Chasing Men (22 page)

Hetty felt her throat constrict. ‘You were so fortunate, to have such love.’

He grunted but did not answer. He seemed lost in another world, his eyes on the creamy-fleshed girl on the claret sofa. Then he swung round. ‘You,  Hetty. You remind me of her. I’ve told you. The way you hold your head. The way you pause before you say anything. The way –’

‘Stop,’ Hetty said, as calmly as she could. ‘That’s your imagination playing tricks. I’m not her. But I’m proud that you make the comparison.’ She drained her wine and stood up, found her shoes. ‘This is a treasure trove,’ she added. ‘I feel privileged. Can I come again?’

He reached out his hand to her, slowly. ‘Yes. Of course. Darling Hetty. Come again.’

Just as she was about to put the basted lamb in the oven, a hand tapped at the door.

‘That can’t be him already, can it?’ She brushed her hair out of her eyes. The clock said another half-hour yet. She still had time to put on her makeup. In any case, this wasn’t the street bell but her own.

It was Doris. In her arms was Thomas, with a lecherous glint in his eye. The old lady peered in, her curiosity palpable. ‘I smelt something delicious coming from your kitchen. It’s right above mine. And I thought, Why don’t I see what’s going on?’

‘I’m cooking, Doris. Can’t stop right now.’

Doris was not to be deterred. She stuck her nose around the door and half insinuated her stout body and Thomas after it. A shower of ginger hairs rubbed off on the lintel. Hetty flapped a tea towel. ‘No, Doris,’ she said firmly. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Ooh, you got a fella coming,’ Doris judged expertly. ‘Special guy, is it? Special date?’

Hetty was unsure whether James would count as a special anything, but she was determined not to spoil the roast for a ha’porth of idle chatter. ‘Yes, it is a chap. And, yes, I do want to feed him properly. Especially after the last meal we had together.’ The sentence was uttered with deep sincerity.

Doris’s eyes narrowed. ‘D’you want something to slip into his drink? To help out?’ she offered. ‘Make a roaring success of the evening.’

Hetty pushed the door so that it bore down on her nosy neighbour. ‘Go,’ she
commanded. ‘If anything comes of it, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘You wearing something nice from the shop?’ Doris persisted.

Hetty was, indeed, dressed in new black lacy underwear under the simple skirt and black scoop-necked sweater. ‘Scram, please.’

Doris leered as the door closed. ‘I’ll be listening …’ was her parting shot.

Half an hour later, with the meat safely in the oven, the salad prepared, the Beaujolais opened and the white Burgundy (if he preferred it) chilling in the fridge, with her hair and lipstick set, Hetty’s heart thumped as the doorbell announced a visitor. Quickly she dabbed perfume behind her ears, pressed the intercom button and opened the door.

‘James!’ she cried, as if he were an unexpected delivery.

He thrust a bouquet into her hands – bought, she noted, from the ready-made bucket at the florists’ by the tube station. ‘Hello, Hetty.’

The awkwardness was still present. More so, as if each knew that the dessert tonight might be more than the fresh pineapple with kirsch waiting on the sideboard.

Corks were pulled, wine poured. The table in the living room was prettily laid: a blue cover underneath, covered by a
broderie anglaise
cloth inherited from an aunt, so that the petal shapes showed through. Napkins folded in a wing shape. Two wooden candlesticks bought at a sale of work at St Veronica’s, carved napkin rings to match. The second-best dinner service from Dorset. Yet, brave as the show might be, the table set for two had a melancholy feel.

‘That’s because you’ve not done this before,’ whispered the candlesticks. ‘When your mother or Sally or Doris comes, you don’t take this amount of trouble. We’re new. We’ve never sat in on your tête-á-têtes. Not even with those who love you.’

‘You’re trying to impress him, that’s what,’ the soup tureen slurped, as she set it down. ‘Why him? Does he matter more than anyone else you’ve ever had in this flat?’

‘What are you up to, Hetty?’ the curtains hissed as she drew them across the fading dusk. ‘What do you want from him? Are you being quite fair?’

‘I want,’ Hetty told the bread silently as she sliced it Davinia-fashion and put it in a basket, ‘what I can’t get from those others. Not love. Friendship and company, maybe. But what’s missing is – well, you know.’

‘We know,’ chorused the cutlery, and winked roguishly as she lit scented candles. And it seemed to her that the table rocked once in sympathy, and wished her luck.

