Chasing Men (19 page)

Hetty screwed up her eyes and tried to remember the other options, taking dabs of Davinia's perfumes with shaky fingertips. She had indeed found a job and a church and some voluntary work, though the book club with its raucous discussions on sex was distinctly unexpected. That left chasing men, or being chased by them. Or both.

At last she peered out: the bedroom opposite was silent and empty. She reeked, powerfully. As she splashed a final dash of Davinia's Passion on her hot brow, she pointed crossly at the mirror.

‘Don't you say a word. I will do my best. But do they have to be so dull? Or married? Or mad? Are there no normal, kind, friendly, attractive
unmarried
men out there?'

‘No,' replied the image bluntly. ‘Make do with what's on offer. It could be worse.'

She started to descend the stairs, conscious of being a bit wobbly. They had had a lot to drink: the empties must come to over a dozen bottles. At the corner of the half-landing a door was slightly ajar. As she passed, it was closed from inside by a foot. But not before she had caught a glimpse of a man in shirtsleeves and Armani trousers in a clinch with a tousled strawberry blonde.

From the kitchen came a yell and a loud oath. Clarissa's squeal rose above the commotion, but there was giggly collusion in it rather than real fear: ‘Gawd, he's passed out. Daft old bugger. I warned you you'd had enough. Robin, do get up. Don't make such a fool of yourself …'

The future head of chambers was sprawled on the floor amid the debris of dinner, eyes shut tight, bald head pink and shiny, knees tucked up almost in the foetal position, like a beached walrus. His expression was merry and he was gurgling gently. ‘Don' wanna get up! Better down here … tired.'

‘Is he ill?' Hetty asked. ‘Should we fetch a doctor?'

Clarissa prodded him with her foot in distaste. ‘Not the first time he's done it, won't be the last. He calls it “letting gravity take hold”.' She bent over and yelled, ‘Robin, darling, you're a fat slob. I'm going to get the car and bring it round. You'd better jump to it, 'cause I'm not carrying you.'

The walrus hiccuped from its prone position, grunted and began to snore.

James was at her side. ‘Mmm, you smell gorgeous. Delightful evening, wasn't it?'
‘Er, yes,' said Hetty. Her head was starting to pound. Bed would be a good idea. But
alone
. Taxi first. Where had she left that card?

‘I have your phone number, Hetty. Larry gave it me. If I contact you again, maybe we could have a meal together?'

‘Er, yes, if you like.' Hetty was too weary to argue. James squeezed her hand and looked smug; he turned aside to speak to Larry, as if to report success.

Her arm was suddenly grabbed from the direction of the pantry, and she found herself held tightly by Davinia jammed up against stone-ground flour and jars of guacamole, out of sight of the other milling guests.

‘You didn't see anything,' came a fierce whisper.

Hetty was unclear whether this was a statement of fact or a plea. ‘Not sure I know what you're talking about, Davinia,' she answered hesitantly.

‘Me and – you know. You won't let on, will you?'

Despite her headache, Hetty found herself inquisitive. Did she mean Nicholas? ‘You two an item, then?'

‘Sort of. Nothing serious. Don't fret – I shan't be leaving your precious brother.'

Hetty was sorely tempted. ‘Dear Davinia, you and Larry so deserve each other.'

Davinia shrugged: she obviously took the remark as a compliment. Hetty did not elaborate. The puzzle was how Nicholas, earnest and well-meaning, could have let himself get embroiled with this household. Davinia must have hidden talents.

Time for coats, for hugs, for goodbyes. The minicab was even dirtier than its predecessor, its driver more evilly villainous. The alternative was to stay over in the spare room. Home, however, was a bare ten minutes away. If the cabby tried anything, Hetty would be too far gone to care.

‘So, sis, enjoy yourself?' Larry was as overbearing as ever, though his eyes were drooping and bloodshot. He sniffed, twice.

‘Rather!' she answered gaily. ‘It was kind of you both. I'm so grateful.'

He leered. ‘Made any conquests? James is impressed. You might have tried harder with Nicholas but, then, he's the sensitive type. According to Davinia, anyway.'

‘He was charming.' She struggled into her coat, then looked her brother straight in the eye. ‘I'm fine, Larry. I appreciate your concern.'

‘Nah. You can't be. Not till your love-life is restored. A new chap. And you need the whole hog, sis. A house, garden, the lot.'

‘Like yours?' she asked, archly, then regretted the implied sarcasm. Not that either Larry or Davinia had caught her mood. ‘You do have a super home, honest. And the boys,' she added hastily.

