Behaving Like Adults (14 page)

Each person is given a card, and assigned four twenty-five minute dates, as I think I've mentioned. That night, we were expecting twenty people. Four of them were on second dates, which means that the previous week they'd both ticked the same box, indicating that they'd like to meet up again
and
hoped to be more than friends.

Usually it's all I can do to stop myself crying with joy. I feel like a mother hen whose chicks are all grown up. You look at the quiet signs of their delight and you feel it in your heart. On those nights I feel so exhilarated I end up lying awake till four in the morning grinning and – not crying, that's too dramatic –
eye leaking
at the ceiling.

But that day I was unmoved. Except that my stomach lurched every time I thought of my women going off into the night with strange men. Although, and I had to remember this, they weren't strange men. They were lovely men, like Bernard. The mainstay of Bernard's letter to Girl Meets Boy was the country cottage he owned in ‘rural Devon'. And the boast that he'd recently taken up cricket. I'd winced, but the next line had torn my heart as if it were a tissue. ‘I have never,' he wrote, ‘really found that special someone with whom to enjoy life's ups and downs.'

‘Nige,' Claw had said, nodding at me, ‘Kleenex alert. Holly's got a saddo.'

This double indignity had forced me to cease grizzling,
for two reasons. First, it's humiliating to be read like a picture book, and second, it would have alerted the guards further to the fact that Bernard was – I object to the word ‘saddo' – not strictly Girl Meets Boy material. He was a little elderly, at forty. Our cut-off line was thirty-eight. But, just this once I'd made an exception. I reckoned Sam and Bernard would get on great. He seemed sweet and he wasn't bad looking. And his dress sense was hideous which I felt she could relate to.

Nige booted open the door, balancing four styrofoam cups in a precarious tower stabilised by his chin. The other hand was clutching a greasy paper bag bulging with doughnut shapes. He set down his wares on the desk formerly known as mine but now apparently Issy's, and said, ‘Three coffees, with milk, and one tea, no milk, two sugars?'

‘N—' began Issy. Then, ‘Oh, for . . . give it here.'

Claudia took a huge bite of doughnut to stifle her laughter and a splodge of jam flew out and landed on the open page of Issy's orange notebook. Nige and Claudia were on the floor. Issy sighed deeply, ripped out the page and threw it in the bin. And missed. By the time I'd settled everyone down I knew exactly how Arnie's character felt in
Kindergarten Cop
. (One of my favourite films, if you'll keep that to yourself. ‘Dere
iss
no bat-room!' being the best line.)

I began the meeting by reeling off the (unchecked) list of candidates and my pairing suggestions.

‘On what basis?' Issy barked, after my first couple. Georgina and Mike.

I flapped a folder at her. ‘Based on what they've said in their application forms, what they've said when we've spoken to them on the phone and what we've observed on meeting them at previous Date Nights.'

Issy nodded, a sharp up–down nod.

I
wanted
to say, ‘Look, Issy, if you want more information, say so, don't nod then go silent, it feels like manipulation.' So I did.

Issy opened her mouth but Claudia was quicker. ‘Whoa, whoa, wait a sec – Georgina and
Mike?
When did you decide
that?
Georgina can't go with Mike. They wouldn't get on in a million years. Georgina is a trainee solicitor and a part-time model, she's fun, confident and she wears those fabulous knee-high boots and pencil skirts, and Mike—'

Nige was nodding. ‘Mike,' he added, ‘is a sweet guy, but he works in IT for godsake,
and
he told Claudia last week that he's never eaten an avocado and never intends to, he only likes “English” food. Won't touch pasta or pizza. I'm amazed we took him on in the first place, and I bet I know who sneaked him in as well. Georgie is an A and Mike is a C. If anyone, Mike could go with Sam. But other than her, we're going to find it hard to match him with anyone. If we put him with Georgie, she'll ask for her money back.'

I looked at them, amazed. ‘But Mike is so, you said it yourself, Nige, he's so sweet. He's . . . gentle, and nice, and respectful.'

Claudia snorted. ‘Right. And that's just what women want. Sweet and nice and
DULL
, Holly!' She opened her mouth so wide I could see to the back of her throat. ‘Yaorn! He's dull! He's parochial and boring and he wears plastic shoes. Georgie would spit if we—'

‘I'd like to add something to that, if I may,' said Issy. ‘It's a common error to assume that to be successful, both members of a couple have to be on the same level of attractiveness. What you should be looking for is balance—'

‘Genius, Issy, opposites attract! Did they teach you that in shrink school?'

