Unsuitable Men (27 page)

Martin had never seen the point of History of Art, either. Of course he respected the practical application – like my former classmates who had gone on to work at Christie’s and
Sotheby’s. Martin understood that because it made a lot of money, but it was impossible to get in there without family contacts, and so I hadn’t tried. Martin liked art that looked like
art – pictures that were famous and respected and framed in a gallery with a Perspex box next to them that gave a neat summary of what one should know about them, no more, no less: This is a
picture of the King of Spain’s daughter and her court, painted by Velázquez in 1656, containing a self-portrait of the artist at work. And, oh look, is that a dwarf standing next to
the Infanta? When we had gone to Venice for the weekend a few years ago, revisiting my student field trip, Martin had looked interested only once: when I pointed out the resemblance of a Venetian
courtier in a fresco to Phil Collins.

Instead of insisting on my own interests, I’d danced attendance around him, trying to keep him happy, divining his moods. I glared at my reflection in the computer screen. Why was it that
every time I tried to hate Martin, the person I ended up hating was myself, for having been so weak for so long? If our relationship had ever had a chance, I’d thrown it away by becoming the
worst kind of doormat. A spineless pushover. No wonder he’d moved on to someone else. I bet his new girlfriend didn’t even know where the ironing board was, unless it was to use it for
some kind of acrobatic sexual act.

There was a brief rap on the door and Martha came striding into the office. Without saying hello, she sat down in the chintz armchair. She crossed her legs and clasped her hands girlishly around
her knees, smiling at me expectantly as if it was I who had interrupted her work.

‘Hi, Martha,’ I said, trying to make it sound like a question without rudely demanding what on earth she wanted this time.

‘Hello, Rory,’ she said innocently. But there was nothing innocent at all about her supposedly casual arrival. Since I’d deputized for her on the Seaton Hall piece, Martha had,
apparently without Amanda’s influence, suggested a few other projects that I might like to take on in her place. It hadn’t escaped my notice that each of these country house visits had
been scheduled for a weekend. I’d managed to escape so far by pleading prior commitments, but there was a gleam in her eye that suggested she was back for another try.

‘That was an excellent piece you wrote on Luke Home,’ she said. ‘Most amusing.’

‘Thank you,’ I said carefully.

There was something different about her. Instead of being slumped in the chair, resentfully looking out for Amanda, Martha sat on the very edge of the cushion, bouncing her top leg in a jaunty
manner quite at odds with her sensible shoes.

‘Yes, very jolly. He really was like a dreadful dog that wouldn’t stop humping the furniture, wasn’t he? How terribly embarrassing for Amanda.’

I tried not to take offence at Martha’s suggestion that Luke regarded me as little more than a chair-leg on which to rub himself. She was always at her bitchiest when she felt herself
threatened.

‘Amanda was perfectly happy with the piece,’ I said. Which was true. Although I think her praise had been mostly out of gratitude for my not mentioning in print Luke’s
trousers-down stationery-cupboard indiscretion. His undignified departure from our office might have made a good ending to a column, but I knew that to use it would have been tantamount to writing
my own letter of resignation.

‘Oh, of course, Rory, you’re quite the golden girl these days, aren’t you?’ said Martha, with what seemed to be a completely genuine smile. Maybe she wasn’t being
sarcastic at all. Something had definitely changed.

‘Have you had your hair cut, Martha?’ I asked. Perhaps that would explain it.

She raised a hand to the back of her head and patted her stern grey curls. ‘Just a little trim. How kind of you to notice.’

I felt suspicious. Why was she being so nice instead of snappish like normal? It had to be a particularly bad trip that she was trying to foist on me: somewhere far away and unpleasant, with
rude owners and a minibus full of the most mental freelancers for company. I kept silent and waited for her to speak.

‘Rory,’ she began at last. ‘I find I’ve double-booked myself for this Sunday.’

‘Oh, have you? That’s a shame,’ I said. There was no way I was actually going to offer to cover for her. I resented the implication that I would have no weekend plans of my
own, and I resented still further being regarded as some kind of kindred spirit to Martha just because both of us were single women without a trust fund between us. And yet the most I could hope
for if I stayed at
Country House
was to someday fill Martha’s Weldon’s of Ludlow shoes. I shuddered.

