Chasing Men (5 page)

‘Heavens …’ Hetty considered. ‘D’you think I should? Who would I ask?’

‘Us, for a start,’ the young man said. ‘Unless you’re afraid you’d catch something nasty from a pair of raving queers.’

Hetty punched his arm playfully. ‘Stop it. I’ve already grovelled and I’m not going to keep on doing it. Should I ask the BJs?’

‘Of course. And their men – then you can see what we mean. Send them home at eleven, though, or they’ll sleep where they fall,’ Markus advised. Then, gently, ‘It’s a splendid idea. People can easily get lost in flats in London, especially after a crash-landing like yours. You feel like you’ve been thrown out with no parachute, right? You could stay in night after night nursing your wounds, and never speak to a soul. I know – I’ve been there. But if you reach out and are friendly, anything might happen.’

‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ Christian cried. ‘You see why I worship him? And you’ll meet my family when you come to the first night, Hetty. My grandmother adores Markus. There’s a little party afterwards. You will come, won’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Hetty. ‘I’d love to. Goodness, aren’t you kind? What do I wear?’

The Wandsworth Studios, Rosa said, were easy to find: in the middle of Putney, behind Young’s Brewery, near the bridge. Hetty, unused to finding her way on foot around London, soon became lost. For over forty minutes she wandered in the area near Putney Bridge, before a traffic warden redirected her. ‘Wrong bridge, love,’ he said. ‘Wandsworth Bridge, that’s the one.’

So it was a flustered and hideously late Hetty who eventually trotted into the studios and was nearly knocked over in the flurry of activity.

‘Ten minutes!’ she heard a gruff male voice call. ‘Back on set by four forty-five or we’re mincemeat!’

A squat man in tight denim jeans, belly overhanging his belt, pushed past her. Under one arm was a clipboard with pink typewritten sheets, in the other a biro; another pen was stuck behind one ear, under his headphones. A microphone extended under his chin. He stopped, pushed a button on the pack attached to his belt, listened, then barked, ‘I mean it!’ before walking on.

Suddenly she was grabbed by a whirling figure – wild black hair, red velvet trouser suit, flashing teeth: Rosa, who hugged her vigorously and planted a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Mwah, mwah! Hello! It’s great you could make it. Did you find us all right?’ The energetic life-force did not pause for an answer. ‘Your timing’s perfect. We’ve just broken for tea. Come and meet everyone.’

Hetty was half carried along a corridor to a cramped area with banked seats and Formica tables littered with ketchup and vinegar bottles. The air crackled with voices and the hiss of steam urns. Condensation misted the windows, but the smell of baking was cosily welcoming. The canteen was packed with what she took to be the crew – men with half a day’s growth of beard, wolfing sandwiches and pastries as if half starved, mugs of tea in their hands; young girls sipping black coffee or Diet Coke. Everyone smoked. In the far corner a family of four were huddled with dazed expressions, teacups untouched. ‘Our guests,’ Rosa said, in a stage whisper. ‘You needn’t bother with them, it’ll be another bunch next week.’

She propelled Hetty round the room. ‘Mike, Gerry, Phil – cameramen. Dave does sound, he’s a genius. Bob you’ve already met, he’s the floor manager. Daisy, Sue, Kate – researchers. The makeup ladies are busy with the next guests upstairs, editors are in the gallery checking the tapes – have I missed anyone?’ She clapped her hands and obtained a moment’s silence. ‘This is Hetty, and she’s coming to work for us.’

‘Hi, Hetty.’

‘Hello, how’re ya doin’?’

‘Welcome on board.’

The buzz rose to its former volume as each returned to his or her previous conversation.

‘Grab a cup of tea, or whatever, and we’ll sit in that corner,’ Rosa ordered.

Hetty obeyed meekly, but muttered a protest: ‘I haven’t agreed to come yet. Why did you tell them that?’

‘Because I need you, that’s why.’ Rosa glanced up. ‘And you need a job, right? So you could do worse than start here. We’ve had to sack a couple of youngsters who were misbehaving. Prompting the guests about what to say and adding a few improbable sexual details of their own. Can’t have that. A mature person like you, Hetty, even a beginner, who I can trust would be ideal. Not that I can offer you much.’

‘I’m not a complete beginner,’ said Hetty huffily. The Eurostar with Clarissa suddenly seemed more tempting.

‘That’s what I’ve told ’em. You won’t let me down.’ Rosa drank her tea quickly. ‘Yerrch! That’s hot. I’ve burnt my tongue.’

‘What does the job consist of?’

