The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man (8 page)

When I arrive at work on Monday,
everyone is running around like headless chickens.  It transpires that
Marcus has been up with some poor horse
who
has colic
all night.  Seems he was on call after all.  The horse has taken a
turn for the worse.  It’s in acute pain, and everyone’s agreed that as a
last ditch attempt to save it, they’re going to operate.  Stella’s doing
it.  She wouldn’t normally even come in on a Monday, and she’s already
been here for two hours.  Apparently she’s done these before.  Miles
is assisting and Sam’s in there too.  Marcus and Emma are off on calls,
and Agnes is making a cup of tea for the owner, who’s sitting outside, white as
a sheet.  I go in to the office where the phone is already ringing.

Agnes soon follows.

‘Poor Mrs Kilburn.
 It’s her daughter’s horse, Parsifal.  They bred him apparently.
She’s out of her mind with worry.’
                                                                                                          
I can well believe it.  I shudder to think how I’d be feeling if it were
Horace in there and I’ve only had him a few weeks.

The surgery goes on for hours, or so it
seems.  From time to time, Agnes or I go out and sit with Mrs Kilburn for
a bit, or take her more tea.  For once in her life, Elmer is being useful
and has attached herself to our client and is being most companionable.

‘Are you sure she’s not being a
nuisance?’ I ask for the fourth time.  Elmer gives me a look, which I
return.

‘Oh no, she’s lovely,’ says Mrs
Kilburn.  Elmer?
Lovely?
 Oh well, I suppose
Mrs Kilburn is having a particularly bad day.  ‘Flatcoat isn’t she?  
Such brilliant dogs.’

In my experience, anyone who thinks that
about flatcoats needs their head examined.  If you love flatcoats, either
you’ve never lived with one or else you’re as batty as they are.

‘I had one once.  A long time ago,’
she says fondly.

Ah, that explains it then.  Time’s
a wonderful healer.  
Fades the most painful memories.
 But for once, Elmer is proving quite useful.

Just then, Stella comes out, with Miles
following close behind.  Just in case Stella makes one of her faux pas, I
should imagine.  Her bedside manner continues to be unpredictable, but
today she’s under control and though a trifle brusque, she efficiently gives
Mrs Kilburn an in depth description of what they’ve done to Parsifal’s insides,
telling her that they’ll know more
later
in the week.
 But with luck, hopefully he’s out of the woods.  Parsifal, however,
will be staying with us for a while yet, being kept an eye on round the clock.
 At times like this, Sam moves in and just lives here.  He’s a
marvel.  It means there’ll be no party for him next Saturday, but he
wouldn’t have it any other way.

A guardedly positive
start to the week then.
  I cross my fingers
that Parsifal will be okay.  Mrs Kilburn has gone home and is coming back
later with her daughter.

After that bit of drama, the rest of the
day is straightforward.  I keep popping in to see Parsifal, who comes
round remarkably quickly, though he’s looking a little sorry for himself. He’s
quite appreciative of some sympathetic nose stroking, and the ever attentive
Sam is never out of earshot.  Stella’s gone home, and the other vets are
buzzing around in various parts of the county attending to their respective
clients.

Which leaves me alone
with Agnes, who takes advantage of a brief lull in the telephone ringing, to
ask me how I am.

I think carefully before answering.

‘You know, I’m good.  I didn’t
expect to feel like this,’ I tell her.  ‘My heart’s been broken and I’ve
lost my home, but actually, I’m fine.’
                                                           

I’m struggling to believe it myself, but
it’s the truth.  Agnes looks at me.

‘It’s early days you know, dear,’ she
says kindly.  ‘Don’t be at all surprised if it yet catches up with you.
 You’ve been through rather a lot, Louisa.  Any time you need a friendly
ear, you know where I am.’

I can’t help the tears slightly welling
up again.  Nor can I believe how understanding Agnes is.  So much
more so than my own mother, who just finds it all an embarrassing inconvenience
- and still thinks it’s
all
my
fault.

‘Thank you, Agnes.  I really
appreciate what you’ve just said,’ I say inadequately. Then the phone
rings.  Usually it would be my duty to answer it, but Agnes turns to take
it, giving me a moment to recover my composure.  I wish I could tell her
how supportive she’s been to me.  But I’m not much good at expressing that
sort of thing, and I’d probably start to cry again, so I don’t say anything at
all.

Mrs Kilburn arrives later that
afternoon, to check on her darling, who’s thankfully looking a little brighter. 
Her daughter’s with her, in floods of tears.  I take them a fresh box of
tissues.  

