Κύρια The Impossible Sh for the Perfect Man (This is your Life & The Impossible Sh for the Perfect Man)
The Impossible Sh for the Perfect Man (This is your Life & The Impossible Sh for the Perfect Man)
Martyn Susie
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This is your Life & The Impossible Sh for the Perfect Man
The Knight and the Rose
Martyn Isolde
The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man
Susie Martyn
Copyright © 2013 Susie Martyn
The right of Susie Martyn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express permission of the author.
If love is the answer, can you rephrase the question?
I'm where every girl in the world wants to be. Wandering serenely through Tesco's. In the middle of the night. And there's no-one here, which is odd…
Actually, it's surprisingly peaceful, meandering up and down the wide empty aisles with only some vegetables for company. But hold on just a moment, I can hear something. Or rather someone... Holy moly. Not just any old someone either.
A positive vision appears around the corner, a knowing smile playing on his lips as I find myself gazing at Zac Efron and Ryan Reynolds, all rolled into one beautiful, jaw-dropping specimen.
Clinging to his lean, sculpted frame is one of those tight t-shirts that leaves nothing to the imagination – I can make out every muscle, every curve of his tanned, glorious body. As he comes towards me, there's an intense look in his dark eyes and I'm getting a funny feeling, like goose-bumps all over.
I close my mouth, smooth my hands over my T-shirt, sucking in my tummy and attempting to look nonchalant, as though I bump into sex-gods in Tesco's every day. But. Oh crap. I don't know what to say now, because there is no T-shirt. In fact, I'm horrified to find I'm not wearing anything at all… Where the fuck are my clothes?
The luminous hands on my alarm clock read just before 3am when my eyes ping open to the sound of the heaviest of April showers hammering torrentially on our roof. I'm still blushing from the realisation that I'm completely starkers in the middle of a supermarket, with a gorgeous stranger giving me the once over - except I'm not of course. I'm at home in my bed, fantasy and reality blurred for a few delicious moments longer as I contemplate the man of my dreams, still unmistakeably here in my head. What a time to wake up, just when things were about to get interesting… But by now, one thing I most definitely am is annoyingly wide awake.
Okay. So it's not the first time I've had a vivid, outrageous dream and as I lie in bed, I wait for the full-blown assault from my insecurities that always follows. General unease then escalates into complete and unreserved paranoia of mind-boggling proportions, while I explore the entire range of catastrophes waiting to befall me. Bankruptcy, life-threatening illness, divorce… because they're all there waiting to get me.
As I lie in my favourite pyjamas (I checked, just to make sure) I toss and turn restlessly, my imagination in full swing, at its absolute, spectacular worst. If I'm going to dream about flaunting myself at gorgeous men, why can't it be on a tropical island? Or is there hidden significance to dreams about lust among the veg aisle at Tesco's… More likely I just have a disturbed mind.
The warm, inert body next to me doesn't exactly help, emitting porcine snores at regular intervals, every so often interspersed with a particularly hoggish one – the kind that has about four syllables – putting an end to any hope of sleep. Arian is a world class snorer, and not even a well-timed elbow in the ribs has any lasting effect on the din emanating from his nostrils.
My lovely husband is also a world class duvet-hogger. I tug the covers back over me – he doesn't even stir, but then Arian can sleep through anything. If the house fell down around us, he'd be oblivious to it, but he's oblivious to most things these days.
I know my fears and suspicions will shrink back to normal, only mildly paranoid proportions by daylight. And my imagination, I'm the first to admit, is inclined to get carried away. However, just lately, I'm beginning to wonder whether this is simply in my head, or if indeed something is going on.
Arian flies large aeroplanes for a big airline. We met six years ago when my best friend, Leonie, married his best friend, Pete. Leonie's cabin crew and we've been the best of friends since secondary school, where with characteristic chutzpah and a few well-chosen words – fuck off you pikey bitches – she stuck her oar in and her finger up at the bullies who made my life a misery.
Leo's beautiful, with smooth olive skin and long dark hair. After leaving school, with the same audacity that had endeared her to me in the first place, she lied about her age and pursued her dream to take to the skies. I meanwhile, as was my due, accepted the rather less enthralling option of a secretarial job, in the dingy offices of Carpets-R-Us.
It might not have been so bad, if only Leo's life hadn't been full of excitement. A never ending whirl of exotic destinations, fab shopping and hot men in uniform – I preferred to gloss over the 4am check-ins and the night Tenerife's - but it all served to make my lacklustre nine to five existence answering dreary Mr McKenzie's phone seem even more tedious than it was.
But when we were together we kicked our heels up, determined to misspend every second of our long-awaited freedom. We were far too young, we agreed, to tie ourselves down to just one man, so it was absolutely only fair, we told ourselves, to go on dates with lots of them.
So many men and so little time. That was us for years, until that fateful nightstop in Tangiers when she met Pete, who was understandably smitten at first sight.
Tall and sandy haired (Leo's word, Pete's a ginger), he's besotted. And it was totally his fault I met Arian, then kept meeting Arian at theirs, again and again, because they're friends.
As I discovered, pilots can yap for hours - about holding procedures and rostering agreements, and other pilot-ish topics of conversation, such as dwindling pensions and the new junior with the big bazoomas. And then Arian asked me on a date.
It was easy to be infected by the magic between our friends. One date turned to many, culminating months later in a drunken proposal that surprised both of us. I detected a flicker of surprise on Leo's face when I told her. Or possibly it was a flicker of uncertainty, which being Leo, she then hid forever behind a mask of enthusiasm and delight.
'Oh my God, oh my God!' Leo had jumped up and down excitedly. 'When's the wedding? How did he propose? Oh Lou, this is the best news ever! Oh, I'm so excited!'
All without pausing for breath before she'd dashed off to tell Pete.
Looking back, her excitement was always greater than mine. Isn't a wedding, after all, just about the biggest day of your life? The biggest decision you ever make, and worthy of at least some peripheral soul searching before you tie the knot? Maybe for most people – but for me, it was the natural order of things.
The lead up to our wedding simply flew by, filled with meetings with photographers, florists and of course food tastings, not to mention fittings of my elaborate and frightfully expensive Vera Wang wedding gown. Barely having a moment to think, I allowed myself to go with the flow, and just took completely for granted that this was how it was.
My mother - Lord bless her - as is her nature, complained about everything and secretly revelled in every stressful minute of it. A total mother-of-the-bride-zilla, she was in her element, organising everything to a degree that gave a whole new meaning to the word, positively terrifying everyone she came across.
But at last I was doing something she approved of. Oh yes, she was thrilled to bits that her previously slightly disappointing daughter had bagged herself such a good catch. Truth is, I think she was a teeny bit smitten herself, but there was absolutely no doubt that she wanted our wedding to be impressive, with no expense spared, with hundreds of guests, white doves after the ceremony, flowers simply everywhere and those hideous wedding favour things on the table that no-one knows what to do with. She even managed to rustle up ten tiny bridesmaids I'd never even seen before and drafted in a professional speech writer, just in case my poor father let the side down.
I'm afraid to say that I was happy to take a back seat and let her. And it was an incredible day. But. After it was over, things between me and Arian just ticked along fairly uneventfully, much as they had before. Wasn't there supposed to be more?
With Arian away so frequently, it's like he has a double life - at home he does a bit of DIY and mows the lawn, but the moment he puts on his uniform, he steps into a parallel universe I have no part in.
And so, in between times, I am quite used to getting on with my own, somewhat less glamorous way of life. In a funny sort of way, it's worked, or so I thought. My biggest worry has been what to pull out of my extensive and mismatched wardrobe each morning. Until now.
This isn't a conclusion I've come to easily. And terrified though I am to confront it, there have been rather too many last minute flight changes, more than ever before. He's extremely amiable these days, when he's here that is, which is less and less frequently. And he hums a lot in the bathroom. All this, despite the fact that we haven't had sex for two months, which probably goes a long way towards explaining my night-time fantasies about frolicking with Latino-type males in Tesco's. But recently I'd go so far as to say that my husband has been avoiding all bodily contact suggestive of intimacy. I know in daylight hours, I'll convince myself that I'm just being paranoid, that nothing's changed and it's the gremlins of the night out to get me again. But...the fact remains. Arian has always liked a lot of sex.
In the beginning, just being in the same room as him would fill my head with carnal thoughts. Arian would walk through the door after being away for a night and barely say hello before we'd be tearing each other's clothes off like there was no tomorrow. Even his unpredictable working hours had their use.
I'm really sorry Mum, we won't be able to make lunch tomorrow. No, Arian's just had a week of night flights again and needs to catch up... Yes, poor thing, he's exhausted…
Ha. Not much sleeping went on, I can tell you and it was easy enough to overlook any guilt at lying to a mother who'd long ago switched allegiance to her son-in-law.
Of course the frequency wore off a bit as the years went by, but nothing like this. Two whole months? Preposterous.
My alarm wakes me at 6am. I long to close my eyes and drift back into oblivion, but I can't. The space next to me is empty and there are splashing sounds coming from the bathroom, against a background of energetic humming noises. Galvanising my weary body into action, I stagger bleary-eyed down the stairs to make a cup of tea, to be greeted by the mad, black creature that leaps up maniacally and wags her whole body at me.
Elmer is rather a scruffy flatcoat retriever. There aren't too many of them about and if you've ever lived with one, you'll know why. Reading my thoughts, she grins madly at me, one eye squinting, while grabbing at my pyjamas with grizzled jaws.
I let her outside; it's really far too early to be dealing with a demented dog. It's a beautiful spring morning, and I stand for a moment breathing it in, watching Elmer pogo madly across the grass. Rays of early morning sun are poking through the trees, catching the dew on the grass so it sparkles.
It's quiet and still and calms the madness in my head for a moment. I've always loved this garden, with its gently sloping grass and gnarled apple trees. There's an old garden bench among them, my favourite place on Sunday afternoons, curled up on a pile of cushions with a trashy book.
In the opposite corner, there's a bigger, very ancient oak, perfect for climbing and even more perfect for just sitting under in the height of the hottest summer, then at the far end is Elmer's stream, where she wallows for hours.
Arian appears and kisses me perfunctorily on the cheek. I feel a pang of I'm not sure what. Since when does my husband kiss me like he would his mother? Before, he'd have come and stood quietly behind me, his arms wrapped around me, his lips nuzzling my hair, hinting at far more than just a kiss.
Tall, with longish hair that's still damp from the shower, he's suspiciously bright-eyed and bushy tailed this morning. It's good to know at least one of us slept well. And he's annoyingly affable. What is going on with him?
'Sleep well Lou? You were out of it this morning,' he remarks happily.
Ironically because I was awake all night worrying about our marriage, buster, I almost say, but don't.
