Chasing Men (3 page)

The new-home card had been moved to the small table. It was sweet of her mother to send it; amazing, given her busy social round, that she had remembered. The elegant widow of an army colonel, the old lady seldom sat still long. ‘I hardly know her, either,’ Hetty mused. ‘My own daughter hardly knows me. What a family we are. Or have been.’

She found a piece of notepaper and an envelope. ‘Mum – Thank you for the card, much appreciated. When you get back from your travels, would you like to come round? Or, better still, shall we meet – go to a movie – whatever you’d like? I have a bit more time now.’ She stopped: it sounded too much like a plea. ‘I’m coping fine, so don’t feel concerned about me. But it’d be fun. I’d make it fun. Lots of love.’

Hetty paused, pen in hand. Then she added, ‘PS Sally thinks we should have a proper discussion, to help me decide what to do next. Would you come? You might talk more sense than any of us.’

It still felt weird, sleeping alone: no one else’s breathing by her ear, no heels and ankles in the wrong place, no sleepy gurgles from another’s alimentary canal. Nobody pinching most of the duvet on a cold night. No cold feet. Hetty smiled despite herself, then snuffled. She cuddled the hot-water bottle.

And allowed herself a few tears.

To her surprise the weepy feelings did not persist. Underneath, below the layers of bewilderment and despair, beneath the anger and the hot shame, beneath the fear of the unknown, somewhere deep inside, something new stirred, like a dormant volcano.
Excitement
.

She rolled over, flat on her back. The hot-water bottle clutched over her heart made
her pulse race. The ceiling above her was blank, smooth and empty. Like a sheet of paper in a typewriter, waiting for her to begin tapping.

‘I can write on there anything I want,’ Hetty whispered. ‘I can do what I want, go or stay, as I please. Don’t have to satisfy anybody else. How extraordinary! I am free of all obligations, other than to myself. I am
me
.’

The thought made her hug the unprotesting hot-water bottle so hard she feared it might burst. In another moment she was asleep.

Hetty drank deeply. The second glass of supermarket wine would probably give her a headache, but so would the promised council of war. Sally was slumped on the sofa. By her side were a notebook turned to a blank page, an unopened packet of cigarettes and a
half-eaten
bowl of cashew nuts. In the best armchair sat Hetty’s mother, stylish and composed as ever, her silvery hair beautifully coiffed, charm bracelet jingling, a stuffed olive between finger and thumb. She was dressed in a grey trouser suit, legs crossed at the ankle. Size twelve, Hetty guessed. She sucked in her stomach.

‘Are you quite sure, darling, that this is the right place for you?’ Her mother’s tone was oleaginous, her roaming eyes disapproving. The white chrysanthemums she had brought were too large for their vase and looked wintry.

Hetty shrugged. ‘It was all I could afford, unless I wanted to start borrowing heavily, and for that I’d need steady employment.’

‘Perhaps, dear, you shouldn’t have allowed Stephen to keep the house. You put yourself at a serious disadvantage.’

‘Did I? If I’d made a fuss, I’d have been stuck with bad feeling, six bedrooms and a lot of neighbours taking sides for and against. No thanks.’

‘Have they set the wedding day yet?’ This from Sally, who would expect to be invited. The girl was not famous for her tact.

‘No. They can’t get a licence till the decree absolute comes through. To be frank, I suspect they may hold off for a bit. See if it works. Your father has his practical side.’

Sally snorted. ‘But what will you do for money? You haven’t earned a living in years – Dad’s settlement won’t last for ever.’

Hetty had not revealed that, after the first few months, no further maintenance payments were in the offing. It had seemed to her wrong to expect Stephen to pay for two households from one income when she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. It might also have undermined his new relationship; revenge was not on her mind. She decided against telling them about Rosa’s call, since nothing might come of it. ‘I shall get a job. I’ve made a few enquiries, and we’ll see.’

‘I can’t quite grasp,’ her mother said – a slight deafness meant that she occasionally missed snippets of conversation, though wild dogs from hell would not have drawn the admission from her lips – ‘why you
didn’t
want to be left with the house. You could have sold it. Bought something better than this.’

‘I doubt it. This flat cost as much as a fair-sized country property. The Swallows is not exactly a dosser’s joint.’ Hetty prayed silently that that was true. ‘It’s done now. This is my new address. I think I could be quite content here. It’s no worse than anywhere else.’

