The Marrying Game (8 page)

‘A tiny chance, and that’s enough. The question is, are you up for it?’

‘I think so,’ Nancy said. ‘I’d love to go to London. I don’t feel I’m fulfilling my potential here. I’m so starved of love.’

Rufa laughed softly. ‘Berry fancied you.’

‘Didn’t he just? But I don’t think he’s quite my type. He’s got that paunch, and hair like a bog brush.’ She sat up briskly. ‘So, when do we leave the Cherry Orchard and make for Moscow?’

‘As soon as I’ve got the brooch money, and told Edward a pack of lies, I’ll call Wendy. But Nance –’ Rufa’s usually reserved face was nakedly pleading. ‘You will do it properly, won’t you? I keep calling it a game, but it’s not a game. I couldn’t bear it if you were treating it as a joke.’

Nancy smiled, and nudged her favourite sister affectionately with her foot. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t subvert it. I’ll be incredibly serious. And I bet I score first.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it,’ Rufa said. ‘But I bet I get the first proposal that isn’t indecent.’

Wendy Withers had just retreated from a vigorous argument with her fastidious gay lodger (as opposed to her uncouth straight lodger) when Rufa’s phone call came. It irradiated the January morning like a bolt of
lightning
. Afterwards, Wendy was in such a flutter that she cracked open a packet of Mr Kipling’s Almond Slices. To hell with the calories. Rufa and Nancy were coming to London, and a celebration was called for.

Wendy was a large woman, who had stopped reckoning her age a few years before, when she turned fifty. Since her exile from Melismate, her life had been a tedious struggle against penury and encroaching middle age. She dressed her soft, bulky body in the flimsy Indian cottons that had been fashionable in the 1970s, which she regarded as her heyday. She wore her hennaed hair long, because the Man had once said it was her best feature. Her tallow cheeks were always slathered with blusher, even when she was stuck in the basement all day with her reflexology clients – alternative therapies had been a great boon, she often thought, to women like her, without family, qualifications or talent. Melismate and its inhabitants had been the romance of her life.

‘We insist on paying you,’ Rufa had said. ‘Or we won’t come. I’ve just sold something, so we’re not as skint as usual.’

‘Just a token, then,’ Wendy had agreed. Privately, she congratulated Rufa for having found a piece of portable property. During her time at Melismate, there had been a constant exodus of silver, china, furniture, and everything else that was not nailed down.

‘We don’t want to take up valuable space,’ Rufa had said. ‘Just stick us in the attic, or something.’

Wendy would not have dreamt of it. God knew, there was enough room in this dingy old house. It had five bedrooms, and besides herself, there were only her two lodgers, Max and Roshan. They lived on the top floor.
Her
beloved girls could have the large room at the front of the first floor.

Arming herself with another almond slice, Wendy went upstairs to inspect it. Look on the positive side, she thought; it was a little sparsely furnished, and some people might have considered it depressing. But it was near the bathroom, and there was a fine bay window, with quite a cheerful view of Tufnell Park Road.

It was furnished with two single divans, a dressing table with drawers, and a wardrobe. When you walked past the wardrobe, the metal hangers inside set up a ghostly clatter. Wendy decided to cheer the room up with a framed poster of Gandalf, now hanging in the basement.

The girls would be next to her, and what fun they would all have – chats and confidences, and little sinful snacks at odd hours. At last she would have someone to share the small treats she awarded herself, to keep herself going. Max and Roshan sometimes deigned to eat a takeaway with her, but there was nothing like the company of girls. ‘Other girls’, as she would have said, until only a few years ago.

A great-aunt had left Wendy the house in Tufnell Park. It was full of swirly pub carpets and sad Formica things from the Sixties, with legs like a sputnik. Wendy was very grateful to have a solid roof over her head, but the place made her feel defeated and helpless. She had not chosen the decor, and had no power to impose herself upon her own surroundings. There was never enough money to do more than put down a few Indian rugs. Nothing could erase the stubborn reek of Auntie Barbara. The narrow, four-storey semi cried out for the youth and energy of the Hasty girls.

Rufa and Nancy arrived the following afternoon. Roger had driven them to the station, and Nancy was still annoyed with Rufa for leaving her Volvo at Melismate.

Rufa had said, ‘Mummy needs it, whatever she says. And being seen in a dowdy old banger is worse than not having a car at all.’

She had wanted to save money by taking the tube, but Nancy insisted on a taxi. Wendy met them on the front steps, with a shriek of joy and a damp explosion of tears. She had not seen the girls since the Man’s funeral, and could not help weeping over them again.

Kind, patient Rufa patted her and soothed her, and made them all mugs of tea in the cramped kitchen behind the consulting room. Nancy sat at the table, finishing the almond slices, while poor Wendy sobbed for the love of her life. At the funeral, she had been one of a dozen inconsolable women. Rufa felt it was only fair to let her luxuriate in her sorrow, away from the competition.

Two mugs of tea and one packet of Maryland cookies later, Wendy blew her red nose and led them upstairs. The two girls were thrilled with their room.

‘Isn’t it clean?’ Rufa sighed.

‘Isn’t it divinely warm?’ exclaimed Nancy. She dropped her rucksack on one of the beds, and nodded towards the poster of Gandalf. ‘Some elderly relation of yours?’

Wendy giggled delightedly. The Man had teased her like this. ‘The bathroom’s on the landing, and there’s another loo downstairs. I’m afraid you’ll have to share with my lodgers.’