'Oh, my Lisbon's turned into a night-stop, so I won't be back until Saturday,' he adds oh-so-casually, not one iota of guilt on his face as he carefully avoids eye contact. 'Still, I'll cut the grass on Sunday and we could go out with Pete and Leonie then, if they're free?'
My stomach lurches and not about the bloody grass. And it's not that I mind him being away, because I don't. But today is Thursday. He was supposed to be coming home tonight. Two extra nights away. Just like last week.
What's equally annoying is his excessive need to socialise. I see people all day – I enjoy the little time we spend on our own, though of course I love seeing Pete and Leonie. And Arian's with people all day too, of course, though for the most part, it's a smelly old co-pilot - or so he'd have me believe.
'Maybe we could have an evening in together, darling, just you and me?' I suggest as we go inside, knowing Leo's going to visit her mother.
'To make up for missing our anniversary?' I add wistfully, in my mind picturing a romantic candle-lit dinner and chilled champagne, abandoned for all the right reasons as we rip each other's clothes off, unable to wait another second.
That does it. Now he does look shifty. My stomach ties itself in knots. And still I don't say anything.
'Um, let's see when I get back?' Arian literally grabs his flight bag and runs out of the house without saying goodbye, leaving me standing there, utterly perplexed. What about his case? He must have put it in the car earlier, I decide, more convinced than ever something's wrong.
But in spite of the apprehension growing inside me, all I can do now is wait. I don't have much choice. I know I can't go on like this, not knowing... So I decide. When he gets back from this trip, somehow I have to talk to him.
I still work in an office – and anywhere else, it would be as dull as the job as Carpets-R -Us, but as it happens, it's one of my favourite places in the world, because it's at the heart of a busy veterinary practice in Lower Shagford, a little village out of the back of beyond, about eight miles from Winchester and connected to civilisation by miles of winding lane.
It's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of village, with at its buzzing heart, a pub, a chippy, and an archaic village stores, surrounded by a scattering of posh country houses, tatty old cottages and of course, the ubiquitous barn conversions. There are also the infamous allotments, the setting of many a village battle.
The drive to the practice twists and winds through chocolate-box fields full of pretty cows, until you come to what on first sight looks like a rather run down old farm. On closer inspection however, there's a jolly expensively tarmacked parking area in front of a stylishly converted cow shed, which has a big window and is my office. Then round in the yard, there are stables and barns deceptively full of impressively high tech vet stuff, like scanners and x-ray machines, and even a horse-sized operating theatre.
The drive continues on for another half a mile, ending in front of the rather imposing and grandly named Offleigh Manor, home to the awfully rich Mankly-Talbot family. Actually, they're the only reason we've got such a posh drive as they absolutely insist on it for their fleet of expensive cars. Mr M-T works in the city, and has a very tiny wife called Amanda, who has perfect highlights and a tinkly laugh, and waves a hand weighted with gold at us whenever she drives past in one of her Mercedes. However, the only one of them we tend to see is Paris – known as PM-T. At sixteen, she's a sex maniac and rather prone to crushes.
Most of our patients are horses, though the odd other animal crops up from time to time. And there's never a dull moment because as well as the lovely horses, there are the owners, who are mostly a bit bonkers, because if you keep horses, you have to be. I mean, they cost a small fortune, half the year they're caked in mud and their designer wardrobes are more expensive than their owners'. But if you love your horse, such is your life.
The practice was started by Beamish, the senior partner, who's very old school and highly respected for his encyclopaedic knowledge of all things equine. I'd never imagined that a vet's life could ever be glamorous, but his client list is phenomenal, from Sheikhs to racing yards and the most champion of show jumpers. Quite how such a fumbling, benign country gentleman has become such a legend is to my mind, astonishing, but that, perhaps, is why he is.
Then there's awfully nice Miles, who's very lanky and has worrying down to an art form. His encyclopaedic knowledge of legs and feet extends to equines only, because this is Miles and his entire brain is devoted to his job. He's also unaware that he's the current unwitting subject of Paris's attentions – she rotates them. Every time his car pulls up, I glance at my watch, counting the seconds before she appears, lolling around decoratively in skin tight jodhpurs and long leather boots, batting Cheryl Cole eyelashes provocatively at him, which is a waste of her time because Miles would only notice eyelashes on a horse.
Emma is the newest recruit, and everybody loves her. She's blonde, clever and gazelle-like. Maybe not in that order, but you get the picture and if she wasn't so unassuming I would most definitely have to hate her. Then there's Sam, the green-eyed vet nurse, with his soft, lilting voice which has a hypnotic effect on both horses and owners alike. I'm convinced he's secretly a horse-whisperer.
I share my office with Agnes, who has been there since the beginning and knows absolutely everything about everybody. Not that you'd ever know. She's fabulously discrete.
Which leaves Mrs Boggle, the cleaner. Poor Mrs Boggle is one of life's hard-done-by. She wears dreary clothes, has whiskers on her chin and sighs a lot. Her favourite topics of conversation are death, funerals and Benidorm, so it's best not to get her started. She comes in three evenings a week on her ancient motorbike that's like Nick Berry's out of Heartbeat, and she keeps the office nice and clean, in particular the men's loo, which personally I wouldn't touch with a bargepole. She's an absolute saint.
And what do I do? Well, I help Agnes in the office, answer phones, (Good morning, Anstruther, Morgan and Willis, how can I help you) make coffee and am not averse to the odd bit of mucking out as long as there's a warm, velvety horse-nose breathing in my ear.
But I feel part of a strange little family when I'm here, and rumour has it, we're about to become extended. His name is Marcus. Marcus Fitzpatrick, actually, which sounds posh - and is far too long.
Good morning, Anstruther, Morgan, Willis and Fitzpatrick, how can I help you, every time the phone rings?
I don't think so. Rumour has it that Marcus is a bit of a whizz kid. Posh and brilliant? Ego the size of a small planet? A few days here will bring him down to earth.
Elmer comes to work with me, and barks neurotically at the clients, so Agnes makes me shut her in a stable, which is fine because Eric's there too. He's Sam's awesome, elderly terrier with short legs and glinting eyes, who don't take no shit from no-one. Elmer thinks he's God.
Agonising over the choice between my striped top or the plain black one, I plump for black. Infinitely more flattering, but boring, so I add my trademark long patterned socks over my skinny jeans, and finish it all off with my Uggs. My latest funky wellies are safely in the back of my car.
Today when I get to work, however, there's already a kerfuffle going on.
'Good morning Louisa,' says Beamish, his eyebrows bristling as he peers over his glasses at me. He's immaculately dressed in his old tweed jacket and polished shoes.
'Hi, Lou.' Lovely Emma's there too, looking stunning as usual with blond wisps of hair already escaping from her messy ponytail. Even in her shapeless polo shirt and navy workwear trousers, she still manages to make me feel inadequate.
They're studying the diary together. Even in this computer age, Beamish still insists that all appointments are written down in the good old-fashioned way, and so we have this huge, hard-backed tome, without which he is convinced the practice would fall apart.
'Morning, all.' Then I hesitate, because there's clearly something amiss. 'Is everything okay?'
'Um. Fine.' Spoken slightly absently and Beamish's stock answer to more or less anything.
'Um Beamish, could I possibly have the next two weeks off? Um Beamish, can I order more champagne for our coffee breaks?' Chances are he'd probably still say 'Um fine'…
'Oh good,' I say instead. 'Excellent.'
Why, then, is he so agitated? Ah ha, I can guess. It's Sylvie.
It has to be – I've seen this happen before. Sylvie Williamson is a valued client with a grown-up Barbie-princess home and a collection of priceless horses who are her babies. As well as extremely wealthy, Sylvie's a widow, and for reasons none of us can fathom, has the hots for Beamish. Yes, even the middle-aged can get crushes, I've discovered. And they're just as embarrassing as teen ones, because completely out of his depth, there are no end to the lengths Beamish will go to in his efforts to avoid her. I earwig shamelessly on their conversation.
'Um, thing is, old girl,' Beamish is saying to Emma rather longingly, 'she has this, er, mighty fine stallion. Pure bred arab. By Indiana's Dream... Simply extraordinary he is.'
Beamish looks wistful. He's rather partial to Arabs, especially when they're pure bred like this one. He must be off his nut. I knew one once and they're loonies.
'Point is, er, Sylvie says he's a little off colour. Seemed perfectly fine last week, but she wants us, er, me, um, to do some blood tests. 'I say...' he looks apologetically at Emma, 'would you mind awfully?'
Emma pats Beamish's arm. 'Of course not, it's no trouble. If you're quite sure, you wouldn't rather go yourself?' She can't resist teasing him slightly.
'No. Um. Yes,' Beamish stutters gratefully.
'Louisa? Please get that phone?' Agnes's voice, sounding stern.
Once the vets are all out on their rounds, things quieten down, though not for long. We've a couple of horses coming in for lameness assessments, and they might be sleeping over, so I have two stables to prepare, just in case.
As there aren't any clients for her to terrorise, I let my lunatic dog out to help me. Then feel a rush of shame as it hits me. I've hardly given Arian a thought.
Agnes has the afternoon off, leaving me alone in the office which I am positively ecstatic about, but with a list of jobs as long as my arm to ensure I'm kept occupied. She obviously doesn't think I have any initiative. Mind you, she's exactly the same with the vets, giving them detailed itineraries, leaving absolutely nothing to chance.
Once she's left, I go and ogle at the clients' horses when they duly arrive, in their all-singing, all-dancing horse box, which I wouldn't be surprised to find are kitted out with jacuzzis and cocktail bars and disco lights. After all you know what that show jumping lot are like. Not exactly early to bed with a hot water bottle and a mug of Horlicks. No. I'm sure these big horse shows are just one gigantic party, with all sorts of shenanigans going on once the horses are tucked up in bed.
The only other noteworthy event of the afternoon is a rather supercilious call from Marcus, the new vet-to-be, who in a most imperious manner leaves a message for Beamish to call him.
'I'd really rather talk to Beamish,' he says haughtily, sounding most put out when he discovers I'm the only person there – and completely up his own arse. 'Oh, I suppose I'll have to leave a message in that case…'
Well, very nice to talk to you too… I think to myself. Simply splendid first impressions all round. Presumably I sound so ditsy that I can't be entrusted with even a message.
And then, because I can't stand arrogance in any shape or form, I decide, most satisfyingly, exactly who his first client will be. Well, I contemplate to myself, he deserves it. There's a grumpy old sod called Henderson who never pays his bills, with a filthy-tempered horse with rather persistent warts. On its dick. Ha. Perfect.
Elmer and I get home by six, and it's not until I'm back in my kitchen that I think back to my suspicions of this morning, but almost instantly I reassure myself. This is Arian, for goodness' sake. We're married… Of course he's not having an affair…
I know I won't hear from him before Saturday. We don't text each other as a rule. It's never even occurred to me that that's odd. Perhaps on this occasion, I should call him? He's my husband after all. But something stops me, because I'm not sure what I'd say. Then it occurs to me too, that these days, we're spending more time apart than together.
