Love Is…

The investor who was leaning forward, interrupted. ‘Adjusting for client acquisition costs,’ he said, ‘we’d actually triple our profits.’

‘Exactly,’ said Dominic.

Mandi’s hand shot up.

Dominic ignored it.

Mandi coughed loudly.

I gestured at Mandi to speak.

She turned to Dominic. ‘But our job is to match people. To find them partners. We want them to find love and leave our agency. That’s what they’re paying us for.’

‘Yes,’ Mandi’s assistant chipped in. ‘The clients get upset if they’ve been with us for months without being presented with a life partner.’

Mandi glared at her.

Dominic ignored them both. Then he tapped the keys on his laptop.

He continued. ‘You can see from my projections, if we delay matching our clients by a week or so each time, it will prolong the duration of the service, significantly increasing the revenue from monthly subscriptions.’

He pressed a key and a bar graph was projected onto the wall.

One of the investors made a note on a pad in front of him. Another one checked his mobile.

‘Another significant change I propose,’ Dominic said, leaning back expansively, ‘is with technology.’

All four investors sat up straight. The one with the mobile in his hand quickly put it back in his pocket.

‘Apps,’ Dominic declared, this time as though he’d discovered a renewable energy source. He tapped on his laptop and then another graph appeared, seemingly demonstrating a considerable reduction in costs and an exponential growth in profits.

‘Matchmaking apps.’ He smiled a self-congratulatory smile, while pressing keys on his laptop, which projected an array of charts and screenshots onto the wall. ‘If we convert our service to a digital interface, we’ll cut staffing costs by ninety per cent.’

As Dominic continued babbling on about profit margins and shareholder dividends, I gripped the sides of my chair and starting counting back from a hundred, a technique Dr Phil had explored on a recent episode about anger management. I counted slowly and purposefully, breathing deeply as I did, but at fifty-six, I could no longer stand to listen to Dominic’s attempts to brainwash the investors into agreeing to erode every value that the agency had been founded upon.

I stood up and glared at him. ‘Enough,’ I said.

Dominic stepped back. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re excused,’ I said, pushing past him and slamming shut his laptop, bar graph wilting as I did.

Mandi sat forward in her seat. An investor smirked.

Dominic glared back at me. ‘What’s the matter, Eleanor? Are you not concerned about profits?’

‘Of course I am concerned about profits,’ I said. ‘My house is falling down, I’m thirty-six and still wearing Primark shoes. I had more disposable income when I was twenty than I do now. I would love nothing more than a nice fat dividend once in a while. But—’ I turned to the investors ‘—that is not why I am here. That is not why I founded this company.’ I turned back to Dominic. ‘So yes, Dominic, I am concerned about profits. But what I’m more concerned about is our clients.’

Dominic rolled his eyes, as though I was about to suggest we pitch for government-funded matchmaking.

‘This year,’ I continued, ‘we’ve had more divorces than marriages. Did you know that, Dominic?’

He straightened his tie.

‘Last year alone, our clients reported 14,198 failed relationships and 1,239 broken engagements.’

Mandi’s eyes widened.

I continued, ‘Six hundred and seventy-five divorces.’

Mandi gasped.

I leaned forward and connected Mandi’s laptop back to the projector. ‘Mandi’s presentation showed we’re doing a great job. We have contributed to more marriages than any of the online agencies. However, we could do better. We’re helping people find love. But I believe we should extend our service to help our couples maintain their relationships. They need our support.’

Mandi shook her fist in the air like a ‘let ’em ’ave it’ angry cartoon character.

Dominic tried to speak but I silenced him with a glare and continued.

‘We offer a personal service. That’s how we differentiate from all the other dating agencies. The superficial swipe-to-reject dating apps out there are feeding the narcissistic monster that is sabotaging the fundamental principles of marriage.’ I narrowed my eyes at Dominic. ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘if we dehumanise matchmakers, who’s to say we won’t dehumanise daters?’

Dominic shook his head. ‘What does that even mean?’

I sighed, wishing Matthew was there to back me up by citing Freudian and Jungian papers.

Dominic rolled his eyes and began checking emails on his phone.

I whipped out the divorce party invitation and slid it across the table towards the investors.

‘This is the tenth one I’ve received this month,’ I said. ‘We need to take action.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Mandi.

One of the investors nodded.

I continued. ‘No one gets married thinking they’ll divorce.’ I looked the investors in the eyes. ‘No one falls in love thinking it won’t last.’

