The Ex

I tried to ignore the blood-red stain spreading inexorably across my white skirt.  The maitre’d fussed about, offering me napkins and apologies by turns.  With the company I was wont to keep, it occurred to me that I was a fool for not having bought shares in White King.  It seemed an interminable age before the waiter finally left with a promise to bring another bottle.  I asked if he could make it a dry white, this time.

      I turned my attentions back to the man sitting across the table from me, forcing myself to meet his eyes.  Sharp green met nervous hazel.  “David…” I kept my voice soft, but firm.  I could see the tension taking hold of his shoulders, forcing his back straight.  He had a white-knuckled grip on his knife and fork.  I frowned.  “Hey, relax.  I’m not talking about the end of the world.”  

      He had to know this was coming.  I grinned cheerfully.  “Just the end of us.  You’ve learnt all you can from me.”

      Yet his eyes widened with shock.  “Jess, I…”  

      I held up a hand.  “Now, David.  Rule 73, remember?”

“Oh.  Right.”  He visibly pulled himself together.  The uncertainty left his eyes; the corners of his mouth firmed up.  “I am sorry that you feel that way.  A-and, I want you to know that I wish only the best for your future.”  

“Thankyou David.  I truly have enjoyed the times we’ve had.”  I smiled and stood, reaching for my jacket and purse.  

His eyes widened with surprise.  “You’re not staying for the main?”  

“I don’t think it would be of any particular benefit to either of us.”  I kept my gaze cool, level.  “Besides which, I just remembered that I promised my best friend I would baby-sit her kid tonight.”  

Two minutes later, I was standing on a concrete pavement, waving my arms frantically at a taxi; pretending that my skirt wasn’t stained red and my eyes weren’t suspiciously red-rimmed.  Some things never get any easier, no matter how many times you do them.  Even for a professional ex-girlfriend, breaking up is never easy.  
**************************************** ****
“Jess!  I thought you’d forgotten!”

“Who, me?  Never!!”  I grinned impishly at Kate.  She looked mildly annoyed, which quickly became a look of suspicion as she took in my attire.  

“You look a little dressed-up to be baby-sitting.”  

“This isn’t dressed up.”  When in trouble, lie.  

“And of course that isn’t hideously expensive red wine from Amici’s spilled across your skirt, is it?”  

“Of course not.”  When in bigger trouble, lie more.  “Do you have any White King?”

“Laundry.”  Kate’s husband stepped out of the hall behind her, pausing to give me an amused look.  “Make sure Nick’s in bed by 8.  And make sure he doesn’t sneak Ricky the Snake in with him.  We’ll be back late—I made up the spare bed for you.”  

“Have fun.” I shot a vapid smile at their retreating backs.  Which was literally knocked from my face as little Nicky came shooming into the room.  I say ‘shooming’ because he had both arms outstretched and was muttering “shoom!  shoom-shoom!” under his breath.  He ran straight into me, bounced off again and rolled across the living room floor.  The china ornaments in their display cabinets rattled ominously.  

“Nicky!  How’s it going!”  My early years of customer service at the local supermarket were paying off.  I can fake bright enthusiasm with the best of them.  “How about a nice, calm game of Parcheesi?”

“Shoom!  Shoom!”

And to think Kate of all people can’t understand why I don’t want to be married with children.
******************************************************************************

A yawn cracked my jaw as I trotted Twinkie around the paddock.  I was exhausted.  By the time the curtains had been doused, and I’d explained to the police officer that no, I hadn’t been breaking in, only locked out, the fire department had arrived (phoned by the same over-zealous neighbour that called the police).  By the time they were convinced all was well, Kate and her husband had returned—and were understandably less than impressed with the state of the curtains.  It had been a late night.  And I’d had to get up at five in time to get home and get Twinkie ready for today’s show.

I scowled at nothing in particular.  With any luck, Kate would think twice before asking me to baby-sit Hyperactive Man again.  

“He moves well, doesn’t he?”  Mr. Granger smiled as I brought Twinkie to a smart halt before them.

“Yep.  Sure does.”  I snapped back to attention, flashing my most winning smile.  “Would Amelia like to try him herself?”  

