Chasing Men (15 page)

‘Come again?’ said Annabel.

Hetty giggled. ‘What about you, Annabel? How’s the love-life?’

‘Ghastly. Non-existent. That’s why I’m here. D’you think she’ll tell me to stop drinking?’

‘Mmm. Possibly to stop drinking so much.’

Annabel was dubious. ‘Not sure I can cut down, honestly. I mean, if a girl calls a halt before she’s finished the bottle, her friends’ll think she’s on the wagon.’

‘Diet Coke?’ suggested Hetty.

‘Yurrkk!’ said Annabel.

The instructor was standing in front of them. Her narrow hips failed to fill out her blue trousers; her wrists were bony, the fingernails almost bloodless. ‘Courgettes,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’ asked Hetty. She had missed the first part of the woman’s remark.

‘Courgettes. Vegetables. They have no calories, provided you cook them according to the booklet. Very tasty.’

To Hetty, courgettes were a tedious watery nothingness at which both Stephen and the children had turned up their noses. She pondered, then shrugged.

She would try courgettes. Why not? They might, at any rate, make a solid change from bananas.

Tomorrow it would be Valentine’s Day. A Sunday.

Nothing had arrived in the post. Not a card, not a letter. Hetty unlocked the postbox and cleared out the plain envelopes with their window labels. Nothing handwritten. She opened them over a meagre breakfast and coffee: two offers to lend her up to £15,000, the information that her name was in a draw for a car provided she attended a presentation on time-share in Sicily, and a coding notice from the Inland Revenue.

There was no reason to expect any cards. Al, who might have been idiotic enough to send one, did not have her address: the liaison had never progressed that far. James Dolland probably didn’t have it either. Once, a person’s phone number had been regarded as private information; now it was the first detail anyone expected, while an address had receded to a hinterland of greater intimacy. In any case, all James wanted was to make contact. A Valentine would have been inappropriate. Next year? Maybe.

Last year had been different. A fancy lace-frilled card had materialised on her pillow, and Stephen had been effusive with a hug. Her response had been more modest and stilted. At lunchtime on the day (it had been a Saturday) they had gone to the village pub, only to discover that the dining room was packed, and since Stephen had forgotten to book, they had had to wait. As they had sat, drinks before them, for more than an hour, conversation had waned. By the time they had been served a limp prawn cocktail, overdone roast beef and soggy trimmings, a barren irritation had set in on both sides. Most of the meal had been eaten in silence, punctuated only by brief comments. It had been a relief to get home. Hetty had then pulled out the ironing board, Stephen had switched on the television and promptly fallen asleep. Later she had heard him murmuring on the phone. She had wondered who he was speaking to, but did not ask.

But at least there’d been that card in the morning, and the hope, as ever, that their love might recover. It was the same belief that had deceived her for years. But here in The Swallows, nothing. Loneliness and melancholy lay in wait in the little jam-pot, the single teacup. Hope, that gentle protector, was spread too thinly for comfort.

Hetty finished her toast and found herself staring blankly at the plate. She moved; a fuzzy image reflecting her red sweater moved with her, but the dish’s crumb-ridden surface could give but a blurred impression. Someone alive was nearby, the plate said, but ill-defined and unrecognisable. Someone who did not receive Valentine cards. About whom nobody cared.

A tear fell on the plate, then another. Hetty wiped her eyes with her fingers. She let herself cry, just for a moment. Then, swiftly, she gathered up the crockery, knife and spoon and swept them into the sink.

On the phone, Mother waxed excited and schoolgirlish.

‘I’ve had my invitation from
Star Style
! They say to come in my everyday clothes, and not to worry about getting my hair done or anything special. What do you think?’

‘The idea is to transform you. They need a clear “before”, I suppose,’ Hetty answered.

‘But I can’t turn up in old trousers and a pinny, with my hair a mess, can I?’

Hetty had a sudden picture of her mother dressed like the domestic version of Doris. ‘You could, but it wouldn’t be the authentic you,’ she admitted. ‘Don’t overdo it. They may make some unkind remarks to start with.’

‘Such as?’ Her mother’s voice betrayed concern.

In reality, since Hetty still had not found time to watch the video of an earlier show, she hadn’t the faintest idea. But it seemed wise to dampen her mother’s enthusiasm.

‘Such as – they would describe you, for example, as a mature woman.’

‘Oh, really.’ Her mother sounded offended. ‘In that case, dear, how would they describe you?’

