Chasing Men (30 page)

Would he be another James? Comparisons were dangerous, of course. But Norman was altogether a tidier, more orderly person and a cleaner eater. Norman’s talk avoided politics, and he did not whinge about colleagues at work. Indeed, Norman barely referred to his work, though he admitted that one advantage of Tring was the ability to get away for the weekend ahead of the traffic. Better than James, so far, on every count. But in bed?

‘Where do you like to go – what would be your ideal weekend?’ she asked, as he tucked into his meat. He had cut off every scrap of visible fat and took only a trace of gravy, bare dabs of mint sauce and redcurrant jelly, the two smallest potatoes. Hetty envied him his self-discipline.

‘It would have to be with a special friend,’ he said gravely, and smiled. ‘I do like country-house hotels, don’t you? With a pool, for preference, and wooded grounds to stroll in. A roaring fire for dark, cold days.’

‘And a four-poster bed?’ Hetty asked, in a rush, then giggled. Damn the champagne.

‘And a four-poster bed,’ Norman drawled. ‘Of course.’

Hetty swallowed hard. Her heart was beginning to pound, though whether with the alcohol, the warmth of the room or that curiously enigmatic smile of Norman’s, she could not tell. She felt herself wilt under his direct examination. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have one here,’ she continued weakly. ‘Wish I had, but there’s no room …’

The air between them sang. Hetty stopped breathing. Norman folded his napkin and pressed it to his mouth. His plate was almost empty. Then he put the knife and fork parallel on the dish.

‘So what
do
you have in there, Hetty?’ he asked softly, his eyelashes flickering towards the closed bedroom door.

‘Pudding?’ she asked desperately, rising in her chair.

‘Yes, maybe, but for the moment I’m full. That was a delightful meal, Hetty. Perhaps we could eat our dessert… afterwards?’

Hetty wanted to squeal with delight, but it was all she could do to stay on her feet. Her arms, fussing independently, started reaching for used bowls and stacking the plates. Norman rose and came round to her side of the table, took her hands firmly away from the dishes and brought them up to his mouth. He kissed her fingers one by one, wrinkling his nose in pleasure at the cooking smells. ‘Mmm! Wonderful. I do enjoy real food, traditional style,
properly served. You are the woman of most men’s dreams, Hetty. Who would have thought it?’

‘Cooked with love, that’s the difference,’ Hetty murmured. If she were going to flirt, now was the time. If he wanted to discover whether her intentions were dishonourable, she would send the most accurate message possible. If he wanted bed,
this was it
.

‘Ah, love. Yes, I see that. But you mustn’t love me, Hetty. It’s too soon.’

The rebuke was so considerate, so gentlemanly. Hetty felt her knees buckle. She held his hands tightly and raised her head to look into his eyes. ‘Then simply make the most of being with me, Norman. As with the food, I’m here just for you.’

He took her in his arms, then, and kissed her long and romantically on the lips, the tastes of mint sauce and redcurrants mingling as the kisses became stronger. Hetty slid her hands under his jacket. His back was strong and wiry; even as he put his hands up to her face and buried his fingers in her hair, she could feel his tendons move under the taut skin. The sensation excited her more than she could have anticipated. Not a portly James, this one: when Norman claimed to like sport and to keep himself in trim, he was telling no more than the truth.

‘I think,’ Norman said gravely, ‘that I should remove this jacket and hang it on the chair. It has been a nuisance all night and still seems to be getting in the way.’

Hetty stood back and took in the stripe of the shirt, the silky sheen of the cravat. Above the collar he was freshly shaved, the skin smooth as a girl’s. No wayward bristle marred his nostrils or ears, no warts, no moles. No distinguishing features. On impulse she touched his hair, stroked it: her palm came away clean, no trace of oil. ‘Norman, you’re terrific – do you know that?’ she told him, half disbelieving it herself.

‘I feel we should continue this conversation elsewhere, don’t you?’ he murmured to her, and led her towards the closed door.

