Chasing Men (31 page)

‘But how can you be
friends
?’ It was Mrs Leighton’s turn. The curl of disapproval in her voice made Hetty wince. ‘You surely can’t like their music. Or their clothes. Or approve of what they get up to. Do you even understand what they
say
?’

‘I get it,’ Mr Leighton hissed behind his hand. ‘She’s an ageing hippie.’ He pulled back his shoulders and challenged Hetty, but his manner was not cold. Indeed, he was examining her with much more interest. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Flower-power and such. Beads and caftans. It’s coming back. Is that why you’re here?’

‘No, no.’ Hetty waved a hand politely. This couple conceivably intended no offence, so she would take none. ‘Tea, I think you said, Annabel? Please. A mug is fine.’

‘I gave her china cups and saucers when she moved in, but where they are now?’ Mrs Leighton complained.

‘Things get broken,’ Hetty said soothingly, aware that one surviving cup was in the bathroom cupboard as storage for condoms. The saucers served mainly as ashtrays.

‘Flower-power,’ Mr Leighton insisted. His eyes were shining. ‘Free love. Beatles and stuff. Was that in your youth?’

‘Just about,’ Hetty smiled, ‘but I was never a hippie. I didn’t believe in it. Conventional, me, then. Not any more, that’s true.’

‘But you can’t possibly
like
living here?’ Mrs Leighton pushed away her tea with a grimace.

‘Yes,’ Hetty said firmly. ‘I have everything I want. Including the friendship of your daughter and her flatmates, who are splendid young women.’

‘Well, I suppose if you’ve no one else …’ Mrs Leighton commented, dubious.

‘Oh, but I have.’ The refrain of the song cut through her brain. ‘I have my own family, and a job I’m lucky to have, and a wonderful guy. Life’s great. Believe me.’

Mrs Leighton sniffed. Mr Leighton was watching her with renewed intensity.

‘And one great advantage, I should add,’ Hetty continued, ‘is that I’ve got to know these young people, and it’s made me young again. Given me a fresh outlook. Brought me closer to my own daughter, too. It’s too easy to regard the next generation as useless simply because they dance to different music, say, or wear outlandish clothes.’

‘It’s not as if she hasn’t the money,’ Mrs Leighton grumbled. ‘We give her an allowance on top of what she earns. She could dress beautifully if she wanted.’

Hetty patted Annabel’s shoulder. ‘She
is
beautiful. You should be proud of her.’

This produced astonished silence from both parents, and an audible sigh from Annabel, who pulled Hetty close and whispered in her ear, ‘That’s what Nick says. Nicholas – the writer.’

Annabel was blushing furiously, her face turned away from her parents. ‘You remember, Het. From your programme. Don’t let on.’

The conversation continued, endlessly repeating the pattern. One parent or the other would make a disparaging remark, to be countered by a sincere compliment from Hetty. Meanwhile Mr Leighton was smiling at her a mite too obviously, that cheesy smile she had seen on studio guests who had something to sell: themselves. It came to Hetty that he had her address. She wondered what he might do with it.

Eventually she tired of the game, rose to leave and shook hands formally. Annabel followed her to the landing. ‘Thanks, Het, you’re a darling. They won’t go on calling this a den of sin and prostitution now they’ve met you.’

‘Glad to help,’ Hetty replied. She decided not to mention the father’s odd behaviour, nor to be inquisitive about Nicholas. ‘I don’t get it – why shouldn’t an older person make genuine friends across the generations? Up as well as down, come to that. Is there a law against it?’

‘It just isn’t done. My parents do their socialising with people exactly like themselves. Same age, same class. Anybody else, they’re suspicious of and avoid like the plague.’

‘Daft, I call it,’ said Hetty robustly. ‘There’s a big gap between feeling comfortable with people your own status and generation and being terrified of anyone else. But I can see your dilemma. Don’t take too much notice of them, Annabel. You’re doing fine. And I bet Nicholas – Nick – says so too.’ And with that she gave the girl a supportive hug, and returned to her own flat.

Her routine interrupted by the tea party, Hetty felt restless. Norman was away at a conference till Monday so was unavailable. Sally was rostered to the New York flights and would be sleeping between shifts near 43rd Street, with or without Erik, to whom she had not referred for ages. Her mother was at a Rotary Charter night with the Colonel, another opportunity to dress up. Rosa and the crew would have dispersed for the weekend. Hetty had made no plans other than finishing off the cupboards and watching some television. It was a bit late to arrange anything more substantial.

