The Impossible Search for the Perfect Man by Debbie Howells/Susie Martyn

cry again, so I don’t say anything at
all.
    Mrs Kilburn arrives later that
afternoon, to check on her darling, who’s thankfully looking a little brighter. 
Her daughter’s with her, in floods of tears.  I take them a fresh box of
tissues.  
    That evening, I go round to see Leonie
and Pete.  I call first, not sure that this would be the right time to
just pitch up uninvited, the way I used to.
    Two very wan faces greet me.  But
at least they appear to be talking to each other - even if it is strained and
awkward.  Leonie pours the two of us a large glass of wine.  Pete’s
drinking orange juice.  Contrary to what I’d imagined, it seems that
alcohol is not a good thing if you’re suffering from depression.
    Conversation is stilted.  In the
end, emboldened by the wine, I think, I’ve known Pete for years.  I
can ask him a direct question.  I mean, it’s not as though he has to answer it.
    ‘How are you Pete?’ I ask
cautiously.  ‘Only Leo said you’d been to see a specialist...’ Oops, was
that a bit too full on?
    Pete sighs and looks really miserable.
 ‘I’ve got to go to this place where they specialise in treating headcases
like me.  A remedial school for nut jobs…’  He attempts a sardonic
laugh.  His eyes have a haunted look that never used to be there.
 The poor man looks completely exhausted.
    Leonie places her hand on his arm. 
‘The specialist says that he’s sure they can help Pete.  It won’t be an
instant cure, but he’ll be okay.’
    I’m not entirely sure who she’s trying
to convince here.
    Pete raises his eyebrows.  ‘We’ll
see, won’t we?’ is all he says, before changing the subject.
    ‘Leonie says you’ve got a horse,’ he
tries his best to sound interested.
    I tell him about Horace, then get the distinct feeling that it might be better if I
left them to it.
    Leonie hugs me goodbye.  ‘He’s
going to be okay,’ she says quietly.   But very firmly. Made of strong stuff, is Leo.  Her jaw is set in that way it always is when
she’s determined about something.
    I hug her back.  ‘I know.  Of
course he will.  I’ll see you soon.’
    Boy.  I hate to admit it but I’m
relieved to leave them.  That was seriously hard work. Pete, Leonie, Arian
and I used to talk animatedly into the wee small hours, and have to force
ourselves to call it a night.  We’ve never been short of conversation, be
it putting the world to rights, or the men bitching about the usual
work-related issues.  In fact, it was usually time that we were short of.
    In fact, by the time I get home, I’m
quite maudlin.  I don’t know whether it’s what Pete and Leonie are going
through, or the conversation I had with Agnes earlier.
    Probably a combination of both, I
decide, but by the time I close the front door of my cottage, tears are rolling
down my cheeks.
    Elmer grabs my T-shirt in her jaws and
does her usual neurotic wagging, accompanied with an attention-seeking whine
which is utterly different to the noise that normal dogs make.  Tonight,
however, I’m grateful for anyone’s attention, even if it’s a flatcoat, and I
allow her to curl up on the sofa beside me. 
    Feeling truly dreadful, I sit there and
sob, extremely sorry for myself.  It should have been me and Arian who
went round tonight, together, to offer support to our (joint) very good
friends, I think miserably to myself... However, one thing transpired while I
was there.  It would appear that Arian hasn’t been anywhere near for
weeks.  What sort of a self-obsessed, crap friend is he , I ask
myself, wiping away my tears.  That thought alone is enough to make me
furious.
     
    Oh my gosh ,
it’s Friday already.  That means its Sylvie’s party tomorrow . 
My melancholy mood of last night has evaporated and I’m actually really
excited, probably because this is the poshest party I’ve ever been to.
    I asked Agnes earlier what she was
planning to wear.  She gave me one of her looks, before saying she