‘Thanks, sis.' He preened, and kissed her cheek. His breath smelt of garlic and brandy. ‘We've got everything a man could want here. A woman too, if she's got any sense. Keep in touch.'

‘I will. And thanks.'

The reception at the Wandsworth studios was a square lobby bland with beige paint, low sofas, overlarge dried flowers and dusty foliage in brown pots. The area was a familiar stamping ground to Hetty. Here daily she would greet guests, soothe their neuroses and nurture them like a mother hen till it was time for their performance. It was strange to be the guest herself for the recording of
Star Style
, dressed down in jeans and a baggy sweater.

‘Good Lord, Mother! What have you done?’

Hetty stared in disbelief as her mother came through the door. Peggy was blonde. Not an understated ash tint, but a bold yellow colour. Like a canary.

The new Goldie Hawn patted her hair nervously. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Hetty circled her cagily. ‘I’m not used to having a vibrant sexy lady as a parent. You put me to shame.’

Peggy shrugged. ‘I figured if I was going to be on TV I’d better make a splash. I could not – could
not
– obey that instruction to start off ordinary. I tried a new hairdresser yesterday, but she overdid it. It
is
a bit bright.’

‘You make me appear positively dowdy. What colour will my hair have to be if I’m to compete – fuchsia?’

Peggy found her lipstick and compact and checked the frizz, her confidence intact. She wore the same elegant maroon Jean Muir dress and jacket as at Larry’s party. ‘Aren’t you excited?’ she trilled.

‘No,’ Hetty said shortly. ‘I can’t imagine what made me agree to this farce. It’s a load of trivial nonsense. I must have taken leave of my senses.’

‘But made over, you’ll look fabulous, dear,’ her mother soothed. ‘Won’t you find that a simply magical experience?’

Hetty began to say ‘No,’ again, then settled for accepting her mother’s enthusiasm. ‘I wonder, genuinely, why I did agree to it. Perhaps because it’s telly, and I work in the business: it would have been churlish to refuse. They caught me at a weak moment when Sally had dashed in to tell me about her new job. I was feeling magnanimous. Or maybe my battered vanity surfaced, what remains of it. Hope I don’t live to regret it.’

‘Why should you, dear? Both yours and this are splendid programmes.’

‘Thank you. We try. But
Tell Me All
isn’t intended to make them look good on screen, as
Star Style
is. As some people arrive it dawns on them that, for all their boasting or whingeing over the phone, it’s entirely another matter to go on TV and expose their privates in public. Some have the wit to fast forward to the day after transmission.’ And some haven’t, she said to herself, as Nicholas floated into her mind.

‘I feel
sorry
for a lot of them,’ her mother said, stoutly. ‘Like the woman who suffered from blushing. Father Roger was too unkind to her. Suggesting that if she hadn’t announced the fact to the nation, nobody would have noticed.’

‘But that was true. She was no more a blusher than I am. What kind of strange personality is so keen to be on the box that she makes out she has a major disability?’

‘And that lady you had with the awful pimply teenagers who wanted to spend their
grandfather’s legacy on CDs and a Gameboy, when she offered to put it away for them. I had no doubts which side I was on.’

‘The law, unfortunately, was on
their
side,’ Hetty answered. ‘And Grandad knew he was making mischief when he wrote that will. He probably died laughing.’

‘I’ve made my will,’ Peggy said suddenly. ‘You’re in it, of course.’

‘Don’t talk like that. You’ll be around for years yet.’

‘I hope so. But in case. Have you made yours?’

Hetty was startled. ‘I honestly hadn’t thought about it. Enough to cope with, living from day to day.’

‘You should. If you fell under a bus without one, it’s a terrible wrangle for those left behind. And the taxman could get his sticky fingers on what’s left. Take my advice.’

Hetty gazed at her mother with renewed respect. ‘Good Lord,’ she said again, and was silent.

‘Ah! There you are!’

A short, solid woman bustled towards them. She wore a tunic-style trouser suit in a shiny grey fabric; her stout figure was without discernible bosom, waist or hips but bounded with energy. Half-moon spectacles were perched on a snub nose. Steely hair fell in a straight fringe over the forehead. The eyes were brown and darting.

‘I was wondering where you’d got to. My name’s Alexandra Hillary. C’mon, Hetty. You can find your dressing rooms. You’re in Three. Is this your mother? She’s next to you in Four. Quick! Quick!’

‘We’ve been waiting twenty minutes,’ Hetty mumbled, as they trotted along after the steel-grey dynamo.

