Chasing Men (8 page)

‘D’you like my music, Hetty?’ He stroked the saxophone.

‘I liked listening to you. I can’t claim to know much about it.’

‘Well, now, you could learn. If I were to call this ’ere number and invite you out for a drink some time, would you slam the phone down on me?’

‘Of course not.’ This was real devotion to duty. She could maintain the pretence at least until his piece had been satisfactorily recorded. He was wearing a scent, an aftershave or spray, reeking of eucalyptus. It made her nose wrinkle.

‘Then I’ll do that.’

‘I think I’m a bit old for you, Al,’ Hetty excused herself.

‘No, you’re not. Don’t talk like that. I
love
mature women.’

‘That shows you have discrimination and taste,’ Hetty replied drily. She checked her watch. ‘I’d better get you and your horn into Makeup. You’ll be on in a minute.’

He rose and lunged. She turned her head sharply sideways; he managed nevertheless to plant a wet kiss, not on her lips but on her burning cheek. The eucalyptus was excessive and made her want to sneeze. ‘Nice, huh? More where that came from. I’ll ring you.’

Rosa had been held up in the gallery, checking rushes. As the programme ended she joined the crew in a briefing session for the next day’s shooting. The hair was wilder, the black skin shinier and healthier, the energy more exuberant than ever. This time she was wearing an orange silk minidress. Her legs were still those of a twenty-year-old. She reminds me of the liquorice sticks we had as children, Hetty thought: so delicious you could eat her.

‘Hey! What a life!’ She squeezed Hetty’s arm affectionately. ‘You enjoying yourself, hun? You seem to be making out okay.’

‘I’m making out, fine,’ Hetty answered. Was this another new language? ‘I love it.’

‘You’re brilliant at the job. The guests like you and trust you. That’s always a plus.’ Rosa gave her a flashing smile. ‘I forgot to thank you for inviting me to your party. It turned out quite a night, didn’t it?
And
since …’

‘Since?’

Rosa nudged her playfully. ‘Oh, sure. You know. Richard.’

‘You’ve been seeing Richard?’

Rosa giggled. ‘Yeah. Seeing quite a lot of him.
Terrific
body. Pecs like ski jumps and a butt like two walnuts. And nuts like …’

‘I can imagine. But I’d have thought he was a bit young – for us, I mean?’

‘What? Six or seven years’ difference? Don’t be so old-fashioned. Listen, Hetty, he may be kidding those teenagers in the next-door flat that he’s only thirty, but he’s closer to our age, believe me.’

‘Another guy who makes a career of it,’ Hetty commented, cautiously.

‘Say again?’

‘Mid-forties, still playing the field. Never stops long enough for anyone to catch him. Has a harem on the go, almost. What’s the correct description? Serial philanderer?’

‘Perfect. An experienced sexy bloke who’s
not
after my money. Who could ask for more?’

Hetty laughed, then turned away. Rosa’s riposte seemed too ready an acceptance of standards sharply lowered.
She
could ask for more. A lot more. And could manage with much less. But Rosa’s pleasure in life infected her, and left her pensive.

The nights were drawing in; the shortest day loomed. Hetty and Doris sat in the latter’s kitchen comforted by a pot of tea. In the garden of The Swallows a few hellebore flowers peeped out under the sodden bushes, pale heads nodding like forlorn refugees. Out of the window, Hetty saw Thomas sniff the pathetic clumps with lordly indifference.

‘Doris, what do people do round here for Christmas?’

The old lady considered. ‘Carol concert and Midnight Mass, if you’re religious. I go to St Veronica’s. It’s that trendy vicar – Father Roger, that’s him. Barrel of laughs. The jokes he tells from the pulpit – he’s on telly, did you know?’

‘Father Roger? Yes, he’s on our programme.’ Hetty explained the connection.

Doris gaped, suddenly respectful, then wily. ‘D’you ever get spare tickets for the audience?’

‘You can come every week, if you like. We’re having awful trouble getting enough bottoms to fill seats. These days, appearing on television doesn’t quite compete with staying at home to watch it, apparently.’

