Chasing Men (18 page)

The seating-plan must have been the source of some dismay to her host and hostess. Two couples, no fewer than four singles. Hetty could just imagine the arguments: it must have felt so untidy. The guest of honour, Hetty, was seated with her back to the french windows, with Nicholas to her left and Robin to her right. Larry was too far away to chat to but winked at her infuriatingly. Next to Nicholas was Davinia. The City man was pouring wine and chatting graciously. He was undoubtedly at ease.

And opposite her, in a fluster because he had so nearly been late and ruined the meal, was James. James Dolland, he of the phone call, of the totally forgettable features. Hetty smiled politely, half rose, shook hands. Davinia was busying herself ladling soup; Clarissa's eyes locked on Hetty, to catch her immediate reaction.

James. Pleasant enough, Hetty decided. About five foot ten, a little heavy for his height, smooth-shaven, a bit jowly. Greying at the edges, his hair might once have been quite dark. In a lightly pin-striped suit, with a blue shirt, a club tie. From the way he was breaking his bread roll and talking too fast, he was highly nervous.

‘So, do you remember me? I was in Larry's class at school.'

Hetty let her gaze drop demurely. ‘It was a while ago, James.'

‘Well, I remember you. Larry's little sister. You had pigtails and scraped knees.'

‘That's because my brother was forever pushing me over. If not him, then his gang,' Hetty reminisced. She reached for her glass, her third. ‘Hope it wasn't you, James.'

‘Me?' The idea appeared to floor him. ‘No, I didn't go round knocking girls over. Not my scene, even then. I was a shy boy.'

Not setting me on fire now, either, Hetty reflected, but suppressed it. She smiled her way through the sour-tasting orange soup, leaving as much as she dared in the bowl. Only Larry ate it with gusto. Peggy helped clear the plates. Davinia brought in a large leg of lamb garnished with rosemary and smelling strongly of garlic to cries of synthetic delight; the platter was placed in front of Larry. He wielded the carving knife with a wide flourish and less skill, the embodiment of a
paterfamilias
. Roast potatoes, roast fennel and peppers, cauliflower and broccoli, sauceboats with thin winy
jus
and redcurrant conserve were passed around. Mint sauce, it appeared, was too
infra dig
.

The noise level increased. Larry was telling a complicated tale to Robin whose jocularity and rotundity waxed with every mouthful. Mother was listening, a sliver of vegetable on her fork, a faraway haze in her eyes. Hetty realised, with a wistful pang, how pretty her mother was, despite her age. Or perhaps because of it: that understated elegance had not come easily or soon. Nicholas was leaning close to Davinia, murmuring so low Hetty could not grasp his words. Clarissa was offering James fresh English mustard, spooning it on to his plate with a flick of her wrist. So that's how you flirt, Hetty observed. But this guy
needs more than mustard.

‘Hey! That's mine! Give it back!'

A screech came from the stairwell, followed by a series of bangs and crunches, as if two bodies were being flung against each other and the staircase. There was a crash of splintering wood, then another, louder bang, and a squeal of pain and rage.

Davinia dropped her napkin. ‘Now what?' she yelped, and ran out of the conservatory. She returned in a moment, panting hard and dragging the two boys, one by the arm, the other by his Darth Vader pyjama bottoms. The smaller one was clutching a lurid plastic tommy-gun, the other the video in its box.

‘You give the bloody nanny the night off, and see what happens,' she fumed, to no one in particular, though the accusation could only be directed at Larry. She shook the infants like wet puppies. ‘I told you two not to watch that crap. It makes you hyper. Encourages you to thump each other.'

‘Hello, kids,' Larry greeted them mildly. The other guests sat frozen, unsure whether to react or offer advice, except Robin who continued to masticate steadily and Clarissa who sipped her wine, her eyes alight.

‘They've done it this time,' Davinia said crossly, dropping the children in a heap on the carpet, where they continued to tumble about and hit each other with balled-up fists, though to no apparent effect. ‘They've broken a piece of the banister. The beech part you had restored last year. It'll cost a fortune to have it mended.'

‘No, it won't.' Larry eased back in his chair. ‘I'll have a go at it tomorrow. Nothing a nail and a bit of wood glue won't fix.'