‘Silly girls. Not you – the researchers. We’ve just had a celeb on, Jason Donovan, and they’re still gaga with excitement. I’m so glad you agreed to appear, Hetty. You understand the problems of getting good guests. We’re all paranoid about fraudsters, but for us the difficulties are obvious: finding people who won’t act like scared rabbits, who’ll smile at the right camera, and who won’t take offence at the results. Like you.’

‘Absolutely,’ Hetty muttered. This was beginning to feel like a moral obligation.

Ms Hillary stopped dead before the dressing rooms and her two guests cannonaded into her. ‘Go in and get undressed. Down to pants, tights and bra. There should be robes on the door – clean ones, I pray. We’ll be along shortly with the blindfold.’

‘Blindfold?’ said Peggy blankly.

‘You have to be blindfolded,’ said the steel magnolia firmly, ‘so that the first time you see the outfit we’ve chosen for you will be
on air
. When you shout, “Oh! That’s wonderful,” it’ll be hunky-dory for real.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Peggy doubtfully. ‘What happens while we’re blindfolded?’

‘We try the kit on.’ Ms Hillary chuckled wickedly, as if explaining to condemned prisoners how the trap-door worked. ‘No cheating – you mustn’t peep. We’ve had loads of practice. Then, once we’ve decided, we can press the outfit or shorten hems or whatever, so it’ll be perfect at the
dénouement
.’

‘And do we go on – in our bra and dressing gown?’ Peggy shrank back.

‘No, no. Who gave you that idea? In those things you’re wearing now.’ She gestured with mild distaste at Hetty’s jeans, then stared at Peggy’s hair.  ‘D’you mind if our stylist
takes that down a couple of shades or so? Or streaks it, perhaps?’

‘Why? Don’t you like it?’ Hetty’s mother sounded affronted.

‘Oh, it’s terrific. For our purposes. That colour is excellent for “before” – it’ll be splendidly
loud
under the lights. But you want to end up much improved, don’t you?’

The noise in her mother’s throat was suspiciously like a protesting growl.

The dressing rooms were tiny and smelt of talcum powder and spray deodorant. Keys in hand, mother and daughter entered and, calling through the thin walls to each other, made themselves ready, as lambs to the slaughter.

A tap came on Hetty’s door. Without further ceremony it was flung open. Three frantic girls rushed in, their arms laden with clothes concealed in opaque plastic wrappers, with bags from Harrods, Fenwicks and Peter Jones. In a trice Hetty’s head and face were swathed in a chiffon scarf, her eyes covered by a stiff black blindfold.

She was helped clumsily to try on several pairs of trousers then a blouse and jacket. Much discussion ensued in heated whispers.

‘Mind that zip. It’s a bit tight. Did you say you were a size fourteen, Mrs Clarkson?’

‘Those trousers don’t hang properly. Her thighs will rub together as she walks. And the jacket’s not long enough.’

‘Try the other one. That’ll cover her bum. Ah, much better.’

‘Shoes. The Manolo Blahnik? Why not?’

‘Bit posh to go with a Bhs suit, don’t you think? Oh, well, if you say so.’

‘Try the leather skirt – or PVC?’

‘Nah. Mutton dressed as lamb.’

‘Okay. Jewellery?’

‘Nothing too flash. She can’t take it. Restrained. Yes, that’ll do.’

Sleeves and legs were pinned to the correct length, shoes and accessories selected. The team vanished, instructing their victims to dress as fast as possible.

Hetty emerged, flustered and annoyed, from the headscarf. How dare they? And yet, the comments, she guessed, had not been meant as insults. With so many programmes to make each day under pressure, the girls would simply forget that a human being was suffocating under the blindfold, with burning ears. She resolved to swallow her dignity, concentrate, and learn whatever she could. If she had any plans to go chasing men, even the remotest stirrings, the knowledge might prove invaluable.

Another girl tapped on the door, entered, and introduced herself as assistant floor manager. Her manner was harassed; twice, messages on her radio interrupted her flow. Hetty’s dismay increased with each bleep. The girl’s task was to outline the choreography required on set. Dazed, Hetty began to share her mother’s empathy for the stream of guests appearing on her own programme. The process was bewildering, and seemed to have precious little connection with the job in hand. What difference did it make if she stood still for a count of three, or forgot and turned left instead of right?

‘We make it as broadcast. Thirty minutes in total. No retakes if we can avoid them,’ the AFM explained. Hetty started to tell her that
Tell Me All
was run on the same lines but the girl was not interested. ‘We do six shows on the trot,’ the girl interrupted. ‘You’re the second today. So we have to get a move on if we’re to finish by seven.’