A silence fell, during which Hetty and Sally both drained their glasses. Hetty fetched a second bottle and opened a packet of Ritz crackers. She was not up to cooking a meal for them, and nor yet was the kitchen.

‘Why London, though?’ Sally again. Hetty noticed that a few scrawls had appeared on the notebook. A single unlit cigarette had emerged from the packet, as if begging permission
to be smoked.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, you and Dad lived the rural idyll for yonks. A quiet life, but one that loads of people would give their eye-teeth for. Suddenly you throw it over to bury yourself in this urban wasteland. I don’t get it.’

‘Because …’ Hetty hesitated, ‘… this is a contrast. That was a very conservative life. I was occupied, even though I didn’t have paid work. But when I look back, perhaps it wasn’t quite enough. Or was heading that way. I think underneath I was a bit restless.’

These remarks drew blank looks from both women. Hetty groaned inwardly. This might be an exercise in misunderstanding. Was she so hopeless at making herself clear? Or was it that her ideas were still muddled? Maybe she was expressing views neither her daughter nor her mother could credit. She tried again.

‘If I had stayed, much of what I’d busied myself with would have vanished into thin air. Divorced women in a traditional setting have a tricky time. Everyone’s scared of them – even I used to be. They’re seen either as unfortunate or as a threat. I’d have had to give up the parochial church council for a start, and sit by myself in church. Then I’d have been pursued by slippy local men who saw me as fair game with black looks from their wives, and had to put up with nosy-parkers on my meals-on-wheels round giving me their opinions. Or pity. That’s a recipe for terminal decline. Not ready for that.’

Sally frowned. ‘So how will you pass the time? You’re not going to be one of those dotty women who goes shoplifting for fun, are you? I can’t come and bail you out.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish. I’m not about to start breaking the law. More likely to find the local library and start reading Proust.’

More blank looks. ‘I shouldn’t, dear,’ her mother said. ‘It sounds dangerous.’

Sally refused to be deflected. ‘Come on, how many years is it since you’ve lived on your own? Or have you ever?’

Hetty considered. ‘No, you’re right. I never have. At college I was in the hall of residence. Then in the early days at Television Centre I shared digs in Shepherd’s Bush with three other girls. We lived on Ski yoghurt and Vesta dried meals, and had a whale of a time. I met your father and fell head over heels. We started off with a tiny pad in Ladbroke Grove. Proper little love-nest. We were happy. In those days.’

‘See? You can’t possibly live by yourself. You’ll be so lonely. You’ll never get used to it. It’s awful.’ Sally lunged for the cigarette and disappeared into the kitchen to find an ashtray. She emerged with the cigarette lit, a saucer in her hand and gloomy defiance on her face. ‘Don’t tell me I can’t, please, Mum. It’s hard enough trying to sort you out. Doing it in a smoke-free zone is beyond me.’ She returned to the sofa.

‘You aren’t going to take up smoking, are you?’ Hetty’s mother sat up sharply. ‘It’s dreadfully bad for the skin. Especially for older women.’

Hetty and Sally exchanged glances, then both smiled. It was the first time any of them had smiled. Hetty relaxed a little and munched a cracker. ‘About as likely as Proust, Mother. That’s not an issue,’ she answered, and was careful to make her voice soothing.

‘Staying single,’ Sally prompted. ‘Is that definitely the game plan?’

‘I don’t know. But why not?’

‘You
can’t
manage on your own. Nobody could, in your circumstances.’

‘Your grandmother does. Has for years,’ Hetty answered, with a nod in the older woman’s direction.

‘That’s different,’ her mother retorted. ‘We learned self-reliance in the war. Never short of a date then.’ Her eyes became dreamy. ‘Anyway, at my age there are so few men left. The rest are too decrepit for words. The ones who want a wife don’t deserve one. Or else they’re after a housemaid, cook and nurse in one.’ She glared. ‘I’ve washed enough dirty socks in my time, and wiped bottoms. I’m not about to start again.’

Hetty and Sally giggled, and took refuge in their wine. ‘I feel much the same,’ Hetty responded at last, ‘though for the moment being alone is simply the result of being the innocent party in a divorce. It was devastating, but I don’t intend to get bitter if I can avoid it. On the other hand, I’m not about to pick up any old bloke on the rebound.’

