Chasing Men (26 page)

‘Me first. Question one,’ Hetty clicked her biro. “‘Your character. Do you see yourself as moody, romantic, patient, friendly, considerate, shy, cautious?” Yes, all of these. There’s more – “sensitive, conventional, tolerant, impulsive”. Yes, to those too. Great – maybe I’m just what the agency needs.’

‘Or maybe they’re simply lacking in originality. Or mean to flatter you, so you’ll fill in the form and send it off with a fat fee,’ Markus chipped in. ‘You don’t need this, Hetty. So artificial.’

‘Hush.’ Hetty traced the categories with her finger. ‘“Intellectual, adventurous, adaptable, reliable, practical, ambitious”. Not ambitious. Not intellectual either.’ She marked those spaces with a firm cross.

‘But you are intelligent. Is there a space for that?’ This from Markus.

‘Not yet. Maybe later.’ Hetty frowned. ‘Next part. “On a first date, do you expect (a) to be kissed, (b) to be taken home, (c) to be willing to go all the way?” Heavens, I’m not sure I expect any of those. A good dinner, maybe. But sex first time?’

‘It can be fabulous,’ Christian murmured. Markus snorted.

Hetty ticked (b) as the closest approximation to her usual habits, though she noted the ambiguity: it might mean that the man expected her to offer a bed for the night, rather than his place. ‘Now the section on attitudes. How do I answer these? “Do you prefer someone who will take the initiative in social situations?” I like a man to hold open the door, but I’m perfectly willing to pay my share. And book the tickets.’

‘I’m enjoying this – it’s a form of Chinese torture,’ Markus said. ‘Go on.’

‘“Question eleven. Would your friends call you a perfectionist?”’

‘No!’ chorused her friends.

‘And all the better for it,’ Christian added affectionately.

Hetty persisted for several more minutes then laid down her pen. ‘Markus, do they have agencies like this for gays?’

‘Sure, but most contacts come through gay bars, or through ads in gay magazines. Lots of people these days advertise in the straight press. Have you tried there?’

‘Comprehensively,’ Hetty answered, and told them of her earlier attempts at calling advertisers. ‘I gave that up as a source of possible admirers. Just too creepy, chatting away on the phone to strangers. Though I do wonder how the starfish is getting on.’

‘About a quarter of the Kindred Spirits ads in the
Telegraph
are from gay men.’

‘Or purport to be,’ Christian took up the theme. ‘And you’ll find some of the same guys on the common as it gets dark. Cruising.’ Hetty saw a look of annoyance cross Markus’s
face, to which his lover seemed oblivious.

‘Going to an agency is probably the safest bet,’ Markus said. ‘Treat it as a piece of harmless fun. Most of the replies will be ghastly – obvious no-nos right from the start, so don’t be disappointed. I’d guess no more than ten per cent could be possibles, some of whom will turn out to be no-nos too. That leaves a handful you should meet.’

‘I could, of course, meet the lot.’ Hetty tapped her lip with the pen thoughtfully. ‘We’re promised at least twenty names. Now, that could be hilarious.’

‘How many evenings d’you have to waste?’ Markus reasoned. ‘What if they’re bores or – well, what
would
rule them out.’

‘Too fat. Too arrogant. Men who could talk only about themselves. Men who go on and
on
about money. Or trainspotting. Or how awful their exes are. Or, I suppose, how amazing the ex was, if that happens. Or if they boast about their conquests – I wouldn’t believe them. Anyone gross: bad manners, foul-mouthed, that sort of thing.’

‘Quite a list. You have a precise idea of what you hate, which helps.’ Markus grinned.

‘How about their personal habits? They could be smelly or disgusting. Or diseased,’ Christian teased, as Hetty waved her hands in mock horror. ‘Wait – have you tried the Internet? At least then you don’t have to breathe the same air.’

Hetty described Rosa’s games with the chat room and shook her head. ‘Not for me.’

‘You’ll put her off – stop it,’ Markus chided. ‘The Net can be a disaster too. You never know who you could be dealing with. Murderers, child rapists, the lot. Everyone uses false names. Most are fantasists and liars and, anyway, if they’re in Columbus, Ohio, what use is that? But woe betide you if a dodgy one takes a fancy to you. Wrecking your computer with a virus is the least form of attack.’

They were seated at a table on the pavement, taking advantage of the weather. Later in the year, if these enjoyable interludes continued, as Hetty hoped, they would have to move inside. She would make it her business to arrive early enough to secure the table by the window. Gazing at the locals as they collected their newspapers from the shop next door and selected bagels and Gorgonzola wedges from the delicatessen counter was an entertaining and harmless pastime.