After some thought she decided to walk down to Swallow House, the old people’s home. She had taken to dropping in to see the Professor, or sometimes Phyllis or Moira if he were not free, and would leave goodwill messages for Clarissa’s aunt.

But the assistant matron informed her that the residents she wanted were away on an
outing and were not expected back for another hour yet.

‘The Professor too?’ Hetty was surprised. He was usually contemptuous of such events.

‘They’ve gone to a stately home near Aylesbury. Waddesdon Manor, it’s called. He was quite keen – it belonged to the Rothschilds and has tapestries and paintings and such. So he got himself carried on board the coach. We do take the disabled ones as well, if they want to come.’ She shrugged. ‘He’ll probably make them late. The others’ll have to sit in the tearoom while he’s badgering the curator.’

‘Good for him,’ said Hetty. ‘I won’t wait.’ She scribbled a note for his pigeonhole, and one for Millie, Clarissa’s aunt, fastened her coat and went outside once more.

The restlessness continued. She was in the fresh autumn air, and did not need to return home. Alone this evening in the flat, she sensed she might become a little gloomy, and miss Norman more than was wise. Then it came to her. ‘I fancy a movie. Something silly.’ She returned to the lodge of the home, borrowed an evening paper, checked the listings and made a choice.

Soon she was on the dirty, clacking tube, then pushing through West End crowds towards the Leicester Square Odeon and the latest special effects sci-fi blockbuster. It was the sort Norman liked, so she could pretend he was with her, at least.

The square was alive and buzzing. Her spirits lifted. Along Cranbourn Street the restaurants and cafés were noisy and full, their tables spilling out into the street. The pizza stand on the corner was half hidden by a gaggle of tourists trying to eat the slippery triangles, mobile in their paper napkins. The smell of the food wafted through the air, tangy and tempting, and made her feel hungry. The carillon at the Swiss Centre was clanging off-key as the hour struck observed by a flock of tiny Japanese women who twittered like exotic finches. A row of portrait artists and caricaturists touted for customers. Hetty paused to watch as a plain girl was transformed into a pin-up, to the obvious delight of her boyfriend. The background music of pan-pipes, played by a blanketed group of Peruvian musicians, their black hats pulled well down over their ears, added a haunting, international air. They could all have been anywhere, in a dozen cities in the world: Bogotá or Budapest or Bangkok. But this was London, on a Friday night in September. The garish flashing lights above their heads announcing the latest entertainments were like magnets attracting young and old.

Pity Norman wasn’t here. He would be impressed, when she told him about it next week, that she had chosen his kind of film. Hetty realised with a jolt that her tastes were changing quite substantially, becoming much more adventurous. That made her feel even more intrepid, and cheered that she was using her free time well.

She was early, so could wait in the queue, purse in hand; if this house was full, she would buy a ticket for the next and eat a pizza or a bowl of spaghetti in the meantime.

The queue was about six deep. Immediately in front of her were two towering youths in overlarge black jackets. Hetty, cursing her lack of height, craned at the window. The set of a man’s shoulders further up struck her as familial. Who was that? A tallish man, his coat collar partly turned up, obscuring his colouring. A woman hung on his right arm; they were talking animatedly. The man held up his other hand to point at the booth and pulled off a leather glove. A gold wedding band glinted on the third finger.

How splendid that was, to see a man out with his wife. A married couple, who did not
have to debate who to go with, who did not have to pick up the phone book or trawl hopefully through messages from friends. A pang touched her. Though she and Stephen had never been to this particular cinema themselves, they had occasionally gone to a film. Infrequently, when there was nothing on TV, or when no one was coming for dinner, when the children were away. Just to relax. The two of them. It was Stephen who decided what they saw: westerns, or heist movies, mostly straightforward Hollywood. He disdained her then preference for what he dubbed ‘women’s films’. He would be astonished if he could see her here on her own.

The man ahead turned slightly, as if to check how many others were waiting behind. The pair were at the window now. The neon lights round the booths caught the edge of his nose, flickered on the whites of his eyes and made them greenish.

Hetty gave a stifled little cry and ducked down behind the two youths. She had recognised the loving husband, the man with the wedding ring. And she desperately did not want him to recognise her, or to know that she had seen him.

For it was a face she knew too well, and had not expected to see within a hundred miles. And not with such a companion as the woman on his arm.

It was Norman.

Rosa, Sally, Doris and Hetty filled their glasses with Oddbins Californian Syrah and raised them in unison.

