Chasing Men (20 page)

‘When we’ve finished with you, they’ll be queuing up! You ready, Hetty?’

‘Yes,’ answered Hetty, through gritted teeth.

‘And your stylists today are …’

Each participant had a different pair. Hetty’s makeup artist was small, sandy-haired and American with a high fluting voice. Whether he was nervous or for some other reason, his hands shook violently as he dabbed and powdered Hetty’s cheeks. Alarmed, she wondered how on earth he was to avoid poking the mascara wand into her eye, and offered to do it herself. The hair stylist was older, calmer. A lean man in a charcoal grey suit and tieless shirt, he chattered gaily,
sotto voce
, as he snipped and pampered. ‘Your hair’s not bad,’ he commented in one ear. ‘Your mother’s – oof! Does she always wear it like that?’

Hetty tried to shake her head. ‘Bit of an accident.’

‘I’ll give you my card. Let me attend to it properly for her. Tell her to come to my salon.’ His voice was seductive.

‘Where is it?’ asked Hetty hopefully. That might make a splendid birthday present for Peggy.

‘Mayfair.’

‘And what would you charge for the works? Coloured, trimmed, the lot.’

‘That depends. A time-served stylist and colourist, average-length hair? In the region of a hundred and twenty pounds.’

Hetty gulped. ‘And if you were to do it yourself?’

‘Aha. Bit more than that. Two, three hundred. But I’d do your mother’s half-price, just as a challenge.’

‘Er – thanks.’

The portable camera swooped about her wet head, examined her fingernails as they were being manicured, her eyebrows as they were plucked, focused on her double chin. Simon Darling gambolled determinedly from one woman to the other with increasingly vacuous questions. The audience laughed indulgently and clapped at every sally. Hetty kept smiling, though her jaw muscles were beginning to ache. This excruciatingly cheery simper
was deeply alien to her. Not for the first time she felt a sense of relief at earning her living behind the camera, rather than before it.

It was almost over. More speedily than she could have imagined, the snipping had stopped and hairspray hissed in her eyes. Now came Ms Hillary’s moment. The
mauve-streaked
fringe flapped puckishly about her brow, the shiny suit swished like aluminium foil. A witch from
The Wizard of Oz
, Hetty decided groggily. Was this fashion?

‘Now,
Hetty
,’ Ms Hillary commented portentously to camera, ‘is short – about average height for her age group, certainly. And she would be the
first
to admit she does not have the
ideal
figure.’ (‘I’m dieting. And getting there,’ Hetty muttered furiously.) ‘So
I
suggest – trousers, which are
so
slimming, and an extra-long jacket, to hide the
bumps
. And, of course, to lift the whole outfit, these three-inch high stilettos.’

Hetty’s heart sank. She had not worn high heels in years – not since her twenties. The lonely-hearts advertiser’s hinted request for them had immediately painted him as dotty. Could she cram her spreading, be-corned toes into such instruments of torture? Would she fall over and make an utter fool of herself? If that happened, would they halt the recording and do it again? Suppose she broke her ankle?
Was any of this worth it?

She and her mother were bundled out to the back of the set as mood music and jungle drums rumbled. A clock could be heard ticking loudly – only thirty seconds were allowed for dressing. Her mother’s hair was now a soft peach tint, but fluffed out like a Joan Collins wig; her makeup involved a lot of blusher and pink lipstick.

‘Have they made me a complete freak?’ Peggy hissed. Hetty, her face buried in a beaded T-shirt, could not reply.

Assistants were shoving them into clothes, pulling down jackets, pinching earlobes with earrings, fastening chromed collars, the latest in jewellery. Hetty’s feet were thrust stockingless into the stiff distorting cages that passed for shoes. ‘Christ,’ she groaned, as one toe stuck through a metal grille. The jungle drums grew deafening. The
tick-tock
boomed overhead. Buttons and buckles were frenziedly fastened, zips secured. ‘Breathe in, Hetty,’ commanded her mother.

‘And
here
we go!’ came Simon Darling’s voice, like an avenging angel on Judgement Day.

