Do You Want to Know a Secret? (7 page)

‘In my elegantly appointed kitchen, probably Parazone-wiping my borrowed patio furniture by now.’

‘You got furniture? Way to go.’

‘On loan from my mother. Has to be back tomorrow. God love her, she didn’t want me to be entirely mortified at the state of the place in front of you pair.’

‘Don’t suppose by any chance Laura brought food?’

‘Tonnes. Dips, crisps, the whole carb-heavy works.’

‘Cool, I’m starving. Sex always makes me hungry.’

‘Barbara, I thought you didn’t even like him?’

‘I didn’t say I
liked
him, I just
fancy
him. Completely different thing. God, you’ve so much to learn from me in such a short space of time.’

We head into the kitchen where poor old Laura is
deep
in mid-conversation/row with one of the kids, while (I was right) simultaneously Parazone-wiping down the patio table and neatly rearranging the chairs around it, as if you’re
supposed
to have garden furniture indoors. Even though she’s holding the phone at ear’s-length, we can hear everything and it’s not pretty.

‘Emily, your brother is very sensitive and you are NOT to tell him that you can’t heal animals, you just prefer to witness their suffering instead. You know perfectly well that he’s very attached to that gerbil, and you’re to go in there and apologize to him right now. Yes, well, when you’re a mother, you can be mean too. No, that’s not true, I
AM
glad you’re alive. Right, that’s it, I’m hanging up now, tell Granny she can referee the next row . . . ooops, sorry you had to overhear that, ladies,’ she says, snapping her phone shut and looking very hassled, as she gives Barbara a big bear-hug.

Poor old Laura, her kids really do come with two volumes: loud and deafening.

‘Trouble at mill?’ asks Barbara sympathetically.

‘Oh, don’t let’s even go there, it could take all night. Barbara dearest, what in God’s name are you wearing, did you really come out in public dressed like that?’

‘Haven’t been home since last night.’

‘I thought you’d a date last night.’

‘Well, what can I say? It was a good date. Apart from
the
eejit I was with, that is. In fact I’ve just done the walk of shame from his apartment . . .’

‘And this is what you wore?’

Laura’s now picking bits of stray fluff off Barbara’s jacket, grooming her like female gorillas do when they’ve chosen a mate. I saw that on
National Geographic
once and made a silent vow never EVER to even attempt to ‘tidy up’ a bloke, just in case he runs a mile. At my stage of life, I’m taking no chances. Plus it’s sort of evolved into a phrase Barbara and I use to describe the way really, scarily possessive women behave around their blokes: ‘dust-fleckers’.

‘Yeah, why, what’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing, only just that it looks like the kind of fabric they use on the space shuttle to prevent it from burning up on re-entry.’

Now, granted, it might sound a bit stinging, but then that’s our Laura for you. Always the barrister, ready with a rapier riposte.

‘Mix me a margarita, and while you’re at it, pour out a large saucer of milk for the dust-flecker here,’ Barbara says to me, as I’m busy squirting lime juice into the cocktail shaker.

I keep my head down and wisely elect to stay well out of this one. Like I said, time and experience have taught me this is always the best course of action whenever this pair start having one of their legendary
ding-dongs
. The great thing about Barbara, though, is that she never takes offence and is virtually unembarrassable, so Laura’s harping on at her tends to go right over her head. Besides, harping on is just a natural extension of Laura’s innate mammy gene.

‘Was I dust-flecking?’ asks Laura, surprised.

‘Most definitely.’

‘Sorry, dearest, it’s an involuntary action with me at this stage,’ she says, putting crisps into neat little bowls that she’s brought. ‘It’s just that you can look so lovely when you’re dressed . . . how do I put this? A little more upscale and a little less flammable.’

‘Right, just for that, we’re starting with Vicky. Ladies, please set your bladders to “off”.’

‘Excuse me, did you say
starting
with me?’ I say, peering over the top of the fridge and simultaneously trying to bash ice cubes out of a tray for the drinks.

‘If I could jog your sieve-like memory, this caper was entirely your idea, Vicky, so yeah, you’re up first,’ says Barbara, fishing what looks like a shopping list, scribbled on the back of a gas bill, out of her handbag. ‘No point in raising your eyebrow at me either, honey, I missed an entire repeat episode of
Oprah
doing this list out for you. I’m taking my project-management role here very seriously, so you might as well just shut up and listen.’

