Chasing Men (17 page)

‘What?’

‘Another man. Have you got yourself fixed up? A boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Aren’t you trying?’

‘A bit.’ Hetty briefly described the episode with the adverts. ‘I’m not their type, I guess. They see me in fishnet tights and high heels, or else they only want to chat on the phone. Or they offer nothing but a cup of tea. Maybe when I’ve got trim my talent-spotting will improve.’

‘I hope so. It’s been ages, Hetty.’

‘But I’m perfectly content as I am.’ She said it defensively, but as the words came out she realised it was not altogether a lie.

‘Oh, rot. You
say
that, but you can’t possibly be.’

‘
Why
can’t I?’ A hint of rebellion entered her tone.

‘Because men are essential. We’re sociable animals, Hetty. We mate, we’re bred to live in pairs. You’ll go barmy, or strange, without a chap in tow.’

‘I went a little strange when I had one,’ Hetty ruminated. ‘I lost my identity completely. These days I occupy much of my time finding out who Hetty is, and what she is capable of.’

Clarissa sniffed. ‘Spare me. I know what you need, and so do you. Here we are.’

Clarissa was right about the home at least. Deep-pile Wilton in lilac welcomed their feet with an eerie sponginess. Hot air and neon hit them as the automatic doors slid open, as if they had entered a hermetically sealed netherworld. Muzak – a version of Bach, or was it Burt Bacharach? – caressed their ears.

A tiny old lady in a cream trouser suit scurried up to them, a clipboard on her arm. ‘Visitors! Hello. Who are you looking for? I can take you there. This place is such a rabbit warren. We like to make everybody welcome. Tea is at three thirty in the coffee shop to the right on this floor. Our sale of work starts on Friday, in the annexe. The Mayor is coming – isn’t that wonderful?’ She paused for breath, her eyes wide and anxious.

‘Millie Curtis, please. Can I ring her room?’ Clarissa had a terrified expression and reached behind her for Hetty’s hand.

‘Millie? No, she won’t be in her room. I shouldn’t try there. I saw her ten minutes ago, heading for the library on the second floor. She’ll be going to the book club. Take the lift – to your right, then left …’

They followed instructions. As the greeter’s voice hallooed after them, ‘Have a nice day,’ Hetty could feel Clarissa shudder.

‘It’s something else, this home,’ said Hetty warmly, in an effort to cheer up her friend. Both had removed their coats and were carrying them over their arms, along with the bottle of Bristol Cream and a bunch of spring flowers that Clarissa had brought. ‘Is it as superb as this only on the ground floor, or is the rest equally luxurious?’

‘Like a stick of rock. The same right through, except the top floor is even hotter,’ Clarissa answered grimly. They found the lift, pressed the button and were transported silently and sedately to their destination.

It took a few moments to locate the library. From inside came a babble of voices, then a shriek. ‘Well, I hated it! Hated it, I tell you! Boring as hell. Nobody lives like that.’

‘
You
didn’t like it because there was no sex.’

‘Precisely. What’s the point of describing adultery and broken promises and such – the plot was fine, I grant you – if the action stops at the bedroom door?’

‘You are beyond redemption. You’d rather have those sleazy parliamentary novels. Plenty of red meat for you in those.’

The speakers were seated at opposite ends of a large table in the middle of a room lined with filled bookshelves. One was a bosomy body in a tweed suit, her left hand adorned with rings, the other ringless, stick-thin and reedy, as if the faintest wind would blow her over. Hetty learned later that these were respectively Phyllis and Moira, both in their eighties, retired headmistresses of rival girls’ schools. Phyllis, the tubby one, was the fan of explicit fiction; the writer under discussion, Hetty saw, was Maeve Binchy.

As Clarissa flinched in the presence of so much aged flesh, Hetty gazed about. Every
one of the ten or so residents present wore spectacles; two were also using magnifying glasses. One old lady was bent double with a dowager’s hump. Her nose almost touched the tablecloth, but her expression was alert and interested. Two participants, a grey-haired man with a patrician manner and a short, shapeless woman in a Crimplene dress, were in wheelchairs. The two other men present were shrinking before the machine-gun onslaught of the teachers. The table with its white cloth and china crockery was set for tea.