Tall, slim, in a cream silk dress and jacket with an enormous cartwheel hat trimmed with feathers, her fluffed-out hair dazzling, the pink lipstick a-shimmer, Peggy walked regally down the catwalk and into the limelight. On cue she stopped, twirled, sauntered, showed off the lining of the jacket. The applause was admiring and sincere.

Then came Hetty, trying hard not to trip in the metal cages, her calf tendons protesting with every step, the trousers’ belt digging into her midriff. It was an enormous struggle to stay upright without holding out her arms for balance. To do so and keep smiling was almost beyond her.

Then, to trumpets, the great posters were reversed into gigantic mirrors. Both women could see themselves as others saw them.

‘Satisfied?’ the image smirked at Hetty.

The hair and face were vaguely familiar and, in a tarted-up way, not unattractive. But though the navy striped trouser-suited female who gazed back had the same body and the same slack-jawed mouth half-open in astonishment, the personality had changed beyond all
recognition.

‘That’s not me,’ said Hetty promptly, while grinning gamely.

‘But is it how you’d like to be?’ The image seemed anxious.

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that… I’m not sure. She looks a dog’s dinner.’

‘But come on. It’s great. Different, anyway.’

‘Granted. I’ve gained a lot from this. My mother’s having a whale of a time, bless her. But for me? I still don’t accept that appearance matters that much. Al didn’t seem to think so, and James was more taken by that mix of perfume. I’d hate having to go through this palaver whenever I wanted to poke my nose outside my door. And I’d rather be with people who appreciate me in other ways.’

‘Huh,’ said the image huffily. ‘No pleasing you, is there?’ In a few moments the show was finished, the closing credits rolled to triumphant music and they were hustled out. Behind them assistants scurried on stage as the sinks and worktops were wiped down. On the side the next pair, an elderly art teacher and his wife from the wilds of north Cumbria, waited hesitantly, their expressions betraying mixed fear and disbelief.

Doris had extricated herself from the audience and rushed up to Hetty with a hug. ‘Terrific,’ she said. Then, in a stage whisper, ‘All you need is some decent frilly underwear and you’ll knock ’em dead.’

‘Indecent, I think you mean,’ Hetty murmured, but not loud enough for her parent to hear. The entire outfit was hers now. The suit was worth keeping, and the T-shirt, though it cut under the arms. The belt could be undone a notch. She kicked off the shoes and stood barefoot with them in her hand. An idea occurred to her.

‘Here,’ she offered Doris. ‘These are murderous machines, but with a pair of fishnet tights they’d suit one of your kinkier clients down to the ground. D’you want them?’

Doris giggled. ‘Nah, you keep ’em. They make you look proper nifty. You never know when they’ll come in handy, now, do you?’ She squeezed Hetty’s arm. ‘I did your cards last night. Guess what?’

‘I’m not sure I can bear it, Doris.’

‘Good stuff. A man. Several men. You’re in for a whopper soon, you’ll see.’

‘He didn’t like it, you know.’

Sally and her mother were at an outside table in the Oblivion wine bar, SW4. The evening was warm, with the breeze of early summer. Full-leaved trees on the common hung heavy beneath the traffic dust, bees thrummed lazily in nearby gardens over the exuberant first flush of roses. The tube station was spewing out tired customers whose step picked up as they headed home.

Hetty sipped her chilled Chardonnay. The Swallows had been a forced purchase and she could not have imagined, then, ever being truly at ease in this urban cocoon. But she had chosen well, perhaps instinctively. The location had its charms.

Her attention returned to her daughter. ‘Why should your father have any views on my appearance on
Star Style
?’ she enquired, slightly cross. It was too pleasant an evening for a confrontation.

‘He still feels concerned for your welfare. At least, that’s how he put it. There was a lot of comment in the village and he was ribbed. You had altered. You’d have turned up your nose before at a trouser suit – remember swanning about in flowery dresses by Laura Ashley? He was worried you’d made a fool of yourself.’

