Chasing Men (2 page)

Sally stood, hand on hip, and pushed a lock of fair hair out of her eye. A streak of dirt marked her Tommy Hilfiger sweater and she scrabbled at it crossly with a wetted thumb. ‘That should do it, Mum. Pity there’s no lift. You didn’t bring much, did you?’

‘No. Clean break.’

Sally rubbed her arms. ‘It’s cold in here. And I could do with a drink.’

‘I haven’t figured out the central heating yet. I’ll ask one of the neighbours. Sorry, I didn’t think to bring any booze. Tea?’

Sally shook her head and glanced at her watch. Hetty was becoming more adept at reading body language. I have about ten minutes more from my daughter, she thought, then she will have other priorities. The young woman would not take kindly, for instance, to anyone suggesting supper tonight.

‘Mum, I think I should say it. This is a crazy idea.’

‘What is?’

‘Oh, leaving Dad, and coming to live here on your own.’

‘I didn’t have much option. Your father had made it clear that if I made him choose between his new love and myself, it wouldn’t be me. He does love her, you know.’

‘That’s rot. Dad loves you, always has. He’s just not very good at saying it.’

‘On the contrary. He was very good indeed at
saying
it. Best in the world. He drew the line, sadly, at keeping the rules that go with
meaning
it.’

Sally brooded. ‘But I’m sure he didn’t want you to go. He as good as told me. That girl isn’t important to him, not important the way you are.
Were
.’

Hetty tried to stop herself sounding sad, but became brusque instead. ‘You’re kidding yourself, Sally. Whatever we had, it wasn’t there any more. I wish it had been. Splitting up is a horrible business. Though maybe in a way it was my fault too.’

Sally flopped down in the armchair. In her handbag she found a cigarette, lit it with a silver lighter and glanced round for an ashtray. Finding none, she had to cup her hand under the cigarette as she smoked it. Hetty smiled to herself but resisted the temptation to fetch a saucer. The new flat, she suddenly resolved, her flat, would be smoke-free.

‘I’m still in shock, Mum. You had so much going for you. Our home was super – it was great, knowing you were always there. Most of my friends thought you had the perfect home, the perfect marriage. They were envious.
I
was envious, come to that.’

Hetty shrugged and did not answer. Inside, something began to burn, as it had the day she had caught her husband enfolded in the embrace of their neighbour’s wife. Younger, lissom, attractive. The two had clung resolutely together, arm in arm, blushing, as they faced her. Her instinct in the year since had been to suppress her anger, to behave as calmly and cogently as possible. Now, it dawned on Hetty, rage could be useful, as armour, to counteract her own muddled feelings of guilt and shame, and as a defence. Especially from those who, like Sally, saw themselves as fully qualified to tell her what to do.

‘You and Dad always seemed to get on. I don’t think you should have left, honest. Surely you could have worked something out?’

‘Don’t, Sally. I don’t know why it went wrong. Perhaps because I bored him. He didn’t bore me, but there you are. Maybe I took too much as read. What I’m absolutely not going to do is dwell on the past. It’s done, finished. Time to move on.’ Hetty spread her hands to indicate the flat.

Sally rose, irresolute, as if there were a lot more to say. She pulled on her London Fog jacket, made a great play of tying her muffler and finding her leather gloves. ‘I must go. You have my number. Ring me in a day or two, won’t you?’ She pecked Hetty on the cheek and let herself out.

Hetty wafted away the fumes of cigarette smoke and stood silent. Then she picked up her keys. ‘Took too much for granted, Sally,’ she said to the closed door. ‘Didn’t realise it. But I do now.’

‘There, that’ll do it. You’ll need to get that boiler serviced. Nobody’s had it on for ages. Now, while your place is warming up, how about –?’

‘A cuppa?’ Hetty found herself smiling. ‘Thanks, I’d love one.’ She locked the flat and followed the woman’s solid body downstairs, grateful for the invitation.

Mrs A’s tea was strong and sweet. Her flat was small and dark, on the ground floor, in the corner facing another block. But it was warm, blessedly so, with a coal-effect gas-fire in the living room. Thomas, the cat, was curled up on a cushion; his fluffed-up fur made him look enormous. Cat hairs gave every surface of the furniture a faint sheen, but Hetty resisted the urge to brush her chair with her hand. The smell of cabbage and fried fish lingered from the kitchen. Hetty suddenly felt hungry. Her own crockery was still crated; that was the set she had liberated from the house – the second-best service – and she had not thought to bring anything to eat.

