Chasing Men (34 page)

Sally was no longer alone, either. She was leaning against the door jamb in conversation with Kate, the bespectacled researcher. She caught her mother's eye and gave a merry wave, but carried on talking. Hetty was puzzled. Though Kate was highly intelligent, after a few drinks the main focus of her thinking would swing to sex. Kate would not waste time pursuing a liaison with no future. Yet Sally seemed fascinated. Both young women were slim, dressed in linen trouser suits with a mannish cut; both had a direct way of looking –
in your face
– that was a challenge. As Hetty watched, Kate put a hand on Sally's shoulder. Her daughter did not flinch, but smiled warmly.

Another latecomer arrived. Rosa slid up to her from behind and almost crushed Hetty's ribs with a bear-hug; the man accompanying her was Richard, as pleased with himself as were most of the other men present. ‘We've been together nearly a year,' said Rosa with pride. ‘That's a lifetime for me.'

‘Thanks to you, Hetty.' Richard's smile was almost sincere. Hetty gestured hazily at the rapidly emptying dishes and flitted away.

Into the mêlée came Father Roger, alone, still in his cassock and dog-collar, with many regrets for his lateness: confession that evening had taken hours and been gruelling. ‘That pesky choir,' he muttered as he swung off his cape. ‘At it again. Why can't they keep their sticky paws on the hymn sheets and off each other? And why, in heaven's name, do they come and tell me?'

‘Because you're their priest,' Hetty chuckled.

‘Not for much longer,' he said darkly.

‘Oh? What's up?'

‘You'll see. I've had it, with so many crass idiots seeking the road to enlightenment and the true path through Bible readings and Sunday worship. They don't repent, Hetty. They want absolution, but they don't repent.'

She was nonplussed. ‘D'you mean you're going to leave the Church?'

‘That is in God's hands,' he answered, deepening the mystery.

Her attention was distracted by the arrival, almost as the food was finished, of the girls from number four. All three were already equipped with a full glass. As they poked their bright heads round the door, Hetty realised why they might have chosen to delay their appearance. For each was on the arm of a man.

Flo bounced in, braids flying. ‘I believe you've met Jonathan,' she said coyly.

‘Hello,' said the languid presenter graciously, as if he were greeting Hetty for the first
time. He held out limp fingers to be shaken. ‘Oh, yes, now I remember you – from the studio. Thanks
so
much for the invite.'

‘You two been an item long?' Hetty was mischievous.

‘Let me see, about a month.' The presenter turned limpid eyes on Flo. ‘I'm besotted.'

And Annabel sidled in with Nicholas, who promptly swept Hetty off her feet and planted a hefty kiss on her mouth. ‘I've got a contract! I'm to write two novels, and they're going to pay me. The advance came yesterday. I can't believe it – and just because I was on your programme, Hetty.
And
I've got Annabel, the most darling girl in the universe. Pinch me – it's not real!'

Annabel stood bashfully at his side, still attired in black, but in an ankle-length dress with a breathtakingly low neck that showed off her remarkable cleavage to advantage.

‘Champagne's inside,' Hetty told them. ‘And, Nicholas – so is my sister-in-law, Davinia. She's trying to get pregnant, she says.'

‘So are we,' said Nicholas happily, and clasped Annabel's hand. ‘Thanks for the warning. But that's in the past.' The pair headed for the kitchen.

Shelagh was with an older man Hetty did not recognise, but whose carroty hair and freckled skin gave away his identity even before she introduced him. ‘My father, Jim O'Brennan,' said Shelagh. ‘The famous sausage manufacturer,' as if answering an unspoken query.

‘Pleased to meet you,' said Hetty. ‘Would you like a drink?' She was carrying a bottle of Chardonnay still relatively chilled, and topped up their glasses.

‘I'm glad we could make it,' said Mr O'Brennan. ‘You see, Shelagh's coming home next week. For good.'

The girl nodded, her wild hair falling over her shoulders. ‘I'm going to get involved with the family firm,' she said. ‘Personnel director of a subsidiary, to start with.
Director
, note – I shall be on the main board.'

‘Do you know a lot about personnel?' Hetty could not help asking.

‘No, but I'll learn.' The voice bubbled with confidence.

‘And what happened,' Hetty asked slyly, ‘to those notions of a big family – eight kids you wanted, wasn't it?'