‘To men!’ Rosa ground out. ‘May they rot in hell.’

‘To men!’ The quartet downed their glasses in a gulp.

‘Bastards,’ growled Sally. ‘I can’t believe he did that to you, Mum. What a
cunt
.’

‘There’s another bottle. Don’t stint yourselves, girls.’ Hetty pointed limply towards the kitchen. ‘And some sandwiches. Smoked salmon. You are so sweet to come.’

The curtains were drawn, the main lights dimmed. A fat wax candle emitted a perfumed flame; on top of the television set, thin smoke snaked from three joss-sticks in a brass pot, brought by Rosa. Sally, Rosa and Hetty were dressed in midnight shades, though there had been no collaboration beforehand. Doris wore a vividly coloured silk housecoat and a purple turban. The effect, which had not gone unnoticed, was of a coven of witches in session.

‘You sounded so miserable on the phone,’ Sally commiserated.

‘And you were mooning about on the set, and no one could get any sense out of you,’ Rosa added.

‘And I saw you coming in. Crushed, you were.’ Doris rose in a flurry of vibrant silk, fetched the sandwiches, nibbles, plates and napkins and set them down on the small tables. ‘Post-mortem time. First – you certain it was him?’

Hetty snuffled. ‘It was him. I’ve never met the lady, but they were obviously close. If they weren’t a happily married couple, they were giving a realistic imitation of one.’

‘Bastard,’ said Sally again, with feeling. The others raised their glasses in agreement.

‘They
aren’t
a happily married couple, or he wouldn’t have been seeing
you
,’ Rosa pointed out. ‘He wouldn’t have been anywhere near the agency. Heavens, he could be seeing a new squeeze every week.’ She caught Hetty’s stricken face. ‘Sorry, Het.’

‘It’s the wife you have to feel sorry for, too,’ Doris said. ‘He’s philandering around, deceiving decent women, while she’s in blithe ignorance.’

‘Maybe she knows?’ Sally wondered.

‘Wives never know,’ Hetty said sadly. ‘At least, I didn’t, when your father was – out and about. Never had a clue. The curse of the credulous married.’

‘Cursing’s too good for him,’ Rosa asserted. ‘It’d serve him right if he got a dose of his own medicine.’ She raised her voice and glass. ‘May he be cuckolded by his wife with the village idiot. No, with the entire rugby club. In public. May his thingy drop off. May it sprout evil-smelling protuberances –’

‘It
is
an evil-smelling protuberance,’ said Hetty, laughing despite herself. ‘Stop it, Rosa. I don’t wish him any harm. I just wish our paths had never crossed.’

‘Have you confronted him?’ Doris asked. ‘I mean, you could be mistaken. It might have been his sister, p’raps.’

‘He was wearing a wedding ring,’ Hetty reminded her. ‘I haven’t seen that before. Plus he had his arm round her waist. And, no, I haven’t had the chance to speak to him yet.
He’s
supposed to be calling
me
. I’m not sure what I’ll say.’

‘You could ring him. Seize the high ground. Play hell.’

‘I could have phoned his office, but what’s the point? Home must be in Tring, or nearby. It wouldn’t be difficult to find his private number, I suppose, but what if his wife answered? Oh dear.’ Hetty picked up a sandwich and took melancholy bites.

‘It isn’t your fault,’ Rosa said, kindly. ‘
You
’re smashing, Het. You’re the tops.’ She raised her glass in salute.

‘You’re the tops – you’re the Coliseum,’ Sally began to sing.

Doris and Rosa took up the refrain, three female voices in crackling discord like cats on a moonlit rooftop, till suddenly Rosa cried, ‘I remember the naughty version – rhymes with Dr Seuss, I think. Wait … wait – “You’re the tops – you’re the breasts of Venus, you’re King Kong’s penis, you’re self-abuse!”’

Hetty squealed with laughter. ‘God, where did you hear that?’

‘Oh, a chap I used to sleep with. Worked in musicals. Told us the great maestro had such a dirty mind,’ Rosa explained airily.

‘King Kong’s penis I’m
not
after,’ Hetty added. Then, with a hiccup, ‘Heavens, did I really say that?’

‘“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever”.’ Rosa’s cheeks were flushed. She had been to the pub and had started drinking earlier than the others.

‘They’re
not
all the same. I don’t believe it – I won’t believe it,’ said Hetty. ‘There must be loads of honourable, respectable, sexy men out there. Nearly half of marriages end in failure, so that’s millions of free blokes, isn’t it? They can’t
all
be bastards.’

