Chasing Men (12 page)

‘I’ll bet,’ Hetty murmured. Her curiosity surfaced. ‘And will you be seeing your gentleman friend over Christmas?’

‘Jack?’

‘Yes.’

‘No. New Year, maybe. He goes north this time of year. To be with his wife.’

‘Oh.’

The bus rounded a corner. Hetty continued, ‘What does he do for a living, Doris?’

‘Jack? He’s a businessman. He was a police officer.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘Him? He owns the sex-shop. He owns three. Quite a little money-spinner, they are. Now, are you coming in for a cup of tea?’

‘A health farm?’ Her mother had sounded dubious. ‘With Sally? That’s mighty maternal of you, Hetty, but it wouldn’t be my preference. And
Sally
doesn’t need to lose any weight.’

The last comment, Hetty thought, had been a mite too barbed. Clarissa had been more supportive. She had recommended Hoar Cross Hall as better value than the grander establishments near London, though less likely to secrete recuperating celebrities. Springs in Bedfordshire, or Champneys, it had to be, if one wanted to bump into the likes of Roger Moore or Shirley Bassey.

‘I would find those two depressing,’ Hetty said glumly.

‘Why?’

‘Because they’re both older than me and still stunning.’

‘Well,’ Clarissa had added diplomatically, ‘make the most of it, darling. I recommend the aromatherapy, a hot seaweed face-pack, and a foot massage.’

Rosa’s response had been predictable. ‘Joy! You jammy devil. Can you squeeze in a third? I’ll sleep on the floor. No?
Shame
. Anyway, make sure you go to every single class. The instructor might be just what the doctor ordered …’

Sally had already checked in. She had explored the handsome manor house and its
wintry gardens, and had familiarised herself with the timetable. Her manner was uncertain and a little awkward.

A few hours later, Hetty was naked, wrapped in thick towels, lying on her front on a padded trolley with a wide hole for her bosom and a narrower one for her face. In a towelling robe on another trolley was a floppy Sally, who had volunteered to go first.

‘Aaagh!’ Hetty squealed.

‘I apologise, Mrs Clarkson, but your shoulders are a mass of knots.’ The masseuse was a hefty woman dressed in white from head to toe. Sleeves rolled above the elbow revealed forearms like hams and fists like mallets, which were now kneading Hetty’s neck. A prison wardress from a Soviet gulag was the image that came to mind. ‘Do shout if I’m
really
hurting you.’

‘Ooof!’

‘What have you been doing? Sitting in one position all day and no exercise? No wonder. There!’ And the heel of a beefy hand was ground into a recalcitrant spot.

Hetty sagged limply. ‘No exercise.’

‘No excuse,’ said her torturer. ‘Roll over.’

Later, in the hot whirlpool, Hetty gingerly tested her shoulder. ‘It does feel looser,’ she admitted, ‘but I’m glad there’s only time for one massage. Unbelievable.’

Sally spread her arms, held on to the bar and lifted her feet in the rushing water. ‘Great idea of yours, Mum,’ she said. ‘You do seem more relaxed – compared with when you first moved into your flat, anyway.’

‘Absolutely. You said then that I should turn tail and scoot straight back home.’

‘Umm … I didn’t believe you’d last a week. You’ve proved me wrong. So far.’

Hetty kicked up her heels in the hot stream. ‘God, I could get used to this.’

‘You don’t miss the old life? I thought you’d be in tears every night, to be honest.’

‘I’ve been so busy. Earning a living is a great antidote. Not had time to miss anything.’ Hetty glanced sideways at her daughter. ‘Except you, of course. And Peter. He seems to have grown away from me completely. He’s sent a Christmas card, but that’s it.’

‘Not lonely?’

‘Nope. Made friends. Every day brings something new. Look, I’m turning puce.’

‘I only wondered, after the failure of your marriage …’

‘I don’t see it as a failure, Sally. It succeeded, after a fashion, for quite a long stretch.’

‘But you failed. Don’t you
feel
it, even a bit? Isn’t that what most women would feel, if their man goes off?’

Hetty held still. ‘D’you know, Sally? Six months ago a comment like that would have made me weep. Of course, you have a point. A woman always asks herself if there was anything she might have done differently to save the marriage or to prevent it going wrong to begin with. That’s how we’re brought up.’ A sudden anxiety flashed into her mind. ‘Sally, did I bring you up like that? D’you tend to assume, if a relationship isn’t going well, that it must be your fault? For not pleasing your bloke, say.’

Sally shrugged. ‘A bit. I’m not terribly good at picking them in the first place.’

‘Is your current chap married?’