‘I thought you might like to cover for me at Hartley House on Sunday,’ she said, getting straight to the point. ‘This dating column seems to be taking up so much of your time.
I thought you’d be grateful for the chance to get back to what
Country House
is really about.’

‘I think the dating column is very much what the new
Country House
is about,’ I said, warningly. I didn’t want to be drawn into any kind of battle against Amanda’s
changes.

‘Oh yes, of course it is,’ Martha agreed hastily. ‘I know everyone’s very keen on it. Well done you. But I thought you’d always loved a country house visit? And
Hartley is only an hour out of London; a quick whizz-bang on the minibus at ten and honestly, Rory, you’d be back in time for
Antiques Roadshow
.’

‘No,’ I said. Martha looked astonished. I felt quite astonished myself. I’d never said no to her outright before. I think it was the insulting implication that I would want to
be home to watch
Antiques Roadshow
that forced the refusal out of me. And the realization that I had been a pushover too long – in all areas of my life.

‘But Rory,’ she pleaded. ‘It really won’t take long. No interview, no photo shoot, just a short presentation about the new altar screens and you’ll be
away.’

‘No,’ I said again, rolling the word around in my mouth like a toffee. It was such a satisfying novelty to say it.

Martha inched forward on the chair, her hands gripping the arms. ‘Rory, please. I’ll even write the piece for you afterwards. Just go on the trip so they know
Country House
has been, take a few notes and I’ll do the rest. I beg of you, don’t ruin my weekend.’

‘Martha, I’m sorry, I can’t do it,’ I said.

She stood up and brushed down her skirt; it was a soft tweed one that she had been wearing quite a bit lately. One of several new items in her wardrobe, I realized.

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Rory,’ said Martha, tight-lipped, straightening her soft purple twinset. That was new too. ‘I had thought you would be willing to help. I
thought we had an understanding, both being outsiders here. I see a lot of myself in you, you know.’

If she had thought that would weaken me, she had thought wrong. Nothing was more guaranteed to stiffen my resolve than to hear Martha express my deepest fear, that I might turn into her: bitter,
angry, frustrated and unhappy.

‘I’m so sorry, Martha,’ I said firmly. ‘I hope you can find someone else.’

‘So do I,’ she said, so kicked-spanielishly mournful that I nearly backed down, but I dug my fingernails into my palm to stop myself.

I watched her walk down the corridor back towards her office. I’d never paid much attention to Martha’s clothes before – they were usually variations on a theme of smart black
business-lady suits from Next that dated her as effectively as if she’d gone around wearing a badge with her age on it. But lately, although you still wouldn’t call her a stylish woman
(those shoes), she had begun to experiment with the gentle palette of a Scottish hillside – all lavenders, greys and pale greens. I wondered what had brought about the change. Perhaps
she’d had her colours done – it was just the sort of suburban eighties treat that would appeal to her.

It might have been saying no to Martha that lifted my spirits, or it might have been getting out of what sounded like a fairly dire day trip to Hartley House – I might
love a bit of art history, but it was hard even for me to get excited about altar screens – but I found myself heading home with a smile on my lips. Perhaps, too, it was the praise I’d
been getting for the new column – if it had even led Martha to be complimentary then I knew it was working in some way. It was strange to realize that, for all my talk of keeping my head down
and working away in the background, being singled out for attention had the power to entirely change how I felt about my professional life. From being despondent about the unsuitable-men project, I
began to see how, even if it wasn’t transforming my love life, it was making a difference to how I was seen at work. And maybe that was more important in the end? Maybe I hadn’t paid
enough attention to my job in all the years I was with Martin; the scales had always been so heavily weighted in his favour. If I could change my office persona from meek proofreader to
dating-columnist in just a few months, then maybe I could change it still further. I had my share of the house deposit from Martin sitting in the bank. I could retrain; go back to the Courtauld
Institute and take that Master of Arts that I’d turned down nine years ago. Or apply for one of those Guggenheim fellowships in Venice. I had no real ties any more. Where I had seen problems
– no relationship, a job I wasn’t sure about – now I was beginning to see possibilities.