“Yes please!”  Amelia was about twelve years old, small, bright-eyed, and cute.  In a cuddly sort of way.  The perfect partner for Twinkie, I thought, who was also small, bright-eyed and cute.  

I swung down smoothly, adjusted the stirrups, and boosted her into the saddle.  With any luck, in another five minutes Twinkie would have a new owner and I could go home and get some much-needed sleep.  I loved my day job—turning badly-behaved horses into saleable, well-mannered riding beasts—but the hours were much longer than my pay check warranted.

It was, I reflected, watching Amelia bounce around on Twinkie, a day job that bore disturbing parallels to my evening job.  The horses I trained were like the boys I dated—nervous, unsure of themselves, and of how to behave around people.  By the time they left, they were confident, graceful and desirable.  And in the meantime, I had a constant string of horses to ride, and boyfriends to help with lifting hay bales and shovelling manure.  It was a highly workable arrangement.  

Except that you never knew when you were going to run up against The Fool.  The one that just refused to grow up and move on.  My jaw dropped as, halfway around the field, Twinkie ducked his head, executed a perfect pair of fly-bucks, and took off in the opposite direction, leaving a screeching Amelia sitting in the grass.  

By the time the Grangers had collected their daughter and finished lecturing me about trying to sell vicious ponies to first-time riders, someone had caught Twinkie and brought him back.  He tossed his little grey head and regarded me with devious, unrepentant eyes.  I stared flatly back.  This had been going on for months now.

“I hate you.”
**************************************** **********

Later that evening, I was curled up in a lawn chair in the corner of a backyard, pretending to be deeply focussed on the pencil and sketchbook in my hand.  I hate parties with a passion.  I tell my friends that it’s because I’m getting old, but the truth is, I have always hated them.  Then again, to the mind of most teenagers, a BBQ full of late-twenty to early-thirty-something’s probably does not qualify as ‘party’.  

“This seat taken?”  My head snapped up at the resonant tones of a male voice.  Tall, mousy-brown hair, dimple.  Grey eyes, and a hesitant smile that hovered somewhere between cute and creepy.  My heart plopped back into its normal place in my ribcage.   You were expecting Prince Charming?  My resident inner ego-buster smirked at me.  

A nervous—and slightly hurt—look passed across his face, and I realised suddenly that I was staring.  “Sorry.  Yes.  I mean, no.  I mean, yes, you can sit down, no, it’s not taken.”

He laughed as he dropped into the chair beside me.  It was just a little too loud, a little too forced.  “Make you nervous, do I?”

Puh-lease.  I stared at him for a moment, torn between getting up and leaving, or downing the three Vodka Mudshakes on the ground beside me in one hit.  Realising he wasn’t scoring any points, he hastily went on talking.

“So, ah, you draw much?”  

“When I have a spare moment.”  Considering the horses I was trying to sketch looked more like pigs with stick legs, I would have thought it was an obvious question.  

“My name’s Phil, by the way.”

“Jess.”

“So…you seeing anyone?”  

Boy.  The older they get, the faster they move.  I winced as my hand tightened on the pencil, creating a skewed line across the middle of the page.  Sighing, I gave it up.  “I’m really not looking for anyone special at this stage of my life.”  The words, practiced so often, rolled easily from my tongue.

His disappointment was palpable.  There is an aura that hangs about the oft rejected.  You can feel it making your stomach turn, and your blood curdle.  And the more they get rejected, the stronger the feelings of guilt and revulsion are.  This guy’s aura was nearly enough to knock me out of my chair.

“I may, however, be able to help you.”  Quick as a flash, I had one of my business cards out.  He stared at it in confusion, printed only with a large ‘X’, my address and phone numbers.

“Help?”  At least when he was completely confused he no longer looked so creepy.  

“Yes.  Help you get the girl of your dreams.  I’m a professional ex-girlfriend.”

“A what?”

“Professional ex-girlfriend.”  I enunciated each syllable slowly.  “Sort of like a practice dummy.  The idea is you can take me out on as many dates as you like, and you don’t have to waste them all being nervous about whether it’s going to work or not.  Because even if it’s a total disaster, I will stick around until you learn to get it right.  That’s my guarantee to you.”  I smiled my best ‘buy-this-pony-it’s-a-champion’ smile.