‘Maybe that’s exactly what you should do.’ Sally brightened. ‘Find somebody else quickly, while you still can.’ Hetty brooded. Most of the crackers had gone. She tipped up the packet; salty crumbs cascaded on to the carpet. ‘Damn,’ she said, then shrugged. ‘But is that all there is? Hunting down a replacement for my erring ex? Isn’t there more to look forward to than that? Here I am, in the midst of the world’s greatest metropolis,
compos mentis
, more or less solvent and fancy-free. Lord, I sound like one of those contact ads in the
Daily Telegraph
.’ She struggled. ‘Up till this month I’ve lived with, and for, other people. My entire life, Sally, has revolved round other people – your father, Peter, you. Perhaps it’s time to find out what
I
want, how
I’d
like to spend my time. Who with. With nobody, maybe.’

Sally dragged on the cigarette. ‘You’ll suffer from depression. Do you know what SAD means? Single and desperate. I’m seriously worried about you.’

‘I’ll manage – you’ll see. I’ll have to. And it might save me giving in to the pressure, and inviting you to come and live with me,’ Hetty added wryly.

Sally looked aghast. ‘I don’t think that would be wise. Erik, for example. It’d put him off.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Hetty drawled. ‘And maybe, if I follow your advice and go chasing men, it’d cramp my style, too. There are advantages in living alone.’

‘You don’t mean it,’ Sally chided. ‘You’re probably still in love with Dad. Aren’t you?’

Hetty sighed. ‘Maybe. We were together half our lifetimes. We had a lot of good years – in fact, I assumed it would simply go on for ever. My mistake.’

Sally leaned back, eyes closed. It is so obvious, Hetty thought, that she longs for what I had. Happy marriage is still the ideal. How astonishing that they had never had this conversation before, these three women; it was as if they had never communicated anything of import till now. It had taken heartbreak to bring them together.

Hetty’s head ached. She rose and put the empty wine bottle on the mantelpiece. There she played with the perfume phials, rearranging them, lifting each up to catch the light. ‘Loads of options, now,’ she observed. She prodded the wine bottle. ‘This is one, since I no longer have to be ultra-respectable. Or I could get fat – comfort eating can be
very
nice. Or become SAD, a depressive, and make a career of crying for help.’ She began to move an ornament with each sentence. ‘That’s three. I could, however, be sensible – get a job, find a new church and a local charity to potter about in. According to you two, I could chase men or be chased by them. That’s seven – or is it eight?’

‘You could go back to the country on your own and make a go of it there,’ said Sally.

‘A recipe for genteel poverty. This is where the work is.’

‘
You could go back to Dad
.’ Sally again.

Hetty’s chin came up. ‘That’s ten. Enough.’

She put the gewgaws back in their original places, then laughed. ‘In a year or so we’ll see what I’ve done. Whether I’ve survived or not. Along with my ten green bottles.’

‘Chasing men isn’t the problem,’ the old lady said loudly. Her speech had become slower and grander: she, too, had drunk more than her normal quantity on an empty stomach. ‘It’s spotting the defects from the distance, so you can be choosy. Then, if they’re any good, catching them and holding on to them.’

‘All advice gratefully received, but I’m not sure that’s on the agenda. Yet.’

‘You’ve been hurt. I can see that.’ Sally spoke quietly. ‘I’m impressed that you’re putting on a brave front. But there are lots of ways you could meet new men, and make friends. Not just those
Telegraph
ads. Even if you didn’t want to … you know. Take it any further.’

Hetty was drinking her fourth glass of wine. Her tongue was loosened and she giggled again. ‘Oh, Lord, Sally, sex with strangers. Are you about to warn me to carry condoms?’

Sally gaped. The old lady swivelled round in her chair and stared. ‘
If
you go chasing men, dear, do choose clean ones,’ she said.

‘Yes, Mother,’ Hetty answered, and hiccupped slightly.

Sally stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. ‘We haven’t decided anything and it’s getting late. What are you going to do?’

Hetty remembered the pizza leaflet and made a decision. ‘Enough talk for one night. I am going to phone out for a Meat Feast with garlic bread,’ she announced. ‘With chocolate chip ice cream to follow. Would anybody like to join me?’

