Chasing Men (25 page)

But as her knees buckled under her and she sat down hard on the floor, Hetty did not
feel able to respond intelligibly. ‘Friends, thash wha counts. Frensh …’ she began, but did not finish.

And then, with a happy gurgle, she passed out.

‘Let’s take our orange juice out on to the terrace, shall we?’

Father Roger steered Hetty round the concrete pillars of the National Theatre’s upper floor. They were twenty minutes early for
Candide
. Below them lay the panorama of the Thames, with the gold-tipped turrets of Victoria Tower, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament glittering to their left, St Paul’s bulbous dome to their right and overhead the London Eye, like a spider’s web in the evening sun. On the far bank stood the white wedding-cake edifice of the Savoy and, dwarfed into insignificance, Cleopatra’s Needle like a stick of sugar. From a boat by Waterloo Bridge came snatches of dance music and singing. Directly opposite was the back end of the new Charing Cross station, its garish neon reflected in the sluggish river.

They stood for a moment and breathed in the warm air. It was the second occasion they had been to the theatre together. Hetty had bought the first tickets, for
The Merchant of Venice
; tonight was Father Roger’s reciprocal treat. Both plays had ethical themes available for lively dissection over the interval drinks.

It had not been initially in her plan to find out more about him: attending the play was for mutual pleasure,
pure
and simple. In particular, pure. It felt safe, being with a priest, after the machinations of Larry and James and the multiple bared breasts of the Professor’s den. On the other hand, Hetty reflected, a man like this might have not only ethical depths but vulnerable shallows. A shiver of mischief led her to explore.

‘Balm for the spirit, a lovely evening like this,’ Roger continued, leaning his elbows on the parapet. The wind ruffled his blue shirt. ‘D’you realise I gave up my turn to hear confession tonight, Hetty? Can’t say I’m sorry.’

‘Won’t they be cross with you?’

‘No. Do ’em good to ponder their sins a while longer. Then they might behave.’

‘They don’t deserve you,’ she said stoutly. ‘Aren’t they supposed to repent, then sin no more? You must find it irritating when they treat you as a sort of therapist.’

‘Some of them could use therapy.’ His voice was low. ‘It isn’t a priest they need, it’s a consultant psychiatrist. Or a lawyer. Or a few good friends.’ Hetty must have pulled a face, for he smiled at her again. ‘Having traumas with friends, are we, Hetty?’

‘Not exactly. But I do wonder how far one should go.’ She blushed, then after mild prevarication told him the story of the BJs, the overflowing bath and the snorted vodka.

Father Roger gasped, then his eyes crinkled, and soon he was laughing uproariously at Hetty’s depiction of the sordid scene. ‘You blacked out?’

‘Yes, but not for long. I don’t suppose there was that much alcohol up my nose – not as much as knocking back a full tot, Russian-style. The best one could say about it is that it’s legal. It was like being belted in the face. And the hangover next day was not a sensation I’d repeat, either, even at the risk of losing my neighbours’ goodwill.’

Below, the trees on the embankment swelled and fluttered in the breeze, their branches strung with coloured lights. Hetty’s inquisitiveness nagged. ‘I was expecting you in black and a dog-collar, like last time. Aren’t there any rules?’

‘None whatsoever, except that a full rig is expected on high days and holy days. One reason why I don’t want to be a bishop. I doubt that purple would suit me.’

Hetty gazed over the river, then: ‘I don’t understand, Roger,’ she said quietly. ‘A decent man like you. It can be miserable, being at everyone’s beck and call, even if you are fortified by faith. Don’t you wish sometimes you could lock the church door and go home to your own family? There aren’t any taboos about that, are there? You’re not Catholic.’

‘I am catholic, but not Roman Catholic,’ he corrected her.

‘I prefer to concentrate on my job. And when I’m not on duty, I have friends, like you, who are kind to me.’ He twinkled at her.
Don’t be nosy
, his eyes said.

She ploughed on. ‘Have you never had – anybody special?’

‘Not recently.’ He paused, but Hetty did not back off. Then, with a sigh, ‘Oh, there was someone, when I was young. But she tried to take more of me than I could give. She wanted me to commit myself body and soul. And I found could not do that.’

‘Did you understand why not? Wasn’t she the right person for you?’

‘At the time I believed she was. But it was the whole idea of putting another person first. Perhaps, of letting someone get so close. The body did not object, but the soul rebelled. It felt very strange. And it’s never happened again.’