‘Yes.’

‘D’you want to talk about it?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘It is a chap – not a woman – is that right, at least?’

‘Lord above, Mum. You
have
been widening your scope. No, he’s male, though there are moments … Men are so complicated.’

Hetty moved to the cooler part of the bath, swam a little, testing the freshly supple shoulders. Then she returned and put an arm round her daughter. ‘I won’t push. I’ve not the most tactful soul. But I grieve, Sally, for the mistakes I’ve made. I wasn’t brilliant at picking, either. As it turned out.’

‘Maybe we’re better off without them.’

‘Men?’

‘Men.’

In the distance a bell rang; supper beckoned. Hetty hauled herself out with a sigh. Swathed in white robes, hair dripping and expressions pensive, the two women left wet footprints, similar in shape and size, on the edge of the pool.

New Year’s Eve. The Millennium Club, near Trafalgar Square. To join in, watch and listen as a saxophonist performed, a man whom she had met properly only once.

What to wear? The weather report said the night would be freezing but dry. The club might be very warm, and she might be asked to dance, in which case she had made up her mind to try it, and not to care if she made a fool of herself. She would need a clutch bag, to be kept with her at all times. A coat not worth stealing from the cloakroom. And enough money tucked down her bra to get a taxi home.

Hetty had not made calculations of this kind for over two decades and was amused even as she fretted. Who was she trying to satisfy? Al, who couldn’t even get her name right? Al, who hadn’t bothered to dress up even for his appearance on television, but who reportedly was delighted with his efforts on the show? Nor was anyone likely to attend who knew her. It was her first visit to the club – to any club, for years – and the management probably wouldn’t give her a second glance.

‘I can please myself,’ she told her image in the dress-shop mirror. She could ignore the slight excess of weight, the roll of podgy fat that disappeared if she held her breath. ‘For the first time in God knows how long.’

It was a peculiar experience. Before, she would have dressed hurriedly as Stephen barged around the bedroom hunting for the tie and socks that she had set out on the bed, and which inevitably he had managed to cover with his jacket. On completion she would seek his approval, and automatically obtain it; that was hardly surprising, as her main objective in life, then, had been to please Stephen. She had assessed everything with his eyes. It had not been necessary to develop her own judgement or taste.

‘In fact, I have no idea what my taste is, or if I have any,’ Hetty answered herself,
sotto voce
. ‘What would I wear in my dreams? Chanel or Yves St Laurent? Monsoon? Zandra Rhodes? Would I go for Vivienne Westwood?’ She stopped. ‘Maybe I already look like Vivienne Westwood. The designer, not the clothes. Oh dear.’

The assistant was a tubby woman in a buttoned suit. ‘Modom looks de
laight
ful,’ she said eloquently. ‘Ay think the blue suits Modom rather better than the red.’

The blue dress swirled, its spangled hem dashing against her calves. It tantalised and swished. It fitted without wrinkles and was ten pounds cheaper. ‘I’ll take it,’ said Hetty, and her eyes sparkled.

It also felt strange to be going somewhere smart alone. Coupledom ruled socially; singles stood out, forlorn and awkward. Hetty had overcome her fear of entering a pub or a wine bar by herself, but had quickly decided that, in any case, pubs were not her natural stamping ground. If a movie appeared that she was keen to see, she would propose it to friends, but did not take their refusal as a veto; she would march across the common for an early-evening showing, and be delighted with herself for doing so. Theatre tickets came unbidden via Markus and Christian, who ensured an enthusiastic welcome. Many of their circle were not in couples either: she felt at ease with them. Since most were gay, she was not forced to endure
any ham-fisted chatting up.

But this New Year’s Eve jaunt was different. She would be chatted up by Al. His pals were almost certainly hetero, and some would be on the lookout behind their escorts’ backs. A club was a place for getting off with someone, wasn’t it? Should she have asked Rosa or Sally along for protection?

Rosa would not have protected her for five minutes. She would have raised that beautiful nose in the air, literally, and sniffed. Then she would have gone haring off in the direction of the first man who took her fancy. At some point she would have pinched Hetty’s arm and hissed that she and whoever were leaving, and that much would be revealed, with giggling and rolling of eyes, in a day or so. Hetty would have wished her luck, and have been left wondering once more what Rosa’s secret was, and whether she truly wanted to emulate it.

