ She looked down at Rupert, then back at me. ‘And just in case,’ she added, her expression cooling, ‘here’s the number of a dog therapist in New York.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘If you were to go, it would be immensely traumatic for him and he would need extensive emotional support to adapt to such a change.’
‘But I’m not going,’ I said.
She took a deep breath and looked at me. ‘You’ll take care of him, won’t you, Ellie?’
I nodded, bending down to pick him up. Victoria leaned in to stroke him.
Rupert wriggled, then jumped up into her arms.
Either he’d already been Stockholmed, or, I began to wonder, perhaps Victoria had been kinder to him than she’d let on.
‘So,’ she said, peeling him off her and placing him on the floor. ‘Everything all right with you and Nick?’
I nodded, distracted by Rupert arching his back on my carpet.
Victoria squinted her eyes. ‘Right, OK,’ she said, before giving Rupert one final pat on the head. She shut the door quickly before he was able to follow her out.
Moments later, I caught sight of her running back up the front path. She posted a large envelope through my letterbox. Inside were multiple newspaper and magazine clippings highlighting various shocking facts about the US, including but not exclusive to terrorism threats, obesity crisis, gun crime, poor social welfare and the number of unresolved puppy abductions in New York City.
I stuffed the clippings back into the envelope and left it on the side, then took Rupert, along with the list of poisonous plants into our garden. I’d decided to stay home with him that day to settle him in and show him around.
I pushed open the old French doors and stepped out onto the patio, trying to recall the last time I had actually ventured into the mass of weeds and tangled shrubbery that was our ten-metres-square London garden. It must have been over a year ago when we’d just moved in. I placed Rupert down by my feet and watched him explore. To little Rupert, faced with dense foliage over twice his height, it must have seemed like a jungle. He stepped tentatively forward, then a crow squawked and he ran back between my legs. Moments later, he tried again, this time venturing a little further.
Just as I’d spotted a potentially toxic-looking weed, my phone rang again. It was Mandi.
‘Ellie, where are you?’
Rupert bounded back between my legs. I shifted him away from the plant. ‘At home,’ I said.
Mandi paused for a moment as though she didn’t quite know what to do with that information. ‘Doing what?’
I bent down and tugged at the roots. ‘Weeding.’
Mandi paused again. I imagined her twitching her nose. ‘You need to come in.’
I threw the weed onto the patio. Rupert sniffed it then ran back between my legs. ‘Can’t it wait?’ I said.
‘No,’ she replied, more sternly than Mandi usually spoke. ‘It’s important.’
When I arrived at the office, having transported an increasingly perplexed Rupert in his Louis Vuitton dog carry case, Mandi jumped out at me. She was wearing what looked like an Aztec-patterned tepee with a coordinated neck scarf.
‘Ellie, you’re late,’ she said. ‘Into the meeting room quickly.’ Then she stopped, turned and peered into the carry case. She held her hands to her chest and made a high-pitched squealing noise.
‘Aw,’ she said, ‘a puppy! I absolutely love puppies. Did I tell you how much I love puppies? And kittens, of course. I love kittens. But not as much as puppies. Puppies I simply adore. He is just too cute. Can I cuddle him? Please can I?’ She peered in closer. ‘What’s your name, little fellow?’
Rupert growled. I went to turn the carry case away, assuming Mandi’s attire must have alarmed him, when I noticed Dominic standing behind her. Rupert growled again and then bared his tiny teeth.
Dominic sneered at the carry case. ‘No animals in the office,’ he said. ‘Clause 13.5b on our lease. He’ll need to be removed immediately.’
Mandi waved Dominic away. ‘Oh, get a life,’ she said. ‘It’s not as though he’s running wild, chewing the table legs and weeing up your trousers. Besides, it’s essential Ellie is present at this meeting.’
Dominic’s jaw tensed before he followed Mandi, Rupert and I into the meeting room.
Once we were all seated, Mandi flipped open her laptop. I smiled at her, quietly hoping she was about to unveil an e-petition for which she had solicited a hundred thousand client signatures objecting to my relocation.