Shelagh shrugged. ‘Plenty of grand fellows on that side of the Irish Sea,' she replied airily. ‘And they're
much
keener on getting married than over here.'

‘Ireland's changing, Mrs Clarkson,' said Mr O'Brennan expansively. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the hubbub. ‘Young people are coming back. After centuries of emigration. Place is booming. Can't get the staff. Any time you want a job, you contact me.' And he pressed a card into Hetty's hand.

Dazed and hot, Hetty slipped into the corridor for a breath of air. She was pursued by the assistant matron carrying a package wrapped in brown paper and string, who had evidently been waiting for this opportunity. ‘I am sorry we didn't let you know about Professor Bernstein's funeral, Mrs Clarkson,' the woman said formally. ‘It was such a rush, religious reasons and so on. And in north London. Wasn't till afterwards the ladies said you might have liked to attend. I can only say it didn't occur to us.' Her chin jutted, as if expecting criticism.

‘No, that's all right,' said Hetty sadly. ‘I was very fond of him.'

‘Yes, you do get attached,' said the woman, in a common-sense tone. ‘We go to funerals every week, and you tell yourself you shouldn't get sentimental, but you can't avoid it sometimes. Though the Professor wasn't a favourite with the staff.'

Hetty smiled despite herself. ‘Why was that?'

‘He kept making sexual remarks. About their buttocks and so on. They didn't like it.'

‘Yes, I can imagine,' Hetty said. ‘But he wasn't really a dirty old man. He just worshipped beauty. They should have taken it as a compliment.'

The woman looked at her askance, and sniffed. ‘Be that as it may. The executors have got one hell of a job on, what with those dozens of paintings. But he's left some small bequests and, wherever possible, I've been told to hand them over. So here's yours.'

She plonked the package in Hetty's arms. It was solid and cold, and quite heavy. Fearful of dropping it, Hetty gingerly unwrapped a corner, till the object was exposed.

It was the little bronze dancer.

‘It's got a plinth too – d'you want that?'

Hetty, her throat constricted, nodded silently.

‘You can collect that from the lodge. And I'm supposed to tell you to get it insured, though I don't expect it's worth much,' said the woman. ‘They'll be writing to you.'

Hetty pulled away a scrap of paper at the base of the statuette and traced her fingernail over the scrawled signature etched into the metal.
Degas
, it read. ‘I shan't be selling it,' she managed at last. ‘It'll be a memento – of a wonderful man.'

Her task complete, the assistant matron set about collecting her charges. Hetty hid the statue behind the sofa where Millie was fast asleep, head back, mouth open. Moira and Phyllis demanded to use the bathroom before venturing a step into the cold night. After many protestations about headaches and stiff limbs, the three donned their outer garments, wrapped scarves round their necks and, with the help of Markus and Clarissa, creakily made their way downstairs.

‘Splendid party,' said Phyllis, with the suspicion of a burp, as they regrouped on the pavement. ‘Haven't enjoyed myself so much in years.'

‘Love you, Hetty,' said Moira sleepily, and put up her lips to be kissed.

‘I'm going to change my will –' Millie began to say, but Hetty interrupted.

‘No, you are not. You are going to read the set book in time for the club's next session.'

‘I am?' asked Millie in astonishment, as the assistant matron, Clarissa and Hetty eased her into her seat. The door was slammed shut, and the vehicle drove off into the night.

‘Nine thirty. Time to clear away the tables and try a little dancing, Hetty?' Markus said, as they went back up the stairs.

‘Provided I don't pass out this time.'

‘Oh, you'll be safe in our hands. Anyway, there are a few words to be said first.'

‘No speeches. No.' Hetty stopped dead.

‘Thank-yous, a few minutes, that's all.'

At the top of the second flight they halted. Before them at eye-level, teetering carefully up each step on high heels, was a pair of fishnet tights covering muscular calves. Above floated a gauzy concoction in midnight blue lace, nipped in at the waist. A powerful
waft of freshly applied perfume lingered. The hair was shoulder-length, the tilt of the shoulders unmistakable …

‘Carole?' Hetty lifted her voice.

The figure stopped. Then half turned, keeping its face averted. ‘Hetty – do you mind?'

