Chasing Men (16 page)

‘Right. Fine,’ he continued uncertainly.

‘So what exactly were you and Davinia thinking, Larry?’

‘About you. How are you getting on?’

‘Great. I’ve just been on a bike ride. I need a bath.’

‘A bike ride? What – on your own?’

‘On my bike, Larry.’

‘Yes – er, I see. Well, look. What we thought was this. You shouldn’t be on your own. It’s not right.’

Hetty sighed audibly but did not answer.

‘See?’ Larry had apparently taken the sigh as forlorn agreement. His tone became eager. ‘We want to try and help you, sis. So we’re at last organising that dinner party we promised. Sorry it’s taken so long, but you understand …’

‘Did you give my phone number to James Dolland?’

Larry snickered. ‘That guy we were at school with? We met up at a client’s and got talking about you. He used to be quite keen, he said.’

‘I can’t remember him at all,’ Hetty said, crossly. Her muscles were starting to stiffen. ‘Please, Larry, I’m sure you mean well, but I’d rather you didn’t hand out my number
willy-nilly
. Even if he was passable as a schoolboy, who knows what he’s like now?’

‘
I
know,’ said Larry triumphantly. ‘He’s in good shape, honest. I wouldn’t pick a turkey for my own sister, now, would I?’

Hetty stopped herself giving a tart reply.

Larry continued, ‘Anyway, we’re going to arrange this dinner party for you. James has already said he’ll come. How about…’

Several minutes’ negotiation ensued, until Hetty ran out of excuses. A date was fixed. Ten minutes later she was up to her nose in perfumed bubbles and watching the mud of the ride floating off as planned, but the atmosphere had been soured.

Who was James? She could not put a face to him, nor had his voice, brief on the answerphone, rung bells. He had called only once, and she had not called back, though some instinct told her she ought to. She was not entirely hostile to the man. About him, indeed, she had no feelings whatsoever. It was the manner in which the contact had been made that was depressing.

‘You ought to be grateful.’ The trenchant, supercilious voice was hovering over her navel. It was her own, that infuriating
alter ego
that had tormented her into both cycling and the slimming club. Hetty groaned, and sank lower into the tub.

‘Here are your friends and family, concerned about your welfare, trying to ensure that
you aren’t condemned to a lifetime of solitary misery.’

‘That’s not what they’re up to,’ Hetty retorted. ‘And I am not lonely, or at least not often. The tears at yesterday’s breakfast were a blip.’

‘You should be delighted that they’re flinging desirable male company at you,’ the voice lilted, menacingly.

‘I don’t need it.’

‘You sure?’

Hetty considered, tossing the flannel from hand to hand. The very idea of her family as matchmakers was excruciating. If she were to make progress, she would rather do it at her own pace, and under her own control.

The voice wheedled, ‘At least you’ll acknowledge that your brother means well?’

‘Him?’ Hetty snorted. ‘I doubt it. He never means well, pure and simple. He doesn’t like anything untidy. He hates it if anything unexpected breaks cover in case it’ll bite him. My unusual state – or, at least, Larry and Davinia’d regard it as unusual – would niggle at him till he had to do something. I’m in a defective condition. He sees it as his familial duty to put me right.’

‘Hetty, you need all the help you can get.’

‘Do I? The term “control freak” could have been invented for Larry. He and Davinia are bad news. They’re militant marrieds, though they’ve never gone near an altar.’

‘Ah, loving coupledom. They’ve been together ages. You’re not knocking it now?’

‘Not at all. But I’d love ’em more if it wasn’t so blatant. Their version – their unmarried state – is just a fad. They’re slaves to the
mores
of Fulham and Chelsea. It’s
far
smarter for Larry to introduce Davinia as “my partner” than as “my wife”.’

‘Perhaps they’d claim that a piece of paper, or vows in church, don’t make a marriage,’ opined the voice unctuously.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Hetty muttered. ‘As and when their circle of friends head for legality, they will too. Avoid the stampede? Not join the uncommon herd? You’ve got to be joking. They won’t be the first but they would never be the last.’

