Chasing Men (35 page)

‘What'll happen?' Hetty buried her face in the blooms. The forlorn reminder of Norman's flowers flooded back and was quickly banished. Nobody in the room tonight was likely to announce that he was marrying
her
.

‘St Veronica's is High Anglican. If he and whassername – Alice – start publicly undermining the church's teaching, the parishioners won't take it. He might have to leave. Who knows? That was a brave act. He must know the risks he's running.'

‘He seems to have decided he's leaving, anyway. He could earn a living in so many other ways: as a teacher or college lecturer, perhaps. Or as a media guru. Could he still be on the programme?'

‘Oh, yes, he's the best there is. In fact, we could drum up an idea for a series revolving around him. Father Roger's view of modern mores.' Rosa was looking pensive.

‘Like Sister Wendy's view on old master paintings?'

‘Yeah, but altogether less dotty … Fancy being assistant producer?'

Hetty carried the bouquet into the kitchen. Every vase was full, so she deposited the blooms in the sink next to the dirty glasses. A quick count showed that around thirty guests remained, though Shelagh and her father had slipped away and those crew members on early duty had also made their farewells.

‘A change would do you good,' Sheryl Crow trilled, in a tune Hetty had not heard before.

As the music swelled, couples formed and danced. Annabel with Nicholas, locked in a close embrace; Rosa and Richard, writhing at each other with unabashed sensuality; Flo and Jonathan, smoochily; then Markus with her mother, the Colonel with Mrs McDonald – and Sally, unabashed, with Kate. Even Brian was twirling solo, orange juice doggedly in hand, swivelling his hips in a passable imitation of hip-hop.

Hetty paused at the entrance to the kitchen and watched, wistfully.

‘You okay, Hetty?' Doris was stacking dishes.

‘Mmm. None of this would have occurred in my previous incarnation. I've gained so much from my odd neighbours, and my friends …' She let her voice trail off.

‘Your odd neighbours?'

‘Yes … When I bought this flat, the agent was a bit offhand. Said you were all
odd
. He may've been correct, but I'm comfortable here.' She pointed. ‘The BJs. I wouldn't have given them the time of day: young sillies, forever partying, irresponsible and drunk. But they're great kids. The McDonalds, the lads upstairs. Won't that wedding be terrific? And my daughter, and Brian, our resident down-and-out, here, in my flat and smelling of
shaving-soap
. I'd have run a mile if anyone'd suggested –
well
. Even you, in that creepy sex-shop. Yet you're all so darned
normal
.'

‘You don't know the half of it,' said Doris quietly. ‘I don't go in for public confessions. There was a time I didn't need to. My picture was on every front page.'

Hetty did not entirely register what Doris was saying, but half turned in sheer politeness. ‘Why was that?'

‘Because I killed someone. That's how I met Jack.'

Eyes wide, Hetty gave Doris her entire attention. ‘Who?'

‘My husband. Oh, yes, I'm a widow. That much is true. I was nineteen, with a baby, and he was a brute. No self-defence in those days, was there? Women were supposed to take what punishment came to them. I was nearly hanged. I'll tell you the details some day, if you're interested. Long time ago, now.'

Hetty struggled with fragments of memory. ‘You had a child who died?'

‘Yeah.' Doris's voice was soft. ‘When I saw what I'd done, I didn't want to live. I smothered the baby and cut my wrists. But we was found.' She held up her arms, fists curled inwards and Hetty saw the faint scars. ‘Like I say, a long time ago.'

The conversation was finished. Hetty swallowed hard. Doris patted her on the shoulder, and moved back into the main room.

‘Mum, do you have a minute?'

It was Sally, with Kate hanging about nearby. It was nearly ten o'clock.

‘Sure. You've been getting very pally with Kate,' Hetty murmured, preparing herself.

‘Would you disapprove, Mum?'

Hetty pondered. ‘If you were happy … God, I dunno. Another facet I barely knew existed before. Take it gently, I suppose.'

‘Right. We will. But that wasn't actually what I wanted you for.' Sally was jumpy.