‘Ooh, yes! I’d love to. Can I bring Thomas?’

‘No!’

Doris poured another cup of tea. Her hand slid to the pocket of her apron. ‘I could tell your future in the tarot cards, if you like,’ she offered. She put the pack on the table.

A chill touched Hetty around the nape of her neck. ‘Have you second sight, Doris?’

‘Maybe,’ the old woman said. She began slowly, deliberately to shuffle the cards, their colours vibrant under her thick fingers. ‘My grandmother was supposed to have Romany blood. But, then, they said that of everyone in the East End when I was a kid.’

‘The answer to that one’s no, too, Doris,’ said Hetty reluctantly. ‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable. If our future were set in the stars, or in the cards, there’d be no point in us trying to do better, would there? Anyhow, I’m not sure I’m ready to know what Fate has in store for me.’

‘Not sure I believe it either,’ Doris answered, her eyes lowered. ‘But when you hear some people’s misfortunes, however much they’ve tried, you do wonder.’

Her voice had such a hollow note that Hetty stared at her. But the moment had gone, and the cards had been returned to their hiding-place.

It was acutely embarrassing, particularly when the guest was a distinguished, smartly dressed man, who sat, bemused but patient, as Bob the floor manager ran his ragged troops through their paces.

The four rostrum cameras were trained on the rows of seats. Most were empty.

Instead of serried ranks of enthusiastic supporters, only about thirty people had turned up, mainly a minibus-load of pensioners from a Darby and Joan club. Most of those seemed too far gone to follow a single word. Several shoppers had been dragged from the street with the plea that they need only stay for half an hour to rest their feet, then have a cup of tea –
after
the recording, not before. Three drunks had slouched in from the local pub. A trio of
giggling gum-chewing schoolboys in multi-coloured windcheaters three sizes too large and huge trainers, unlaced and loose, were the sole occupants at the back. The entire ‘audience’ was bunched together in the middle of the rows to make it appear to the cameras that the studio was packed.

Bob was squinting upwards at a screen. ‘No,’ he squawked. ‘
Don’t
stare at the monitors – look at Johnnie there.’

The presenter waved a languid hand. Every eye swivelled naturally to Bob, the speaker, except those already shut. The shrunken crone in the front row was dozing and threatening to slide off her chair. Bob prodded her tentatively with his foot; she revived with a snort. He leaped sideways at the boys. ‘And no waving your arms or pulling faces, either.’ He scowled. ‘Why aren’t you at school, anyway?’

‘Baker day,’ the boys chortled in unison. One started blowing lurid pink bubbles. ‘We’re let off early.’

‘What’s a Baker day?’ Hetty saw that Bob instantly regretted asking, but the boys were happy to enlighten him.

‘For training our teachers. To give ’em some ejjicashun. So they can teach us be’er.’

‘Is it effective?’ Hetty asked under her breath, then gazed askance at the restless imps. ‘Not a chance.’

‘Everyone ready?’ Bob demanded. ‘Eyes on Johnnie. Big smiles, come
on
.’

He danced on the spot, clapping his hands over his head, the clipboard papers flapping about. One leaf detached itself and floated to the floor and he scrabbled to catch it, cursing. The audience stirred, shuffled and clapped in a desultory fashion.

‘No, no. That won’t do. You’re watching the best programme on telly! You’re going to be on telly yourselves!’

That did it, though it took two more attempts before Bob was satisfied. The required noise level was achieved eventually by playing the first tape over in synch, so that it sounded as if double the numbers were present. Thus encouraged, the boys and the drunks whooped and hollered, though he would not permit them to stamp their boots. ‘The set’ll collapse,’ he explained ominously. The boys glanced down anxiously.

‘Okay. On your feet. To your left – one, two, three, go!!’

The entire crowd rose, collected itself and its belongings and shuffled ten paces to the left, then with much grumbling (and a few guffaws from the boys) settled itself once more in front of a different part of the backdrop.

Bob pointed at Johnnie. ‘Again! Big smiles! And let’s hear you!!’

