Chasing Men (13 page)

A woman at a nearby table threw streamers in her direction. Giggling, Hetty seized a handful of party poppers and fired back. Behind her somebody was spraying a can of fluorescent goo that snaked across bare shoulders, ice buckets and the remains of dinner. A lighted sparkler was thrust into her hand and she was urged to wave it.

‘Ten! Nine! Eight!’ Hetty chanted with the rest and waved her sparkler obediently. She blinked furiously in the smoke and heat.

‘Three! Two! One!
Happy New Year
!’

Ted and Mandy fell into an embrace, eyes closed, their mouths chewing hungrily at each other, Ted’s paws massaging her sequined bottom, though he retained a firm grip on his cigar.

On all sides strangers were kissing and hugging. On another tier a conga had started. Someone grabbed Hetty and planted a smacking kiss on her lips, then the would-be Don Juan passed swiftly down the aisle and embraced every female within reach. He was gone so quickly that she had only the faintest impression of excess Brylcreem, aftershave and tobacco. It could have been anybody.

‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot…’

Hands were grabbed, a disjointed line formed. Hetty twisted round to find Al, but he was still on stage, blowing as if his soul depended on it. She opened her mouth and tried to sing, but found she was hoarse from the shouted exchanges earlier. Her throat hurt. She felt slightly sick.

When she turned to sit down again, Ted was still munching his blowsy escort, and had one hand thrust down her dress. Hetty lifted her glass, cleared a piece of streamer from the stem and finished the flat champagne. She knew what to do next.

Quietly, without disturbing the writhing lovers, she tiptoed slowly away. Al was still totally absorbed in the love of his life: his music. She collected her coat, left a tip and walked out into the chilly night.

Crowds of youngsters were milling about, their breath white on the frosty air.
Black-helmeted
police officers on horses, their mounts’ eyes protected by plastic blinkers, stood guard at the entrance to Trafalgar Square, exchanging banter with the more boisterous visitors, warning off those laden with bottles and six-packs and instructing everyone to keep moving. Hetty let the sharp chill clear her befuddled head. The cigar smell clung to her skin; her nose wrinkled in disgust. Stephen had smoked them at banquets, the kind of event she
used to attend to support him. But now that she had a choice, she found them neither sophisticated nor alluring.

The multitudes were strolling somewhat aimlessly past the National Gallery, away from Nelson’s Column, as if they sensed that the party spirit was somewhere nearby, if only they could find it. The fountains were boarded up: the crowd’s disappointment was tangible. Any wildness was elsewhere; under the watchful eyes of the police the behaviour on display was sedate and good-humoured. Hetty let herself be carried along and offered no resistance.

She found herself on the steps of Leicester Square station and was informed that the last tube was leaving shortly. ‘I might as well go home,’ she told herself, a trifle miserably.

As the carriage – a replica of the scruffy one that had brought her, but now knee-high in litter, including beer cans and hamburger wrappers – careened towards her stop, she leaned her hot face against the window and gazed at the blackness beyond.

Why had it not worked? Why had she not been – engaged? Would it have been better if Al had been at her elbow, had carried her off to dance, been solicitous and attentive? He had been utterly engrossed: he’d probably not noticed yet that she had left. It was as if he had paid court all night to another woman and had ignored her, though since he’d made it clear he would be working she should have expected nothing else. How very vexing. At least he hadn’t let her sit on her own. Ted and Mandy, however, had hardly been the most scintillating company.

‘I don’t like jazz. I didn’t know that before, but I do now,’ Hetty told her jerky image in the grimy window. ‘I don’t like smoky atmospheres. And I’d rather have a conversation any day. Or night. Preferably with someone intelligent.’

She coughed slightly. That appeared to rule out Al.

By the time she emerged from the tube station with a straggle of other late passengers the night had grown colder. A scruffy youth was tugging half-heartedly at the handle of a cigarette machine. The sleepy attendant wished her goodnight and a happy New Year, then turfed out the youth and dragged the folding gates closed behind him.

Any New Year resolutions? Only those that had emerged in recent weeks: to carry on as she was, not to look back, to regret little, apologise when necessary, mope seldom, and learn something from everyone she met. To keep trying new experiences, regularly, and not to be fearful of disappointment. To lose some weight, take more exercise. Take
any
exercise. On yer bike.

