Chasing Men (7 page)

‘Oh! That matters, does it?’

Her mother shrugged. ‘Don’t be snotty, dear. Believe me, a lot of pensioners live tally. In unholy unwedlock. Creature comforts matter more when you get older. Anyhow, this way he keeps his teeth in in bed.’

I am learning, Hetty reflected grimly, a great deal about my mother I could not have imagined. Am I like that? Am I to become like that?

There was no time to ponder further. Hetty introduced her widowed mother to her widowed neighbour and left them chatting merrily to each other. She suspected that she herself might be one of the topics of conversation, and moved away.

‘Mum!’ It was Sally. She had hardly touched her wine and had a gloomy expression. ‘Who
are
these people?’

‘People,’ said Hetty vaguely, waved a hand and drank another half-glass. The wine was super; it had been a wonderful choice. ‘C’mon, Sally, loosen up. You should be enjoying yourself.’

‘
You
obviously are,’ said Sally, but she did not smile. ‘What are you up to? I thought you were down in the dumps, what with the divorce and that. Beginning to appreciate what you’d given up. But here you are, giving a frantic party and surrounded by half a dozen chaps young enough to be your sons. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Hetty answered, testily. ‘They’re just acquaintances. I’m not about to start an affair with any of them. Why should you assume I have my eyes on anybody? Don’t you trust me? Anyway, some of them are gay.’

Sally stared hard out of the kitchen at the gathering. The lights had been turned down further and several guests had started to dance. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re going to be a fag-hag,
Mother. A fine life that’ll be.’

‘What’s a fag-hag?’

Sally grunted. ‘Why don’t you ask one of them? Look, I have to go – I have an early call tomorrow morning. Don’t get yourself arrested.’

Hetty turned her back, suddenly furious. It was plain that she had not brought Sally up to have impeccable manners; and now it was too late.

Rosa was back, her arm entwined round Markus’s.

‘Darling! You didn’t tell me you knew Markus Krushnikoff! Heavens. He tells me he lives nearby.’

Markus had evidently been economical with the truth. Hetty decided not to betray him. ‘That’s right. We bump into each other out on the street, don’t we, Markus?’

‘But have you seen his plays? The
Antony and Cleopatra
? The
Britannicus
? He’s marvellous. Hetty, you’re so lucky – what circles you move in!’

Markus blushed and rubbed his hand over his non-existent hair. He murmured modest dissent, soon detached himself and returned to watch over Christian, who was in deep debate with Stuart – or was it Ted?

‘I haven’t managed to get to the theatre much, recently,’ Hetty said to Rosa. ‘I used to go with my hus –
ex
-husband. Not sure who I could go with now.’

‘Why? What would you like to see?’

‘The new Pinter. I’ve been given tickets for the first night. Christian’s in it.’

‘Oo-oo-ooh! Those tickets are like gold dust. You seriously looking for a taker?’

‘Er – yes, I am.’

‘Can I come?’

‘If you’d like to. But are you sure you want to come with me?’

Rosa gave her arm a squeeze. ‘You bet. And is there a boozy knees-up afterwards? Are we invited to that, too?’

Hetty nodded, dazed. ‘At the Savoy, apparently.’

‘Yippeee! Then we’ll get dressed in our glad-rags, and we’ll whoop it up. Cinderella, you
shall
go to the ball.’

It was after ten. Several of the guests had bade farewell and slipped away. The McDonalds had vanished discreetly, Sally had gone. Doris was washing up, humming to herself and swaying her hips. The others seem to have settled to some solid drinking and slow dancing. The Colonel and her mother were in the centre of one knot. Christian was still engaged in earnest conversation, trying to explain a point with much exaggerated waving of his elongated white hands. The two young men who were arguing with him had still not been introduced to Hetty, nor did they seem to feel any need to meet their hostess. Perhaps they were uncertain who was responsible for the event; it didn’t seem to matter to them. Rosa tapped Richard on the shoulder and was soon sashaying smoochily with him coiled about her, while Annabel, her back to the gathering, steadily demolished the remaining food.

Markus returned. ‘It’s a super party. Would you like to dance, Hetty?’

‘Lord, I don’t – I can’t remember how …’

He laughed indulgently. ‘Come on. You’ll be safe with me.’

They moved to the edge of the dancing group and he took her in his arms the
old-fashioned
way, one hand on her waist, the other holding hers high in the air. He moved with
grace, lithe and fit. Hetty was taken aback and had to concentrate. ‘You’re very good,’ she puffed. ‘Sorry. I haven’t danced with a man in years – only my ex.’