Hetty peered past her, and understood at once.

‘Hello, Hetty.'

It was Stephen
.

He was as tall as anyone in the lounge, dressed in an open-necked shirt and brown slacks and the beige sweater she had bought him for Christmas three years before. Now he appeared haggard, with heavy circles under the eyes. He stood awkwardly, ignored by everyone present; those who might have recognised him, such as the family, were occupied elsewhere.

‘God in heaven.' Hetty clutched at the door-handle for support.

‘Sally phoned and said you were having a few people round, and that possibly you wouldn't immediately throw me out if I showed up too,' Stephen mumbled, glancing at his daughter for aid. Sally nodded, then let herself be dragged away by Kate.

‘Er – yes.' Hetty tried to pull herself together. ‘Er – would you like some wine? There's a clean glass …'

‘Not at the moment.' Stephen's voice was rougher than she recalled, but it had been a while since they had spoken. His presence filled the tiny kitchen.

‘Hetty, I've come with one purpose. I've been hanging around outside for hours, trying to summon up the courage. I saw you out there with the old ladies, but I couldn't do it. Look, I see now that I've been a complete and crass fool. And I'm here to ask – will you forgive me?'

Hetty felt her mouth drop open, and tried to shut it again. She could barely breathe.

‘Come back, Hetty. Come back to Dorset. The house is empty without you. Nobody else could possibly fill your shoes. I'm living on takeaways. The garden's a wilderness. I'm lost – I miss you terribly. Please …?'

Hetty lifted her head and gazed over his shoulder at her gyrating companions, barely a few feet away: at Doris, now entwined with Jack, who caught her eye and winked, at
lipsticked
Carole and Mrs McDonald, holding hands, as were Roger and Alice, clumsily, as if neither was accustomed to physical contact. Her mother was glancing towards the kitchen with raised eyebrows; she had been alerted by Sally. Davinia was staring openly, as was Clarissa, although Robin was engrossed in persuading Larry and Brian to try his cheroots. The room was full, and clamorous; and every single person had come because she, Hetty, had organised it, had asked them.

And Stephen knew nothing of her journey in the last year, was utterly untouched by her misfortunes and successes. He had not ridden the bike with her through the fresh grass of spring, nor shared the struggle to get into shape, or survived the visit to the dating agency and its dismal outcome. He did not know about the pink plastic dildo in the box under her bed, or her skill in the seduction of strangers, or her diversity of friends. Unlike Larry, he probably hadn't noticed or drawn any conclusions from the lively group in her lounge; hell-bent on his own personal mission, he had started from the same position he had occupied when she left, and was totally ignorant of the milestones since along her path.

‘
A change would do you good
…'

The change had already occurred. What Stephen referred to – keeping house, catering, gardening, ministering to the comforts of one man in cosy, slippered matrimony – were parts of an old life that had vanished round a distant bend in the road. That she had never expected to find again, and that she had contrived not to miss.

And yet, and yet…

She could dance with any man in the room, and yet was not dancing, not tonight. For
every man there, with the sole exception of Brian, was spoken for, the chosen partner of another present. There was nobody just for her. Her attempts to fill the gap had been fruitless; no Norman, no James. There was no guarantee that next week, next season, would bring an improvement. Even Al had proved as unreliable as ever, and she could not recall why on earth she had left a message for him. Perhaps because it would have been fabulous to have
one man
…

Stephen was gabbling. He could not follow her trains of thought. ‘Come back. I can get you out of all this – it'll be terrific, you'll see.'

He did not understand. Any of it. She reached out a hand to steady herself and was met by the glasses on the draining-board and the nodding lilies and roses, the gifts of those who cared about her.

Hetty bent her head and answered, ‘Oh, Stephen … I can't go back. It's not as simple as that…'

She made to push past him but then, as his shoulders sagged and his face crumpled, she relented, and handed him a tea towel.

‘What am I supposed to do with this?' he asked, in astonishment.

Hetty merely smiled, and left the kitchen to rejoin her friends.