‘Men think differently.’ Doris’s turban was tilted to a rakish angle. The earrings were silver and amber and flashed in the candles’ flicker. She had brought a bottle of Scotch, ‘for later’. ‘They see themselves as the hunters. We women, we’re the quarry. We’re expected to run, of course, and not let ourselves get caught too easily. But they get a taste for the chase, and can’t stop.’

‘Americans write books on those themes.
Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus
, can you credit it? Very non-PC, but they sell by the bucketload.’ Rosa twirled a cheese stick. ‘Men like it the other way round as well. They adore being chased. Getting caught is another matter.’

‘In my generation, it’s the females who do the chasing,’ Sally joined in. ‘Girls are expected to be forward – the blokes have to pretend to be shy. It can be a pain – you can never tell if they’re interested, or not.’

‘Look at their trousers,’ suggested Rosa wickedly.

‘
Staying
caught is today’s problem,’ said Doris. ‘Nobody wants to stick with it any more, see. Come the rows, and they’re off, squealing that it’s not working. In the old days they tried harder, I reckon.’

‘Those women had no choice,’ Rosa reminded her. ‘No child-care, no money. Nowhere to go if the husband was violent – no refuges. The police wouldn’t interfere in domestic disputes. I mean, where would you go then, if your husband started knocking you about? I’ve made programmes about
that
.’

Doris seemed about to say more, then coughed and glanced away. The second bottle was empty, the plates denuded but for a few crumbs. The air was fuggy and sweetly scented.
Rosa pulled out a tobacco tin and, with a glance at her hostess, rolled a joint which she offered around. Sally and Doris accepted; Hetty refused politely.

‘You could say we four are the representatives of the new order,’ Hetty mused. ‘Four women, single. Earning our own living, living alone. Two never married, one widowed, one divorced. Reasonably content, most of the while, aren’t we? We like men. Preferably men who are capable in bed, and lively talkers, and genuine. We’re not hostile to them, in any way: I don’t regard myself as some militant anti-male feminist. We live in hope. But where are they?’

As if in response, the phone rang. The four women sat transfixed. Sally nudged her mother. ‘Go on, answer it.’

It rang four times before Hetty, clutching her wine-glass, picked it up. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Hetty. How are you this evening? I missed you this weekend.’

Hetty pushed the speakerphone button and Norman’s voice floated out into the room.

‘Oh, hi, Norman. Did the conference go well?’

‘I loathe those events. Too much to drink, terrible company, and the speakers are overrated or tell dirty jokes, I’d much rather have been with you, Hetty.’

‘Ye-e-es. Well, I kept myself busy. I went to a movie in town.’

‘Really? I’m delighted. What did you see?’

‘I went to see
The Mummy
, Norman. And so did you.’

‘Er … what do you mean? I was in Manchester.’

‘I think not. You were a short step ahead of me in the queue, Norman. And you had your wife with you. I saw you both.’

Behind her the women began to cat-call angrily.

He began to bluster, his voice rising and sharp. ‘Who’s that you’ve got with you, Hetty?’

‘Friends,’ she said. ‘Better friends than you’ve proved to be, Norman. Why did you do it?’

‘Because he’s a bastard,’ said Rosa, loudly enough for her voice to carry.

‘
Bastard
!’ they shouted.

The line went dead.

Hetty stood dolefully, her eyes filling with tears, until Sally came and helped her back to her seat. Doris uncapped the whisky and poured measures for those whose glasses were empty. Rosa set about rolling a second joint.

‘Face it, most men our age are closer to the grave than to the altar.’ Rosa the pundit blew a wobbly smoke ring. ‘You can’t blame them for wanting to play the field.’

‘But I
do.
’ Hetty was stubborn. ‘Why should their behaviour deteriorate like that?’ She pointed to the mute phone. ‘Age is no excuse. Am I truly to be driven to the conclusion that, leaving aside those guys who are gay or too decrepit to consider or already hitched, nobody worthwhile is left? I don’t believe it. I
won’t
.’

‘It makes chasing men a hiding to nothing,’ Sally continued gloomily. She toked on the joint and handed it to Doris. ‘What will you do, Mum?’

‘Play hell with the agency,’ said Hetty savagely. ‘Ask for some more names – and this time, do some checking of my own before I jump in deep. It’s been a salutary lesson.’

