Chasing Men (10 page)

‘I have not,’ Rosa responded, in mock indignation. She had suggested a pub lunch: it was a non-filming day, when the tempo was slower. The studios had been booked by other programme makers who had commandeered the canteen. Hetty and the researchers were crammed into a crowded office, rented for the duration of the run. That encouraged them to get out and about, Rosa had asserted: guest contact was best done in the guests’ own homes, not down an impersonal phone-line.

‘So how’m I doing?’ Hetty asked.

‘Well, Mike and Phil both think you’re terrific. Bob is wearing his heart on his sleeve for you. Kate thinks you’re cute. You’re doing okay, Hetty.’ Her eyes were alive.

‘God, you’ve got sex on the brain today. I’ve told you, I’m not in the market.’

‘Not now or not ever?’

Hetty sighed. ‘Lord, is it showing? The nun’s habit is not exactly me. Stephen and I got on quite well in that direction. I did like it.’

‘Most people like it.’ Rosa was on her second pint of Carling Special; Hetty had tried the strong lager, but had found a single half set her head spinning all afternoon.

‘I don’t think so, Rosa. Lots of women loathe the physical side, especially if they’ve had a bad experience.’

‘Or if they’ve never met a man who’s good at it.’ Rosa smacked her lips. ‘Ho! Ho!’

‘Can’t take you anywhere.’ A group of men at a nearby table were ogling them and chuckling. ‘I did wonder whether I should try answering an advert or two. A few phone calls can’t do any harm. If they sound awful, I don’t have to meet them.’

‘Yeah, brill. You could land yourself a couple of hot dates, if nothing else.’

Hetty ignored Rosa’s nudge. ‘What do you watch out for when you meet a stranger? How can you tell if he’s going to be both nice and, well, capable?’

‘Hell, Hetty, that’s the oldest question in the world,’ Rosa replied. ‘You were married. You must know the signs better than I do. What are you after? D’you want to fall in love again and get hitched? You want him wealthy, tall, cultivated, what?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hetty confessed. ‘But it’s ages now.’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Since what?’

‘Since – since last time.’

‘Oooh, I geddit. You’re missing the sex, aren’t you? That’s natural. Healthy lass like you.’

Hetty nodded miserably. ‘I feel such a fool. I’m a grown woman with a job I love. But something is definitely amiss. I feel – edgy. I’m beginning to dream. I had to wake myself up this morning, otherwise…’

‘Lucky you. Wet dreams are wonderful.’

‘Rosa! How can you?’

‘As I take it,’ her friend offered, ‘you have several options. Apart from accepting when Artful Dodgers like Al call you, of course. You could do worse.’ She began to tick off points on her fingers. ‘You could certainly answer an advert. Or go to an agency. Or just let it be known that you’re on the lookout – that can be surprisingly effective, though if you find the perfect man, do let me know.’

‘How come you know about Al?’ Hetty was mystified.

‘Him? He calls everybody. Me, Kate, the girls. He took the phone number of that stripper, but he’s on a hiding to nothing there – her husband’d razor the pair of ’em.’

Hetty stared gloomily into her glass. ‘You don’t believe the perfect man exists, do you? I thought that was a notion we discarded with our navy-blue school knickers.’

‘Often the same night. Schoolboys! Acne, bad teeth and BO. Too much Old Spice, yuk. Plus a lot of fumbling in the dark. One laddie used to count out loud – he never got past five, then it was finished. No, I
don’t
think so. But hunting for the perfect man is one of life’s great games. It’s the only search that counts.’ The men nearby were listening intently. Whenever Rosa paused, they burst into barely suppressed guffaws.

Rosa picked up the last pickle and put her head to one side. ‘You could explore one other possibility, Hetty,’ she said.

‘What’s that?’

The shiny wet vegetable was wiggled provocatively back and forth. Then Rosa lowered it beneath the table, spread her legs, threw her head back and grunted loudly and rhythmically: ‘
Oh
!
Oh
!
Oh
!’

The male drinkers were transfixed. Rosa returned to the present with a hoot. ‘That
always
works, Hetty. Though I wouldn’t recommend it
quite
with a dill pickle.’

Near the pub where she and Rosa ate was a busy shopping centre. It was convenient to pop into during the lunch-hour for odd items or at the end of the day. Hetty was impressed by how many shops stayed open late and seemed to think nothing of providing a full range of services even as the streets emptied and commuters headed home.