She stood up and cleared her throat. ‘Eighty per cent of our matchmaking workforce is women,’ she began.
Dominic sighed and checked his watch.
‘Forty-three per cent of those are mothers,’ she continued.
Dominic rolled his eyes.
‘Our maternity package is grim.’ She looked down and started rubbing her tummy. ‘We offer little more than statutory pay, no child-care benefits and no additional support to mothers at all.’
Dominic sat back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head. He let out an extended sigh. ‘Have you got something to tell us, Mandi?’
She ignored him. ‘If our business is about bringing couples together, then surely our business should also be about preventing couples from separating.’
I leaned forward.
Mandi continued. ‘If we don’t support the family unit, then how can we say we are supporting the couple?’
Dominic sighed again. ‘So let’s cut to the chase, what do you propose?’
Mandi smoothed down her blonde flicks and pressed some keys on her laptop. ‘I’ll email you my full proposal, but, in short, I would like us to provide on-site childcare, flexi-working hours, extended holidays, extra sick pay when children are poorly, priority parking for pregnant women and breast-feeding stations in the office.’
He laughed again. ‘How about prenatal yoga while we’re at it? Or nappy bins in the meeting rooms. A jungle gym in the lobby?’
Mandi scowled at him.
‘What about paternity rights too?’ I interrupted. ‘One of my closest friends is a house husband.’
Dominic rolled his eyes. ‘Men shouldn’t be looking after babies.’
Mandi and I both stared at him.
Dominic shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’re not built for it,’ he said. ‘We don’t have the hormones or the attributes.’ He nodded to my chest and raised his eyebrows. ‘We were meant for world domination, not bottle feeding and nose wiping,’ he said.
I glanced at Mandi, whose mouth was wide open, then back at Dominic.
Dominic smirked. ‘Although the breast-feeding station sounds intriguing.’
I shook my head and stood up to leave.
Dominic followed me. ‘Oh, by the way, Ellie,’ he said, ‘the investors rejected your request.’
I turned to face him. ‘What request?’
‘The request to conduct your research from the UK.’
I stepped back. ‘I wasn’t aware I had formally requested that yet. I didn’t even know a meeting had been scheduled.’
He leaned forward and squeezed my shoulder. ‘I sent you an email. The meeting was this morning,’ he said. ‘You missed it, while you were tending to—’ he glanced down at Rupert, who was now sleeping in his carry case ‘—your dependant.’
That night Nick and I sat in bed together with Rupert nestled between us. Nick had insisted Rupert not be left alone with the weird heartbeat toy on his first night with us.
‘Dogs are pack animals,’ he’d said, seemingly trying to justify his sentimental side. ‘They feel insecure unless the alpha dog is there to protect them.’
A lengthy debate as to whether Rupert would view me or Nick as his pack leader followed, before our conversation moved on to the topic of New York. It wasn’t long until my arms were folded. ‘How many times do I have to say this? I’m not leaving my clients,’ I said.
Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t have any clients any more. When was the last time you actually did any matchmaking?’
‘The business needs me.’
‘You can work from New York.’
‘Well, I’m not leaving Rupert.’
‘Oh, come on, Ellie. You’re not going to let the perceived needs of a nine-week-old canine come between us and our future happiness.’
I stared at Nick. ‘Sorry, whose future happiness?’
He stared back at me.
‘Besides,’ I continued, ‘he’s our responsibility now. There’s no way I would consider rehoming him. He’s been through enough turmoil in his little life already.’
Nick smirked. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that for a second. We would take him with us.’
I glanced at Rupert, then back at Nick. ‘What sort of life would he have in Manhattan?’
Nick laughed. ‘Ellie, we have a Brooklyn budget. I was thinking Park Slope.’ He picked up his iPad and showed me an image on the screen. It looked nice enough, but there seemed to be lots of traffic.
‘What about the pollution?’ I asked.
‘We live hundred metres from the South Circular. I suspect there is a higher concentration of sulphur dioxide on Battersea Rise than there is on Broadway.’