‘Millie?’ Clarissa asked uncertainly.

A rangy individual in the far corner perked up. She wore what was evidently a Chanel suit in dark red and a great deal of shiny jewellery. ‘Clarissa! You’ve come. Lovely. Everybody, this is my niece. And you’ve brought sherry! Quick, Phyllis, phone the kitchen for some glasses. How
delightful
. And your friend – who is this, dear?’

Introductions were made as the tea trolley arrived laden with fruit-cake and sticky pastries, pushed by a rotund black woman with a huge smile. The glasses were soon filled and refilled. The conversation became noisier and more animated. Space was made for Clarissa near her aunt, and for Hetty beside the old gentleman in a wheelchair.

‘I’m Hetty,’ she addressed him. He was sitting bolt upright, silvery hair framing a still handsome face with a square jaw and beetling eyebrows. The hair was cut long so that it touched his shoulders and, with the bottle-green velvet jacket and bow-tie, gave him a Bohemian appearance.

‘Professor Bernstein,’ he answered, and shook hands. His speech had a soft slur. No first name was offered.

Hetty helped him to tea and held the cake plate for him to choose. ‘Professor of what?’

‘Fine art. Slade. London University,’ he said. He pointed at her empty plate. ‘Not eating?’

‘I’m dieting. Or trying to.’

He tipped his head back and examined her frankly, up and down. His brown eyes were fierce under the brows. Hetty crossed her legs, uncomfortable at his scrutiny.

‘You have a Rubenesque figure. Womanly. Don’t lose it. You would make a splendid life model. Most women these days are too thin.’

‘Er, yes. Thank you,’ said Hetty. Tell me about the club, Professor. When does it meet?’

‘Last Friday in each month. We choose an author. Usually by a process of the lowest common denominator. I suggested the Hilary Spurling biography of Matisse but nobody was interested. Maeve Binchy is not my cup of tea, either, I’m afraid. But, then, neither was Jeffrey Archer.’ He half closed his eyes and sighed.

‘Do you do the classics?’

‘We do anything Phyllis and I can persuade them to do,’ the Professor replied. ‘We make endless deals. They can have Deborah Moggach next month, for example, provided that after that it’s Michael Wood on Alexander. I have the video of him, which is a great incentive – some of them prefer to read their books on TV. More politicking goes on in this room every month than in the Doge’s palace.’

He opened his eyes again and stared at her, as if suddenly aware of her presence. ‘What are you reading right now?’

‘
Pride and Prejudice
,’ she answered instantly. And I’ve got the video, too.’

He laughed then, a sweet, sad sound, as if he did not laugh often. ‘You remind me of my wife,’ he added, but did not elaborate.

Hetty glanced around. The room was full of chattering noisy residents, most of them disabled, each in need of assistance for the most personal and intimate functions. Yet they were arguing convincingly and to the point, managing at the same time to cram in enough tea, sandwiches and home-made cakes to put a school cricket team to shame. Clarissa was the only person present who, jammed up against her aunt (who was ignoring her) and Phyllis (who was slamming
The Glass Lake
down furiously on the table, as if she wished to brain someone with it), seemed ill at ease.

Hetty found herself smiling, and turned again to the Professor. ‘They seem happy,’ she remarked.

‘That’s deceptive. Not one soul would be here if they had the choice. But we haven’t. Take me. I had a stroke. Would I truly prefer to spend my last days with people I’ve never met before, whose tastes and ideas may be a million light years from my own? But I can’t manage in a normal house any more, so here I am.’

Hetty hesitated, then decided to be nosy. ‘What about your family?’

‘I’m a widower. I have one daughter. She married against my wishes, and we are not close.’ The old man’s mouth clamped tight shut and he stared ahead of him.

It was safer to return to generalities. Hetty gestured discreetly at the lively room. ‘This is not quite what I anticipated when I said I’d tag along with Clarissa,’ she observed. ‘I reckon you’re being too hard on them, Professor. You could make new friends. They’re a bright lot. They still have their marbles.’