‘Good girl,’ says Laura, nodding at her, impressed.
‘You
not watching daytime television is always a step in the right direction.’

‘Right then,’ Barbara goes on, ignoring her and referring down to her gas bill, sorry, I mean notes. ‘Here’s the way I see it. Oh yeah, and you also have to remember that I’m saying all of this from the standpoint of love.’

‘That an Oprah-ism too?’ asks Laura, one eyebrow raised.

‘Do you mind? As project manager, I’m officially telling you that if you interrupt once more, I’ll make you go into what WILL be the state-of-the-art jacks, and grout tiles for the rest of the night. You’ll get your turn later. Anyway, I think we all know how much you want to be with someone, Vicky . . .’

‘The
right
person,’ I correct her, slowly pouring the drinks out of the cocktail shaker and into three little picnic-sized plastic beakers. ‘Please, dear God, no more emotionally unavailable messers, commitment-phobes, bores that I’ve nothing in common with and I’m only dating out of my pathological fear of being left alone, eejits, half-wits or, worst of all, most damaging of all, the nice guy, the DSM. You know, the one I actually think could be a runner, a keeper, who, after a few perfectly nice nights out, and a few nice kisses and some nice phone calls etc., drops me like a hot snot. Would you like me to back this up with examples, girls? You’ve
only
to ask, I’ve about two dozen at my fingertips.’

And if I sound like I’m ranting, you’ll excuse me. It’s only because this particular, painful subject is something of a well-worn hobby horse at this stage. The girls, thankfully, are well-used to me.

‘I certainly do take your point about that lethal species, the
nice guy
,’ says Laura, emphasizing her words. ‘At least if you know in advance that a man is a complete bastard, then if nothing else, you’re prepared for heartbreak when it inevitably comes. It’s the
nice guys
that ought to come with a government health warning. Well, I married what I thought was a
nice, decent guy
, didn’t I? And just look how that turned out for all concerned.’

‘So if you can find me a life-partner that fits into the category “none of the above”, I’d be eternally grateful,’ I say. I’m not quite ignoring Laura, but, at the same time I am hoping to avoid getting into a slagging-off-her-soon-to-be-ex-husband marathon, which, let’s face it, could easily go on into the wee small hours. I hate to sound selfish or anything, but we’ve all devoted so much airtime to that particular subject over the years, and it’s most definitely NOT why we’re gathered here tonight.

‘OK, Vicky, I’m stopping you right there,’ says Barbara, firmly. Or at least as firmly as it’s possible to sound, given that she’s also stuffing her face with tortilla
chips
and a dribbly blue-cheese dip. ‘Just look at what you’re attracting!’

‘I’m not exactly attracting anyone, now am I? Can I just point out that it’s Saturday night and here I am, at home, dateless, living in a building site and sitting on patio furniture borrowed from my mother.’

‘At least you’re working and earning and you know that you’ll have the cash coming in to transform this place,’ Laura butts in. ‘Look at my life and feel free to gloat if you’d care to. Do you realize there’s a very good chance I’ll end up rotting in a debtor’s prison?’

‘As project manager, can I just say we’re dealing with one issue at a time,’ Barbara says to her, mouth still stuffed. ‘You’ll get your turn, don’t worry, so just sit there quietly and drink your dinner.’

Then she turns her full attention back to me. ‘Now, Vicky, I just want you to really listen to yourself: “I don’t want this, I don’t want that, he can’t be like this, I’m so sick of guys who are like that . . .” Come on, what do you expect? You’re putting out nothing but negativity, so of course that’s what the universe is delivering right back at you. It’s very obedient like that. At least that’s what that American woman told us at the mind, body, spirit whaddya call it. Remember?’

OK, this actually shuts me up. She did say that and, what’s more, so does
The Law of Attraction
. There’s a quote in it from some Victorian philosopher saying that
just
like the law of gravity, the law of attraction never takes a day off. Or words to that effect. Suddenly I’m aware of how negative I do sound, and it’s quite a sobering thought. Well, that and the fact that our Barbara, our wonderful, flaky, dippy, slightly off-the-wall Barbara has turned into a cross between Sir Alan Sugar and Donald Trump. You should see her, she’s being
scarily
assertive.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says, clocking the bewildered look on my face. ‘Am I being a bit hard on you?’

‘No, but you just said all that with such authority, I bought it.’