I glanced down at Rupert. ‘I just want to give him the best life we can.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Are you going to fret about his schooling now? Or the cultural clash he might face when integrating with native American breeds?’ He laughed again, though louder this time. ‘Do you think the Brooklyn street dogs are going to back him into a corner, mug him of his grain-free puppy snacks, and say, “Hey, Stan, we’ve got us a Sporting Lucas here. He says he’s from Engerland.”’
I folded my arms more tightly across my chest. ‘What about my friends?’
‘You’ve seen Cordelia once in the past year.’
‘It’s not my fault she chose to move to Woldingham.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘You hardly ever see Kat because she lives north of the river. And when was the last time you saw Matthew?’
‘Last Friday actually.’
Nick turned to me with a frown.
‘He came with me to Cassandra’s divorce party.’
Nick raised both eyebrows. ‘You went to a divorce party? Are you supporting a different cause now?’
‘I’m not supporting divorce, I’m supporting Cassandra.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s a nut job, that one. I don’t even want to imagine what went on at that party.’
I sighed. ‘It was a divorce party, not a swingers party.’
He scowled at me. ‘It’s still weird. And not the sort of place I want my wife hanging out.’
‘Hanging out? I haven’t hung out anywhere since I was fifteen and wore Reebok Classics.’
He smirked.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘it’s my job. You have to respect that.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Your job is to run a business. You have matchmakers to do all the other stuff now.’
‘Ah, thanks for telling my what my job is.’
‘Well, at least I know what it is you do.’
I tutted. ‘I know what you do.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on then?’
I sat up in bed and lifted Rupert onto my lap. ‘You work in finance.’
Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, me and the rest of the working population of London. What precisely do I do in finance?’
‘You manage risk.’
‘Manage? What does that mean?’
‘It means you oversee risk algorithms.’
‘Oversee?’
I huffed. ‘Look, I don’t follow you around all day taking notes. How am I supposed to understand the intricacies of financial technology?’
‘You’re not. But it would be nice if you cared enough to find out the intricacies of my life.’
I forced a laugh. ‘Says he who didn’t even know where his wife was on Friday night.’
‘That’s because I was too busy doing a job I hate.’
‘Too busy entertaining. What a drag.’
‘It is a drag spending time with a bunch of wide boys who think Chateaubriand is a type of wine.’
‘If you hate it so much, why don’t you leave?’
Nick sat back and glared at me. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’
‘But I don’t want to move to New York,’ I said.
‘What about what I want?’
I glanced around the bedroom, then back at him. ‘I can’t believe you’re so quick to give up on our dream.’
Nick sighed. ‘What dream, Ellie? The dream you’ve been spoon-fed by your friends and those silly magazines you read. The dream that involves stripped floorboards, a herb garden, Petit Bateau-ed children and an ultimate migration to Surrey. The dream you’ve been trying to shoehorn your life into since the day we met.’
I looked down at Rupert. His shiny blue eyes stared back up at me. It seemed as though he knew exactly what I was trying to say.
Nick’s expression softened. He leaned towards me and squeezed my hand.
‘We can’t have children, Ellie,’ he said. ‘We have to accept that and move on with our lives.’
I snatched my hand back. ‘I’m not going to leave my clients and I’m not going to leave Rupert.’
Nick pulled himself up in bed. ‘You want to stay here instead? In a town with the highest birthrate in Europe, torturing yourself? And, what, try IVF another twenty times until you’ve bankrupted us or turned into even more of a mental case?’
‘I’m not going to give up.’
‘On what? You don’t even know what it is you’re holding out for.’
Nick pulled up the duvet, turned away from me and switched off the light. Rupert clambered off my lap, climbed onto Nick then back onto me until finally settling in the valley between us.
I lay there, listening to Rupert’s gentle snores, watching the outline of his tiny ribcage rising and falling, and wondered what precisely it was that I was holding out for.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_2fa626de-d348-5937-8b7e-4b02ab05b593)
I awoke to a damp duvet and a deep regret for co-sleeping with an eight-week-old puppy. Nick had already left for work. Usually he woke me to say goodbye so it was clear he was trying to make a point. I helped Rupert down from the bed, pulled on my dressing gown and went downstairs.