As I turned the corner into Elgin Square, I heard a shout from the pub garden. I didn’t pay any attention as it was a noisy pub, frequented by a young and boisterous crowd that, if I was
honest, intimidated me a little. The outdoor heaters kept the smokers warm enough that the pub garden, which opened out on to the street, was as busy in the winter as at the height of summer. The
pub had even set up a small outdoor bar, which did a brisk trade in mulled wine and cider. Not that I had ever been there, but I walked past it often enough to feel like a bit of a local.

‘Oi,’ shouted a voice. ‘Oi!’

I ignored it, certain that whoever it was couldn’t be calling me. I don’t consider myself a snob, but I like to think I don’t know anyone who would choose to call me by
shouting oi.

‘Oi, Rory! Wait!’

Evidently I was mistaken. I turned around to see a man struggling to emerge from the row of potted bushes that separated the pub garden from the street. Rather than exit through the actual gate,
he had chosen to force his way out between the branches, pushing them apart with his hands and wincing as they flew determinedly back into his face. If it was a battle between man and bush, I would
have bet on the bush. Malky’s face grinned from within the greenery. Even when he looked ridiculous he looked gorgeous, his eyes reflecting the vivid colour of the leaves.

‘Rory, Jesus, help me, would you? These fucking bushes are determined to make me stay. I think they’re in the employ of the landlord.’

‘I’m not sure you’re going to be able to get out that way,’ I said, ineffectually holding back a small twig so that I could see Malky more clearly.

‘Then you’d better come in here instead, hadn’t you? I think the bushes are making their wishes plain. Let me buy you a cider.’

‘Oh, Malky, I’m not sure,’ I said, feebly. I felt like the universe had been trying to tell me, through the medium of Mr Bits and Gordon, that any relationship with Malky was a
non-starter. No matter how much his eyes might plead. ‘I was on my way home. I’m a bit tired, it’s been a long day.’

‘Jesus, woman,’ said Malky, with his beseeching look, ‘will you not even come in and let me tell you the story of Gordon’s miraculous recovery? Don’t you owe me
that much at least?’

‘Is he okay?’ I asked, peering through the bushes to see if the dog was visible.

‘Gordon’s off out with a mate of mine tonight,’ said Malky ‘You get twice as much money busking if you’ve got a dog with you, so I lend him out every once in a
while for a share of the profits. He actually made me a bit more money when he was bandaged up after that mental cat attack, so I feel like I owe you a drink in a way.’

He could see I was hesitating, though in truth I was tempted less by Malky than I was by the feeling that I wanted to be somewhere where other young single people were hanging out. As far as I
could tell, Malky was alone, but wouldn’t it be more fun having a drink with him, unsuitable as he was, rather than going home to Auntie Lyd’s, where no doubt Jim would be holding court
to his retinue of aged admirers? That decided me.

‘I’ll come in for one, okay,’ I agreed. ‘But I think I’ll give the bushes a miss.’

‘You might have to pass my drink to me through the verdant growth,’ said Malky, struggling. ‘I’m not sure it’s going to let me go.’

But the bushes did let him go in the end, even if I had to spend five minutes pulling leaves out of his tangled hair and agreeing that the scratches on his hands and face were surprisingly deep
and almost certain to become dangerously infected. Malky insisted that, as this might be his last night before developing a life-threatening case of bush-induced gangrene (and yes, he made every
possible bush-related joke you can imagine, but I will spare you from repeating them all here), we had to drink deeply to his very good health. It was warm underneath the glowing heater, and warmer
still after two pints of mulled cider, but Malky said he had to sit right next to me to make sure I didn’t take a chill.

‘Rory,’ he said, looking into my eyes very seriously as his leg pressed against mine. ‘Rory, I feel like there’s something between us.’

‘You do?’ I asked. It seemed rather early in the evening for him to be putting the moves on me. He shuffled a little bit closer.

‘I do,’ he said. ‘Something tangible. Something . . . vibrating.’

‘
Vibrating?
’ I may have had limited experience with unsuitable men, but this didn’t seem like something that was in any kind of a romantic script.