Thank heavens, Hetty said to herself as they entered, that she had not only changed the sheets, but wiped down every surface. This man was so fastidious he would notice the least speck of dust. Here the freesias came into their own: the air smelt sweet and womanly, as the women’s magazines said it should. She left the main light off and switched on the bedside lamp. The rosy glow made the bedroom cosily attractive.

Norman began to undo his shirt buttons. Hetty took it as a signal that she should start to undress herself, and wondered if it would hold matters up too much if she offered him a hanger for his trousers. But he glanced about, then draped them without ceremony or comment on the back of a chair. The action was so natural yet so sensible, that Hetty felt a thrill of anticipation: if Norman could so easily solve a tricky problem – James had struggled out of his trousers and looked such an idiot – then her confidence was increasing by the minute that he could deal with
anything
.

In a moment he stood unclothed before her, tall and rangy, with a splendid, solid penis, partly erect already. It was not huge, but the skin was dark and it was definitely not tiny. Hetty covered her mouth with her hands and smiled to herself at the welcome sight. His upper body was almost hairless, his legs – the thighs and calves muscular – more so, and faintly freckled, as his sandy colouring had suggested. His shoulders and chest were well defined: the glow from the lamp made him almost statuesque. Not quite Michelangelo’s David, but not far off.

‘You are,’ Hetty gulped, ‘a fine figure of a man, Norman.’

She was standing in front of him in her bra and pants, not daring to hold him, nor to go any further.

‘And you are so special, dearest Hetty,’ he said, and took her in his arms, kissing her and undoing her bra hooks at the same time, as nimbly and neatly as he had done everything else that evening.

And his performance, Hetty had to admit breathlessly to herself, was everything that could be desired. He pulled back the duvet to give a large, clear area on the bed, and pushed her down on it, giving himself plenty of space to kneel over her. He kissed her quite thoroughly on the mouth – ‘hard’ was not the right description, for there was a soft edge to his manner, and soft lips, which added considerably to his appeal.

Then he kissed her nipples, and sucked them, at first so gently that he had no effect, then more strongly, so that she arched her back a little, and caressed his head. And ‘Adorable,’ he whispered, ‘you are so pretty,’ as he traced his knuckle over her abdomen, as if to get the measure of the firmness of her flesh. In her navel he made a circle, letting her feel the sharpness of his nail, and that made her squirm and giggle, her haunches moving under him, though as yet there was hardly any contact down there, as he carried himself over her like a canopy, blocking out the ceiling.

‘May I kiss you?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she whispered.

‘Only some women don’t like it,’ he added, as if to himself. Then she realised where he meant to kiss her, and bent her knees up slightly, and spread herself open – not too widely – and at first he simply put his knuckle there, and kneaded the opening, high up, till she pushed his hand quickly the necessary half-inch downwards, till the pressure made her whimper; and then he bent his head, lifted her feet up over his shoulders and crouched down, buried his face in her crotch, and began to nibble.

‘Oooh! Norman, oh, Norman,’ she wailed, and could not help herself …

‘Do you like that?’ He raised his head briefly, his fingers now busy.

‘Oooh! Norman,’ was all she could say, feeling herself becoming heated and moist.

‘Wait, don’t be so impatient,’ he laughed, ‘I want to make sure you get there.’

And she could feel that fingernail again but this time it was deeper, circling inside her as if to enlarge the opening, while his other hand took hers, and led her to take hold of his penis and squeeze it, four, five times, till it was magnificently upright…

But
hard
was the word as it slid inside her, with no more ado, until she could sense him deeply engaged in her own pulsing tissues; and
hard
was how he started to push into her,
thump, thump
, the bed and her body moving in rhythm with him.

‘Ooooh!’ yelped Hetty, but tonight she was not pretending. ‘Oooh! Fantastic!’