‘I was never slim enough to do a trouser suit justice.’ Hetty smoothed down the wrinkles in her Levi’s. Under the denim firm muscle flexed, the legacy of riding her bike. ‘Do you agree with him? That I made a fool of myself?’

‘Not exactly. To be honest, you looked splendid. But you didn’t seem keen.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Hetty said. ‘You grandmother wowed everyone, as you said she would. She’s an example to us all. I kept the outfit and will wear it when the opportunity arises. Not with those damn shoes, though. But I was not comfortable. To me, the show glorified the wrong values.’

‘Two million people saw it, you told me.’

‘Two million people with nothing else to do but watch daytime TV. Whose heads are shallow and empty. Or maybe they’re not. Maybe I simply want more than the casual approval of strangers.’

The two women drank companionably. Hetty saw Markus emerge from the station with an attache case. He was too far away to notice or speak to them. Hetty summoned her courage. She did not want to discuss Stephen, but it was clear Sally did. ‘Not sure I’m after your father’s approval, either. How is he?’

‘You interested?’ Sally’s eyes were owlish.

‘No. Yes. We knew each other for such a big chunk of our lives. I hope he’s happy.’

Sally pondered. ‘I don’t believe he is, entirely. The new girlfriend is a poppet – sorry, Mum – but perhaps she didn’t realise she was taking on a middle-aged man.’

‘Tell me more …’ Hetty buried her face in her glass and suppressed a giggle.

‘I shouldn’t – Oh, what the hell? You’re both grown-ups. He’s been complaining about a bad back, visiting an osteopath, that sort of thing. Fretting that he might have a touch of arthritis. It may stem from … trying to do too much.’ Sally was also giggling now.

‘It’s odd,’ Hetty reflected quietly. ‘It’s a year since I knew we couldn’t stay together, and I had to make plans to get out. Eight months since I came here. I never thought I could have talked about him objectively, without terrible anguish. He’s just another ordinary human being. He used to be the centre of my little universe.’

‘Healing process,’ said Sally. ‘You’re more in control, you have friends, you have loads to occupy you. So he’s receded. Shrunk. To something more manageable.’

‘Makes me feel almost guilty. Aren’t I supposed to rage against him still, and seek revenge? I ought to hate the girlfriend and be madly jealous. Instead, to all intents and purposes, I’m indifferent.’

‘You’re not a bitter sort, Mum. You’re too
nice
.’

Hetty frowned. ‘Don’t count on it. There are moments …’

‘Go on.’ Sally drained her glass, her face alight with curiosity.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Hetty backed off. ‘Bits of my old lifestyle I do dream about, sometimes. Money is a struggle but, then, I had it so cushy before. I don’t miss the house as such, but I do miss the space. And the calm satisfaction of weeding the garden and having time to watch what I planted growing, and the smell of fresh linen in the cupboard after
wash-day
. I don’t get any of that now. And gifts from Doris may be entertaining, but they’re no substitute.’ She had regaled Sally with the encounter in the sex shop and its aftermath.

‘You’re getting ready.’ Sally’s tone was teasing.

‘For what?’

‘Boyfriend. No, I mean it. Your confidence has increased. And you’ve … changed. Yes, that’s it.’

‘Changed? Apart from losing that flab, and chuntering round on my bike, and going to a few movies with you?’ Hetty’s reticence surfaced. She was not about to tell Sally about James. Not yet.

‘You’ve moved on, Mum. In my eyes, and in other people’s as well. Though I doubt if Dad has any idea. To him, you’re still the same as you were. He’s the one with guilty feelings. He’s convinced you must be desperately miserable and can’t possibly cope.’

‘He’s wrong about that.’

‘So was I,’ Sally admitted generously. She gazed out over the common, eyes screwed up as if choosing her words with care. ‘Seeing you on that weird programme, and here in this wine bar, and in your flat that you’ve made so cosy, and plain busy, like at the studio when I called in, that made me think. Gave me quite a jolt, in fact. Just as you now see Dad in perspective as a human being, that’s true for me about you.’

‘What are you trying to say, Sally?’ Hetty’s voice was gentle.