The phone rang again, shrilly. Four faces turned to it in surprise. Was it Norman,
ringing back to cajole, or to apologise? Hetty hesitated as if loath to suffer another confrontation, then shrugged and picked it up.

‘Hello? Is that Hetty Clarkson?’

‘Yes …’

‘Splendid. Then I’ve got the right number. I had to try you through directory enquiries.’ The voice was gravelly and sounded boisterous but nervous, as if its owner was used to giving orders but found himself in unfamiliar circumstances.

Hetty turned her back on her guests and tried to concentrate.

‘Who is this, please?’

‘Ah. Yes. Do you remember, we met?’

Hetty removed the phone from her ear and gazed at it, as if it might carry an image of the caller. ‘We met? I’m sorry, I’m being stupid tonight. Where was that?’

There was a roguish giggle. ‘Across the corridor. In flat four. You came to tea. This is Harry Leighton.’

Hetty did not reply.

‘Hetty? Harry Leighton. Annabel’s father.’

‘Yes, I’m with you now. How can I help you, Mr Leighton? As far as I know, Annabel’s fine.’

‘Ah, it wasn’t Annabel I wanted to talk about, Hetty. It was you. I was very impressed with you when we met. Very impressed…’

Hetty waited, a frown creasing her brows, her lips pursed. ‘… and I was wondering – would you like to meet for a drink sometime? Next week, perhaps? Of course, you wouldn’t have to mention it to Annabel, so how about it?’

Hetty forced herself to speak. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind. But …’

‘You’re such an attractive woman. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Only a drink, heh?’

‘No,’ Hetty said briskly. And she put the phone down quickly.

‘Someone else you want cursed?’ asked Doris, eyes bright.

Hetty shook her head. ‘Another bastard. At the moment, they outnumber the good guys.’ She picked up the whisky glass. ‘A toast, girls. To us. And sod the bastards.’

‘To us!’

The discussion rolled on, with Hetty revealing the identity of the second caller and swearing her companions to secrecy. Minicabs were summoned for Rosa and Sally: as they waited for their arrival they reassured her that the strange invitation had a positive tinge.

‘How long did you spend with Annabel’s family?’ Rosa asked.

‘About half an hour. No more.’

‘You made a big impact, that’s clear. You must have looked nice.’

Hetty laughed. Her head was woozy, but with Rosa, Sally and Doris she felt utterly secure. ‘I’d been cleaning out cupboards. No makeup. I was a fright.’

‘No, you can’t have been. You’re fit and well, you look ten years younger than you used to.’ Sally’s speech was slurred.

‘Father Roger said I glowed. That’s because I was in love. Or thought I was.’ Hetty was rueful.

‘You should celebrate your lucky escape,’ Doris advised briskly. ‘You could have got badly stung. Suppose he’d started borrowing money from you? Or whatever. Fate worse than death.’ She hauled her squat body from the depths of the armchair. ‘Celebrate. Your freedom. There are worse things than a bad marriage, believe me.’ Her face was suddenly sad, as it had been earlier in the evening, but she said no more.

‘How’m I to celebrate, Doris? Or advertise my availability? Should I put a poster in the window – “Men Wanted”?’

‘Dorothy Parker used to keep a “Gentlemen” sign she’d lifted from a public loo,’ Rosa said. ‘Whenever she was feeling horny, she’d hang it on the outside of her door.’

‘Have a party,’ said Sally decisively. ‘Yes, that’s it. It’s almost a year since you moved in here. You’ve lots of pals now, Mum. People you’d never have met before. Far more interesting than Dad’s lot. You had a house-warming and I was a bit snide about it. I’m sorry now. Time for another.’

‘Hmm. I might do that. Would you all come?’

‘Yes!’ they chorused, as the doorbell shrilled for the taxis.

And so it was settled.

Girl-power was fine as far as it went, but Hetty’s mood, albeit defiant, did not lift in the next few days. So much had been planned around Norman and his habits that her diary was immediately a collection of blank spaces. She had not been to the theatre with Markus and Christian for months and had no idea what they might be up to. Companionable invitations from the crew to join them in the pub had been declined till they were no longer made. Father Roger she saw on the set and nowhere else, despite his appeals to attend the many special services he dreamed up to attract worshippers. Her bike-riding was entirely solitary and involved no socialising. She had no further need to attend the slimming class. Even the continued presence of Brian, the
Big Issue
seller, at the tube station, had had no impact; instead of buying him toffee, she had hurried past and barely acknowledged him.