Hetty brooded as the water began to cool. What Larry and Davinia couldn’t cope with was any notion that their fashion-driven lifestyle wasn’t for everybody. Since they saw their choices as both necessary and sufficient for success, so must everyone else, and it followed that alternatives implied failure.

‘I am not a failure!’ Hetty told the bathroom ceiling fiercely. ‘And I won’t have my prat of a brother telling me so. Damn his eyeballs.’

Her toes, pale and white-nailed, wiggled their agreement at the far end of the tub; the mountains of her knees and her hilly breasts wallowed in sympathy. The bump of her belly disappeared when she sucked it in, the water swishing merrily into the hollow. It was like a new landscape, one entirely private, about to be invaded by her brother, trailing in his wake potential lovers, men whom
he
regarded as suitable.

Invaders were to be repelled. Hetty skimmed the soap into the sudsy water by her feet and made a splash, like the puff of smoke after an explosion. It was heartily satisfying. She giggled, retrieved the slippery missile and threw again. Who was to object? Soon the floor was awash with foam and puddles, and her hair was soaked.

She heaved herself from the water and reached for a towel. Two towels, then four,
warm and cosy from the heated rail. The sodden bathroom could take care of itself. Swaddled like a Roman, she stumbled into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge. Outside it had begun to rain, and she was hungry.

Till Larry had phoned she had been at ease. The best defence to his onslaught, however, was obvious. She would go to their precious dinner party dressed to the nines, elegant and feminine with ‘happy’ written on her face. She would flirt with James and any other man present, as might be expected of a single woman in her position – her
unfortunate
position. She would allow herself to be patronised by her brother and sister-in-law, and try to be good company.

And she would keep her temper, and her own counsel.

It was not till a while later that Hetty rediscovered the cardboard box under the helmet and gloves; not till she had dressed, finished the wine and was drowsy and content.

Who might have put it there? Somebody who knew her address, certainly. The ribbon suggested it was a gift, of sorts. Not chocolates: the box was too utilitarian. She shook it experimentally and heard a clinking noise. Metal? Electrical? What could it be? 

Inside was tissue paper and an illustrated card. Hetty began to laugh.

New stock for Valentine’s. Thought you might like a free sample.

I put batteries in. Enjoy yourself. Doris.

The glossy leaflet dubbed it the ‘Passion Orgasm Kit’. Hetty gingerly picked up the translucent bobbled, ribbed and spiky attachments, then pressed the switch and rubbed the multi-speed pink gadget experimentally against her arm. It made her skin tingle. ‘Seven and a half inches,’ she murmured, glancing at the leaflet. ‘Now, Doris, are we being pessimistic, or isn’t that a bit
small
?’

Clarissa’s voice sounded odd. So did her request. ‘I need some moral support. Be a pal, Hetty.’

Hetty pulled a cushion off the sofa on to the floor and sat on it, her legs tucked under her, the phone cradled in her lap. The attempts at slimming seemed to be working, but at the end of a busy day left her weary. She was not sure what reservoir of energy remained to cope with Clarissa’s moral needs, whatever they might be.

‘I can’t do it alone. The thought fills me with panic,’ Clarissa continued, in a wail.

A great yearning came upon Hetty to put the call on hold and retrieve a hidden packet of chocolate digestives. She gritted her teeth. ‘I’m listening.’

‘You know that big modern building near you? Further down your road. Swallow House, it’s called.’

‘Yes – a posh old people’s home, isn’t it? I’ve walked past.’

‘Very posh. Better carpeting than I can afford. And they keep it so hot! Their heating bill …’

‘Clarissa. What has their heating bill got to do with your moral dilemma? You don’t have to pay it, do you?’

‘What? Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. My aunt, Auntie Millie, my father’s sister. Widowed twenty years ago. She had a mild stroke recently and decided to give up the house in St John’s Wood.’