‘Are they okay?' came doubtfully from James. The boys had rolled over and were pummelling each other under his feet. He shifted his chair.

‘Oh, yes. Indestructible. Boys will be boys,' said Larry. Then, somewhat reluctantly he stood up, grabbed each infant from under the table by the scruff of its neck, and hauled them out of the room. The guests could hear Davinia mutter crossly to him, ‘Next time, we get rid of the kids. There's a limit,' before the two partners resumed their seats, full of fluttering apology.

‘Do you have children?' Hetty asked James.

‘Yes. Grown-up, now I'm afraid.'

‘Mine too. Nineteen and twenty-three. Quite an achievement to get them off our hands, isn't it? Though I miss them.'

‘You have children that age? I'm surprised.' James was almost smirking. Hetty sighed. Since he knew her year at school – and the same went for him: if he was in her brother's class then he was fifty-three or thereabouts – there was no mileage in pretence.

‘Started young. You too.' Now
that
was flirting. Hetty felt a twinge of shame and pushed it away. She ploughed on, feeling a total amateur. ‘My view is that we're lucky to be mature people. We've experienced the most important elements in life – marriage, kids and so on. I'm glad I did, but I don't want to mourn what's past. Or to repeat the exercise, necessarily. Maybe I'll try pastures new.'

‘Footloose and fancy-free, then?' He
was
smirking.

‘In a manner of speaking.' Hetty considered whether she was simply too sober to relish this man's conversation and drained her glass. ‘Could you pour me some more?'

As the meal proceeded the wax candles dripped slowly into the water to make blobby islands. The candlelight flickered through the red wine: she could easily have spent the evening twiddling the fluted glass, fascinated, paying no attention to those around her. It was proving difficult to find topics of conversation to share with James. If Markus had been here, she'd have interrogated him about his latest theatre project, even if much he said was over her head. Doris would have offered gossip from the neighbourhood; Father Roger would have told tales of his parishioners, or what the bishop was getting up to, or the latest synod fuss. The BJs would probably have gurgled through conquests and lost loves, real and imaginary. Rosa would have been telling dirty jokes by now, and would leave with at least one of the men hanging on her arm. Even Sally was a worthwhile companion in private, though still morose and withdrawn in public.

Getting to know a new person was not easy. Hetty sat up straight and gamely tried again. ‘Do you go to movies? What did you see most recently?' she asked James.

‘We don't get to see many films where we live,' he said, then coloured. ‘I mean,' he stammered, ‘
I
don't see many films.'

‘Aaah.' She let the vowels emerge slowly. ‘Who's
we
, James?'

‘I live in the countryside,' was all he would add. But Hetty had arrived at her own conclusion. In a minute James had excused himself and gone to the bathroom.

Clarissa leaned across the table. ‘How're you getting on?' she demanded.

‘I think he's married, Clarissa,' Hetty mouthed.

‘So what? He wouldn't be here alone if he was
happily
married,' came back the swift reply. ‘He'd have brought his wife. He's available, I'll bet.'

Hetty groaned, and subsided. James, looking sheepish, slid back into his seat.

Pudding time. The doors to the kitchen were hauled open, the lights switched off. Then came a zizzzz and suddenly the conservatory was ablaze, as the sparklers on top of the
bombe surprise
caught alight and fizzled brilliantly. ‘Oooh!' and ‘Ahh!' greeted the sight, as Larry and Davinia carefully shuffled their display before their guests. There was nowhere to put the tray on the crowded table, so it was deposited precariously on a bookcase. As the dessert was spooned on to plates, gobs of meringue and ice cream dripped unheeded on to the leatherbound books. On future visits to this house, Hetty realised, the stained spines would serve as a reminder of this night's curious ordeal, and as proof that the volumes were for show and seldom for reading.

She toyed with the dessert, she listened to James, debating with herself whether to make more effort or not. It was one thing to resent the matchmaking. It would be another to reject the match out of hand. Hetty had neglected Nicholas: he might be a livelier companion. When she twisted about to speak to him, however, he was gazing fondly at Davinia, bent over the
bombe
, her hair tumbling over her flushed face.

‘Lovely meal,' Hetty commented, fork in hand. The meringue had not quite set and slid in slimy whiteness about the plate. Hetty remembered what uncooked eggs can do and deftly extracted the ice cream and sponge. ‘Hasn't Davinia done well?'

