Wise Follies (4 page)

‘Eamon’ – I begin the sentence cautiously, but with as much firmness as I can muster. ‘Eamon, I think you should know I’m not at all sure we’re suited.’

Eamon does not seem surprised at this remark. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about commitment lately,’ he says slowly. ‘My younger brother got married last month and it just didn’t seem right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m the older one,’ he frowns. ‘It should have been me.’

‘I don’t think they keep scorecards about that kind of thing.’

‘I went to the wedding alone,’ he continues dolefully. ‘My sister kept saying, “Where’s Alice? Why didn’t you bring Alice?” And I thought, “Yes, why didn’t I? Why isn’t Alice here?’” He says it somewhat reproachfully. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

‘Life has got rather bland without someone to share it with – but it was never bland with you.’ His tone has changed to fond nostalgia. ‘I’ve been remembering all the good times we had together and wondering why I let us drift apart. We could both wait forever to meet our ideal person, but what is “suited” Alice?’ He looks at the wine bottle as though it might speak. ‘We’re comfortable together. We have similar interests. I find you attractive. Sexy too.’

I watch this lob land in my court with a rogue bounce. It’s hard to respond to compliments with an overhead smash, and yet I want to be truthful. ‘Look, Eamon,’ I sigh. ‘You’re a handsome, intelligent man and, yes, it is true we are quite comfortable together. Sometimes. That pine shelving you put up has been invaluable. And I think all those subtitled movies we saw together did improve my French. But we don’t have that many similar interests, do we?’

‘We’re both alone, Alice.’ Eamon looks deep into my eyes. ‘We’re both nearly forty and, maybe, want a family. That, added to the rest, adds up to quite a lot.’

I wish he hadn’t said that word. Forty. It wasn’t fair. Sometimes I feel as though I’ve got romance mixed up with tennis. I really don’t want to be ‘forty–love’ – that is, loveless, like some score at Wimbledon. As Eamon speaks I can almost hear the old biological tick tock, and other tick tocks too. He seems to be treating his proposal like some sort of business agreement. The romantic side of me is, frankly, rather offended.

I just know my Mr Wonderful, if he exists, would have found a better way to broach this subject. He would have looked deep into my eyes like Tom Hanks stared at Meg Ryan in
Sleepless in Seattle
. But maybe watching too many Hollywood films has skewed my judgement. Maybe Eamon is right to treat marriage in this methodical manner. There’s no ‘whoosh’ about his proposal. No sudden dislocation. It’s nothing like the rabbit holes I have so frequently wandered into. It seems practical. Sensible. So why am I gripping the edge of my seat so fiercely that my fingers have begun to ache?

Eamon leans towards me earnestly. ‘Look, I’m going to Peru tomorrow.’

‘Peru?’ I repeat, somewhat startled.

‘Yes, I’ll be away for five months. I know I should have mentioned it earlier but it does give you time, Alice. Time to decide what your answer will be. I sense you need that.’

‘Yes, I do,’ I agree with considerable relief. ‘Leave it with me,’ I add, as though he’s put a memo on my desk. ‘I’ll let you know what my answer is when you get back.’

Eamon studies me carefully. He’s a consulting engineer. He knows about construction. About the weights that things can take. Is he surveying me to see if I could bear him? There is always a heaviness about him. But would I just add to it? And what would he add to me?

After the meal, Eamon drives me home in his new Audi. As we cruise along the dual carriageway I press the buttons of the car radio, trying to find something brazen and unsentimental. ‘And now we have Laren Brassière’s new CD, “Little Fishes”,’ an Australian disc jockey says with practised brightness. As a loud wailing sound invades the car I lunge towards the control panel and surf on to Barbra Streisand who is singing ‘I Am a Woman in Love’. I wince and am about to press the buttons again when Eamon says, ‘Leave that on. It’s nice’. He glances at me tenderly, conspiratorially, as though I am ‘A Woman in Love’ myself. But I’m not, that’s just the point. I’m not.

And I wonder if I ever will be.

Chapter
3

I hadn’t meant to
tell Annie about my meal with Eamon. The thing is, I let it slip that I got home rather late last night, now she wants to know the reason.

‘Yes, what did you get up to last night?’ Mira adds unhelpfully. She’s just appeared in the kitchen and has plonked her very wet wetsuit beside me on the floor.

‘Look, could you put that thing in the bathroom?’ I demand irritably. ‘Just because you’ve taken up windsurfing doesn’t mean we have to have bits of the Irish Sea dripping all over the lino.’

Mira pours herself a mug of freshly ground coffee and makes a face at me. ‘She dashed out of the cottage wearing her Laura Ashley dress,’ she murmurs sotto voce to Annie before she picks up her wetsuit and, with mug in hand, pads barefooted out of the room. She knows she’ll be able to prise the details from me later.

‘Was it a date?’ Annie is leaning towards me excitedly.

‘Yes,’ I mumble.

‘Oh, Alice, you’ve met someone. How wonderful!’ Annie almost spills her tea at the news. ‘Who is he? Come on…give me the juicy details.’

‘Oh, all right,’ I sigh, ‘if you must know it was Brad Pitt. You know how he’s been pestering me lately.’ I look at her, hoping she will laugh. Far-fetched claims that Hollywood actors have been competing for my company are among our older jokes. ‘We went by Learjet to Nice,’ I continue. ‘I had asparagus for starters.’

Annie eyes me stonily. ‘Who is he?’ she repeats.

