A Surrey State of Affairs Read online

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18

  Last night I phoned Rupert, and a wonderful thought occurred to me. After I had told him all about St. Moritz and he had agreed that stopping to wait for the blizzard to pass was the best course of action, and that James was a better catch than Jake, conversation petered out. We seem to have reached a tacit agreement not to mention his birthday party. Finally, I resorted to filling the awkward pause by chatting about the day’s headlines, including news of a roller-skating squirrel, which I had read on the BBC’s Web site. It was then, while pondering the limitless variety of the Internet, that the idea occurred.

  Why not put Rupert’s profile on an Internet dating service? Only last week, I read an article about a choir mistress who found love at the age of fifty-nine with a retired greyhound breeder. If there is hope for them, there is hope for Rupert. And surely the advantages of such a discreet and convenient dating service would outweigh any minor invasions of his privacy. I kept this to myself while I was on the phone, of course, but in my head I was already composing an advertisement along the following lines:

  “Handsome, professional 26-year-old with own flat and teeth seeks respectable lady for companionship and potential marriage. Must have good sense of humor and love musicals. Virgin preferred. No feminists, socialists, sailors, or divorcées. No piercings below the ears, no tattoos or unnatural hair dye, please. Must be kind to animals, including parrots.”

  The choice of dating Web site is, of course, key. I typed “online Internet dating” into Google (Rupert once explained to me that Google is a little like direct inquiries, and I am rather proud of my prowess). The results that popped up almost immediately were staggering. There were dating Web sites for women seeking “sugar daddies,” for men seeking policewomen, for those desiring “large and lovely connections,” for wine lovers, for vegetarians, and for those seeking people to engage in acts of such specific physical athleticism that I snapped the lid of my LapTop down in horror before opening it again, slowly, transfixed in spite of myself.

  This will take some thought. Things were so much simpler in my day, when Jeffrey and I simply locked eyes at a Durham Conservatives cheese and wine evening.

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19

  Over dinner this evening—a shepherd’s pie, which Natalia burned on top to a blackened crust—I decided to test out Jeffrey’s opinion of my plan to advertise Rupert on the Internet, and to see if he would help me choose an appropriate Web site. I thought it would be sensible to get a second opinion after the debacle of Rupert’s birthday party, and my unsuccessful attempt to set up Sophie with David. However, Jeffrey’s opinion was not easy to obtain. It took him an inordinate amount of time to grasp what I was suggesting and why. As soon as understanding dawned, I put down my fork and stared expectantly at him, but he simply shook his head slowly, said, “Don’t be ridiculous, woman,” and took out his copy of today’s Financial Times, which he then erected like a giant peach windbreak between us.

  Men. It is all very well for him to dismiss my concerns, but he is not faced with the same daily reminders of what we are missing out on. I am a fifty-three-year-old woman. Everywhere around me, my friends and contemporaries are booking ivy-clad idyllic rural churches, erecting marquees or welcoming their grandchildren into the world. Edward and Harriet already have both a three-year-old grandson and a bouncing baby granddaughter. The only thing my children have taken responsibility for is a cactus and a goldfish that died when one of Sophie’s school friends poured a raspberry martini into its tank.

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20

  I am sorry for wallowing in self-pity yesterday. It does not do to dwell on my problems. Bell ringing last night certainly put them into perspective. Gerald remains in a bad way. A dog may be a man’s best friend, but unfortunately it does not appear to make an adequate replacement for a wife of thirty years who raised two sons and held a certificate in pastry cookery. Gerald’s cheeks are pale, his demeanor hangdog, his clothes soiled. He mopes, moons, and misses his turn at the Reverse St. Sylvester. Something must be done, and I think I know what. Gerald is crying out for a woman’s caring touch. Rupert is not the only man in need of my assistance in this area; my track record in this department may not be impeccable, but duty calls.

