“When Will I Ever Meet That Woman?” (A Humorous Tale) I’m a woman currently between relationships, and next door to me lives Dave — he’s just built himself a new house and moved in. Seems like some kind of businessman, though not too full of himself. He’s a bit younger than me — about thirty-five, while I’ve recently celebrated my eighteenth birthday… several times over. One day, he comes round and says: “Mrs. Mary, could you, as a neighbourly favour, provide me with some, umm… escort services?” I told him straight that before he asks for services like that, he might want to call the undertaker first. “You misunderstood!” Dave apologised. “I’m heading to a posh do, and showing up solo isn’t the done thing. Business types always show up with a stunning lady. Plus, my ex will be there. I want her to see that I’m doing fine — and that nature abhors a vacuum.” The “stunning lady” bit pleased me. Outshining Dave’s ex sounded fun, too. But… “No can do, Dave,” I said. “Just look at me — I’m not from your stable. No endless legs, no plastic backside. Get a professional escort. They know all the etiquette, and it’s not awkward to have a cuddle.” “Professionals won’t work,” he replied. “You can spot them a mile off — they’ve got their rates stamped on their foreheads. I need a genuine woman, someone no one knows.” “I’ve got more than enough authenticity,” I said. “But I’m a high-end lady. What am I supposed to wear? My usual outfits are only good for plumber’s conventions.” Dave sorted out my look: dress, shoes, manicure, new hairdo. Well, there was no escape! Had to help the chap. So that evening, off we went to the venue. The place was called “The Blue Opulence.” If you’ve never been to a high-society soirée, you’re not missing much. It’s as lively and depressing as an emu farm during artificial insemination. The men in tuxes, the women all plastic. They eat little, drink even less, grin through sixty-one diamond teeth and spend the night one-upping each other. Dave pointed out his ex: standard-issue faded model, neckline to the navel, plumped-up pout. What he ever saw in her, I’ll never know. Name’s Serena, though I bet her birth certificate says Sarah. Dave gets pulled away by his mates for a business chat, gives me a peck on the cheek, and parks me by the canapés. I’m not about to pass up a buffet, so I tuck in. One in my hand, eyes on the next, munching a third. Soon enough, a group of curious ladies gathers, with Serena keeping an ear out nearby. “You with Dave?” one of them asks, introducing herself as Nikki. “So, what do you do? Run an agency? A beauty salon? Dance school?” Mid-chew, I wrack my brains. I remember I sold a bedside table to a friend recently, so I said I worked in furniture. Then I recalled it was a pretty decent one, so I upgraded my claim to ‘luxury furnishings.’ “How fabulous!” gushes Nikki. “Just the thing I need. What’s your shop called?” Honestly, some people! After that bedside table, I hadn’t sold a thing, so I fibbed that I was out of furniture, now in winterwear. Last winter I flogged a faux fur to another friend for a fifty, so I figured it counted. A few women squealed that they’d love to visit my boutique, pressing for the address. A test, maybe? Luckily, I had also sold hubby’s spare tyres not long ago, so I pivoted again: “Sadly, the fur trade’s dried up too, so now I’m in car parts. Injectors, hoses, cylinder blocks — let me know!” That lost them — hoses were clearly beneath their interest. “What antidepressants are you on?” Nikki presses. “Which psychiatrist? No way you make money these days without help!” I’m on one antidepressant: a nightly brandy to chase off the blues. And my psychiatrist is my cat, Cookie — pour out your soul, she flicks her tail and scatters earth from the planters. Sound therapy, though a bit messy. So I said my antidepressant was extra-brandyine, and my therapist goes by Madame Meow Meow. No one understood, but it worked. Finally, Serena herself sidles over for a closer look. “Hey there, chick,” she says. “Are you Dave’s new flame? Just a friendly warning — he’s a nightmare.” “Not half as scary as you,” I reply, tossing back a plate of oysters. “You’ll never put up with Dave, trust me,” she whines. “He’s a tyrant! Stay late — drama! Spend an extra hundred grand — row!” “We’re fine!” I say. “No rows, no fuss. He comes home when he wants — and so do I!” Notice: I told no lies. I merely omitted that we live fifty metres and one iron fence apart. “I’ll tell you more!” Serena hisses. “Dave’s a little nuts. Talks to himself! I’d drag him to the opera or on a cruise, and he’d just gaze at the sky and mumble: ‘When will I ever meet that woman?’ As if I wasn’t even there!” I let that one go — aren’t we all a little bonkers, looking for something? “And you like your food, I see,” hisses Serena. “You’ll pay for that! Dave drove me mad over every extra pound! Always shouting, ‘When will I ever meet that woman?’ I’d say, ‘I’m right here!’ but he’d look past me and wander off.” “He won’t say a word about my weight, bet you,” I retorted, firing back another round of delicacies. Dave waved encouragingly from across the room — eat up! Serena practically combusted. “Daytime was bad enough,” she snapped, “but at night, I wanted to smother him. Snores like a jackhammer, groans in his sleep, ‘When will I ever meet that woman?’ I kid you not!” I shrugged — not that I’d ever heard Dave snore, but I didn’t bother clarifying the fifty-metre, iron-fenced gap between our beds. In the end, Serena couldn’t get the better of me, no matter how she tried. I had a grand old time — ate, drank, took a celebratory dip in the champagne bath. Felt a bit sorry for the new dress, but I knew I’d outgrow it in a week anyway. What’s the point of fretting? There’s always Cookie and a glass of brandy for comfort. *** “Mary, thank you from the bottom of my heart!” Dave beamed the next day. “You’re a star — you made quite the splash among that sorry bunch of snobs, and Serena was positively green! That’s what authenticity does.” “My pleasure,” I told him. “But next time, count me out. That crowd gives me an attack of moral indigestion. If I were your wife, I wouldn’t go, and I’d keep you home too.” He handed me flowers and fruit before heading home, muttering something odd: “Lord, have I finally found that woman?” No idea what he meant. But if he has, then good for him…

