Chasing Men (21 page)

In a few moments there was a commotion, a banging of a door and a loud curse. Father Roger, his face flushed, came hastily down the corridor into the canteen. From behind him floated a whinny of high laughter.

He clutched the counter, swaying. Then with a shaky hand he helped himself to tea and a biscuit, and sat opposite Rosa and Hetty. Both women were agog.

‘Shoot: is he gay? Bisexual?’ Rosa asked.

Father Roger’s eyes flickered from one to the other. ‘I don’t know why I do this job. It’s not as if you pay a fortune. And I don’t earn any Brownie points in heaven.’ He broke the digestive biscuit and made a great show of dunking it in the tea until it disintegrated and fell in. He groaned.

‘Is he for real? I have to know. Or some out-of-work actor or agency freak pulling the wool over our eyes?’ Rosa demanded.

‘He’s a sex-mad fiend. Poor women, when he gets his hands on them.’

‘Poor men, too?’ Hetty asked.

Father Roger nodded vigorously. ‘He tried to grope me. Nearly succeeded. An actor wouldn’t do that. He’d draw the line at a priest. Unless, of course …’

‘Go on.’

‘Let’s just say he picked the wrong priest.’ And he cracked his knuckles, one by one, with a relieved chuckle. But his face was pale.

Afterwards, in the small office with the flickering computer screen, Hetty touched Rosa’s arm. ‘Did I miss something?’ she enquired.

‘Mmm?’ Rosa was preoccupied, scrolling down lists of guests for the following day.

‘Father Roger. Is he gay?’

‘Dunno. He’s never said so.’

‘But he hinted. That a priest might enjoy that sort of thing.’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

Hetty was shocked. ‘I couldn’t. Not straight off.’

‘Why not? I expect he’s been asked crazier things in his time. He’s hardly a sea-green innocent, or he wouldn’t be on this show. We may not be cutting edge, but we’re not exactly
Songs of Praise
, either.’ Rosa glanced up. ‘What is it? D’you fancy him?’

‘A priest? Heavens. I hadn’t ever seen him as a possible.’

‘Why not? He’s a man. Got all the right equipment, as far as I know.’

‘Because I’ve naturally assumed he’s celibate. In the Church they’re either married to worthy types with an appropriate number of children, or they’re out of it, aren’t they? None of the Churches approves of hanky-panky without a sacrament. As Roger himself would say.’

‘My impression is that he’s maybe not that keen on sex,’ Rosa mused. ‘He works like the clappers, and doesn’t relax much. In love with his job? Some people have other priorities. Some – and maybe Roger’s one – shy away from relationships of any kind. They’re happier with books, or whatever.’

‘Relationships can be a pain,’ Hetty observed drily, ‘especially starting from scratch.’ Something in her was dreading the forthcoming supper with James. Twice she had resisted the urge to call it off.

‘So maybe you’re the girl for our Roger, hey?’

‘Me? You’re joking. Life as the wife of a rural dean? No way. Friend would be as much as I could aspire to,’ Hetty answered briskly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got myself a hot date.’ She told Rosa briefly about James, playing down his weekend activities.

‘Good girl,’ Rosa enthused, and squeezed her arm. ‘Just as I was about to drag you into a dating agency. Go for it. And once you’re off your mark, if he’s no earth-mover you can keep an eye open for something better.’

‘Ye-e-s.’ Hetty sounded uncertain. The mixed metaphors were confusing. ‘Chatting up blokes. Me, in my fifties.’

Rosa chortled. ‘Nobody said the sex manuals are written only for twentysomethings.
We
are where it’s at, darling.’ She halted. ‘Talking of sex manuals, I could lend you a couple of crackers. Fully illustrated. Might help.’

‘Rosa, you’re a doll. Let’s hope James won’t need them. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Good evening.’

So formal. Hetty shook hands.

James bent down and kissed her jerkily on the cheek. ‘Glad you could come.’ He seemed shy, even more so than at Larry’s party. Hetty examined him under her lashes. From the grey suit and slightly creased shirt, he had come straight from the office and had not had time to change, or had not thought to. He was carrying a leather briefcase, which he deposited in the cloakroom. She had dashed home from the studio and donned the
Star Style
trouser
suit; a few more pounds off since the date of recording meant that it fitted well and flattered her.

