Chasing Men (29 page)

And who, exactly, was Doris, this bustling, cheery woman who had taken on the role of concierge and mother-substitute for the block, and who seemed to know everyone’s affairs? Hetty stepped away from the window and slipped back into the shadows. She had every reason to be grateful. Doris had been the soul of kindness during those miserable first days at The Swallows. It was thanks to her that the newcomer had neither frozen nor starved. Hetty had heard tales of single people left to rot in their rooms, studiously ignored by neighbours who scuttled in and out of their own rabbit-holes as if determined to avoid contact. It was depressing enough to find oneself alone, in circumstances not of one’s own choosing; but to have been ignored like that, denied human existence, would have been terrible. Instead, succoured by as friendly a biddy as Doris, she had felt almost welcome.

So who was she? Doris had also hinted that she had been married, once – but that, she had said, was another story. Did she have children? And, since she was obviously from a corner of the city some distance away, why had she decided to settle in what must seem, to an East Ender, the wilderness south of the Thames? Even Christian and Markus reckoned that Doris had secrets. Here was one made manifest, seated a few yards away and cradling a drink, with Doris simpering and luminous before him.

Now was the not the moment to enquire. Hetty’s urge to discuss Christian’s twilight activities on the common, and her curiosity about Jack, would have to remain under wraps. Meanwhile she laughed ruefully. At least Doris was entertaining a gentleman, and seemed to be on cloud nine about it.

More immediate matters awaited in her postbox. A large buff envelope had arrived from Soul Mates. Hetty hung up her coat, disciplined herself to make a cup of tea first, then sat down with the sheaf of papers.

There were six sheets, each with a photograph, passport-size, pinned to a photocopy
of the application form. Highlighted on each form in fluorescent green was the home phone number. A covering letter invited Hetty to call the men direct, then to keep the agency informed of her progress.

Bill looked like a criminal. His unsmiling face was podgy, suggesting that his description of himself as of ‘average build’ was an error. He might have the mildest of dispositions, but Hetty was taking no chances. Andrew was better, quite attractive, but only thirty-five, he said, and lived in Kent. The agency was not as efficient as it pretended, or perhaps the various offices swapped their more promising clients as encouragement. Martin had a London postcode and his photo showed a pleasant enough chap, but his main hobbies were fixing up old cars and jazz. ‘Been there, done that,’ muttered Hetty darkly, as she drank her tea. And he had a moustache.

Matthew had no interests whatever, as far as she could judge. He had left the section unticked and scrawled ‘everything’ over it. It could mean that he was the most amazing person, erudite, literate and eclectic in his tastes; but an intelligent man would surely have been a bit more selective. David was a university lecturer, swarthy and with a pony-tail, who had never married; his eyes avoided the camera. Hetty fantasised that he had fathered ten children by four different mothers and did not wish to admit it. Nor did he mention what he taught: that could mean the subject was so dull he dared not boast about it. Engineering, maybe. Or social science – no, that would have produced a proud reference. Forestry, then. Or trainspotting. He was fairly dull himself, or too picky, if in truth no woman had ever won his heart.

That left Norman. His picture passed the test with flying colours, and though he said he was forty-five Hetty, squinting closely, suspected that was an underestimate. Modifying his date of birth was not a disqualification – it might show he was sensitive on the issue, as she was, and felt much younger. He was a widower: his wife had died of cancer two years before, and now, he wrote, ‘I feel ready to put my grief behind me, and find new friendships, hopefully long-term.’

That sounded intriguing. He had been married, he had loved and lost through no fault of his own, but was not prepared to bid goodbye to the world and wallow in self-pity. A mature man.

The address given was in Hertfordshire. He had his own company in the financial field and liked the theatre, concerts, sport. Hetty finished the tea, held the paper in both hands at arm’s length and asked whether she could imagine herself sitting across a dinner table from this person.

She could. She picked up the phone and dialled.

‘I called you this evening. You were out. Somewhere nice?’