Sally might have accepted. The boyfriend Erik was back in the UK, but her daughter’s glum demeanour hinted that he was attending to other duties besides flying. Hetty had considered the matter with some care and felt selfish for not inviting Sally. But the fact was, she would not have been the greatest company. She would have resisted any attempts by jolly men to partner her, and – Hetty could easily picture it would have sat, smoking, a half-full glass to hand, gloomy and forbidding. Had Hetty tried to enjoy herself – by accepting an offer to dance, or by getting carried away a little – Sally would have muttered a barbed comment to put the man off, and possibly Hetty too.

As she tried bits of jewellery against the cocktail dress, Hetty’s eye caught the assemblage of family photos on the bookcase. Sally was no longer the gawky girl, knees overlarge on thin legs, hiding behind her mother. The cheeky shock-haired child who had been Peter had vanished for ever. It was not easy to come to terms with these changes: her children were, effectively, people she barely knew. Neither she nor Stephen had expected their absent offspring to call daily or even weekly, nor had they phoned their own parents very often. But to think of a daughter as a social companion, albeit a rather prickly one, was definitely an unaccustomed proposition.

It was apparent that Sally, too, was struggling to come to terms with Hetty’s altered state. A contradiction clouded her attitudes. On the one hand she obviously wanted her mother to remain Mum, the central rock of the family, immutable and asexual. On the other, if that were not possible and her mother was to consort with new men, Sally would have to cope with Hetty becoming a sexual creature once more. If her own private life was foundering that could open up fresh resentments. Children, Hetty admitted ruefully to their childish faces in the photo frames, could be a pain.

Too many complications. Coping with her own minor crises was quite sufficient. Sally could stew, just for tonight. Hetty had determined to make the most of an unusual opportunity and to follow where it led.

Taking the tube into town at nine in the evening was an adventure in itself. She was surrounded by youngsters, in groups and, inevitably, pairs, bundled up in fleeces, scarves and woolly hats, heading for the conviviality of Trafalgar Square. An energy flowed from them, from their never-still bodies, the vibrancy of youth in a celebrating city. Some had started
their indulgence early. Opposite, a smelly alcoholic lurched and sang snatches of an unintelligible song, his hand grasped round a bottle in a paper bag. He was observed with mute disapproval by a gaggle of Japanese tourists. At the far end of the carriage somebody was strumming an ill-tuned guitar. All humankind, it seemed, was on its way into central London, in a rattling carriage stained by old graffiti, their feet half hidden by litter, faces creased in anticipatory smiles.

‘Happy New Year,’ Hetty said lightly to the drunk, as the train halted at her stop.

‘Urkk,’ he belched, and leered at her.

She found the club without effort and presented her ticket. It was larger than she had anticipated, rather better-appointed, with flashing pink neon over the entrance. The bouncers were enormous: two huge men in their thirties, one black, one white, both shaven-headed with skulls bulging through shiny skin, their steroid-enhanced chests draped in frilled evening shirts, tiny dickey-bows like red ticks at their throats. But they were polite enough and unhitched the tasselled cord to let Hetty through, while keeping others at bay.

Inside, the noise was deafening. Dozens of tables were ranged in tiered semicircles around a small stage. Every surface was painted matt black, but silver tinsel had been wrapped round railings and light-fittings. Strobe lights played over a raised platform where a handful of couples gyrated to recorded music. Blue laser beams shimmered over the scene. It was extremely hot. She deposited her coat, touched the money in her bra, renewed her lipstick and was shown to a table near the side of the stage.

‘You came! Terrific.’ Al was in black tie, his hair tied back neatly. Working clothes. The effect was oddly demure.

It was too noisy to have a proper dialogue. He leaned close and screeched into Hetty’s ear, ‘We’re on at ten thirty. Order yourself some dinner. Put it on the tab. The bubbly’s coming. Have a wild time!’

A basket on the table was full of silvered hats and party poppers. She tried on a crown, which fitted, and practised making the party poppers reach out to the next tier. In a moment she was joined by a florid man in a fancy brocaded waistcoat accompanied by a younger, buxom blonde in a low-cut sequined dress. ‘Hi! I’m Ted,’ he mouthed, ‘the band’s agent. This is Mandy.’

Hetty shook hands and began to explain. Ted cut her short. ‘Yeah, we know. One of Al’s pals. He usually has a couple of birds floating about. I must say, he’s gone up a notch with you. Very nice.’

He and Mandy selected party hats and put them on roguishly. The elastic cut into fleshy cheeks; they looked like a pair of well-fed clowns. Ted’s attention was immediately engaged in ordering the meal. Hetty turned to the blonde. ‘You in showbiz too?’ she asked.

‘In a manner of speaking.’ The girl simpered and waggled her shoulders so that her substantial breasts wobbled. I’ve made blancmange like that, Hetty thought. She raised an eyebrow in friendly enquiry. The girl leaned across the table, threatening to spill the blancmanges out of the dress entirely. ‘Escort agency,’ she hissed, with a wink.