‘I’m not sure quite how to put it. It’s taken me a while, but you’re not just Mum any more to me. You’re a
person
.’

‘I always was a person, you know,’ said Hetty gravely.

‘No, you weren’t. You only existed as a reflection of Dad, Peter and me. We were a rotten, selfish little bunch. We never considered you, and your needs, for a second, and maybe you didn’t have any, except us. But you’re a real person, you’re Hetty Clarkson, not merely an adjunct of our family. Dad doesn’t know it, Peter never will, but I do. And I like it.’

‘Heavens,’ Hetty muttered. Then, ‘Whose round is it? I could use another.’
When she returned to the flat the answerphone light was winking.

‘Hi, Hetty. James here. It was great to meet you at Larry and Davinia’s. I wonder – I work in London all week and it gets a bit dull in the evenings. Might you be free? Dinner somewhere in town? Do call …’

‘You live in London all week, and in the countryside at weekends,’ Hetty commented coolly, ‘and you don’t go to movies. Pity.’ A movie escort was not required to churn out sparkling conversation: a dinner companion was.

The answerphone crackled at her. ‘He could be useful practice, Hetty. Go on. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

‘Early signs of madness,’ Hetty chided herself severely. ‘First the ruddy mirror tells me what to do, now it’s you.’

‘There you are!’ the answerphone squeaked derisively. ‘Talking to yourself when you could be meeting a respectable bloke. And a slap-up meal into the bargain. He
wants
to see you – that’s a mark in his favour. Stop dithering. Make a date.’

Hetty went to fetch her diary, and did as she was told.

The
Tell Me All
set was particularly noisy and disorganised. A gaggle of athletic young Australians in T-shirts and cut-off jeans were milling about, five boys and two girls, banging awkwardly into cameras, their big feet tripping over cables. It was decided eventually to select two, Clive and Mark, for the show and seat the rest in the audience. Their bulk filled out the depleted numbers superbly.

‘They’re a collection of complete wankers,’ Father Roger hissed to Hetty.

‘Roger, shame on you. You shouldn’t be using bad language.’

‘Oh, I won’t. Rest assured. “Twats” isn’t allowed on a daytime show either. But I should be able to get away with “prats”. Nobody these days knows what it means.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Buttocks.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I’m not.’

The Australians had a tale of woe. Seven of them rented a three-bedroom flat in Earl’s Court, the centre of expatriate Ozziedom in London. Two shared each room – the girls were together – and one had the lounge, which was also the communal living area with the television and a pair of beat-up sofas. Hetty had visited it in the course of her research. Her nose had wrinkled at the mixed odours of dirty bed-linen, cigarettes, lager and aftershave. She hoped Peter lived better at college, but suspected not.

‘The problem,’ Clive drawled, ‘is that we rub along brilliantly, except for him.’ He jerked his thumb at Mark, at his side. The accused slid lower in his chair.

‘I’m perfectly reasonable,’ he protested. ‘Just ’cause I have to be in work for seven each morning …’

‘He wants us to clear out of the lounge by nine each night,’ Clive finished for him. ‘And that means, no telly, no mates, unless we go out. And we aren’t all City slickers, like ’im. We can’t afford to take over the pub every evening. Anyway, we each of us pay towards the telly. It’s not his exclusive property.’

Mark, it transpired, operated on the trading floor; arrival at seven was the latest he could manage, since much of his activity involved deals with Australia itself and the Far East. ‘They’d like me there twenty-four hours,’ he commented gloomily.

‘They pay you enough to get your own place,’ Clive prodded him.

‘Saving,’ was Mark’s reply, with an expressive shrug.

‘An’ what’s more, he’s got both the girls after him. You can’t do that with flatmates,’ Clive continued, a trifle pompously. ‘You have to get on. It’s making the atmosphere poisonous. We told him to leave, and he won’t.’

‘Ye-e-es,’ murmured Father Roger, as the camera switched to him. ‘Well, Mark, when you reach your first million, you’ll be able to buy the whole house, won’t you?’