“What makes you think I need a practice dummy?” He was insulted.  They always are when they first hear the pitch.

“Suit yourself.”  I put pencil back to paper.  “You have my card if you change your mind.”

He didn’t go away, but rather sat staring at the little rectangle of cardboard.  “How much does this cost?”

“Absolutely free.”  I didn’t look up.  “Although 33% of our ‘dates’ will involve you helping me at my day job.”  

“Ahuh. …  Do I have to sign anything?”

“No.  If you’re interested, I do have a client vacancy at the moment.  Be at my place tomorrow morning at 6am.  Sharp.”
**************************************** ************************

“Okay, first things first.  There will be no kissing, hugging, or holding of hands.”  I had only half-expected Phil to show up.  “You want to practice the physical side of things, you’re going to have to wait until you get a real girlfriend.  Second.  I do not talk about my personal history.”

“Why not?”  He fell into step beside me, as I trudged down the drive out back of my house to the stables.

“Three, never, ever, ask a girl ‘why’.  Now, you either abide by the ground rules, or our contract is terminated.”

“Gotcha.”  We arrived in the stable yard.  Inquisitive heads poked over the top of looseboxes.  “Wow.  This is your day job?”  

“Indeed.”  I couldn’t quite hide the swell of pride.  “And right now, they all need feeding.  And mucking out.”

“Muck?  I hope that’s not what it sounds like.”

“It totally is.”  I stopped at the tack room to pick up an armful of lead ropes.  “Let’s kick off with a little theory,” I said cheerfully, as we headed towards the boxes.  “The thing you have to understand about girls, is that they’re not like horses.  Or cows, for that matter.  Girls are all different to each other.  You can’t just rock up to strange girls at parties and ask them out.  It makes them feel cheap.  And generic.  Like Savings toilet paper.”

“Oh.”  He at least had the grace to look abashed.  “But aren’t horses all different to one another anyway?  And besides, how do you know if you want to buy a horse unless you ride it first?”  

“Ok, bad example.  Let’s say girls are like cars.”

“I always test-drive my cars before I buy them too.”

Unh.  I did a mental head-slap.  “Ok.  Forget the theory for now.  Let’s work on some practical.”  I stopped at Twinkie’s loosebox.  “This is Twinkie.  He enjoys biting, bucking people off, and generally being sneaky.  I’ve had him for six months, and can’t cure him.”  

Phil stepped up close, and rubbed his hand firmly down Twinkie’s nose.  “It’s all right boy,” he crooned softly.  “I’d bite people too if my name was Twinkie.”  I had a fleeting mental image of myself beating them both over the head with a croquet mallet.  

“What’s the practical?”  

“Today we’re practicing confidence.  Ponies can tell if you lack confidence.  That’s when they start biting.  And kicking.  Girls can also tell when you lack confidence.  So you need to practice being confident with Twinkie here.”

“Wait a minute.  Didn’t you tell me just before that girls are not like horses?  And now you want me to treat horses like girls?”

Give me strength.  “Rule 1.  Girls are exempt from all laws of science and logic.”

“Oh, riiiiiiight.”  
**************************************** ****************

“How come you’ve never had a real boyfriend?”

“My personal history is off-limits,” I intoned, resisting the urge to drool in my soup.  It was our third night out at a restaurant in a row—each one more taxing than the last.  Across the white-cloth table, Phil fidgeted awkwardly.  I could see the cogs in his brain clunking around, as he tried to come up with something safe to talk about.  

“Sorry.  Say, uh—off the record of course—what would you do if I accidentally fell in love with you?”  He kept his eyes downcast, stealing occasional upward glances to see if I had left, or was about to upend the soup tureen on his head.  

“You won’t.” I was bored stiff.  I'm sure that not all boys are convinced a restaurant or movie is the only place to go on a date, but without fail the ones I work on are.  

“How do you know?” There was that annoying face of defiance again.  

“Because if you do, I will just be meaner to you than I already am, until you get over it and go away.”  I stuck my tongue out for good measure.