That evening, I go round to see Leonie
and Pete.  I call first, not sure that this would be the right time to
just pitch up uninvited, the way I used to.

Two very wan faces greet me.  But
at least they appear to be talking to each other - even if it is strained and
awkward.  Leonie pours the two of us a large glass of wine.  Pete’s
drinking orange juice.  Contrary to what I’d imagined, it seems that
alcohol is not a good thing if you’re suffering from depression.

Conversation is stilted.  In the
end, emboldened by the wine, I think,
I’ve known Pete for years.
 I
can ask him a direct question.  I mean, it’s not as though he
has
to answer it.

‘How are you Pete?’ I ask
cautiously.  ‘Only Leo said you’d been to see a specialist...’ Oops, was
that a bit
too
full on?

Pete sighs and looks really miserable.
 ‘I’ve got to go to this place where they specialise in treating headcases
like me.  A remedial school for nut jobs…’  He attempts a sardonic
laugh.  His eyes have a haunted look that never used to be there.
 The poor man looks completely exhausted.

Leonie places her hand on his arm. 
‘The specialist says that he’s sure they can help Pete.  It won’t be an
instant cure, but he’ll be okay.’

I’m not entirely sure who she’s trying
to convince here.

Pete raises his eyebrows.  ‘We’ll
see, won’t we?’ is all he says, before changing the subject.

‘Leonie says you’ve got a horse,’ he
tries his best to sound interested.

I tell him about Horace,
then
get the distinct feeling that it might be better if I
left them to it.

Leonie hugs me goodbye.  ‘He’s
going to be okay,’ she says quietly.  
But very firmly.
Made of strong stuff, is Leo.  Her jaw is set in that way it always is when
she’s determined about something.

I hug her back.  ‘I know.  Of
course he will.  I’ll see you soon.’

Boy.  I hate to admit it but I’m
relieved to leave them.  That was seriously hard work. Pete, Leonie, Arian
and I used to talk animatedly into the wee small hours, and have to force
ourselves to call it a night.  We’ve never been short of conversation, be
it putting the world to rights, or the men bitching about the usual
work-related issues.  In fact, it was usually
time
that we were short of.

In fact, by the time I get home, I’m
quite maudlin.  I don’t know whether it’s what Pete and Leonie are going
through, or the conversation I had with Agnes earlier.

Probably a combination of both, I
decide, but by the time I close the front door of my cottage, tears are rolling
down my cheeks.

Elmer grabs my T-shirt in her jaws and
does her usual neurotic wagging, accompanied with an attention-seeking whine
which is utterly different to the noise that normal dogs make.  Tonight,
however, I’m grateful for anyone’s attention, even if it’s a flatcoat, and I
allow her to curl up on the sofa beside me. 

Feeling truly dreadful, I sit there and
sob, extremely sorry for myself.  It should have been me and Arian who
went round tonight, together, to offer support to our (joint) very good
friends, I think miserably to myself... However, one thing transpired while I
was there.  It would appear that Arian hasn’t been anywhere near for
weeks.  What sort of a self-obsessed, crap friend is
he
, I ask
myself, wiping away my tears.  That thought alone is enough to make me
furious.

Oh
my gosh
,
it’s Friday already.  That means its Sylvie’s party
tomorrow
. 
My melancholy mood of last night has evaporated and I’m actually really
excited, probably because this is the poshest party I’ve ever been to.

I asked Agnes earlier what she was
planning to wear.  She gave me one of her looks, before saying she hadn’t
decided yet.  Perhaps she has an expansive wardrobe of elegant designer
evening wear...  I expect she just thinks I’m mad, but today I really
don’t care.

Parsifal, the sick horse has made
incredible progress under Sam’s tender loving care, plus that of the Kilburns,
who have practically lived here this week.  We virtually have to push them
out of here at night.  They arrive first thing, armed with body brushes
and carrots, very thinly sliced to aid his fragile digestion, and they take him
out for very careful walks.  Parsifal looks as though
he’s
loving
every second of it.

Since Beamish announced his
semi-retirement, Miles has been looking stressed and lankier than ever, I would
say.  He’s lovely, Miles, but definitely a bit too sensitive. I’m not
convinced he’s cut out for the additional honour and glory not to mention
pressures of joint-senior-partnerdom.  He’s a fabulous vet and all that,
and his clients love him for how conscientious he is, but that’s precisely why
I have my doubts. 