As all these thoughts resonate in my head, it's as though I'm digging my head out of the sand. Uneasily, I go upstairs to have a shower. The house is stuffy and airless, and as I go into our bedroom to open the window, something catches my eye.
Now that is odd. Arian has left his nightstop case behind. Something makes me go and look inside it. I find very niffy socks and boxers, which have obviously been there much longer than just since his last nightstop, which okay, is still not exactly conclusive - but my bad feeling is getting worse.
Even more uneasy by bedtime, I've already resigned myself to another wakeful night. With Arian away, I switch on the TV at the end of the bed, pile his pillows on top of mine and watch 'Titanic' for the umpteenth time. Elmer's lying beside me, which is strictly against house rules, but if my hunch is right, it's looking more and more likely that Arian's breaking a few house rules too. Elmer's suitably smug, then her eyes close and in no time, she's snoring noisily and letting out the occasional fart, which isn't that different to Arian.
An uneventful Friday comes and goes, and it's late when I eventually wake on Saturday morning, but at least I've managed to catch up on some sleep. Elmer doesn't care. She'd fester in bed all day if I let her. But as I contemplate Arian coming home, there are butterflies in my stomach and I'm filled with a sense of trepidation.
Maybe an intimate dinner to celebrate our anniversary isn't such a bad idea. Maybe sea bass or fillet steaks... Champagne, of course…And banoffee pie, Arian's favourite, with lashings of double cream, which means a trip to Sainsbury's. But I have to try.
It's about half past nine when Arian eventually does get home and after all the trouble I've gone to, I'm annoyed. He's yawning and the atmosphere is instantly awkward as my plans collapse in front of me. I'd expected him an hour ago and the sea bass is brown and shrivelled in a surround of mushy tomatoes. But there's no trace of Thursday's air of joviality. He's pale and drawn, his eyes unable to meet mine.
He kisses me, with slightly more feeling than the morning he left. 'Pour me some wine?' he asks quietly. 'I'll just have a quick shower.'
And I'm left just sitting there, my stomach churning, a feeling of foreboding building inside me.
Another twenty minutes pass. He comes back in, his hair still damp and mussed up which I always find incredibly sexy. For a moment, I'm tempted to run my fingers through it, to see if I can't rekindle a bit of the chemistry that's been in such short supply lately. But he makes no move towards me, just stands drinking his wine.
The atmosphere is killing me but I'm still not sure what to say. Nor is he – in fact, neither of us speaks for ages, until at last, he turns to face me.
'Lou?' he says, before turning silent again, as though he's fighting an inner battle with himself. Then he puts down his wine and comes to sit next to me. He sighs, deeply, and takes both my hands in his. It's the most physical contact we've had in ages. Suddenly I'm very afraid of what is coming.
'There's something I have to tell you, Lou…'
His voice is low and serious. Then he sighs again and when he speaks, his voice is even quieter.
'I've met someone.'
And with those three, innocuous little words, my life changes irrevocably forever. It's what I've suspected, but it's no less of a shock. As it sinks in, I snatch my hands away, suddenly dizzy, my heart fluttering out of control.
'I'm so sorry.' He sounds almost beseeching, as if he can't bear for me to think badly of him.
Sorry… Is that it? For destroying our marriage? For wrecking my life? Just 'sorry'? The wanky tosser bastard…
'At work?' I ask, sounding much calmer than I feel. I'm stricken, disbelieving, the breath completely knocked out of me, but I have to know the facts, so my cursed imagination doesn't go into overdrive.
He's silent again, then reluctantly, 'Yes.'
I should have guessed as much. 'So you've turned out to be one of those pilots after all, that plays away with the trolley dollies, just like you said you never would,' I spit viciously at him.
Trolley dollies…Leonie hates me using that phrase. But I'm determined not to cry in front of him.
'No. It's not like that. I wouldn't do that,' he argues back. How dare he argue.
'So who is it then?' I demand, feeling tears threatening.
'Another pilot,' he mumbles through his hands.
Oh God. Don't tell me he's gay. That really would be the insult beyond all insults. But he can't be. I would have known…wouldn't I?
'Her name's Karina. She's a first officer. We met about a year ago, and well, we just hit it off,' he finishes lamely, his eyes riveted to a spot on the carpet in front of him.
I bet they flaming did. Karina. You can just imagine it can't you. I certainly can. Karina. An image of a petite blond in a pilot's uniform pops into my head, Scandinavian probably. I can see her now, long white-blond hair, pouty lips and big boobs, like the girl in that stupid shampoo advert. Dead sexy, which explains Arian's apparent loss of libido around boring old mousy-haired me. I bet they snog on the flight deck when no-one's looking and have intimate dinners in all the far flung corners of the globe. And sex in all those enormous hotel beds. My imagination really can be a curse and as I watch it play out slow-motion in my head, I feel sick.
'So all this time, all these nightstops... They've been a smokescreen for your infidelity, haven't they? Because you're too gutless to tell me, Arian. So why tell me now? You could have had your fling, got 'Karina' out of your system without me being any the wiser, and we could have got on with the life we'd always planned together,' I rage, my voice getting louder and louder. But the damage is done, and I already know that it's far, far too late.
'I never planned this, you have to believe me. It just happened.' He sounds so weak. How have I ended up married to a weak man? There's nothing I detest more.
'Things don't just happen, Arian. You made a choice, you made it happen. You could have made the decision to walk away,' I rant, really incensed by now, losing all control as I feel tears pouring down my cheeks. 'And you've broken your marriage vows you lying, hypocritical arsehole. I hate you...'
Arian is staring at the floor. He hesitates for a moment. 'There's something else,' he adds falteringly, looking even guiltier than before.
I'm astounded. What else can he possibly throw in now? Hasn't he said enough? I stare at him bleakly, this stranger that I'm married to, wondering what's coming next.
He blurts it out. 'Karina's... pregnant.'
His words are like a physical blow. Actually, it might have been better if he'd said he was gay, because a homosexual husband would be easier than this. A baby. Oh, how I'd love one of those. More than one actually. Funny, but Arian's never been that keen. And then the penny drops. Heavily. That's why he's finally told me, isn't it? Karina's called his bluff. She's clearly not as stupid as he is. I give them about six months before she sees him for what he is.
But one thing is perfectly clear. If this has been going on for a year, my husband's been shagging two women at the same time. The thought leaves me numb. Incredulous at his betrayal. But out of nowhere comes a shred of self-preservation, because I already know, I never want to see Arian or speak to him, ever, ever again.
'Get out.' I hurl what's left in my wine glass at him, which isn't enough to soak him, but sends him scarpering from the room. Elmer is looking guilty too, tail between her legs as she skulks neurotically at my side. I pick up the wine bottle and filling my glass to the top, sit down shaking from head to toe, still in a state of total shock as seconds later, the front door slams.
For two hours I don't move. I'm completely immobilised, my mind blank. I don't even cry, just replay over and over the last few hours in my head, as I absorb the reality that my husband has left me. It's over.
It's only once the initial shock subsides that my emotions practically engulf me, as I find myself on a rollercoaster like never before. My world, it seems at times, has completely fallen to pieces and the person who was supposed to be my staunchest lifelong ally, the one person I was meant to be able to count on, he's the one who's done this to me.
Thoughts skip through my head about what must doubtlessly lie ahead. Practicalities, such as splitting our money, joint accounts and other so-called necessities, but the single worst part is telling people, which for ages I can't bring myself to do.
Yes, I'm bitter, angry, hurt – I have every right to be. And no, I'm not in denial. I have no trouble whatsoever in grasping the reality of what's happened, and nor do I wish him to come back. It's just that I don't particularly relish broadcasting to the world that I obviously wasn't good enough.
Guess what folks, my husband's found himself another woman. Yes, she's young and pretty. Blonde actually, oh and guess what, she flies a big aeroplane. That's right, a jet… And she's pregnant too, did I mention that? A far cry from flaky Louisa with her mousy hair and weird dog.
By Monday however, when I should be going to work, I'm an emotional wreck, and for the first time ever I phone in sick. Agnes is sympathetic and tells me she hopes I feel better soon and so for the remainder of that week, I hide myself away, crying for hours on end and wallowing in a feeling of total worthlessness. Life feels beyond bleak, and I can't imagine it ever changing. Devastated and distraught, I ignore my texts and leave the phone to ring, hardly eating a thing and getting through far too many bottles of wine before starting on Arian's most expensive brandy.
Torturing myself with memories, I go over and over the last five years in my head. How it all started, from when we met at Leo's to the first time we slept together. I remember it all too clearly. He loved me then, didn't he? Or did he? And what about buying our home and all the holidays we've been on? Trouble is, by the time I've dissected our years together, I've convinced myself that firstly, he never really loved me and second, that he's been having affairs for years. After all, with being away so much, how would I ever have known?
And then after a whole wretched week like this, somehow I summon the faintest notion of resolve and pull myself together. I have to. I'm not letting the rat ruin my life.
So, the following Monday, feeling more than a bit shaky, though on the plus side quite a bit thinner, I'm actually back in the office. The words Arian's left me play constantly in my head as if on a loop, followed by an equally dispiriting divorce, divorce, divorce... I do my feeble best to ignore them.
It's business as usual, I keep determinedly reminding myself as I get through the day feeling a little detached from reality. And it's a very long day. But I manage not to let on to anyone the events of last Saturday, until when the vets have all left for the night, and I'm just going to get Elmer from the stables when Agnes looks up from her desk and says gently,
'Louisa? Dear? Are you sure you're alright?'
The 'dear' throws me completely off guard and her kind concern makes me crumple. How can she know? But then Agnes has x-ray vision and a sixth sense, not to mention astonishing wisdom – she doesn't miss anything. I ought to know that by now.
Despite being the quintessence of efficiency and organisation, Agnes is a really lovely lady. It's like having a Mum comfort me, except that mine would probably take Arian's side, which is why I still haven't told her. But after keeping my secret for yet another day, my nerves are frazzled. Tearfully I tell her about Arian.
'Oh Louisa, how awful for you. I'm so very sorry.' Agnes comes and puts her arms around me and I can't contain the sobs any longer. I cry for half an hour, wracking, self-pitying sobs, which leave me emotionally exhausted.
'Come and sit down.' Agnes pulls my chair near to hers, and unlocking the bottom drawer of her desk, takes out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. I'd always wondered what she keeps in there.
Her eye catches mine. 'Strictly medicinal,' she says firmly, as she pours an inch into each glass. 'Now, drink up.' Hers remains untouched as she watches me slurp mine.
'So, have you told your family yet?'
I shake my head and blow my runny nose. The whisky's good. It helps.
