It’s simply that most men are boring. Terribly, terribly boring. Except you, of course, Kit,’ she added quickly.
‘Thanks,’ he said, peevishly.
‘I mean why should I go to all the trouble of pinning down some bloke,’ Frances was still going on, ‘only for him to bore me to death!’
‘Or run off with someone else,’ added Emma with sudden feeling. ‘Just like my father did.’
‘There just aren’t any really nice, interesting, decent, suitable, trustworthy men,’ Frances concluded comprehensively. Yes, there are, I thought to myself smugly. And I’ve got one.
‘I’m just facing facts,’ she said with a resigned air. ‘I’ve weighed up the evidence. And the evidence is not in our favour. So no Bland Dates for me,’ she added firmly. ‘I, for one, have decided to give wedded bliss a miss.’
‘Better single than badly accompanied,’ added Emma.
‘Quite!’ said Catherine.
‘Three million single women can’t be wrong,’ said Frances, who always has some handy statistic at the ready. ‘Anyway, why bother when over forty per cent of marriages end in divorce?’
‘And why do they end in divorce?’ asked Emma with sudden vehemence. ‘Because it’s usually the man’s fault. That’s why. It was certainly my father’s fault,’ she added fiercely. ‘He just fancied someone else. Plain and simple. And believe me, she was plain and simple. But she was younger than my mother,’ she went on bitterly. ‘Mum never got over it.’
‘Men get far more out of marriage than women,’ said Frances expansively. ‘Sixty per cent of married women admitted in, a recent survey that if they could have their time over again, they would not have married their husbands.’
‘I’m really not enjoying this conversation much,’ said Kit with an exasperated sigh. ‘I mean it’s so difficult for men these days. Women have made us all feel so … redundant.’
‘You are redundant,’ said Frances with benign ferocity. ‘What can a man give me that I don’t already have? I’ve got a house, a car, a good job, two holidays a year – long-haul – a wardrobe full of designer clothes and a mantelpiece that’s white with invitations. What on earth could a man add to that?’
‘Grief!’ said Emma rancorously.
‘Ironing,’ said Catherine.
‘Boredom,’ said Frances.
‘Acute emotional stress,’ said Emma.
‘Arsenal,’ said Catherine.
‘Betrayal,’ said Emma.
‘A baby?’ said Sally.
‘Oh don’t be so old-fashioned,’ said Frances. ‘You don’t need a man for that. How old are you now?’
‘Thirty-eight.’
‘Well, if you’re that desperate to sprog, just pop down to the sperm bank or have a one-night stand.’
‘Alternatively, you could arrange an intimate encounter with a turkey baster and a jam jar,’ added Emma, with one of her explosive laughs. ‘I hear they’re very low maintenance and you wouldn’t need to buy any sexy lingerie!’
‘Or, if you’re prepared to wait a few more years, you can dispense with the sperm altogether and get yourself cloned,’ said Frances. ‘That day is not far off – remember Dolly the sheep?’
‘I’d love to have a baby,’ said Sally. ‘I really would. My parents would love me to have one too – they go on about it a bit, actually. But I’d never have one on my own,’ she added purposefully. ‘Cloned, turkey-basted or otherwise.’
‘Why not?’ said Frances. ‘There’s no stigma these days. I’d do it myself only I’m far too lazy. All that getting up in the middle of the night would kill me at my age.’
‘For God’s sake, you’re only thirty-six, not sixty-three!’ said Catherine.
‘What, precisely, are your objections to single motherhood, Sal?’ Frances asked.
‘Well, I just don’t think it’s fair on the child,’ she said. ‘And then some poor man always ends up having to pay for it, even if he never gets to see it and it wasn’t even his decision to have it.’
‘Then the silly bugger should have been more careful,’ said Emma triumphantly.
‘Well, yes. But, speaking personally – this is just my point of view, OK – I think it’s unfair and I know that, well, it’s something that I would never, ever do,’ Sally said. Suddenly a high warble began to emanate from her Gucci handbag. ‘Sorry,’ she said, getting out her mobile phone. ‘This’ll be my update on the US Treasury Long Bond. It’s been a bit wobbly lately. Won’t be a tick.’ She stepped back into the dining-room, where we could see her pacing slowly back and forth while she talked, with evident agitation, to a colleague in New York.
‘Lucky old Tiffany,’ said Catherine, snapping a breadstick in half. ‘She doesn’t have to worry about all this sort of thing.’
‘No she doesn’t,’ said Emma, shivering slightly in the cooling air. ‘She’s got a man. It’s all sewn up and she’s heading for a wedding.’ She cupped her hand to her ear. ‘I can hear the peal of bells already. So when’s he going to pop the question, Tiff?’
‘Oh gosh, well, I mean I don’t … ’ Pity the sun had gone in.
‘Yes. When?’ said Frances, with another gulp of champagne. ‘And can I be your maid of dishonour?’
‘Well, ha ha ha! Erm – I don’t know … er … ’ I glanced at the sky. A thick bank of cloud, grey as gunmetal, had begun to build up. Where had that come from?
‘Are we all warm enough?’ I asked. ‘And, er, who wants another parmesan and red pepper tartlet?’ In fact, I was desperately trying to change the subject because, you see, I really didn’t want to rub it in – I mean the fact that I had a chap, and they didn’t. Because, to be quite honest, I had been sitting there, throughout that discussion, quietly thanking God for Alex. Even if he has got sloping shoulders and a rather girlish giggle which, to be perfectly frank, does make my heart sink at times. But, still, I thought, at least I don’t have to contemplate self-insemination or agonise about my ovaries because a) I’ve got a chap and b) I know for a fact that he likes kids. He really, really likes them. Loves them. I mean he’s awfully good with his niece and nephew – spoils them to bits – and I’m sure he’d be a brilliant father. He wouldn’t mind changing nappies. In fact he’d probably enjoy it. And OK, so I know he’s not perfect – in fact there are one or two other things about him that I’m really not crazy about, including his goatee beard, his outlandish taste in socks, and his thin, unmuscular thighs. But then no-one’s perfect. It’s all about compromise, isn’t it? That’s what enlightened and mature people do. And Alex is really charming. Absolutely sweet, in fact. And certainly not the unfaithful type. Unlike Phil. In fact, when I first met Alex, he was such a gentleman it took him three months just to hold my hand.