Hetty giggled. ‘Yeah, Sally. Went out for a drink. With a man.’

‘Ooh! The agency. They found you somebody.’

‘Not sure yet. But yes, the name did come from Soul Mates. And it’s Norman.’

‘Norman from the agency? Sounds like a character from a Rowan Atkinson film. Or Alan Partridge. What’s he like?’

‘Don’t sneer, dear. He’s about fiftyish, fairly well-off – he had a Ralph Lauren blazer, quite smart but casual. Not the leather-jacket type. I think he was originally a chartered
accountant, something solid, anyway. Not tall, but slim. Stylish in an understated way. He wore a pink shirt and a cravat – that was how I was to recognise him.’

‘Isn’t that a bit poncy? And what did you wear?’

‘That suit from
Star Style
. I’m beginning to feel quite at home in it.’

‘It’s nice. So where did you go with Norman from the agency?’

‘We met in the bar at his club. Somewhere in Pall Mall. I hadn’t been before, but it’s swish and the waiter treated him as a regular.’

‘Hmm. Don’t take anything for granted. What did you chat about?’

Hetty pondered. ‘Oh, home, children, the usual subjects,’ she said vaguely. ‘I let him do most of the talking. He was excellent at that.’

‘So he’s a charmer. But is he genuine?’

‘I think so. How can I tell? But so far, I can’t fault him.’ Now it was Sally’s turn to think hard before speaking. ‘If it helps, I’ll come with you next time,’ she offered. ‘Give him the once-over. But don’t reveal your home address until you’ve checked him out thoroughly. If you like, I can run his details through our computer, see if he’s travelled with us, who paid his fare, that sort of thing.’

‘Well, first let’s find out if it goes anywhere. I’ll show you the sheet next time you come round. Anyway –’ Hetty giggled again and hiccupped, once.

‘What, Mum? Wow, you
have
been drinking.’

‘’Sright. He bought champagne. It was lovely.’

‘Blimey. My mother, gadding about in her old age.’

‘Stop it. You’re jealous. I
was
going to say, he’s keen to see me again. He’s asked me out. And that’s a recommendation in itself.’

What Hetty could not tell her daughter, for she could still not quite believe it, was that Norman scored remarkably highly on her checklist of manly attributes. And then some.

He was trim, neat and …
sexy
. He had pale blue eyes that twinkled merrily and sandy hair cut short: it was obvious he had been freshly barbered. Clean-shaven skin sat without slackness on high cheekbones and a firm jaw with a small cleft in the chin. He kept himself fit, he told her; she could detect not an ounce of spare fat on him, though the wrists under the pink shirt-cuffs and discreet gold cufflinks were wiry and strong. The aftershave was unobtrusive but fragrant. He was rather older than he was admitting on the form – closer to mid-fifties. Not a subject to be broached yet, Hetty reckoned, especially as she had knocked another year off her own age. At this rate she’d be forty before the decade was out: she was in no position to moralise.

The standard opening gambit, Hetty asking him to say more about himself than was on the form, had produced a modest smile and a shrug from Norman. He skated over his occupation as esoteric and of slight interest to a pretty woman at the first meeting. He did give her a card, as clean and tidy as its donor, with a business address in Tring. The lack of flourish or bombast impressed Hetty even more. She tried to assess him as if he were a guest on
Tell Me All
, and concluded that Norman from the agency came across as so manifestly normal, so much at ease that nobody would put him on the show, ever. Yet if he were in a witness-box, whatever story he told would be instantly credible.

His face was open and alert, and he seemed delighted to be in the same room as her,
in the buttoned leather armchairs, with a bowl of salted nuts before them, the waiter wiping glasses at the far end of the bar and the champagne bottle slowly emptying.

‘I ought to ask you for dinner,’ he said at last. His voice was light, the accent north London.

‘Perhaps not this evening,’ Hetty had demurred. ‘We are a little late.’ They had met at seven; it was nearly nine. The two hours had passed swiftly, not a moment had dragged. Both expressed astonishment at the time.