This was the best way to tackle it. Seize the day, or whatever. Gather ye rosebuds. If Sunday – Valentine’s Day – was to be rescued from self-pity and disaster, then an excess of zeal on her new bike would serve as well as anything. Hetty shifted the gears to a lower notch and pedalled furiously up the steepest part of West Hill towards Tibbet’s Corner. The heavy gravel surface of the A3, designed to reduce skidding in the wet, was gruelling to two-wheel users. But as she reached the top without stopping, she congratulated herself on progress made so far.

At first, cycling had been a refined system of torture. Leg tendons and muscles ached maddeningly the next day. To her surprise, so did her shoulders and wrists, till she caught sight of herself in a shop window, hunched over the handlebars like a mad crow or a Valkyrie. Whenever she remembered, she would sit upright, and flap one hand then the other to relieve the tension.

She rode alone: to the studios during the week, and out, more ambitiously, at weekends on those days that, like this one, held no promise of other entertainment. The option of joining a club had entered her mind but had been dismissed. It was grim enough coping with new acquaintances at work and in her personal life, without adding another element that might be competitive and raw. In any case Hetty soon came to enjoy her own company, especially in fair weather. This was almost the only extended period when she was on her own and not tired out. Mostly, the rides felt like an escape.

She halted cautiously at the main roundabout. At ten thirty on a brisk Sunday morning not much traffic was about. Her return route through Kingston later would be busy and she could expect to encounter irritated motorists stuck in bottlenecks, who would refuse to make room on the near side for a cyclist to pass.

Then it was over the main road and on to Putney Heath, and a clean breeze in her face. Although she had initially feared going off-road, the bridle-paths of the heath and of Wimbledon Common a couple of miles further on were a great attraction. The nearer, northern part was scrub, gorse and uncut grass, with a sweep of open land near the windmill full of yapping Labradors and ill-parked jeeps. Closer to Wimbledon itself, mature woodland took over. There, she would be riding squishily along muddy paths deep in mouldering leaves, accompanied by magpies, jays and the occasional robin. Grey squirrels would perk up, their paws like tiny hands possessively clutching nuts, and eye her passage. There were worse ways of spending a spare couple of hours.

Hetty accepted that she probably looked odd. A scarf constantly threatened to unwind
and fly off. Her knuckles were frozen despite gloves. She was hardly a proper sportswoman, but that was not her objective: the aim was to increase her fitness level, not compete in the Tour de France. Or appear in
Zest
magazine or
Here’s Health
. Hetty had never summoned up the courage to buy the green stretch leggings, though her thighs and buttocks were soon tightening up nicely. She did, however, return to the store and braved the shopkeeper’s amused expression to buy two sets of padded shorts. Saddle-soreness was
not
on the agenda.

On one issue, the man had been spot on. Cycling round south London was a
nerve-racking
terror. It felt, and probably was, horribly dangerous. Hetty suffered a hot flush of shame as she remembered how often, as a car driver, she had failed to notice a biker, who had had to swerve as she pulled out. Now, she saw, cyclists were invisible to most motorists, even if they were sporting, as she was, a Dayglo jacket with their lights switched on. Cars and vans respected vehicles big enough to do some damage, and no others. A two-wheeler was no more than a gnat on the skin of a rhinoceros.

In her new guise she began to harbour uncharacteristically uncharitable thoughts about school runs. Four-wheel-drive monsters too large for suburbia with screaming infants in the back, driven by harassed mothers in desperate need of a cigarette and a coffee tried pitilessly to force their passage, with dire consequences for anyone in their path. The biker’s viewpoint was several feet more elevated than theirs: Hetty could see trouble coming much earlier than they could. Traffic round a corner, an elderly person trying to cross, a milk-float about to pull out. There was no point in shouting: no one could hear. Again and again the car would screech to a halt, the driver would lower the window and let loose a stream of invective, the cyclist would fall off and get the blame.

On the other hand, bikers were hardly blameless. As she paused at traffic lights
en route
to the studio, Hetty found herself categorising riders drawn up alongside.

The cycling buff, exemplified by the praying mantis in the bike shop, was less common than she had supposed. As lean and taut as his machine, often a racing model bristling with accessories, he would glide silently to a stop in front of her, and be a hundred yards down the road again before she had managed to place a foot on a pedal. Invariably they were male, with narrow hips and ribcages lifting through silky fabric. They sported gloves like knuckle-dusters and toe-guards like sabre handles: their saddles were fearsomely pointed, the handlebars slung low and held like machine-guns. Some, she suspected, given their style, must be into sado-masochism with a vengeance.