The drinkers indulged themselves, this time, in hearty cheering. Bob’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s more like it. Once more!’

Hetty found herself observing the guest sitting pensively on set, miked-up and ready. He was a banker in his forties, with a tanned, handsome face and a trim haircut silvering above his ears. He had told Kate, who had handled the contact, that he was agonising whether to give up the financial world in order to follow his dream, to be a writer. Nicholas was his name. Father Roger thought he was a bit of a poseur.

Hetty had taken his part. ‘A man like that,’ she had argued, ‘would have to be very brave to abandon everything and reach out for the unknown. It’s admirable.’

Such a decision, for a man, had parallels with her own in divorcing Stephen and
quitting the cosy world of marriage and coupledom. Maybe Nicholas, too, felt he had little choice, if restlessness had come to the fore. But the future would still be a shock. His security would vanish, all previous points of reference be destroyed. He would need every scrap of self-confidence to survive.

In herself, the ache for security was vividly present, reawakened each Sunday evening as she sat down to sort out her bills. At the council of war Sally had painted a gloomy scenario: a reflection of her own fears, perhaps, or of her unsatisfactory experience so far. Clarissa, also, had common sense on her side. Marriage was a meal ticket. It had been wonderful not to worry about money, to spend whatever was necessary, not to puzzle why her bank account emptied so fast. Stephen was not the only one spoiled under the old regime. She had been too, and she missed it.

A man like Nicholas might be totally sympathetic. Hetty began to examine their guest with greater interest. He did not seem like a poseur – Father Roger could be too worldly wise altogether. Did Nicholas have a wife or partner? Was he in any way available? His personal details were on the computer; she could bring them up without revealing her reasons to anyone. That would also give his home phone number.

She watched Rosa dashing about: the lady exuded
joie de vivre
, though there was no suggestion she was in love with this Richard. A great sex life, it was no more than that. Nothing would come of it, but although she felt superior, Hetty could not suppress a niggling desire to follow suit. Sex with a masculine man. A professional, a lover who could make a woman’s body sing. Pecs like – what had she said? Oh, lucky Rosa.

Hetty checked herself. She was
not
in the business of chasing men. So soon after the break-up it did not seem either dignified or a responsible way to behave. Not least, because it takes an age for scar tissue to heal. The rebound from an unhappy marriage was probably the worst possible springboard for a relationship.

Pity…

Bob was still leaping about but with relief on his features. He had persuaded the
able-bodied
audience, who were wearying of the game, to rise and move twenty seats to their right. Johnnie was standing before them on the balls of his feet, facing camera one, and was reading from autocue the bouncy words of introduction to
Tell Me All
.

Suddenly Bob screamed like a banshee, yelled, ‘Stop, stop,’ and lunged at the nearest schoolboy, dragging him out by the scruff of his neck. ‘I saw you, you horrible insect. Get out, and your friends with you.
Now
.’ He stood panting and running his finger under his collar. The boys hooted, made obscene gestures and slouched to the exit.

‘What were they doing?’ Hetty whispered to Kate.

‘Mouthing FUCK at the camera. Right behind Johnnie’s head. Appropriate, somehow.’

‘Larry and Davinia have asked me to have a word with you. They’re terribly keen that you should go there for the holidays.’

The takeaway curry from the shop by the station had been an experiment. Not entirely successful, Hetty decided, as she nibbled the remaining poppadum. The excruciating Delia had a recipe for curried beef in yoghurt and another for Sri Lankan egg with garlic, root ginger, turmeric (Sainsbury’s had it), Madras curry powder and creamed coconut. Maybe that 
would be a better bet next time Sally came. She poured the rest of the chilled Riesling into her daughter’s glass. ‘Larry and Davinia want a chief cook, bottle washer and baby-sitter for those two horrible little boys, Sally. I’m not going.’

‘Heavens, Mum, what has got into you? And you’re being unfair.
They
are only trying to be supportive.’

How liberating wine is, Hetty reflected. ‘Rot. I’ve said I’ll go as a house-guest, but not otherwise. That flattened their enthusiasm.’