  There is not what you might call an abundance of single women in the village with an interest in campanology and dogs, but once again a thought has occurred. Miss Hughes. She is the only unattached lady at bell ringing, and I am quite convin-ced that she grew up in the sort of place that was crawling with Labradors. She has never married—something to do with an orthodontist who ran off with her sister—but love can blossom late, like in those Saga advertisements of tanned sixty-year-olds holding hands on silver beaches. And despite the walking stick, she can’t be more than a year or two Gerald’s senior.

  As if fate were on my side with matters of the heart, as soon as I got home the telephone rang, and it was Bridget, an old university friend who now works in publishing in London and is practically an expert on Internet dating. As she is a divorcée this is only to be expected, though I thought it best not to ask if she had signed up to “wine lovers” or “large and lovely.” After I had told her that Rupert enthusiastically backed the plan—an exaggeration, I admit, but he did evangelize about the Internet’s ability to connect one with like-minded people when he persuaded me to start this blog, so he can hardly object—she recommended that I look at the dating section of whichever newspaper he reads online. This turned out to be sterling advice: I have just had a look at the Daily Telegraph’s Web site, and it does indeed carry a dating service, called Kindred Spirits, that looks most promising. All I need to do now is finesse the wording. “Handsome, professional 26-year-old with own flat and teeth” or “Professional, hand-some 26-year-old with own teeth and flat”? I must get this right. I would hate to annoy him.

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 21

  A disturbing incident at Church Flowers today. Usually the proceedings could not be more soothing: we meet, we select some seasonal blooms, we arrange, we place them for maximum effect in terms of both catching the light and concealing cobwebs, we stop for a cup of tea, and repeat the above. Today, however, Pru came over to me with a hard look in her eye. Her lips were pursed so that her fuchsia lipstick latticed out into her powdery cheeks. Perhaps she was troubled that I had taken the last stem of gladioli? Unfortunately not. It appears that the consequences of Rupert’s birthday party continue to ripple beyond the bill for getting the rug dry-cleaned. Pru informed me that, as I had requested, her daughter had fallen “head over heels” for my son, as befitted her “sweet, trusting nature.” I was rather taken aback. As far as I could tell, Rupert had done nothing to encourage Ruth. He had even left her gift—The Little Book of Clouds—wedged behind the U-bend of the downstairs lavatory, which is hardly consistent with a coup de foudre. Besides, the party was weeks ago.

  However, Pru insisted that Ruth was still so smitten with Rupert that she cried herself to sleep at night because he never replied to the photo text message she had sent of herself with a heart painted on her cheek. Apparently, she “felt something click” when she first set eyes on him, and she just knew from the intense look in his eyes that he felt the same. I did not know what to say beyond wondering why it had taken her this long to say something and speculating that Rupert’s contact lenses could have been irritating him, but I thought it best to keep all that to myself. Pru clearly expected a more substantial explanation; I also noticed that the other ladies had put down their blocks of flower arranger’s foam to listen. It was a delicate situation.

  On the one hand, I would like Rupert to settle, and Ruth is superficially a very reasonable candidate. She is attractive enough to look the part in a wedding photo, if only she would do something about her frizzy hair, but not so pretty that she would always be chased after by other men. She is a primary school teacher, which indicates an admirable fondness of children, as well as unlimited access to paper supplies. And yet, despite the prospect of nume
rous grandchildren and an inexhaustible supply of staplers, I can’t help but worry that her evident emotional volatility would not equip her well for, say, a Christmas lunch with Ivan the Terrible and Mother. I decided that diplomacy was the only option. I also decided that now was not the moment to ask my fellow flower arrangers for help with the wording of Rupert’s Internet dating profile. Instead, I told Pru that Rupert was the shy sort whose silence indicated that he was overwhelmed by emotion; and when she asked for his address to pass on to Ruth, I could hardly refuse.

  I may leave Kindred Spirits alone, just for a few days.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 22

  3 A.M.

  I have woken from a fearful dream. Ruth had chained herself to the railings of Rupert’s flat in Milton Keynes and set herself on fire in the manner of a protesting Cambodian monk. Suddenly, the scene switched to a wedding, Rupert was quenching the flames with vintage champagne, and instead of a wedding dress, Ruth was swathed in white bandages. Poppy was eating the wedding cake and Ivan the Terrible swung from a chandelier by his toenails. I elbowed Jeffrey awake and told him all about it, but when I asked him what it meant he said, “Too much Roquefort,” which I felt lacked either psychological depth or sensitivity of feeling.