'Don't you think you ought to? I know if my daughter was going through something like this, I would want to know.'
Oh. I didn't even know Agnes had a daughter.
She is right of course. Only problem is that my family live miles away, and I can just imagine my parents will want to come and stay, if only to satisfy themselves that I'm alright. And then there's my mother, who with her accusing ways and her unconcealed adoration of Arian, isn't exactly the person I need right now. It would do my head in. For now, I need to be alone. I explain this to Agnes, who nods understandingly.
'I still think you should tell them, Louisa. But you could also say that you are staying with a friend for a while. And actually, you know, you'd be very welcome?'
I'm so touched by her offer I almost cry again, only Mrs Boggle arrives on her motorbike, then stomps in carrying her helmet.
'Good evening Mrs Boggle. How are you?'
She shakes her head and sighs. 'Not so good.'
Agnes and I exchange glances.
'I know I shouldn't say it,' says Mrs Boggle, making our eyes glaze over because we know she's going to say it anyway. 'But I just knew them Forresters were a bad lot. Been banged up, he has. She has an' all too, and all them poor kids… Social services are all over 'em. Told you, didn't I…' She shakes her head and heads in the direction of the men's loos.
I stare at her, suddenly terrified, that my life is over and I'll end up miserable with yellow hair, just like her.
As it is, I drive us home, me and Elmer. I call in at the village shop on the way and search the dusty shelves, sparsely and depressingly stocked with its uninspiring range of goods labelled 'basic'. They probably have about as much nutritional value as cardboard, but in any case I gather some unexciting staples like plastic bread and tins of cheap beans, telling myself I need to eat, even if I don't want to. And I pick up some more wine.
At the checkout, I stand for ages while the spotty young shop assistant finishes what appears to be a terribly important phone call about someone called Tone, only to fix me with her beady eyes.
''Ave you got your own bags?' she challenges me.
So I glare back. She can clearly see I haven't so she very sullenly produces one of those nasty thin ones that tears if you put more than two things in it. It promptly splits of course, as soon as I lift it off the counter, so I stagger out to my car, a bottle of wine under each arm, scattering tins and bread behind me and drive home.
Home. For how much longer. Because however much I fight him, Arian will doubtlessly want his share of the house we have shared for the last few years. And of course, it's his salary that's paid for most of it. And of course too, we have no children, to sway the legal process in my favour.
Now I've left work, my mind is full of Arian again. When I get home, I collapse on our bed and cry some more. To be honest, it's more like howling than crying, but I think that right now, I'm entitled to.
About two hours later, when that's all over, my topsy turvy emotions flip back to angry again, which is much healthier and much easier to deal with. Then I entertain fanciful thoughts of revenge. After all, hell hath no fury and all that. I fantasise for a brief glorious moment. He's an airline Captain isn't he, a tall, dashing figure in his uniform, striding all-powerfully through airports around the world… If only I could sneak on board and get my hands on that PA system.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome on board this flight to Lisbon. Your Captain today is Arian Mulholland, who incidentally is having it off with your First Officer Karina X, much to the consternation of his wife Louisa, who has a thoroughly worthwhile job looking after sick animals.'
Okay. So maybe the last bit wasn't so good, but the rest of it... It would be most gratifying. I bet his passengers would love to know how easily led he is - by his penis.
I shut a slavering Elmer in the utility room with her food. It's a spectacle I prefer not to watch. Taking Agnes' advice, I decide the time has come to call my parents. Steeling myself for what I know must follow, I first pour a large glass of wine. And take a very, very deep breath.
'Oh Louisa, I can't believe it,' cries my mother, just as I expected, as though it's my fault that Arian's had an affair. God! She could be right. I hadn't thought of it like that. Maybe it is all my fault.
Dad is a little more sympathetic. 'Very sorry, darling,' he says gruffly, not quite sure what else to say. Dad's always a bit uncomfortable with these sorts of things. 'Stupid bugger,' he adds, unexpectedly, sounding angry for a moment. Then quite affectionately, 'Sure you're alright?'
I manage to persuade them not to come hot-footing it over here, telling them I'm extremely busy at work and mythical 'things', promising to go over there for lunch next weekend by way of a compromise. Phew. It's with a sense of relief that I end the call.
I wonder if Arian's told Pete? I pick up the phone again, and fortunately it's Leonie who answers. This time my composure cracks, and I break down when I tell her what's happened. Ten minutes later, my good friend appears on my doorstep with a wine bottle clasped in each hand. Apparently she was in the middle of painting her nails when I rang. Sure enough, only three nails are a particularly vibrant shade of turquoise. Her beautiful face is etched with worry and her long hair is still damp - dear Leo didn't even finish drying it before rushing over to my rescue.
'Oh Lou...' She hugs me and I cry for a bit. I love Leonie. She's the best. Then I have to tell her what's been going on under my nose for the last year. She's astonished. Like me, she can't believe none of us guessed.
'I wasn't going to say anything, but Pete's hardly seen Arian lately, except when we all get together of course. It seemed strange, when they've been friends so long, but I just thought well, we all have busy lives, don't we? And sometimes you and I don't see each other for ages either...' She was silent, thoughtful.
'I just can't believe it Lou. I mean...I'm sorry, but he's a shit. You're married, for God's sake.'
I could almost hear her imagination working overtime, wondering if she'd notice if Pete were playing away. The shock waves of Arian's behaviour are rippling through our friends' lives too.
It's surprising me though, how I'm pulling myself together again, but then self-pity's never been my thing. Just as well in the circumstances.
We drink too much wine and slag off Arian some more. Call him every name under the sun we can think of. Leo's good like that. Has an absolutely first class vocabulary. Somewhere in the world, his ears must be on fire by now, if not completely incinerated. Then we start on Karina. What sort of a woman preys on another woman's man, we ask each other. What a complete bitch, we cackle hypocritically to each other. What a pair of old crones we are. Leonie vows to blank Arian from here on. Hmm. I appreciate the show of solidarity, but that may not be so easy, seeing as she's married to Pete.
Ages later, Leonie's had too much to drink to drive herself home. She calls Pete, and I don't hear the exchange that follows.
He doesn't stay long, but somehow, I get the feeling that something's not quite right. Might Pete have had an inkling that Arian was up to something? He hugs me anyway, asks me if I'm okay, and I don't see the look that Leonie gives him. I'd always thought Pete was my friend too, but clearly boys code and girls code don't overlap. You know where you are with girlfriends, but men? Maybe they just stick together, no matter how appallingly one of them is carrying on.
Word has quietly filtered around at work, and though no-one says anything directly to me, I am aware that everyone knows. Later, when I'm mucking out a stable, Emma comes to find me.
'I'm so sorry Lou. Are you sure you're okay?' She sees the look on my face, and adds hastily, 'Of course you're not. How could you be.'
Unexpectedly she hugs me. She smells like a horse.
'Come round for dinner tonight. I'm not on call and I'll cook.'
Gratefully I agree, thinking how brilliant my friends are. Agnes too is keeping an eye on me - more than usual at the moment. And work is a wonderful distraction, with all these beautiful horses coming in to the practice. Agnes sees to it that I'm busier than ever and from the moment I set foot through the door in the morning, I don't stop. But being busy is exactly what I need and she's a slave driver - only I know she's doing this for me.
I've even started considering that perhaps it would be a good time for me to think about getting another horse, now that the opposition that Arian always posed has disappeared. Yes, a gentle, loving horse would be infinitely less trouble than any man.
This morning however, there's an added distraction, in the shape of our new vet. And in one glance I just know, the female clients are going to just love him. I definitely don't. He's too cocky, too smooth and far too sure of himself. I would imagine he's probably encyclopaedic about girls and sex. Oh, and did I mention he's extremely good looking in a George Clooney kind of way? He's tall, with brown hair and deep brown eyes, and Agnes has already dispatched him off to Henderson's to look at the warty horse. She gave me such a look when she saw what was in the diary. Honestly, it's not all my fault. Emma was in on it too. Emma can't stand Henderson or his beastly horse. It's only right to share him.
No matter. Marcus is back from his baptism of fire in double quick time, warts efficiently dealt with and more impressively, he's managed to extract a cheque from Henderson, which is nothing short of miraculous. Even I have to admit to being impressed. Agnes most certainly is. She apologises to him about Henderson, saying it was supposed to have been Emma's call, and gives him nice clients for the rest of the day as a reward.
Man-radar on red alert, Paris has already appeared to suss out the new talent. I'm sure she must sit in her bedroom, her eyes glued to her binoculars. This morning, as she sashays across the yard, all male eyes turn to stare. And with good reason. Her usually dark brown hair is peroxide blonde, with huge kohl-rimmed eyes a la Katie Price and she's wearing the tightest jodhpurs imaginable as she lolls outside one of the stables eyeing Marcus up and down with no subtlety whatsoever. She obviously likes what she sees, which means poor Miles is off the hook.
Marcus's eyes are out on stalks as he reluctantly allows me to drag him back into the office.
'Who the blazes is that?' he asks in rather shocked tones, his eyes still pulled in the direction of Paris.
'Jail bait,' I tell him firmly. 'Sixteen years old, bored out of her brain cell and goes by the name of Paris Mankly-Talbot, locally known as PM-T. She lives up the road in that little hovel with twenty-six bedrooms, with Mummy who's extremely high-maintenance and called Amanda and Daddy, who's a super-rich hotshot lawyer in the city - and is called Dick,' I add helpfully. And then snigger.
We all go for a drink that evening, to officially welcome Marcus to the fold. Our local is the old pub in the village, and it's called the Hope and Anchor. Sam calls it the Dope and Wanker, which always makes me think of Arian. There's a big garden, in what used to be an apple orchard and it's well within staggering home distance – at least for me. They don't mind dogs either, so Elmer and Eric do their worst, scrounging shamelessly from all the other customers, while we pretend not to know them.
There's blossom on the apple trees, and though there's a chill in the air, it's a wonderfully sunny evening. We all drink the deliciously chilled cider that's a house speciality, except for Miles, because it's his turn to be on call tonight. And after a glass or two, it seems that Marcus might not be so bad after all. He certainly has a glowing recommendation from his last practice. Actually, he's quite a glowing sort of person altogether, which rather begs the question. If they loved him so much, why the devil has he left them?
After Miles' phone bleeps and he rushes off to tend to a horse that's tangled in a barbed wire fence, the rest of us order some food. By the time Elmer and I get home, it's late. There's time only to put a machine load of washing on, before I have a bath and climb into bed, so it's not until next morning that I notice the message light flashing on the answerphone. Bloody Arian, no less. Wanting to discuss the house. My poor, battered heart sinks through the floor.
Of course, I knew it would happen, but losing our home seems unbearable. My home. I've come to love quaintly named Plum Tree Cottage, with its crooked doors and ancient timbers. The three large bedrooms, in that imagination of mine, were for the baby Mulhollands I'd always envisaged would turn up at some point and all around, there is space I imagined we'd grow into. It was for ever – like my marriage.