She strolled about one damp afternoon, aware that she was searching for something but unsure what. Fresh fruit, a slice of chicken pie for supper, a bunch of daffodils were safely in her bag. She turned a corner and halted before a window painted matt dark blue all over so that not a chink of light could emerge from inside.

‘
ADULT SHOP
,’ the lettering stated, ‘
ITEMS ARE EXHIBITED HERE WHICH MAY OFFEND. PERSONS UNDER
18
NOT ADMITTED
.’

‘It’s persons under eighteen who need this help most,’ Hetty muttered. Not her kind of
place at all. But, as she had realised in conversation with her mother and Rosa, big gaps existed in her knowledge. Maybe she should persuade Rosa to come here with her for a laugh. Maybe not. She gathered her courage and pushed open the door.

A blast of hot air hit her from an overhead blower; garish spotlights made her blink. A camera swivelled to examine her. There were no other customers. Hetty hid her mundane shopping behind her coat and stepped inside.

The sight that greeted her took her breath away. Straight ahead, ludicrous in the small space, was a six-foot blown-up plastic model of a woman, blatantly anatomically correct, trussed up in scarlet and black lace underwear. The crotch of the panties was open; shiny nipples protruded from slits in the bra. The hands with their red-painted fingernails displayed more underwear in jewel colours, vivid scraps of fabric leaving little to the imagination. Hetty had to squeeze past to get further into the shop.

On the far wall, on a sheet of silver paper were arranged a collection of whips, manacles, chains, studded dog collars and gloves and other leather gear. Facing her were several bookshelves and an array of well-thumbed magazines and videos. On the floor stood a three-foot-high erect phallus in the same salmon-pink plastic as the blow-up doll, but exaggeratedly ruched and lipped in purple. Nearby was a parody of a tinsel Christmas tree, its branches adorned with condom samples in blue, green, red, and Day-Glo yellow, with knobs and prongs, ‘guaranteed to keep the lady screaming for more’. They were, a scribbled note said, available in ten different flavours from strawberry to chocolate mint. Some played musical tunes on ejaculation. Hetty gulped.

‘Can I ’elp yew?’

The thin girl at the counter, her open mouth masticating gum, eyes hidden under lashes encrusted with violet mascara, barely glanced up. She was flicking through a magazine of colour pictures of naked men. Hetty kept her eyes averted from the multiple erections and gestured dumbly round the stuffy room.

‘Admirin’ Mona, was yer?’ The girl chewed. ‘The doll. We call ‘er Mona. If you push her belly-button, she moans. We got a male version too, if yer int’rested.’

‘Merciful heavens,’ Hetty answered weakly. ‘Can I just – browse?’ It was a far cry from Rosa and her gherkins. Or was it?

The girl shrugged. ‘Yeah, course. I’m goin’ off in a minute, at six. The manageress’ll take care of you, if you need anythin’.’

‘Thank you.’

Hetty walked, nonchalantly, she hoped, towards the bookcase. It contained a section of new books and many scruffy paperbacks with torn covers. Bondage seemed to play a large part in the fantasies of the shop’s literate customers. On the bottom shelf were a grubby boxed album of Robert Mapplethorpe photographs, a heap of old girly calendars, scores of glossy postcards by photographers with a stocking fetish or a taste for the grotesque. Some of the poses looked painful, in Hetty’s opinion. Is this what turned people on?

A glass-covered stand contained odd-shaped implements. It was a moment before Hetty could identify them, then she gulped again, twice. A faint mewing sound escaped from her throat. Battery-driven or mains, smooth or ridged, in sizes from six inches up to a monster of over a foot long and two inches thick. Surely those were not for
real
.

‘You’d do yourself an injury with one of those,’ she remarked aloud.

‘Nah. Completely safe,’ said a familiar voice behind her.

Hetty whirled round. The girl had been replaced by an elderly woman, dumpy and short, her grey hair in tight curls about her ears. Coral red lipstick, haphazardly applied, covered her mouth; spots of rouge turned her cheeks into a painter’s palette. Metallic earrings dangled in the harsh light. The teeth were strong and square, in a slight leer, until the manageress took in her customer. Both gasped.

‘Hetty!’

‘Doris! God, Doris, what are you doing here?’