Hetty glanced at Ted, who was pressing twenty-pound notes into the waiter’s hand. ‘Got a good customer tonight, then?’ Hetty hissed back, woman to woman.

‘Oh, yeah. He’s a regular.’ Mandy patted her cheeks. ‘Warm in ’ere, innit?’

The standard of discourse was not going to rise much higher than that, Hetty guessed,
but she did not mind. The champagne was served with a flourish in a bucket full of ice. A plate of savoury pastries was plonked down. As the cork was popped by the grinning waiter and poured overflowing into Babycham-style glasses, cries and whoops came from nearby guests and glasses were raised in mock toasts.

Hetty took a long swallow and let the bubbles get up her nose. ‘You celebrating anything in particular?’

‘Nah,’ Ted answered. He pulled Mandy to him and kissed her wetly on the mouth, then patted her bosom proprietorially. ‘I’ve asked ’er to marry me a dozen times an’ she won’t. I’ll keep poppin’ the question, though. Maybe she’ll say yes tonight.’

Mandy pushed him off and picked up a canapé. ‘Oh, you,’ she gurgled. ‘Why should I want to marry you? Anyway, you’re already married. Best you stay that way.’

‘I love the wimmin,’ Ted confided. Trails of streamers covered his jacket. ‘Been married four times, so far. Twice to the same woman, that’s the current one, but we don’t get on. Can’t live with ’er, can’t live without ’er.’

‘Expensive, I’d have thought,’ Hetty said, with a smile.

‘Oh, God, tell me about it,’ Ted answered. ‘There, they’re starting.’

An MC in a midnight-blue tuxedo and pink shirt jumped on-stage, trailing a microphone. The voice boomed, tables and plates rattled in sympathy. ‘Ladees and gennlemen! The Badger Boys and Lindy present their New Year spectacular! A big hand, please!’

The band consisted of six musicians with a singer. Al was in the front row, saxophone in hand, a silly hat on his head, a garland of tinsel round his neck. He fiddled nervously with the stops, blew through the reed, pinched his nose. He seemed a more diminutive personality than close to in the studio. They struck up vigorously, a tune that began by resembling ‘Bye Bye Birdie’, but which was soon lost in syncopations and jazzy improvisations. Ted was tapping on the table with a spare hand, a lit cigar jauntily in his mouth. The other hand was under the table, hidden from view.

The meal arrived, large platefuls, an avocado with smoked salmon to start, followed by Ted’s choice of steak and oyster pie with all the trimmings. A special menu, she was informed: on normal band nights it was chicken in a basket. It made for a heavy meal, especially washed down by the champagne. A second bottle was cooling in the bucket.

The music had changed to a heated version of ‘Ol’ Man River’, laid down to a thumping beat. Feet planted wide apart, Al forced riffs through the horn, his cheeks distorted and purple. The singer, an anorexic girl in black, alternated with wordless warbles.

‘Yeah, my man!’ Ted urged him on, between mouthfuls of suet pastry. The cigar was employed like a baton, keeping time, its swirling smoke creating a bluish fug through which Mandy’s sequins, the brocade waistcoat, the laser lights flickered hazily. The noise from nearby tables had grown to a crescendo; despite the amplification, it must have been impossible to hear any melody at the back of the club. Hetty’s eyes began to water and her ears rang tinnily as the notes reverberated off the walls.

‘Shape of a tit, this,’ Ted announced between numbers, the glass held up between forefinger and thumb. ‘Some French king’s mistress. Madame de Pompidou.’ He nudged Mandy. ‘We prefer ’em bigger these days, don’ we?’

Mandy buried her face in her glass and gulped her drink. A dribble fell on her dress
and she prodded herself. ‘Oops!’

It was not done to dance during the main band section, Hetty saw. At the side of the stage people were on their feet, clapping and swaying, engrossed. Her brain was swimming; the noise was horrendous, a cacophony of jangled sounds, Al’s saxophone shrieking above the rest, the girl singer yodelling in another key. Hetty could not tell whether this was deliberate or not. She could make no sense whatever of the music, other than the thundering beat laid down by the flailing drummer.

To loud cheers, a big clock with spangled hands was lowered from the ceiling. It showed five minutes to twelve. Around the club people were swaying in time to the beat, arms round each other, glasses in hand. A man walked casually in front of her view. If she stayed seated she would be unable to see anything. She rose, and tried to join in the general merriment, wishing she did not feel quite so sober.