Hetty was beginning to find her bearings. The children from the downstairs flat, whom she took to be the McDonalds’, had scurried past her one morning. A boy and a girl, aged about five or six, though not twins, in the uniform of the nearby primary school. Mrs McDonald, a dumpy woman in her mid-forties, had bobbed quickly behind them with an anxious look, carrier-bag on her arm. There had been no time to exchange pleasantries, and Mrs McDonald did not appear to want to. You can be sociable or not as you wish, Mrs A had said; apparently, the McDonalds did not wish.

Mrs A would greet her cheerily; indeed, made it her business to greet everyone who came near the block, often by leaning out of the window. It must be her method, Hetty reckoned, of coping with life alone, though ‘alone’ was hardly an apt description. Some of those the woman hailed would accept her offer of a cup of tea, as Hetty had. The postman did every Saturday, the milkman on pay-days, though he confided in a whisper to Hetty that that meant The Swallows had to be at the end of his round.

The newsagent did not deliver. ‘I’m here from five a.m.,’ he whined. ‘Enough.’ To spite him, Hetty bought a copy of the
Big Issue
from a scruffy man who crouched on an orange-box nearby, and whom she had seen roundly cursed by the shopkeeper.

The
Big Issue
seller had looked her over in a fashion that made Hetty distinctly uneasy. She hoped he would not start following her home. He was dirty, his oiled jacket greasy with caked food, his fingers brown from cigarettes. One lip had an ulcer. Whatever he had been before fate brought him to this, he was not a pretty sight.

She was musing thus in the little supermarket, and thinking that she should not make snap judgements: perhaps the man had had bad luck and his current state was not his fault. Maybe selling the magazine was his first small step back to civilisation. She joined the queue absentmindedly.

Suddenly another image came into her view. And made her stare openly.

This man was impossibly handsome, with a shock of tousled golden hair, blue eyed. Over six foot. Probably around thirteen and a half stone. Breathtaking. He was in the queue ahead of her. Hetty rebuked herself. She might not be in the business of chasing men, but it was undeniable that she had begun to notice them, both good and bad. Unfortunately, her taste and preferences had been formed years before, when she was a twenty-something on the lookout. This sort of man, so tall, his lean body hinting at some athleticism – did he play squash? cricket? – was exactly the type that had once made her catch her breath in wonder. At a guess, however, he was of an age to be her son.

‘Hi,’ he said, his voice deep. His jaw was prominent, the nose Roman, the chin dimpled. Above the green round-necked sweater his Adam’s apple moved gently up and down, as if saluting her independently.

Hetty was startled. It was one thing to daydream, surreptitiously spying the man’s basket to see whether he was buying for two. It was another to have the vision open its mouth and speak to her.

‘Hi,’ he said again, and grinned. ‘Aren’t you the new resident at The Swallows?’

‘Oh!’ Hetty found her voice. ‘You mean the flats on Aviary Road? I’ve just moved in, yes.’ She was about to add, ‘Flat three,’ then remembered to be circumspect with strangers. He may look an angel, but you couldn’t tell. ‘I’ve bought it. Why?’

‘Because that’s where I live. Upstairs from you.’ Then he must know her number. Of course: it had been on the for-sale sign.

‘Really?’ He must be one of the artistic types Mrs A had mentioned. No doubt about it, as the azure eyes gazed down at her. If the rest of the neighbours were as ‘odd’ as this, her days at The Swallows could be … enjoyable. If frustrating. She was not about to go in for baby-snatching. Maybe he had an older brother.

‘My name’s Christian,’ he told her, as his basket was taken from him by the cashier. ‘It’s not bad round here, don’t you think?’

Hetty nodded as her own meagre groceries were charged. She gave her name and began to tell him her circumstances, then trailed off. If she were to start afresh, as she meant to – as she must – then offering a sob-story as the opening to every conversation would have to stop. Dorset, the Aga and the four-poster bed were gone. It was foolish to dwell on them. Or to seek sympathy. She squared her shoulders.

What would Mrs A have done? The old woman seemed to make a success of singledom.

‘Are you going back there now?’ Hetty asked. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mentally she checked: the crockery had been unpacked and washed. There was milk in the fridge, two kinds of tea in the cupboard, and plenty of biscuits. She smiled encouragingly.

‘I’d love one, Mrs Clarkson.’ He smiled back.

Hetty felt her heart skip a beat. Her new life had started.

