Husband Hunters (10 page)

‘Is it James?’ Clem said. She got her answer from the sad look on Dani’s face.

‘He was flirting with a woman from work today,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I care! It’s been fifteen years.’

‘You were so smitten with him,’ Clem said, almost to herself.

Dani had written pages of essays to Clem during their tertiary years, outlining arguments for why she and James should get married.

‘I thought I was over it. I don’t know what changed. Perhaps I’m bored. I have nobody else in my life, so I’ve locked onto someone comfortable and familiar.’

‘People do that,’ Clem nodded.

She didn’t want to tell Dani that it was plainly obvious she was in love with James. Clementine had thought she had seen longing looks from him on Saturday night, too. But she didn’t want to give Dani false hope. In her twenties she had learned the harsh lesson that girlfriends tended to give more weight to her advice because they believed she had uncovered some secret to men’s souls in her Psych classes. Too often she’d had broken-hearted girls call in tears to denounce her suggestions, even though other friends got off unscathed, despite their advice being far sillier. (Like when Melanie Sissowitz told Daniela to dye her hair blonde because James really liked Madonna.)

‘What I need is a distraction,’ Daniela said. She was looking eagerly around the room, scanning, like a terminator set to matrimony. ‘What about them?’ she nodded at a large table of men.

Annabel’s suitor left, but not before taking a business card. She settled in next to Daniela and Clementine.

‘He was nice. But he’s not really someone I would normally go for. Nor was the guy at The Establishment.’

‘We’re not supposed to be going for men we normally go for,’ Dani reminded her.

She drained her glass and walked defiantly to the other end of the bar. Annabel and Clementine stretched their necks to watch. Two men from a table of six were ordering drinks. They were deep in conversation. Daniela leaned over, said something and then started chatting with the bartender. For Clementine and Annabel it was like watching a silent movie where you have to wait for the dialogue to come up and reveal what the conversation was about. The men grinned at each other and started talking to Daniela. After a minute she waved them over.

‘Wow. That interjection really worked,’ Clementine said in another bathroom conference.

‘The second I broke the ice, they were all over me,’ said Dani.

‘I say we try the swift retreat method again,’ said Annabel.

For the second time that night, they made their excuses and left, but not without another date each.

Walking a wobbly line home they passed York 64, a sports bar that was packed to bursting point. Its windows had fogged up from all the people inside.

‘One more?’ asked Annabel.

‘No, we’ve had too much to drunk,’ Clem said. ‘Drink — we’ve had too much to drink. See! We can’t drink on the job.’

‘Okay, no more husband-hunting,’ said Annabel. ‘But we should have one more cocktail. To celebrate a successful phase one. Just us. I’m buying. Daiquiris. Come on, we’ve barely paid for a drink all night.’

In the end they didn’t pay for the daiquiris either. They stumbled upon a friendly bachelor party of genial men in their late thirties who were enjoying some sedate last drinks. The buck already had three children with his fiancée, and they were planning a quick ceremony at the registry office in the morning before leaving the kids with his parents and hopping on a plane to Hamilton Island.

By the end of the night, Daniela and Clementine had three dates each and Annabel had four. Clem walked home feeling comforted. Maybe she wasn’t going to be left on the shelf. Maybe she wouldn’t have to marry a fantasy role-playing fan who dressed like a warlock and made her call him Sirridian the Bold while insisting their home was not in Annandale but the Kingdom of Arrowsreach. She climbed into bed with a smile on her face. But she still couldn’t resist pulling out her phone to check for messages from Jason. Just in case.

Annabel pressed mute. The
bong
sound her computer made every time an email arrived was relentless. She was starting to wonder if it was in her head and she was going a little bit mad. Sweet Success had just signed a major new client — Farouk Spices, high-quality seasonings — and work was chaotic. She had advertised for two new staff members. Her opposite number at Farouk appeared to be a control freak, and was constantly emailing and calling. Because Kathy was off having her wisdom teeth removed, all of her emails and calls were being diverted to Annabel.
Bong!
Mute. She clicked again: MUTE!