They stood awkwardly, unused to each other’s presence, until the waiter, lanky, narrow-hipped and superior, unbent long enough to show them to their table.

Minimalist decor, again. Bleached linen, steel, glass, blond wood. No adornments on the walls, the windows frosted so that they could not see out. On the table, a bowl of salted green pistachios in their shells. No water, no bread-sticks. Nothing to fiddle with.

‘I trust you like Japanese food?’ James said.

‘I’ve never tried it, in truth. I’ve never been to Japan. I’ve never been here,’ Hetty had to confess.

‘This is part-owned by Robert De Niro,’ James confided, as if that were a major recommendation. ‘It’s Japanese-Mexican.’

‘Oh.’ Hetty was puzzled, and decided to show it. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Raw fish with chillies. Extraordinary.’

Hetty was quelled. Neither appealed, much. Japanese-Mexican must be popular, however; the place was filling up with young diners, mostly dressed minimalist-style, the girls in floaty fabrics, the boys in open-necked shirts and pale slacks. By contrast she and James looked overdressed – and old.

His conversation was as stilted and as formal as his greeting. Hetty, however, had learned a great deal at the studio and had become adept at setting the nervous at their ease. She drew him out on his job, on his journey to work, on what he enjoyed on television, though it was an effort to remember what he said and not to repeat the same question. But he looked all right, she reflected; she was not ashamed to be seen with him, and he was gazing at her quite raptly as he spoke.

But what exactly was she doing here? Hetty stopped herself asking straight out whether he was, indeed, married. He did not mention it. That was confirmation enough: a free man, a divorce, say, would have promptly bemoaned his availability, and might have spent half the evening complaining about his ex to boot. If she were searching for another partner, a replacement for Stephen, then James’s status mattered. Danger lurked: James would not have sought her company, she a single woman, unless some fragility or chill had seeped into his home.

On the other hand, a bit of
fun
could do no harm. A torrid affair was unlikely, on current estimations, but that was fine too. If she was going to break her duck soon, she couldn’t be too choosy.

What if they were observed by somebody who knew one or the other of them? ‘I suppose we ought to say,’ she whispered, ‘if we’re seen, that we’re business acquaintances, celebrating the completion of a successful deal.’

James nodded. He seemed taken aback. Maybe the subterfuge was beyond him.

After an inordinate delay the waiter drifted back with two glossy menus. Hetty asked for a glass of water. She had skipped lunch and was hungry. Another ten minutes elapsed. With a start, Hetty realised they had been sitting there nearly half an hour but no one had yet taken their orders. ‘The service is a bit slow,’ she commented.

‘We were in luck getting a table,’ was the answer. ‘It is the hottest spot in town.’

‘Not in the kitchen department,’ Hetty said under her breath. The salted nuts were
making her thirsty and her stomach was growling. The water had not materialised. ‘So, what do you like doing, when you’re not working?’ she asked, then wished she hadn’t. A simple enough question, it could too readily invite unwelcome confidences.

‘Oh, you don’t want to know,’ James murmured, and blushed.

‘I do, indeed,’ Hetty fibbed playfully.

‘I go round the country,’ he began. Then, ‘No, you’ll laugh.’

This sounded intriguing. ‘I won’t. Cross my heart.’

‘I go trainspotting.’

She burst out laughing but at his hurt expression covered her mouth. ‘What – with a little notebook?’ She wanted to add, ‘And an anorak?’ but stopped herself just in time.

‘Of course. A portable computer, actually. Quite modern these days.’ James wriggled his large bottom on the hard minimalist chair. ‘The railways of Britain are our lifeblood, our arteries – the industrial revolution, social history, all that. When you see a big DMU churning out thousands of horsepower, with hundreds of holidaymakers or commuters depending on it, it’s fantastic. And steam engines – d’you know the great ones from the thirties still hold the long distance records?’ He burbled on, oblivious.

‘I’m planning a trip on the French TGV,’ Hetty interposed mischievously, when he paused for breath.

‘Oh,
them
,’ James said scornfully. ‘They’re quite impressive, but we invented the locomotive, not the French. They can’t take that away.’

At last the waiter returned. Hetty asked politely what he recommended.