‘I see,’ said Hetty, who didn’t quite. An image of the biscuit, the chocolate melting temptingly, shimmered in the air before her lips. She swatted it away.

‘She’s taken herself off to live in Swallow House. It was the only place – she was adamant. Robin and I help with the fees. So the hotter it is, the twitchier I get. It’s understandable,’ said Clarissa grumpily. ‘She’s a nice old dear, quite civilised. Doesn’t ask for much and talks sense when she wants to. I try to keep her sweet.’

‘And that means?’ Hetty was beginning to guess.

‘Oh, Hetty, I find it so tough going on my own. Not that the home is smelly or disgusting. It isn’t – it’s more like a five-star hotel. But all those old people! They’re like dodgems with their wheelchairs – and those steel things they push around, like mobile crash barriers …’

‘Zimmer frames?’

‘Yes. And they make me shiver – age spots and turkey skin and scrawny ankles.’

‘You are being unkind. We’ll all be like that one day,’ said Hetty severely.

‘Exactly. I can’t bear it. Vacant mad eyes. And death everywhere, lurking round every corner.’

‘But your aunt isn’t dotty, is she? You said she was nice.’

‘It’s the others. The whole atmosphere. Gives me the creeps. Last time it was as much as I could do to stay half an hour. Auntie Millie was most put out. She’s hinted since that if I don’t visit properly, she’ll come back from the other side and haunt me. She’s into astrology and I believe her. Please, Hetty.’

‘You want me to go with you?’

‘Would you? You are a darling. Oh, Hetty, you’ve saved my bacon. When?’

‘I was rather wondering,’ Father Roger twinkled at her, ‘whether your attendance at the carol concert and your lusty singing might be more than a flash in the pan, Hetty.’

You are an incorrigible rogue, Hetty said to herself. In another incarnation you were a medieval barrow boy, or a ticket tout for Shakespeare’s Globe. You’re a salesman at heart, even if you’re selling salvation. Or the hope of it. ‘Roger, you could sell fire extinguishers to the devil,’ she replied, with a smile.

‘I’m to take that as a compliment, I suppose.’ The priest laughed. ‘But you haven’t answered me. You have the makings of a splendid choir member. Given that our Anglican congregations are becoming ever more ancient and decrepit, rather like our church fabric, the quicker you accept your fate and come the better.’

‘I’m not sure. I may occasionally. But more for sentimental reasons rather than out of belief. I don’t feel any great sense of commitment.’

Father Roger tucked his hands inside his voluminous black sleeves and rolled his eyes in mock horror. ‘Commitment? Stuff and nonsense. Come because you enjoy it.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to say something like, “Christ was committed enough for you, it’s the least you can do in return”?’ Hetty chided gently.

‘No.’ Father Roger shook his head vigorously.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it puts people off, that’s why not. It’s preaching. I
loathe
preachers.’

They were standing at the side of the set while Dave the sound man fixed the small clip microphones on to the clothing of the next pair of guests, a brash young couple. The man, Gary, wore white jeans and an Arsenal top, the girl a low-cut tight sweater and a miniskirt, and silky black hair down to her waist. Their swagger showed they knew their good looks; their motive for participating must be their almost tangible vanity.

A great deal of giggling ensued as the girl was required to push the clip up under the sweater. Hetty reckoned, from what she could see, that the proprieties were being observed, but the girl squealed provocatively. Her boyfriend sat back on his rump, legs splayed wide before him, and encouraged her by uttering mild threats at the sweating Dave. Job done, Dave retreated, red-faced and muttering.

‘Now there’s commitment for you.’ Father Roger nodded towards the young man. ‘Says he loves Arsenal more than anything – more than his girl, more than his job.’

‘They’re a fine pair,’ Hetty agreed. ‘They deserve each other.’

‘Quiet, please. We’re rolling,’ called Bob, the floor manager. He waved Father Roger to his seat on set. ‘And, remember, this is
family
viewing.’