But sadly, there's no way in the world I can afford the mortgage. Arian arranged for a smarmy estate agent to value it last week, without even telling me - the bastard still has his door keys - and so smug Martin, with his designer suits and quiffed hair, has been poking around my home and taking measurements without me even knowing. Martin drives a big, expensive car and is always unnaturally tanned, even in December. He clearly makes a lot of money… His surname ought to be Slime, not Syme and yes, he really is that bad. Worse even. I should know. He was in the year above me in sixth form.
I wonder how many of his customers know about his little property-developing habit? About his little way of snapping up bargains before they're even on the market, no doubt at a knockdown price as he sweet-talks the old dears into almost giving their homes away to him, only for him to re-advertise them a week later at eye-watering prices… Definitely a secret millionaire for all the wrong reasons, our Mr Slime.
I can just imagine him sucking up to Arian, man to man, having a secret, smug laugh about how the little woman doesn't know what he's up to.
'Oh, don't worry about a thing, sir. This kind of thing happens all the time, ho, ho… We'll sell this in no time. Marvellous little family home like this will be snapped up...'
To say I'm furious is an understatement. I'm so seething I'm almost incandescent. Worse, someone is coming to view it this morning. More strangers sniffing around my home. I ought to be tidying everything, according to Martin.
'Mrs Mulholland, you really do need to de-clutter,' he told me most pompously. De-clutter? Isn't that what those TV makeover shows tell you to do? To make the home I don't want to sell more appealing. Actually, I really don't care that there's a pile of my knickers on the kitchen table, and that last night's dishes are lying unwashed in the sink. My empty wine bottle collection is quite impressive too. After all, I am that woman spurned. Hopefully no-one will like my cluttered home and I can stay here forever.
I get a call from Smug Martin during my lunch break.
'Mrs Mulholland?' he says in that smarmy voice of his, sounding far too horribly pleased with himself. My blood runs cold.
'Good afternoon Mr Slime,' I say, on purpose, my heart sinking as I listen.
Bloody bloody wankers, him and Arian. I hate them more than ever. The first people he showed round have offered the asking price. I didn't think that kind of thing ever happened. So to add insult to injury, now I'm homeless.
I can't help feeling oh so sorry for myself as yet again, I'm consumed by emotion. First my husband announces he's leaving me, and as if that isn't enough, he rips my home out from underneath me. My eyes are prickling again, and inside I'm screaming, silently, at the unfairness of it all.
'It may not be a bad thing, Louisa,' says Agnes most sensibly, when I put the phone down and start wailing. 'It's not going to be easy to get over Arian while you're living in the house that you shared.'
I snivel a bit longer then dry my blotchy face. I know she's right – but it's just too much, too soon. I'd rather wait until I'm feeling stronger – but Agnes has other ideas.
'It may be quite good timing, you know. Now, a friend of mine has a holiday cottage that she's thinking of renting out long term. It's only round the corner from here, too. I think she's fed up with the constant stream of people in and out of it, and would rather just not have the worry. Would you like me to have a word with her on your behalf?'
My mouth drops open. Agnes is truly a miracle.
'Please...if it's not too much trouble. There's Elmer of course too. Do you think your friend would mind her there?' My voice quakes. I can't possibly lose Elmer, now of all times.
'Leave it to me,' says Agnes briskly. 'I'm sure it won't be a problem.'
I feel instantly reassured, knowing that if Agnes says it won't be a problem, everything will be fine. And so I end up pulling myself together and being most sensible, agreeing with her that this somewhat fortuitous development might indeed be quite a good thing after all.
In the event, after umpteen costly meetings with solicitors, Arian agrees, most magnanimously, to split the equity down the middle. Oh how generous of him. He and Karina of course, with their combined pilot mega-salaries, will be able to afford a huge mansion with nobs on. On my meagre wages, I'll be lucky if I can find a pig sty. I resign myself to my new lowly status, which is apparently no less than I deserve.
In the end, it's all settled remarkably quickly. He doesn't want any of our furniture, and actually, neither do I. After all, everything in our house that we chose together now feels tainted, and nor do I want anything that reminds me of HIM. The only exception is an ancient table that used to belong to my Granny.
He leaves another message, telling me he'll be collecting his clothes and old flying manuals. Too late, that woman spurned re-emerges and wishes she'd thought to burn them before he got here… Or at least unpicked all his crotches. Far more subtle than cutting them up. How funny would it be if he found himself in the middle of Heathrow Airport, a fine figure of an airline captain basking in all these admiring looks, suddenly aware of a howling draft around his privates. I find the idea childishly appealing. Sadly, I'm deprived of the opportunity. He comes in while I'm at work and also takes the mower. Well, it's hardly as though he'd forget that.
So then it's house clearance and that's it. All done. And here I am feeling surreal, as I stand in the middle of my house looking around at the emptiness. All that remains is a collection of boxes and a very large, battered table. It's all happened scarily quickly. Good old Miles is coming over with a horse box to transport me, Elmer and the table to Agnes's friend's cottage, which I decided to rent while the dust settles, so to speak. Actually, I didn't know what else to do. It's smaller than Plum Tree Cottage, but just perfect for one newly single woman and her weird dog. It's quite near the Hope and Anchor, and it's furnished. There's even a paddock behind, I couldn't help noticing. Which just so happens to be empty... But best of all, I can't help thinking with relief, is that with any luck, now this is all over and done with, I really have no reason to speak to Arian ever, ever again.
But in spite of everything that's happened, my new home works a kind of magic on me. Surrounded by fields and beech woods, the huge trees catch the wind, and the air is full of the sound of birds. The peace and quiet is shattered only occasionally by the roar of a passing car or tractor - a definite advantage of living out the back end of beyond.
And there's the paddock… Fringed with hedges and knee high in shimmering grasses, it really does need a horse in it - just to keep it tidy, you understand.
Most mornings, it's five minutes' walk to the practice. And already, I'm hurting less. Or maybe it's just the change, because Agnes was absolutely right and relieved of the clutter of my joint life with Arian, and trying to look on the bright side of being a complete failure as a wife, I do feel rather liberated.
Emma lives quite nearby, in a snazzy barn conversion and as she's single too, we soon start seeing lots more of each other. She's an amazing cook, as it turns out and I'm a more than willing guinea pig for her mouth-watering recipes. If she hadn't been a vet, my multi-talented friend would undoubtedly have been a winner of Masterchef. What I don't understand is why she isn't fat as a pig. Out of her work clothes, Emma dresses simply but stylishly, and she's thin as a supermodel. If I cooked the way she did, I'd be eating all the time. My favourite skinny jeans are already on the tight side, which I need to do something about. Turning into a lard arse is hardly going to improve my self-esteem. I'm flabbergasted when she tells me after a few evenings spent together, that she, too, was married. And is now divorced. My mouth literally drops open.
'No-one else knows, Lou,' she tells me hurriedly. 'I'd rather keep it that way too. I met him before Vet College, and after I graduated we got married.' Then she adds sadly, 'I was so stupid, and well, young, really. It never could have worked. He wanted to settle down and have a family, and I wanted my career. I didn't study all those years to stay at home and have babies - well, not straight away, anyway. So a year later we were divorced and that was the end of it.'
Just as I'm thinking what a bastard, she adds, 'he wasn't a bad person. We just made a mistake.'
'Oh Emma, I had no idea…' I say inadequately, the wind completely taken out of my sails by her honesty. Then more bluntly, 'You don't look old enough.'
She raises her eyebrows at me. 'If I'd been older, I might have been a little wiser…' she says soberly. 'Anyway, its history and not a mistake I'll make again in a hurry.'
And there's more to gossip about when I find out that Emma has fallen for a client, which isn't generally considered a good idea, but after her divorce, I doubt she's interested in anything serious. I've met him briefly and actually I have to agree, there's lots to like. Ben is very handsome in a serious kind of way and has a big horse (of course). Well, several actually – it's how they met. There's a horse at the heart of everything around here. He's even asked her out to dinner, but unfortunately for Emma, she was on call.
I've been so wrapped up in myself, it's passed me by that I don't have the monopoly on busted marriages. The realisation makes me ashamed, especially when everyone's been so supportive.
Another thing bothers me too, because Leo's gone quiet. She was often here when I first moved and spent many evenings devotedly keeping me company and helping, most therapeutically to dissect Arian's shortcomings. But lately, I haven't seen her. I'm sure she's just busy, but all the same. Something niggles at me and I make a mental note to call her.
Tonight my mood is buoyant. Agnes is coming for supper, maybe Emma too, if she's not dashing around saving horses. I never try and compete with Emma's superlative talents in the kitchen, just keep it simple. Tonight we're having salad nicoise, which ought to be within even my modest capabilities, with a freshly baked loaf from the pub.
But earlier than expected, there's a knock at the door. It can't be Agnes, because she's always spot on time, so I'm expecting it to be Emma, only it isn't. I open the door and it's Leo.
I'm thrilled that she's here and as I pour my friend a glass of wine, she glances around admiringly.
'It's lovely here, Lou. I can't believe how settled you look, I'm so happy for you.'
Then she's uncharacteristically quiet.
But something doesn't ring true, because right now, Leonie doesn't look as though she could be happy about anything. Something's clearly wrong.
Then she asks, carefully, in a very subdued voice, 'Lou? When you thought something was going on with Arian, what was it exactly that made you suspicious?'
I look at her, dumbfounded. Surely not them too? Not Leonie and Pete, the greatest love story among all my friends I've ever had?
'What's happened Leo? Is something wrong?'
And suddenly my fear is back, only this time it's for my friends.
She sighs. A very heartfelt sigh indeed and suddenly I notice that there are shadows under her eyes that were never there before.
'Oh Lou, I don't know. Pete just isn't himself. He's distant. Bites my head off at the drop of a hat. All he wants to do when he's home from work is read or sleep. And he won't talk to me. Not about anything - and we've always talked, about everything, until now... I just don't know what the matter is. I really think it must be me. He seems fine with everyone else…' Her voice tails off.
I truly don't know what to say to help her. She's right. It doesn't sound like Pete at all.
'Just hang in there Leo. It might be some work thing on his mind... A base check or an arsey training captain? We both know what these pilots are like...'
Only too well, in my case.
She raises huge brown eyes to look at me. 'If that's the case, why doesn't he tell me?'
'Maybe he's a bit under the weather Leonie, I don't know. Have you tried to get him out? Or maybe just spend some time together?'
None of which, of course, made a scrap of difference with Arian.
Leonie shrugs. I can tell I'm way off the mark here. We're not really getting anywhere with this.