So when am I ever going to find that woman? (humour)

So here I am, single for the time being. My neighbour, Tom, has just finished doing up his cottage and moved in. Supposedly some kind of businessman, but hes not at all arrogant. Hes a bit younger than me35 or sowhile Ive managed to turn eighteen a few times now.

The other day, he pops over and says,

Margaret Thompson, would you do me a neighbourly favour and be my plus-one?

Naturally, I told him before making any offer like that, he should probably ring up the undertakers first.

You misunderstand! Tom apologises, looking flustered. Ive been roped into this fancy do, and theres no way I can show up solo. You know how these business types arealways got to have an elegant lady on your arm. Plus, my ex is going to be there, and Id rather she see me absolutely thriving. Make it clear that one mans loss is anothers gain.

Being called an elegant lady didnt exactly hurt my feelings. And the idea of giving Toms ex a run for her money sounded entertaining. But still…

Not happening, Tommy, I said. Look at meIm not your usual crowd. No endless legs or padding in the right places. Go pay a professional escort. Theyve had etiquette training, and its less awkward if you feel up for a cuddle.

He laughs. That wont work, Mags. You can spot those girls a mile off. The prices are written all over their faces. I need someone real, someone no one knows.

Well, Ive got realism in spades, I said. But I dont come cheap. And what am I supposed to wear? My usual outfits are only good for a night at the local with the plumbing lads.

Sorting out my appearance became Toms problemdress, shoes, nails, haircut, the works. I couldnt really protest after that; besides, it was only fair. So off we trotted that evening, done up to the nines, heading to this posh club.

The club was called The Blue Sovereign. If youve never been to one of those high-society dos, you arent missing much. It was as lively and inviting as a rainy car boot sale. The fellas all in tuxedos, the women all fake smiles and even faker everything else. Nobody eats, nobody drinks, everyones too busy showing off and quietly judging each other.

Tom discreetly pointed out his exclassic past-it model, enough cleavage to make a bishop doubt himself, lips pumped up to look like a duck. Her name was Tiffany, though I bet she started life as plain old Susan.