Dominic glanced up from his phone.

I cleared my throat. ‘We all hope for the best but few of us are equipped to deal with the worst.’

I noticed one of the investors was blinking rapidly and rubbing a tan line where his wedding ring used to be.

‘And how do you propose we do that?’ Dominic asked, as though I’d suggested we populate Pluto.

‘Instead of cutting staff,’ I said, ‘we should recruit more, invest in their training. We should equip our matchmakers with the knowledge and the skills to support our clients.’ I glared at Dominic. ‘That is something even the most nifty app could never do.’

Dominic smirked. ‘Nifty?’ he said, his expression implying that the use of old-lady vocabulary could compromise the credibility of my argument.

I continued, keen to move on. ‘We should train all of our matchmakers as dating psychologists.’

Dominic rolled his eyes again, and let out a why-don’t-we-feed-the-starving-in-Africa-while-we’re-at-it sigh.

I continued, pretending to ignore him. ‘I want us to be pioneers in our field.’

Dominic threw up his hands. ‘Oh, come on, Eleanor, that will cost a fortune.’

The investor with the tan line leaned forward and raised his hand to silence Dominic. Then he stared at me for a moment. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘you’ve got my vote.’

Dominic went to speak but another investor cut him off. ‘Me too,’ he said.

The other two investors nodded in agreement. ‘Let’s do it,’ one said.

The remaining investor, who was also Dominic’s grandfather, turned to him. ‘I’m with Ellie on this,’ he said.

I smiled and, rather smugly, held out my hand to Dominic. He bypassed it, grabbed his laptop and then stormed out of the room, buttocks clenching as he did.

As soon as he’d left, Mandi jumped up from her seat and began clapping wildly.

‘Yay, Ellie!’ she shouted.

Her assistant followed her lead. ‘Yay!’ she said.

Perhaps it was because this was an unusual situation for them, or maybe they were genuinely moved by my proposal, but for whatever reason, the investors began to clap too. That was until one of them must have realised that it was a little odd and stopped. At which point the rest followed and then filed out of the room, checking their mobiles, seemingly trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.

That evening, as I fought my way towards the underground, the wind battered my umbrella and rain swept under it and into my face. I squinted my eyes and pushed ahead. I may have won the case against Dominic—a victory for the relationships of others—but the jury was still out on how Nick would take the news that we had failed to conceive yet again.

The moment I reached our street, my umbrella finally buckled under the elements and, as I waded through a giant puddle on our front path, I wondered if our marriage would survive this storm.

Chapter 3

Before I opened the front door, I noticed the hall light was off. Nick wasn’t home yet.

‘Of course, out drinking,’ I mumbled under my breath, although fully aware there was no one to hear me.

I ruffled my umbrella, drops of rain splattering up the walls, then I bent the spokes back into line and shoved it into the stand next to Nick’s giant work-branded golf umbrella. It baffled me why corporations seemed so keen to advertise that they employed people who played golf in the rain.

After I’d shaken my coat and hung it over the radiator, I made my way into the kitchen. I looked around the empty room, then opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine. It had been almost a year of not drinking, priming my body for reproduction, but now I was looking forward to drowning my non-compliant ovaries in Pinot Grigio.

I leaned against the counter and poured myself a glass. As soon as I took a gulp, my nerves settled and a warm sensation spread through my veins. I took another gulp and gazed up at the ceiling, then back down at our shabby kitchen. I squinted my eyes, trying to superimpose the building plans we’d had drawn up years ago onto the sixties-style laminate shambles in front of me. I knew exactly how it should look. I didn’t have far to go for inspiration. Every house on the street had been knocked through into their side-return and extended out back to create the trademark South West London statement kitchen. I took another sip and wondered if the white gloss Poggenpohl dream would ever be mine.

‘Cheers,’ I said to the peeling work surface. ‘Me and my kitchen, living the dream.’

I took another gulp and then checked my phone. It was 7 p.m. I called Nick. No answer. I took another gulp of wine and called Matthew to rant.

There a clattering noise in the background when he answered. ‘Twice in one day,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m honoured.’

‘Can you talk?’ I asked.

He sighed. ‘I can talk, and I would love to talk. However, the real question is whether I will be allowed to talk.’ There was the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by wailing. ‘Shit. I mean, sugar,’ he said.

‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

There was silence, a muffled sound and then Matthew returned. ‘Little sod keeps falling off his chair.’ There was a faint sobbing in the background. ‘It’s this bloody booster seat. I’m sure it has an eject button. There you go, Zachary. Now eat your pasta.’

‘Shall I call you back?’

‘No, no. Are you OK?’

I took another gulp of wine. I knew he would know better than to ask me directly about ‘the test’.

‘Angelica, leave the vase.’

‘I’m OK,’ I said. ‘It’s just—’

Suddenly there was another crash followed by a scream. ‘Fuck. I mean, fudge. Fiddlesticks.’

‘Look, I’ll call you back tomorrow,’ I said.

‘No, no.’ Matthew’s tone had an urgency to it. ‘We can talk now.’ He paused, then made a strange squealing noise. ‘Angelica, sweetheart, please don’t eat the broken glass.’

I grimaced. ‘It sounds kind of hectic there?’

‘Just another day in paradise,’ he said. ‘Zachary, eat the pasta, don’t stick it up your nose.’

I thought for a moment about telling him the result, but I realised he’d probably guessed anyway. Besides, any mention would most likely provoke a diatribe about some study linking new parents to suicidal tendencies.

‘Don’t suppose you fancy coming to a divorce party with me next Friday night?’ I asked.

‘Angelica, I said no! Hang on, Ellie, I should really sweep up this glass.’

I continued, ‘I need some company and Nick’s entertaining clients. Again.’

His pitch suddenly increased. ‘A party?’ he said. ‘One that doesn’t involve soft play, chicken nuggets, or a balloon-wielding entertainer?’

I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I’m in.’

‘Don’t you need to arrange a sitter or something?’

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It’s about time their mother did some mothering.’

The bottle of Pinot Grigio was almost empty by the time I heard Nick’s key in the lock. My throat dried up as I mouthed the words I would say to him. I downed the remainder of the wine, and mouthed them again. It was almost as if the act of saying them out loud would make them more final.

We will never have children.

I’d said it in my mind over and over all day: in the pauses between conversations with Mandi, in the lulls during the investor meeting, while Dominic sashayed around the office. Even wiping my bottom in the toilet had felt melancholic. Mine would be the only bottom I would ever wipe, I’d thought. I’d never change a nappy or lovingly slather Sudocrem on a rashy crack. Every thought seemed to extrapolate into a video projection of never-to-be-realised moments: the first steps, a tender kiss at bedtime, nursing a grazed knee, adjusting a school tie, a comforting cuddle when the world seemed cruel. Being a mother had so many facets. And I would know none of them.

I twirled my empty glass by its stem and looked out beyond our neighbour’s roof at the tiny glimpse of sky. I liked to think my mother and father were up there somewhere, looking down, keeping tabs on the little three-year-old girl they left behind. Suddenly I found myself laughing. It seemed so unfair, almost deliberately orchestrated, to be denied a mother and then to be denied motherhood too. I dropped my head into my hands, knocking the glass to the floor.

Nick rushed into the kitchen. From his furrowed brow and teary eyes, I could tell he already knew. Maybe Victoria had told him, maybe he’d guessed. He smiled, but I knew it was for my benefit. He put his arms around me and pulled me into his damp coat. I hugged him tightly and buried my head in his chest.

After a while, he lifted my chin and looked into my eyes.

‘It’s OK, Ellie,’ he said.

I knew he must be hurting as much as I was, and that now was the time we needed more than ever to love each other, but when I smelled whiskey on his breath, I felt my muscles tense. I pulled away.

‘Well, it might be OK for you,’ I said, with a sharp sigh.

Nick cocked his head, as though trying to make sense of my sudden change of tone.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

He leaned forward and stared at me. ‘You’re saying I’m glad it didn’t work?’

‘I’m saying,’ I began, then paused just to be sure I wanted to continue, ‘you didn’t try as hard as I did.’

He stepped back, eyes wide. ‘Seriously, Ellie? What is wrong with you?’

I glared at him. ‘Wrong with me? You’re the one who’s spent the past year partying like the Wolf of bloody Wall Street. No wonder we couldn’t conceive.’

He frowned. ‘Partying?’

‘You’re out every night.’

‘Working.’

‘Drinking.’

He ran his hands through his hair. ‘You know I hate entertaining. Drinking is the only way I can tolerate a night with those egotistical Neanderthals.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, poor suffering you.’

‘Besides,’ he added, frown turning to a scowl, ‘lately, it’s been preferable to being at home.’