‘Excuse me Claudia, can I finish what I was saying? Thank you. The gist of what Nigel says is correct, Holly. A woman like Georgina, good-looking, ambitious, we presume, no doubt well-travelled, is unlikely to be attracted to a man so – we can deduce from the food preferences – unadventurous, conservative and unstylish – I'm thinking of the shoes.'

Claudia nodded, grudgingly.

I felt picked on. ‘Alright,' I said. ‘Forget Georgina for a minute. Elisabeth. Elisabeth' – I smiled at Issy – ‘Elisabeth Stanton-Browne is hard to please. She hates men who wear marigold gloves and use umbrellas. She wants to meet a third decan Piscean.'

‘A truly
terrible
series of dates in the Zodiac,' offered Nige. ‘Prone to addiction, depression, tediously sensitive—'

‘I thought I might put her with Bernard. Theybothlikesport!' I added as the office erupted.

‘Bernard?' shrieked Claudia and Nige in a shrill chorus. ‘Are you crazy?'

Issy raised a hand. ‘On what evidence?'

I handed Issy Bernard's letter and Elisabeth's application. Issy scanned them, frowning. ‘Holly, darling. I see your point but this is a common error. To pair people because they both like sport is not advanced thinking, it's what you'd expect a computer to do. You have to ask
why
they like sport. The whys are truer indicators of compatibility than the whats. And look. Bernard likes cricket because it's not too strenuous, and he enjoys the
Britishness
of it, he likes how the wives make tea, and how civilised it is, and if he can't play he's more than happy to watch. Traditional is not the word. As for Elisabeth she loves skiing, the speed of it, the danger, the glamour of it, the fact she's good enough – and good-looking enough – to race down a mountain in jeans and a bikini.' Issy paused. ‘Hol. I don't mean to be rude but seriously. How could you ever think these two would hit it off?'

I looked up. Everyone was staring at me like I'd grown an extra ear. (Nige, like I'd grown an extra toe.) Now I don't mind being disagreed with, but I'd have preferred to delay it beyond the first five minutes of Issy's employment.

‘Well, fine, okay,' I said, assuming a stern, business-like expression and resisting the temptation to shout,
I
am the boss! ‘It's useful to have your professional opinion, Issy, but this isn't really what I wanted from you. I was hoping you'd help weed out the weirdos, especially the ones who
do a good job of disguising themselves.' I shuffled my sheets. ‘This guy, for instance.' I shoved Mr Hang with the Fellas at her. ‘One of his dislikes,' I added, ‘is poor vaginal hygiene.'

I glared round the office, daring people to laugh.

Claudia sucked in her cheeks. ‘Hol. Admittedly, it'd be crass to mention it to your date over the first coffee. But at least he's honest. Poor vaginal hygiene isn't many people's favourite thing.'

I puffed air through my nose. ‘Well.
Issy
might think it shows an intrinsic dislike of women. His form is peppered with words like “totty”.'

Issy looked up. ‘Have you spoken to him, or met him?'

‘No,' I said.

Issy sighed. ‘Darling, he's twenty-two. He's certainly immature, but he's half-teasing. Under
what are your greatest assets
he's written, “My amazing personality when pissed”. And his other dislike is “biting toenails in public”. I wouldn't be too harsh.'

I must have looked unconvinced, because Issy added, ‘If you like, we can call him in for an interview. If he's the meshuggener you think he is, he's bound to let something leak.'

‘Leak?' said Nige, wrinkling his nose and half his face with it.

Issy half closed her eyes at him like a cat, so I knew he'd said the right thing. She does love to
teach
people. If she's in a mood, you can't hold a conversation with her because she's not interested in a friendly exchange of thoughts and opinions, she's looking to trump you.

‘Yes, Nigel,' she said. ‘People who are capable of doing bad things
leak
. They say things in jest which reveal a lot about themselves. And even if they don't, we as human beings are capable of perceiving an enormous amount unconsciously. In the war of evolution we've derived a means of rumbling people who are good at deception. It's a fact that if you film someone who is pretending to be
other than they are, if you slow down that film you perceive
micro-emotions
– for a matter of milliseconds the expression on their face changes. In real life, our minds pick that up. It happens too fast to be seen consciously, but you get a hunch about that person. That's why female intuition can be explained in scientific terms. If you feel uncomfortable but you don't know why, the likelihood is your mental apparatus has picked something up. Unfortunately we're raised to be rational, we see hunches as childish. They're not. They're one of the best defences we have.'