Ant stuck his head into her office.

‘Um, two hundred sample vials of Farouk paprika have just arrived.’

‘What? They were supposed to go to the bar for the party on Wednesday night.’

‘I know, the courier wants someone to sign for them. Shall I send him to the bar?’

The phone rang.

‘No, no, I’ll sign for them. I’ll drive them over on Wednesday.’

Ant brought her the clipboard. Annabel scribbled a signature, then he disappeared. She picked up the phone.

‘Hi, this is Penny Lenkhoff speaking. I applied for the PR job and was just wondering when you were going to be contacting candidates for interviews.’

Annabel couldn’t believe it. She had only advertised the job five days ago.

‘I’m sorry, Penny,’ Annabel said. Two more résumés popped into her inbox as she explained that she hadn’t had a chance to start going through the CVs yet.

‘Besides, applications don’t close until the end of the week.’

She hung up without saying goodbye, which is something she never did. It’s very bad form. But Ant was at her door again with a large brown box.

‘Is that the paprika?’

The phone rang again.

‘Oh, for crying out loud!’

‘No, it’s a parcel that’s just arrived.’

She motioned for him to put it down and answered the phone. It was a commercial real estate agent who specialised in leasing office space.

‘I have found some possibilities for you if you’re free to look at some venues this week,’ he said.

After placing the job ads Annabel had realised her office could barely accommodate one more staff member, let alone two.

‘Um, Thursday … no, Friday?’ she suggested.

‘Let me see …’ While the agent consulted his schedule, Annabel opened the box Ant had put on her desk. Inside was a plate of pancakes drizzled with raspberry coulis and a letter. It was a job application from a girl named Sybilla. She said that she had read in a
Vogue
interview about models who had switched careers that Annabel loved to relax with a book and a plate of pancakes on Sundays. The coulis was by Eton Essentials, a food client of Annabel’s that specialised in condiments. Annabel was impressed. She agreed to meet the real estate agent on Friday, then she called Sybilla and asked her to come in for an interview at eight-thirty the next morning. She bit into a forkful of crimson-coloured pancakes. Another résumé arrived while she was chewing.

‘Worry about it tomorrow,’ she told herself and logged out. It was time for her first husband-hunting date.

Date 1: Monday night dinner at Aria. Target: Archer Drysdale, dollar analyst at CommSec. Keen tennis player and Sydney Theatre Company subscriber. Expectations: middling.

The cab pulled up at the restaurant just after eight. As Annabel was paying the driver a text message arrived. It was Archer writing to say he was running five to ten minutes late. The waiter seated her and did his utmost to be of help. Nine minutes later Archer called and said he was so sorry but — expletive, expletive, expletive — a computer bug was throwing out projections, but he would be there in five minutes.

The waiter hovered, impatient to be given a task. Annabel took a large gulp of water. He pounced excitedly and refilled the glass. A few minutes later Archer arrived, brandishing a small bunch of slightly crushed wine-coloured roses and a briefcase that had corners of documents escaping from it.

‘So sorry,’ he said, offering the bouquet. ‘There’s no excuse for keeping you waiting. You look fantastic.’

‘Thanks. So do you.’ Annabel rose to kiss him.

Archer had hair the colour of butternut pumpkin, large blue eyes, and fair, freckled skin.

He ordered a pinot grigio from Western Australia. While they waited for it to arrive, he told Annabel that he had a keen interest in viticulture and hoped to tour the Bordeaux region the next time he got a chance to take a holiday.

‘I would love to travel around France tasting cheese and wine,’ she said.

Mentally she put a little tick in a box marked ‘common interests’, while trying to imagine the two of them tramping up and down muddy vineyards in matching Burberry gumboots.

They ordered. The waiter, looking shamefaced, told them that the coconut milk used in the sea bass broth had been recalled and they’d had to make a last-minute menu change.

‘I’m so sorry about this,’ Archer said, looking embarrassed.

‘Oh, it’s not your fault,’ Annabel told him. The box marked ‘manners’ also received a tick.