‘I started my career as a dancer,’ Markus said. ‘I still go to classes, once or twice a week. With a young lover, I have to.’

‘You don’t have anything to worry about, surely,’ Hetty murmured, her tone wistful. ‘Christian adores you. He said so.’ Her head was full of wine and warmth. What a pity this lovely man was in love with somebody else: it was like dancing with a girlfriend’s husband, a source of mingled delight and regret.

‘But I do have to worry. There’s a twenty-year age gap, for a start. When I met him he was a mess – that bit’s true. What he didn’t say was that I had to teach him everything. I was a sophisticated, experienced homosexual; he knew nothing about himself or his sexuality. He had been in a clinic, had been self-mutilating. But now look at him. He’s a success, confident and utterly beautiful. I don’t think I can hold on to him much longer.’

The pace had not slackened, but the ice had re-entered Hetty’s heart. ‘Is that why he presses you to come out?’

‘It’s his way of testing me, yes. He gets angry at what he regards my lack of support for the cause. But it would be natural for him to find men closer to his own age. He’s propositioned often enough. The theatre is a queers’ paradise.’

‘And he – does he go chasing men?’

‘I don’t think so. But he might.’

Markus sounded so sad that Hetty pulled back and gazed at him. ‘What would you do if …?’

‘God knows. I might ask Annabel over there for some tips, then do the job properly.’

Odd people. In Dorset the chat would have been about lobelias and the special offers at the garden centre. Hetty shook her head, a little too vigorously. ‘No, you can’t. Don’t. Come and talk to me instead. Cry on my shoulder. Life goes on. It must.’

‘Such wisdom, Hetty. Have you learned that already?’

They danced without speaking for a few minutes. As the tune changed to a slower tempo Markus pulled her closer. She felt quite drunk but, as he had suggested, quite secure in his arms. He would not lie to her. With her, he was not playing a game.

‘Markus, can I ask you something?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘What’s a fag-hag?’

He burst out laughing and stopped dancing. ‘Why? Where did that come from?’

‘My daughter. What does it mean? Come on, Markus, I’m a sea-green innocent. You taught Christian – you can teach me.’

He started dancing again, and this time they moved easily together, though it was becoming extraordinarily difficult to control her feet. ‘Well, Hetty, it means a woman who likes to go round with homosexuals. Sometimes that suggests she is not interested in sex. But she likes to be seen with men, as a kind of cover.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I’m not sure anything is
wrong
with it. It has the advantage, of course, that she doesn’t see the men she’s with as sex objects – provided she accepts that they are not pursuing her for sex, either. Some women, unfortunately, have a mission to convert men like
us. They argue that if a man can be persuaded to be gay, he can be unpersuaded. It can be a rotten business.’

‘It must be quite nice, not to be seen as a sex object,’ Hetty mused. The room was moving round, faster than their dancing could account for. ‘Golly, I do believe I’m pissed … Nice feeling. Not a sex object. Not to have sex on the brain. I’m supposed to be like that, apparently. To think naughty thoughts all the time. Everyone says so.’

Markus was chuckling. ‘Sex does matter. Most people can’t imagine life without it.’

‘Um, most people in this room. That’s what couples are for. Had plenty of it, in my time. Husband was a big randy bloke. But what I want – what I’d
really
like …’

‘What’s that?’ Markus smiled. Hetty had the fuzzy impression he was holding her up.

‘I’d like,’ Hetty said with heartfelt emphasis, ‘to be seen as a
person
, first and foremost. A human being.’

‘Yes,’ said Markus. ‘
In vino veritas
, perhaps, eh, Hetty?’

‘A person. Not a blob of flesh. Not sex-mad. Got a brain … A person …’

But she was sliding gently from his arms and to the floor, a blissful smile on her face, her eyes closed.

Markus and Christian conferred, lifted her on to the sofa and covered her with a duvet. Thomas the cat emerged and curled up by her knees. The company then carried on dancing, till the wine was gone: Rosa with Richard, Stuart with Flo, the Colonel with his lady and with Doris, alternately; Markus with Doris and with Hetty’s mother, with Annabel and, at last, as the candles burned low, with Christian. Then they stacked the empty bottles neatly, left the dirty glasses in rows in the kitchen, blew out the guttering wicks, turned out the lights, and shut the door behind them.