The old lady’s manner became shifty. ‘I work ’ere two days a week. Pays the gas bill. They gets busy towards the weekend.’ She became more officious. ‘Was you looking for anything in particular?’

But Hetty had fled.

Hetty sat on the edge of the bed, lifted the whisky glass to her lips and drank. She shook her head as if to disperse the alcohol more quickly, then poured herself another. The ice clinked invitingly. The door was shut, the answerphone switched on, though at ten at night she was expecting no calls. The bedside light’s pink shade cast a rosy glow over the duvet, the pillows, the library copy of Anaïs Nin, the washed fruit in a bowl. And the copy of
Hot Sex
left on the studio canteen table, which nobody had claimed.

The door of the wardrobe was open, so that the tall mirror reflected the bed. So she could see herself, but nobody could see her.

She took off her clothes with calm deliberation, let them fall unhindered to the floor. And sat facing the mirror. It needed more whisky: she had never done this before. Never
needed
to before. She drank and tossed her head, and giggled at the sight…

Her breasts were round and full over a curving belly. The thighs, head on, were almost circular, the knees dimpled. Two stone too much. Never mind for the moment: no one else was watching. She breathed in, held her breath until she could see the thump of her own heart under her ribcage. She pressed her fingers over her heart, then slid them to her right breast, and tweaked the nipple, sharply.

The pillows made a mound for her head, so she could lean back and still see herself. The thighs elongated, the tyres of fat disappeared and became smooth. Her feet were in good shape, the toes tiny and pink. Without any hurry, she opened her legs. The hairy bush was dark and luxuriant; Stephen used to remark on it. She smiled. He used to start her off by putting his fingers –
here
. She pressed, then settled back, lifted her heels on to the edge of the bed.

And began to rub. It was moist inside the bush: surprisingly so, but then she had been
thinking
about this the entire evening. Ever since returning from the sex-shop and the startling encounter with her downstairs neighbour. The shop could not help. No one could, not tonight. She had to do it herself.

And doing it herself … was a curious sensation. Heady. Not bad. Her two middle fingers slid up and down, up and down. It was great to move at her own pace. The flesh was swelling and hot to the touch: it guided her where to go, easily. Not too rapidly, steady. Not heavy, just rhythmic, up and down, in and out. Not dirty, not pornographic. As good as eating chocolate, but a great deal less fattening.

With her other hand she massaged her breasts till they almost hurt, pinched and tugged the nipples as if they were being sucked or nibbled, rubbed her abdomen. Deep in her pelvis muscles stirred, something almost forgotten … Her heart seemed to have shifted to a location down between her legs and was pounding, strongly. This was almost better than with Stephen: by now he would be grunting in her ear, his eyes shut tight, and she would be concentrating on ensuring that
he
was enjoying
himself
. Her own needs would have been secondary.

Oh! It was beginning to happen. ‘Oh!’ Hetty yelped. Her hand flung out and nearly knocked the lamp off the bedside table. It connected with an object. Not a book.
The right shape
. God in heaven. Did it fit? It did …
Marvellous
.

In and out – there was a spot inside her that responded intensely … the G-spot, wasn’t it called? ‘Oh! Oh!’ Waves and explosions swept over her and she shuddered, appalled and delighted. ‘Oh, my God … oh, this is fantastic.
Oooooh
.’

It was like being carried off on a magic carpet, swooning in the delirium, disorientated but utterly joyous. Uplifted and panting, her body shuddered … Her arms clasped about herself, a broad smile on her face, she flew … and at last, lay still.

If she had missed sex, she had found an answer – one answer, at least.

She half sat up and regarded herself triumphantly in the mirror. Her hair was tousled, the skin over her breasts and throat mottled and flushed. ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, in pleasure. Orgasm was achievable: men were not absolutely necessary. She lay back, reached for a peach and began to eat it greedily, letting the juice run down her chin.

Then she pulled the duvet over herself and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The only casualty was the banana, which she found, bruised and blackened, under the bed two days later. Next time, she would have to ask the greengrocer for the green ones. As firm, and as hefty, as possible.

Al was being a pest. Or was he?

‘
Come on, Eddie, I’m keen to see you. What are you up to New Year’s Eve? I’m booked to play at the Millennium Club – that’s near Trafalgar Square. Come and see me. Nothing too grand, but I’d be pleased if you would
.’