I look wistfully at the cat who is stretched out and purring on a cushion. I have a good reason for not wanting to tell Annie about Eamon. She believes that he and I are completely incompatible. I think it’s something to do with a dinner party I gave when we were going out together. Annie didn’t like the way he just sat there and didn’t help me with the food, or the crockery, or the conversation. I told her he was shy, but she wasn’t impressed by this excuse. She also didn’t like the way he’d disappear for days on end to play golf but ‘didn’t have time’ to go away on holidays with me. I complained to her about all this myself, in great detail, so I suppose I have contributed to her bias. The thing is she doesn’t know the ‘other’ Eamon. The one who sat with me in that restaurant. The one who is masterful and attentive and sporadically sensitive. The one who watches me closely while I’m daydreaming and then gives me a little smile.

Annie herself is watching me – watching me with the resolve of a woman who bakes her own brown bread on a routine basis. I take a deep breath. It’s obvious that I’m going to have to tell her about Eamon’s proposal. And so I do.

‘Of course, you said “no”,’ Annie chuckles, as soon as I’ve spilled the beans.

‘No, I didn’t actually,’ I mumble, making a trellis with my fingers. ‘He’s in Peru for five months. I said I’d give him my answer when he gets back.’

‘You’re not actually taking this suggestion of his seriously, are you?’ Annie is looking horrified. I really didn’t think she’d react quite so dramatically.

‘Well, it does seem worth mulling over a little,’ I reply mildly. ‘I mean, it’s not every day someone asks you to be their wife.’

‘Your answer must be “No”.’ Annie says it most urgently. ‘You don’t love him. You know you don’t.’

‘Yes,’ I agree resignedly, ‘but he is quite practical. I mean, he put up that pine shelving very well. He’s very obliging, Annie. And he’s not at all difficult.’

‘Oh, Alice.’ Annie reaches out and pats my hand. ‘You poor sweetie. I didn’t realize you were feeling this – this romantically demoralized.’

‘It’s not just that.’ I pick up a biscuit and start to munch it. The crumbs trail down a corner of my mouth but I’m too preoccupied to wipe them away. ‘I’m trying to be sensible, Annie. If I want to have a baby I’ll have to get round to it soon. And I’m tired of these pipe dreams of meeting Mr Wonderful. Fantasies about him cheer me up on rainy evenings, but they don’t hug me when I get into bed. I can’t whisper to them, spoon up with them. They don’t give me cuddles – and I need cuddles.’ I stare at her bleakly. ‘I’m lonely, like Eamon. I don’t think either of us realized just how lonely we are until now.’

Annie rubs my back comfortingly.

‘No man has shown a romantic interest in me for ages,’ I continue. ‘Eamon may not be Mr Wonderful but he wants me. I’d almost forgotten what being wanted feels like.’

‘Oh, Alice, what has happened to your self-esteem?’ Annie asks. ‘You’re pretty and interesting and kind and…and a very talented painter,’ she adds loyally, knowing this will please me. ‘If you’re determined to marry then there are some very pleasant men I could introduce you to. Men who are far more suitable.’

I regard her with tender exasperation. ‘You’ve already organized quite enough dinner parties on my behalf, Annie. And, anyway, the men you introduce me to are already half in love with you. It is a tribute to your sweet and unassuming nature that you don’t realize this, but it’s a fact.’

‘Of course they aren’t in love with me!’ Annie says this with great vehemence. She looks just like she did at primary school when the teacher wouldn’t believe Alan O’Callaghan had given her a Chinese burn. ‘And what about Ernie?’ she adds, glancing at her watch worriedly and reaching for her handbag. ‘Ernie took your telephone number. He liked you.’

‘Yes, and he also borrowed my hand-painted silk scarf and didn’t give it back.’

‘What!’

I hesitate. ‘Look, I hadn’t meant to tell you this but…but Ernie is a transvestite.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ Annie exclaims.

‘Yes, he is. He admitted it to me after a number of Guinnesses in O’Donnell’s pub. He wanted to dress up as a woman on our next date, and I’m afraid I said I’d find it too embarrassing.’

Annie is staring at me, dumbfounded. She is clearly distressed that her matchmaking went so awry.

‘But he was very nice,’ I add, now desperately trying to console her. ‘And’ – I smile at her wryly – ‘he gave me some really good tips about exfoliation.’

‘Oh, Alice, I’m sorry.’ Annie grimaces at me apologetically. ‘I’m beginning to understand why you’ve developed hermit tendencies.’ She gives me a hug and starts to head purposefully out of the room. ‘Sorry to dash,’ she adds, ‘but I’ve got to collect Josh from playschool.’

‘How is Josh?’ I ask, as I open the front door for her. Annie is a single mother and Josh, her five-year-old son, is one of my favourite people.

‘He’s decided he wants to be Wayne Rooney,’ she smiles, then she pauses and adds anxiously, ‘Alice, I know you’ve had some sobering romantic experiences, but I do hope you’ll start going out a bit more. I – I really do think you need to explore your options. Especially…now.’ She says the ‘now’ bit very firmly and I know she’s referring to Eamon’s proposal.

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I find myself mumbling, I don’t like seeing her this fretful.

After Annie has left I find myself wishing that she and most of my other female friends didn’t have such strong opinions about romance. For example, Sarah, the features editor, claims that finding Mr Wonderful is a bit like tracking down some extremely rare and fleet-footed mammal and Mira makes flat, disturbing pronouncements like, ‘Love often finds you when you’ve stopped looking for it.’ The minute you do this, apparently, you are as in demand as Sellotape at Christmas. What she doesn’t mention, however, is that not looking for love probably has to find you too. Find you after years of spent illusion. Find you when you’ve turned into a sturdy soul who rings up radio gardening programmes and talks excitedly about brassicas. The minute you start doing this, apparently, Mr Wonderful tracks you down with the unlikely determination of the man in the Milk Tray ads. He swoops you off while you’re still mulling over whether to relocate your rhododendrons.