‘We must have been enjoying each other’s company, Hetty. This is an enormous pleasure for me, to meet a remarkable, intelligent lady like you,’ Norman said, and waved the waiter away. ‘Have what’s left. No, I insist.’ He poured the remains of the bubbly then turned the bottle upside down in its bucket with a tiny sigh of regret.

Hetty felt dazed. The
Star Style
outfit had worked its magic once more. She had steeled herself to expect an encounter more on the lines of that ghastly dinner with James. She should have been silently marking the negative bits, to mull over later when deciding whether to see him again, or to wait for the next envelope. Instead Norman kept coming up smelling of roses – not quite as irresistible as Stephen in his prime, maybe, but much more so than Stephen today. Or James, or Al.

This had started to feel like a lurch in the right direction. Maybe, under the table, she should pinch herself to wake up.

‘It makes you wonder,’ she ventured, ‘why on earth people like us have to meet via, er, our mutual acquaintance. We’re both sociable, warm, solvent, sound in body and mind. Pity we have to resort to – you know. It is so clinical.’

‘It’s the tragedy of the modern world, Hetty,’ he said, and gazed into her eyes. ‘Workaholics, we are, the middle classes. We get so engrossed in our professional activities that we realise all of a sudden that our social life is non-existent. Plus, we’re British: brought up to be reticent, to put up with it. The opportunities to meet like-minded people are limited – our generation doesn’t go out clubbing, like the youngsters. To meet someone like you by chance would be a miracle. So the agencies find us highly profitable. But I don’t begrudge them.’

‘Agencies? Have you been to any others?’

He looked pained. ‘No, but I did get some brochures. Tonight is the first time I’ve tried this, Hetty. I’m as nervous as you are.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Hetty, and they did so.

‘Don’t be dazzled,’ said the champagne glass. ‘He’s only a chap. Either he’s utterly ordinary and will bore you to tears, or there’s something not right.’

‘How do you figure that?’ Hetty let the effervescence tickle her nose.

‘Else why would he have to go to an agency?’

‘Same reason I did. Got fed up waiting. Decided to seize the day.’

‘That’s the alcohol talking. Take care.’

Hetty lifted her head from the glass, to find the new man gazing at her, calm and dignified. ‘You and I, Norman, we seem to understand each other,’ she murmured.

‘I believe we do, Hetty,’ he said, quietly. Had he touched her hand at that minute or made any other move towards her, she would have shrunk away. He didn’t, but seemed to want to. That was sufficient. ‘So maybe we could arrange to have dinner on a future date?’

‘Oh! Yes,’ she said, trying not to appear too eager. ‘I’ve brought my diary.’

‘And I mine. As long, Hetty, as it’s soon.’

And he had seen her into a taxi, and handed the cabby a twenty-pound note, as if such excellent manners came naturally to him. As he tapped goodbye on the window, Hetty settled back in her seat, crossed her legs and placed her hand over her beating heart.

But it was lunch, not dinner, that came next. To Hetty’s relief there was no suggestion that Norman hankered after Japanese raw fish laced with chillies. Instead he booked a table at PJ’s in Covent Garden. As Hetty approached the yellow-painted frontage with its scrawled blackboard, she realised it was only a step away from Christopher’s, the restaurant where Clarissa had started her rescue efforts all those months ago. This was beginning to feel like a familiar stamping ground.

Inside were dark wood, faded mirrors, bar stools and an amiable American manager in a turquoise shirt and wire-rimmed spectacles, who greeted Norman like an old friend.

‘Bill, I’d like you to meet Hetty,’ Norman said, with elaborate courtesy as their coats were taken. ‘Usual table, please.’

They found themselves in a dimly lit alcove, with only two other tables nearby. Norman was smartly dressed in a City suit and explained that he had two appointments in town that day, but told her no more. The restaurant was filling up with a variety of diners: male and female, both casually attired and smart. Hetty tried unsuccessfully to categorise them.