Marcus is the same as ever.  
Busy, and oh so incredibly super-efficient.
  Agnes
simply loves him. 
Worships him.
   In
her eyes, he’s everything a vet should be.  Honestly, you would have
thought Agnes was beyond such idolisation and old enough to know better. 
He also seems to have become rather friendly with Stella.  They’re forever
discussing complicated cases when they’re both in the office.  And it’s
funny, but since Stella’s joined our ranks, I’ve hardly seen Paris at
all. 

The only person I can have a sensible
conversation about the party with is Emma, who’s as excited about it as I am
and on Friday night, she comes round to mine for a glass of wine.  We
gossip about whether Agnes and Beamish will be going to the party
together.  Emma too has picked up on the possibility that something might
just be going on between them.

Both of us are quiet as we consider the
prospect of Agnes and Beamish as a couple.

‘God.
 
They’d be a bit formidable, wouldn’t they?’ Emma’s astounded.

‘But, they’ve known each other
forever...’ I add.  ‘Maybe they’ve had a thing going on for just ages and
they’re being incredibly discrete.  Either that or we’re all too thick to
notice.’

We sip our wine.

‘What about Miles?’ I ask curiously.

‘What do you want to know?’ replies
Emma, amused.  ‘Oh Louisa, you don’t fancy
him
do you? You’d be
wasting your time.  Miles is already married - to the job.  Every
girlfriend he has lasts all of about a week, once they find out that they’ll
always be less important to him than someone’s manky old horse.  I mean,
put
yourself
in their shoes.’

I can, and frankly it’s not
appealing.  Not that Miles is the tiniest bit fanciable – he’s a bit like
a daddy-long-legs.

‘Oh Emma.
 
I don’t know how you can even suggest that.  Anyway,’ I say.  ‘It’s
not as though I even want to meet a man.  Not now.  A man is the last
thing I need.  I mean, I’m not even divorced yet, am I.  I’m still
married.’

Emma just looks at me. 

‘Not for much longer,’ she says - very
firmly.  ‘And, if your perfect man just happened to materialise right in
front of you, don’t tell me you’d turn your back on him, because I don’t
believe for one minute that you would.’

Maybe she’s right.  If he actually
exists,
which is not very probable at all.

It’s Saturday! The day of the party!
 
God.
  I’m sounding like a
teenager.  What is wrong with me?  I need to get out and socialise
more, preferably with people other than vets.

I’ve already decided that I’m going to
have a gloriously self-indulgent day which means Horace, of course, is part of
it.  After all, what better way to start the day can there possibly
be
than some relaxed meandering around the countryside on
the back of a beautiful horse?  

This morning, the sun is shining
brightly through the trees and the soft, warm air smells of summer.  I
forget my cares and because Horace is now fitter, we venture a little further,
through open fields and shaded woods, cantering along a grassy path until
suddenly, he stumbles and sends me flying. 

I leap up, unhurt, but when I look at
Horace, my precious horse is standing holding his off-foreleg pitifully. 
Talking to him gently, I try to coax him forward but he refuses to put any
weight on it.  And okay, so I work
at a vets
, but
with my own, beloved horse suffering in front of me, I go straight into panic
mode.

Emma’s the first person I call.
 Her bloody phone is switched off.  It’s pointless leaving a message
because I need someone NOW if not sooner.  I try Miles. 
Ditto.
  What is going on?  So I call the practice
number.  A calm, recorded message in Agnes’s voice tells me my call is
being forwarded to the vet on call. 

Oh please hurry...
I’m willing someone to pick up.  Poor Horace hasn’t moved and I’m
terrified it’s the lameness that Miles warned me about, back with a vengeance.

At last.
 A vet answers.  It’s Marcus.  
Of course.
 
Crisply, he asks me where we are.

I haven’t a clue how to explain.

‘Er, past my house, up the lane, about
half a mile down the first
bridlepath
on the left,
then right into an enormous field...’

There’s silence, then he says wearily, ‘I’ll
come and find you.  Just keep your phone switched on, okay?’ 

Horace and I wait for what seems like
ages.  My poor horse still hasn’t put his sore foot to the ground. 
My cursed imagination is working at warp speed, as I contemplate all sorts of
hideous possibilities like broken legs and pulled tendons, or even the worst
case scenario, which is that no-one can help him and there’s only one thing we
can do.

Eventually, I hear my name being
called. 
Very distantly.
 