To chase men? To be chased by them – better men than Al – and let them catch her?

The year before, her mind had been blank. Asked what she wished for, she would have replied in terms of the health and happiness of her family, and continued peace and prosperity for the world. Her own positive ambitions had been non-existent.

She trudged away from the lights of the station, head down, gloved hands thrust deep into her pockets. The common was dark and bleak. Any men seeking love out there tonight would have to be quick: there was little shelter to be had from the gusty wind.

One of the street-lights was out. At its base, someone had dumped a bundle of rags that straggled across the narrow pavement. Hetty went to step over the heap, and inadvertently prodded it with her foot. ‘Hey! Wotcher fuckin’ doin’?’ The voice, slurred and guttural, came from the depths of the bundle.

Hetty hesitated. ‘Sorry. Is that you, Brian?’

‘Who de fuck’s that?’ The bundle struggled half upright. A filthy head gazed blearily about. From the battered nose came a trail of dried blood. There was a powerful odour of cheap liquor.

‘You okay? Can I get any help?’

She wasn’t sure how she would fetch assistance other than dialling 999, and the emergency services would not be ecstatic about a liquor-sodden vagabond early on New Year’s Day.

‘Bugger off. Fuck you. Fuck you all.’

The figure slumped back. A dark stain began to appear on the trousers; the acrid stink of urine sullied the night air. Hetty trod daintily around the body, relieved that he was alive, and walked on quickly.

A taxi, empty, but with its light off, slowed down at her side. ‘Looking for The Swallows, Miss,’ the driver said.

‘Next corner, first block,’ she answered, lost in her own reverie.

Her head had cleared, though the tinnitus still buzzed loudly in her ears. What a rum evening. Not a disaster, just not quite what she’d expected. Too much like hard work. Not to be repeated. Not every negative event was as gentle, she reflected moodily. Still, she had learned a lot from tonight: that she could look attractive when she chose despite the unwanted plumpness, that she could hold several glasses of champagne, that her presence did not spoil other people’s fun. And, now, that she could resist the temptation to be a Good Samaritan. Other people had rights, including Brian, which included the right to be left alone, to go to hell in their own way.

Time was when she could not have imagined leaving a man lying in the street. It didn’t happen in the countryside, or not much. The victims would be known, and would be carried by their drinking buddies to a place of safety. She had heard that pedestrians were more at risk on a night like this than drivers, not least because so many of them were on a blinder. Had Brian tried to cross the road, an unwary motorist would not have stood a chance. It was probably the end Brian most wished for himself. She hoped, when it came, it would be easy.

The taxi was waiting outside the block of flats. The cabby was smoking and listening calmly to the chatter of Radio Five Live.

‘Busy night for you?’ Hetty asked.

‘Yeah. An’ if this lady doesn’t hurry up, I’ll be off. I’ve got three more fares waiting.’

Lady? Was Doris about to go out on the razzle? The three BJs had left early that afternoon, laden with bags and bottles for a location some distance away, so it could not be them. Hetty’s brain was too weary to puzzle. She fumbled for her key.

The door opened suddenly.

‘Oh!’ Hetty stepped back in surprise.

She was confronted with a tall figure, a woman. A full head of flowing black hair. Elaborate makeup, glitter eyeshadow and a Cupid’s bow of glossy lipstick. As the extraordinary apparition pushed wordlessly past, Hetty took in diamante earrings, a quilted velvet coat with a narrow waist and a fur collar, fishnet tights with perfectly aligned seams on
muscular calves, and shiny high-heeled shoes.

Who the hell was that? Hetty wondered groggily. Looks like a dog’s dinner. She shook her head. It was time to start minding her own business. Another resolution for the New Year. Head drooping, she climbed the stairs to bed.

In the garden, snowdrops had given way to clutches of erect daffodils, like platoons of royal trumpeters heralding the imminence of spring. Under the oldest trees, crocuses doggedly pushed gold and purple silk through the mud. The afternoons were no longer so brief, nor so dark.

Hetty stood in front of the full-length mirror, stark naked. ‘You are fat,’ her eyes told her with brutal exactitude.

‘So what? I’m comfortable. Mature. Carry the marks of a fully lived life. Motherhood. Pregnancy. Nothing to be ashamed of.’ Her shoulders shrugged, attempting disdain.