Everyone was silent. Then Nige piped up, ‘I'm blown away by this micro-emotion thing. So, what, like this?' He assumed an expression as follows: angelic, angelic, angelic, devil from hell, angelic, angelic, angelic. We all cracked up, even Issy. ‘More or less,' she conceded.

Claudia chewed a nail. ‘So, what's this guy going to leak then?'

Issy paused. ‘What I'm saying is that people are very bad at
not
revealing themselves. They'll say something that isn't socially acceptable but because it's perceived to be a joke, they get away with it. So, for example, I know of a woman whose new boyfriend joked to her that he'd better go home because she was so sexy that if he didn't leave he'd rape her. She didn't laugh heartily but nor did she think much of it. Until the next time they met, when he actually attempted it. Fortunately, her flatmate burst in on them.'

‘Jesus,' said Claudia.

‘Meeting closed,' I said.

Everyone looked startled and peeved. I blanked them out and wondered instead at Claudia's outfit. A gold sleeveless top covered with little gold discs, like disco chainmail, a short denim skirt, and red ankle boots. As the Americans say, Go figure.

‘Hang on, but what about the fixtures for tonight? Haven't we got to sort out Bernard and Georgina and everyone?'

‘This isn't a football game, Nige.'

This was unfair of me. Nige takes Girl Meets Boy as seriously as it's possible to take your understudy career.

‘Yes, but—'

‘Nige,' I said. ‘I don't often do this, but I'm putting my foot down. I have a
hunch
that Georgie and Mike will get on great, and at this late stage I don't want to start messing with the plan. Don't worry. Tonight' – I tried to paint a joyous romantic scene to wipe the scowls off their faces – ‘is going to erupt in a frenzy of sparks. Honestly. It'll be like the Ark.'

‘YOU WERE RIGHT,'
said Nige, afterwards. ‘It
was
like the Ark. A bloody washout.'

I didn't know what to say so I hummed into my drink. Claudia had been furious, she'd stalked off without a second glance. I was deeply relieved that Issy hadn't been there to see the monumental pig's ear I'd made of the evening. Although I imagined that Claw would recount the scenes for her in language as vivid as a rainbow.

The night had started off well. We met, as we always do, from seven forty-five to ten, in the belly of a bar in West London. It's owned by an acquaintance of Rachel's named Seb. Downstairs it's a private club, frequented by posh people. At times, the density of striped shirts is quite dazzling. Girl Meets Boy is cordoned off a corner and it's perfect, dimly lit and full of alcoves. Seb is friendly in a professional way – always on autosmile. We certainly buy enough drinks to make it worth his while, and he's not above chatting up some of our blonder members.

As ever, Sam was the first to arrive. To my surprise, she was wearing red silk bootleg trousers dotted with yellow suns, and a lemon yellow T-shirt. And she'd obviously been to a trendy hairdresser (that, or she'd fallen into a tub of peroxide and been attacked by an octopus wielding pinking shears). She was definitely wearing lipstick and mascara. Detectable only by an expert, but there was an overall impression of
glossy
. ‘Sam,' I said. ‘You look great!' The words ‘What happened?' hung in the air. Sam also looked surprised. ‘Holly,' she said. ‘You did this.'

I was aghast. Sam touched my temple. ‘Are you joking, Holly? I asked you to help me sort out a new image. You even booked the hairdr—sorry, stylist for me. I had it done yesterday.'

The memory dumped itself back in my head with a thump. ‘Of course,' I cried. ‘Idiot me! I must have had a blip.'

I must have done, I thought, watching her stride to the bar, to be noticed by Seb for the first time. (He's like a dog in that he only sees in certain colours. His vision will not register non-blonde.) What had I been thinking? There is something delicious about orchestrating a makeover for a friend who you think doesn't make the most of themselves, but I'm not sure it's delicious-
good
. When Claudia was five, a well-meaning great-aunt, visiting from Devon, bought her a dead doll. At least, that's what Claudia decided, because there was no body, just the
head
. It was human size and grotesque. Little girls were meant to cut its hair and apply blusher to its face, and I'll bet it was thought up by a fifty-year-old man in a suit. Claudia decided the doll had been beheaded by Captain Hook (her frame of reference was limited, but exact) and gave the doll a death-row skinhead, except for one spooky strand. She then made up the face in white foundation and used the red ‘lipstick' crayon to recreate blood dripping from its eyes and mouth. Then she hung it by the strategic strand of hair to the doorframe of the guest bedroom, bribed me to remove the light bulbs on the landing, then sat up till late waiting to hear our great-aunt scream. It worked too well and my mother had to call the emergency doctor (who, by the way, charged ‘an arm and a leg').