The smirk on the young man’s face suggested that the notion had occurred to him. ‘It’s owned by an Ozzie, yes,’ he answered.

The presenter peered at them. ‘So what’s the solution, then?’

‘I suggest you take off elsewhere with one of the girls, shack up together, and then you’ll only have to pay half-rent,’ Father Roger answered smoothly. ‘And, given your remarkable charm, Mark, you’d make not only her but lots of people very pleased.’

The boy sat up and preened. In the corner Hetty covered her mouth.

‘At least they’re genuine,’ Rosa remarked, as the recording ended. ‘You couldn’t fake that kind of prissy jealousy. Lucky girls. Mark’s a dish, isn’t he?’ She pointed to the next guest. ‘Not sure about him. You and Father Roger will have to check him out.’

The man was of medium height with glossy dark hair: dyed, probably, though it looked his own, not a wig. He was dressed in full Scottish regalia with a tailored kilt, woollen socks with a dagger, a silky-haired sporran across his groin, the whole topped off with a black velvet jacket, silver buttons, ruched collar and lacy cuffs. He stood, legs akimbo, a swagger about him, as if about to break into ‘Scotland the Brave’.

‘Overdone it, hasn’t he?’ Hetty commented.

‘Okay for Burns’ Night. Or to make a point. But what point?’

The case was not one of Hetty’s. ‘What’s the matter?’

Rosa consulted her notes. ‘He says he’s bisexual. Fifty-two years old. Wants to settle down – claims he’s had enough of playing the field. The dilemma is, who should he choose as a permanent partner? A woman or a man?’

‘Blimey,’ Hetty said. ‘Most people don’t have the option.’

‘Trouble is, I don’t believe him. Given the God-awful mess with
Vanessa
, we can’t be too careful. Being taken off the air because we’re using fakes is
not
in the game-plan.’

‘Maybe he’s sick of sleeping like a starfish? This could be his free advert.’

‘Could be. I wouldn’t have any objection. With a get-up like that, he’ll be great on screen. So I’d like you and Roger to find out.’

‘How?’

Rosa became vague. ‘He’ll be going back to the dressing room – I’ve given everyone a twenty-minute break. Get in there and see what happens.’

Hetty refreshed her hair, sprayed a little
eau de parfum
on her throat and wrists and tapped on the door. Without waiting for a response she pushed it open and peeped in.

‘Gordon, isn’t it? I need to fill in a few details about you. My name’s Hetty.’ She
smiled beguilingly and tapped her clipboard.

He held out his hand. His voice was deep, a Scottish burr that, if false, took some skill to create. ‘Pleased to meet you. You understand my little difficulty, don’t you? A lovely mature woman like you.’

Hetty steeled herself to go on smiling. After
Star Style
, anything in that line was easy. ‘I do. I need to flesh out a few facts. You have had women friends, haven’t you? Am I right in thinking you were married once?’

‘Married twice,’ he corrected her smugly. ‘Adorable ladies, both. The first when I was in my early twenties. The second, ten years ago. That lasted longer than any of my other – ah, liaisons. But they both finished for the same reason.’

‘And what’s that?’ Hetty enquired brightly.

‘My fondness for young men,’ he said, and winked.

Hetty gulped. The guest was perched on the end of the sofa-bed, a meaty fist on each knee. As Hetty let her glance drop, he twitched up the kilt so that his bony kneecaps were exposed. And then a slice of thigh. And –

Gordon was parting his legs, inviting her to look up between them. What did Scotsmen wear beneath their kilts? Hetty decided hastily not to find out. She stepped back, scrabbling at her clipsheet. ‘Right, that’s fine. Thanks. We’ll call you in a minute.’

Outside, Rosa caught her arm. ‘Well?’

‘He’s a creep, but he’s not messing with us. At least, as far as women are concerned.’ She paused. ‘And warn the gallery. Keep the cameras away from his hairy legs.’

Hetty stood aside as Father Roger gathered up his cassock, crossed himself with a theatrical gesture, tapped on the same door and was admitted. She and Rosa strolled down the corridor, looked in on the makeup girls, then went for a cup of tea.