Chasing Men (14 page)

Hetty frowned. It was the third message Al had left. In none had he apologised for leaving her to her fate on New Year’s Eve. In his own eyes it was obvious that he had behaved impeccably. His tone betrayed puzzlement as to why she had left before the end of the night; he assumed that perhaps she had not been feeling well, which she took as a euphemism for having drunk too much. The comment from Ted, so patently false, must be intended as a compliment. More strange language.

But her presence had been an irrelevance to Al, to Ted, to Mandy and everyone else in the night-club. They had barely noticed she was there. It was not stupid to suspect that, if she were to accept further invitations, the pattern would repeat itself. Not only would she have to endure the incomprehensible caterwauling that passed for music – and pretend to love it – but she would be an adjunct, ignored by her host until it suited him, with no guarantee even then that he would pay her much attention.

Since she had not hung around, what might have happened afterwards was a mystery. Sex, probably. That in itself would be a welcome and positive act, even with Al, assuming he was competent. She had to break her duck, sooner or later: it might be easier with a man with little emotional baggage. But before that? Jazz players drank, and took substances, and smoked cannabis. Was she expected to be a good sport and join in that, too? Should she? She’d draw the line at hard drugs. If that’s what it took for him and his ladies to get high, they could count her out. Cannabis
maybe
. And what if Al took it for granted that she was a
sophisticated type. Perhaps he liked group sex. Suppose Ted and Mandy got involved too?

Hetty’s fingers paused over the erase button. What did a man like that see in a woman like herself – fat and middle-aged, as the mirror, her daughter and practically everyone else kept telling her? Except that she had glowed that night, had been glamorous and excited. Ted’s compliments had the ring of truth. She had not disgraced herself.

Was he the sort of man who didn’t give up, who assumed all women found him irresistible? That’s what he’d claimed on the show. It could explain why he was so casual about the niceties. Yet, in fact, she had been the sole female groupie present.

Al was younger. A younger lover was not such a crazy idea. If she could keep him satisfied.
That
would make Sally’s eyebrows shoot up into her fancy new hairdo. It would be something to boast about to Clarissa. And Rosa would be agog.

From her meagre acquaintance a few conclusions could be drawn. Al was a big kid, a one-track-minded adolescent engrossed in his own talent. If she did want to sleep with him, she would have to do the chasing.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ Hetty told herself, ‘
I
am not fixated on
him
. And I’m not quite desperate enough. On the other hand, waste not, want not.’

She pressed the button for the next message, and gaped as it played.

‘
Oh, hello. Not sure I’ve got the right number. If it’s Hetty Clarkson, then this is James Dolland. Your brother Larry suggested I call. We were at school together, remember? I work in London during the week. Larry thought we ought to renew the friendship. My number is
…’

‘Goddamn!’ Hetty swore.

Her brother was matchmaking. How dare he? Her brow furrowed. James Dolland. Had he been in her class or Larry’s? Which school? She cudgelled her brain to remember, but came up with a complete blank. Whoever he was, he had not made much impression on her at the time. Maybe he had improved. Maybe he was splendid. Especially if he did not like jazz.

Hetty made a note of the number. But she did not call back. It would not do to appear too keen.

The sound equipment was giving trouble and the crew had been given an hour off. Hetty found Rosa in the tiny office, engrossed on the Internet.

‘What are you doing? Researching for guests?’ Hetty asked.

Rosa pointed at the monitor. ‘No, I’m playing hooky. Every so often I call up one of the interconnect services. Chat rooms for adults. Meeting places, if you like. Lunatics unlimited.’

The cursor was blinking; letters flickered into a line. Hetty drew up a chair. ‘What’s this guy asking – what size shoe you wear?’

‘He’s from Basingstoke. I’ve told him five and a half, and he says that’s too small.’

‘Maybe he’s a chiropodist.’

Rosa blew a raspberry. Hetty tried again. ‘Or a foot fetishist.’

‘Usually, that sort prefer
small
feet. Toes like nipples. Little toe like a clit, as one of my lovers once said. That’s why they like to suck them. I think this geezer wants a tall partner, and doesn’t like to come out with it.’

‘Why not? He can’t see you. You could lie, Rosa.’

