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Authors: Hannah Beckerman
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has a chance to protest, Harriet pulls out her phone and begins tapping away with a focus that clearly signals she has no intention of capitulating to any opposition.
‘Okay, here goes. I’ve known Max for eleven years. He might be a bit uptight and he can sometimes be a party pooper and if you get him started on the War of the Roses he may never stop, but he’s solvent, sane (mostly) and stable and, quite honestly, what more can you expect of a bloke who’s only just the right side of forty? Give him a nudge and see if you can’t relight his fire. There you go. What do you think?’
Max looks as flabbergasted as I feel.
‘You didn’t seriously put that up about me? In a public place? What if someone I know sees it, someone from school? For god’s sake, Harriet, what on earth were you thinking?’
‘Of course I didn’t write that, you idiot. What do you take me for? Calm down, will you, before you have a fit. It was just a joke.’
‘You mean you haven’t created a profile? That’s not funny, Harriet. You could see how annoyed I was.’
‘Oh no, I have created a profile for you. That’s just not what I wrote. God, you’re having a severe sense of humour failure today, Max.’
‘I have a sense of humour when something’s funny, Harriet. And this isn’t funny. So have you put up a profile of me or not?’
‘I have. And you’re going to love it. Come on, let me show you on the laptop so you can get the full effect.’
‘I don’t want to see it, Harriet. How many times do I have to say it, I’m not interested.’
Max is professing a lack of interest while nonetheless allowing himself to be dragged across the kitchen towards the open laptop on the table.
‘Just let me get it loaded. I don’t think you’re going to stay angry at me for long when you see how well I actually sold you.’
Sold him? Has Harriet swapped the modern world of corporate law for good old-fashioned pimping?
‘See, how nice is that photo? Have you ever seen it before? I thought probably not. My lovely friend Philippe – you remember, gay, French, accent to die for – took it at my birthday lunch a couple of years ago. Even I’d say you look passably good-looking in that picture.’
Harriet loads the photo full screen. Max looks gorgeous. His thick, brown hair is a bit longer in the photo than it is now giving it a very slight wave on top which I always thought managed to make him look both suave and dishevelled at the same time. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying and his smile seems to fill the frame, embracing you from without and drawing you in. It really is a lovely picture.
‘You know I don’t like photos of myself, Harriet. Admittedly, that one’s less offensive than most but that’s not saying much.’
‘But wait till you see what I wrote. Don’t look – let me read it out to you.’
Max does as he’s told. There are times when the extremity of Harriet’s bossiness can be almost comical. Today, though, I seem to be missing the funny side.
‘ I’ve known Max for eleven years. I know this isn’t all about me, but I think it’s worth you knowing up front that I don’t suffer fools gladly and I’m not one who’s generally given to waxing lyrical about other people’s attributes. Max, however, is an exception. To cut to the chase, he has what people commonly refer to as “the whole package”: he’s smart, funny, kind, patient and – for a bloke in his late thirties – looks surprisingly acceptable in a pair of swimming shorts. He can cook, he doesn’t have any unappealing habits that I know of (apart from his modesty which I find annoying but I’m sure other women wouldn’t) and he’s genuinely a man of multiple interests and endless good humour. He’s the man, to coin a cliché, with whom women want to share their problems and men want to share a pint. He also happens to be the world’s best dad to his gorgeous seven-year-old daughter. And right now, lucky ladies,
‘Okay, here goes. I’ve known Max for eleven years. He might be a bit uptight and he can sometimes be a party pooper and if you get him started on the War of the Roses he may never stop, but he’s solvent, sane (mostly) and stable and, quite honestly, what more can you expect of a bloke who’s only just the right side of forty? Give him a nudge and see if you can’t relight his fire. There you go. What do you think?’
Max looks as flabbergasted as I feel.
‘You didn’t seriously put that up about me? In a public place? What if someone I know sees it, someone from school? For god’s sake, Harriet, what on earth were you thinking?’
‘Of course I didn’t write that, you idiot. What do you take me for? Calm down, will you, before you have a fit. It was just a joke.’
‘You mean you haven’t created a profile? That’s not funny, Harriet. You could see how annoyed I was.’
‘Oh no, I have created a profile for you. That’s just not what I wrote. God, you’re having a severe sense of humour failure today, Max.’
‘I have a sense of humour when something’s funny, Harriet. And this isn’t funny. So have you put up a profile of me or not?’
‘I have. And you’re going to love it. Come on, let me show you on the laptop so you can get the full effect.’
‘I don’t want to see it, Harriet. How many times do I have to say it, I’m not interested.’
Max is professing a lack of interest while nonetheless allowing himself to be dragged across the kitchen towards the open laptop on the table.
‘Just let me get it loaded. I don’t think you’re going to stay angry at me for long when you see how well I actually sold you.’
Sold him? Has Harriet swapped the modern world of corporate law for good old-fashioned pimping?
‘See, how nice is that photo? Have you ever seen it before? I thought probably not. My lovely friend Philippe – you remember, gay, French, accent to die for – took it at my birthday lunch a couple of years ago. Even I’d say you look passably good-looking in that picture.’
Harriet loads the photo full screen. Max looks gorgeous. His thick, brown hair is a bit longer in the photo than it is now giving it a very slight wave on top which I always thought managed to make him look both suave and dishevelled at the same time. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying and his smile seems to fill the frame, embracing you from without and drawing you in. It really is a lovely picture.
‘You know I don’t like photos of myself, Harriet. Admittedly, that one’s less offensive than most but that’s not saying much.’
‘But wait till you see what I wrote. Don’t look – let me read it out to you.’
Max does as he’s told. There are times when the extremity of Harriet’s bossiness can be almost comical. Today, though, I seem to be missing the funny side.
‘ I’ve known Max for eleven years. I know this isn’t all about me, but I think it’s worth you knowing up front that I don’t suffer fools gladly and I’m not one who’s generally given to waxing lyrical about other people’s attributes. Max, however, is an exception. To cut to the chase, he has what people commonly refer to as “the whole package”: he’s smart, funny, kind, patient and – for a bloke in his late thirties – looks surprisingly acceptable in a pair of swimming shorts. He can cook, he doesn’t have any unappealing habits that I know of (apart from his modesty which I find annoying but I’m sure other women wouldn’t) and he’s genuinely a man of multiple interests and endless good humour. He’s the man, to coin a cliché, with whom women want to share their problems and men want to share a pint. He also happens to be the world’s best dad to his gorgeous seven-year-old daughter. And right now, lucky ladies,
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