As if reading her mind, Norman said, ‘We’re near theatreland. A lot of these people, especially in the evenings, are involved with the performing arts or are on the fringes of show business. See behind you.’

She twisted about and found that the wall at their table was festooned at waist height with small brass plaques. She recognised the names of Christopher Biggins the actor, and Will Carling the rugby player. ‘Goodness,’ she whispered, ‘d’you think he brought Princess Diana here?’

Norman smiled a curious lop-sided smile, as if he knew more than he would tell. ‘I doubt it. She preferred San Lorenzo, the Caprice, places like that.’

Hetty did not quite understand the implications, other than that the other locations were possibly more expensive, or more exclusive, but as the menus arrived, she saw that Norman had given her an entree into another conversational track. ‘You said on your form, Norman, that you liked theatre. Is that a major interest of yours?’

‘It is. I’ve become acquainted with management and certain producers who dine here regularly, so sometimes I get tickets to first nights and previews.
Mamma Mia
for one,
Spend Spend Spend
, that sort of show – brilliant. We’re extremely fortunate to have so much live theatre of such high quality in London, don’t you think?’

‘I do,’ said Hetty firmly, and mentioned Christian and Markus, though it was apparent that their work – more elevated, perhaps, than the musicals Norman had touched on – was known to him only by reputation. It occurred to her that she could name-drop with aplomb these days; moreover, thanks to Father Roger, several hit plays at the National were at her fingertips as topics of discourse, complete with comments on their ethical dilemmas. She no longer felt quite so shy or ignorant in the company of sophisticated strangers like Norman.

‘What else do you enjoy doing – when you’re not with me, say?’ she asked, a mite coyly. ‘Concerts, sport? You also ticked those boxes.’

He looked faintly puzzled, as if unsure what he had written. ‘That’s right,’ he said vaguely. ‘It depends. If I’m offered tickets for the Proms or Glyndebourne I always go. But I confess that eighty or a hundred pounds a seat at the Royal Opera House does not strike me as good value.’

‘No, I can see that,’ Hetty sympathised. So he was not about to take her to see Roberto Alagna and his wife in concert. What a pity.

The cuisine at PJ’s turned out much more to her taste than the fiery tuna of James’s preferred eatery, and kinder to her waistline than the creamy excesses of Clarissa’s. She tucked in happily to icy gazpacho, and followed it with seared sea-bass on a bed of spinach: simple, tasty and blessedly recognisable. Norman opted for calf’s liver, grilled pink and rare. Hetty peeked over her wine-glass as he speared each thin strip, browned on the outside, squishily soft inside, then delicately wiped up the bloody jus with bread. There was something so controlled about him. So carnivorous. It fascinated her.

‘What about movies? Do you enjoy them too?’ she continued.

‘I do. My tastes are quite broad, but I never miss a new science-fiction or horror film if I can help it. Wherever possible I read the book first, then I can compare.’

‘I loved
Star Wars
,’ Hetty confessed.

‘Which one?’ he enquired, his mouth widening in that smile again. It seemed to Hetty, fleetingly, that he was testing her. She was unsure whether he expected her to be impressed or amused. Since the various episodes in the genre tended to get mixed up in her memory, her replies were haphazard. They chatted on about the Lucas films for several minutes until at last Norman said, with a laugh, ‘No, no, Hetty. The child becomes Darth Vader, not Luke Skywalker,’ at which point it seemed wisest to move on.

‘But the special effects were amazing,’ she concluded defensively, and suspected she had made a minor fool of herself.

His eyes betrayed nothing as he picked up the menu to select a dessert. ‘You are exceedingly good company, Hetty,’ he said, as if to console her.

‘So are you, Norman,’ Hetty answered warmly, and she meant it. There was no need to compare this elegant, charming man with his beautiful manners and open face with her mental ideal. He was remarkably close to any model she might have chosen. His physical presence in that well-cut suit, the discreet cufflinks, the pearly-buttoned shirt, began to stir her imagination. What might he look like without them?