‘I hope you like carrot and lemon soup,’ Hetty said brightly, as she ladled it into the bowls and offered the bread. If carrots featured at classy Davinia’s, maybe they’d do the trick for her.

James had brought with him a hearty appetite and not much conversation. The soup, bread, and butterfly lamb with rosemary disappeared in substantial quantities followed by seconds, and another bottle was half emptied, before he appeared to relax. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. ‘Brought you these,’ he said, and fished in his inside pocket. He handed her a pile of leaflets. ‘I’m not just into trains, Hetty, I’m a supporter of the Tramway Museum at Crich. It’s in Derbyshire. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there?’

She agreed that she had not. He leaned across the table, his pink jowls wistful.

‘Would you like to come? Maybe mid-week. Or if you’ve got some holiday due.’

‘But, James,’ she said quietly, ‘what about your family? Don’t they expect you to be with them?’

His eyes dropped. He fiddled with the leaflets. ‘Yes, well,’ he muttered, ‘they’re not keen.’

‘Ah.’ Hetty cleared plates and rinsed them moodily under the tap. Did this mean the evening was about to come to a full stop? She returned to the living room and carried the platter of pineapple to the table.

His eyes lit up. ‘I’ll say this, you’re a fine cook, Hetty.’ His voice betrayed surprise.

‘Why shouldn’t I be? I had enough practice. The secret’s to keep it simple. If you want fancy fare, there are so many restaurants here in London.’

‘Mmm, that’s true. I’d love to take you back to that Japanese place, and introduce you to their special sushi. Sorry you were a bit peaky that night.’

Hetty allowed her gaze to stray over James, to evaluate him more objectively. Not tall. Not fat either, though he could lose a few pounds, and exercise might tighten that saggy chin. He still had most of his hair, although the shade was more bleached and sandy than in a younger man. A speckle of dandruff littered his shoulders. Those were his own teeth. A
non-smoker
. For a man in his mid-fifties, he was quite passable.

A renewed determination surfaced in her. She
had
to make progress. Chasing men, if she were to indulge herself, required a raft of new skills and resurrected old ones. James, it was now obvious, had every reason to treat her with discretion. If this tryst dissolved into a God-awful disaster, he would not dine out on the story.

‘I seem to recall,’ she said archly as she poured coffee, ‘that you enjoy a glass of brandy to finish off your meal.’ She motioned him to an armchair.

‘Rather!’ he said boyishly. Then, ‘Look, shouldn’t I help you clear away first?’

She flapped a napkin. ‘No, no. Leave it. I’ll do it later.’ Tomorrow morning, if all went well. The Courvoisier had been a gift from Sally, duty-free, to help her mother stock up. Hetty poured a generous measure then offered, as if expecting a refusal, ‘Soda or water? I don’t think you take them, do you?’

He shook his head, swirled the brandy round in its balloon and took a long swallow. They must have put away a lot of liquor, Hetty realised. It heightened her awareness of James, of his legs now stretched out lazily, of the quiet room, the littered table, the guttering candles and bits of pineapple skin, which resembled question marks; yet her brain was clear and sharp.

James had started to talk politics, then switched to what was evidently a recurrent grievance about office intrigues and why he had not yet achieved the promotion he deserved. It came to Hetty that his wife was not a great deal of support in his career: the lady did not feature at all in this saga. Not the kind of wife she herself had been, it was plain – no country weekends entertaining clients or board directors, no intimate dinner parties at home. Not as she, Hetty, had done as a matter of course. No wonder Rosa, Sally, Doris, the BJs found that scenario risible. She must have been mad. It had given her, none the less, a talent for listening as if engrossed, and of enabling nervous or tired men to unwind in her presence.

James was burbling on, almost oblivious. He was beginning to relax rather too much. Hetty slipped round the back of his armchair and knelt down, her face close to his. ‘You poor man,’ she said soothingly, in what she hoped was a seductive murmur. ‘It’s dreadful when
your talents are not valued.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t put it
quite
like that. I do fairly well. But a man my age should have a partnership on the horizon. It’s not my fault if it isn’t.’ He seemed about to become maudlin, and glanced longingly at his empty glass.

Hetty took it from his hand. ‘There are other compensations, James,’ she cooed softly, and kissed him.

He tasted of kirsch and brandy, of lamb and garlic and sweet fruit, as if everything he had eaten had lingered on some part of his mouth. But I put it all there, she reflected, and I must taste much the same. She kissed him again.