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24

  Perhaps I am psychic after all. Perhaps, despite my misgivings about the sort of people who wear tie-dyed clothing and smell of sandalwood, there is indeed something to the realm of the supernatural. My dream was almost a premonition. Do not be alarmed: there have been no acts of self-immolation on the steps of Conifer Court, the block of smart new flats where Rupert lives. There has, however, been a disturbing visitation. Rupert called today, and I could tell by the way he called me “Mother” rather than “Mum” that something was up. He de-manded to know how “she” had found out where he lived. I am ashamed to say I feigned ignorance, suggesting that if he meant Ruth, then she must have tracked him down on MyFace or one of those other Internet youth clubs I keep reading about in the newspaper.

  Rupert was silent for a few moments, and then said in a softer, frightened-sounding voice: “Do you know what she did, Mum? When I got back from Sainsbury’s yesterday there were Post-it notes, maybe a hundred of them, stuck on my front door in the shape of a heart. In the middle was a Polaroid picture of her with her phone number written on it in black felt-tip pen. She was wearing an angel outfit. It’s creepy. What do you think I should do?”

  My first thought was to shop at Waitrose rather than Sainsbury’s, but I bit my tongue. Then I realized that this was, if anything, an opportunity, and asked him if he had any girlfriends that she might happen to see him hand in hand with. At that point he went quiet, and then muttered something about having to rush off to water the cactus. He must be covering up for his shyness. I am more convinced than ever that Internet dating is the only way ahead.

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 25

  Dear readers, I have had a nasty shock. I feel like the very computer I’m typing on is contaminated. My fingers are sweating. The Internet is truly a wilderness, filled with strange creatures, littered with booby traps. All I wanted to do was visit the Daily Telegraph’s dating section on Rupert’s behalf, and I ended up stumbling upon a horrible secret.

  Jeffrey had left the computer on overnight, which is not like him. He often sits in his study late at night with a glass of scotch, studying the value of his investment portfolio, coming to bed with a twinkle in his eye. But I digress.

  This morning, I noticed that he had left the computer on standby overnight, something he has tended to avoid since Sophie told him that by doing so he was responsible for submerging the Maldives. When I jiggled the mouse to get rid of the screensaver, a picture of a familiar-looking blond girl with a big grin and extravagant cleavage appeared on the screen. Upon closer inspection I realized that I was in fact on the Web site Facebook, registered somehow under Jeffrey’s name, and on some sort of fan page. I realized that the girl in question was that Blue Peter presenter latterly more famous for getting caught snorting cocaine with a rolled-up fifty note off the chest of a disheveled rock musician. The fan page contained a display “wall” of comments from admirers, including “shez so hot I used to watch her on telly she could cover me in stiky bak plastic any day” and “nice t**s.” With a small stab in my heart I noticed that Jeffrey had simply written “phwoooooaaar!” Well, when I say Jeffrey, I suppose I mean Jeffrey’s Internet manifestation, which consists of his real name and an accompanying picture of Roger Moore dressed as 007. He is clearly living out his fantasy on the Internet. I just feel so hurt that this fantasy includes a perky postadolescent TV presenter who is my polar opposite in looks and dress sense. If he is going to salivate over another woman, the least he could have done is to choose a nice cultured type. What’s wrong with Mariella Frostrup, for goodness sake? Or Nigella Lawson?

  Natalia was cleaning in the study when I made my discovery. I gasped, so she came over to investigate. When she saw the page, she got quite upset too. The girl obviously feels for me: perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh on her.

  Now that I’ve calmed down, I have a dilemma to contemplate. I’m not sure whether to simply shut the images of that smile and that cleavage out of my mind and pretend that nothing happened, or have it out with Jeffrey, or set myself up on Facebook and “cyberstalk” him. In any case, I shall not post Rupert’s dating profile for the time being. I do not believe in omens, of course, but you will agree that the timing is not auspicious.