‘Where do we shop around here, Mrs A? Is there a late-night grocer’s? And what about cafés, or restaurants – any decent ones?’

‘Wouldn’t know about that. My gentleman takes me to the West End when he’s in funds. The garage has a mini-supermarket – fine for most of what you want, nothing fancy. That’s open till eleven at night.’

‘That’s better than Dorset. We had one village shop that closed at five thirty, and
half-day
Wednesdays. Then they wondered why everyone hared off to Tesco’s in their cars.’ Hetty snorted. ‘My freezer was stuffed with food. Heavens, I used to spend whole days baking.’

‘You like cooking?’

Hetty pondered. ‘No, I don’t,’ she answered slowly, in surprise. ‘Hot drudgery. I did it because, well, it was expected of me. I was a great hostess.’

‘Bet you were. No need now. Near here there’s Tesco’s, Safeway, Sainsbury’s, Asda, the lot. Ready meals. You got a microwave? Then you won’t starve. Pensioners’ bus goes to Sainsbury’s Tuesdays and Fridays. How old are you?’

‘Heavens, do I look like a pensioner?’

Mrs A shrugged. ‘Can’t tell, can you? That Joan Collins, she’s older than me. Mutton dressed as lamb, but gorgeous with it.’

‘I’m – er – forty-seven. Nearly forty-eight. And I don’t have a car. So it’ll have to be the little shop at the garage.’

It was a lie. Her last birthday had been her fiftieth, and not celebrated. Stephen had passed that mark two years before. Maybe that explained the changes in him: a mid-life crisis, a desire to postpone middle age. An attempt to recapture his carefree lost youth. Perhaps, it suddenly dawned on her, Stephen had
wanted
her out, needed pastures new himself. One thing was for sure: he would not be alone. Solitude was not his line.

‘Are you divorced, Mrs A?’ Helen was startled at her own question. What had happened to her natural reticence – to feeling ashamed?

‘Me? Nah, I’m a widder.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘What for? Not your fault. Anyway, me and Thomas here suit each other. He’s no trouble, and I can say whatever nonsense comes into my head with no fear he’ll answer back. We gets on fine, don’t we, Thomas?’

The cat yawned. A few more hairs worked loose and floated gently to the floor, as if the moulting animal were determined to leave its mark.

Hetty remembered the estate agent’s comments. ‘One more thing, Mrs A. What about the neighbours?’

The old woman chuckled. ‘You’ll meet ’em soon enough. You can be sociable or not, as you like. Next to me are the McDonalds and their kiddies. Down from Scotland, keeps themselves to themselves. Upstairs there’s two nice people living together, artistic types. You’ve got three girls renting number four next to you – right larks they get up to. They drink too much, if you ask me. I like a tipple meself, but not enough to pass out on the stairs. If you find one, just bang on their door and they’ll take her in. Top-floor flat belongs to a foreign couple, out of the country mostly. That’s the one over yours, so it’ll be quiet for you.
Bin-men
come on Thursdays and the post office is by the newsagent’s. Anything else?’

‘No, thank you.’ Hetty laughed. ‘God, I’m ravenous. Must go and get some dinner. D’you think they sell single-person packs at the garage?’

‘Oh, yes. I should put on a bit of lipstick before you go. It’s quite a pick-up joint for singles.’ Doris prodded Hetty’s knee with a stout finger, as if testing the plumpness of a chicken. ‘Or so I’m told.’

‘Pick-up joint, huh,’ Hetty muttered, as she struggled back to the flat laden with plastic bags. The only men in the store, apart from motorists paying for petrol, had been the elderly Bangladeshi manager and a pimply boy lingering near the lighter fuel. The sole good-looking man, a tall figure in an Aran jumper, had left immediately she entered. ‘Anyway, I’m not interested. Why does everybody think I should be chasing men? Been there, done that. Got the scar tissue to prove it.’

The answerphone light was blinking. Another infinitesimal shard of progress. Cards announcing her change of address and phone number had been sent off the day she had signed for the flat. The light felt like a confirmation that she existed in her new form. The Swallows, a swallow. Not yet a summer, but she had spread her wings.

‘
Mum? Sally. You all right? I’m sorry I left in such a hurry. I’m worried about you, there on your own. I spoke to Granny. We should have a council of war so you can decide what you want to do. Maybe while Erik’s on his next tour of overseas duty. He seems to get sent abroad a lot at the moment. Men – we have to put up with them the way they are, don’t 
we?
’

Her daughter’s voice wittered on until after ninety seconds the tape cut off suddenly, bleeped and went on to the next message. Hetty smiled grimly. Sally was currently in a relationship with a man about whom she was very cagey. At the same age, Hetty had been engaged and flat hunting with the love of her life. At least, Hetty consoled herself, she’d had years of happiness. And the kids. It was a lot to be thankful for.