‘Don’t be so surprised at
that
. Senility is not the main scourge of ageing for most of us. One person in five over eighty goes peculiar, but the other four stay mentally competent. Jenny there, who is so bowed with osteoporosis, is ninety-two. She ran a multi-million-pound business and has buried three husbands. She writes poetry. Phyllis and Moira between them compile the home’s newsletter – far snappier than the
South London Press
. They pinch the crosswords from back copies of the
Times
. We get slower and more forgetful, maybe, but that’s all. Don’t patronise us, Hetty.’

‘I’m not. I’m correcting my own ignorance.’ It had to be a self-selected group; elsewhere, out of sight, must be many others whose grasp of reality had long vanished. Hetty wondered whether to apologise, then saw that the Professor was not angry. Emboldened, she tried another tack. ‘Do you get lots of visitors – former students and colleagues, perhaps?’

‘A few. I’m old, Hetty. So are they. They die. Or get so decrepit, like me, that they can’t visit either. I do use the phone a lot. And e-mail and the Internet are a blessing.’

A sudden vision of the Professor indulging in Rosa’s chat room came to Hetty’s mind. She dismissed it, but not before a naughty giggle escaped from her lips.

The Professor bridled. ‘What’s so funny?’

Hetty was about to demur, then explained in a low voice. The Professor chuckled. ‘I shall have to log on to that,’ he said.

A possibility was forming in Hetty’s mind. It might be dismissed out of hand but there was no harm in trying. ‘Professor,’ she said slowly, ‘this club is more fun than I’ve had for ages. I have some spare Friday afternoons. Suppose I came regularly? I’d love to learn more
about books, and maybe I could make myself useful, pushing wheelchairs, or whatever. It’s about time I did some volunteering. And maybe I could be your ally.’

‘In choosing authors?’

Hetty nodded.

‘An excellent notion. And afterwards, if you do that, you could come and have a glass of good wine with me before I go in for supper. I like you.’

The tea was being tidied away. Phyllis tapped her saucer with a spoon for attention. ‘Now, are we clear? Deborah Moggach next time, concentrating on
Close Relations
. We’ll set up the video, then we can compare the televised and printed versions.’

‘She pontificates as if she’s setting us all an essay,’ Hetty hissed to the Professor. It was his turn to nod, and half smile.

‘It’s horrible! It’s dirty! Three in a bed,’ protested Moira. ‘Where’s the literature in that?’

Jenny, bent almost in a semi-circle by her bowed spine, uncurled herself with great effort and glared at the scrawny spinster. ‘I had assumed,’ she said, in a startlingly resonant voice, ‘that we were all
grown-up
here.’

‘Hear, hear,’ came from round the room, and ‘Rather!’ and ‘Good for you, Jenny!’ The matter was settled, with Moira fluttering back into her seat abashed, Phyllis triumphant, the two silent old men somewhat flushed with anticipation, and Clarissa’s aunt asking in a loud squawk what had been decided.

Hetty rose and shook hands with the Professor as a porter came to take his chair. She left Clarissa with her aunt and went to find the volunteer organiser. It was soon arranged. In a trice a roomful of new acquaintances, people of whom she could make no pre-judgements but would have to take on their merits, had entered her world – or, rather, she had entered theirs.

The Professor in particular, with his vigour and intelligence, had intrigued her. And the way he had swept her up and down, as if sizing her up sexually. The idea was preposterous, but she did not feel disgusted. Instead, those dark eyes under the fierce brows had paid her a heady compliment, to which she was not immune.

When she got home the answerphone was blinking.

‘Hi, Hetty. Al here. I’m playing a gig near you this weekend – Brixton. Not as salubrious as New Year’s Eve, but they’re a great bunch. Don’t be put off by the neighbourhood – Brixton’s cool. Will you come? And party with us afterwards?’

Hetty took off her gloves and coat, and put the kettle on. Then she came back to the phone, picked up the handset and dialled. It was the first time she had responded quickly to one of Al’s calls. With relief she heard a recorded message: ‘Al here! I’m not far away, so leave a message, or try my mobile …’

‘Al,’ she said firmly. ‘This is Hetty. Please stop phoning me. I came to one of your gigs, but I don’t want to come to any more. Jazz isn’t for me, sorry. I don’t need it, don’t like it, and don’t want it. Forgive me. ’Bye.’