‘Take a handful of those folds around your waist.’ Her hands did so, reluctantly. ‘Let’s be honest about it. They aren’t round your waist. They’re several inches below. Any more, and your pubes will disappear for ever.’

‘That’s unkind. And irrelevant. Appearance is the least important thing about a person. Personality counts for far more. Who wants to look like a bimbo, anyway?’

‘You did, once. What makes the first impact? What we
see
.’

‘I’m feeling defiant. And feminist. Fat is a feminist issue. We don’t have to conform to that skinny Barbie doll image men think they prefer. They don’t anyway – they like us plump. And I don’t judge people on their appearance. I’m not so shallow.’

‘Yes, you are. Yes, you do. Christian, for example. Even Rosa. Your own mother.’

‘
Ah
… Okay, so first impressions do count. But what’s truly important is how a person does her job and relates to other people.’

‘Now you’re talking complete rubbish. How she relates, as you put it, depends on how she looks. Instant assessments are made before the subject has opened her mouth. Tells you loads in a few seconds. And often there isn’t a second chance. Not for somebody like you, anyway.’

‘What do you mean, somebody like me?’

‘
Look at you
. You’re a grey-haired, flabby, turkey-skinned fifty-year-old. And you’re
fat
. Past it. Period.’

‘I am not past it! How dare you? I have years ahead of me.’

‘But you
look
past it. That’s the whole point. Geddit now?’

Hetty was silenced. She continued to palpate the flap of podgy flesh that was her belly, lifting it up and down like a mini-apron. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I won’t do anything drastic. I’m not having it cut off, and I’m not going in for liposuction.’

‘You can’t afford either,’ said the inner voice smugly. Hetty turned sideways, holding in her abdomen. She closed her eyes, clenched her fists and let her stomach muscles relax completely.

‘Go on. You have to know the worst,’ came the accusatory whine.

Hetty opened her eyes, then quickly shut them again. The profile that had greeted her had a pronounced curvature with a distinct gravitational pull downwards. ‘God,’ she groaned, ‘I could be six months pregnant with twins. Oh, that’s awful.’

‘Absolutely.’ The voice was triumphant. ‘Progress! The first step to redemption is to
recognise that a problem
exists
. You’ve been in
denial
. That has to
end
.’

‘Oh, piss off,’ said Hetty, and reached for her clothes.

‘They are all mad. I swear it.’ Rosa mimed tearing out her hair, then pulled the two top pink sheets from her script and melodramatically ripped them up. ‘They promise to perform, and we send a car for them to effing Sunderland, agree a fee over the odds and they arrive with every item of kit. So why back out at the last minute?’

Hetty sighed, and read from her notes: ‘Mistress Delilah, aged twenty-eight. Telephone number at the dungeons, et cetera, and bleep. “I have been working as a dominatrix for four years and love my work. I’m twenty-eight now. I can’t work as a dominatrix for ever and am frustrated that I’m not doing something as creative as I’d like.”’

‘“Is it about time I got a proper job?” Yeah, yeah,’ Rosa grunted. ‘Have you seen the trunkload of stuff she brought? We should’ve sent a van, never mind a Ford Mondeo. The whips and chains, the straps – heavens. Her dressing room could double for the tack shop where I went riding as a kid. And the penis restrainers – ugh! Some poor bugger must have a pathological need to be chastised if he’s going to wear those.’

‘Were you honestly going to let her show one on screen? It’s hardly family viewing.’

‘Too true. We’re nowhere near the nine p.m. watershed. This series is likely to transmit just after nine
a.m
. So you’re right, we haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting away with it.’

‘But you’d still like me to try to persuade her, with everything toned down a jot?’ Hetty was smiling broadly.

‘We’ll have to. Spent a chunk of budget on her and can’t waste it. Tell her to lace up that revolting rubber body-shaper two inches higher, and make sure her knickers aren’t showing. Superglue her nipples inside that basque, if necessary. But get her on this set if it kills you, Hetty. You have five minutes.’

The canteen was unusually crowded, with a queue at the tea urn and some bickering over the cakes and pastries. A stranger, a short wide man in a blue T-shirt, trod on Hetty’s foot and muttered an apology.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked Kate.