Nancy asked, ‘How many lodgers?’

‘Just the two.’

‘Sex?’

‘Not on the premises,’ Wendy said solemnly. ‘It creates too much upheaval.’

Nancy snorted with laughter. ‘I meant, are they male or female?’

‘Both male.’ Wendy’s lodgers were her great subject, and she did not register the gleam of interest in Nancy’s eyes. ‘Roshan has my top-floor front. He’s an Indian from Leicester, and he’s a journalist. And he’s gay.’

‘Oh.’ Nancy’s interest faded. ‘I suppose the other one’s his boyfriend.’

Wendy became more solemn. ‘I don’t in the least mind Roshan being gay. My only prejudice is against people who hog shared bathrooms – he’s forever waxing his chest in there. And once he’s been at the hot water, the boiler has to start again from scratch.’

‘Perhaps we should draw up a rota,’ offered Rufa.

‘Oh, I’ve tried. He didn’t take the slightest notice. Neither did Max – who’s not his boyfriend, by the way.’

Nancy, beady again, asked, ‘Isn’t he gay too?’

‘Quite the opposite,’ Wendy said primly. ‘I had to make my No Sex rule when I kept meeting different girls in the kitchen. He works at the BBC, and he claims to be writing a novel.’

Nancy raised her eyebrows at Rufa. ‘More your type, possibly.’

‘He can be quite nice,’ Wendy rattled on innocently, ‘except that he leaves the sink full of little black dots when he shaves, which isn’t often. And Max is the one to watch if you’ve left anything in the fridge – don’t imagine labelling it will put him off. Roshan, on the other hand, wouldn’t touch anything in my kitchen with a bargepole. Oh, no. Perish the thought. He has his own
fridge
, if you please, and a microwave.’

Rufa was not attending to this barrage of pent-up grievances. She faced Nancy sternly. ‘You’re not to fall in love with either of them. I forbid it.’

‘The wind bloweth where it listeth, darling, as the Man always used to say. I’ll do my best, but I can’t help my heart.’

‘Well, you’ll have to get that heart of yours under control, or we’ll get nowhere.’

Nancy sighed, and rolled her eyes. ‘You’re a hard woman. First you leave the car, then you make me wear knickers, and now you say I can’t fall in love.’

Rufa opened her mouth to argue further, but caught sight of Wendy’s baffled face. ‘I’m starving,’ she said quickly. ‘Shall we order a pizza for supper?’

She was not starving, but hoped the pizza would take Nancy’s mind off non-profit-making romance. It did – next to love, food was Nancy’s favourite thing. She devoured slices of ham and pineapple pizza with groans of joy, while Rufa told Wendy about the Marrying Game.

Wendy asked, ‘Isn’t it rather rash, coming to London to marry these men, when they haven’t even proposed?’

‘That’s the whole point,’ Nancy said, businesslike again. ‘We’ve never met our husbands. We don’t even know who they are.’

‘Oh – I see –’ faltered Wendy.

‘Identifying our targets will be the hardest part,’ Rufa said. ‘But once we have, we’ll get ourselves into the places where they hang out. It can’t be impossible. We’ll need new clothes, of course. The Man said you could crash in anywhere by simply looking as if you belonged.’

Wendy looked at the girls. They were both wearing
jeans
and jerseys, and managing to make them utterly different. Nancy’s blazing hair was loose. Despite the January cold, her tight black sweater had a plunging neckline. Rufa’s hair was neatly plaited. Her jeans had been ironed, and her sweater was a navy guernsey. They were ravishing, but it was a struggle to imagine them in one of the high-society gatherings Wendy saw in her newspaper. ‘Won’t it be terribly pricey?’

Mention of money made Rufa uncomfortable. She spoke irritably. ‘We haven’t got much – we’ll have to stick to the essentials.’

‘Underwear,’ announced Nancy, ‘is not an essential.’

‘Yes it is. Try to grasp this difficult concept – you have to look like a lady. And behave like one.’

‘Listen to her,’ Nancy said, through drooping strings of mozzarella. ‘She’s sure I’ll use the wrong fork at dinner, and scratch my fanny before they’ve toasted the Queen. Lighten up, old girl.’

Rufa, however, was determined to make Nancy play by strict rules. The moment they were alone, she said, ‘I meant it about falling for the lodger.’

‘Oh, all right. Keep your hair on. If he’s writing a novel, he’s probably far too much like that drip Jonathan.’

‘You have to swear.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘Repeat after me – I, Nancy Veronica Hasty –’

‘I swear, OK?’ Nancy slipped into a perfect imitation of Wendy. ‘I won’t even look at him – perish the thought.’

Rufa snorted with laughter. ‘Bitch. You’ve got your fingers crossed.’

Roshan Lal was a slight and delicate young man, with skin the colour of strong tea. Wendy found him waspish and complaining, and thought he expected far too much in exchange for his rent. He was a reliable tenant, however, and she hoped he would not be annoyed by the invasion of Hastys.

She need not have worried. When Roshan entered the unlocked bathroom next morning, he found Nancy lying in the bath, smoking and reading
Private Eye
.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You must be the gay one. Could you pass me a flannel?’

Within minutes he was perched on the lavatory seat, shrieking with laughter, and promising to take Nancy round all the gay pubs in Camden Town. When he met Rufa, slender and aloof as a lily, he fell into absolute worship.