Anyway, Tom was soon dragged off by his mates for a business chat and kissed me on the cheek before leaving me at the buffet. I wasnt about to let the food go to wasteplate after plate of little canapés, each one fancier than the last.

It wasnt long before a gaggle of women gathered around, with Tiffany subtly eavesdropping.

So, youre with Tom? one of them asks, introducing herself as Alice. What do you do? Run your own agency? Salon? Dance school?

With a mouthful of smoked salmon, I tried to remember the last thing Id solda side table to my friend last month. I work in furniture, I managed.

Then I remembered it was in great nick, so I upgraded my answerNot just any furniture. Bespoke, high-end stuff.

Lovely! says Alice. I could use a refresh at home. Whats your showroom called?

She wouldnt let it go. After that table, I hadnt sold a thing, so I bluffed and said Id moved on from furniture.

After getting a bit bored of that, Ive gone into winter fashion, I said. Truth be told, last winter I flogged a faux fur wrap made from my old terriers sheared fur for fifty quid, so I felt justified.

A couple of women perked up, wanting to visit my shop. They were definitely trying to catch me out.

Luckily, I remembered flogging two spare tyres from my exs car a while back. So I switched gears: Sadly, the fur games gone dry too. Now Im all about car parts. Injectors, hoses, engine blocksyou name it.

That did the trick; they lost interestcar parts werent exactly their style.

Which antidepressants are you on? Alice pressed on. And whos your therapist? No one gets through modern life without some kind of help!

My only antidepressant is a shot of brandy in the evening, and my therapist is my cat, Pudding. I pour my heart out, she flicks her tail, and then knocks the soil out of my houseplantsnot a bad bit of therapy if you can ignore the mess. So I told them I swear by vintage brandy, and my therapist is Lady Pudding Tabbytail of Catford. No idea what they made of that, but it seemed to do the trick.

Eventually Tiffany sidled up, looking me over suspiciously.

Hullo, chick, she said. You Toms new squeeze? Just a friendly tiphes a nightmare.

Not as much as you, love, I replied, shovelling in some oysters.

Youll find out soon enough. Cant live with him! If you stay out too long, he throws a fit. Spend an extra £200its a row!

Were fine, thanks, I said. No rows, no drama. He comes and goes, and so do I.

Not a word of a lie! I just didnt point out we live in separate houses.

And get this, Tiffany leans in. Hes a bit mad. Talks to himself! I used to drag him to the opera or on cruiseswear myself out, and there hed be, staring into the sky, muttering, When am I going to find that woman? As if I wasnt right beside him.

I didnt bat an eyelid. Arent we all a bit off our rocker, searching for something?

I see you like your food, she jabbed. He used to nag me about every extra pound. And always grumble, When am I going to find that woman? Id say, Im right here! And hed just look through me.

He wont say a word about my extra weight, I bet you, I saidand polished off another plate.

Tom gave me a thumbs up from across the roomlike, help yourself! Tiffany looked like thunder.

If only it was just daytime, she sighed. But at night, I nearly killed him for his snoringlike a jackhammer! Even in his sleep, hed groan, When am I going to find that woman?

I just shrugged. Never heard a thingtheres a good fifty metres and a solid iron fence between our bedrooms.

So in the end, Tiffany couldnt rattle me, no matter how she tried. Honestly, I had a decent eveningate and drank my fill and even took a dip in the punch bowl. Bit of a shame about the new dress, but lets face it, I wouldnt have fit into it again by next week anyway. Why worry? Theres always Pudding and brandy for comfort.

***

Margaret, I cant thank you enough, Tom said the next day. You were born for high society. Youve left a mark on that miserable little gaggle of snobsand Tiffanys green with envy. Thats what realness and charm get you.

Happy to help, I replied. But next time, count me out. If I have to spend too long at things like that, I come down with a serious case of moral indigestion. If I were your wife, I wouldnt go myself, and I certainly wouldnt let you.

He gave me a bunch of flowers and a basket of fruit, muttered something odd as he left:

Blimey, have I finally found that woman?

Dont know what he meant by it. But, honestly, if hes found who hes after, good luck to him!