Hetty stood in front of the mirror, holding the blue cocktail dress from New Year's Eve. It would fit well now that she had lost a few pounds. ‘I absolutely don't want to go to Larry's party,' she said, as she zipped up the dress. ‘I am sick to death of pseudo-friends trying to push me around.'

Her reflection in the mirror frowned. You're being too hard on them,' it chided. ‘Davinia's not so bad. Better than him, in many ways.'

Hetty shrugged, perplexed, as she applied her lipstick. ‘She must be doing something right. This is the longest he's stayed with anybody.'

‘Or maybe,' her
alter ego
suggested cruelly, ‘he's getting too old to move on.'

Hetty clipped on her earrings and reached for her coat. ‘Thanks. I'll keep that by me, as my bigger,
older
brother tries to re-order my life. I do wish he wouldn't.'

‘Maybe he'll resist the temptation …'

‘Larry?
Larry
? You must be joking. Here we go …'

The long-promised, long-delayed dinner party for Hetty was to be mid-week at the house in Fulham. That required minicabs, but in turn that meant she could drink. With a determined air Hetty paid off the scruffy cab with its unshaven driver, picked her way through tightly parked Audis and BMWs, and rang the doorbell.

‘Hetty! Mwah, mwah!' It was Larry, in an open-necked navy shirt and too much Hugo Boss aftershave. He held her by the shoulders at arm's length. ‘It's yonks since we've seen you, sis. You're thinner. You okay?'

‘Yes, well, I've been trying to get the weight off,' said Hetty.

‘Weight is
very
ageing,' Larry agreed, as he led her into the narrow hall and took her coat. He patted his midriff. ‘Ought to lose a pound or two myself, eh?'

If the correct reply to that was ‘No, Larry, you're magnificent as you are,' Hetty was not about to oblige. The doorbell rang again. She waited patiently to be shown into the living room and offered some hospitality.

‘Aha! Nicholas!' Larry hooted the name as if it carried a spell. Hetty edged out of the firing line as a large camel overcoat was flung at the coathanger rack, and found herself at the top of steps leading into the warmth of the kitchen.

‘Hello, Davinia. Smells wonderful.' Hetty handed over the bottle of South African Shiraz, which was accepted without thanks and placed next to two other assorted bottles on the dresser. Larry and Davinia would not leave the wine selection to chance.

Davinia was bent over a bubbling pot, tasting and seasoning. She was a busty, handsome strawberry blonde with hair that normally swung about her ears, but was now fastened in an untidy topknot on top of her head. Since her neck was a little too thick, the style did not flatter her. Her manner was sub-Roedean overlaid with Sloane. ‘God! There's too much coriander in it! I told him not to be so heavy-handed.'

‘It'll be great, I'm sure. What is it?'

‘This? Only a soup. Carrot and coriander. Or supposed to be.
I
don't think carrot soup is such great shakes – I mean, we're not
peasants
– but it's dead easy and these days
everyone eats it. God, why do we give dinner parties? If you serve something classy, like oysters, half the guests turn up their noses and say they're kosher or organic or have an allergy. And you plan and plan, then somebody announces they've gone vegan.' She eyed Hetty with suspicion. ‘You haven't, have you?'

‘I eat most things. Especially
your
cooking, Davinia. Can I help?'

‘You could cut the bread.' Davinia waved at four French baguettes and a breadbasket. Hetty searched through drawers for a sharp knife and started to cut the loaves in rounds.

‘No! Not like that. So old-fashioned, Hetty. Split them down the middle, lengthwise.'

There was a distinct danger of being mistaken for the maid. Hetty sliced the loaves as instructed as Davinia banged and clattered. Then she wiped her hands on a tea towel, smoothed down her dress, and sidled out of the kitchen towards the living room.

‘I want you to meet Nicholas, Hetty. A colleague from work. Be sweet to him. Remember, this party is for you,' Larry hissed.

A tall man, dressed in a dark Armani suit, striped shirt and silk tie, held out his hand. ‘Hello. So you're the famous sister?'

Hetty nodded meekly. He was tanned and pleasant-looking, a glass of red wine in his hand. Then she blinked. ‘Don't I know you from somewhere?'

‘I don't think so …' Nicholas began. Then he stopped. His hand flew to his mouth. He leaned forward. ‘
Tell Me All
?' he asked in a low voice.