Marcus
.
 I jump up and down and wave my arms just a bit.  Not too much
though, I don’t want to startle the patient.  Fortunately he sees me.
 He strides over, carrying, I notice with relief, his vet bag.
 Slowing his pace, he approaches Horace quietly and strokes his shoulder. 
Horace responds with a throaty whickering noise.

‘What have you done to yourself, old
fellow?’ Marcus asks him gently, and by now I can’t hold back the tears.

Horace is looking very sorry for
himself.  

‘Right,’ Marcus says.  ‘Can I take
a look?’

Gently he runs his hands down Horace’s
leg and lifts up the foot that Horace is nursing.

‘Louisa?  Have you even looked at
this?’ His voice is just a little exasperated. ‘Your poor horse has trodden on
something.  It’s cut into the sole.  No wonder he’s sore.’

Sure enough, when I look, there’s an
indentation
  and
what looks like a thin slice
into the sole of his foot.  Marcus puts the hoof down.

‘I’ll tape something round it, just to
get you home and I’ll give him a shot, just in case there’s any
infection.  He’ll be lame for a bit, but he’ll be fine.’

He fiddles around in his bag and the
injection is over with before Horace has even noticed.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t even have a
look...’ he says, more than a little accusingly.  ‘Still, the main thing
is he’ll be okay.  Just keep it poulticed for a few days, and I’ll take
another look next week.  Are you okay to lead him home from here?’

I nod.  As usual, Marcus has
managed to make me feel utterly inept.  But, to be fair, this time I’ve
screwed up all on my own.  If I’d exercised some common sense and kept my
cursed imagination in check, instead of freaking out I could easily have dealt
with Horace myself.

‘Right.
 
I’ll be off then,’ he says brusquely.

It’s only late morning when Horace and I
get home, but it feels hours later.  I fuss over him and poultice the foot
and wrap it in loads of bandages, with Horace loving every minute of it.

After all the drama of the morning, I
skip lunch and think instead about this evening, looking forward to wearing my
new dress.  It’s fitted, with a shortish skirt, in a soft, sage green, and
I found some girly sandals that look great with it, because on heels I wobble
precariously.

After a cup of coffee, I’m just putting my
feet up for five minutes, when there’s a knock at the door.  It’s
Marcus. 

‘Um, I just thought I’d check on the
patient,’ he says, sounding a lot less arsey than earlier on. I’m still wearing
my filthy jodhpurs from this morning. My T-shirt isn’t much better.

‘Come and see for
yourself
,’
I say, and we go to find Horace.

Gratifyingly, Horace whinnies at
me.  At least, I assume it’s at me and not Marcus. No matter, he wanders
over to us, only marginally lame now.

Marcus climbs over the fence to inspect
my poultice.

‘Not bad,’ he says.  And actually
smiles slightly at me.

‘Oh.’ I say.  ‘Jolly good.’  I
never say ‘jolly good’ about anything. 

Then he says slightly apologetically,
‘Um, sorry if I was a bit abrupt this morning.  Actually, I was as
relieved as you were that there was nothing seriously wrong.’

‘Well, better get on,’ he adds, climbing
back over the fence.  ‘See you at the party tonight?’

‘Um, yes.
 And thanks Marcus.’

The afternoon is more relaxing, and later
on, I run a hot bath, and soak in it for absolutely ages until I notice that my
fingers are looking rather prune-like.  Hmmm - glamorous prune is not
quite the image I’m seeking to cultivate this evening.  I’d been thinking
more along the lines of wowing my work colleagues and everyone else for that
matter, revealing my as yet undiscovered beauty, so I hop out, wrap myself up
in my fluffiest towels and collapse in front of the TV for an hour or so with
my nail varnish.  Then I forget the time and end up in a mad rush.
 But for the first time in my entire life, my makeup goes on just how I
want it to and my hair doesn’t look too bad, even considering its
mousiness.  My gorgeous dress feels as good as I remember when I tried it
on in the shop, ditto my shoes and with a generous spray of my favourite DKNY,
I’m ready to go half an hour ahead of schedule.

Emma’s come round, looking
breathtakingly stunning in her floaty Grecian dress, her long blond hair in
shiny waves hooked behind her ear.  A glass of champagne as we giggle
together before leaving for Sylvie’s seems like a perfect idea.   I’m
getting more excited by the minute.

It’s not always great having a
friend
who looks like she ought to be on the cover of Vogue,
but I love Emma and I’ve long resigned myself to being forever in her
shadow.  And Ben won’t be able to take his eyes off her.