I jumped to my feet. ‘Oh really?’ I said.

‘Yeah, you’ve totally lost it, Ellie.’ He walked to the wine rack and grabbed a bottle of red. ‘If it’s not wheatgrass shots, it’s acupuncture, then there’s those ridiculous “hypnotise yourself into getting pregnant” bullshit podcasts you watch. And if you’re not doing that, then you’re on those barmy forums. You and the army of infertiles, inciting each other to drink five litres of milk or eat a kilogram of cashews, all charting each other’s cycles like you’re in some kind of crazy baby-making coven.’ He paused to unscrew the top and pour himself a glass. ‘Seriously, Ellie, you’ve been a nightmare to live with.’

I snatched the bottle from him. ‘Well, at least I’ve been making an effort,’ I said, pouring a glass. ‘You, on the other hand, have been doing everything you possibly can to sabotage this whole process. You’ve pretty much done the opposite of everything the consultant told you to do.’

Nick grabbed back the bottle and slammed it on the counter. ‘Ellie, I’ve done it all. I’ve had every test under the bloody sun. I’ve had sex on demand. I’ve taken all manner of weird supplements. I’ve even worn ventilated boxer shorts. I’ve tolerated your obsession with trying to control the uncontrollable and now, if I’m totally honest, I’m relieved.’

‘Relieved?’

‘Yes, relieved there’s an end to it.’ He paused. ‘No more fawning over baby clothes, no more debates about buggy brands, or cots versus cot-beds. No more planning our weekends, holidays, furniture, house, careers, around the fact that you might or could potentially in the future be pregnant. No more pseudo maternity wear.’ He gestured to the wrap-around jersey dress I was wearing, bought in anticipation that it might accommodate a small mound in the early summer.

I glared at him. ‘I’m bloated from the hormones. Sorry I don’t feel like prancing around in a pencil skirt.’

He glared back at me. ‘And a sex life would be nice. At least one that isn’t scheduled around the optimisation of sperm quality.’

I stepped back, hand on one hip, the other brandishing my wine glass. ‘So that’s it? Sex is more important to you than having a family.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘If sex were more important to me, then I wouldn’t have dedicated my most virile years to wanking into a plastic cup.’

‘Oh—’ I accidentally sloshed some wine onto the floor ‘—I forgot. I must remember to be grateful.’ I gulped the wine down before I spilled any more. ‘It’s not as though I haven’t made sacrifices too. I’m the one who’s been injecting myself in the stomach every day. I’m the one who quit drinking for two whole years.’

‘Making up for it now though, aren’t you?’ he said.

I continued. ‘I’m the one who’s had an entire medical team peering between my legs and extracting follicles from my ovaries.’

Nick screwed up his face.

‘Oh, I forgot, that’s not sexy, is it? Must remember to be sexy. Must remember to be grateful.’

Nick let out an elaborate sigh. ‘You? Be grateful? That would be a first.’

I scowled at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He sniffed. ‘Come on, Ellie, you’re never happy. You’re always waiting for the next big thing. The wedding, then the house and now it’s this obsession with having children. You can’t keep waiting to live your life. This is it, Ellie. Look around you. This is your life. Just live it, will you.’

I raised my eyebrows and then waved my arms around. ‘Great. A shitty kitchen and a drunken husband. What more could a woman want?’

Nick shook his head and smirked. ‘There are plenty of women who would be more than happy with me.’

I stared at him. ‘Ooh, had loads of offers then, have you?’

He shrugged. ‘I have actually.’

Immediately, I envisaged pert-bottomed interns bending over Nick’s filing cabinet and fluttering their eyelashes. ‘Oh really?’ I said, taking another glug of wine. ‘And?’

Nick sighed, his expression softening. ‘Ellie, I’m married. To you.’

He put his glass down and walked towards me. ‘And I want you back.’ He took my hands in his. ‘I want us back.’

Chapter 4

Matthew stopped at Cassandra’s front gate and scratched his head.

‘I’m not sure balloons are entirely appropriate for a divorce party,’ he said, gesturing to the bulging bunches tied to each post.

Dizzee Rascal’s ‘Dance Wiv Me’ was blaring out through the open windows and, as we walked up the path, I could see silhouettes gyrating under a disco ball. The sunken roof of the Georgian townhouse looked as though it might collapse with the shame of it all.

I knocked on the door. There was no answer.