A scruffy figure slouched past in what appeared to be several layers of clothes, despite the still-warm sun: an overcoat down to his knees, a knitted balaclava unravelling at the neck, two jackets, more than one stained sweater with a grimy shirt-collar peeping over the top, and – from the torn bottoms – at least two pairs of trousers. He was pushing a supermarket trolley piled high with dirty plastic bags that squeaked as it was shoved hard against the kerb.

‘Brian?’ Hetty called, and the creature stopped. Christian peered over his newspaper and raised an eyebrow.

‘Who’s that?’ the tramp asked gruffly.

‘Haven’t seen you for ages. How are you?’ Hetty asked. Then, on impulse, ‘Would you like a coffee?’

Brian appeared confused at being addressed so normally. Other diners were muttering at him: the odour from his clothes was unmistakable, and there was a faint squelching as he moved. He took a step in her direction then hesitated. ‘Awright, missus,’ he answered gruffly. ‘I could take the price of a cup of coffee, if yer like.’

Hetty found her purse and gave him a pound. ‘Still selling the
Big Issue
? I haven’t seen you at the station recently.’

‘Nah, well, I’ve been ill.’ He seemed embarrassed and shuffled his feet.

‘I hope you’ll start again. It’s a good pitch.’

He looked directly into her eyes, an intense, furious, depressed glare, which made her recoil. Then he dropped his gaze and made to push his belongings once more. ‘Fucking interfering bitch,’ he muttered, but to himself, not to Hetty. Then, louder, ‘Yeah, well, I might. You take care of yourself, missus. Ta for the change.’

And he was gone, the trolley protesting eerily into the distance.

‘You do have some odd acquaintances, Hetty,’ Markus remarked drily. ‘If you were looking for somebody smelly and diseased, he’d fit the bill. Were you seriously suggesting he should join us?’

Hetty pondered. ‘You’re right. If he’d said, “Don’t mind if I do – move up and make room,” we’d have had a problem. But I feel sorry for him.’

‘
You’d
have had a problem. There are limits, Hetty,’ but Markus was half smiling.

Hetty sat back. ‘D’you know? In my previous life I wouldn’t have given him the time of day. Or I’d have crossed the street to avoid him. Don’t tell me to be like I was before, I prefer myself now.’ She giggled. ‘To be frank, in my previous life I wouldn’t have been having coffee with you two either, would I? I’d have been scared to sit at the same table, eat from the same plates. Shows you how stupid I was.’

The men did not reply, but their eyes met over her head. Markus handed her the glossy magazine, mutely, as if to confirm that they were still friends.

The street was getting busier. The dog-walking brigade were almost done: they tended to be the earliest out. Families with children were starting to emerge, with toddlers fidgeting in car-seats in double-parked vehicles as their parents collected cakes and ready-filled baguettes for picnics. Hetty was struck by how many of the cars, especially those with older children sitting sullenly in the back, had fathers only: the weekend visit of the divorced man, presumably. She was glad her marriage had lasted long enough for that dismal ritual to be unnecessary.

‘God in heaven, who’s that?’ she whispered, and tugged Christian’s sleeve. ‘Shush, don’t say a word.’

A tall, rangy female stood teetering on high heels, rifling through the newspapers on the stand a few yards away. The mass of glossy black hair was set in a stiff, upcurled style; she wore heavy makeup, black eyeliner and thickly mascaraed lashes. The ruby lipstick would have been excessive at any hour, but particularly on a Sunday morning. Her clothes were black, cinched at the waist and made of some lacy material.

‘Why do you ask?’ Christian mouthed.

‘One of your pals? Anyone you recognise?’ Hetty hissed. The woman had finished choosing, picked up a
Mirror
and went inside the shop to pay for it. As she emerged, to see Hetty, Markus and Christian staring over their coffee-cups, she dropped her eyes and trotted quickly away.

‘No, not one of ours,’ Markus said firmly. ‘We do know a few TVs, but not many. They’re not usually gay, Hetty.’

‘TVs?’

‘Transvestites. Cross-dressers. Mostly, they’re men who claim to be heterosexual but who like dressing up as women. They’re quite often married. And they’re not the same as TXs, either – transsexuals. Those people are usually heading for surgery.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Hetty nodded uncertainly, then craned her neck to follow the receding shape up the hill. ‘But I’ve seen her – him? – before. Coming out of our flats. Let me think – New Year’s Eve. In a great rush, dolled up to the nines.’