The racket resembled power-drills blasting inside her head. Her mouth was coated in rusty brown fur. Hetty coughed and rolled over. What was she doing on the sofa? And what in God’s name was that din? Why wouldn’t it stop?

The phone –
the bloody phone
. Hetty staggered to the other side of the room, her eyes half shut, dragging the duvet with her.

‘Darling!’ It was Clarissa. ‘How did the house-warming go? Was it a great success?’

‘Erggh,’ said Hetty, and coughed. ‘Just a minute.’

The tinkle of running water from the tap was like surf pounding a beach. She forced herself to drink two glasses, ignoring the squawking from the phone. ‘Yeah,’ she said, into the mouthpiece. ‘Clarissa, what’s your cure for a hangover?’

‘You have a hangover?’ The voice was astonished.

‘Either that, or a brain tumour.’

‘Hair of the dog, Robin always says.’

‘Eh?’

‘Have another drink. A whisky. D’you want me to come over? Is the place a mess?’

Hetty forced her eyes to open and peered slowly around. ‘No, tidy. Tidier than before.’

‘Sounds like it was some party.’ A grunt came from the phone. ‘Better than the boring function we went to last night. Coronation chicken! I ask you!’

‘My mother’s got a boyfriend.’

‘What did you say? How do you know?’

‘They were here. Smooching. My mother looked a million dollars. Not giving up her pension, though.’

‘Hetty, you’re not making sense. Stay there, I’ll be with you in an hour. Take two aspirin and go back to bed.’

‘Not been to bed …’ Hetty replied, but the phone had clicked. She sat down on the floor and pulled the duvet carefully over her shoulders. ‘Ooo-ooh …’

Clarissa arrived, full of solicitude, curiosity like an aura. Her eyes goggled at the bottles, the empty glasses and plates. The revellers’ consideration had not extended to washing up; perhaps, however, their hands had been so unsteady that it was better they hadn’t.

‘How many people did you have here?’ she demanded. ‘An entire army?’

‘Feels like an army inside my head,’ Hetty muttered. ‘’Bout twenty. Less. Boy, can they
drink
.’

‘You too,’ commented Clarissa. ‘I’ve never seen you like this.’

The aspirins were having a soothing effect. ‘I used to be the maestro. Now I’m one of the players.’

‘Come again?’

‘Couldn’t disgrace my lovely husband, could I? I never drank much. He did, sometimes. Had to put him to bed. He felt sorry for himself for days.’

‘Hetty, I don’t like this.’ Clarissa had filled the washing-up bowl, removed six rings, the charm bracelet and the Rolex, and began to sluice the glasses. ‘Are you going to make a habit of drinking yourself into a stupor? And did I catch you saying that you didn’t go to bed?’

‘They put me on the sofa,’ Hetty admitted. ‘Slept it off there. Don’t nag, Clarissa. I’m feeling lousy. It’s my life, anyway.’ She giggled. ‘Lot more fun than rubber chicken, as you said. Or compared with hoovering up round Stephen and Peter.’

Clarissa stood, one hand on her hip, a tea towel in the other. ‘You’ll be back. Not with Stephen, maybe, but with another chap in a beautiful house with a garden big enough to keep you busy and a four-wheel drive in the garage. My image of you, dear girl, is on your knees in the shrubbery putting in bulbs, not on the floor with your head in your hands. We
have
to fix you up, Hetty. Otherwise – just look at you. You’ll be going to the dogs in no time.’

But Hetty was sliding back into sleep. ‘Not dogs,’ she mumbled. ‘Cat. Named Thomas.’

‘Who? What did you say? Thomas? Who’s he? Is he married?’

Hetty reawoke, still horribly dehydrated, her tongue sour-tasting and too large for her mouth. This time she was in her bed. It was dusk. The phone was ringing once more. She sat up cautiously.

Clarissa had moved the new vase with Christian’s flowers to the bedside. On the table a wrapped package suspiciously like a small box of Quality Street had appeared, with a card: ‘Thank you. From Jane and Andy McDonald and family.’ Other than that, there were no thank-you notes, no other acknowledgements. It was as if the event had vanished completely from the memories of all the participants. Except hers.

The phone stopped, then began to trill once more. She trudged across to pick it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hi, Hetty. Is that you?’

‘Who else would it be?’ Her head still hurt, but the thudding was more muted.

‘Don’t be like that. It’s Larry. Sorry we couldn’t make it to your drinks thingy.’