On the landing, I stopped and peered into the empty room across from our bedroom. The morning rays sliced through the centre of the room, directly across the space I’d planned to put the cot. I’d envisaged one of those old-fashioned bassinets, draped with a broderie anglaise blanket. I redirected my gaze to the walls, which were presently the dull grey of neglect. I’d planned to warm them with Dulux’s Vanilla Sunrise, topped off with a frieze I’d seen in John Lewis which was covered with Beatrix Potter bunnies. My gaze finally settled in the dusty corner opposite me. It would have been the perfect place for a rocking horse. Rupert nudged my leg as if to guide me downstairs.
In the hallway, I stopped again and glanced around the front room. It was still bare aside from a black leather sofa from Nick’s old bachelor pad. It was going to be the playroom, filled with plump cushions and airy wooden trunks overspilling with brightly coloured toys. I took a deep breath and glanced back up the stairs. Nick was right: so many rooms, now with no purpose. I let out a deep sigh. It seemed neither the house nor I would have the chance to fulfil our potential.
A whimper from Rupert distracted me from my thoughts. He was looking up at me, head cocked as if to say: I live here now too, you know. Then he bounded over to the back door and started pining.
Once I’d opened the door, he sprang across the patio slab without hesitation and began rolling in the grass. The sheer delight in his eyes reminded me of a recent episode of Dr Phil, during which he’d iterated the importance of living in the moment. There was a yogi on the show who’d explained the art of mindfulness. At the time I’d found it hard to take the expert seriously; however, now, as I looked up to the sky and inhaled the fresh morning air, I wondered if perhaps Rupert could bring new meaning to my life.
‘That’s fox poo, you know.’ Victoria’s voice hit me from above. I swung round to see her standing on her stadium-sized roof terrace, swigging an isotonic drink from a flask. ‘Hunting dogs love to roll in it. It masks their smell.’
I looked at her, then back at Rupert, who was still writhing in the grass, the orangey brown streaks along his fur now clearly visible.
‘Rupert. No!’ I shouted.
Rupert sprang to his feet and wagged his tail.
I looked back up at Victoria, who was now stretching her calves and smirking.
‘You could have told me,’ I said.
‘What?’ she said, lifting her leg up onto the glass wall around her terrace. ‘That you have fox poo in your garden? It’s been there for months. Along with the dead squirrel.’ She leaned over to stretch. ‘It’s hardly surprising,’ she continued, ‘given that degree of neglect.’ She placed her leg back down and then stared at me for a moment. ‘Why are you still in your dressing gown? It’s ten o’clock.’
I pulled the gown tighter around me. ‘I didn’t sleep so well last night.’
Victoria stared at me for a moment, then screwed up her face. ‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘I hope you’re not depressed. You know I can’t abide depressed people.’ She arched her back into a reverse downward dog, then sprang back up. ‘Or fat people,’ she added. ‘So self-indulgent.’
I watched her shake her hair out of its ponytail and then roll her shoulders before walking back inside. Then I glanced back down at Rupert and the poo smudges around his neck and shoulder. He’d even managed to embed some in his diamanté collar. I scrunched up my nose and carried him at arm’s length towards the bathroom.
According to a website dedicated to the behavioural tendencies of the Sporting Lucas, Rupert should have been delighted with his bath. Although not bred as a water dog, many Lucas-derived breeds were deeply fond of the water, the author of the website had explained, further evidenced by photos of Sporting Lucases enjoying an array of water-themed pursuits. Rupert, however, acted more like a kitten being plunged into concentrated hydrochloric acid, leaping out and desperately scrambling up the sides. I had to hold him down while applying a generous blob of his sulphite-free doggy shampoo.
Just as I was towelling him dry, the residual aroma of fox poo wafting towards me as I did, my phone started ringing. It was Matthew. I put him on loudspeaker and explained my situation.
He laughed loudly. ‘I bet Nick is loving that. Three rounds of IVF and now a dog in the bed. He’s probably wondering if you’re ever going to have sex again.’
‘Thanks, Matthew. That’s really helpful.’
‘You asked.’
‘Er, no actually, I didn’t.’