Hetty nodded. This was the same Nicholas with a well-paid job in the City, who dreamed of throwing it all up to become a writer. The Nicholas whom she had considered, fleetingly, as a potential partner for herself, but had never followed up. A failure of nerve, perhaps, or a perverse irritation with all those who were so insistent that she could not survive alone.

Larry was glancing quickly from one to the other. ‘You've met already?'

‘Kind of,' Hetty replied. She waited till Larry had scuttled away once more to answer the door. Then she turned her attention more fully to Nicholas, and noted that the description on the computer of a rugged-looking man with fair hair and brown eyes was accurate. He was –
nice
. ‘The programme you're in will be broadcast in a fortnight or so,' she told him. ‘Kate or one of the other researchers will contact you.'

‘And the day after I'll be famous, I suppose,' Nicholas murmured.

‘You'd be surprised how many people watch it.' Hetty was unclear whether this would reassure or worry him. ‘It might be wise to cover your back. At work, I mean. You did imply you were on the point of resigning.'

‘I'm in a bit of flux at present – that wasn't flannel. It's a secure income but, as I said on the programme, I have found myself so restless.' He smiled, a slow gentle smile, and seemed to gaze deep into her eyes.

Hetty felt herself become flustered. ‘Umm … Your employers might not take too kindly to that. At worst, you could find yourself out on your ear.'

Nicholas gulped half his wine, moodily. ‘Television – it's so immoral. Or do I mean amoral? I hoped I might get some in-depth analysis. But it's just entertainment, isn't it? The schedules dish up endless makeovers – people with problems, rooms, gardens, even pets. You claim to resolve their dilemmas, but it's illusory.'

‘It's what the viewers want. I shall be taking part in a makeover myself shortly,' she
told him, and outlined the theme of
Star Style
. ‘I must be crazy. I don't approve of us judging everyone on their appearance. There's illusion for you. And I share your distaste for the letdown afterwards.'

‘You do? Surely what happens afterwards, to your victims, is of no concern to you programme makers.'

‘I'm a mere researcher,' Hetty responded crisply. ‘And we do try to persuade participants to weigh the consequences. They never listen, of course. What about yourself, why did you agree to appear?'

‘It was Davinia, actually,' Nicholas said lightly. ‘She convinced me. I don't think she knew it was your series. But she said it'd do no harm. It'd make my boss realise I meant it. They'd see they need me. She says the most likely outcome is promotion.'

‘Oh, really?' Hetty could not help sounding waspish. Best to change the subject. ‘Have you known them long?'

‘Years.' Nicholas's glass was empty and he examined the dregs. Then he barked, ‘I say, you haven't got a drink. What would you like? Red? White?'

‘Same as you,' said Hetty, glad that someone had noticed at last. Nicholas marched off, seeming to know his way about.

A clatter in the hall announced Clarissa and Robin, and Hetty's mother, who had arrived on the doorstep at the same moment. Robin and Larry had kept in touch since college days. The table in the conservatory was set for eight, so that left only James Dolland still missing.

‘Darling!' Clarissa enfolded her in a bear-hug, then, as Larry had, examined Hetty from head to foot. ‘You're getting …'

‘Thinner, I hope,' Hetty forestalled her. ‘It's deliberate, so don't tell me I was perfect before. If anybody's going to make me over, I'd rather do it myself.'

Clarissa looked mystified, as Robin took their coats. ‘Don't forget what I said in the car. Larry explained when he rang. Tonight could be the start of a great adventure.'

‘Clarissa –' Hetty tried to protest, but Robin had returned: Robin, bluff, red-faced and exuberant, who put his arm round her and gave her a breath-crushing squeeze.

‘Hello, Hetty old girl. You surviving? Never mind, it won't be long.'

‘What won't be long?' Hetty felt herself begin to burn.

‘Oh,
you
know. Larry's told us. He feels so responsible for you. Couple of likely lads for you to check over tonight. Not one but two. Take your time. You gotta start somewhere.' And he gave her another gasping squeeze.

