A Surrey State of Affairs (19 page)

Mark had been made redundant that morning. As soon as he got to work, his manager called him into his office and told him, as kindly as possible, that he would have to clear his desk. It was a conversation he had been dreading for months. Mark was a senior derivatives trader (whatever that means—Tanya tried to explain, but she ended up staring blankly into the middle distance, as did I). In any case, she impressed upon me the fact that, given the financial climate, his profession was akin to being a turkey in December. After the inevitable occurred, he blasted home in his Porsche, told Tanya the news, kissed her on the cheek as she stood there stunned, then left again to “clear his head.” That was an hour ago. “He was still wearing his lucky cuff links,” she said, another sob breaking out. She gestured to a small crate in the kitchen that contained all his possessions from seven years of work at the bank: a Reuters desk calendar, a small gift hamper from Fortnum & Mason, some folders, a dog-eared copy of the book
Investing for Dummies,
a pocket calculator, and a novelty Margaret Thatcher nutcracker.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s all he’s got left.” The sorry pile stood beneath one of many framed wedding photographs, which both our eyes drifted up toward. It showed the happy couple in
Barbados, Tanya wearing a sheath of designer silk with a stem of acid-pink hibiscus tucked behind one ear, her skin shining and nut-brown, her hair immaculately flaxen-colored. Mark was in a cream suit, open at the neck, a huge smile on his face. They had flown 120 people over, she said, for a ceremony on the beach, at sunset, flanked by candles, where they said “for better and for worse” with silver sand between their toes before cracking into Bollinger and lobster.

“And now I don’t even know if we can afford a Bugaboo pram. What will happen to us if Mark can’t find another job?”

I reassured her as best as I could and then, sensing that she wanted to be alone, I left, the pristine copy of
You and Your Baby
tucked discreetly under one arm.

  
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9

What has become of the modern man? Jeffrey excepted, the male of the species seems lacking not just in employment opportunities and proper footwear but also in get-up-and-go. Take Gerald. Last night he scuttled into the belfry late, to take up his usual position by my side. Miss Hughes—who was resplendent in an olive-colored tweed skirt two inches shorter than usual—asked to swap places with me so that she would be next to him. Instead of seizing the opportunity to sidle up to her, as any red-blooded man would have done, he was quite put off his stroke.

  
THURSDAY, APRIL 10

Ruth appeared at Church Flowers like some mournful specter, dressed in layers of baggy white. As she approached me, blinking behind her purple plastic glasses with a self-pitying smile on her face and a book called
The Secret
clutched in her hand, I decided I had no truck with her nonsense. Just as she
began to assert that the way to overcome sorrow was within, I cut her off.

“Now, look here, young lady,” I began. “Have you found out that you’re pregnant and that your husband has just lost his job? Have you been abandoned after thirty-six years of marriage for a trapeze artist?”

She was silent, her fey smile drooping.

“No? Well, then. I suggest you buck up.”

Pru clucked indignantly, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that, secretly, she was on my side.

After arranging was over, I gathered up the leftover flowers and took them around to Tanya, who was struggling to peel a carrot and weeping. Mark had suggested she try cooking a meal from “scratch,” and she said she had been shocked to discover that scratch wasn’t in fact an Asian vegetable or a form of small, bristly wild boar. I introduced her to the stock cube and helped her make a shepherd’s pie before leaving. I wonder where her friends are in such difficult times. She must have lost touch with her old colleagues after leaving work, and I suppose she moves in different circles from her school friends’.

When I got home I signed on to Facebook and changed my status to
Does anyone know anyone with a job for a banker?
No one replied.

  
FRIDAY, APRIL 11

I have packed a capsule wardrobe for my trip to London this weekend: black low-heeled shoes, smart black trousers, a stone-colored knee-length skirt, a black sleeveless fitted top, a primrose-colored cashmere cardigan, my cream Burberry raincoat, and a can of mace spray. I am all set. If you don’t hear from me again, please write to the mayor and ask him to mount a search
party in the Notting Hill area. I am so glad that that dreadful Ken Livingstone is no longer in charge. Never trust a grown man in a duffle coat, as I have told Sophie many times.