In a moment Gary was pouting archly at the presenter. ‘It’s like this, see,’ he was explaining. ‘I’m in trouble with Darleen here. I do love her, and she knows it, but I love my Arsenal more than anyfink. An’ they’ll be playing a cup-tie in Amsterdam the weekend it’s her birthday. And she wants me to take her to Paris instead. An’ I can’t, I can’t.’

‘Could I ask,’ Father Roger leaned forward, his body language almost as macho as Gary’s, ‘what is to stop you going to Amsterdam on the Saturday night with your mates, and then joining Darleen in Paris on the Sunday for her birthday?’

‘Nah, I’d be smashed,’ said Gary.

Darleen nodded energetically. ‘Anyway,’ she sniffed, ‘that wouldn’t prove he loves me, would it? An’ he wouldn’t turn up. I could take myself off to Paris an’ spend all that money, and I’d be sitting at a restaurant on me tod till it was time to head home. No thanks.’

‘How is it at home?’ asked the other panellist, a soap actress of no great brain.

‘Well, bit weird, really,’ the girl admitted. ‘See, my half of the bedroom’s normal. His is in the Arsenal colours. An’ the bedspread, his half. All over.’

‘What, red-and-white striped wallpaper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Carpet?’

‘Yes. He used carpet squares. Done ’em quite fetching.’

‘But, see,’ the fan broke in, his face serious, ‘I couldn’t cope wiv
her
taste, could I? I mean, a pink fluffy bedspread and thick pink shag pile an’ flock wallpaper. Stuffed toy animals. So she has her half the way she likes it, and I have mine.’

‘And do you have Arsenal posters up?’

‘Yeah, but she’s got Robbie Williams. Or rather, she
had
. Opening his flies. I said I’d leave unless she took that down.’

‘I understand entirely.’ Father Roger oozed synthetic sympathy. ‘A strict demarcation line. And you live the whole of your lives like that, do you? How long have you been together?’

‘Five years,’ the two said proudly, in unison. They held hands and gazed fondly at each other. He flexed his thighs and rose slightly in his chair, sucking air into his nose like a gorilla on heat. She tossed the silky black mane back from her face and dimpled.

The soap star, whose spectacular but speedy amours, usually with other women’s husbands, often featured in the tabloids, sighed romantically. ‘Do you see yourselves staying together, having children, maybe?’

‘Oooh, yeah,’ the girl said, and snickered. She tugged his hand. ‘An’ you do too, Gary. You’ve said so.’

‘Only if they’re boys,’ her boyfriend said stoutly. ‘Then I can take them to watch Arsenal.’

‘Oh, you are a bleedin’ horror,’ the girl yelped. ‘An’ what about my bleedin’ birthday, then?’

A screech came from Bob, the floor manager. ‘I said family viewing.
Cut
. Can we do that again?’

The recording finished almost on schedule. Though the football fan and his girlfriend caused much grief before their piece was acceptable, the pallid teenager who featured in the second half of the show was given short shrift. He had been put in charge of a girlfriend’s cat while the friend was on holiday. She was due back the following week. The cat wandered, as cats will, and had been run over and killed. Should he come clean and tell her, or buy a new cat and hope the hapless owner could not tell the difference?

The soap star, it turned out, was a feline fanatic. The owner would
know
, instantly, and be devastated. Her solution was for the youth to meet the girl at the airport with a contrite expression and a box under his arm. And a tiny winsome kitten inside the box.

‘Right, that’s a wrap,’ said Bob with a grateful sigh. ‘Same time tomorrow, boys and girls. Thank you all.’

Father Roger lingered with members of the audience. He was handing out cards with pictures of St Veronica’s inset with a photograph of himself and signing autographs. Hetty watched him as she shooed people out.

He caught her eye, winked, then excused himself and came back to her. ‘You don’t approve,’ he said.

‘It’s only –’ Hetty stopped. ‘You’re a rum sort of priest, Roger. Do you ever stop working?’

He considered. ‘No. But then I love what I do.’

‘A calling.’