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 26

  Today I took a long hard look in the mirror, which is something I’ve tended to avoid doing since the age of thirty-six. I took a deep breath. I stared at my reflection; my reflection stared back. The eyes are still acceptable, green, wide-set, with the almond shape that Jeffrey used to admire. It is around, above, and below the eyes that matters deteriorate somewhat. There are crow’s feet. There is a small crease between my eyebrows. There are lines connecting my nose to either side of my mouth that no rejuvenating night cream has been able to erase. Moving downward, my décolletage has the texture of an overripe peach. Why were there no warnings about sunscreen in the Provence villas of the 1970s? Farther south, my figure is rather good for my age, a size 12 that can be upholstered into something approaching svelteness with the appropriate underwear. All in all, the effect is much like my favorite armchair: an elegant silhouette, but frayed around the edges. I can’t help but feel that this is how it should be for a woman of my age and experience. It is the spectacle of “mature” women like Madonna cavorting about in gym shorts that is abnormal, not a little natural decline. I do not wish to get my skin hoiked up so I resemble a startled cat, or Botox my forehead into bongo drum tautness, or wear a leotard. And yet, just every now and then, I would like to make Jeffrey say “phwoar.”

  I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Does he see the young girl he married, slight, smooth-cheeked, or does he see the slack-jawed old woman waiting to get out? Does he even see me at all?

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 27

  Bell ringing provided a welcome distraction from my musings last night. I think many women would be happier if they turned to a rousing communal activity rather than magazine questionnaires to lift their self-esteem. As soon as I set foot in the belfry, Reginald bustled over to tell me that David had thrown his Arabic checked scarf in the composting bin and renounced Islam for good. Had elements of the Koran troubled him? I asked. Had he belatedly realized that Jesus Christ was the way, the truth, and the light? Reginald shook his head and said that David had been unable to locate a halal barbecue chicken pizza.

  Gerald was there, sans Poppy, looking red-eyed and introspective. To break the silence, I mentioned something along the lines of here we are again and doesn’t time fly, and he replied with a trembling voice that I looked more radiant with every week that passed. After yesterday, I could have kissed him, albeit after swabbing him with disinfectant first. He really is too good a man to waste. It’s just a shame that Miss Hughes couldn’t be there
last night because she was laid up with her bunions.

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 28

  Church Flowers today, and I was a little anxious in case Pru wanted to stab me in the back with the pruning shears. As it happened, her behavior could not have been more different from our last encounter. She came up to me, placed a small, limp hand on my shoulder, and said, “Constance, Ruth has told me everything. You are so brave. Both you and poor, dear Rupert.” She blinked at me, displaying puffy eyelids coated in lilac shadow, smiled, shook her head, and passed me five stems of hothouse peace lilies. What on earth was she referring to? Had she been drinking the flower-food sachets? However, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I decided to simply smile graciously and ignore the inquisitive glances of the other ladies. The Lord, and Pru, move in mysterious ways.

  9:05 P.M.

  I have telephoned Rupert’s landline, left a message on the answerphone of his mobile, and sent him six text messages, all to no avail. What is he playing at? What has he said, or done, to Ruth to make Pru behave in such a strange way? Does he not realize that I am being gnawed at from within by suspense? Even Jeffrey noticed I was jumpy when I dropped the salt cellar into my soup and splattered him with winter vegetables. I hope Rupert makes contact soon. It is not as if he has any reason to avoid me.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 29

  At five o’clock this morning I awoke from a dream in which Jeffrey was James Bond, I was Miss Moneypenny, and that Blue Peter hostess was emerging from a turquoise sea in a string bikini. I sat behind my desk, prim and powerless, as Jeffrey walked out the door and onto the beach without a backward glance. When I woke up I noticed that there were little red indents in the palms of my hands from where I had dug in my nails. There was only one thing to do. I had to find out what Jeffrey was thinking. I had to join Facebook.