The researcher pushed her spectacles up her nose. ‘
Star Style
. They’ve taken the big studio. Very popular – four million audience, and it’s repeated. Have you seen it?’

Hetty had to confess she hadn’t. Working on television herself left precious little time for watching it, especially during the day. In any case, her determination not to spend hours passively ogling the box was bearing fruit, as she had begun to plough happily through the later novels of Jane Austen. Joanna Trollope had been long abandoned.

‘It’s a makeover programme,’ Kate explained. ‘They take two ordinary people, friends or a couple, and redo the lot: hair, makeup and clothes. Quite clever – the result is usually a transformation.’

‘Probably choose ’em grotty to begin with,’ Hetty said. ‘It’s the sort of thing I might almost have volunteered for, in the old days, with my husband. Though I’m not sure he’d have been vain enough to do it.’

‘Um,’ said Kate, noncommittally. ‘It’s normally harder persuading men. Women are
no sweat – they queue up for the free beautification and ignore the ritual public humiliation. But men are far more wary.’

‘Yet they need it more than we do.’

‘D’you reckon? I’m not an expert on men. They all look alike to me.’ Kate’s eyes were roving towards Rosa; her face assumed a hangdog expression.

‘Oh, sure, especially in middle age. Women make more effort. The men let themselves go. Men in their fifties can be ghastly.’ Hetty was aware of a tinge of insincerity in her voice. What was it? Wishful thinking? Was she still arguing with the mirror?

‘If you say so.’ Kate sounded doubtful. ‘Not many women are as adorable as our beloved producer, at any age. With respect. You don’t think she might be a teensy-weensy bit bisexual, do you?’

‘Not a chance,’ laughed Hetty, and squeezed Kate’s arm.

Hetty cursed as she tried, but failed, to stop her fingers straying to the turkey-and-Brie-stuffed croissants. The receptionist appeared in the doorway and called to her, ‘A young lady’s arrived, says she knows you, but she’s not on the list of guests. Says she’s your daughter.’

‘Sally? What’s she doing here?’ Hetty felt anxious and hurried into Reception. But Sally was grinning broadly, and seemed rather pleased with herself.

‘Hi.’ She greeted her mother with a brief kiss. ‘Hope you don’t mind. I wanted to tell somebody quickly.’

‘
You’re pregnant
.’ It came out like an accusation. Sally blinked, astonished.

‘No, of course not. Not much chance of that. No, I’ve got a new job. Sorry to barge in. Can I tell you about it?’

Hetty led the way back into the canteen, found two polystyrene cups and poured coffee. The crew of
Star Style
were drifting back to their studio. The short man was talking in a corner. According to Kate, he was the producer.

‘So, shoot,’ Hetty said, in her best television manner. They sat opposite each other. Sally’s hair was blonder than before and layered neatly, in place of the rather careworn disorder, replete with split ends, of the days at the health farm. ‘You’ve had your hair done. It’s lovely. Did it cost a fortune?’

Sally rolled her eyes. ‘Mayfair. A hundred quid including highlights. But I’ll have to get used to the expense. Gotta go upmarket for the world’s biggest airline, haven’t I?’

‘British Airways? Is that the job?’

‘Yes!’ Sally was clearly delighted. ‘It was time for a change, Mum. Charter holidays to Ibiza were getting me down. The passengers, not the crew – they were fine. But, ugh, the drunks guzzling the duty-free and goosing us, and horrible kids running around being sick. I was threatened with a bottle last month, though we pinned down the guy quickly – he was in no shape to stand, let alone fight. He ended the flight in handcuffs. I’ve often felt I could do better. So I’m upgrading. Going for the hot shots. I’ll be doing business class from here on, mainly on transatlantic flights.’

‘Businessmen? They get drunk too, you know.’

‘At least they tip well. And, you never know. I might get to meet Mr Right.’

‘On a plane?’

‘Sure. It’s eleven hours to San Francisco. Maybe I’ll get to join the Mile High Club.’

Hetty had read the term somewhere, but couldn’t be sure. ‘What d’you mean?’

Sally’s peal of laughter rang out. ‘You mean you don’t know? You
have
led a sheltered life. It means sex in the stratosphere. Lots of people manage it. You’d be surprised. One pair called me over recently on a flight to Athens and asked for permission to make love under a blanket. I ask you!’