'Stay for supper?' I offer. Agnes would know what to say. 'Agnes and Emma are coming round. There's plenty for four...' I try to persuade her. And it might take her mind off things for a while.
But Leonie shakes her head. 'Thanks Lou, but I think I'll go. I don't think I'd be great company.'
Supper with Agnes and Emma is always fun, though tonight I can't quite shake my concern for Leonie from my mind.
Away from the office, Agnes lets her hair down just a tiny bit, and listens to me and Emma gossiping with an indulgent smile, as though we were her babies. When Emma and I start cackling about initiating Marcus though, Agnes is a touch disapproving.
'That was just a tad unfair of you, girls. If I'd spotted it, you would have got Henderson, Emma.' Her tone is slightly reprimanding, but there's the faintest ghost of a smile there too.
'Oh Agnes,' we both crow. 'It was funny. Emma's dealt with that horse loads of times. And Henderson actually paid. Result!' Emma and I high-five each other.
Agnes has the good grace to smile properly then. 'On this occasion, you're off the hook, girls. But don't do it again. Really, that poor boy...'
Poor boy my arse. There's nothing poor about Marcus. He's obviously already reeled Agnes in, hook, line and sinker, along with all the other admirers, female of course, that are queuing up for his services, veterinary and otherwise, no doubt.
I've also, just recently, discovered Emma's guilty secret. Don't we all have one? Anyway, Emma's, it seems, is that she is addicted, quite seriously I'm finding out, to horoscopes. 'Astrology', she'll tell you, because she thinks it sounds more intelligent. Can you imagine? She's clever, educated, accomplished in her career, very pretty, and yet relies on a twat like Jerome Castello, 'astrologer to the stars', as he describes himself, to tell her how to live her life. I ask you. Even with my three and a half GCSE's, I'm not as daft as that.
Emma has updates regularly texted to her mobile during the day, and pretends to whoever she's with, be it client or colleague, that it's an urgent update on a patient. It must cost her a fortune. She is unreservedly and worryingly hooked, and I've decided it's my mission to cure her. Well, someone has to.
Jerome Castello must be laughing all the way to the bank. There are probably millions of Emma's who get sucked in via his website, and before they know it, they can't function without subscribing to his super-duper overpriced premier service. He's a con man. He must be. I plan to do some research and find out more about him. I don't like seeing my friends ripped off.
Half way through the evening, there's a bleeping noise from Emma's direction. She leaps to attention and grabs her phone. It could be a call out from a client, or maybe it's just Jerome with an update. She stands there, listening, uttering the occasional 'erm,' or 'I see'. Then hangs up. Definitely Jerome then.
'Okay?' I smile brightly at her, holding her gaze just a little longer than necessary.
'Fine.' Just like Beamish. It must be catching. But she's looking guilty. Ah ha. She knows I know.
Agnes looks quizzically from one of us to the other. This must be the first time in the history of the world that I know something she doesn't.
Then Emma's phone bleeps again, and I look at her, annoyed actually, that she's going to let some stupid astrologer interrupt our evening for the second time. But this time it's a bona fide client, and after taking some details in a highly professional manner, Emma's off to save someone's precious horse. She exits very speedily, knowing full well that she's only putting off the inevitable, and that I'll be addressing her problem at the next possible opportunity.
It's funny really. My new home isn't far from where Arian and I lived, but life has changed beyond recognition. But it's crept up on me that it's better, a realisation that wasn't entirely welcome at first – but it's true. For starters, I have such great friends, I've realised, now I no longer take them for granted. And for the most part, I feel really good. There have been the occasional blips when I've forgotten myself and reverted to a bawling, snot-nosed wreck, but I always hate myself so much afterwards, I've tried to stop myself, because it's a simple fact that my marriage is over, and no amount of self-pity will change that. Shit happens, and not just to me, as I'm finding out.
But tonight's the first night I've been unable to sleep in ages. I ditched those hideous 3am gremlins when I left Plum Tree Cottage and have slept like a log ever since. But tonight, for a change, it's not about me. I can't stop thinking about Leonie, and wonder what's going on with Pete. They have always been so utterly devoted to each other. I can't in all honesty believe they're headed the same way as me and Arian, but how can I be sure? I didn't see that coming, after all.
Leonie adores Pete, loves him with every fibre of her being. I admire that kind of love. And I'm a little envious if I'm honest. I'm not at all sure I ever felt that way about Arian, nor did I invest the tireless, unselfish, unconditional effort that Leonie so generously does. It's not a welcome thought, but maybe our relationship wasn't as great as I'd assumed. Maybe, like Emma, I too made a mistake. I mean, far from falling apart, I seem to be managing just fine without him.
On that less than comfortable note, I fall asleep.
The next morning is clear and sunny. The kind when you'd like to pause for a moment and believe that summer is just around the corner, but today – no way. From the word go, it's so hectic, there's barely time to think. It all kicks off with Miles, who was summoned to a riding school at the crack of dawn to a horse with a suspected fracture. For a horse, that's life threatening and the owner will be worried out of his mind. Meanwhile Emma has spent most of last night sitting in a stable with an in-foal mare in a very sorry state and has had about an hour's sleep, if that. And now, just to top it all, Beamish has phoned in sick. Gastric flu, he says, sounding extremely sorry for himself. Hmm. It might just possibly have been the whisky. So, while Emma is catching forty winks in an empty stable, it's just Marcus and a rather full diary.
'Okay,' he starts. 'Let's sort this out. This yard here.' He points to the first entry. 'It's all vaccinations and other routine stuff. Can you phone them and say I've been called out to an emergency and will be over this afternoon? Miles can cover this one.' He points to the next entry in the diary. 'It's just down the road from where he is now, and I'll get started on the rest. Think I'll take Sam, it might speed things up a bit. Give Emma another hour's sleep and ask her to call me.'
And with that, he's striding out of the office, wasting no time at all. Gosh. How jolly masterful. I feel ever so slightly inadequate. Uncharacteristically quiet, Agnes raises her eyebrows at me.
The afternoon gets better though. A very pretty Shetland called Lucy comes in for an ultrasound, and we all spend ages making a huge fuss of her. She's followed by a very shouty little pony with an equally gobby owner, who's unfortunately in no hurry to leave. Paris cruises by (cerise jodhpurs and classic raybans, hair screwed up in a sort of pineapple thing on top of her head) but stays all of about ten seconds once she's sniffed out the absence of testosterone.
Miles has sorted out his fracture, which ended up in the nearest equine hospital and which being Miles, he's frightfully worried about. Emma by now is fully revived and perky as ever, after an hour's sleep on a bale of hay. How do vets do that? Mind you, pilots do it too. They can sleep anytime, anywhere it would seem - particularly in my ex-husband's case. But keeping my mind firmly focused on work, I've no doubt Beamish will be back in the morning - right as rain - and we'll be back on track. Marcus, to my surprise, is working his socks off. I'm not easily impressed, but dare I say it, without him, today would have been a nightmare.
Just before I leave, there's the roar of a very expensive-sounding engine from outside, followed by the clip-clop of very high, very pointy heels as Amanda M-T makes her way into our office for just about the first time ever.
'Hellair,' she says in that silly way that posh people do, as she flips her highlights over her shoulder. 'Do I need to register? Not me personally of course…' and she giggles in a girly way as if no-one's ever said that before, which they have, of course, gazillions of times.
Agnes steps forward. 'Good evening Mrs Mankly-Talbot. Can I take it you have a horse that you'd like us to look at?'
It transpires that Amanda and Dick have bought Paris a little show-jumper. Only a little one. And it only cost thirty five thousand, she tells us, because after all, Paris does still have the sweet little horse she won at Hickstead on last year, but apparently this new little one was too good to miss. She waves her braceletted wrists around as she gesticulates flamboyantly and then I notice. I can't miss them. Because Amanda may be stonking rich and drive an extremely fast car, but she also has massive calves. And I mean woppers. As well as a husband called Dick. I try not to snigger. It just goes to show, doesn't it, that absolutely nobody has it all.
When I get home, I make myself a cup of tea and settle down to call Leonie. I haven't been able to get her out of my mind. But it's Pete who answers. Not sounding his usual self at all. I try to draw him out, but to be honest, I haven't seen him in ages - not since Arian and I went our separate ways and my efforts are far from successful.
'How are you Pete?' I ask brightly. Not that I expect him to tell me.
'Um, Fine. Thanks. And you? Leonie says you're doing well in your new place?' His words are slow, as though his brain is floating in glue.
'It's lovely. Come over with Leonie sometime, I'd love to see you.' I genuinely would like to see him. Them. And slightly selfishly, I think it would be even better if he reported back to Arian that I'm doing absolutely just fine on my own...
'Oh. Yes.' He says absently, not sounding like Pete at all. This is very odd. He sounds tired, rather than disinterested. And he's clearly not in the mood to talk.
'I'll ask Leonie to call you, okay?' he says.
'Great. Thanks. Bye then, Pete.' But he's gone before I even finish talking.
No sooner have I put the phone down than it rings again. It can't be Leonie already can it? It's not. It's Marcus. You could have knocked me down with a feather. Marcus? Calling me at home? I must have messed something up, is the first thought that comes to mind. I can't imagine in a million years why else he would be calling me.
'Hello Lou.' Tired, but definitely friendly. I breathe out cautiously.
'Hi Marcus. This is a surprise.'
Then immediately think oh shit, he's found out that it was me who set him up with the warty horse.
There's a brief silence. 'Oh. Is it? Actually Lou...oh look, are you busy, or could I come over?'
I'm flabbergasted. I'm not sure what's going on here. We've never spoken about anything outside of work - until now. So either I've done something wrong or he thinks I fancy him, which I most definitely do not. He's not my type. At all. But caught by surprise, I'm not quick enough.
'Erm, okay,' I say, not terribly enthusiastically.
'Great. See you in a minute then.'
Oh fuck. Okay, so I do not fancy him, I remind myself, but nor do I want Marcus in my cottage in its current state. He'll think I'm a complete slut. Like a dervish I whirl around stacking magazines, plumping cushions and stacking the dirty plates more tidily in the sink so it looks like there's fewer of them. Then, just as the doorbell rings, I catch sight of my flustered reflection in the mirror. Excellent. My normal 'been through a hedge backwards' look. Still, it's too late to do anything about it. And it's only Marcus, after all. Smoothing my hair, and with a deranged Elmer barking excitedly, I open the door.
It's okay, I tell myself. It looks as though Marcus has come straight from work anyway. He's quite scruffy but actually, I like that.
'Hello,' I say brightly, at the same time he says hi, then we just stand there, smiling self-consciously at each other. Awkward doesn't even begin to describe it and I've still no idea what he's doing here.
'Um, would you like a drink? Coffee? Wine?' I offer.
He looks tempted. 'I could murder a beer if you've got one?' Beer. Of course. And well, no. I don't have any. I shake my head.