He and Davinia would have stood out like sore thumbs, Hetty thought murderously. Larry would have engaged in vociferous argument with Christian, would have insulted Markus and have belittled Rosa’s work on daytime TV – if she hadn’t tried to get off with him first, in which case Davinia would have brained him with the nearest Moselle bottle. Had it been known they were coming, her mother would have arrived alone: the Colonel would not have been let loose anywhere near their inquisitive gaze. And Sally would have commiserated with them about Hetty taking leave of her senses. She herself would probably have behaved with her previous decorum – which is to say, would have drunk little, been a matronly dampener on other people’s spirits, and been left at the end with a sensation of something missing. Instead of which –

‘Sorry, Larry, I have a stonking head. What did you say?’

‘You poor thing. Coming down with ’flu, are you? There’s a lot of it going round. Look, we were wondering. Christmas and New Year we’re heading to the cottage. D’you want to come?’

Larry had used his share of the legacy on their father’s death to buy a farmhouse near
Chichester. Hetty’s had paid for a conservatory, which meant it was now gone.

‘I’m not sure. What exactly are you planning? Lots of people down?’

‘No,’ Larry drawled. Hetty had the impression that he was not levelling with her. ‘Boxing Day, yes, and the New Year weekend. But Davinia could do with some help
kitchenwise
, and you are always
so
good with the children. When we go out, I mean.’

‘How kind of you to think of me, Larry.’ Hetty paused. ‘Hope you don’t mind if I say no.’

‘But what else would you be doing?’ Larry wheedled. ‘Your first Christmas since the divorce? You can’t spend it on your own. And you’d be doing us a favour.’

‘I realise that. I don’t particularly want to spend it baby-sitting, either.’ Hetty was surprised at her own tartness. ‘I’m sorry. My sense of familial duty is drying up. I’ll come down for the Boxing Day bash, if you’ll have me, then go straight back.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Larry was dubious. ‘I’ll have to check with Davinia. We were rather counting on you, Hetty, now you’ve nothing much else on.’

‘Right. Understood. Sorry I can’t help out.’

The conversation ended. Hetty sat staring at the phone for several minutes with the request, its implications and her refusal still ringing in her ears. Then she blew a raspberry at the unprotesting instrument, and went to make herself a cup of tea.

‘I can’t go on! I can’t! I can’t!’

The chubby woman, her breasts bulbous in a scoop-neck top, bare legs blue and mottled in spiky-heeled shoes, bottle-blonde hair straggling from an insecure topknot, dabbed furiously at her eyes and left panda-like smudges on both cheeks.

‘But why not? You’ve got it pat. And you’ll look smashing on the box. Think of it – your friends will be so envious,’ Hetty cooed, and squatted down beside her.

‘They won’t. They’ll laugh at me.’ The woman sniffed. ‘I mean, they don’t know I’m a kissogram, do they?’

‘But that’s the whole point. You’re a kissogram who wants to give up for the sake of your little girl. That’s your dilemma. Everyone will admire you.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ said Hetty, with every scrap of sincerity at her command. ‘People will stop you in the street and congratulate you. They’ll say you’re a terrific mother.’

The woman pondered, then heaved herself slowly to her feet and tugged the
micro-skirt
down over thighs dimpled with cellulite. She hiccupped.

‘Come on. I’ll take you back to Makeup. They’ll soon have you at your best. You don’t want people to see you upset, now, do you?’

Gently but firmly Hetty propelled the reluctant guest out of the studio. Behind her Rosa, clipboard in hand, mouthed a frantic ‘Thank you.’

A few moments later Hetty returned as the woman, her Pan Stik reapplied, tottered on to the podium for the sound check.

‘Well done,’ came a chuckle at her ear.

‘I didn’t do much, Father Roger,’ Hetty answered. ‘Bit like trying to get a naughty child back to school.’

‘Ye-e-es, quite.’ Father Roger tweaked his cassock. He was of medium height and
indeterminate shape under the black serge. His robe was not the badge of a particular order, Hetty had ascertained, since he was High Anglican, not Roman Catholic. His head was almost bald, his jaw clean-shaven. His brown eyes twinkled and his expression, as usual, shone with bonhomie. ‘Have you seen the next one?’

Hetty consulted her notes. ‘Aimée and her mother. The child who wants her
belly-button
pierced?’

‘And Mother says no. If I wasn’t a priest, and a believer in the essential goodness of all mankind, I’d have that child whipped.’

‘Makes you glad you never had them?’

‘Rather.’