This invitation was couched in quite formal terms. Hetty wondered if he had phoned everyone he had met on
Tell Me All
– and his other programmes – with a similar request. His tales of females fawning over him sounded hollow. Maybe she would be doing him a favour, not vice versa. And, although a Christmas of self-indulgence loomed at a health farm with Sally, New Year’s Eve was blank as yet in her diary.

Why not? She left a message on his machine, spelling her name, and felt oddly pleased with herself.

‘Right,’ said Rosa, ‘let’s look at these ads. Time to get you started.’

She and Hetty were seated, their feet tucked up under them, in her cubby-hole office. The computer screen had been unused for some while; Hetty noticed that the screensaver message urged, ‘
Keep it up – don’t stop now – think of the money!
’

Hetty sipped a diet drink. ‘Ugh. This stuff is disgusting, even if it does have only one calorie,’ she said. And, ‘I had thought about it. But what sort of sad geeks put ads in newspapers? Or answer them, come to that.’

‘Geeks like you,’ said Rosa robustly. ‘Have you any idea how many are lurking out there, Het, single but not satisfied with being single? Men and women. Men especially. Thousands of them. It’s a modern phenomenon.’

‘I’m not dissatisfied. And I’m not too sure about this. Supposing they start making obscene remarks?’

‘You should be so lucky. But if it happens, you shriek loudly enough to deafen the guy and slam down the phone. And don’t start giving your address. Take a positive view, Het.’

‘No harm trying, I agree. I’m not totally averse to an evening out with somebody glamorous. Or even vaguely attractive. Pass me that paper.’ Hetty decided not to mention Al. ‘These used to be called lonely-hearts columns, didn’t they? Heavens, it’s mostly blokes. You’d think men would have no trouble finding partners.’

‘How do you figure that?’

‘Don’t men still take the initiative? Make the running? It’s much trickier for a woman in a pub, for instance, to approach a man she quite fancies and start chatting him up.’

‘Not these days. You’re showing your age. The lads are often far more timid. And so many blokes are complete workaholics, they’re slaving late at the office, or are forever on an international flight that arrives after midnight. They never get time for a proper social life, though they’d like one. Otherwise –’

‘– they wouldn’t need the ads.’

‘Correct. Now let’s see who’s in this week. We can listen to the browse lines as well. At the very least, it’ll be a gas.’

The two heads bent over the folded newspaper as Rosa wielded a highlighter pen.

‘How about “Educated male, divorced, blue eyes, slim, good appearance, tactile, sensual, wide interests, WLTM” – that’s would like to meet – “similar, very warm female, for fun times.” Not terribly original. “For fun times” – they all say that. It means they have no strong tastes, or they don’t get out much.’

‘Or they’re indecisive. But I’d far rather a chap know what he wants.’ Hetty pulled a face. ‘Tactile and sensual, eh? Wants a “very warm female” – what’s the code there?’

‘Making it clear. He wants sex.’

‘Oh.’

Rosa giggled. ‘Doesn’t turn you on, then?’

Hetty shook her head. ‘Not a lot. Allied to the fun times bit, he sounds excruciating. What’s next?’

‘Aha! “Age/colour/size/status immaterial.’”

‘In other words, he’s desperate.’

‘Probably a chap who’s tried many times before, and hopes for loads of replies rather than just a few.’

‘Cheapskate?’

‘Yeah.’ Rosa pursed her lips. ‘Maybe there’s another clue. If age is immaterial, his probably isn’t. In most of these ads the vintage is stated – forty-three in that one, sixty in another. If this babe doesn’t give it, there’s an obvious reason why not.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s old. Probably a lot more than sixty. I wouldn’t touch him.’

‘Older than sixty? Good Lord.’

Rosa nudged her. ‘But if he can still get it up, he might be just what you’re looking for.’

‘Or he could be decrepit enough to be my granddad. No, thanks,’ said Hetty sourly.

‘Would you fancy an intellectual?’

‘I might. What does it say?’

“‘London publisher, tired of conversation with neighbour’s dog and occupying his bed like a starfish, WLTM sensuous, very intelligent woman, seeking deserving man. London/South East area.’”

‘Let me see that.’ Hetty peered at the page. ‘Might be worth a call, anyway.’ She made a note.