“This isn’t your thing, is it.” From the tone of his voice, he already knew the answer.

I sat up straighter and smiled.  “Now you’re learning.”

Five minutes later, the bill was paid and we were wandering along the river boardwalk.  “So, um, you want to go wade in a pond or something?”  He was back to that hesitant, please-don’t-ask-me-to-leave tone of voice.  

“Come on Phil.  We’ve been through this.  It’s your turn to pick the activity.  No copping out.  You’re the leader, remember?”

“Get your shoes off and go wade in that pond right now!” he shouted, in a mock stentorian tone.  

“There’s a fine line between being the alpha male and being a chauvinistic male pig.”  

He rolled his eyes.  “You have no sense of humour.”  

“You have no sense of comic timing!”

A duck waddled by our feet, quacking self-importantly.  “Hey, duck!”  And Phil lunged for its tail feathers.

Whoa, spontaneous lunacy?  Where did that come from?   Approximately ten seconds later, we were haring across a manicured lawn, me swinging my strappy high-heels from one hand, skirt caught up with the other; and the duck half-running, half-flying before us, eyes bulging wide with panic.  

“Oh my gosh!  Phil?” The voice that stopped us was clear and musical.  The kind of girl’s voice I’d always wished I had.  We slid to a halt; me painfully aware of my red cheeks and wind-swept hair swirling in happy little tendrils about my head.  

She was tall, blonde and gorgeous.  Stranger yet, she was on the arm of none other than David, my most recent ex.  I felt a swell of pride as I looked at them together.  Heheh.  The Ex strikes again…

“Bron!  Hi.”  Phil was doing that creepy-nervous guy thing, looking at his shoes half the time, and staring whenever he thought Bron wasn’t looking.  I scrawled a mental note to work on that next.

“How are you?” She was all bright, happy, and perky, perky, perky.  

“Yeah, uh…good.  Say, you didn’t see a duck go this way did you?” He followed that blinder up with a harsh, nervous laugh.

“Phil, are you feeling ok?” Her voice was tinged by real concern.  

“Look!  There it goes!” And he turned tail and crashed into the bushes.  

I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands in shame.  “Nice to meet you.”  I smiled politely at Bron, then ducked after Phil.

“What is with you?” I gasped, when finally I caught him up.  “Have you learned nothing this last week?”

“Sorry.”  He really did look apologetic.  “It’s just…”

The penny dropped.  “Oh.  That was the girl of your dreams?”  

“I’ve known her since high-school.  And she’s so nice…” he changed strides.  “…say, was that one of your ex-clients she was with?”

I blinked in surprise.  “You noticed that?”  

“Well, judging from the way he was looking at you really hard, while pretending not to look at you really hard…”

“Are you mad at me for making him good enough for her?”  

“Hell, no.  This means you can also make me good enough to steal her from him, right?”
**************************************** ***********

“Is it just me, or is he a touch cuter than your regular clients?”  

“Just a touch.”  It was Saturday afternoon, and I was lounging at the rail of my back paddock, talking to my other best friend—Choppy—and watching Phil ride one of my larger horses in wonky circles.  

“Why’s he riding?  I thought the boys only ever helped shovel stuff.”

“He wanted to.” I made no attempt to conceal the simple wonderment in my voice.  

“Wow.  He’s cute and he likes to ride.” Chop smiled knowingly.  “So when are you going to give up this ex-girlfriend gig and get a serious boyfriend?  ‘Cause, you know, he could be a good place to start.”

“Never.” Vehemence fairly oozed out my ears.  “When—if—I take a serious boyfriend, it will be a man who chose me because he wants me, not some random guy that chose me because he wanted a girl.”  

Chop threw her hands up.  “Okay, okay.  Sorry I said anything.”  She never could understand.  Since grade school she’d always been able to have her pick of the boys.  Her husband was handsome, smart, funny and caring—everything I’d once dreamed of having.  

“So how’s this one coming along, anyway?”

“Faster than average.  He actually has a big surprise planned for tonight, which he won’t tell.  Came up with it all on his own initiative too.”  