‘Mostly fixing up the guests. Phone calls, loads of persuasion. Then you take care of them while they’re here, don’t let ’em get cold feet. Keep telling ’em how wonderful they are, and how their problems will be resolved by their appearing on the telly. Natch. The programme’s called
Tell Me All
. It’s a sort of true confessions-cum-agony-aunt set-up. Daytime TV.’ She rolled her eyes, as if that explained everything. ‘Got to fill the airwaves somehow, and we aim to produce programmes of integrity and quality. Anyway, the network seems to agree. We’re contracted for next year already – that’s why I can put you on the payroll.’

Hetty felt weak. ‘What should I ask you? Salary, I suppose.’

‘You’re paid per programme. You’ll get fifty pounds a show – three hundred a week. For God’s sake, don’t go round spouting about it ’cause some of them are only workies.’

‘Workies?’

‘Work experience. They get zilch. Students, or ex-students. It’s all that’s available, and they’re glad to get it.’ She snorted at Hetty’s shock. ‘Honey, don’t be so green. That’s the only way
anything
gets made for TV these days. They’ll probably think you’re a workie too because you’re a mate of mine. So keep schtum.’

Hetty nodded mutely.

‘Now, next week’s programmes are just about fixed, but on Monday planning begins for the following week. You could come in then. Nine thirty start. Supposed to pack up by five but it’s a bit open-ended. Plenty of nosh on filming days – that’s Thursdays and Fridays, we make three shows a day – otherwise it’s packed lunch or the pub.’

One of the cameramen – Gerry, Hetty believed – had left the canteen and now returned, shaking his head. ‘Camera five’s out,’ he announced. ‘Take a minute or two to fix it.’

‘Relax, everybody,’ called Bob, the floor manager.

‘Oh, good, we have a bit longer.’ Rosa grinned. ‘So, apart from needing a job, how are you doing? Haven’t seen you in ages.’

Hetty began to insist that she didn’t
need
a job, then thought better of it. She needed something to do. The creative cacophony of the studio, though bewildering, was distinctly more to her taste than repeat episodes of Knightsbridge with Clarissa; she could keep up with the one, but not with the other, not indefinitely. It dawned on her that Rosa, in her
fast-moving
way, was doing her an enormous favour. The least she could do in return was be grateful.

‘I’ll be fine. Suffering a bit of culture shock at the moment.’
Keep that resolution. Don’t whinge. Nobody wants to hear your sob-story
. Hetty put her head on one side and examined her friend. ‘Rosa, you look marvellous. This life obviously suits you.’

‘Yes, it does. What makes the difference is knowing we’ve been recommissioned. TV’s a hair-raising business. You can produce an award-winning series – and I have – and still come to the last shot unsure if you can pay the bills next month. Budgets are murderously tight, like I said on the phone. But we manage. Struggle from one crisis to the next. What about you?’

‘Me?’ Hetty’s caution came into play. ‘The decree absolute is nearly through. I have a flat, not too far from here, so this is convenient. I’m beginning to settle in.’

‘Got a boyfriend yet?’ Rosa nudged her arm. ‘Go on, you can tell me. I won’t let on.’

Hetty covered her embarrassment with a short laugh. ‘Everyone thinks I should no sooner have got rid of one man than be haring off after another. What is this?’

It was Rosa’s turn to seem shocked. ‘You’re not about to turn into a nun, are you? Because I don’t recommend it.’

‘I’m not about to haunt street corners saying, “Hey, fella,” either. Or go
night-clubbing
with people half my age.’

‘But the sex!’ Rosa hissed, loud enough for the two men at the next table to hear. One snickered but kept his back turned. ‘Won’t you miss it?’

Hetty shrugged. Even if she were to confide in Rosa, this was hardly the moment.

‘I mean, I don’t know what it was like between Stephen and you. He seemed a hunky guy, but one never can tell. But if it was okay, then surely you’ll get stuck in soon as possible? And if he wasn’t up to much …’ Rosa nudged her again. ‘You’re not past it. Not by a streak. Believe me.’

One of the cameramen twisted round and peered at the two women. ‘It gets better with age, like fine Cognac,’ he remarked, and made kissing noises with his lips.

Rosa made a face. ‘Buzz off, Phil, this is women’s talk. Anyway, you’re married.’

‘Never stopped him before,’ guffawed his companion. That must be Mike, Hetty worked out by a process of elimination. Phil muttered something the women could not catch. Mike found it wildly funny and spluttered into his tea.

‘You can take my word for it,’ Rosa finished loftily, so that the entire room could hear, ‘it gets smaller with age. Like their brains.’

