Vintage Babes (5 page)

‘They’re very lucky, having you dashing around like a blue-arsed fly dancing attendance,’ Gillian had said. ‘There’re several in here who only get to see their kids on rare occasions. And some who don’t have kids and no visitors.’

Gradually, the visits to my father had settled into sometime on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, with him coming for lunch at my house every Sunday. It was not always easy to find the time – and the regular Sundays meant me turning down invitations and were tying – but I had made the effort. And my dad, who frequently claimed that my visits were ‘life-savers’, had seemed so grateful.

‘You want me to come on any special day?’ I asked a touch tartly, for regardless of the fact that I worked, the Tuesdays and Thursdays had been chosen because they did not clash with his other pursuits, such as short mat bowls, ballroom dancing lessons – he had never set foot on a dance floor when my mother was alive – and whist. Thanks to Gillian’s oft-stated desire to ‘keep her old folks happy’, there is a leisure pastime perpetually on tap at Bridgemont.

‘Let’s leave it open for now, but it would help if you could ring first, pet. In case Dilys and I have plans. Though I should be at home this Thursday.’ The clock was eyed and his tea was being drunk with noticeable speed. Today I had not been offered a piece of the Battenburg cake of which he is so fond, not even a biscuit. ‘There was a bit in one of the papers at the weekend about your Tom. Did you see it?’

I sighed. ‘No.’

If ever a reference to my ex-husband should appear in the national press, my father can be guaranteed to spot it and to comment. And although eight years have passed since we were man and wife, he always speaks of him as ‘your Tom’.

‘It said how he was political editor of his paper right now, but top favourite for the overall editor’s job when the present man retires in twelve months. Your Tom’s done so well. Extremely well.’

‘He has,’ I agreed.

At the time of our separation, my mother’s criticism of Tom was vitriolic and she had continued to badmouth him – out of her granddaughter’s hearing – until she died. Although he had once basked in her favour, he had never been forgiven for ‘running off with that floozie.’ ‘I think she ran off with him,’ I had said, but my mother would make no concession. ‘Then he should have resisted.’

My father, however, was not so hostile. He had enjoyed having a son-in-law whom he described as ‘a top-notch journalist with his finger on the political pulse’. He had loved it when Tom had told him about conversations he’d had with various Prime Ministers and given him the low-down on M.P.s. Even now, it wouldn’t surprise me if he still boasts about Tom.

And Tom was not all bad. Maybe it was to assuage his guilt, but when we divorced he’d been generous; splitting the proceeds from the sale of our Kensington apartment straight down the middle and then contributing extra cash to enable me to buy a house outright, furnish it and equip it with microwave, television, tumble-dryer – the essentials. He also keeps in regular touch with Lynn, our daughter, and, still, gives her sizeable cheques.

My dad boasts about me, too. I’ve squirmed with embarrassment when he’s described me to other Bridgemont residents, in my presence, as ‘an outstanding writer and a caring and loving girl’. But then, when we’re alone, he spoils it by talking about other people’s daughters who, according to him, are constantly arriving with home-made cakes and casseroles, who take their parents on expensive foreign holidays, whose Father’s Day gifts stretch to Rolex watches – which beats a bottle of cheap gin from Sainsbury’s hollow.

The clock was inspected again. ‘Don’t want to rush you, pet, but –’

‘I’ll go.’ I took a last drink of tea. ‘Dad, don’t you think you should be careful about your friendships with these women?’ I suggested.

He may not be able to get them pregnant, but I could foresee other kinds of trouble; catfights on the stairs, laxative in his morning coffee, accusations of sexual harassment.

‘Why? I’m enjoying playing the field. And that’s what you should do.’

I groaned. My father has spent the last eight years hoping that I would either marry again – to someone of status and thus provide him with a second son-in-law he could boast about – or produce a string of classy boyfriends. I had failed miserably on both counts. He’s even daydreamed about Tom and me getting together again, regardless of the doting slick chick and their two sons. Mind you, I have to confess there was a time when I harboured idiotic yearnings in that direction myself, too.

‘Or you should find yourself a special fellow,’ he went on, as we walked to the door. ‘Time’s passing and you’re not getting any younger. What do they call it – drinking at the Last Chance Saloon?’

‘Thanks! And what about you?’

‘It’s different for men,’ he said smugly. ‘But you need to get a move on.’

Should I invent a boyfriend? I wondered. Should I claim to be seeing someone? But while it would get him off my back, it would also have him asking a thousand probing questions. About the boyfriend’s job and salary, value of his house, if he owns any ISA’s and how much he’s paying into his pension fund. My father would’ve adored Russell. If he had known I’d met him he would have demanded a word-by-word report of his conversation, but at the first mention of ‘share options’ my brain had disengaged.

‘Dad, I’m not interested.’

‘You should be.’

‘I’m perfectly happy on my own.’

He patted my hand, as if I was a misguided child, then kissed me goodbye. ‘So you say.’

‘It’s true. I’m happy with my house, with my –’

I hesitated. I had been going to say ‘with my job’, but the work situation didn’t thrill me at the moment.

‘You’d be even happier if you had someone.’

‘Would I? Does it follow? You may think so, but I enjoy my independence. In any case,’ I added quickly, to stem a protest, ‘I never see anyone I fancy.’

He grunted. ‘You never look!’

Girls in their thirties might be desperately seeking Mr Right, or Mr Darcy, but I’d been there, done that and torn up the T-shirt for rags, I reflected, as I drove along. After an experimental and educational spell a few years back, I had accepted life as a born-again single and was at ease living by myself. Mistress of my own fate and a free spirit, able to do whatever I wanted when I wanted. Able to take charge of the TV remote control, weep over late night movies, shave my legs in the bath. Tom had complained bitterly about the latter. I missed the sex – missed it like mad – and having someone to scratch that inaccessible itch on my back, but I didn’t miss ironing shirts or being forced to listen to endless moans about how, these days, so many politicians looked and sounded like third-rate car salesmen. Or the national indignity of having Prime Ministers who wore jeans.