Plucking up her courage, she lowered her eyelashes, once, then gazed at him full in the face. ‘Next time, Norman, it’s on me.’

One evening soon afterwards Hetty was washing up and pottering round the flat. A few anemones in a vase gave a cheerful air. The knock on the door made her jump.

‘Hello, Doris.
And
Thomas.’ Hetty eyed the cat with caution. How did he manage to moult the whole time? Doris’s apron was covered in his hairs. ‘Want to come in?’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Doris said. ‘You’re looking cheerful. How’s the love life?’

‘It’s okay,’ Hetty said crisply. ‘Ask no questions, Doris, and you’ll be told no lies.’

Doris had come officially with information that the water was to be cut off the following day for repairs, but in essence for gossip and tea. As Hetty broke open a packet of biscuits, she wondered if Doris might be in the mood for confidences.

‘A couple of weeks ago,’ Hetty ventured, ‘didn’t I see you in your kitchen with a gentleman friend? Was that your Jack?’

Doris dimpled. ‘It was. Nice, isn’t he? Still got his handsome looks.’

‘Not moving in, yet?’ Hetty let her voice sound teasing.

‘No. Not ’im. He lives in digs in the East End – well, I call ’em digs, but he owns the whole terrace. One of his tenants sees to him.’

‘He’s done well for a former police officer, hasn’t he?’ Hetty did not trouble to conceal her curiosity.

Doris’s face darkened. ‘You might say that.’

Hetty sat back. ‘Sorry, I’m being nosy. No reason why a former policeman shouldn’t own a row of houses. You’ve known him ages, haven’t you?’

‘Must be forty years.’ The normally garrulous Doris had acquired a wary expression. Hetty decided to plough on. Her neighbour could always tell her to take a running jump, but had not done so yet.

‘Do you have children, Doris?’

‘I did. One, a daughter. When I was about nineteen.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She … she died.’

‘Ah.’ Hetty found herself examining the old woman closely. Had it been Jack’s child? Or the invisible Mr Archibald’s? The implication of those lowered eyes was of some tragedy. But, then, losing a child was always a tragedy. Hetty’s heart softened. Was this why Doris didn’t live where her accent revealed she had grown up – where Jack lived?

Suddenly Doris spoke rapidly in such a low tone so that Hetty could barely hear. ‘He was good to me, was Jack. He was the police officer involved. Kept in touch. He’s been a decent sort.’ She stopped as abruptly as she had begun, then gathered the cat in her arms and rose to go. ‘Enough. It’s all in the past, thank God.’

At the door, Doris’s manner resumed its casual friendliness. ‘You’re blooming, Hetty. That new figure of yours is very glamorous. Make the most if it.’

‘What? Go swimming down the municipal baths, you mean?’ Hetty laughed, their amity restored, yet conscious of how little she knew about her widowed neighbour.

‘Nah,’ said Doris. ‘But I bet it’s even better in the buff. Not seen you in the shop recently. Anything I could fetch you? Maybe you’d better get a move on, before the podge comes back. No offence, but it does.’ She patted her own solid midriff.

‘That might be excellent advice, Doris,’ Hetty answered, and avoided the dig in the ribs that the old woman was attempting to make. Thomas hissed as if in disapproval. ‘So if you hear strange noises from this flat one evening soon, please take no notice.’

With Doris gone, Hetty stood sunk in thought. Dates with Norman were chaste, but had reached the stage where his lips at farewell brushed her mouth rather than her cheek, and lingered. Those tendony wrists had begun to appear in her mind’s eye, resting on a table.
Her
table. And the cufflinks, removed, beside them.

Time for the carrot soup and rosemary lamb routine once more.

‘No,
not
carrot soup,’ Hetty said to herself. ‘I can’t stand the stuff. I’ll make a pâté. Norman is a serious meat-eater. Now where did I put my recipe book?’

And this time there was no mistake.