‘But what else will you do?’

‘Not sure. Maybe not much, other than go to church. I don’t intend to start cooking a turkey. Or to feel guilty, whatever decisions I make. That I have promised myself.’ She eyed her daughter. ‘What about you?’

‘Well, Dad says I can spend Christmas in Dorset, if I want. He and – they will be having a few friends round, nothing elaborate. He says you’d be welcome.’

‘How very cordial.’ Hetty was aware that her tone was curt.

‘He told me, when she wasn’t listening, that he was dreading the holiday. It’d remind him of the kind of get-togethers we used to have.’

‘Oh, my. Does that mean the new girlfriend can’t cook?’

‘It’s not that. She has a name – Natalie. They want to be civilised, honestly, Mum. You wouldn’t consider –?’

‘I would not. I couldn’t. Worse than Larry’s, that’d be.’

There was a silence. Hetty reopened: ‘You haven’t answered me. Where will you and whatsisname be over the holiday? Incidentally, am I ever going to meet him?’

‘Erik’ll be in Sweden – that’s the roster. I could volunteer for holiday duty, I suppose. Triple pay, plus days off in lieu.’

‘Doesn’t sound too exciting.’ Hetty guessed that Erik would be with his family, and that Sally knew it. His wife? His children?

‘No, well, it isn’t.’ Sally drained her glass and ignored Hetty’s second question. ‘Men! I despair, sometimes, Mum. That’s why I’d much rather you had a proper Christmas, either with us at home or with my uncle and aunt. Peter’d come, instead of going to his pals. Maybe we could persuade Grandma to stay as well, and Larry and Davinia might pop in with the boys before they go to Chichester. That’d be great.’

‘It’d be a disaster, Sally.’ Hetty suddenly felt sorry for her wistful daughter. ‘We’d fight or get maudlin or paranoid. Your dad would creep around not sure whether to show off his new love or hide her. That’s not fair – I’m sure she …
Natalie
is quite, er, nice. The village would be
agog
. And my brother! God help us. Larry and Davinia would carp and fidget, their boys would vandalise something – they’re incapable of walking past an ornament without touching or a blank space without scribbling on it. I’d end up in tears. Nobody’d eat the bloody turkey – nobody in our family likes turkey anyway, never did.’ She paused for breath.

‘Don’t,’ Sally begged. ‘It’s so ghastly. My whole life is disintegrating.’

I am responsible for this, Hetty thought. Her voice softened. ‘Poor baby. I hadn’t realised how devastated you’d be. I assumed, with you being older, that you wouldn’t be affected, but that’s not so. Is Peter the same?’

‘No, not him. Water off a duck’s back. He has plenty of mates. They’ll be delighted to
have him.’

Hetty cleared away the plates and discarded the uneaten food. ‘I’m not averse to advice, Sally,’ she ventured quietly. ‘What – apart from going backwards – do you think I should do? Not just Christmas, that’s of minor importance. Generally.’

‘Golly.’ Sally cradled her almost empty glass. Hetty wondered whether to open another bottle of wine; she had laid in quite a substantial stock, with the help of Malcolm Gluck and
Superplonk
, but a glance at her daughter’s woeful face decided her against it. There was a limit to the volume of
vino veritas
a person could take, especially from a virtual stranger.

Her daughter sighed. ‘Being on your own isn’t normal. I still think you should aim at finding another chap. Maybe not next week, I grant you. And p’raps somebody different from Dad, who won’t let you down. But you’ll need to take action, now.’

‘In what way?’

Sally’s eyes roamed over her mother. Hetty felt uneasy under the scrutiny. She went to the mantelpiece where she twiddled the glass perfume phials, which she had come to think of as representing her various options. One had got broken at the house-warming: repaired, it was covered in cracks, its surface misshapen with tiny beads of glue.

‘Come on, Sally. What exactly do you have in mind? If I’m to go chasing men, as you seem to think I must, what steps do I take? Go to an agency? Answer adverts?’