‘And you’d like to be one of them,’ Hetty responded drily, though she had no wish to dent her daughter’s new-found enthusiasm. ‘I
did
know – I’d just forgotten. Not the sort of thing we discussed at the parish council.’ She checked the clock. ‘I must go. I am thrilled for you, and especially pleased that you wanted to come and tell me. Last time you did that, you were eleven and you’d come first in the art exam at school.’

They were interrupted by the man in the blue T-shirt. He introduced himself as Tom, then, eyes flitting from one to the other, said, ‘I hear you’re mother and daughter. You can see the resemblance.’

‘We are,’ said Sally.

‘Ever been on TV?’ the man asked.

‘No,’ came from them both, Hetty cautious, Sally intrigued.

He took a greasy wallet from a back pocket, extracted a card and addressed Sally.

‘I work for
Star Style
. We’re forever on the lookout for interesting couples. People our audience could relate to. You two’d do great. Pretty young lass – our stylists could make you stunning. And your mother here, very typical of our viewers at home. Middle-aged – know what I mean? A makeover’d do her the world of good, and it’s free.’ He waggled a hand. ‘You get to keep the clothes and the cosmetics. Give it some thought, and let us know.’ He hurried away.

Sally’s eyes shone. She began to chatter about the possibilities, then stopped. ‘Darn. I don’t suppose I should. Not with a new position. My employers mightn’t like it.’

Hetty snatched the card. ‘Typically middle-aged. Huh!’

‘Well, you are. Face it. But I can suggest somebody you should do it with. Someone a lot older, who could help put you in a favourable light…’

‘Who?’

‘Granny.
Your
mother. And wouldn’t she just steal the show?’

She had missed a bus, and began to walk. As she headed away from the studio, Hetty’s route took her past the bicycle shop half-way up the hill. It was still light. Slightly puffed with the mild exertion, she gazed idly in at the window, through the rolls of tyres that hung about the door frame like ringlets, past the tattered advertisements for ancient brands of batteries.

She peered inside. The shopkeeper was tinkering with a bicycle which sat helpless, upside down on its handlebars. The man was tall and spare in a blue overall, with
steel-rimmed
spectacles. Beside him crouched a skinny cyclist in green Lycra leggings. The bike’s complex gear system had them scratching their heads.

There was no harm in looking. The interior was crammed with frames, tyres, handlebars, saddles, chrome pipework, silver and red headlights and reflectors in racks. Clothing in every garish hue was piled higgledy-piggledy on shelves, hung from the ceiling and tacked to the walls. The smell of rubber and lubricating oil enriched with a faint tinge of sweat stirred her memory. It was thirty years since she had ridden a bike.

‘Hello. Were you interested in anything?’

‘Maybe,’ said Hetty. ‘D’you sell second-hand bikes?’

‘We do. A ladies’, was it? A road bike? You’d need a twenty-inch frame. Let me see.’

The biker righted his machine as if it weighed almost nothing, opened the street door and left. Her last glimpse of him was of a stick-thin praying mantis crouched over the handlebars, helmeted head down, buttocks pumping from a standing start uphill. He had not registered her existence; she could not fail to admire his.

‘What is the bike to be used for, miss?’

‘To and from work, mainly. And perhaps to go to the leisure centre for a swim. It’s a bit far to walk and I should feel guilty going by bus,’ Hetty said shyly.

The man smiled. ‘Any cross-country?’

‘Absolutely not. The roads are bad enough,’ Hetty answered. She smiled back.

‘Safer than the roads, it is.’ He took off the spectacles and wiped them on a clean corner of his apron. Wait till you’ve tried Putney high street in the rush-hour.’

Hetty made a mental note not to.

The rest of the walk home seemed further than usual. Three buses came and went before she could get to a bus stop. But from tomorrow onwards, when her chosen steed would be ready for her, the journey would be half an hour shorter.

Should she get green Lycra leggings? Now, or wait?

‘
Darling Hetty! You came to my gig. Hope you enjoyed it. Dying to see you again. My agent Ted says you’re gorgeous, he says it was all he could do to keep his hands off you. I said, “Lay off, the lady’s mine.” So how’s about it? When do 1 get to toot my tin horn for you again? I’m appearing on Sunday
…’