The doorbell rang downstairs as Hetty put the finishing touches to the cornflower blue cloth, the gleaming cutlery, the china, the linen napkins folded like angels’ wings, wooden candlesticks and a pot of freesias. She opened the oven door, once, to let the aroma of dinner enter the room as tantalisingly as possible; checked her appearance in the mirror (the same low-cut sweater that had thrilled James and the loose, long skirt), then called down the intercom and pressed the buzzer.

Norman stood in the hallway, dressed in the Ralph Lauren jacket, cravat and slacks he had worn on their first date at his club. A whiff of pleasant aftershave entered the room before he did, with a smile on his smooth-shaven face and a very large bunch of scarlet roses, barely opened from bud, held before him.

‘Good Lord,’ Hetty said, taken aback. She had the sense that control of the evening had promptly passed to her male guest. As she brushed a strand of hair out of her eye, oniony garlic came from her fingers: hastily, she hid her hands behind her. Norman was taller than herself and had to bend to give her a kiss. It was full on the lips, though moderate and brief. It made her own lips tingle mightily, even as she moved aside and let him in.

‘Mmm, smells super,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Lamb? Herbs? Do I detect garlic? Perhaps I should have brought a Côtes du Rhône.’ He held out a bottle, which Hetty had accepted before realising it was black label champagne.

‘Yes, lamb,’ Hetty said uncertainly. Arms full of the rustling roses, she led the way into the living room and with an elbow indicated glasses and an ice bucket. A bag of ice from the off-licence was in the bottom of the freezer, she told him. Norman filled the bucket and expertly, as if to the manner born, sat the wine bottle at a modish angle.

The freesias seemed limp and pathetic beside Norman’s magnificent blooms. Hetty fetched her biggest vase and began to trim the stems on the draining-board, chattering lightly through the open kitchen door. He kept appearing and disappearing; she caught glimpses of him walking about, taking books from her shelves, turning over her bits of china and the glass perfume phials, examining the photos and pictures on the walls.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have much.’ She came back into the room with the filled vase and gestured apologetically. ‘That’s an Ingres poster, and that print, of course, is Titian. But you’d know that. If I had the wherewithal I’d buy modern paintings. I have a friend who is an art professor and he could advise me. But my savings went into buying this flat, so …’ She let her voice trail off.

Norman shrugged. ‘I’m not after you for your money, you know,’ he said coolly. ‘I have enough of my own. When my wife died it came to me.’

The roses stood proudly upright on thick stems like crimson-coated guardsmen. Hetty placed the vase on a low table with some difficulty, for it was now heavy. Norman leaped forward to help. As he did so, water splashed on his jacket. ‘Darn,’ he said, and dabbed with a handkerchief. Then, ‘Ah, well, no damage done.’

Hetty wondered nervously whether to offer to pay for dry-cleaning, then decided against. Anyone able to buy such a spruce garment did not need her hard-earned sous. Whether his wealth had come from his late wife’s estate or not, he certainly looked exactly as one would expect a comfortably off widower to look.

His children, he had told her previously, were grown-up, a boy and a girl, both
working overseas. He had no other ties. Although it had taken a while to get over his bereavement, he felt some obligation to himself to seek new friendships. Whenever he uttered the words ‘friend’ or ‘friendship’, he held Hetty’s gaze and smiled in a distinctive slow,
lop-sided
way that kept his teeth hidden. It gave the impression of strength, dignity and
self-reliance.
It crossed Hetty’s mind that the smile had been thoroughly practised in a mirror; but, then, who was she to carp, since that was exactly what she had done herself, ten minutes before his arrival?

The pâté was eaten neatly with many exclamations of praise. Norman’s small teeth left uneven semicircles on the spread toast, but they did appear to be his own. Hetty mentally consigned carrot soup for ever to the dustbin. The champagne, chilled and sparkling, set off the crystal glasses liberated from Dorset. Not for the first time, Hetty allowed herself to drink more than Clarissa might have approved of, and felt herself mellowing, willing to listen to Norman’s anecdotes without interruption and to laugh without pretence.