‘Ye-e-es. I certainly felt called when I was a young man. Can get wearisome sometimes, when parishioners roll up in numbers with their disasters – real-life ones, not the minor stupidities we’ve had today. Confession is the penance of High Church ministers. After dealing with half a dozen impending broken marriages in one evening, I do feel a little drained.’

‘When do you do confession?’

‘Mondays and Wednesdays. After choir practice. Too often at the moment it’s members of the choir. They tend to assume they can sleep with each other with impunity, that their misbehaviour is somehow Teflon-coated, simply because they met in church. I tell them it won’t wash in a divorce court and they must make up their minds. Awful!’

Though he was shaking his head with a twinkle in his eye, Hetty sensed that he was more deeply upset by such adulteries than he might admit. ‘And you’re inviting me, a single divorced woman, to join in?’ she countered wryly. ‘Don’t worry. If I do come, I’ll leave the surplices alone. But it sounds, Roger, as if you need a break. What do you do when you’re free?’

‘Sleep. Read. Eat.’

Hetty wondered what made her ask the next question. She had not planned it. A priest had never figured in her potential list of companions. Nor, even in fantasy, as a possible lover. He was a celibate by choice; she was not about to challenge that. Perhaps that was why he intrigued her. She noted that he had not said, ‘Pray.’ That fitted with his generally secular approach to the programme as well.

‘D’you ever go to the theatre? I get tickets quite often. One of my neighbours is an actor. Might you like to?’

A fleeting wistfulness crossed his face. He opened his mouth as if to refuse, then chuckled. ‘What a lovely idea,’ he said. ‘Nothing frivolous, mind. Since you don’t plan to become a regular attender
yet
, I can say I’m still trying to persuade you.’

She should not make assumptions. ‘I can always get an extra ticket, if there’s somebody – ah, a special friend – you’d like to bring along too.’

He drew himself up. ‘I am wedded to Mother Church. At least, in theory. A kind offer, but no, no one skulks in the shadows. Though the diocese is threatening me with a curate, God help me. They say a helper will take the burden off my shoulders. Add to it, more like.’

‘Male or female?’

The priest crossed himself. ‘I am in their hands. I’ll resist to the last minute. I don’t care what goes on under the cassock, Hetty. It’s the prospect of having another human being endlessly at my side, whimpering and pinching my elbow, that puts me off. At least now, when the grumblers have gone, I can sit and enjoy my solitude.’

‘The job’s getting to you. A night on the town will do you good.’

‘Dear girl, you’re on.’

They chose a Friday afternoon, when
Tell Me All
finished early. Clarissa crashed the gears and swung the Volvo back into the street as Hetty fumbled for the seatbelt.

‘I have insisted to Robin that the next car must be automatic,’ Clarissa grunted. ‘Cheaper in the long run – I’ve wrecked three clutches. Now, how
are
you?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘No more drunken orgies, I hope?’

‘It wasn’t an orgy, Clarissa. It was a house-warming. And it was months ago already.’

‘It sounded to me,’ Clarissa disapproved, ‘as if you have some strange neighbours. I should be very cautious.’

‘Unconventional. Not what I was used to, I grant you. But fun.’

‘Huh! Flotsam and jetsam. Nothings and nobodies. Hetty, darling, you can do better than that. Now what else have you been up to?’

‘I joined a slimming club. Bought a bike.’

‘God! Whatever for?’

‘To try and keep fit, to get me to work quicker.’

‘You’ll arrive looking a fright, and you’ll get killed. Can’t you afford a car?’

‘I can, just, but I don’t want to. Anyway, parking round here’s a nightmare.’

‘You’re mad. And you’re getting madder. How can you possibly manage without a car? Come to that, what about the other necessities of life?’

‘Such as?’ Hetty had found the seatbelt clasp at last and snapped it closed as Clarissa slammed on the brakes at a zebra crossing. They rocked forward.

Two harassed mothers with pushchairs and toddlers straggled over the crossing. Both women were pregnant. Clarissa pointed. ‘What they’ve got that you haven’t? A man and a home. Have you found yourself another chap yet?’