‘Aaah …’ came from Norman’s face, buried in a pillow beside her ear.
Thump. Thump
. She could almost hear the sperm begging to be released.

‘Now, Norman, oh, Norman,’ Hetty begged, and he shifted weight, gave a groan and made one more thrust, and held it, his shoulders arched above her, his face damp, close to her own.

‘
Aaaah
…’

And he came to climax, not too fast, not too slow, not too aggressively, as if still
considerate of her emotions, on this important first occasion …

The plop when it came was audible, and reflected the considerable size of the organ responsible. Hetty breathed rapidly, wondering whether to tell Norman that, whatever
his
dreams, he was as close to hers as any chap could be. He rolled over and even tidily adjusted his damp appendages so they should not drip on her bedding. His understated skills, the thoughtfulness they demonstrated, left her in awe. What a truly amazing man.

They lay quietly, their chests rising in gasps, laughing contentedly together. Hetty reached for the duvet and tugged it over their damp bodies. Norman’s arm was round her shoulders; he kissed her once more on the mouth before lying back. ‘Not bad for an old one, eh, Hetty?’ he said roguishly. ‘Those youngsters think they know it all, but they don’t. We can still enjoy ourselves. Can’t we?’

‘We can,’ Hetty agreed happily. Then she raised her head, her tousled hair collapsing over her forehead. ‘Though on your agency application, Norman, you said you were
forty-five
. That’s still young.’

‘And your form, if I recall, said the same.’ On his forehead, beads of sweat shone dimly in the light.

With a jolt Hetty recalled that he was correct. She giggled. ‘Oh, well, so what? You’re as young as you feel.’

He was smiling indulgently, as if both had uncovered a secret; as, indeed, they had. A shared secret, but not a dangerous one. ‘And right now, dear Hetty, I feel about twenty-one. You are a great lady. Thank you: thank you so much.’

This seemed a remarkably elegant speech for a man who had just made love to her, Hetty reflected. Almost as if he had said it before – as if he had braced himself to remember, in a rather stilted way, to say thank you.
Yum, yum,
would have been more like it, she reckoned. But he did not seem a man who would indulge in baby-talk. James, on the other hand …

She stopped herself quickly. Norman was not to know that she was in the habit of bringing strange men to her bed. He, on the other hand, had been without a wife for two years; his remarks had implied, though not explicitly, that he had been celibate even before his wife’s death, as her illness had progressed beyond intimacy. Her soul filled with pity and affection towards him.

In a while, when he was rested, she would reach down and see if that splendid member could be encouraged to perform once more. Afterwards, she might enquire if he would like to relax over a slice of apple cake, with cream, in bed. They could spoon morsels into each other’s mouths. If some were spilled, it wouldn’t matter: a blob of cream on Norman’s torso could easily be dealt with … naughty, but
nice
. Then it might be time to brush their teeth – a new, spare toothbrush sat in its wrapper in the bathroom – and maybe slip off to sleep together.

‘Oh, Norman,’ Hetty said, with feeling, ‘I’m so glad I joined that agency. You’re exactly what I was hoping for – couldn’t be better, not even in my wildest imaginings.’

He hugged her to him. ‘And you, Hetty, and you.’

The recording for the day was coming to a satisfactory end. None of the guests had come to blows, the audience had been of a respectable size, wide awake and relatively enthusiastic, and the subject – breast implants – just within the boundaries of family viewing. Rosa had drawn the line at implants in other parts of the anatomy, despite one male guest offering to demonstrate his for free.
Tell Me All
was recommissioned for a third series; for its crew, the show had settled into a steady routine.

‘Thank heavens that’s done. Another useful contribution to parish funds. And since they have decided to thrust a young curate on me, we’ll need every penny.’ Father Roger ran a finger round inside his clerical collar: the studio was hot.

‘When’s he coming?’ Hetty asked, recalling his disapproval.

‘Next month. Not appointed yet. He could be a she – lots of women ordinands are
job-seeking
at present. I can’t imagine anything worse.’