The Amberley Stud is everything I’ve
been told – and more.  Hidden behind vast wooden gates, tall flaming
torches flank the drive as our taxi sweeps round in front of the house in all
its glorious magnificence.

Emma and I follow the flow of guests
around the side of the house onto the lawns – and it’s hard to know where to
look first.

It’s all so glamorous, like setting foot
into a parallel universe that’s not remotely connected to everyday life. 
All around us there are beautiful people, in Dolce and
Gabbana
,
or Balenciaga, drifting around, sipping champagne out of crystal glasses and
sampling caviar proffered by attentive waiters.  Okay.  Maybe I’m
slightly exaggerating, but there’s definitely
an other
-worldliness.

Emma nudges me with her elbow, and
points.  There’s PM-T, looking like a porn star in a tight low-cut red
dress and surrounded by a crowd of equally gorgeous young things, mostly
staring at her boobs and as expensively kitted out as she is.  What
are
her parents thinking of? 

And look.  Ah ha.  We were
right.  
Agnes and Beamish, looking very much a couple.
She’s holding his arm in a most proprietorial manner and their heads are bent
towards each other as they talk quietly.  For whose benefit is that, I
wonder, as Emma and I exchange glances.  Is this to fob Sylvie off or is
there something going on?  Goodness, Agnes does look glam - so does
Beamish – and they really seem quite at home.

It’s a perfect evening, the air balmy
with the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle.  A lilac-tinted sky hints at a
glorious sunset to follow.  No doubt Sylvie arranged that too.
 Invisible lighting shows off the garden like a film set, except I know
with certainty that it’s utterly real, that this is how she lives and no-one
will come in tomorrow and dismantle it.

A handsome young waiter offers me and
Emma champagne.  He winks at us, which makes me think he’s probably
enjoying this as much as we are.  And it’s turning out to be such fun.
 

Emma and I amuse ourselves by watching
the throngs of guests and it’s not long before we find ourselves being chatted
up by two very public school types.  They’re tall and dark and not my type
at all, but Emma
is loving
the attention, so I sneak away
and leave her to it.  Only I don’t get far before a familiar voice says
quietly behind me, ‘Louisa, you look lovely.’

Marcus.  That was funny.  For
a split second, I had a delicious warm feeling when I first heard his voice.
 Until I remembered how I feel about him, that is.  Champagne does
odd things to me.  I must pace myself.  I turn around to find him
looking quite James Bond-ish in his dinner jacket and bow tie.  I wonder
which floozy’s with him
tonight?

‘How’s Horace?’

‘He’s fine, thanks.  And I didn’t
thank you earlier, did I, for coming to find us this morning. I think I
panicked a bit.  But I really appreciated it.’

He smiles at me. 
Properly.

We’re still standing there, smiling back
and forth at each other, when Beamish joins us.  And of course, it’s only
a matter of time before Sylvie’s there too.  She’s probably been planning
this moment for months, if not years.  Oh my golly gosh… Where on earth is
Agnes when she’s needed?

I can see Beamish looking around
agitatedly, before making his excuses and bumbling off again.  But Sylvie
seems remarkably reconciled to the idea that he’s not available and barely even
looks in his direction, as instead she turns towards me.  

‘I’m so glad to see you,’ she says, most
surprisingly.  ‘I particularly wanted to introduce you, and Emma too…’ we
both look around but Emma’s nowhere in sight, ‘… to my daughter.  You see
she’s only recently moved back here, and doesn’t really know many people.’
 

Goodness, I’m not at all sure about
this.  Going on past experience, when a stranger thinks you’d be the
perfect friend for their daughter/son/niece/cousin, generally it’s a terrible
idea and doomed before you even meet.

Then Sylvie nods towards a girl walking
toward us.  She’s not at all what I expect.  More understated than
her mother, she looks as though she’d rather be anywhere than here.  It
isn’t helped either, by the beautifully cut dress she’s wearing which looks a
couple of sizes too small.

Sylvie looks at me.  ‘Er...’

‘Louisa,’ I chip in helpfully.

‘Sorry.  Of course it is. 
Louisa.  Karina’s probably a similar age to you...’

As the girl pauses to talk to someone,
my mind does a double back flip.  Suddenly I feel extremely dizzy. 
Karina
. 
Oh.  My.
God.

Because I can see immediately from her
slender frame and delicate cheekbones that Karina isn’t plump at all.
 Without any shadow of a doubt I know she’s pregnant.  I feel very
short of breath all of a sudden, and then horribly light-headed, as everything
spins around me and a moment later, my legs give way.