‘Black cod cured in miso, speciality of the house,’ he purred. ‘Or you could have the
omakase
.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Pot luck to you,’ was the reply. ‘Chef decides what you eat. That’s a fixed price.’ He pointed. Hetty saw ‘£60 per head’ on the menu, folded it and put it down.

‘I’ll have what you suggested,’ she said weakly. ‘The cod.’

But when the purple slabs of raw fish came, swimming in an excess of fiery sauce, Hetty could only toy with it. Her guts wrenched at each overseasoned sliver; the Pinot Noir selected by James was ruined by the battleground of flavours on her tongue. She struggled for a while, then pushed her plate away.

‘Do you think we could get some bread and a salad, maybe?’ she asked.

‘What? Oh, yes. You should come with me, Hetty. There’s a big bank-holiday event coming up at Whitby. The sight of twelve or twenty of those magnificent workhorses in steam! It’ll stay with you for ever …’

A black-suited male receptionist eventually responded to his beckoning finger.

‘Everything all right?’

‘No,’ Hetty muttered. ‘I think our waiter’s forgotten the bread.’

‘We don’t have bread here, madam. This is a Japanese restaurant.’

‘Oh. Then something hot and filling – a plate of noodles, perhaps?’

‘No noodles.’

‘But if it’s a Japanese restaurant –’

‘No noodles. Our chef from the royal house in Kyoto won’t serve them. I could bring you some rice.’

‘Yes, please. And water. From the tap. In a jug.’

But he had swept away. The bowl of rice, when it eventually arrived, was sticky, hot, blessedly unsalted – and tiny. Hetty hungrily polished off the contents and called the man back. ‘Another, please. Just the same.’

‘You’re supposed to eat it with a main course,’ James said knowledgeably. He was steadily demolishing plate after plate of unidentifiable mauve and green flesh: Hetty could not tell if it was fish, fowl, vegetable or what. He held out a slice in his chopsticks towards her, the black sauce dripping onto the spotless tablecloth. ‘Fresh tuna. Do try.’ She shook her head with a sickly grin. ‘Best Japanese food I’ve ever tasted,’ he commented. Her distress seemed to pass him by completely.

At last the meal was over. Coffee in diminutive cups, acrid and strong, was poured. Hetty’s head was swimming with the wine and the edgy chemistry of salt, chilli, fish oils and caffeine on an empty stomach. James smiled and patted her hand.

‘Hope you enjoyed that, Hetty. You’re super company. You really listen to a chap. Terrific.’

‘Doesn’t take much to please him.’ The voice inside her head sniffed. ‘Maybe he’s more thrilling on a windswept platform. What a bore.’

James paid the bill, rose, retrieved his briefcase, then followed her downstairs to the street. The night air hit her like a slap in the face and she staggered. He reached for her arm. ‘Had a bit too much to drink, old girl? Come on, I’ll put you in a taxi.’ He darted about hopefully until a black cab stopped for him, then hesitated. Hetty must have appeared doleful: at the last instant, he clambered in himself. ‘Can’t let you go off like this. You don’t look too well. I’ll see you home.’

At the door of her flat he made no move. She pecked him on the cheek and squeezed his hand. ‘A very – unusual dinner, James,’ she said wanly. ‘Thanks for taking me.’

He dimpled. ‘A pleasure. You’re lovely. Let’s do it again.’

A wild notion occurred to her. Romantic progress, given James’s culinary preferences, would be slow and agonising, if left to him. But he was a decent enough chap. He would pass for what she still had in mind. She was not about to give up. ‘If you don’t expect too much, James,’ she said, ‘you’d be welcome to eat here. Pot luck, it’d have to be, whatever the chef decides. Is that okay?’

‘Oh, rather,’ he gurgled, and planted a salty kiss on her mouth. ‘I’ll phone you.’

She climbed out and waved as the cab reversed and returned in the direction it had come.

‘Oh, Lord,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re worth it.’ Then she tiptoed round the back of The Swallows behind the bushes, stuck two fingers down her throat, and was thoroughly and satisfyingly sick.

The book club were in a tetchy mood. Hetty could not figure it out, until she realised that, despite their protestations, the members had not enjoyed the latest author, crime writer Ruth Rendell. Their disappointment was almost tangible. 