‘She's a lovely girl,' Nicholas murmured, rather drunkenly. His face was blotchy and he had loosened his tie, though that air of well-meant niceness had not forsaken him.

Hetty glanced sharply at him. ‘You been friends how long?'

‘Depends what you mean. 'Bout a year, properly.'

Hetty explored. ‘She and Larry seem well suited. A highly successful couple.'

‘He's a lucky man. He doesn't know it.'

‘Oh, I think he does. He is my brother.'

‘No.' Nicholas spoke with asperity. The object of his devotion was out of earshot at the far end of the table, offering seconds. ‘He does not appreciate her qualities. He expects her to behave entirely as a traditional wife. And that's wrong for her.'

‘It is?'

‘Yesss.' His speech was slurred. ‘She's a terrific girl. It's a tragedy. Getting dragged down by dome-est-iss-itty.' Completion of the word clearly gave him some satisfaction and Nicholas repeated it to himself.

‘I've always considered them quite a conventional pair,' said Hetty cautiously. ‘They are much agitated about my being out on a limb, at any rate.'

‘She used to be a model. A beauty,' said Nicholas mournfully.

This was too juicy to miss. Hetty's sense of mischief surfaced. ‘So, if you decide to quit the City and become a writer,' she whispered, ‘what will Davinia make of that?'

‘She says I should go for it. No more being tied down and miserable. No more commuting. Freedom!'

‘And what about the children?'

‘I don't have any. Or I do, but my wife has them. Nothing to do with me, now.'

‘I meant
hers
.'

Nicholas gave her a bleary glance, reached for his glass and drained it. ‘God-awful little monsters,' he said. With that at least Hetty could agree. The man had taste.

The guests rose from the table to the buzz of a whirring dishwasher. Liqueurs, brandy and vodka made their appearance in the living room with the coffee. Hetty settled for a Drambuie on ice and was soothed by its chilled sweetness. James, to her relief, began to converse on the sofa with Robin.

She headed upstairs to tidy her hair, and halted outside the bedroom door.

‘Well, you
should
be worried about her,' came Clarissa's loud voice from the bedroom. ‘She has started hitting the bottle, you know.'

‘Nonsense!' came her mother, robustly. ‘She's coping far better than I expected.'

‘She's terribly lonely. You can see it in her eyes.' Clarissa was fierce. ‘Look at the way she was chatting James up across the table tonight.'

‘James? Did she? I didn't check.' Her mother laughed lightly, as if the idea was extraordinary. Hidden from their view, Hetty pressed her fist to her mouth.

‘Desperate for a man. Any man, if we're not careful. Poor Hetty. I feel so sorry for her.'

‘That's admirable of you. And you her best friend.'

Hetty was shaking, her emotions boiling within her. How dare they? Clarissa especially. What right had they – or anyone – to discuss her as if she were a three-legged dog or a threat to polite society? She fled and hid behind the first door she came to: the bathroom. She locked herself in. With friends like that, who needed anyone?

Yet she had gone along with it, this flirtation with James. It would have been rude to ignore him, but she had persevered and tried to get him to relax. That had led to his slip about the cinema, but at least she had a clearer picture. Larry must be aware of the wife in the
countryside, surely? Odd that her brother, so bent on seeing her coupled once more, was casually willing to forget the potential damage to another couple. Or maybe Larry was so eager to reform her that he hadn't given it a moment's pause.

Should she walk out now? Hetty seethed, and held her temper only with the greatest effort. She washed her hands, twice, and twisted the towel till her knuckles went white. She banged her palm furiously on the porcelain and wished she shared the vicious destructive tendencies of her nephews.

Above the bath, on a shelf, sat an array of scent bottles and jars: Allure and Dune, De La Renta and Fifth Avenue, relics of countless duty-free trips. They recalled the antique perfume phials on her own mantelpiece, those mute witnesses to the choices originally facing her. Some had been rejected – such as getting perpetually drunk or eating herself silly. Or turning tail and running back home, or succumbing to genteel poverty. Some she had avoided, so far: becoming depressed or making a career of crying for help, though that message had not been received by either Clarissa or Larry, it seemed.