‘Maybe the BJs have some kinky visitors? Or Doris – now there’s a lady with a past, you can tell. Has she cast your future in the cards yet? Or the flat upstairs that’s always empty – could be them.’ Markus laughed. ‘Nice to have mysteries, isn’t it, Hetty?’

‘But who is it?’ Hetty broke a bran muffin in frustration. ‘Who on earth could it be?’

‘How did you persuade them, Hetty? They’re terrific,’ Rosa said.

On the set the three BJs sat demurely, eyes dancing. Their choice of clothes reflected their natures: Annabel as ever in too-tight black, Shelagh in a silky suit with a short skirt, the pale-blue colour setting off her flaming hair and milky skin, and Flo, hair braided with silver beads, in a low-cut red sweater and leather trousers. They were rehearsing their dilemma with the male presenter, who was leaning forward eagerly and attempting to pat Shelagh’s knee.

‘Can’t have that,’ Rosa commented. ‘He’ll be in camera view, a big dark blob. Have to tell him to sit back and keep his hands to himself.’ She spoke into her head mike.

‘Hello, Hetty,’ came a male voice behind her. Tall, urbane, charming, this time not in a suit but in a knitted sweater, it was Nicholas, the would-be writer, back for a follow-up. ‘We met in Fulham, remember?’

Hetty smiled at him. The computer check had revealed that he was divorced and in his mid-thirties: she had taken him to be older than that, possibly because previously at the studio he had appeared careworn and troubled. Now his manner was almost boyish. His true age might explain why he was of interest to Davinia, but it did mean he was more than a decade her own junior. What Markus would call a no-no.

‘So, what did you decide to do?’ she asked him.

His gaze was on the girls, as was that of every man on the set. ‘I handed in my notice. Fortunately they’ve been asking for voluntary redundancies so I got a generous package. And I’ve had several approaches – I could always go back. I’ll give myself a year.’

‘Anything worthwhile from publishers? I heard you were in talks with an agent.’

‘Promising. I have to write a chunk first, then we’ll see.’ He shrugged
self-deprecatingly
, as if unwilling to tempt fate. Then, lightly, he asked, ‘The girl in black – the one with the, er, generous proportions. What’s her name?’

‘Annabel. She’s one of my neighbours. She’s a lovely lass, hut such an idiot. She keeps falling in love with the most unsuitable men …’ and Hetty outlined the girl’s story. ‘I told her not to bother slimming – she desperately needs a bloke who can see through all that insecurity to the decent young woman underneath.’

Recording was about to start. Hetty pulled Nicholas out of shot. As they stood close together in the dark, sheltering behind a blackout curtain, a little devil dug at her. ‘So how goes it with Davinia?’ she asked quietly.

‘What do you know about me and Davinia?’ Nicholas was guarded, but civil.

‘I saw you. That night. Don’t worry, I haven’t said a word.’

‘She was not pleased when I threw up my job. She asked what that meant for her. I’m afraid it showed that I hadn’t given her needs much thought.’

‘You don’t seem too upset.’

He sighed. ‘Davinia started throwing out ultimatums and I just couldn’t respond.’

‘Such as take me but stay with the job?’ Hetty could imagine.

‘Something of the sort. I won’t have much money to fling around – certainly not enough to buy another house instead of my dingy little flat. I already have children to support with my former wife. It gets complicated. Not the right moment to take on further emotional upheaval. It’s sufficiently draining, believe me, trying to churn out a thousand words a day.’

‘And I doubt if Davinia could assist you there,’ Hetty concluded.

In a few moments the BJs’ segment was finished. They were replaced on set by Nicholas, who proceeded in a relaxed and humorous fashion to outline the course of events since the original broadcast. Flo and Shelagh were swept off by male researchers and spare crew who had arrived almost from nowhere, leaving Annabel hovering at Hetty’s side.

‘Well done, you were excellent,’ Hetty enthused.

‘Glad it’s over. I felt such a fool, wittering on about how useless I am at pulling men.’

Hetty pointed at Nicholas. ‘You might try him. He was asking about you. He’s a friend of my brother’s, and quite decent, I reckon. Your luck might be changing.’

Annabel screwed up her eyes. ‘Mmm, not bad.’ She nudged Hetty in the ribs. ‘You can give him my phone number, Het. But don’t tell him about the vodka, will you?’

It was late and almost dark before recording was finished. Hetty rode her bike slowly up the hill, feeling tired, her brain empty. The carrier-bag on the handlebars contained a head of celery – intended for a slimming soup – a chunk of ready-cooked chicken, a new library book (she had discovered Mrs Gaskell), and a bunch of yellow dahlias.