He appeared startled, as if he had expected to go on rambling, increasingly in his cups, for hours. ‘I say, old girl, that’s rather nice,’ he said, as if coming up for air.

Hetty was tempted to haul him to his feet by his tie and drag him to the bedroom. She moved to face him and kissed him more, putting real energy into it so that he couldn’t be misled. At last he rose, lifted her up and put his arms tightly round her in a bear-hug. ‘Lovely meal, lovely lady,’ he muttered into her hair. ‘Mmm, Hetty, you smell good.’

‘Wonderful to have you here, James,’ she whispered, her throat constricting. What should she do now? She ran her hands up and down the small of his back and pressed him to her. He was slouching a little. Weary? Drunk? It was time to find out.

She pushed him away and flirtatiously began to undo his shirt buttons, slipping her fingers inside. ‘I was sitting there, wondering whether you have hair all over your chest, James,’ she said lightly. ‘A big, masculine man like you.’

He giggled and hiccuped. ‘Oooh, yes. Hair everywhere. D’you want to see?’

He tugged at his tie as she undid the rest of his shirt buttons and pulled the shirt-tails out of his trousers. Undressed his upper body was not unattractive. A mite sweaty from the warmth of the room. Hetty found herself breathing harder, her head starting to pound. She pressed her palms over his pectorals; they were fleshy, not excessively so, but not muscular. He wriggled. ‘Ooh! I’m ticklish …’

‘You are? Where? Maybe you’d better show me …’

Hetty took his hand and led him, trailing the shirt and tie, into the bedroom. The bedside light was on, but she had set aromatic candles in saucers and quickly lit them. The effect was all one could wish – romantic, glamorous and an open invitation.

‘We are a tad overdressed, James,’ she said.

‘We are, we are. Aren’t you a clever woman? I can’t get over it, Hetty. So nice, and such a good cook. And now …’ He giggled again and went as if to hug
himself
.

Hetty lifted her sweater over her head. James gasped: the black bra might be only Marks and Spencer’s, but it pushed up her cleavage quite powerfully. Maybe James’s sex life was as limited as her own. She prayed he wasn’t impotent, but even that she could cope with. As long as he didn’t laugh at her. The tinge of melancholy returned, but she shoved it resolutely away and undid her skirt, letting it drop to the floor.

‘Tasty,’ teased the mirror.

‘Ooh!’ was James’s contribution, as his eyes rounded. He grabbed her, and clutched her to him once more. This time the contact of skin on skin made her tingle. Something twitched, down on her thigh. Then he stepped back, crestfallen. ‘I haven’t brought… any protection, Hetty. I thought this was just for dinner.’

She was prompted to call him a stupid idiot to his face, but instead smiled sweetly. ‘No problem. Trousers off.’

He did as he was told, struggling through the comical dance of a man engaged in the impossible task of removing his kit with dignity. He stood upright, this time in striped boxer shorts and navy socks, hands loose by his sides.

‘And the rest.’

James appeared to stumble, so Hetty came close, hooked her thumbs inside the elastic of his shorts and kissed his chest as she pulled them down. It was surprisingly easy to do, and as she bent to wriggle them off over his knees and feet, Hetty saw why.

He was indeed hairy – in fact, he was luxuriantly hirsute from the navel down, over a podgy belly. His erection was not in doubt: the man was not impotent. Doris’s remedies would not be needed. On the other hand …

It was
tiny
. Hesitantly, Hetty touched it, and measured it quickly in her hand. It was about the same length as her little finger, and not much thicker. It was nearly lost in the hairy bush; had she not been looking for it, she might have missed it entirely.

‘Oh, do that again,’ James groaned, as she stroked his diminutive penis. It wasn’t purple and engorged with blood, but pale in the candlelight, though stolidly and proudly erect, like a skinny drummer boy at the end of a line of soldiers.

‘Come on, then,’ Hetty said, and led him to the bed. In a few seconds, with her assistance, her bra and pants had been fumblingly removed. She guided his hand to her own bush, and waited as he rubbed her eagerly.

‘Like that?’ he asked, more confidently, and she cooed for answer. He was hefty, on top of her, and breathing more lamb and garlic. The activity loosened a bubble of wind and he belched. ‘Whoops! Sorry. You fed me too well.’

For fear of losing it, she kept it in her hand; to lubricate, she licked her palm and wetted it, and he groaned in excitement. Then she commanded, ‘Now, James, in you come,’ and he obliged willingly.