‘Very intelligent probably means he’s an intellectual snob. An arrogant bastard. But I agree, one to try. The one below is far more specific. “Funny, unconventional, kind man, forty-two, non-smoker, IQ a hundred and forty, seeks similar woman to share life and times.” What’s your IQ, Hetty?’

‘Haven’t the faintest. Not sure I want a love-match built round IQs. And he’s a bit young for me, don’t you think? Ah, he lives in Inverness. That lets me off the hook.’

‘There’s a skier your age wants an attractive, intelligent, passionate woman.’

Hetty rested her chin on her hands. ‘I’m beginning to understand the terms. “Sensual” means sex, please. So does “passionate” or “tactile”. If it doesn’t say “slim”, he isn’t.’ (‘And
may not be, even if he claims he is,’ Rosa reminded her) ‘“Well built” means fat, period. “Distinguished” means grey-haired. “Sincere” means he isn’t – or why say so? Sincerity is a quality most people take for granted. “Adventurous” means – what?’

‘Into S & M, in all probability.’ Rosa rolled her eyes.

‘They’re not likely to put “Bull whips and chains preferred” in the ads, are they?’

‘“Down-to-earth widower –”’

‘Means rude sod. Won’t modify his language or his manners for a lady. Take me or leave me, he’s saying, which is why he’s reduced to putting in an ad.’

‘“Easygoing, fifty-five, GSOH, WLTM female similar, for relationship, age unimportant…”’

‘For easygoing read idle. GSOH means good sense of humour, usually, and often implies it’s missing entirely. He’s retired and bored to tears – but if he had any interests he’d mention them, surely. Tedious old slob, I’d say.’

‘I quite like the “Welsh, handsome has-been, sixty-four, seeks educated woman to cuddle up to”,’ said Hetty, with a smile. ‘At least he’s being honest.’

‘Umm. But you can see why they lie,’ Rosa pointed out. ‘If he called himself “a Welsh dragon, breathing fire, fit and active, seeking a willing soul-mate to tie to my rock”, he’d have dozens of replies.’

‘Stop!’ said Hetty. ‘Before my courage fails entirely, let’s call a few. Can I use this phone?’

‘Sure. I’ll allow you a quick ten minutes. Those special numbers charge at a pound a minute. You can run up a helluva bill.’

Rosa patted Hetty on the back, and soon left her to it.

A week later Rosa asked Hetty about progress. Hetty flipped back through a notepad covered in scribbles and phone numbers.

‘Mixed. You were spot on about the guy for whom age was immaterial. He’ll be seventy-three next birthday. He is old enough to be my father. But you have to admire his nerve. He seemed sparky on the phone, but I decided against. I’d prefer someone closer to my own generation.’

‘Wise. Next?’

‘The easygoing fifty-five-year-old asked me out for a drink. I was quite hopeful, till he started asking what I would wear. He was insistent on my coming in a dress. I told him that wasn’t the height of fashion any more and I’d rather wear a trouser suit, but he seemed most put out. Said he didn’t like women in trousers. If we’d carried on talking, he’d have been demanding I turn up in stockings and high heels. So you were wrong, he does have some ideas. The problem is, they’re set in aspic.’

Rosa’s eyes were dancing. ‘A gentleman with taste. Did you crack any more codes?’

‘Did I ever. “Romantic and sensitive” means divorced and wants to moan about how badly his ex treated him. Over the phone, to a complete stranger. Aren’t they dopes? A lot of selfish little boys out there, I reckon.’

‘Go on. Did you try the publisher – the one who’s fed up talking to the dog and sleeping like a starfish?’

‘Him!’ Hetty snorted. ‘I did, but it took an heroic amount of effort. The recorded
message he left, in which they’re supposed to fill in details, simply said that everything was in the ad. So I told him I was in broadcasting, and I tried to make my own reply bright and amusing. When he called back his manner was brusque, but I put that down to shyness. Then he had to stop talking abruptly as his other phone rang. That happened three times. You’d think he’d put the other one on hold, wouldn’t you?’

‘Did you arrange to meet?’ Rosa wriggled with curiosity.

‘That was the daft bit. I wasn’t keen merely to chat aimlessly, though many of the blokes are content to do just that – makes you wonder what they’re up to while they have a pliant female safely miles away on the other end of the phone.’