He looks slightly embarrassed at having asked. 'Wine would be good?'
I go to the kitchen where there's quite a nice pinot grigio in the fridge. He follows, making approving comments about the cottage and asking things like how old it is. I get the feeling he's as ill at ease as I am, which amuses me because I've never seen him anything other than ultra-confident and in control.
I pour two glasses and pass one to him.
'Cheers.' We clink glasses and sit at my battered table. Elmer lays her bedraggled head adoringly on his lap and drools. Fickle bitch.
'How are you settling in?' I ask chirpily. A nice, neutral question.
'Great, actually. I'm loving it! You're nice people to work with.'
Oh. I suddenly feel terribly guilty. About Henderson's bloody horse.
'Have you worked here long?' he asks.
'It feels like forever,' I answer honestly. 'In the best possible way. It's actually only been about two years. Since my old horse was put to sleep.'
'Oh.' He frowns. 'Do you have a horse now?'
I shake my head. 'My husband wasn't keen. Said it was too much of a tie if we wanted to go away...'
Then I stop because I don't know what to say next. That my husband ran off with a tart, so I shouldn't have listened to a single word he said, or the current version, which is that actually, I'm thinking about getting another one. Horse that is, not husband.
Marcus surprises me. 'I did hear about your husband. And I'm sorry. Er, actually I do know what it feels like. Well almost. I wasn't actually married, but someone really messed me about. I have an idea what it's like.'
I find myself smiling at him. He's being very nice and it's very odd. I have to remind myself about how the female clients are always phoning and asking for him in breathy, girly voices, as if they've got nothing better to do with their day than play horses with the dishy new vet.
I gather myself. 'Well, I'm okay now. It could have been worse. And actually, I'm probably better off without him,' I add for good measure, sounding far more of a hardnosed bitch than I'm feeling.
Marcus shrinks back in his chair, looking most uncomfortable. Ha. Somehow it's quite gratifying. He was probably thinking that poor, pathetic Louisa, still mourning the loss of her wayward husband, would be so very glad of his concern.
By now though, Marcus has clearly thought twice about coming round here. He drains his glass rapidly and stands up. 'Right. Well, I'm glad you're okay.' He gives me a quizzical look, which makes me feel rather dishonest. 'That's great. It's good you're doing so…fine. Erm, I'll see you at work then.'
And then he's gone, leaving me more nonplussed than I've ever been in my life.
Another week or so ticks by, and with each passing day, life gets easier. People stop picking their way so carefully around me as they realise, unexpectedly, that I really am just fine on my own. I'm starting to like that word. After all, I don't a man to define who I am. And then something else truly amazing happens.
Miles comes trudging into the office one morning, looking even more unhappy than usual and before long Agnes drags out of him what the problem is. It takes her all of about thirty seconds.
'Flaming Daisy Mitchell is the problem, if you must know,' he says glumly. 'She's got this horse - well several, actually. They're all beautiful animals, but this particular one keeps going quite lame. He's not a youngster, and he's a bit creaky, but in between times, he's fine to go hacking. And today she told me she wants him put to sleep. Doesn't want the bother of an animal that's anything less than straightforward.'
Miles looks really upset and pissed off. Unfortunately this kind of thing happens sometimes and it's probably better than the poor horse being doped up and sold on to an uncertain future, but even so.
'Oh dear,' says Agnes. 'You really don't look happy about this.'
Miles is frowning. 'Trouble is, he's a nice old horse with plenty of life in him. It just doesn't seem right. He's not even that old. He's just an inconvenience as far as she's concerned.'
We're all silent. None of us like the sound of this. Then Agnes speaks.
'Well, it's perfectly obvious isn't it?' she says, quite matter of factly, as if we were all completely stupid or something. 'Louisa should have him.'
My jaw drops wide open. Did she really just say what I thought she did?
'There's an empty paddock behind your cottage. Louisa. You know perfectly well. And even an old stable in the far corner. Old Charley Peach owns it. I've known him for years. Leave it to me.' All spoken so firmly that none of us dare utter a word.
She despatches Miles off up the drive to visit Paris's new horse. After all, a despondent vet is the last thing we need moping around the office when we have so much work to do. And at least he's safe from Paris, who still has a massive crush on Marcus.
Agnes should be Prime Minister. I'm beginning to wonder if at the very least she's a witch, but at any rate, she's definitely extraordinary. Just a couple of hours later, she tells me that Charley Peach would be delighted to let me have it for a pittance of a rent and Agnes has already decided that the vets can keep an eye on Horace (the horse) if he needs them.
And so the next day, when I get home from work, there is this huge gentle creature, mooching peacefully around in the long grass behind my cottage. Apparently Daisy Mitchell was delighted to wash her hands of him and so now it would seem, he is mine.
Horace is lovely, a real gentleman, with the most impeccable manners. He's dark bay with big, kind eyes and likes nosing gently in my pockets for sweets. How anyone couldn't want him is unfathomable. It is absolutely love at first sight, as far as I'm concerned. Not so for Elmer, who's extremely jealous and snarls at him. Then she eats his droppings.
My days are getting busier. Seeing as it's summer, Horace is turned out in the paddock day and night, but I like to go and spend time with him before breakfast and in the evenings, after work, I catch him up and groom him and in no time it's as though he's always been here.
Emma loves him too and is quite envious. I've told her she can ride him whenever she likes, but she works such long days, she hardly ever has time. It's one evening when we're leaning on the paddock fence, waxing lyrically about how brilliant Horace is as he ambles around up to his knees in grass, that I broach my concerns about Jerome, the con-man astrologer. Emma, as I fully expect her to be, is instantly on the defensive.
'Have you ever read his website Lou?' she asks. 'Only it's quite uncanny how accurate he can be. It's like he's talking specifically to me… You should take a look sometime.'
Perhaps I might, but I'm not telling her that.
'And what about the times he gets it wrong then?' I add confrontationally and more than a touch scathingly. 'Don't tell me - he's always so accurate...'
'Well,' Emma is pensive. 'Usually it relates to something that's going on. I don't know. It's sort of helpful, honestly...' She pauses. 'You know, when my marriage went wrong, it was kind of a comfort. Everything he wrote seemed to confirm to me that I was doing the right thing, when I was finding it hard to be sure.'
So that's how it started. Jerome hooked her when she was at her most vulnerable. Poor Emma, if her only source of support was reading her stars. I can see I need some more ammunition. I'm determined to expose Jerome for what he really is, which is a crooked shyster who preys on defenceless women. I don't why I think women particularly. Nor do I know why Emma is so vulnerable.
'Why don't you try a whole twenty four hours without tuning in to Jerome, including deleting those ridiculous texty things before you read them?' I suggest brightly.
Emma goes pink. 'How do you know about the texts?'
I give her a look. I mean, it's just so obvious.
'Maybe. I'll think about it,' she says, meaning well, but I know she won't. She's an addict, after all.
I give up. But only for tonight.
Miles comes over to check Horace. Or so he says. I think it's just an excuse to come and admire him.
'Nice old chap isn't he?'
We hang over the paddock fence again and gaze lovingly at my beautiful horse. I do a lot of that these days. Terrible time wasters, horses are.
'I'm so glad you've taken him. Any time you're worried, just let me know. He does have his moments.'
Miles really does get far too attached to his patients.
That evening, I get another surprise visitor, only this one hasn't come to see my horse. It's Leonie, looking pale and haggard, with dark circles under her lovely eyes. I feel a flicker of alarm.
After I've made a pot of tea, we sit in the garden, so I can turn my chair and gaze lovingly at Horace.
'So how's Pete?'
Leonie sniffs and a tear rolls down her cheek. I'm shocked. I can't remember the last time Leo cried.
'Terrible,' she says, miserably. 'Something's dreadfully wrong, Lou. I even got to the point where I came out with it and asked him if he was having an affair. He went ballistic and threw his coffee mug at the wall. It really frightened me. It was his favourite one, too. Honestly Lou...' Her huge brown eyes looked so sad. 'It's like he hates me. He can't stand me being anywhere near him.'
She picks up her mug of tea and sips it, trying to collect herself. 'There's another thing. He's off sick from work. Apparently he semi-collapsed down route somewhere, and they had to fly him home as a passenger.'
I sit there blinking at her. Blimey. That's serious in the airline business, which is a most unforgiving environment. Poor, poor Pete. And poor Leonie too. The whole company will know by now. But far more important than that, there's something seriously wrong.
'At least one thing's come out of it,' she sniffs into a tissue. 'The fleet manager wants him to see one of their doctors. He's absolutely refused until now, but this time it looks as though he doesn't have much choice. If he doesn't go, he's out of a job - it's as simple as that. But he's said he will and I'm glad. If someone can just tell us what's wrong, then at least we can do something about it.'
'When's the appointment?' I ask, hoping it's soon.
'Next week. Not too long.'
But nor is it soon enough.
Horace chooses that moment to wander over and obligingly place his great head close to Leo so she can stroke it. Very therapeutic, horses are. He doesn't mind the tears rolling onto his nose one bit and just stands there with his eyes half closed, being comforting, while neurotic Elmer growls jealously from her lowly place at my feet. He ignores her. When you're as wise and noble as Horace is, a scruffy dog with a loose screw isn't a threat.
Poor, poor Leo. What can possibly be wrong with Pete? Physically he seems quite okay, that's what Leonie says, anyway. So what on earth can it be?
Oh my Lord. The parents are coming for Sunday lunch. Today. I've put it off as long as I can, and I'm steeling myself for the recriminations I know will be all too forthcoming from my mother. Dad will probably - and wisely - drink a little too much wine and fall asleep in the garden. I'd like to do the same. My mother isn't easy at the best of times.
I'm cooking leg of lamb, locally farmed, with jersey royals and asparagus. Mum's bringing pudding. She insisted and I know better than to argue. It's probably sherry trifle made from a packet, the only sherry, most likely, being in its title.
Still, I tell myself. In a few hours it will all be over. For a few more weeks, or even months if I'm particularly lucky and maintain my air of elusiveness.
Elmer barks ferociously when she hears their car. My mother's never been a fan, but Elmer's oblivious to this. She grabs hold of Mum's skirt and wags her whole body delightedly before they're even through the door. My mother brushes her off distastefully.
'Darling. It's not as nice as Plum Tree Cottage is it?' she says sharply, her beady eyes glancing critically around in her search of something to slate, even though I spent a large part of yesterday cleaning and tidying.
'Hello poppet.' Dad at least looks pleased to see me. 'Nice place you've got here. I like it.'
Mum hmmph's her disapproval. I kiss the cold cheek she proffers.
'Come through to the kitchen and I'll pour us some wine.'
Already I'm tense as anything and they've been here precisely thirty seconds. I haven't offered a guided tour, nor do I intend to. She'd take it as an opportunity to rip my new surroundings to shreds. For some unknown reason, my mother can rarely find it in her to say a good word about anything.