‘D’you mean,’ Hetty persisted, ‘that you’ve never
allowed
it to happen again? Never let yourself go? Suppose one of the choir fell in love with you?’

‘That’s easy to deal with. I’d be gentle and aloof, as clergy should be. We are aware of the dangers, especially if someone’s unhappy.’

‘That’s not enough.’ She pursed her lips. The turn of the conversation was intensely personal, but he was calm, as if he had been expecting an interrogation from her, sooner or later. ‘I mean, it’s not normal to shy away from human contact like that. Most people are aching for a genuine loving relationship. They’d regard it as a gift from God. Only after they get hurt, as I did, might they be more cautious.’

‘Fools rush in?’ Roger raised an eyebrow, as if to fend her off.

‘Nonsense. It isn’t foolish to want to love and be loved. It’s foolish not to.’ She stared him out, aware that her demeanour was quite fierce.

His shoulders sagged. ‘I love my congregation. I love my job, my calling. Doing the TV programme is a bit of leaven amongst the dross: if that went, I should miss it. And when the day is over, I love my solitude. My refuge is in books, or music, or philosophy: the sweet, serene territory of the well-cultivated mind. I fret only that I will never have enough years to sample everything God’s world has to show. I will die with libraries unread, languages unlearned. My ideal heaven would be an eternity at the feet of the great thinkers. Does that make sense?’

‘Blimey,’ Hetty muttered. ‘No, it doesn’t. Not to me. Ideas can’t compare with the richness of human company. I like to be alone, too, but if true love walked in, I don’t think I’d push it aside in favour of a shelf full of printed paper.’

‘Well, now, Hetty, there we differ. It’s probably a serious character defect, but I don’t waste hours groaning over it.’

A loudspeaker announced that the play would commence in five minutes. Roger had made no attempt to change the subject. Hetty took her courage in both hands. ‘Maybe you prefer to keep your human beings at arm’s length?’

He nodded, his face a little sad.

‘Don’t you miss …’ she wanted to say ‘the sex’, but it seemed utterly inappropriate with a priest, even one in an open-neck shirt ‘… the personal contact?’

‘The sex, you mean?’ He was ahead of her. ‘
You
can answer that. You live singly, Hetty. And you were married. Don’t
you
miss it?’

Into Hetty’s mind came the image of the recumbent James, de-sexed and replete, snoring contentedly. ‘There are worse things than no sex, Roger,’ she said, with feeling. ‘Like hopeless sex. Some people are dire in bed and don’t know it. It’d be a cruelty to tell them, and masochism to persist. Especially if they’ve little else to offer.’ Then, more slowly, ‘Yes. I really must make an effort. Go to an agency, perhaps.’

She had wandered. What a skilful operator Roger was, to deflect her so deftly from his world to hers. Hetty admitted defeat with a rueful grin and squeezed his arm.

The bells were ringing for the performance. ‘Sounds like a confession you may have to make on a future occasion, dear lady.’ Father Roger chuckled as he ushered her inside.

Hetty had seen the Soul Mates agency advertised in the
Evening Standard
. One of its offices was in the centre of Putney; that appealed, as potential dates would not live unrealistically far away. It might also be marginally easier to check their credentials. She rang for an appointment and, rather nervously, went in one evening after work.

The woman seated opposite Hetty was smartly dressed, in a red wool jacket and skirt and black court shoes with a great deal of costume jewellery, and about her own age.

‘I’m so glad, Mrs Clarkson,’ she said, in an accent that tried to be home counties but had clearly started east of Bow bells, ‘that you have come to us. We are the finest in the business, and the most discreet.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Hetty, nonplussed.

The agency office was above a shop. Though the rental might be moderate, some effort had been made with the decor: cream stucco walls, coffee-coloured paintwork, soft overhead lighting and a twirling ceiling fan produced a cool, elegant air. The leaves of the fig tree in the corner were glossy and dust-free, its brass pot brilliant in its lustre; the
door-handles
gleamed as if they were polished after every client. Behind the desk, the wall was hung with photographs of weddings with couples of every vintage from youngsters to elderly, and many framed letters, presumably testimonials and thanks. Two framed certificates announced membership and licences, though of what Hetty was unsure. The wastepaper basket by the counsellor’s feet was filled to over-flowing. They must get a lot of weird mail.