Then there were the commuters. Some, however, unlike herself, made no concessions to their mode of transport. Amongst the girls helmets were
infra dig:
loose untied hair streamed behind and whipped wetly into the eyes when it rained. Skirts flapped at ankles and threatened to get caught in the spokes or chain. A handbag was often slung precariously over one shoulder, a carrier bag balanced on the front. As traffic lights changed they wobbled menacingly. Hetty gave them a wide berth.

A third group came into view on a route near a major construction site: the Lads. Everything about them announced their unwillingness to be cyclists. The battered bikes sagged unhappily like ancient mules under their riders’ considerable weight. Their knees stuck out at an angle from seats set too low, as if comfort adjustments were disdained. No nonsense about protective headgear or warning Dayglo troubled the Lads’ brains. Instead, the trademark was a mortar-encrusted donkey jacket. Beneath the jackets, and increasingly
visible as the weather grew warmer, pale buttocks heaved up over their jeans. As she waited patiently for the lights to change, Hetty was mischievously tempted to pinch the bulging flesh, but reckoned they could outride her.

‘I wouldn’t have thought you guys would enjoy cycling,’ she said one morning.

‘Too bloody right,’ one answered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘Lost me licence, didn’t I? Get it back next year, though. Then you won’t see us for dust.’

She was close to the windmill now. A dog barked excitedly in the distance. Above, the strengthening sun turned the bark of upper branches to gold and sent slanting shadows through those darker, mysterious corners of the common yet to be explored. She lifted her head and sniffed the air, almost animal herself. A feeling of joy, and of serenity, seeped through her, as her system settled rhythmically into the exercise.

As open land gave way to trees, she was forced to pedal more gently. In the bushes to one side, low down, came a commotion; she slowed, and a small leggy animal, a young deer, trotted across. The long fronds closed behind it, leaving only a trail of pert footprints in the mud. Could it have been a muntjak? Hetty waited, fascinated, but no more followed. This was a moment to savour, and she breathed deep, taking in the budded trees, the freshness of the new grass, the blossom starting in the hedges, the pale warmth of the sun on her back.

Unbidden, the picture came into her mind of Clarissa and her bags of shopping, and of Sally serving gin to jaded businessmen on a plane. Her mother might well be sinking a G and T with a half-sozzled colonel on a cut-price romantic weekend. Rosa could be anywhere, with anyone. Al, having blown his soul into his saxophone, was in all probability snoring in some seedy bedroom, his head pillowed on someone’s bosom. The three BJs would be out cold, and so too would Brian, the seller of the
Big Issue
. She had not seen him since New Year’s Eve. Father Roger would be active in his pulpit. Larry and Davinia were almost certainly eating more than was good for them, and snapping at their children. Were she still married herself, she might have been basting a Sunday roast, a meal that would have been praised but not appreciated. Or sitting, desperately trying to think of something to say that would not lead to a row, in that stuffy mock-Tudor pub with Stephen. Neither proposition, it came to her, was something she desperately missed.

She would ride through Wimbledon, in no hurry, and window-shop. Then she would head home, buy croissants and orange juice in the café that was open on Sunday, plus the newspapers, and spend a lazy half-hour soaking in a soapy tub. She might amuse herself with the contact ads, might even ring a few that caught her fancy.

If this was to be her lot for a while, it would serve. A muted rapture, perhaps, but tinged with a sense of well-being. On the whole, she felt content.

On her mat was a small brown box, with a red ribbon tied in an elaborate bow. No name or details were written on it. Intrigued, helmet in hand, Hetty picked it up and fished in her pockets for her keys. Her limbs felt numb and weary, but not painful. Later, she would sleep soundly, and wake refreshed and fulfilled.

The phone began to ring as she opened the door. Wiping grime from her face, she picked it up. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that you, Het? Glad I’ve caught you in. Have you got your diary handy?’

Hetty took the handset away from her ear and stared at it. ‘Who is this, please?’

‘Hetty! I know it’s been a while since we spoke. Larry. Your loving brother.’

‘Larry. Yes. Hi,’ she replied, without enthusiasm.

‘Davinia and I have been talking. Sorry about the mix-up over Christmas. We should have realised you wouldn’t want to babysit, having so recently left all that behind you. Might be different when you have grandchildren, hey?’

‘That’s okay, Larry. I wasn’t in the mood.’

He paused as if expecting her to apologise and offer help in the future. The screeching of the two monsters who passed for infants in Larry and Davinia’s household was unmissable in the background. She resisted the temptation without a qualm.