‘If he were tall himself, he’d say so. That means he isn’t. And I don’t fancy a dinky guy who wants a big lass with boobs that can bob about on the top of his head. Maybe he’s so petite he just wants to burrow his noddle inside my – what the hell? Let’s tell him to push off, and we’ll try another.’

Hetty was amazed. She did not have a computer, though she was accustomed to using one in Dorset. For the time being, she had no need: letters could be written by hand, and phone calls sufficed for most purposes. She also feared getting lost on a global network and running up vast phone bills. Rosa, however, was a competent surfer.

‘Here’s one! Look.’

The screen said, ‘Hello there. Are you shapely? Beautiful? Looking for a new man? Tell me truthfully. How old are you?’

Rosa tapped in, ‘I’m Rosa. I’m five foot five, nine stone, and in my adorable forties.’

‘That
is
a lie,’ hissed Hetty. Rosa hushed her.

‘Perfect. My name’s Ian. I live in Watford. What would you say to a slim, handsome 28-year-old who’s into older women?’

‘I’d say, keep talking, Ian. Tell me about yourself.’

‘I can see you. You’re fabulous. I’d like to put my big cock into your cunt right now. It’s huge. I’ve got it right here in my hand. Are you juicy?’

Rosa and Hetty squealed and clutched each other. Hetty’s chair threatened to collapse. It was several moments before they could stop shrieking with laughter, wipe their eyes and whisper to each other.

‘Oh, sod him,’ said Rosa. She tapped in, ‘What’ s the matter with you? What a rotten way to say hello to a respectable lady you’ve never met. Can’t you do better than that?’

There was a pause. Then came, ‘That’s the nicest response I’ve ever had. Sorry. SORRY. Can we start again?’

Her mother was elated. ‘Are you sure
Star Style
want me?’

Hetty decided to be diplomatic. She was unsure how her mother might take her substitution for Sally. ‘You know how vague these things are. Nothing’s fixed. But if it does go ahead, then we make the programme in Wandsworth. It takes less than an hour – it’s made as broadcast, virtually. And you get to keep the outfit.’

‘I’ve seen the show on TV. But they won’t try to make idiots of us, will they?’

‘As far as I can tell, it’s entirely above board. And if anyone’s going to end up a fright, it’ll be me. You’ll be the picture of elegance.’

‘Thank you, dear.’ Hetty’s mother was nothing if not gracious. However, a
coup de grâce
was not beyond her. ‘When is it? Not for a couple of months, I suppose?’

‘That’s about right. I can tell you nearer the date.’

‘Oh, splendid. And that gives you a bit of time too, Hetty dear.’

‘Time for what?’

‘To lose some weight. You want to be at your best, don’t you?’

The smiling, slim woman in the narrow leg trousers and cropped top pointed at Hetty. ‘And why are you here?’

Hetty took a deep breath. ‘Because everyone I know thinks I should be chasing men,
and that it’d be a lot easier if I shed a stone. Or two.’

Titters ran round the room. The massive woman to Hetty’s left clapped her hands together: her billowing thighs wobbled in unison.

It had taken more than two hours of pleading with herself, sitting on the bed in an unlit room as the dusk gathered, before Hetty had plucked up enough courage. The slimming club was in a local community hall. She knew the location: she passed it every day on her way to the bus stop. It was unthreatening, ordinary, inoffensive. The moments had ticked by as she sat frozen. Why was it such a struggle? Why couldn’t she simply shrug, reach for her jacket, and march out into the night to the club? What battle was going on inside her that made her legs so leaden, and forced her instead to enter the kitchen and raid the fridge?

The confrontation with the mirror had become a daily event. Her resentment at being categorised on her appearance was real and sound, but infuriatingly irrelevant. It might have been acceptable had she aimed at earning her living as an academic, say, or in circumstances where homeliness was a virtue: for example, working with small children. And she wasn’t gross, just pleasantly plump. But in the television world it was a disadvantage. Not that Hetty planned to perform in front of the camera, but at the studios she was surrounded by beautifully dressed girls skinny as beanpoles, who did have such aspirations. The male presenter had a habit of not so much looking through her as
round
her. She was in danger of becoming a non-person.

But there was more to it. The word ‘victim’ floated into her brain. Victim of what? Of the world’s superficiality? Of the sardonic, dismissive glances that came in her direction, that took in the spreading hips and sagging jawline, and relegated her to the lower depths of whatever hierarchical system they had in mind?