‘Allow us to offer you a complimentary bottle,’ the waiter said, ‘to apologise for the inconvenience of the sea bass not being available.’

They finished with a brandy and a dessert doused in cognac. By the time the bill arrived, Annabel was feeling light-headed.

‘That was lovely,’ she said as Archer walked her to the cab rank. A taxi pulled up and he opened the door for her.

‘Well, good night.’ He leaned forward. Annabel offered her cheek, but he went straight for the lips and planted a full kiss. She jerked back — remembering the husband-hunting rules — stumbled, then slipped off the curb and tumbled into the taxi.

‘Bye,’ she called.

She was sozzled. When she got home she climbed into bed without taking her dress off. She looked at the ceiling and whispered the names ‘Annabel and Archer Drysdale’. It had a melodic ring to it. She imagined them immortalised in the painterly style of the front cover of a paperback romance. Him in an akubra, her in leather riding gloves, sitting on top of a walnut-coloured mare overlooking rolling French hills. The title would be
An Analyst’s Affair
or
Love Blooms in a Bar
.

Verdict: Nice smile, attentive, but apologised too much. Rebooked for dinner next Tuesday.

Annabel woke with the uneasy feeling something was wrong. The world was foggy, but brighter than it should have been at 7am. She looked at her clock.

‘Oh my God!’ She had slept through her alarm. She jumped out of bed and into the shower. As she hadn’t done her ironing, she reached for a dress she usually wore to barbeques and disguised it as office-wear with a Karen Millen blazer. There was no time for breakfast.

Sybilla was waiting when Annabel arrived at work. Annabel shook her hand. The younger woman was about three inches taller than her, very slim, with olive skin and long dark hair. Annabel noticed she was wearing Bally heels and wondered how she could afford them on her junior salary.

‘I’ve been following your career for the past five years,’ Sybilla said as she trailed behind Annabel. ‘You have been a real role model.’

‘Oh?’

‘I worked as a catwalk model throughout university, but I’ve always wanted a professional career. It’s so inspiring that you have been able to make a success of both.’

As they walked through Annabel’s office doorway, Annabel caught their reflections in the glass: Sybilla, young and fresh, and beautiful without adornment; Annabel, looking like she was wearing a wig that had been through the tumble dryer.

‘I don’t know any other agency that has such a commitment to developing a brand’s aesthetic signature,’ Sybilla said. In spite of her young age, her résumé was extensive, but there was something about her that unsettled Annabel. Her sensible self, the inner voice that sat next to her conscience, suspected that it may have been jealousy that caused her to hesitate. The slits of light coming through the venetian blinds in her office were stabbing her eyes, adding to the sensation of being past it.

‘Thank you for coming in at such short notice,’ Annabel said, standing. ‘Applications for the two roles are still open, but your letter and your pancakes were very impressive.’

‘Thank you for your time,’ Sybilla said, shaking Annabel’s hand confidently. Her palm was soft and perfumed with cocoa butter. ‘I hope you make a decision in my favour. I feel I could really contribute to your company.’

Damn, Annabel thought. Textbook. But she didn’t have time to dwell on that now. She had a million other things to get done before date number two.

Date 2: Tuesday night dinner at Fish on the Rocks. Target: Maroun Karam. Intellectual property lawyer at Slaters Lawyers, dedicated rock-climber. Expectations: Excited about famous profiteroles on the dessert menu.

Annabel watched Maroun talk animatedly over scallop entrées. He was beautiful, but for some reason she couldn’t quite pinpoint why she didn’t find him attractive. He had roots in Lebanon and lovely brown eyes. He was bird thin and had long, delicate fingers.

‘I’m ready,’ he told Annabel earnestly. ‘I’m sick of the games. What’s so taboo about admitting you need someone? Why can’t people say: I want to settle down, how about you?’

She told him emphatically that she agreed. But her heart ached a little at how transactional it sounded.

They ordered dessert. Annabel chose profiteroles and Maroun a cheese plate, which he expertly dissected with his pianist’s fingers. When the plates were cleared away and the coffee came, he again raised the topic of marriage.