The answerphone was blinking as she opened the door. Christian indicated his bags with an easy politeness. ‘I’ll go and dispose of these then come back.’

‘
Hello, Hetty, dear. This is Mum. Back from my latest jaunt. Scotland this time – chilly! Are you in tonight? I’ll come round and we can have supper.
Forgive
me neglecting you. I’ll bring my photos. Edinburgh was wonderful …
’

‘Damn!’ Hetty’s first reaction was the realisation that, while entertaining a neighbour to tea was well within her capacity, cooking for her mother in an unfamiliar kitchen still was not. The freezer section of her modest fridge contained only ice cubes and a piece of frozen salmon. There was no time to shop again. In any case, she did not feel like cooking. A tinge of resentment surfaced, quickly suppressed. Her own attitudes had shifted alarmingly already: in her previous incarnation, refusing to serve a four-course dinner on demand would have been unthinkable.

‘Christian,’ she said, as the boy tapped at the open door then strolled in, ‘if you wanted to take a girlfriend out to eat, somewhere in walking distance, nice but not too expensive, where would you go?’

The eyebrows shot up. ‘Well,’ he said uncertainly, ‘you could try Chez Bruce. Just by the station. Quite fair food and
ambience
.’

‘My mum is a much-travelled lady. D’you think she’d like it?’

Christian visibly relaxed. ‘Rather. I take mine there sometimes and she loves it.’

‘That’s settled, then.’ Hetty felt inordinately relieved. Tea was duly made, Earl Grey,
and served quite respectably in a teapot, with almond biscuits on a doily on a plate. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ Hetty invited. ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m an actor. With the Old Vic company. We go into rehearsals next week for the Pinter revival.’ His chest swelled with pride. ‘That’s why I’m home at the moment, but once we get cracking it’s a fourteen-hour day. Exhausting.’ He rolled his exquisite eyes and puffed out his cheeks.

‘And do you live here alone?’ Hetty could not recall what else Mrs A had said, but this was a tactful way to find out more.

‘No, with my partner. We’ve been together five years.’

‘Ah.’ Hetty was cross with herself for feeling disappointed. She was not about to fall in love, and certainly not with someone who could not recall Abba first time round, but it did no harm to admire beauty and to take vicarious pleasure in it. Friends were to be garnered where they could be found. She and Stephen had enjoyed going to the theatre, but despite her early BBC experience, no current actors or theatricals were among their acquaintance. This was something new, and to be savoured.

‘Is your partner an actress too?’

‘Actor, not actress. They hate being called actresses. That’s what women were called in the days when stage-door johnnies were also part of the scene.’

‘Sorry,’ Hetty simpered. ‘Aren’t they still? Don’t men still hang about the stage door waiting for their favourites?’

Christian chuckled in a knowing way. ‘They do, Mrs Clarkson, but they’re just as likely to be waiting for the male lead.’

‘Oh!’

He put his head to one side. ‘Is that a problem, Mrs Clarkson?’

‘Call me Hetty.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Well, I have to admit, I don’t know any … homosexuals. I did, years ago – must have, I suppose. And there were a couple of teachers living together in a cottage in the village. But one didn’t mix with them.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’d have thought that would be obvious. One worries about people like that being teachers, for a start. Apart from anything else, I have a teenage son. And my husband had views on the matter. We wouldn’t have wanted anybody’s feelings to be hurt. It was a
small
village.’

‘You don’t think maybe their feelings were hurt at being left out?’

‘No, why should they have been? They had their own circle. I imagine.’ Hetty halted, uncertain. ‘Where’s this conversation going, Christian? Are you a campaigner, or something? I know there are lots of gays in your profession – is that it?’

‘Thank you for the tea,’ the boy said, and stood up, though with no indication of hurry.

Hetty rose hastily. ‘Have I upset you? I’m sorry. I thought –’

‘No, Hetty, you didn’t think. I’m an actor, and my partner is not. He’s a senior producer, quite well known.’

‘He? But you said she –’

‘I said nothing of the sort. We’re gay, Mrs Clarkson. Both of us. And your son would have been perfectly safe in our company. Now I must go.’

It was an incident she did not feel she could share with her mother, or with Sally. But living in such close proximity – she could not avoid seeing Christian on the stairs, and realised that the older, greyer man who had nodded at her vaguely on the front path was probably his partner – she would have to find a way to make amends. The discussion, her stupidity and unthinking rudeness, made her go hot every time the words came back into her mind. She felt tortured by them for the rest of the day.