‘Something about her characters,’ Moira mused, with pursed lips. They had been concentrating on
Keys to the Street
and
The Crocodile Bird
.

‘You can’t complain about the sex this time.’ Phyllis pouted. ‘There isn’t any. Buckets of psychological mayhem, but the action stops at the bedroom door.’

Thin, wan Moira crumbled a rock cake and lifted fragments into her mouth. In the time it took her, Hetty noted, her stout friend had demolished two large scones with jam and cream, and two cups of tea. The ascetic Moira’s cup was hardly touched.

Jenny, the oldest member and osteoporosis sufferer, raised her head with an effort. ‘The problem is, none of the characters is warm or kind, with the exception of the child in
The Crocodile Bird
and the girl Mary in the Regent’s Park novel. And they’re for the chop the whole way through. The stories are gripping – but you feel it’s a world turned upside down. Clever stuff but cruel, heartless.’

‘Should suit us, then,’ the Professor murmured. He spoke to Hetty out of the corner of his mouth. ‘The world we live in here. It’s topsy-turvy, don’t you think? The sharpest are the most bowed down, like Jenny. Or tied to a bloody wheelchair, like me. Those with the most fluency have the least to say.’ He glanced in the direction of Millie Curtis, Clarissa’s aunt, who was chattering on with total conviction, even though it was clear to everyone else in the room that she had not read the texts.

Hetty had missed a couple of sessions through pressure at the studios. She nibbled a biscuit. It was a pleasure to be with the club again, to hear the shrewdness from the depths of those ample cardigans. Human beings, indeed. Plenty to be found here.

‘How did you get on with Beryl Bainbridge?’ she asked. The Professor chuckled.

‘They adored
An Awfully Big Adventure
. It’s set in the repertory theatre in Liverpool where the author was a stage-manager, so we swapped tales of amateur and school dramatics.
Master Georgie
, I fear, was a bit beyond them. Mostly, they debated Miss Bainbridge’s views on accents. That was within everyone’s capacity.’

‘She criticised the Scouse twang, didn’t she?’ Hetty racked her brains. ‘Said you have to drop it if you want to get on. Took elocution lessons when she was young.’

‘Everyone did, then. Good vowels were the hallmark of a lady. Or a gentleman.’

‘But if you needed lessons, then presumably you weren’t a real lady.’

‘Absolutely. But the delightful Miss Bainbridge was the product of a home that fell tragically below its pretensions. People were far more conscious of class than now.’

Hetty recalled Larry and Davinia’s street. ‘Today it’s the BMW convertible that says you’re smart. Or the Audi TT Special with its year-long waiting list. Or liking Japanese food with a Mexican slant. Not your accent.’

‘If my television and radio are any guide, a regional accent is
de rigueur
these days.’

‘That’s quite true,’ Hetty told him. When we’re deciding on guests for
Tell Me All
, it
helps if they’re Geordies or Welsh. Provided they can make themselves understood.’

‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ the Professor continued, teasing. ‘You can’t even hear a cut-glass accent on Radio Three these days. As for Classic FM …’

‘Snob,’ grinned Hetty, and poured him another cup of tea.

The session was drawing to a close. A flurry of argument developed over the next two authors. As the choice fell on Michael Dobbs and Jilly Cooper, the Professor protested. ‘I come to this meeting for intellectual stimulation, not to be fed commercial pap,’ he grumbled, but nobody was listening. ‘Whatever next?’

Hetty pushed his wheelchair back along the corridor. ‘You’re too hard on them. Not everybody has an IQ of a hundred and fifty,’ she chided. ‘I haven’t, for a start. I love Jilly Cooper. And we can watch
To Play the King
on video.’

‘Allow me to confess I’ve never read either. No doubt they’re fine enough, and popular. I’m no literature buff, but we should always aim higher, Hetty. Trying to grasp what is unfamiliar and difficult never killed anyone.’ He wagged his finger. ‘The trouble today is that people have become mentally idle. They won’t strive. The end result is what’s called dumbing-down.’ He was riding a favourite hobby-horse. ‘Everything’s supposed to conform to an easy norm. But diversity, my dear, is the spice of life.’

Hetty agreed fervently with that, and described to him in the lift her unhappiness with the makeover mentality of
Star Style
. ‘Ah, but, Hetty,’ he cajoled, ‘the impression you make visually does matter.’