‘I hope I wasn’t too forward, but I believe in speaking my mind. My parents have been married for nearly forty years. An arranged marriage. It worked for them.’

Annabel thought how her mother had always had a knack for spotting the incompatibilities with her former boyfriends. Perhaps he was right. But she doubted Maroun was the man her mother would choose for her.

The front cover of their storybook romance would depict her sitting at a desk at the marriage registrar’s office. Dressed in a lavender suit with a fussy blouse underneath, she would be signing a contract with an impassive look on her face. Maroun would be leaning over her shoulder, smiling, with a fountain pen poised so he could add his signature. The title would read
A Satisfactory Arrangement
. She gave Maroun a weak smile.

On the street he shook her hand, clasping her right hand with his, then placing his left hand tenderly on top.

‘Maybe we’ll meet again,’ he said.

Verdict: Lovely eyes, family-minded. Rebooked for dinner next Monday.

The plans for the cocktail party were coming together. After two weeks of being driven insane by Farouk’s internal brand manager, Annabel’s perseverance was starting to pay off. By 3pm all she had to do was drive to the Arabian Nights-themed bar called Azkaban with the paprika samples to meet the company’s managing director. She had a final look over the night’s running sheet. She had designed a series of spicy cocktails that used Farouk ingredients. There was a chilli martini, a saffron Manhattan, a mai tai garnished with mint, and bloody Marys bursting with paprika and cayenne pepper.

‘We love it,’ gushed the MD, his lips rimmed with a white Russian moustache. (Another special recipe infused with Farouk-brand cinnamon.) The other senior managers murmured in agreement.

A swarm of guests arrived at seven on the dot. As Annabel observed the interactions between the men and women, she thought about what Maroun had said. They were sending each other signals. Flirting, retreating, testing for interest or trying to indicate theirs. She imagined what it would be like to have all that done away with; to have your partner chosen for you. Then there was a clang followed by a crash and she turned her mind back to work.

Date 3: Thursday lunch at Mint in Surry Hills. Target: Tom Lavosh, online marketing manager at Ford. Expectations: Positive; remember Tom as very funny.

‘It sounds like a huge success!’ Tom said as Annabel rehashed the party over lamb and tabouli. ‘I wish you’d invited me along. Or were you worried I’d steal your sales secrets?’

He was easy to talk to and pleasing to look at. There was something slightly daggy about him, but in a good way. The dad jokes, the novelty tie — Annabel could imagine him chasing kids around a backyard with a hose pretending to be a water monster. He would star on a paperback romance cover in a chunky knit and grass-stained jeans. The backdrop would be a yard strewn with toys. The cursive title would read
Suburban Sweetheart
.

Verdict: Potential. Rebooked for yum cha next week.

Annabel spent Friday looking at offices. The agent ferried her around five or six seemingly-identical city spaces that were all airless and overpriced. Each time she scrunched her nose in disappointment.

‘There is one more place,’ he said. It was on the fringe of the city. It had three private offices that were cut into an open-plan area that would comfortably accommodate a further six staff members. There was also a conference room, which they would need if they took on more staff. The building was old, but it had charm.

‘How much?’ Annabel asked.

‘It’s a little more than you wanted to pay.’

She opened a filing cabinet that was covered in dust. She had calculated a strict budget for the next few months. But she was also aware of a few promising contracts that they were well-placed to put in bids for. If Sweet Success landed even two or three new clients it would need to grow fast.

‘Can I let you know on Monday?’ Annabel said.

Annabel went back to her office and shuffled some figures around on a spreadsheet. She couldn’t afford to take on two fully-qualified staff members and pay the rent at an office that would fit them all. Either she had to forgo the office and hire two new staffers, or hire only one new staffer and get the larger office. Which they wouldn’t need with only one new staff member. The other option would be to hire Sybilla. The entry-level wage would free-up some cash. But something was making Annabel hesitate. She resolved to think about it over the weekend. It was 6pm and she had one more date to get through.