In Search of Perfection
Victor found himself sitting at a petite round table in a snug London café, although he barely registered the world around him. His gaze kept darting to the entrance, weaving between the steady tick of his watch and the perpetual hope that Katherine would arrive any moment now.
Every time a new woman swept through the door, Victor sat bolt upright, scrutinising each one. A lady in a striking cherry-red trench passedno, that wasnt her. Then came a petite brunette laden with an oversized toteagain, no sign of Katherine. Victors mind busied itself, rationalising her tardiness. Perhaps this was a habit, being a touch late to create a hint of suspense, the air of the unexpected. Many Englishwomen did such things, he thought, as if to infuse a bit of drama into an otherwise ordinary evening. But Katherine was sorely mistaken if she thought this would work with him; Victor was not a man accustomed to waiting. He gave himself five more minutes; after that, hed politely make his exit, an immovable rule of his.
The minutes stretched on, thick and heavy as custard. Victor was preparing to mourn the evening as a loss when a silvery voice trilled behind him:
Sorry Im late! Hello!
He turned to find a slender blonde lowering herself onto the opposing chair, radiating effortless charm. Her hair looked freshly coiffed, and there was an easy twinkle in her eyes.
I hope you havent been waiting too long, have you? she asked, tilting her head with a playful smile.
Victor hesitated, his memory leafing through the photograph hed studied so keenly before their meeting.
Katherine? He spoke her name with uncertainty, inspecting her face as if trying to catch out a magicians trick. You look so different! Its almost like youre not the same person at all.
Katherine laugheda light, almost sparkling sound, as though she found the whole exchange delightfully amusing.
Its still me, honestly, she assured, basking openly in his confusion. And yes, that photos four years old! Things do change, dont they?
She seemed thoroughly pleased with her transformation, proud as a peacock, certain that Victor must find this new version even more thrilling.
How wrong she was.
So I see, Victor replied, keeping his tone as even as possible, though inwardly he mused, Changed a little much. And not, perhaps, for the better.
Katherine played with a strand of her long hair in a curiously flirtatious manner.
You must be delighted to see me looking this good, she said coyly, a mischievous glint in her eye. I did it on purpose, you see. Four years ago, hardly any gentlemen noticed me; now they all seem to care!
She pouted, seeking gentle reassurance. She waited, perhaps, for Victor to wax lyrical about her radiant makeover, but he did not. This unsettled her; he was not following the script.
Katherine had thoroughly scoured Victors online profile before agreeing to this sit-down; shed combed through his details, trawled his photos, checked his professional links. Everything added up: director at a major British firm, owner of a smart detached house in the Surrey commuter belt, a pair of expensive cars, all the trappings of a glossy lifestyle. Why someone like that would be dating online, shed never fully understandbut the important thing was not letting this golden goose fly away.
Victor, meanwhile, was already plotting his escape. He gave polite nods, contributed the odd Mm-hmm when required, but within his chest a certainty was growing: she just wasnt right for him.
It was not merely a question of appearance; something deeper was amiss. The Katherine before himso manicured, so self-assured, so at home in her skinfelt like a stranger playing at being someone else. Her gestures, voice, even her laughter seemed rehearsed, like a West End actress gone off-script.
He glanced at his watch yet again, picturing how to depart with diplomacy. Soon, one last round of pleasantries and then hed make his excuse: urgent work, cant be helped, must dash.
His mind drifted inevitably back to her photograph, to the curves, the warmth, the femininityhis own private notion of beauty, so different from the sharp angles and proud bones before him now. The woman in the picture, imperfect but genuine, had drawn him in. The real-life Katherine, slim in her billowy jumper, left him bewildered. Why, he wondered, did Englishwomen seem so obsessed with shrinkingthe endless pursuit of being slight, as if to disappear entirely? What convinced them that a body like a cricket bat was the apex of allure? Victor found no poetry there.
They spoke for ten more minutes, Katherine mostly talking about her journey, her hobbies, her grand plans. Victor responded on autopilot, plotting that moment of exit: when the chit-chat dried up, hed offer to drive her hometruthfully, he did have a call looming, something pressing from the office.
As the moment arrived, Victor offered:
Shall I give you a lift back? Ive a big meeting in an hour, but Ive got time to get you home.
Katherine looked faintly miffed but recovered with a stiff nod:
Yes, thank you.
The drive was stilted, filled with silence and the occasional glance. At her door, she paused:
Will you text me tonight? Maybe arrange another meet?