Rosa mimed an obscene movement till Hetty slapped her hand. ‘Drop it. It’s enough of an advance for me even to make the calls. Don’t put me off.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘If I’m going to make progress I have to meet real flesh and blood. So I started dropping hints, like getting together for lunch in town on a non-filming day. He barked that he never ate lunch. Then how about a glass of wine one evening? But no, he hated town and left to go home to Mill Hill as soon as possible. Did he enjoy the theatre, I asked? No, he hated the theatre, hadn’t been in twenty years. I began to feel stumped.’

‘Did you give up?’

‘Not yet. Don’t go too fast. I asked him then what
he
wanted, and how he thought we might meet – over the holiday, say. And he answered, “I could offer you a cup of tea and a piece of cake. How about this afternoon? Could you come to Mill Hill?”’

‘He didn’t!’

‘He did. So I thought, sod him.
That’s
why he’s occupying his bed like a starfish. And I said goodbye.’

The two women chuckled together, but it was clear that Hetty had drawn a blank.

‘It made me think, Rosa,’ she said slowly. ‘There are thousands of singles out there, as you said, men and women. Lots of them, I’m now convinced, are basically decent. Most subscribe to the principle that coupledom – a man and a woman – in love, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes over a candlelit supper is the ideal. Some just want to fantasise, and not to meet. A few are more cynical: they want a one-to-one, but they want several of them. Or, whatever they’d prefer, they’re chary of commitment.’

‘As you are, in fact, at present. But you’re capable of love, and many of them aren’t.’

‘It’s a strange world. Quite extraordinary. So many facets of it that I knew nothing about when I spent my afternoons pruning the hedges in Dorset.’

‘You could always,’ Rosa drawled, ‘put an ad in yourself.’

‘Mmm …’ Al came to mind. ‘Let’s see the New Year in first.’

‘A happy New Year, then, Het?’

Hetty gathered up her notes for the next recording and tapped the list of guests, then the folded newspaper. ‘Happier than this lot.
Moderately
happy. That’ll have to do.’

Season of goodwill. A battered holly wreath was nailed on the main door, slightly askew: Doris’s doing. It looked as if it might have been saved since last year. On Doris’s
window-ledge
, Christmas cards kept company with an electric candelabrum that switched itself off and on incessantly. Thomas had acquired a red ribbon and a tinkling bell on his collar: he
must have been catching mice or small birds. He did not have a festive demeanour, but prowled crossly about the damp garden, instincts thwarted.

Hetty had not dared go near Doris’s corner of the shopping centre again, or knock on her door to explain. Explanations that made sense and did not reek of humbug would have been difficult. Instead she scuttled inside the block each night, trying not to notice if the rosy face was peering out at the sound of the key in the lock. The call inviting her to the ubiquitous cup of tea did not come. Maybe the sex-shop was extra busy and required Doris’s services. Hetty wondered, irreverently, whether its customers were also offered a cup of tea. Or something stronger.

The estate agent had hinted that the block had some odd residents. Was he aware that the teapot-wielding occupant of number one had more than a passing acquaintance with dildoes and penis rings? Maybe he was himself familiar with the shop’s contents. He could hardly have avoided the self-appointed concierge when checking the empty flat. Doris could not have resisted
that
temptation.

The gentleman friend, Jack, had never materialised. Did he exist? Or was he, like Rosa’s perfect man, a figment of the imagination? Maybe he too visited the shop. Hetty began to laugh. Could it be that Doris’s unusual proclivities, suggested by those rouged cheeks and dangling earrings, had once extended to other types of customer? Though probably not in a respectable location like The Swallows. Maybe Jack had been a client of another kind. Or the estate agent. Or both.

Rosa was rushing to finish the series in time for the winter break. After each day’s wrap Hetty was drained of energy. It was ages since she had worked so
hard
. It was still fun, but the gilt had gone off the gingerbread when she realised that a typical fifty-hour week brought in a mere six pounds an hour before tax and insurance. Once the series was in the can, there would be no holiday pay or retainers. Hetty began to understand why the young researchers had turned gloomy during programme forty. Recommissioned or otherwise, they would have to manage on their meagre savings till the next round started in February.

Other people, meanwhile, were celebrating the year end rather more thoroughly. The three BJs were out partying every night, a bunch of mistletoe slung rakishly low over their doorway. Their ability to leave a trail of human debris continued to amaze Hetty.