Aunt Margaret's Lover (7 page)

He was still looking half amused, half confused by my announcement. 'A lover for a year is a bit like saying a three-minute egg will always be cooked properly. You can't plan the perfect duration, it depends on so many factors -mostly how fresh it is.'

I giggled. 'Very fresh,' I said. 'I want him very fresh.'

'Oh, we
are
talking about a relationship with a male, then?' he replied wryly.

That removed the giggle. 'Colin! You are not taking this at all seriously. I have been having a relationship with a man. With Roger.'

He looked at me above his glass. 'I said a relationship.'

'It
is ~
I mean it
was.'

'It was a disgrace. So tell mc.'

'What?'

'What stopped you having a real one?'

'You know about Sassy.' I laughed, slightly nervously. 'You know
very well
about Sassy
...
It was just easier not to, that's all.'

'I think you're still holding on to something that you should let go of. If it's what Dickie did to your sister -that was one man among many - and a very young one too.'

For a moment a shadow dimmed my good cheer. I saw Dickie's handsome, boyish smile, heard Lorna's laugh, saw them arm in arm and then heard the grinding of metal, the howling of brakes. I rejected the image.

'Whatever it was,' I said, 'is over. Besides, I thought you were an Existentialist?'

'So I am.'

'Man's self is nothing except what he has become at any given moment?' 'Exactly so.'

'It applies to women too. Sartre might not
really
have thought so but Simone certainly did. I have been Aunt Margaret. And now I am going to take a lover. And here's to it.' I raised my glass.

He looked serious for a moment. 'It isn't necessarily a game, you know. You have to know what you are doing. People get hurt.'

'Colin,' I said, 'I am nearly forty. I have had relationships in the past.'

'Me,' he said. 'I was your last. You told me that.' He put up his hand palm outwards. 'Disregarding Roger.'

'Existentially speaking, correct. And now there will be another.'

'And how do you intend to go about finding this For One Year Only stud?'

'Not stud.
Lover.
And I don't know. I was hoping you might be able to advise me
...'

My duck arrived looking deliriously pink in the middle and I cooed over it. 'Shall we have another bottle?' I said, for the red had gone down quite a way.

'Let's eat a bit,' he replied, 'and then see, shall we? Besides, you've got to get in training.'

I refused to meet his eyes lest he see the panic.

Later, with coffee, he counted off the requirements on his fingers.

'Young.'

'Youngish,' I said. 'I mean, I don't want anyone older than me.'

'Middle-aged, then?'

I stuck out my tongue at him.

'Good-looking?'

'Attractive will do.'

'Solvent?'

'Relatively. And with a view on life. A craft, a skill, a something - even if he doesn't pursue it full time. I don't want a wastrel.'

'Lets me out,' he laughed.

'Certainly does,' I agreed.

'Physical attributes: tall, active
-'

''Active?
I don't want a mountain climber.'

He smiled knowingly. 'Active, my dear Margaret, is a polite way of saying
virile.'

I put my hand to my mouth and blinked. 'Ooh, I hadn't thought about
that. . .'
'Well, you better had.'

'I mean,' I shrugged carelessly, or I hoped it was carelessly, 'of course I
thought
about it, otherwise I'd be seeking a friend like you. But I do want a lover - only,
virile
is such a positive word. Isn't it?'

Colin was laughing again.

'Why are you laughing?'

He looked up. I followed his gaze. And stared straight into the eyes of the waiter, who wore an expression such as might append itself to a monkey touching snow - deep interest laced with anxiety. He blinked as our eyes met.

'More coffee?' he said, and his voice seemed to have gone up an octave.

I winced in the sun and Colin took my arm.

'That was a lovely lunch and a very generous gesture,' he said, pulling me across Church
Street. 'And now I want to buy y
ou something.'

My legs were fine but the rest of me felt as if it were almost floating. A combination of extreme happiness after a very good lunch, and a sense of grand destiny, of taking control of my life - if not my direction at that precise point, for now that we had reached the pavement, Colin was hauling me past the shopfronts aglow with wonderful clothes, and which I wanted to inspect more closely. Eventually he guided me into a shop that smelled of chocolate, chocolate, nothing but chocolate. And a beautiful golden-haired girl, with eyes like a doll and a voice to match, said, 'Can I help you, sir?'

'Chocolates for the lady here,' he said and pushed me firmly towards the counter. I saw him wink at the girl who fluttered her eyelashes and looked at me pityingly. Obviously I was the dull executive wife and he was the dashing Bohemian husband. 'Not
that
Bohemian,' I wanted to say. 'His jacket is Jaeger and he sells ethnic rugs to the middle classes

for a living.' Then I jabbed my finger at the gleaming ranks of seduction laid out before me.

Back in the street we ate about three each - no, this is not true: he ate two and I ate four - and then I said, 'Come and help me spend two hundred pounds on myself.'

'Sure,' he said. 'Where?'

I looked up. Next to the chocolate emporium was a shop called Passions. It had lots of frivolous stuff in the window -skin-tight velvet leggings with embroidery, off-the-shoulder tops with bows and glitter, skirts that flared and came nowhere near the knees.

'In here,' I said, and, giving him the chocolates, I licked my fingers and marched in.