‘Not that much,’ she objected.

‘It does to an artist. You forget who you are talking to,’ he said. They had reached his room. On previous occasions she had deposited him, ensured he was safe and then left. But now, ‘A glass of wine, dear girl?’ he asked, as he unlocked the door.

Hetty did not hesitate. He indicated the cupboard, where bottles were laid in rows on a rack. ‘There’s a Pauillac, top right. Don’t shake it.’ She found the corkscrew, wiped glasses and poured. Then, cradling a full glass, she gazed about, and was overwhelmed at what she saw.

The room was a generous size, the metal hospital-style bed with its sling hoist dominating the centre, but with space around it for the wheelchair. A bay window overlooking the garden filled it with soft light; dust motes danced in the air. Low shelves crammed with books and art magazines lined two sides. In corners on stands, and on the bookshelves, were small sculptures, some of which looked unfinished: one was recognisable as the Professor’s own head. But the glory was the pictures. Several substantial oils in ornate frames, mostly modern, faced the light. Pastels and acrylics, charcoal drawings and a few water-colours jostled for position. Another wall was crammed with dozens of coloured prints, some pinned with thumbtacks, others in simple glass frames. Not a spare inch showed. In many, the subject was female, and nude.

He followed her eyes. ‘Picasso – I met him several times. That small one was a gift but, then, he was so prolific. The Degas is a favourite, and the Modigliani. His work was banned because he dared to show pubic hair, but his women are so elegant and alive. The Seurat is charming, isn’t it? But they pale into insignificance beside the master.’ He pointed. ‘Renoir. See? The blonde bather. That’s his wife, with those adorable breasts – you just know
he had kissed those nipples, and what pearly skin! He painted women as they should be painted. Curved, fleshy, like ripe peaches. So good you can taste them. So full of love, every brushstroke. You can tell he adored women.’

Hetty was dumbstruck. A row of prints showed women lying on sofas or posed in landscapes. ‘Velázquez – the Rokeby Venus. Titian – the Venus of Urbino. Isn’t she gorgeous? He was still painting perfect women when he was over eighty. Giorgione – the way they posed the left hand makes us snigger today … looks as if she is playing with herself, doesn’t she? But what an exquisite face. The Venetians worshipped beauty. Rubens –
Venus and Area
– extraordinarily erotic. Most of his nudes are too fat for modern taste, but over there is Helena Fourment his wife, naked beneath her fur coat – so tactile. Can’t you just feel the contact of her skin and her fur? Such generosity of heart, Rubens. That one’s Ingres. And here’s Manet’s
Olympia
– that caused a scandal, because she’s so real, her expression so challenging. He never again chose the female nude for a major work. Maybe he felt he didn’t need to …’

Hetty listened avidly, desperate to remember. The Professor talked enthusiastically, then touched her arm: ‘We gaze and turn away, and know not where,/Dazzled and drunk with Beauty, till the heart/Reels with its fulness.’ He smiled. ‘According to Byron,
Childe Harold
.’ She nodded, and bit her lip, her glass untouched.

He swivelled his chair and directed her attention to another series of prints. ‘Raphael’s
Three Graces
– he painted a naked Venus in the Vatican, in Cardinal Bibiena’s bathroom. Must have been some talking-point. That one’s the
Allegory of Passion
, Bronzino. Very sexy – see how the nipple is tweaked?’ Hetty touched the print with her fingertip. The leer of abandon on the figure’s face made her recoil.

He whirled round. ‘You know the secret of the
Mona Lisa
, don’t you?’

She shook her head, fascinated.

‘Leonardo revealed it to Correggio. He said to look at women in twilight: he’d studied scientifically the passage of light around a sphere. That’s why Leonardo’s depictions of breasts and thighs are so sensuous, as in his
Leda
, even though he was not himself sexually attracted to women. The painting’s lost, but the drawings are still extant.’

Hetty moved towards the modern works, many of which were sketches or pastels. The Professor spoke of his personal acquaintance with many of the artists and their circles. He launched into anecdotes of sessions with this or that celebrity, dinners and alcoholic evenings spent on Tuscan and Provençal hillsides, lectures given, students shared. The names were known to her through press reviews of important exhibitions, though she would have been at a loss to discuss their output.