Now Laura, who’s genetically incapable of sitting quietly and letting other people get on with it, gets her two cents’ worth in. ‘Ladies, as you’re no doubt aware, I have a tendency to tune out whenever you pair start talking about the universe; however, I do actually find myself in agreement here. What I mean is, I see it with the kids all the time,’ she adds, taking in the blank expression on both our faces. ‘Our brains just aren’t programmed to understand negativity. If I say to the kids, “Don’t go outside, it’s raining,” all they hear are the words “outside” and “raining”. Therefore all I get is: “But Mum, we really want to go out outside, that’s all we want, you’re ruining our lives, we hate you, all of our friends are allowed do what they want . . . etc., etc., etc.”, repeat ad nauseam. However, if I rephrase and say, “It’s horrible out, let’s stay in and read,” then they’re all up for it.’

She takes in our vacant, non-parent, ‘what-the-hell’s-she-on-about’ stares again. ‘Sorry, but I’m only trying to keep this within my own particular frame of reference.’

‘OK, OK, so maybe I do have a slight attitude problem when it comes to men,’ I say, a bit grudgingly.

‘So are you going to sit there whingeing, or are you going to listen to what I have to say?’ says Barbara, in the all-new, businesslike, assertive voice.

God, I’m thinking, looking at her and drifting off for just a sec, she’d be so fabulous in a soap opera, cast as the Joan Collins type, you know, looking stunning, with the long red hair tied up, wearing professional make-up and a tight little designer suit and a hat with a veil and saying lines like: ‘Too bad, Dexter, I just bought ninety-nine per cent of your company, so actually
you’re
the one who’s fired. HA!’

Well, OK, so maybe with better dialogue than that, but you see what I mean. How come I never spotted this before?

‘The way I see it, it doesn’t matter how you got here,’ she goes on. ‘The big question is, what are you prepared to do about it? Which is what I’m here to tell you. And first up is: you’re going to write out your dating cheat sheet.’

‘Excuse me, my
what
?’

‘Like a list. I want you to scribble down the absolute basic, minimum qualities that your future life-partner
absolutely
must have. Come on, you’d do it if you were buying a house, so why not a husband?’

‘Well, maybe not this house,’ says Laura, blithely.

‘And I want you to be really specific, like, say, if you want him to have a hot body and do meals on wheels in his spare time, or . . . I dunno, be in Amnesty, whatever.’

‘So you’re saying it’s not enough for a guy to be Mr Right any more, he has to be Bono as well,’ I say.

‘Just hear me out, will you?’ says Barbara, referring back to the notes on the back of her gas bill. ‘Now one of the more unpleasant sides to being project manager is that I have to get you to face up to the ugly truth. Namely, that for as long as I can remember, Vicky, it’s like you’ve basically been dating any guy that’ll ask you. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s almost as if you’re so bloody grateful that they’ve invited you out in the first place that you just say yes, regardless of whether you actually like them or not. Once they have a proper job and they don’t have two heads you just slap your DSM label on them and away you go.’

Ouch.

There’s a tiny, stunned silence from my corner while I’m thinking, could she actually be right?

‘I’m afraid I have to agree,’ says Laura, nodding like a Buddha. ‘You are in fact suffering from indiscriminate affirmative syndrome.’

‘Excuse me, I’m suffering from
what
?’

‘You always say yes. To men, at least.’

‘How
very
dare you,’ I say, in a Catherine Tate voice, hands on hips, as though I’m messing, but I’m actually not.

That stung. And, as ever, when cornered, I get a bit defensive. That plus the fact that I’m beginning to feel a bit ganged-up-on by the two of them. God, this is starting to remind me a bit of school, when Laura was the one with all the brains and the great future ahead of her, and Barbara was the one who was never without a fella, and me . . .

Well, I just wisecracked my way through things, really. I’d launch into a comedy routine to cover up my shortcomings/complete and utter failure with the male race.

And here I am, all these years later,
STILL
doing it.

‘OK, so maybe I don’t exactly run a screening programme on guys,’ I say. ‘But come on, I mean, all the dating manuals out there say you have to give every single potential boyfriend a decent chance. Besides, at my age, shouldn’t I just gratefully take what I can get? The law of attraction book even says it: attitude is gratitude. So as long as he has a pulse, a job, can use a knife and fork and doesn’t steal from my handbag, then I’m prepared to give any guy a whirl.’