‘My life is fine,’ I informed a squirrel which was standing, upright and still, on the distant grass verge. ‘Honest.’

It was fine, yet there’s no denying that a solo existence requires effort and, now and then, I do feel sorry for myself. When I see married couples who are relaxed and loving together, I can’t help thinking how good it would be to have someone to grow old with. To share the trials and tribulations, the laughs, the holidays, the intimate thoughts. To cozily reminisce about past experiences. But after twenty-two years of what we had both agreed was a happy marriage, I had always assumed that someone would be Tom.

I had also assumed my father would remain forever faithful to my mother’s memory. But then I’d never considered him to be a babe magnet – though he does have a full head of white hair, his own teeth, apart from a couple of bridges, and, despite arthritic twinges, he walks miles, executes a mean foxtrot – so Gillian has reported – and, on occasion, kicks a ball with his great-granddaughter. The idea of him ‘playing the field’ troubled me. He seemed destined to hurt the old ladies and could get hurt himself. So far as I was aware, he’d never looked at another woman when my mum was alive and now to–

‘Oh no!’ I yelped.

Anyone who travels Surrey’s renowned leafy lanes will know from the scraps of fur and intestine regularly pancaked to the tarmac that the odds of running over a squirrel must be high. Squirrels do not halt at the kerb, look right, look left and proceed with care. Nor wait for a passing lollipop lady. Trustingly, foolishly, they dash straight beneath the wheels of your Ford Focus. Or this one had. It had remained still until I’d drawn level, then sprinted out, kamikaze style. Because squirrels look so delicate, I’d always imagined that if you ran over one – heaven forbid – you wouldn’t feel a thing. Not true. I felt a bump, albeit a light one, and a crunch. The crunch was sickening. It turned my stomach.

Fearful the poor little creature would be writhing in its death throes, I risked a glance in my rear-view mirror. There was no movement. No blood and twitching guts, either. Just an inert ball of grey fur lying on the road. Had it passed on to an acorn-filled heaven or merely knocked itself out cold? Should I stop, go back and move it before another vehicle – maybe a Tesco lorry – thundered along to deliver a resounding
coup de grace
? Animal rights activists might insist there was no choice, but I wasn’t sure if I could bring myself to pick up a lifeless, still warm body, nor did I fancy trying to shift it with my toe and getting scratched or rabidly bitten. Calling myself all kinds of a coward, I drove on to the hotel.

*          *          *

Originally an Elizabethan manor house and Grade Two listed, Garth House is an opulent chintzy place with four-poster beds, jacuzzis in the en-suites and nightly rates to make you wince. The grounds include a formal walled garden, nine-hole putting green and a helipad. Most guests are executive-level businessmen, living the good life courtesy of their companies. There are several high-ceilinged function rooms where wedding receptions, conferences and small-scale exhibitions are held. Time-share sharks sometimes bask there.

When I arrived, I sped straight to the Ladies. I was desperate for a pee. I had washed my hands and was looking at the wan face in the mirror – an assassin’s face? – when I spotted two hairs. They were jet black, stiff and so
long.
I could swear they hadn’t been there yesterday, so they must have grown overnight, sliding stealthily out in the dark. Grotesque invaders. Leaning closer to the mirror, I angled my chin. The hairs appeared to come from the same follicle, one shooting right, the other to the left, like aerials on a ghetto blaster. I’ve accepted that youth has become a fond memory – more or less – but this was a wake-up call. Old age looms, it yodelled. The buzzards are circling.

Some day! First Steve Lingard had stamped his authority, then my father had revealed himself as a closet Lothario, next I had pole-axed a squirrel and now bristles were sprouting from my chin. Fate had locked into the kick-ass mode.

I poked at the hairs. How did I remove them? There’s everything in my bag from plastic toothpicks to an illegal pepper spray to squashed sachets of ‘refreshing tissues’ plundered from long-ago holiday flights, plus the essential chocolate lollies and Marlboro Lights, but no tweezers. The likelihood of ripping the hairs cleanly out with my fingers seemed remote, and painful, so all I could do was leave them and hope no one would notice, as I hadn’t noticed when I’d made up my face that morning. Made it up in a hurry, as usual. I find it hard to resist that extra ten minutes in bed.

I was sprouting bristles, but what came next – a dowager’s hump, more warts than Oliver Cromwell, incontinence pants? Could my frantic dash to the loo denote a weak bladder destined to get weaker – or simply nerves brought on by my fears of a possible murder?

Still fretting about the squirrel – was it dead or alive, even now ought I to race back and rescue it? – I went out onto the thick-carpeted corridor. Hearing the distant rumble of conversation, I headed towards it. Double doors were half open, so I walked inside and found a glass of red wine being thrust into my hand.

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem,’ said a foreign-sounding waiter, who was going the rounds with a tray. He nodded towards a long buffet table on one side of the room. ‘Helpa yourself.’

The wine tasted like nectar. While I don’t profess to be an expert, I can tell a good vintage and this rated high. Numero Uno, classy expensive stuff. The kind of wine which TV noses drool over as ‘full-bodied’, ‘flirtatious’, ‘confident’. I was wondering why the Garth House management was being so generous – or had someone uncorked the wrong bottle? – when it dawned on me that the people who were gathered didn’t look like aerobics aficionados. On the contrary. Most were elderly, portly and dressed in black. Nor was this the purpose-built wing designed to ‘soothe the senses and release your physical potential’ – according to the brochure. I hadn’t joined the health club launch, I had wandered into a wake. Dumbo.