‘Don’t be such a rotten old misogynist. She could be gorgeous. You might fall in love, Roger.’

‘Not if I can help it.’ The priest shook his head. ‘Talking of which, Hetty, dear girl, tell me what’s going on. You are positively glowing.’

‘Am I?’ Hetty tried to appear nonchalant.

‘Yes. Whenever you think no one’s watching, your face settles into a faraway little smile. That has not always been the case in our acquaintance. There have been moments when you have appeared very down. No longer.’ He waited.

‘Life has certainly taken on a rosier tinge,’ Hetty admitted carefully. She pretended to riffle through the production sheets on her clipboard to avoid his gaze.

‘Aha! At last.
You’re
the one in love.’

‘Don’t tease. Anyway, what if I am?’

‘You’ve met someone.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Name?’

‘His name, if it bothers you so much, is Norman. He is a widower, he has his own business, he’s charming and respectable. Anything else?’

Father Roger picked up Hetty’s hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it dramatically. ‘Your eyes say everything, my dear. I’m so pleased for you. And will you be booking nuptials? I can recommend St Veronica’s …’

Hetty pulled her hand away. ‘No! Anyway, you couldn’t marry people like us in church – I’m divorced.’

Father Roger pressed a finger to the side of his nose. ‘It can be arranged. But only for those entwinings of which I approve. The necessaries are dispatched at the register office, then you stroll through the park, trailing rose petals from your bouquet as you go, straight to the altar where I indulge you both with the
lushest
of blessings.’ He warmed to his theme. ‘Many second-time-rounders say they adore walking up the aisle together: it feels as if they are entering matrimony hand-in-hand, instead of the unequal partnership implicit in the
traditional service …’

‘I do not need the spiel, Roger.’ Hetty tried to retain her dignity. ‘I met Norman only a few weeks ago. He is –
nice
, and we are enjoying each other’s company. Talk of marriage is seriously premature.’

‘But not impossible?’ Roger winked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Hetty, more sombrely. ‘Once bitten, twice shy, perhaps. Or maybe the established way – coupledom – isn’t for me any more. I do like my current arrangements, that’s not pretence.’

‘But this Norman might do the trick. You have hope written all over your face, dear girl. That’s splendid. And do I take it that this is a full, mature relationship?’

‘Roger!’ Hetty giggled.

‘The days when a girl was a virgin for her wedding night vanished years ago. Doesn’t apply to you, anyhow. But you do need to winkle out any strange habits he may have, Hetty. Not much use discovering them later. Suppose you find he likes to chain his women to the bed?’

Hetty gave the priest a playful dig. ‘I think I might get quite excited, Roger. Some of us positively like sex. Now, push off and let me be. If there are any significant developments –
if
, I say – you’ll be the first to know. Will that do?’

Did it show that much? Roger was the shrewdest person on the set and accustomed to extracting revelations from the merest shred of body language. He could be trusted to be discreet. Hetty had always felt that, if she had a problem, he would be easy to turn to, and committed by his calling and vows to secrecy. Rosa was another matter. Had Hetty dropped any hints, the information would have been broadcast in no time, probably by the producer announcing it gaily at the next staff meeting.

In fact she ached to tell everyone. It was as much as she could do to maintain a calm exterior, to go about her daily activities as if nothing new had occurred. Concentrating on other people’s conversation had become difficult. It was easier to withdraw a bit, to spend more time by herself, not least to indulge in repeated bouts of daydreaming.

Was it entirely a fantasy? Was she simply a lonely woman, desperate for undivided attention, with the unsatisfactory episodes of Al and James behind her, creating out of thin air the relationship that would make her life complete? She forced herself to reflect, yet could come up with no negatives. He was, so far, everything he had declared himself to be: with the one exception that his age was higher than he had claimed on the form. That peccadillo she regarded with affection. Every other detail was spot on. Indeed, he was far better than she could have conjured up by herself.