Of course, yes. Well speak later, Victor replied, forcing a faint, brittle smile. In his mind, he already knew: no more dates.
Katherine lingered, as if hoping for a twist to the evenings tale, but Victor simply nodded, wished her a pleasant night, and drove away.
That night, he deleted his profile, blocked her number, and felt a distinct sense of relief. Politeness had held him to the table, but nothing more.
********************
Weeks later, Victor found himself lunching with a colleague at a lively gastropub near Bishopsgate. A thick slice of steak and golden roasties steamed before himhis kind of meal. He chewed at leisure, his gaze wandering to the other diners. It struck him how many of the women nursed salads or nibbled on things that looked more like garden trimmings than food.
Why do women torment themselves with shambolic diets? Victor groaned, nudging a potato aside. Its joyless, isnt it? See her over there? He gestured with his fork at a woman carefully wrangling spinach onto her fork. All for the sake of counting calories, never pleasure.
His companion chuckled knowingly.
Because most chaps want their girlfriends slim, mate. Youre not exactly typical, Vic. Mind you, that brunette in the corners been eyeing you for half an hour. Maybe you ought to give her a chance.
He nodded towards a trim woman two tables away, who pretended interest in her wine list but glanced at Victor now and then.
Victor didnt even bother to look. His tone was brisk, almost cold:
Thanks, but my private business is just thatprivate. Lets not meddle.
His friend quirked a brow, but pressed on:
If you say so. Not sure you even have a private life these days, though. Its all work, work, work, no room for fun.
Victor set down his fork and levelled a gaze at his colleague that could freeze the Thames in midwinter.
All right, point taken, his colleague said quickly, raising his hands. Ill say no more.
Victor resumed eating in silence. If he was honest, his private life did feel a vacuum. Hed ended things nearly a year ago with Mary, dear Marythe only woman hed ever truly considered marrying. Mary, with her gentle smile, her kindness, her softness in all sensesa woman with the very figure Victor thought of as perfect: rounded, comforting, beautiful.
Their romance had blossomed slowly. Victor delighted in spoiling herbouquets, little gifts, surprise trinkets for no reason but love. Her wardrobe was an entire roomful, brimming with vibrant dresses and dainty shoes. Mary seldom wore the same thing twice; Victor encouraged her, delighted by how she glowed.
He never tired of telling her how she lit up the room, whether she wore velvet or a simple wool jumper. He wanted her to feel unique, specialhis idea of a fairytale come true.
But little by little, things changed. Mary spent more time with her friendsshopping, cinemas, long coffee dates. Shed return with a new edge, faint in the beginning but growing sharper with every outing.
One evening, Victor came home to find her standing before the wardrobes triple mirror, twisting this way and that, anxiety written all over her face.
Im fat! she declared, tragedy in her voice. I simply must get myself sorted by summer or Ill be too embarrassed even for Brighton beach!
Victor almost choked on his tea.
Nonsense. Youre gorgeous, Mary, exactly as you are.
You only say that because you dont see whats really there! she shot back. All my friends say slim and trim is everything now. If I dont change, Ill look like I stepped from the Edwardian era!
He walked across, gently taking her hands.
Let your friends prattle. Youre perfect in my eyes, he said, as solid as if reading from the Gospel.
But Mary had stopped listening. Some notion had rooted itself deep: She must fit a new, svelte ideal to remain beautiful. It was as if shed been bitten by the cult of the juice cleanser.
Things unravelled from there.
Marys diet became ascetic. Out went puddings, scones, and anything fried. In came Tupperware full of boiled chicken, steamed broccoli and fat-free cottage cheese. Each morning began with a hop onto the scales and a litany of calorie calculations.
She grew touchy. Banter went out the window, replaced by snappy comments and wary silences. If Victor dared pay her a compliment, she snapped it short:
Please, tell me the truth! I dont want flattery!
He tried to assure her he meant every word, but Mary was haunted by her new quest: to be ideal. Diet books came and went. One week she banished carbs, the next she tried raw food, sometimes she sipped only water all day.
Victor watched helplessly as the Mary hed loved shrank not only in size but in spirit. Meals became battlegrounds. Where once shed relished his pork pies and honeyed roasts, now she fussed at lettuce and took silent, mournful mouthfuls.
One evening, the tension was palpable the moment Victor walked in. Mary clattered the cutlery with frantic, misplaced energy.