‘So you’re going to finish our hair and faces in – what? About twenty minutes?’ Hetty
was incredulous. The outcome might be trivial, but the input was highly skilled.

‘Yah,’ said the girl, with a world-weary grin. ‘The professional stylists are fast movers. Wait till you see them. Best way, actually.’

‘I suppose so.’ Hetty was struggling with buttons. ‘Tell me, should I know Alexandra Hillary’s name?’

The girl took a step back. ‘You mean you’ve not heard of her? Golly, we have punters dying to come on, just so they can have her attention. She’s editor of
World Chic
. British edition. She’s really cool, yah.’ The girl’s voice betrayed reverential awe.

‘Yah,’ Hetty echoed, uncertainly. ‘I mean, yes, I see. Do I go to Makeup now?’

The ASM reached out and tweaked Hetty’s everyday sweater disdainfully. ‘No. You’ll do as you are,’ she announced. ‘Follow me.’

Accustomed to the modest proportions of the
Tell Me All
set, Hetty was amazed at the sheer size of the studio that greeted her. It was enormous. Ten cameras, including a sweeping eye on an extended tendril, covered the whole arena. Along the whole of one thirty-foot wall, banks of seating were crammed with the audience who sat clutching handbags and coats on their knees and talking excitedly. No artificial padding filled out this show: the public wrote in considerable numbers demanding tickets. Hetty wondered fleetingly if it might be possible to borrow a few when their own attendance was thin. And maybe, just maybe, some of this crowd might have true-life dilemmas they’d love to share? A little networking after the recording might be useful.

Somebody on the second row waved at her. ‘Yoohoo! Hetty!’ The rouged cheeks and dangling earrings were unmistakable.

‘Doris! What are you doing here?’ Hetty leaned hurriedly over the front row.

‘Come to see you pampered up. How did you get on with my prezzie?’

‘You’re a naughty lady, Doris,’ said Hetty severely, but her mood had lightened considerably. She turned, and felt set for whatever fray would ensue.

A very tall man, perhaps six feet five, loped on to the set, beautifully dressed in a tailored suit with a modish knee-length jacket and a mauve shirt and tie. Already made up, he was fiddling with his earpiece and adjusting the radio pack on his belt. He appeared to be talking to himself, nodding and gazing about, then pointed, listened and moved four steps forward. The audience’s chatter quietened, and they observed his antics intently. This was Simon Darling, heart-throb co-presenter with Ms Hillary.

Hetty waited pensively with her mother. The set was in two halves, mirror images of each other. On each part, assistants were hurriedly checking the sinks and makeup sections, laying out sponges, brushes, tissues, cotton-buds, towels. The steel dynamo was fidgeting at the back, flitting about with garments on hangers and deploying hats, shoes and handbags on stands tastefully underlit with bluish light. The catwalk in front was covered in silvered tiles. At each end was a vast poster-sized board emblazoned with the
Star Style
motif in sequins. The effect was garishly jolly, like a tatty circus.

‘Where are the big mirrors? For the – ah –
dénouement
?’ Hetty asked.

The AFM’s voice over the loudspeaker announced, ‘Two minutes.’

‘Over there.’ Simon Darling adjusted his tie and indicated. ‘The posters. When we twist ’em round, you’ll see what we’ve created. You’ll adore it, I promise you.’

The next half-hour went in a whirl. Hetty and her mother were pulled behind the set, combed and brushed, for their ‘before’ appearance. Alexandra Hillary patted Peggy’s canary coiffure with unfeigned pleasure. Her own had acquired purple streaks that made her
witch-like.

‘And today,’ a voice boomed, ‘we meet a wonderful mother and daughter team, both with new lives, who sought our advice. Will you
please welcome
Hetty Clarkson and Peggy Morris!’

To loud cheering and whooping from the audience, Hetty and Peggy were propelled from behind into the whitest light Hetty had ever experienced. She was immediately certain it could not be flattering. Simon Darling leaped up to them in turn, his teeth flashing. Under the Pan Stik he was sweating.

‘Peggy! You look wonderful! You’re an army widow, isn’t that right?’

Hetty’s mother simpered as if to the manner born. ‘I am, Simon – a merry widow.’

‘And you, Hetty! You find yourself on your own too?’

‘I do,’ Hetty said, and tried hard not to sound peeved. She set her lips in a cheesy smile. Why, oh, why had she agreed to do this?