‘
Hetty? Do hope I’ve got the right number, darling. It’s Clarissa. Dreadfully sorry to hear what happened – I can’t believe it, not you, thought your marriage was a rock. Are you up for lunch? I can be a shoulder to cry on any time. How about a week on Tuesday? It’s on me. Lots of love. Call me
.’

Hetty fetched her diary, though it was hardly necessary. Apart from a final visit to her solicitor and the need to wait in for the central heating man, blank pages stretched ahead for months. Lunch, Tuesday? Certainly.

‘
Hetty? Brother Larry here. Hope you’re okay moving in – sorry, like to help but we’re a bit pushed at work right now. Hey, listen, soon as you’re settled, Davinia and I would like you round. Supper, you know. Nothing elaborate. We’ll invite a few friends for you to meet. Can’t have you moping on your own, can we?
’

Larry, her only sibling, was three years older than Hetty. Larry and Davinia were not married. Publicly, boastfully, they lived together in a high, narrow house in Fulham with their two little boys and a sullen nanny on the top floor. Davinia was an advertising executive with an impressive client list; Larry did something lucrative with computers. Their favourite restaurant was the River Café, but they were not important enough to get a table on demand. Davinia was thirty-five, and was Larry’s third long-term partner. All his women had looked alike: big, robust blondes, whose starting age had crept up only slightly. This, however, was the first liaison to have produced children. The boys were aggressive and materialistic, miniature versions of their father. The prospect of being comforted by her brother and
sister-in-law
over quails’ eggs and ratatouille did not fill Hetty with delight. She made a note.

‘
Hi, Hetty. Rosa here. Rosa Weston. Thanks for the message. Commiserations – sorry to hear your news. Never mind, some fabulous bloke will come crashing through the jungle to carry you away. Anyway, that’s my theory, though I’m still waiting. As for a job, well, budgets are tight. If you can accept peanuts, we could use another researcher. Fancy working in television again? Gimme a ring
.’

‘
Hi, Mum. It’s Peter. Hope you’re all right. Listen, my student loan hasn’t arrived – it’s two weeks late. Can you let me have some money?
’

Hetty reached for the remote control and switched off the set. Her back ached from heaving boxes, two fingernails were broken, the plaster over a cut was dirty. A BirdsEye frozen lasagne had filled a gap, but the remains congealed in their polystyrene box were a dismal reminder of her lowered status. She must not let her standards slip. If it meant learning how to cook for one – for the first time ever – she would have to do it. There must be cookery books about it. Or maybe a TV series.

On the other hand, it had not been a bad few days. Everything was in place, the new light-bulb inserted, the heating making the flat habitable, though a dank smell came from one corner where a radiator leaked. Photographs in frames sat on a half-full bookcase: the
children, her mother, not Stephen. A bunch of tulips curved gracefully over the edges of a vase like a glowing pink fountain. A few minor treasures sat on the mantelpiece: a Lladró figurine, a collection of old perfume phials, their coloured glass ghostly in the light. Her bed was freshly made, her nightie wrapped around Peter’s childhood fluffy hot-water bottle to cheer her up. She was desperately tired.

And her diary was no longer empty. Clarissa was a friend from schooldays, married to Robin. It came to Hetty that she did not know Robin well and had seen him through Clarissa’s eyes as easygoing and readily exploited. Her new position gave her another perspective. What were they really like? Would she get on with them as a couple now she was no longer a couple herself? Or would Clarissa, on her own, be part of the rescue party?

The call from Peter was par for the course, and a cheque – a small one – was in the post to him. The brightest spark, the response that had made Hetty’s eyes light up, had come from Rosa. They had worked together years before, at the BBC, as underpaid young secretaries and researchers. Rosa had been one of the Shepherd’s Bush quartet, the most ambitious, the most sophisticated. Her own mother had originally come from Barbados and Rosa would joke that in certain politically correct circles her colour was a distinct advantage. They’d kept in touch, via Christmas cards; Rosa was on the Clarkson list for parties and birthday events, while invitations had occasionally arrived to launches of her television series. She worked for an independent company, these days. It had been natural to ask her advice, among others, about employment. It looked as if Rosa, more than anyone else, might come up with the goods.