‘You have to approach these matters with the right mental vigour,’ the woman continued. ‘Tell yourself that you
will
find someone, and you will. Start off believing you won’t, and it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.’

‘Of course.’ Hetty sat up and squared her shoulders.

‘
Believe
, Mrs Clarkson. Believe in yourself, and in our expertise. Though it may take a little while. We have far more women on our books than men, inevitably. All agencies have. And, I’m afraid, it’s less easy to match ladies of – shall we say? – your age.’

‘
Why
?’ Hetty wanted to ask crossly, but held her tongue.

‘… as long as you realise it might not happen in the first few weeks, or even the first few months. But if you’re patient, we’re sure to find you somebody.’

‘That’s why I’m here. I’ve tried meeting men on my own, but …’ Hetty saw the glaze begin over the counsellor’s eyes and quickly changed tack. ‘But that’s in the past. I’m determined, this time.’

‘Excellent.’ The woman’s manner became more confiding. You need to understand about our male clients. Very often, they have … difficulties. I don’t mean sexual hang-ups, necessarily – we try to weed those out at interview. Here at Soul Mates we are
very
thorough. But although they are dedicated to finding a partner, a person like yourself may find that some have commitment limitations.’ The last words were pronounced with great care, as if frequently repeated.

‘I see,’ said Hetty slowly, though she did not quite. ‘And the  implications?’

‘Those may show up only after a relationship has developed.
You
may fall in love, and he may not – cannot, perhaps. So be wise. Keep it light to begin with – don’t get too intense. If you run into a sticky patch, men are tempted to give up quickly. On the whole, women don’t.’

Hetty blinked. ‘Good advice. I’m not a quitter: I have every faith in you.’

But the counsellor had not finished. Perhaps this was a prepared text. ‘This is a wonderful sweetie shop for some men, Mrs Clarkson. Males like to try the varieties. Often that’s all they do, for years. They are sincere in their desire for a long-term partner – don’t get me wrong, they’ve paid the fee, after all. It’s just that they aren’t terribly good at coping with the tricky bits. But, meanwhile, we are here for
you
also to choose. We have many successes.’ She waved a beringed hand at the photographs.

‘Very encouraging.’ Hetty fought down any doubts.

‘This gent,’ the woman pointed at a picture of a thick-set man with a moustache, his arms entwined around a simpering middle-aged blonde, ‘was convinced he would never fall for anyone, and now look at him.’

Hetty did as she was invited. The thick moustache was not to her taste, but otherwise she felt a sudden envy. Might she be up there in a silver frame, one day? Was that what she really wanted?

‘Now, any more questions? No? Then take this pack and fill in the details. Meanwhile I will trawl through our recent files for some suggestions. I’m
sure
you’ll find somebody you like amongst them.
Believe
, Mrs Clarkson. Believe.’

On the table of the Café Pinocchio was a pile of Sunday supplements, baguettes, croissants, butter, jam, coffee-cups and the Soul Mates brochure. Markus and Christian took the leaflets, turned them over and began to read. Within seconds they were both rocking with laughter, nudging each other with their elbows.

‘I need your help,
please
,’ said Hetty, with as much dignity as she could muster, but she could not stop breaking out into a wide grin. ‘I’m deadly serious.’

Sunday brunch at the café had become a regular feature during the summer: a time that was convenient for Christian, often on stage for eight performances a week and, as Markus put it, ‘invaluable for getting both of us out of bed and into the fresh air’. Sometimes they would be joined by Doris or a BJ, if any were sufficiently
compos mentis
by noon, or by the men’s other acquaintances, who were usually gay. Markus, however, had explained in a quiet aside to Hetty that he preferred to have her as the lynchpin of the table and the other
residents; she gained the impression that he was not keen to have competition for Christian’s favours from other, younger men.

‘All I ask of you,’ she continued, snatching back the papers and trying to restore some authority, ‘is total honesty. You know how I appear to other people. If I lie or exaggerate, the assessment will be up the creek.’

Christian bit into a
pain au chocolat
. The Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Hetty found it painfully attractive, perhaps because only men had one: it recalled their other appendage, over which similarly they had no control. What a catch he would be for any woman, Hetty judged, if he were hetero. ‘It’s a deal,’ Christian said. ‘Which section are we doing first – what sort of person you are, or what your partner should be?’