Father Roger was the permanent member of the panel on
Tell Me All
, and something of a media star in the capital. He was joined by various minor celebrities, mainly from soap operas, of varying loquacity and perception. The presenter was a lofty young man who played with his tie and had never acknowledged Hetty’s existence; he was, it was said, destined for higher things.

‘I love the way you deal with them,’ Hetty confided. ‘And you’re so sharp sometimes. You get away with it when other wouldn’t.’

‘I didn’t intend to reduce that stripper to tears, but she was a prize fool,’ Father Roger grunted. ‘Fancy! “How am I to tell my children that they have four different fathers? I’m so ashamed!” Idiot. If it worried her that much, she should have stuck with one chap. Or used contraception. As for keeping it a secret – I mean, Hetty, they act like this is a private conversation, don’t they?’

And the day after it’s broadcast they’ll wish they hadn’t come near us.’ Hetty was laughing. ‘All human frailty is here. But that stripper wasn’t so dumb. Crocodile tears, I reckon. She had a knowing air about her.’

‘Precisely. She was touting for business. See how she leered at the camera? Vanity, thy name is woman. Harrumph!’ And he scuttled away to take his seat on the set.

Most of the ‘guests’ of the programme were self-referred. They came in answer to advertisements placed in various free newspapers round the country. Others, especially those with disabilities, were recommended by interest groups. Hetty had been moved by the young woman recovering from ME, who had haltingly explained what the condition had meant to her. Others were more sly, less genuine. The skill, she had discovered, was not in persuading guests to appear: on the contrary, the dottier their situation, the more eager they could be. The British disease, from the vantage-point of the broadcaster, was exhibitionism – ‘My husband is sleeping with my mother’ cases were two a penny, had Rosa allowed them anywhere near the studio – but shaping issues into dilemmas that could be argued about and engage audiences was less simple.

‘Who’s on this afternoon?’ a voice hissed in her ear. It was Kate, the chummiest of the researchers, a tall girl in spectacles.

‘The jazz player,’ Hetty hissed back.

‘Oh, God, not him.’

‘You know him?’

‘Sort of. I used to work on
Kilroy
, and he was on that. And he’s been on
Vanessa
, and
Good Morning
, and
Thursday Night Live
. He makes quite a career of it. They do the rounds,
you know.’

‘Makes a career of it? What d’you mean?’

‘Two hundred and fifty pounds fee, he said, or he wouldn’t appear. But he does give a superb performance. Same every time, but totally reliable.’

‘And his dilemma is never resolved?’

‘Never. He’s so convincing – what is it? Ah, yes. “I’m so gorgeous the women are all over me. How do I fight them off?” or some such.’

‘D’you think he’s gorgeous?’

‘Me?’ Kate snorted. ‘You’ve got to be joking. The only person round here I think is gorgeous is Rosa, but she prefers the camera crew. The tattier the better. Heartbreaking.’

The jazz player was in his mid-thirties, had been married twice and was now, by his own claim, footloose and fancy-free. The name he wished to be known by was Al. He was in a corner of the canteen, showily playing snatches on a tenor saxophone to one of the servers. Chatting her up, at a guess. Hetty examined him from a distance. He was losing his hair and had grown the rest longer to compensate. The blond locks curled, quite fetchingly, on his shoulders. The black leather jacket, navy open-necked shirt and red neckerchief gave him a louche air. His legs were thin in their black corduroy trousers.

He immediately caught her eye. ‘Eddie, isn’t it?’ he called. ‘Are we on yet?’

The server slid regretfully away. The jazz player put down his instrument and patted the seat beside him. ‘Come and keep me company,’ he invited. ‘I get nervous.’

Hetty grinned. ‘What, you? A professional performer? I hear you’ve done this once or twice before.’

‘Yes, well.’ His face was shifty. ‘I explained that when we talked on the phone. Did I get your name right?’

‘Hetty.’

And your phone number’s …’ He quoted it correctly. ‘I never forget a phone number. Especially when it belongs to an attractive lady.’

‘You flatter me.’ Her tone was faintly sarcastic, but he seemed to take it as flirtation.

‘A lovely dame like you must have lots of fellas wanting your private number. I bet you keep ’em hanging on, don’t you?’

She did not answer, though the temptation to put him in his place was strong. Yet what was his place? Should she tell him she was not available? What was the language for that? She could say she was married, though that was no longer true. She could imply she was spoken for, but doubted she was a good enough liar. Instead she smiled and tried to look enigmatic. His snigger suggested she had not entirely succeeded.