Matthew turned to me with raised eyebrows. ‘We could always go for a quick bite to eat first?’ he said.

I glared at him. ‘No. We’re here to support Cassandra.’

Matthew shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘You know how some people are terrified of clowns?’

I laughed. ‘Not all divorced women are scary,’ I said. ‘Besides, Cassandra is a friend.’

He sculpted his quiff in his reflection from the polished knocker. ‘She’s not a friend, she’s a client.’

‘She’s going through a rough time.’

Suddenly raucous laughter bubbled up from the hallway.

‘Yes, sounds like it,’ he said, adjusting his shirt collar. ‘What if I’m the only man here? They might slice off my testicles or deep-fry my penis.’

I knocked again. I could hear Cassandra’s high octave New York drawl approaching the door. ‘Coming!’ she screeched.

She greeted us with the determined smile of a TV presenter. ‘Oh. My. Gaaaad. It’s Ellie!’ She flung her arms around me, nearly knocking Matthew over. ‘It’s so good to see you! Come in, come in. We have tequila.’

I grabbed Matthew’s arm and pulled him in behind me.

Straight away we were thrust into the sitting room and towards the makeshift bar, which seemed sufficiently stocked to survive an apocalypse. Cassandra poured us each tumblers of tequila, then insisted we down them in unison. Afterwards, she leaned in towards me and pointed at Matthew.

‘Is that Nick?’ she asked in a stage whisper. ‘Only I remember him being better-looking.’

Matthew stepped forward. ‘Yes, I am—’

I blocked him with my arm. ‘This is Matthew,’ I said, interrupting whatever mischievous untruth he was about to present to Cassandra, ‘my friend.’

Cassandra looked him up and down and then grinned. ‘Not fair,’ she said. ‘I so want a gay buddy.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘Got one for me?’

Matthew, clearly, sensing an opportunity to avoid the angry divorcees turning on him, suddenly ramped up his camp-o-meter and jutted his hip to one side.

‘Sweetheart,’ he said, flicking his wrist. ‘If you can throw a party like this, I’ll get you a gay boy quicker than you can say Liza Minnelli.’ Then he skipped towards her and started stroking her dress. ‘Is this Diane von Furstenberg? It’s am-az-ing.’

I knocked his hand away after I noticed it edging towards the chest area.

‘Let’s mingle,’ I said.

He poured two more tequilas, before air-kissing Cassandra and squeezing her bottom.

I rolled my eyes as we walked off. ‘Behave,’ I said.

He shrugged his shoulders.

I stopped and glared at him. ‘You’re a married father of two.’

He threw his arms in the air. ‘I am what I am,’ he shrilled, doing his best gayed-up interpretation of Gloria Gaynor, followed by an intricate sidestep across the dance floor. A pretty redhead laughed and joined in dancing with him.

I watched for a while and then pulled him to one side. ‘Impersonating a homosexual in order to take advantage of vulnerable women is exploitative and a gross breach of our host’s trust.’

He downed one of the tequilas. ‘Ellie, a divorce party is hardly the ideal platform to preach moral standards.’

I snatched the other tequila, thought about putting it on the side, then downed it instead.

Matthew did a double eyebrow raise. ‘I see you’re drinking again?’

I nodded, wiping my mouth.

He stared at me for a moment, looking as though he were about to offer something profound. Then, clearly thinking better of it, he put his arm around me and ruffled my hair.

‘Come on, fag hag,’ he said. ‘Let’s dance.’

A while later, once Cassandra had informed the DJ that we had a ‘gay’ guest, it was as though the playlist donned a pair of leather chaps and dropped an E. And despite Matthew’s sterling efforts, which peaked at a rather gymnastic ‘Vogue’ pose, by the time we heard the intro to a remix of the Village People’s ‘In the Navy’ we both agreed it was time for a tequila top-up. Matthew didn’t bother with glasses this time; instead, he just grabbed the bottle. He took a swig and passed it to me.

I took a gulp and looked around the room. The furniture had been pushed to the side and the fireplace hidden behind the temporary DJ booth, but even through my now blurry vision, I could see that this was otherwise an elegant family room. I found myself imagining Cassandra and Dr Stud, or Stud-Wheeler, as they’d renamed themselves, snuggling on the sofa together, bottle of red in front of them, the latest HBO TV series on in the background. I held the image in my mind for a moment, before contrasting it with tonight’s frenzied quest for oblivion and wondered when it was that they had stopped loving each other.