  
SATURDAY, APRIL 12

I must be quick. Bridget is in the shower and we will be scooting off to the Victoria and Albert Museum as soon as she’s ready, and it’s already taken me ten minutes to figure out how to use her funny white Mac computer. She told me something last night that I just had to share with you. My old university friend, with her first-class degree and her high-flying publishing career, has launched herself in a new direction. She is now a writer of erotic fiction under the pen name Bluebell Lahore. After a few glasses of wine, she explained that times “were looking pretty iffy” in publishing and that it made sense to have a lucrative sideline. “Even in a recession, women will always buy chocolate, makeup, frilly underwear, and dirty paperbacks,” she said, grinning through blackberry-colored lips stained with red wine. I thought of Tanya with her carrot peeler and her roots, and I wondered.

“And besides, writing them’s a breeze. There are only three plots you need to know. One: poor, downtrodden young heroine battles adversity; man A, who is also poor and downtrodden, falls in love with her, but she falls in love with man B, who is a rich, vicious love-rat; she has a steamy affair with man B then he breaks her heart then man A fights him then inherits lots of money then girl and man A live happily ever after. Two: feisty, successful young heroine bored in marriage to man A, who is dependable but dull, starts illicit affair with man B, who is a rich, vicious love-rat who breaks her heart, sending her back into the arms of man A, who in the meantime has started to work out and now has a six-pack and some handcuffs. Three: sweet, naïve young
heroine saving herself for marriage with man A, her childhood sweetheart, when love-rat man B arrives on the scene and leads her astray; man A fights him wins back heroine but then she runs off with man B anyway for a life of passion.”

I stood gaping at her, wineglass halfway up to my mouth.

“You see? Easy,” she continued, unabashed. “All you need to do is make up a few names and places and you’re laughing all the way to the bank. Maybe you should try it. You always had a way with words.”

I was tempted to reply that this blog provided me with as much of an outlet for my writing as I needed, but I bit my tongue. Dear readers, I think it best that you’re not joined by anyone who knows me. Instead, I muttered something noncommittal about being far too busy with bell ringing, then went to bed. I woke at three
A.M.
, however, from a dream in which Gerald was in the belfry with a “Man B” name tag pinned to his corduroy jacket and Miss Hughes was swinging about on a bell rope wearing a frilly Victorian-style nightie with her hair streaming out behind her and her bunions showing. I looked down and realized that I was wearing one of Sophie’s Topshop minidresses with the name tag “Girl A” attached to it. What does this mean?

I have no time to ponder an answer. I can hear Bridget’s hair dryer.

  
MONDAY, APRIL 14

I am back home. My London adventure is over. For two days and two nights, I shared the life of a cosmopolitan single woman. I sat in Bridget’s flat eating chocolate éclairs from the nearby French patisserie (making cakes is one thing the French can be trusted with), admiring the large bow windows, the antique book shelves, the pretty Oriental rugs, and doing my best to resist running my fingers across every surface to show up the
dust. Bridget herself does not have the crushed look that I expected in a single, childless woman of fifty-three. In fact, she has fewer wrinkles than I do: I know, because I counted them as she was leaning forward over the breakfast table to concentrate on a crossword. She was wearing a brightly colored silk kimono at the time, and whistling cheerfully. Nothing about her expresses the idea that she has crashed through life’s great hurdles. Over dinner at a smart restaurant, after I had spent half an hour bringing her up to date on the various shortcomings of Sophie and Rupert, she told me she was perfectly happy as she was, alone, and smiled serenely over her wilted green leaves and speck of sea bass. Perhaps she is simply putting on a brave face, or perhaps the Clarins beauty flash balm I spotted in her bathroom cupboard really works. After dinner she took me to some sort of forties-style club where everyone was wearing tea dresses and dancing. I’m afraid the martinis Bridget bought me went straight to my head and I had to take a taxi home. Bridget must have crept in like a mouse later because she didn’t wake me at all. She must have gotten enough sleep, though, because when she appeared for breakfast she certainly had a spring in her step.