Eventually she wrote a note, the first on her new notepaper. ‘Christian, I am sorry if I was rude. I didn’t know, but that’s no excuse. Hope you’ll forgive me. I’d like to meet your partner, if that’s okay with you both – sorry, I don’t know his name. What would you like – a glass of wine, maybe? Hetty.’ Then she scribbled underneath, ‘Don’t call this evening. I don’t think my mum would understand. Anyway we’ll be out – I booked a table at Chez Bruce as you suggested.’ That, she suddenly saw, was both redundant and compounded the rudeness. She tore up the note and started again, using only the first three sentences. Then she bit the end of the biro and thought hard. At last she gave a little whoop of delight and wrote underneath, ‘When your play is on, I’d love to come and see it. Would that be possible? Could you let me have more details?’ And added, ‘Love, Hetty.’

A strange kind of love. If Christian and his partner ignored the note, she would have been rebuffed, and have deserved it. And would know better next time. But they were ‘luvvies’, weren’t they? Lots of people in London were. If she were to avoid the loneliness that Sally obviously regarded as her lot, then it was up to her to make an effort. That included learning to speak other languages, however foreign they seemed.

Anyway, she meant it. It’d be fun to go to the theatre, to a preview or maybe at the start of the run when everyone was still keen, and to be able to say to the person in the next seat, ‘I know that young man. Isn’t he great?’ It would be participating instead of standing on the sidelines. And there would be no dashing away to catch the last train. If she were invited for drinks afterwards she could go …

That was gazing too far ahead. For the moment, she had been taught a sharp lesson.

Hetty’s mother, despite her seventy-three years, could still cut quite a dash. In the restaurant, in her navy suit, Peggy Morris looked ten years younger than her age. Hetty felt dowdy beside her: under the influence of comfort eating (the easy sin – those darned biscuits), her own waist was spreading and her size had crept up to a fourteen.

‘Wonderful. How did you find this place?’ Peggy was tucking into Bruce’s calamari in Chardonnay with gusto. Without waiting for the answer, she continued, ‘I must say, it’s an improvement on that ghastly steak house in that village of yours. At my age one gets picky. I’m not sure I can cope with Saga coach cuisine much longer. Too many chips.’

Hetty paused, a french-fried potato and a slice of peppered steak speared on her fork. Her mother had always been a strong personality. Had she spent more time in Hetty’s vicinity, with Stephen nearby, there would have been little left of Hetty Clarkson. Now was not the moment to kowtow to her. Hetty raised the fork defiantly and ate. ‘Thank you for your ideas on the night of the council of war,’ she ventured. ‘I was grateful. You hadn’t said much about my divorce.’

The old lady chuckled and poured another glass of Moselle. ‘Frankly, what did you
see in him?’

‘Stephen? That’s easy. I loved him.’

‘Honestly – and you never suspected?’

‘I adored him – blindly, yes. He was a fine-looking man, he could be totally kind, was charming, generous. He was intelligent, successful and well thought-of. I still think I chose well. And, remember, I was a free agent – I could do what I wanted with my day. That’s not so common.’

‘But he was unfaithful.’

Hetty sighed. ‘I see it now, though I was completely naive then. Her husband guessed, but I didn’t. Perhaps my ignorance was no bad thing – it kept my home intact as long as was necessary for the children.’

‘Huh!’ Peggy sniffed. ‘Your marriage trivialised you. Turned you into a doll.’

‘What?’

‘Something else you weren’t aware of. Made you brainless, darling. You’re better off without him. You have a brain, now you’re going to have to use it.’ The empty plate was pushed away with an air of regret. ‘Do you no harm to have to stand on your own two feet. You might even enjoy it.’

‘But what do you mean “trivialised” me? I couldn’t have competed with Stephen. He was so able. And I wouldn’t have wanted to try. I played it low-key in company – you can’t have two prima donnas in a family. One has to take a back seat, support the other. I’m a bit shy, really. Right now there are moments when I’m bloody terrified.’ Hetty drained her glass – anything not to meet her mother’s candid gaze. The alcohol was making her maudlin. ‘I’ve none of the social skills I’m going to need. I’m trained and experienced as a wife. There are no etiquette books written for women like me.’