“Wow.  Call me tomorrow—I want all the details!”
**************************************** **********

“Belly-dancing?  We’re going belly-dancing?” I couldn’t keep the enthusiasm from my voice, however I tried.  “Wait a minute.  Do they teach boys to belly-dance?”

“I think they teach anyone that pays them money.”  Phil grinned happily as we stepped into the building.  Sure enough, he was the only male.  Everyone else in the class looked like a middle-aged housewife suffering a severe mid-life crisis.  Worse, they had all come in costume.

“I’ve never seen so much middle-aged spread in my life.”  I tried staring at the ceiling for a solid five minutes.

“Sorry to subject you to this…it wasn’t mentioned in the travel brochure.”  Suddenly we were both giggling like little kids.  Then the teacher arrived, and she was at least twice the size of anyone else in the class.

“I suppose it’s fair that to belly dance, you need to have a belly.  Right?”  

An hour later, we stumbled back out of the building, still chuckling.  My stomach hurt as much from laughing as from the dancing.  The night was cool, with just a very light breeze blowing.  We stepped out down the street, not really knowing where we were walking, enjoying a moment’s silence in each other’s company.

“Jess?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“How will you know when I’m finally ready to…move on.”

For me, at least, the moment was shattered in an instant.  “We’ve been through this.  I’ll tell you when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, but how do you know?” There was no longer any trace of hesitance in his voice.  In fact, there hadn’t been for some days now.  It had escaped my notice.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

“I’ll know when you’re confident enough for other girls, because you’ll realize you can do a lot better than me.”  

“What?!?” I sneaked a peek at him.  He was actually turning purple with—could it be?—anger.  “That’s the test?  That’s ridiculous!  What if I can’t do better than you?”

“Of course you’ll be able to do better than me.”  I forced myself to sound confident and breezy.  “It’s a perfectly good test.  It’s worked for dozens of boys before you, and I don’t doubt for a second it’s going to work for dozens of boys after you.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” His voice was soft; he caught my arm and spun me to face him, looking me straight in the eye.  

“Then I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  I tried to pull my arm free.  Something like pain flickered across his face.  

“If I told you that I think you are the best girl I could ever find, now or in the next hundred years, would you ever believe me?”

“Never.” I matched his glare.  

“You’re saying that you’re not good enough for me?”  

“No.  I’m saying you’re not good enough for me.  Not until you can do better than me.”  I tilted my chin, half expecting him to take a swing at it.  Instead, he just gave me a long, searching look.

“I think you’ve learnt all you can from me.”  I didn’t have time to register that he had just spoken my parting line to me—something that never, ever happened—before he lowered his mouth to mine.  Heat flooded all the way to my toes; my stomach flipped upside down and my arms broke out in goose bumps.  Not even in my teenage dreams had I expected kissing to feel quite that good.  
Then, just as suddenly, he drew back, and walked away down the street, leaving me standing amidst my confusion.  
*******************************************************************

I yawned as I trotted Twinkie in a lazy figure of eight.  I cantered a circle and then popped him over a small post-and-fails fence.  The two figures watching from the fence clapped politely.  It was another Saturday morning show.  A week since I had last seen him.  It was customary to feel sad at the loss of another client, but it had never lasted more than two days before.

Of course, none of my other exes had ever taken me belly-dancing.  Or asked to ride my horses.  
I rode back to the fence and swung down smoothly.  This time, the prospective rider was a 12-year-old boy.  Twinkie appeared to take a shine to him—but then, he pretended to be nice to everybody.  At least for the first five minutes.  I adjusted the stirrup leathers, helped Little Timmy into the saddle, and crossed my fingers as he moved into the centre of the paddock.  

“Cute pony.  You worked with horses long?”  

I turned to regard the man beside me.  He was tall, and handsome in that classic/clichéd sort of way—dark hair and dark eyes.  And a very nice smile.  Around his late-twenties, he didn’t look nearly old enough to be the father of the boy riding.
“All my life.  Just about, anyway.” I smiled, and was about to clam up again.  But then, for some reason, I didn’t.  “You been in the fathering business long?”

He laughed at that.  “Oh, he’s not mine.  Just a nephew.”

“And you’re buying him a pony?”