She tried to calculate. He could not be more than eighty, and thus born after the end of the First World War, so his claims made him either exceptionally precocious or a bit of a
tale-spinner.
Or maybe, as an old man, what he had read or heard and what he had done himself, had begun to merge in his brain as reminiscence. Hetty decided at once not to correct or question him.

‘I’ve got hundreds, but mostly in storage. Like children, you never want them to leave home. I had more at my studio, but that’s gone. Some of the paintings dotted around the corridors here belong to me. At least I can have the pleasure of seeing them on my daily jaunts, and so can others. My little battle against mediocrity.’

One of the small statues caught her eye. It was a bronze about a foot high of a child dancer, her toe extended, her head bent as if checking the twist of her shoe ribbons. The style was graceful and unmannered. Cautiously, she ventured: ‘That’s wonderful. Is it by Degas?’

The Professor smiled. ‘Not officially.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, Hetty, the insurance would be astronomical. Officially, most of what you see are reproductions, or copies, some of which I made myself. The bronzes are castings, of course, and there may be dozens identical. But you may take it that if the master himself made a casting, he would sign it.’

‘It’s extraordinary,’ she said, as if to confirm that she grasped the issue, ‘that a copy, however beautiful in its own right, has so little value.’

‘Ah, but put a copy and an original together, and you can tell. Not least, because the original usually has an unfinished air.’

She must have looked puzzled, for he added, ‘When we create a work of art from scratch, we experiment, we cross out, we redo, we paint over. The copy lacks all these imperfections. Real life, like art, is full of errors. But that’s what makes it unique.’

‘So the copy’s a makeover,’ Hetty murmured.

He chuckled softly, but did not reply.

‘What will you do,’ she asked, ‘when the time comes? Leave them to a museum?’

‘Probably. I daren’t let on to the management, but one or two here are quite valuable. If anyone was aware of it, they’d be in a bank vault. And that would be a tragedy.’

Hetty drank quietly, letting the beauty of the images and the owner’s delight in them flow over her. Stephen’s taste ran to Russell Flint and Monet’s waterlilies, and no further. Prints were purchased for their potential value, and to match a colour scheme; her ex-husband and his friends would have found the Professor’s passion embarrassing.

He had not referred to one part of the collection and she came round rather pointedly to look. Like many of the other paintings the subject was a female nude: some full-length, on a scarlet sofa, others only of the back or buttocks. Many were sketches, others varnished and framed. On closer examination they seemed to be of the same person, a lithe, buxom girl with blue eyes and luxurious dark hair.

‘Who did those, Professor?’

He drank his wine with a mysterious air. ‘Try and guess.’ Hetty peered closer, moving across the pictures to let the light fall on them. The canvases had no signature. ‘Sorry. But they are terrific. Even I can see that.’

‘You like them?’ He seemed pleased.

She bent down and looked more intently. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Like the Renoirs, there’s a real appreciation of the female form. Hope that doesn’t sound too pretentious. I’m totally out of my depth. But, yes, I like them very much.’

The Professor laughed. ‘I knew I could trust you in my den here,’ he said indulgently, as if it had been a matter of argument. Perhaps it was: his reputation around the home was as a prickly curmudgeon. Hetty had heard that staff were not amused by his manner; the dust suggested that the cleaners found the images disturbing. He put his glass on the bedside table and cavorted jerkily in the wheelchair. His face was flushed.

‘But who did them?’

‘I did. They’re mine.’

‘Oh! I didn’t like to ask if anything was yours, but I’m delighted. They’re fabulous.’ She straightened up. ‘Who’s the model? Anyone in particular?’ Yet, even as she enquired, she knew the answer.

‘My wife.’ His face became grave. ‘My muse. After she died, I stopped painting.’

Somewhere downstairs a radio was playing, with snatches of indiscernible music. The hiss of the lift mechanism came from along the corridor. Hetty refilled their glasses, then sat on the edge of the bed, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her.

‘You must have loved her very much.’

‘I did. She had an ethereal beauty, but earthy with it. When I first met her she was sleeping with Augustus John. He went through his models like a knife through butter. A paintbrush in one hand and his prick in the other. But he never cared about them as people. The moment I set eyes on her I adored her.’