He continued. ‘So, why aren’t you at work? You’re not leaving for New York already, are you?’
I sighed. ‘No, Matthew. I’m not going. Remember?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said and then paused. ‘So, in that case you’ve taken a day off work to show Dominic you’re sulking.’ He laughed again. ‘Following which, he will undoubtedly issue you with a formal apology, cancel your travel itinerary and transfer his shares to you.’
I sighed. ‘I’m not sulking. I told you, I’ve taken a day off to settle Rupert in.’ Then I paused for a moment, wondering why there wasn’t the usual foray in the background of Matthew’s call. ‘Where are your kids?’
Matthew laughed. ‘I haven’t killed them if that’s what you’re wondering.’ There was a prolonged pause. ‘Although,’ he continued, ‘on a particularly trying day I once masterminded an untraceable and painless way to do it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know, if the need ever arose.’
I sniffed Rupert and then towelled him some more. ‘And when, precisely, might the need to murder your own children arise?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t really thought it through,’ he said and then exhaled slowly. ‘Perhaps if there was a nuclear war and the population of Barnes became zombified and started eating each other. Or there was a localised coup and gangs of machete-wielding rebels began slaughtering families whose children went to private school.’
I shook my head and picked up Rupert’s brush. ‘So, working from the theory that the village of Barnes is still at peace, rather than the set for a real-life depiction of a Will Smith movie, where are they?’
‘Lucy’s taken them on a playdate.’
‘Isn’t she supposed to be at work?’
There was a pause. ‘She’s taking a sabbatical. I’m on strike.’
‘On strike? From what?’ I asked.
‘From domesticity. I still see the kids. Just not all day. And I’m refusing to perform any more household chores. This morning I went to the spa.’
I laughed.
He continued. ‘And today I was going to come to your offices to meet you for lunch, but since you’re sulking let’s go to Barnes Bistro instead.’
I tutted. ‘I’m not sulking.’
‘One-thirty work for you?’
Then the line went dead. I glanced down at Rupert. He looked back at me with an expression that implied he might enjoy a trip to Barnes.
After I’d brushed him and sprayed a still pungent part of his neck with doggy deodorant, there were still two hours to spare before my lunch meet with Matthew. Rather than checking the inevitable emails laden with divorce and heartbreak or barked orders from Dominic, I decided a much more productive use of my time would be to clear the garden for Rupert. I didn’t need Dr Phil to tell me that pulling up a few weeds was an infinitely simpler task than attempting to derail divorce for the masses.
Nick’s unused garden gloves were in the shed, still in their packet. The garden rake and broom still had their tags on. Like most couples we’d had grand plans when we first moved in, but somehow life had taken over and the ideas we’d had, such as laying decking across the patio and packing tubs full with sage and rosemary, never quite came to fruition.
Rupert seemed to enjoy his playtime in the garden, chewing twigs, eating grass and sniffing spiders. Each time I scooped some leaves or weeds into a bag I squeezed it tight just to make sure he hadn’t found his way into the pile. It wasn’t long before I’d filled ten bags with dead plants, rotting leaves, the remainder of the fox poo and the dead squirrel.
Every so often, Victoria would appear on her roof terrace to offer direction. She seemed genuinely baffled as to why I hadn’t arranged a ‘professional’ to do it for me.
Once I had finished, I hosed down the patio and brushed away the remaining mud and dust with the broom. Then I sat on the back step. I had two throbbing blisters on my hands but as I looked around at the courtyard with its high walls and creeping ivy—a pocket of tranquility in the busy streets of London—I couldn’t help but let out a contented sigh. As I did, Rupert jumped into my lap and closed his eyes. My eyelids felt heavy and I was tempted to close mine too, but it was nearly one o’clock and, given the bizarre mood Matthew had been in of late, I knew it would be unwise to leave him unsupervised in a licensed premises for even the briefest amount of time.
After I’d quickly changed my clothes, I looked down at the loose knit jumper and White Company trousers I’d selected, and wondered why I was dressing for the life I wanted rather than the one I had. I briefly considered digging out my old skinny jeans and Topshop T-shirts that I’d packed away in our spare wardrobe, but there was no time. I slathered on some lip gloss, tucked Rupert into his carry case, and set off to meet Matthew.