Hetty spluttered, but he and Clarissa had swept into the further reaches of the living room, where introductions were made with Nicholas. Hetty's mother emerged from the kitchen and gave her a kiss. ‘Dinner will be edible, if nothing else,' she announced to her daughter. ‘The tyranny of the committed cook! Come upstairs while I say hello to my grandsons.'

Hetty wondered privately why her mother had been invited, if the objective was as blatant a matchmaking – or meat market – as Robin implied. Perhaps she was an obvious adjunct at an event involving her two children. It would have required a decision, and not a pleasant one, to leave her out. Her mother's tact in not bringing an escort – in being
Mother
– was noteworthy, but not entirely plausible. Maybe she was in on the conspiracy as well.

The two women traipsed up six flights to the top storey. The house was badly organised, dark and cramped: bathrooms were not next to bedrooms, windows gave out on to blank walls, store cupboards spilled open with laundry cast higgledy-piggledy over the stairs. Not for the first time Hetty pondered the values of those who paid over half a million pounds for a property arranged on four minuscule floors with naught but an attic for the surly nanny and nowhere to park the Alfa Romeo.

A racket came from one of the bedrooms. Two small boys in the latest
Star Wars
pyjamas were hurling pillows at a television. They were surrounded by a dozen snack packs and Fanta bottles; crumbs littered the duvet. Behind them a computer screen flashed with repetitions of a game involving a great deal of kicking and slashing of opponents. This was the bedroom of the older boy, similar to his brother's next door.

‘Isn't that
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
?' Hetty asked, astonished. ‘Bit grown up for you – should you be watching it?'

‘Bang! Pow! Gotcha,' was the reply. Neither child acknowledged the visitors.

‘Say hello to your grandma,' Hetty suggested. ‘And your Auntie Hetty.'

‘Yeah! How many's that? I counted fourteen dead bodies,' one shock-haired infant challenged the other.

Hetty tried again, but it was apparent that in the children's world, adults intruded only if they were armed with pump-action shotguns and litres of fake blood. After several more attempts and anodyne remarks, the women crept back downstairs.

‘Yours were better behaved, even at that age,' was Peggy's comment.

‘It's unacceptable,' said Hetty. ‘What kind of kids are we producing?'

‘I blame television,' said her mother knowingly. Hetty bit her lip.

It was possible that James had appeared in their absence: Hetty was in no hurry to find out. ‘How's the Colonel? Still going strong?'

‘Still asleep, more like,' was her parent's answer. Peggy, as elegantly dressed as ever, straightened and rubbed her back. ‘It's a nuisance. Do I want him at it morning, noon and night? I should be relieved if he dozes off at the drop of a hat.'

Hetty giggled. ‘Maybe we should get Larry to pair
you
off with some of his pals, instead of me,' she mused. ‘I feel most uncomfortable about tonight. I wish everyone wouldn't keep trying to stuff me into a mould of their own manufacture. Why do I have to be like everyone else? I
am
changing – changed a heap since I bought my flat – but at my own pace.'

‘You could have refused the invitation,' her mother said.

‘Not without causing a family row. I'd have preferred it if Larry and Davinia had asked me round after the divorce. Then, I needed every ounce of support. Maybe that's exactly why they didn't. Brother dear took his time, but then he wouldn't be put off.'

Her mother touched her arm. ‘We all want you to be happy, Hetty.'

‘Oh, don't you start too. I
am
happy. More or less. For the moment, anyhow.'

But for the moment it was easier to scale down the resistance movement and go with the flow. As the doorbell rang again, Hetty was well into her second glass of red wine, and was watching amused as her mother flirted mildly with Nicholas. He did indeed seem familiar with the layout: when the Celine Dion CD ended, he casually slipped another into the midi-system.

Davinia appeared, pulling off a plastic pinny emblazoned with the Naked Chef, and urged them to the table. It was stylishly set, Hetty had to admit, and must have taken hours to do. Davinia, a devotee of
Harper's and Queen
like Clarissa, had probably copied a photospread. Cutlery and Venetian glassware gleamed. Each napkin was folded in a winged shape. In the centrepiece purple nasturtiums and cornflower heads floated fetchingly in water at the base of frosted blue candles. The lights were dimmed, the candles lit. The glow over the blue tablecloth, silver napkin rings and gilt-edged white Thomas china was seductive, if contrived.