It was early days yet: her common sense had not left her entirely. Time enough, if and when he made a declaration of love, to match it with one as heartfelt of her own.

Meanwhile, the refrains that ran through her brain seemed to be taking over.

‘I’m as corny as Kansas in August …’ It was a Friday afternoon. Hetty was clearing out kitchen cupboards, J-cloth in hand, humming as tins and half-empty packets gathered behind her in untidy ziggurats. ‘High as a flag on the fourth of July …’

The bell rang. Hetty got up off her knees and went to the door.

‘Oh, God, Hetty, have you any milk?’

‘Hello, Annabel. Milk? I think so. You make it sound like a matter of life and death.’

‘It is. My parents are about to descend and the first thing they’ll want is a cup of tea.’

Hetty motioned the young woman inside and headed for the fridge. ‘You’re welcome, but what’s wrong with the minimarket at the garage?’

‘No time! They’ll be arriving any second. If they ring the bell and I’m not there, they’ll go spare. Thanks, Hetty, you’re a pal.’

Annabel was dressed, as unflatteringly as ever, in a black cropped T-shirt that showed her midriff, and leggings that cut into her calves. The diet had either been abandoned or had not sufficed, though Hetty had seen her still trudging across the common. But agonies about her size no longer seemed to trouble the girl. Perhaps Annabel had become resigned to a larger than average fate.

At Hetty’s door Annabel hesitated. ‘Het, would you like to come in? They’re not too bad. And I never know what to say to them.’

‘You sure that’s okay?’

‘Course. Why not? Leave it about twenty minutes or so. Then we’ll have gone through whether I’m eating my greens or sleeping properly and changing my sheets. I’ve never grown up as far as my mother is concerned. My dad says nothing but just sits there.’

Hetty chuckled. ‘You’ll always be a child to your parents.’

Annabel shifted the carton of milk from one hand to the other. ‘Is it true the other way round? I s’pose it is. They’ll always be parents to me. Old and sexless and interfering. Not real people, if you see what I mean. But I do love them. Or I try.’

Hetty recalled Sally’s initial wariness of her mother’s altered state, and how her son Peter had slid away from the family circle and never enquired about her welfare, as if it could be taken for granted. ‘Families were ever thus,’ she said. ‘I’ll come.’

It would be a useful distraction. Not merely from the chores, which were not pressing, though they seemed to answer a resurgent nest-building instinct; but from those jumbled crazy noises inside her head, the floating pictures of smooth-shaven cheeks and a slight, closed smile, and of twinkling male eyes that seemed to be laughing both at and with her at the same moment.

With Roger she had dissembled, but could not deny that something significant was under way. She had tried to conceal her own bewilderment; it was important to appear cool about the whole thing. But as she had uttered his name, her voice had trembled. She could not conceal how precious that name was becoming to her.

Norman
. Norman with his Turnbull and Asser shirt, that neat pinstripe. Norman with his cravat, or tie, of silk in a Paisley swirl. Norman eating, the irregular pattern made by his teeth in a piece of toast, to be memorised and marvelled over. Norman’s hands, the narrow wrists with the veins outstanding, taut and elegant. Norman with his shirt off, the light from the bedside lamp slanting across his freckled shoulders. Norman –

Norman
…

In her mind, crowding out everything else, an invasion was taking place. Norman walking down a street beside her, talking, glancing at her and nodding when she made some comment as if it were the most intelligent remark in the whole universe … his sloping handwriting on a card, thanking her for another dinner ‘and a wonderful few hours’, as if
manners must not be forgotten amid the joy and passion … the cadence of his voice, the thrill of his fingers … Norman’s presence when she awoke in darkness, not wanting to return to sleep for fear of losing each detail of him at her side, breathing slowly, his warmth filling the bed … the indentation of his head on the pillow, the lingering aftershave in the bathroom … the single curly hair in the corner of the shower, picked up and treasured and hidden away …

‘If this is love, then it’s amazing,’ Hetty sang to herself blithely as she quickly bundled rice, flour and tinned tomatoes back on to their respective shelves. A packet of Jaffa cakes just within their sell-by date would do for Annabel’s. ‘Second spring. Better? What was it like before? Can I remember?’