“What on earth are uncles for?”  This time, we shared the laugh.

“My name’s Jess MacLaren.”  

“Mark Banning.  And I’ve heard of you.” He smiled teasingly.

“You have?” I pulled a face of mock nervousness.  

“Yeah!  A friend of mine mentioned your name to me once.  I think he said you were in the…ex-girlfriend profession?” One eyebrow quirked into a disbelieving look.

“Oh, that.”  I turned to stare out across the grass.  “I actually quit recently.”  Then I frowned.  Twinkie hadn’t bucked Little Timmy off yet.  “Hey…” a slow smile spread across my face.  “I think he likes him!”  

“I know he does.”  Little Timmy was riding back, enthusiastically patting and hugging Twinkie’s neck by turns.  I decided not to tell him I’d been referring to the pony.

“Uncle Mark, can we buy him, pleeaaaaaase?"  I winced as he bounced up and down in the saddle.  “And can I come and ride him in the show on Saturdays?”

“You want to ride in shows?” Mark grinned up at his nephew, then turned a sly look to me.  “Guess that means we’ll be seeing you around some, huh?”

“Yep.  Guess you will.”
**********************************************************
I was just shutting the ramp on my now-empty horsebox, and beginning to miss Twinkie, when a familiarly sexy voice cut into my thoughts.  

“Jess?”  

There was no mistaking the voice; it was Bron.  She looked impossibly elegant in tan jodhpurs, tall boots and a tailored riding jacket.  I tucked an errant strand of hair back behind my ear and willed myself to think of anything but the oversize check shirt and dusty jeans I was wearing.  

“I didn’t know you rode!”  Funny—her smile looked genuine.  

“Me?  Oh, heck yeah.  It’s my job—I train horses.”  More truthfully, I scold and annoy the heck out of wicked horses…but she didn’t need to know that.

“Aw.  You and Phil must be getting on so great then!”

I looked uncomfortably at the ground.  “Actually, we broke up quite recently.”

“Oh…that’s a shame.  And he adores horses so much.”

“He does?”  

“Sure.  We used to ride together all the time in high school.  I had the maddest crush on him.”  She giggled.

“Did you ever tell him that?”

She blushed to the roots of her hair.  “Yeah, I did.  He was such a gentleman about it though.  I dunno what I was thinking—every girl in the top three grades had a crush on him then.”

Hold the phone.  “They did?”  I struggled to reconcile the image of creepy, awkward Phil with that of a high-school heartthrob.  

“Sure they did.  He was nice to absolutely everybody he came across.  And he had that confidence thing going, you know?”  She frowned for a moment.  “That’s why when I saw you the other day, I was so convinced you must be the one.  I’ve never seen Phil shy or nervous before.”  

For a moment, I swore the earth stopped turning.  “I have to go.”  
I dived into the front seat of my 4WD and gunned it out of parking lot, dialling up directory assistance on my mobile as I went.  “Hello?  Yes.  I need the street address for a Phil O’Grady.  …  Thankyou.”  

Except the building I eventually pulled up at was not a residential house.  It was a small, brightly-painted apartment office in the middle of an industrial park.  The sign above the door read ‘Sam’s Software’.  Confused, I walked up to the tinted glass door and peeked inside.  

I had expected the place to be closed on a Saturday afternoon, so I was startled when to see a small, neat receptionist sitting behind the desk inside, mouthing the words “it’s open” and waving me in.  I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Is there something I can help you with?”  Her smile was polite and inquiring.

I remembered suddenly that I was still covered in dust and smelt like horse.  Suddenly self-conscious, I mumbled, “Um, I was looking for a friend of mine.  Phil O’Grady.  This place is listed as his address…”

She cut me off.  “Phil?  He worked here.  And I’m sorry, but he finished up with us just yesterday.  Are you Jess?”

I blinked.  “How did you know?”

“He said you’d be in.”  She rummaged on her desk for a moment.  “And he left this for you.”  

She held out a small card to me.  I took it and flipped it over.  Embossed on the front was a gold ‘X’.  Scrawled across the back were the words: To my toughest case yet.  You truly were too good for me.  Best of luck,  –P