'I see Arian let you keep the table?' is the first thing she says, as she looks around the kitchen. I instantly rise to the bait.
'Mum. It was always my table. Granny gave it to me, remember? He didn't even like it.'
There's a warning note in my voice. Mum just adored Arian. I've tried to work out what it was, exactly, that endeared him to her so. Was it his glamorous job? His salary? His swanky car? Probably all of the above, thinking about it. And the fact that he cheated on her only daughter seems neither here nor there, because my mother, as I concluded some time ago, is an out and out snob.
'Come and see the garden,' I suggest, taking me safely out of reach of the newly sharpened carving knife lying temptingly within reach on the worktop.
We walk outside. The garden's looking pretty. Arching boughs of roses are in bloom and there are clumps of herbs which release their scent when you brush against them. None of it's my doing, of course. I don't know the first thing about gardening. But the air is fragrant and it's peaceful, so I show it off proudly nonetheless.
'And this,' I add as Horace nickers at us and wanders over to the fence, 'is Horace.'
Dad smiles from ear to ear. 'So glad you've found yourself another one,' he says quietly, stroking Horace's soft nose gently. I know he'll pay for it later. Poor Dad's horribly allergic to horses, but he's never able to resist them.
Mum stares at me. 'Arian wouldn't have approved. He always said it was difficult to go away if you kept horses.'
'Well,' I say, stroking Horace myself to keep from exploding. 'Arian isn't here, is he? He's somewhere else, shacked up with the trollop who shares his rather questionable morals, so I think I'm entitled to my horse.'
I kiss Horace's nose and storm back into the cottage, leaving my mother standing there speechless.
No-one mentions Arian after that. Not for a while, at least, as Mum whinges on about Margaret at the WI who wants to change where they go for their Christmas lunch this year, and moans about absolutely everything. She tells me the lamb is overdone and that it should be pink in the middle, even though I've never known her serve up any meat that isn't so dry it practically chokes you. But she eats every last thing on her plate and even manages seconds, so it obviously isn't too bad. Dad, as predicted, drinks too much red wine and nods off, absolutely the only way he's stayed married to my mother for so long. As he begins to snore, right on cue she starts again. She just can't help herself.
'Darling? Have you tried calling Arian? You have to work at marriage you know. Maybe you should try counselling?'
I sit at the table resting my head in my hands, wondering how much more of her insensitive comments I can take.
'Men can be fragile creatures you know. They do expect certain things...'
Oh no. Please no. Do not let my mother be talking to me about sex. That just about does it, and it's like the top exploding off a pressure cooker. This time, I don't mince my words.
'Look Mum, I know I'm not perfect, but none of us are. And you seem to have conveniently forgotten that it was Arian who chose to have the affair and Arian who chose to leave. Without any attempt whatsoever to communicate my shortcomings to me, or any attempt to put things right. I'm not sure you've really grasped this at all, because the conversation we're having is clearly one you should be having with Arian, don't you think?'
I think she's got the message, as that's the final word - thank God. It's nice to know who you can rely on when the chips are down.
By the time they leave, I'm drained. I slump down on the sofa, utterly exhausted, in my lowest mood since I moved in here. Even Elmer's picked up on the vibe and she's exhausted too, lying flat out, twitching slightly and producing blood curdling yelps as she dreams about murdering small mammals, not even waking when I accidentally tread on her.
Later on, when Emma calls me to suggest going out for a drink, I nearly say no, until I decide not to let my mother ruin my day. And a nice girly chat is probably just what I need. I agree to meet her at the Hope and Anchor in about an hour.
In an effort to raise my flagging spirits, I run myself a bath and pour in what remains of my most expensive bath oil while turning up Owl City loud enough to have Elmer fleeing for her bed. But it has the desired effect and half an hour later, I'm feeling human again and looking forward to seeing my friend.
But when I walk in to the pub and see Marcus there as well, I nearly change my mind. Then I see that the Ben that Emma fancies is there too. Oh bugger. They've seen me.
I pin on my brightest smile and join them. And actually, after a large glass of wine, it's quite an enjoyable evening, marred only by the fact that Marcus is there. The trouble is, he's still too good looking and confident. And way too good at everything, even at being nice like when he came round to mine the other evening. Men like that make me feel like a blob. After all, I'm five foot four of not terribly slim, not terribly accomplished, mouse-haired, soon-to-be-divorced woman, while he's done so many awfully interesting things, which he tells Ben about now, in depth, as they have a man-conversation about extreme sports and who won the footy last weekend.
I tell Emma all about today's visitation. She's suitably horrified.
'Honestly Lou. Your mother could have been a little more supportive, don't you think?'
I explain to Emma that I've always had the feeling that until I married Arian, I had been a constant source of disappointment to her.
Emma's thoughtful, then says wisely, 'I shouldn't take it too personally. It sounds like your mother is inherently incapable of approving of anything.'
'Exactly,' I agree. 'Except for my wonderful ex-husband of course, whose arse, for some reason, the sun shines out of…'
Emma and I get a little bit tiddly and giggly. Oops. I really shouldn't have had that fourth glass of wine, but it has been an exceptionally tough day, even by current standards.
Marcus keeps giving me odd looks, as if I've got a bogey on the end of my nose. I keep checking it just to make sure. And predictably, Emma's mobile bleeps one of Jerome's poxy, overpriced updates at her, which has her jumping out of her chair, then dashing outside to analyse its deep and meaningful message in private.
Which leaves me, Ben and Marcus. Marcus goes to the bar to get another round of drinks in, leaving me and Ben, who's very handsome and looks like Brad Pitt, with gorgeous eyes and a lovely smile. Lucky Emma. I gaze at the lovely smile a bit. Then he says,
'Erm, I don't know Emma that well yet, but she seems to do that rather a lot...'
I like the 'yet'. I make a note to self to tell Emma he said that. I'm guessing he's referring to her disappearing act.
'She does, doesn't she,' I say bluntly. 'Has she told you why?'
He looks at me quizzically, but then Marcus comes back and neither of us mentions it.
'How's your horse, Louisa?' he asks me. A nice safe topic of conversation. Hopefully I can manage not to say anything to scare him off this time. It seems I'm developing rather a talent for it. And it's something I'd rather not become known for. If I'm not careful, I'll end up being one of those mad old women who people cross the road to avoid. Scary Louisa? Ooh, I wouldn't talk to her if I were you…she's a bit of a funny one you know… as if I had two heads and fangs and barbecued adulterous ex-husbands.
I tell Ben all about Horace and how he's ended up living with me. And then I discover he used to go out with Daisy Mitchell and knows Horace really well! He must know Daisy pretty well too in that case, so I better watch my mouth. This horse world is far too jolly small, I can tell you. I need to become more like Agnes and learn to be supremely discrete. That would surprise everyone - but my thoughts are interrupted as Emma rejoins us. Looking rather worried.
'You okay, Em?' Marcus asks her, concern showing on his face. If only he knew why she looked like that.
'Fine,' she says vacantly. Ben clearly doesn't know what to make of these unexplained absences. He probably thinks she's on drugs or something. Right at this minute, she looks like it. Not surprisingly, after that, the evening goes rather flat.
Although my home is the nearest to the pub, I don't invite everyone back for coffee. After all, tonight I am a girl on a mission. Alone with my flatcoat and my computer, I lock my door and get to work.
To start with, I google Jerome Castello. There are endless listings for the man, aside from his daily predictions. He's been published, it seems, in just about every newspaper imaginable and is quoted all over the place. What I'm looking for is some personal information about him, but there's hardly any to be found. I spend a whole obsessive hour, at the end of which I'm on page thirty three of the search listings about him. And then I stumble across something rather interesting.
It's actually a forum, and the entry I read is written by a man whose wife was just like Emma. Addicted and dependent, unable to make the most basic decision on her own. Interestingly, this man found Jerome's home address somehow and wrote to him. Give him his due, Jerome actually met with the man and his wife, and after that, things got better.
Perhaps that's the answer for Emma.
I decide that's what I'll do. I keep googling and then on page fifty-four of the search listings, bingo! I hit gold. Jerome's postal address, and hang on, he's not called Jerome Castello at all. His real name is Jimmy Crook. Ha ha! How apt. I put together a letter, diplomatically addressed to his famous name of course, about how my poor misguided friend needs his help, and put it in an envelope ready to post.
It's Monday morning. Beamish has called a meeting of all of us, not just the vets. Only Mrs Boggle is allowed to be excused. I wonder what's up?
'Um, it won't take er, long,' he assures us. Just as well. There's a mammoth list of calls and the phone keeps ringing.
He clears his throat.
'Erm, I'd like you all to know that after a long deliberation, I've um, made a decision to er, partially retire.' We all look at each other in astonishment. The only person who looks unsurprised by his announcement is Miles.
'As you all know, um, my health hasn't exactly been, well, perfect, lately...' So it's not just a whisky habit then. '…and the old er, quack has advised me to slow down. So, um, seems I don't have too much choice in the matter.' Poor old Beamish looks rather forlorn. What a bummer.
'Um, Miles, I'm delighted to say, has agreed to er, take on the role of senior partner and in my um, absence, he is at the helm.' Everyone looks at Miles, who smiles awkwardly, lanky legs stretched out in front of him, looking uncomfortable. 'You will however have the pleasure of my company on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. So it's very much business as usual. Erm, that's all.'
Except it's not, is it. Oh, I can see we're all thinking the same thing. We'll never cover the workload. We're going to need another new vet.
After Beamish's bombshell, we're all shell-shocked. But actually, it turns out he's sixty-five, which is much older than he appears. It probably won't be long before he retires altogether. This clinches it, I decide. Emma has to sort herself out, because one thing this practice doesn't need is a vet with personal problems. I'm not entirely sure she'll share my enthusiasm. And nor does she know, my letter's winging its way to Jerome as we speak.
Agnes goes out for lunch with Beamish. Probably a rather swish one, I imagine, as they're gone a jolly long time. Hmmm… maybe they've gone to that little French bistro for an intimate five course dejeuner followed by café and cognac…Or that new Italian I really like which serves the most divine antipasti, all washed down by a bottle of montepulciano… But my daydreaming is interrupted as the phones keep ringing and there's general firefighting to be done. I'm just putting down the phone when Marcus comes in briefly. He's got an x-ray due in shortly.
'Bit of a shock, wasn't it?' he says thoughtfully, about Beamish's announcement. 'I wasn't expecting that at all. Trouble is we're flat out already. I'm not sure how we're going to cover everything.'
My guess is they'll do what they always do when we're a vet short, and end up working dawn till dusk.
I agree with him, tentatively suggesting that possibly we'll need a new vet before long.
'I just hope Emma isn't going anywhere,' he adds, 'only I've been wondering about he