There was a very good reason for drinking all that wine. It was called throwing caution to the winds.

Chapter Nine

I fly to Canada tomorrow and he is going to meet me off the plane. . I am so glad to have had these f
ew days here to get used to then
idea. I feel nervous and I think he sounded it too. The Frick was wonderful -you were right - and that calmed me down. I keep
wondering what to wear which is so silly.
As
if
I am going to meet a new lover or something!
Hardly!

Verity has one of those organically created kitchens with genuine atmosphere. Lots of pine - shelves, dressers, corner cupboards and a big rectangular table awash with fruit bowls, paperwork, toast crumbs, flowers and high-quality foreign white goods that discreetly blend in. It is precisely what
House and Garden
tidy away when they photograph those 'country kitchen in the heart of Mayfair' absurdities. It looks the way it should look if it is to function - a sort of rustic heartwarmer but underpinned by sophisticated knowledge. Only not pretentious. The clothes cradle attached to the ceiling holds drying clothes rather than drying floristry, and the oven is state-of-the-art Neff. I always felt at home in the place, although I was absolutely certain that if I tried to reproduce it I would fail. Verity is extremely good at jigsaw puzzles, which I am not, and I believe this may have something to do with her ability to make living space look right. It's called an Eye, and she has it for her kitchen, her whole house, even her life
which always seems to be sorted
out. I have it for frames and pictures and not much eke. From the expression on Verity's face as I showed her my newly purchased skirt, very much 'not much else', and I had second thoughts about showing her the top that went with it, which I kept hidden in the Passions bag.

'Mrs Mortimer said I should show my knees,' I said defensively.

'Well,' she said, 'you're certainly going to do that.' Verity pushed the milk
bottle
towards me, still eyeing the garment draped over a chair back. There were unmistakable signs of it having been purchased
in vino ver
itas.
She touched it with the very tips of her fingers as if it were leprous. 'It's - well, it's a bit pre-teen.'

'Pre
-teen?' I looked at it as it fanned out before us. It was some sort of synthetic white silky material, stiffish, with two layers of supportive netting under three tiers that ended above the knees. In truth,
well
above the knees.

I took comfort from recalling Colin's expression when I came out of the changing cubicle. It had certainly been approval. If not downright lust.

'Colin liked it,' I said.

'Colin's a man,' she said. And for the first time I noticed that she did not altogether sound or look her usual bouncy self.

'Exactly so,' I said, sipping my coffee, staring at her over the rim of the mug.

'Why have you - I mean, well, what's it for?.'

I put down my mug. Defensiveness bred aggression, as it will.
^l
ForV
I said. 'What do you think it's for? I'm going to cut it up and use it for dusters of course.'

She passed her hand wearily over her mouth and I realized that its corners were drooping. What with the unbounciness, this all looked suspiciously like depression. 'Sorry,' she said, 'I'm a bit out of sorts
...'
And to prove it she burst into tears. Definitely not the time to bring out the black stretch lace with the drawstring plunge.

'What is it?' I said. 'I'm sorry - should have noticed. Won't you tell me?'

'Oh shit,' she said, and buried her face in her hands.

I had never
seen
her be anything but lively, even when faced with any difficulties. Verity with her head in her hands weeping and scatological was something completely new.

I handed her a tissue, patted her hand, waited. Very soon she made a muffled noise which sounded like an apology, for which I said there was no need. After a little more peek-a-booing with the hands, she regained her composure, but still looked - there is no other word for it - grief-stricken.

'Come on, tell me.'

'I don't want to load you down,' she sobbed. 'Not with Saskia just gone and you being so brave - with the skirt and smiling through and everything . .

'Smiling through? Verity, I'm fine. I mean I am
really
fine. This is not a brave face. Not even a false face. This is me and I am OK. Sassy had to go, I was prepared for it, welcomed it really.' I threw up my hands in what I hoped was a convincingly cavalier gesture. 'Shit, I even
paid
for her to go. So weep on, speak on - I'm in an absolutely positive frame of mind. I even came to ask your advice on some future little plan of my own' - she showed a tiny spark of interest - 'but it'll keep. So what's up?'

She wiped her eyes, put her chin in her hand and looked at the table. With the damp tissue she pushed the toast crumbs around. 'What future little plan?' she asked.

'It'll keep.'

'No, no. Tell me. It might take my mind off
...'
And the tears spilled out afresh. She gave me a little sideways woebegone look of interest. I took it to mean she really did want to know and launched in.

'OK. Well, this' - I pointed at the skirt - 'and this' - I removed the BSL with the DP from the bag - 'are my artillery. I am going into battle despite knowing it won't win the war.' I smiled, rather pleased with the metaphor.

She stared at me wetly, uncomprehending. 'I wish you wouldn't talk in cliches,' she said, 'and then look smug about them.'

A little dashed, I went on. Putting more of a small-arm than a big gun into the manner of delivery since she was clearly snappish as well as raw. 'I am going to take a lover,' I said. 'Now what do you think of that?'

What she thought of it was surprisingly obvious. She burst into fresh tears and implored me to think again.

Ah well, I thought, as I settl
ed down for a woman-to-woman session in Tintoretto mode, at least I can justify putting off talking to Roger for another night.