Not the same. With Stephen it had been a delicious whirl, naturally, but against an entirely different backdrop. Hetty had then seen herself as, and had been, a woman of her time. In her twenties she had hoped to meet a marvellous chap, fall headlong, marry, have babies, run a home and live happily ever after. All but the last bit had happened, more or less successfully. Her preoccupations, in those days, had been the ponderous questions – is this a reliable person? Will he make a good father? Will he be sensible with money? Do we have enough in common to carry us through an entire lifetime? She had forced herself to be objective, however cynical it might have felt. To her mother she had put a solemn assessment the day of the engagement: that Stephen, tall, handsome, and such fun to be with, was also a worthy man whose values were much the same as her own, who would be, all things considered, an ideal husband.

With Norman – or, indeed, with any new male friend – other criteria applied, far more superficial. She was not seeking a father to her children: if a new date hated children, that would be a black mark (since it implied a selfish or immature nature), but in a theatre escort it didn’t
matter
. She was not yearning for a home or an income; these she could provide alone. Nor, more subtly, was she in search of an identity. In the difficult months since leaving Dorset, she had established one for herself, more emphatically than ever during her marriage. Indeed, if a man, whoever he was, asked her to abandon her single status, her flat, her independence, to rely upon him for everything as before, as a wife or a virtual wife, her reaction would have been unclear.

But Roger had put his finger on it. Suppose the name in the frame were Norman’s?

Except that no such possibility had escaped Norman’s lips. He was the soul of discretion, of controlled, manly dignity, as if he sensed that she should not be pushed too far, too fast. Moreover he was witty, charming and considerate: his every word, every movement were to be cherished. And he was
excellent
in bed, though she did not intend to pander to Roger or anyone else with the delicious evidence.

‘I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love with a wonderful guy …’ she hummed, as she washed and dried her hands and rubbed Nivea into the skin. Chapped fingers and cracked cuticles were not the stuff of middle-aged romance.

Then, Jaffa Cakes in hand, she crossed the landing.

The atmosphere in flat four, as Annabel had foretold, was stilted, baffled even, but not hostile.

The parents, as Hetty could not help labelling them, were seated in the two armchairs. Spread out, rather, for both were overweight: Annabel’s struggles evidently stemmed from her genes. On the coffee table were a lidless pot of tea, three mugs, an open box of sugar cubes, a single spoon and Hetty’s milk, still in its carton. Both parents were shorter than their daughter, the father in a navy suit, the mother in grey tweed. From previous mentions Hetty had gleaned that they were in trade somewhere on the Essex coast. Annabel had once spoken with blunt loathing of Billericay.

Annabel sat on the sofa, right in the middle, as if the space each side conferred some protection. Her hands were pressed nervously together between the fat, black-legginged thighs. As Hetty knocked and pushed open the unlatched door, she jumped up with every sign of relief. ‘Hetty, my neighbour,’ she said. Hands were shaken.

‘Good Lord!’ Annabel’s father said. ‘You’re quite old!’

Hetty’s mouth dropped open. She shut it quickly. ‘Pardon?’

‘Harry!’ Mrs Leighton was flustered. She prodded her husband. ‘She’s not old. She’s – she’s the same age as us. Aren’t you?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Hetty murmured, trying not to laugh. Annabel’s face was aghast.

‘I meant,’ Mr Leighton hissed to his wife, ‘I guessed Annabel’s friend would be – you know, about thirty. This one isn’t.’

‘That is undeniable,’ Hetty answered, as she handed over the biscuits. She perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘But why should you have thought otherwise?’