Just as I walked out of the house, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen, half expecting it to be Victoria complaining that a stray leaf had blown into her espaliered apple trees or else Matthew telling me to meet him at the nail bar instead.
As it turned out, it was an ex-client of mine, Harriet. She and Jeremy were the first couple I matched. But if I’d known seven years ago in the grounds of an eighteenth-century chateau in Versailles that I was committing to their relationship for a lifetime too, I might have reconsidered. Or at least insisted on some kind of matchmaker prenup.
Harriet was sobbing when I picked up. ‘He’s done it again, Ellie.’
I sighed. ‘Oh dear.’
‘I’ve just been through his receipts.’
‘Are you OK?’
She sniffed. ‘No.’
‘So what is it this time?’
‘Three grand.’
I’m not sure what was more disheartening. The fact that her husband Jeremy had spent three thousand pounds on strippers in one night. Or that Harriet, bred of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, had begun using the term ‘grand’ like a character from a Martina Cole novel.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘The Windmill Club.’
I tutted.
‘Can I see you, Ellie? I really need to talk this through.’
I glanced down at Rupert. He wagged his tail. ‘Sure,’ I said, trying to sound as upbeat as I could.
‘I’ve got an hour or so before I have to pick the kids up. Where are you?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be at Barnes Bistro in ten,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a friend with me though if you don’t mind him chipping in? He’s a little eccentric but can be quite insightful sometimes.’
She took a moment to reply. ‘That’s fine. See you there. Thank you, Ellie.’
Matthew was seated at a table and talking to a waiter when I arrived.
‘I want the biggest Brie and Parma ham baguette you have,’ Matthew explained.
‘I’m afraid we only have one size of baguette, sir.’
Matthew rolled his eyes. ‘Well, how big is it?’
The waiter measured out a sizeable-looking baguette length with his hands. Matthew scrunched up his nose. ‘I’ll have two,’ he said, ‘and some fries. And a bottle of rosé.’
I held my hands up. ‘I’m not drinking today.’
Matthew grinned. ‘I wasn’t ordering for you, sweet-cheeks.’
I ordered a mineral water and a seafood salad, then told Matthew that Harriet would be joining us.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘My first attempt at “me time” is being sabotaged by a whiney housewife.’
I sat back in my chair and stared at him, trying to fathom what was going on under that bouffant quiff of his.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
He looked up to the sky as if to ask why he had been saddled with such an unintuitive friend.
I glared at him. ‘Of course I know you’re not OK. I’m just trying to decipher if you’re having a bit of a wobble, or if you’re about to totally go off the rails.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t stress. It’s all manageable.’ His grin widened. ‘At least with a bottle of rosé.’ Then he snatched the bottle from the waiter and began pouring himself a glass.
Once he’d finished his first baguette and most of the rosé, his mood seemed to settle. He even made a few jokes that weren’t entirely at my or the waiter’s expense. I speared the final prawn off my plate and looked around us. For once I hadn’t even noticed the small children and babies dotted around me. I hadn’t engaged a new mother in conversation, hoping her fertility might somehow rub off on me. I hadn’t even remarked about how cute the kids’ menu sounded. I glanced down at Rupert’s carry case and smiled. His eyebrows twitched and he let out a tiny yelp. He was in a deep sleep. I imagined him dreaming about chasing leaves and bounding around the courtyard. What a sweet little world he lived in, full of exciting things to discover and adventures to be had.
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Haley Hill
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: ‘High drama and lots of laughs’ – Fabulous MagazineDating Agency doyenne Ellie Rigby always thought that helping people find love with the hard part…But now she’s all loved up with husband Nick and has hundreds of matchmaking successes under her belt, Ellie ought to know all there is to know about love.As her struggles to get pregnant put strain on her marriage, and her matchmaking service starts losing clients, Ellie realises she has so much more to learn. So setting off on a global research trip, Ellie makes it her mission to find out what makes love last forever, and whether it’s enough to save her own romance.