Victim of her own stupidity. Of self-indulgence. Of a yearning for an easy way, when there was none. Self-pity oozed invitingly like an old scab asking to be scratched, and begged to be soothed with a Danish pastry. The results produced more self-pity. It was a vicious circle that ended up weighing two stones or more, then sat like a retread tyre slung round her middle.

She did not have to be a victim. It was up to her.

‘I have to take back control of my life,’ Hetty added quietly, but the instructor’s questing finger had moved on.

The community hall suffered from a lack of finance, but was in constant use. The parquet floor was dusty and broken in places. The blackout curtains had not been renewed since the war and not cleaned, at a guess, for decades. The chairs Hetty recognised from her youth: tubular steel with frayed canvas seats and backs, and loose screws at the edges to catch unwary legs and fingers. They smelt musty. But the walls were alive with children’s paintings from the nursery and playgroup: Ailsa and Ibrahim had been busy in the park, Sonali and Karim’s offerings of buses and cars were wildly exuberant. Along one wall danced a cheerful alphabet, each letter illustrated with an animal or household object, so that a smiling Cat chased a nappied Baby, a Giraffe galloped before a Hand, a Sock and a Teapot were gaily intertwined. The celebration of childhood lifted Hetty’s spirits as she had waited in line to join. She clung to that feeling as she read the club’s booklets, and tried to concentrate.

The hall was full. This club was popular, with over a hundred in attendance each Monday evening. Ten minutes after the time the club was supposed to start Hetty had
tentatively crept through the door, to be greeted by a barrage of chattering voices. Mostly women, of every shape and size, some vast, some black, many young, a few older than herself. A select few, slim and smug, flaunted gold cards, proof of success. The two men present sucked in beer bellies, examined their record cards with hopeful expressions and did not stay for the pep talk. Nobody took much notice of her; established members were comparing their week, congratulating each other on pounds lost, ruefully or with outbursts of hilarity. As Hetty watched, one woman jumped off the scales with a delighted squeal and hugged the instructor.

‘It’d be nice,’ Hetty ventured to her obese neighbour, ‘if we could do this by ourselves. Stay under control without help.’

The woman was in her fifties and must have weighed twenty stone. Her immense bulk, spread across two chairs pushed together, had a liquid quality as if held together only by the envelope of her skin. A husky chuckle heaved from the depths of a multiple hairy chin. ‘I put it on in company, and I’m getting it off in company. Take me another year at least. But it’s shifting, thank God.’

‘How much have you got to lose?’ Hetty asked in awe.

‘’Bout ten stone more,’ wheezed the woman affably. ‘Lost three already. It’s going at about three pounds a week at the moment. Later on it’ll slow down. But by then I’ll be able to walk a bit, and we’ll get a dog.’

‘Doesn’t it make you slightly cross,’ Hetty ventured, ‘that we’re judged so much by our appearance in modern society?’

The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘If I cared how I look, I wouldn’t look like this, dear.’

Hetty was abashed. The woman patted her knee. ‘Doctor told me I had three months to live. I ran a chip shop and used to demolish five fish-and-chip meals a day, mega portions, plus hamburgers, saveloys, the lot – they called me the Human Shovel. Tried every quack cure – mouth wired, my stomach stapled. I’d lose some, it’d go back on again. Heavier each time. Then Marge stopped me in the street.’ She indicated the instructor, who was speaking to a squat Asian woman in a sari. ‘She said she’d been almost as big as me once, and she could help me. No potions, no hospitals. So I upped and sold the business. And here I am.’

Hetty was silent. By contrast, her own agonising seemed pathetic. She examined the instructor from a distance, then realised with a jolt that the nearby blown-up photo of a barrel-like woman in a flowered print tent must be the same individual.

‘Oh, no. Hetty?’ A young voice groaned behind her. It was Annabel, in black, her clothes still too tight for her, with her usual mournful air. ‘What are you doing here?’ she continued as she plonked down hard on a vacant chair, which sagged alarmingly. ‘You don’t need to slim.’

‘I do,’ said Hetty firmly, with missionary zeal. ‘It’s going to take me ages. Then I intend to keep it off. I have a choice. Do I want to be a middle-aged frump, past it, or a vibrant single woman starting out afresh?’