There was a bus back, which she would be able to use regularly, but for the moment she would walk in the gathering dusk. Past a smattering of Italian, French and Indian restaurants – this was hardly a gastronomic wasteland. More bookshops, a children’s clothing shop, a bicycle store crammed with parts, its window obscured by tyres in neatly tied bunches like a Victorian child’s ringlets. An old-fashioned ironmonger’s with a tin bath and tools and faded signs for Eveready batteries. A video shop: she was tempted to enter, then made her second resolution of the week.

Rather than sit morosely in front of the telly night after night, as Markus had warned, it would be better to join the library. She had said it to her mother and Sally as a joke. But her mind did cry out to be filled, and not with more Delia recipes. Could she aspire to read a book a week? Where should she start? Fiction? Biography? It was ages since she had read anything remotely improving or noteworthy. What might somebody like Markus read, that she could chatter to him about without seeming a complete fool?

Hetty stood outside the biggest bookshop and examined the contents of the window. Shortly after, she resumed her walk up the hill towards the common, with a copy of Pinter’s plays and
Bridget Jones’s Diary
under her arm.

It felt like a step forward. Her spirits were high as she approached the block of flats.

A house-warming. When? Who?

Markus and Christian, obviously. The three BJs, and their men, if they would come. Mrs A. Her mother, and Sally and Sally’s Erik, though he didn’t attend family functions. Perhaps he could be persuaded for once. Hetty felt a fresh curiosity about him. Her son Peter,
if invited, would plead too much on at uni. Rosa, and Clarissa and Robin. Larry and Davinia, though they would act superior all evening. Heavens, that was eighteen people already. Mr and Mrs McDonald, as a courtesy. Twenty.

How much would twenty people drink? A case of twelve bottles, maybe? Hetty calculated, then recalled Annabel and the empty vodka bottle, Christian and Markus polishing off a single bottle with her help in less than half an hour. Her mother, Sally and she had got through two and a half. Twenty bottles, then. Thirty?

Should she make a fruit punch or mulled wine? That was the done thing in the countryside, to welcome guests after a chilly walk. She glanced up at the lighted windows above her. A punch did not seem right. Thirty bottles it would have to be, and Oddbins would lend her the glasses.

‘And what do I serve to eat?’ she asked aloud. Mystery upon mystery. What would sophisticated young, and older, Londoners expect?

A footfall came on the path. It was Markus, muffled up against the cold, a preoccupied frown on his face. ‘Beg pardon?’ he said, fumbling with his keys. ‘Hello, Hetty.’

‘I was wondering,’ she mused. ‘I will have a house-warming. How about three weeks on Sunday? My pay cheque comes then. But food. Do I spend the whole day cooking?’

‘Mercy, no. If it were me, I’d have oodles of decent plonk and a few peanuts. Christian wouldn’t argue with the first, but he’d think nuts were distinctly
infra dig
.’

‘What would he prefer? I’d like to please.’

‘Dim sum, probably.’

‘
Dim sum
?’

‘Yes. Don’t be so terrified, Hetty. You’ll get them in Sainsbury’s.’

The replies came back, on the answerphone, or via notes pushed under the door.

‘
Annabel, Flo and Shelagh are delighted to accept your kind invitation. And belated thanks for saving me from death – should’ve said so before. Not known for my manners. Likely blokes are Richard (he was the one who came in the ambulance), and probably Stuart and Ted. But it could change. See you!
’

‘
Hi, Hetty. Larry here. Thanks for the invite. We’re overwhelmed at work, so please count us out. But we haven’t forgotten you’re coming to us. Be in touch. ’Bye
…’

‘
Clarissa calling. How sweet – a flat-warming! Sadly, Robin is speaking at a weekend seminar and wants me with him, so no good for
us.
When are you coming to Lakeside? Give me a buzz
…’

‘
Lovely idea. Thanks. Can I bring Thomas? D. Archibald. P.S. Do you need any help? I’ll come half an hour early
.’

‘
Hello, Mum, Sally here. You’re branching out a bit, aren’t you? You’ve got me worried. Who’re you going to invite? You can’t just ask your old Dorset friends. D’you have anybody else? Anyway, I’ll support you. Ring if you need me
.’

‘
Markus and Christian are honoured at your splendid invitation, and will be there on the dot. Is it bring-a-bottle?
’

Hetty calculated. That would produce a kitchenful of unmatched wine. She preferred to be the hostess: buying her own would give her some control over events. The Shiraz Cabernet had been delightful. So had the Moselle her mother had drunk at Bruce’s. That would do. A case of each, and a few spare.