This is your fault! she burst out. Im failing because you keep tempting me with your heavy dinners! You know Im on a diet, but you still ask for roast beef and sticky pudding. You make it impossible!
But I like proper food too. Why should I eat rabbit feed? he replied, baffled.
That only widened the rift. She railed onabout his lack of support, how he didnt understand, about his deliberate undermining of her new life.
Victor, for his part, found himself drained. He still loved her, but in her endless pursuit of perfection, she saw only an enemy in him.
He stared at her, bewilderedwhere had his Mary gone? That light-hearted girl who glowed with laughter and munched puddings at midnight? What had become of the companion who found joy in nothing but being together?
There was nowhere to turn. Give up his own nature to chase her shifting standards? No. And to try convincing her of his love, over and over, while she saw only his faultsthat was agony.
And so it ended. Victor agonised over the decision, but each conversation led only to bruising arguments, accusations, tears. In the end, it was plain: What they had was no longer a partnership but a slow, lonely war.
The last row was definitive. Harsh words, shouting, then her departure, door slamming behind her. Victor was alone in a flat thick with memoriesher perfume lingering, photographs grinning down from the mantelpiece, her things still on the rail.
The following weeks were the hardest of his life. Hed catch himself about to phone her, then pull back. Sometimes he doubted himself. Could he have saved them, tried once more? But memories of those last few monthsrecrimination, cold silences, a gulf growing week by weekset him straight. There was no road home anymore.
Six months went by before, in an act that would have once struck him as daft, Victor joined a dating site. He wasnt hunting for miracles or passionate dramasjust someone to talk to, some reason to believe the future wasnt all gloom.
He scrolled endlesslysome profiles, too stiff and corporate; others, all feathers and fun with nothing underneath. There were women who resembled Mary in photographs but not in spirit; others who were lively but left him cold. None of them matched the warmth he rememberedor rather, the warmth he yearned to feel again.
He tried, sincerely, but none struck a match within him. The faces and words passed by, ring-binder style, but something in him remained closed.
********************
Time passed, and life settled into a gentle routine. Eventually, Victors thoughts drifted less and less to the past. His days filled with work, and evenings belonged to nights out with old mates or solitary walks through Spitalfields.
One afternoon, ducking into a Chelsea café for a take-out flat white, Victor noticed a woman hunched over a notebook at the window. She scribbled a thought, paused, glanced up, then returned to her work, as if the world were no more than a pleasant background hum.
He felt drawn to her self-possession. She didnt reach for her reflection or fidget with her hair; she simply occupied her space quite naturally. When she eventually met his gaze, she smiledhonest, open, and free of self-consciousness.
Victor took a chance.
Excuse me, he began, you seem absolutely engrossed. That your journal or is it work?
A bit of both, she replied, setting her pen aside. I write for a blog, actually. You’re local, I take it?
Their chat was effortless. Her name was Emily. She modellednot in the way of catwalks, but for a company that championed fuller figures, showcasing clothes designed for women who prefer comfort and confidence to corsets and carrot sticks.
What most impressed Victor was Emilys contentment in her own skin. She talked about her work without bravado, matter-of-fact and warm.
Diets? Honestly, most of them are a wasteusually just a disguise for insecurity, she said once over a meal, when Victor tiptoed around the subject. Unless youre under doctors orders, whats the point? Lifes for living, not denying. I eat well because I love food, I move because it feels good, and Im happy as I am.
There was something so whole about her attitude. Victor grinnedwhen had he last met someone so at ease?
They saw more and more of one another. Emily never asked for presents, never manufactured drama, never kept score. With her, the air was easy; conversation or silence, both felt right. She didnt try to upend his life or convert him to hersjust shared herself, gently and unselfconsciously.
Gradually, Victor felt the ice within him thaw. Gone was the stiff ache left from losing Mary. With Emily, the simple joys returnedwandering the South Bank together, laughing over supper, late-night chats with mugs of tea.
Half a year on, Victor knew he was ready. One drowsy evening, nestled together in their favourite café corner, he pulled a small ring box from his pocket, looked her in the eyes and said:
Id love you to be my wife.
Emily paused in delighted surprise, then laugheda laugh rich and trueand said:
Yes. Of course.
They married quietly, a modest ceremony with only friends and kin. There were no grand pronouncements or gilt-edged invitations. Victor and Emily knew how little the notices of the outside world meant. They had grown their own weather; they, and only they, determined its season.
And in this strange, unpredictable life, that was quite enough.