‘Let me see you properly. Is your lipstick tidy?' Hetty commanded. The apparition came full face, the mouth trembling. Hetty came close and pretended to check. ‘Carole, that's excellent. Go on in. Have a drink.' She caught Markus's eye. ‘He'll be safe in our hands too,' she hissed. ‘Be nice to him. Her. Whatever.'

‘And to your tuxedo johnny, and to everyone else? You do have odd friends, Hetty.' But Markus's manner was one of amused tolerance.

‘When I bought this flat I was told I'd have odd neighbours. That includes you,' she teased. He grinned at her, and carried on upstairs, mimicking Carole's ungainly gait as he did so.

The plates and glasses were cleared; despite Hetty's protestations, Doris, Sally and Kate set to and made short shrift of the disorder. Tables and chairs were pushed back. Markus took ostentatious charge of the CD control: Abba filled the room. At a suitable point he switched it off, called for silence and took centre stage.

‘I trust everyone has a full glass?'

‘
Yes
!
No
!' greeted him, and bottles were passed round.

‘Now we've had a marvellous evening, and it's not over yet. We have a tremendous thank-you to say to our hostess. So raise your glasses, and here's our toast: to Hetty!'

‘To Hetty!' came the cry.

‘And we want to give you – this!!'

Christian came forward, gawky and handsome, his blond hair falling over his brow, cradling an enormous bouquet. It must have been hidden in their flat. The lilies gave off their scent, the roses were just opening, fronds of eucalyptus and fern waved gracefully, the crinkly Cellophane was contained in a huge purple bow. The concoction was almost as big as Hetty herself. He presented it with an embrace, and a half-smile, and a whispered message of his own, that only Hetty could hear.

Behind the vast sheaf Hetty suddenly felt small and insignificant. This was not for her, surely. She did not deserve it. All she had done was invite a few friends round for a drink. Her main anxiety was that they shouldn't run out of alcohol, and that the food was attractive enough, smart enough, for this extraordinarily disparate bunch. But the emptied dishes told their own tale, as did the flushed happy faces ranged in a semicircle around the worn carpet.

Markus clapped his hands. ‘Before we continue, one or two other matters. I have an announcement.'

Groans and cat-calls. Hetty had been right: nobody liked speeches.

‘I have never said this before.' Markus raised his voice. ‘But I'm proud to do so now. I am gay. There! I've come out with it at last.' There was a ripple of sardonic applause, though Hetty saw out of the corner of her eye that Larry and Davinia were shrinking back. ‘Not only that, but I have found my life's companion. Christian here.'

He beckoned: Christian moved, stumbling, into the circle.

‘And we are going to be married.' There was a moment's stunned silence. ‘Unfortunately, we can't do it in this country –
yet
. So it'll have to be in Amsterdam. And, Hetty, we'd like you to come. Will you?'

‘Oh, yes …' she said, and felt herself smiling broadly.

‘
I'll
marry you.'

Father Roger stepped into the middle. ‘Or, at least, I'll give you a blessing. Can't do it in St Veronica's but I'm sure we could find somewhere suitable.'

Behind him hovered Alice, the curate, who had slipped in without Hetty noticing. Like Roger she was wearing her clerical collar, with an ill-fitting black jacket and skirt. Bony wrists poked out of the sleeves, the thin fingers were clasped together.

‘Because it's time for me to take my fate in my hands, too,' Roger said, slowly. The room went quiet again: those present were hanging on every syllable. ‘I believed I could manage with God alone, with no human being getting in the way. I was above
that
. Then dear Alice came along and altered my perspectives. We have prayed together. She has changed everything …'

Alice's expression was shining and ecstatic; she came forward, as shyly as Christian had done, and stood by Roger, her hands twitching. The church mouse had proved a doughty and speedy operator, Hetty reflected ruefully. The priest's shoulders sagged, as if abandoning a terrible burden. Then he beamed at Hetty, and at Doris and Markus.

‘Well, I still think the Golden Tulip Hotel in Amsterdam is the place to do it,' said Markus calmly, pressing the control button. As the Abba songs resumed, the engaged couple and the clericals slid away, and were soon comparing diaries.

‘Bloody hell!' It was Rosa, at Hetty's side. ‘Gorgeous flowers, Het. But Roger's taking a big step, if he means to preside at a gay wedding.'