Chasing Men (4 page)

‘So I’m right. He helped make you what you are. Correct?’

‘Correct.’ Hetty’s voice was low. ‘Don’t push, Mother. You could say my confidence is a bit low at present. For all my bravado, I’m not sure how I’ll manage on my own.’

The plates were cleared, menus re-presented. The two women dallied over the choice of dessert as Hetty struggled to understand her own emotions. A woman’s role: that was how she had seen it, and had taken an inordinate pride in her fulfilment of it.

‘It wasn’t that easy, keeping a big house running, and being a stay-at-home wife,’ she continued. ‘I did the lot, as was expected of me: I was a school governor, I stage-managed the village pantomime, I helped out whenever anyone asked. A vanishing breed, they called me.’

‘And now you can see why.’

‘Too darned right.’ The Death by Chocolate arrived, a darkly gooey contrast to her mother’s sorbet. ‘I entertained Stephen’s business colleagues and their tedious wives – whole weekends of it. Endlessly cooking and weeding and clearing up and laundry, even though we had help in the house. No wonder the kids are so helpless. They think toothpaste grows in the tube and loo rolls reproduce by magic. I don’t think either of them can boil an egg.’

‘Don’t put yourself down too much, Hetty. Your stamina always used to amaze me. Though I did wonder. You’re not stupid, dear, and never have been.’

Hetty pouted. ‘Many women, frantically juggling home, family, garden, and a career on top, would have been quite jealous. Many children suffered far worse. I made my bed and was content to lie on it.’

‘A bed – or a doormat?’ An elegant eyebrow was raised. Hetty nodded sadly.

‘Overdid it. And had no fall-back. What happens when the kids have gone? When the husband gets restless? Sometimes I did feel a little under-appreciated, but then I’d tell myself that that was women’s lot through the ages too.’

‘Not any more.’

‘No. But what is my lot? The world is full of couples, or people wanting to be couples. I’m single. I really don’t want either the loneliness, or the indignity of trying to start again.’ The luscious dessert was nearly finished. With an effort, Hetty refrained from eating the crumbs.

‘But there are loads of people like you!’ her mother cried. ‘Single women, and men! Didn’t I read somewhere that we have the highest divorce rate in Europe?’

‘Probably in your Saga magazine,’ Hetty responded grimly. ‘And it’d be higher if more people got married in the first place. That’s no help. Sad divorced men aren’t my cup of tea. Remarriage seems to me, right now, a thoroughly bad idea.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting that,’ her mother retorted.

‘But do you see? Most single girls are doing just that – looking for a bloke, desperately seeking a husband, home, mortgage, children, the lot. What about those of us who are not into that game? Not least because we’re beyond it. Beyond having more kids, I mean, and probably too old to get another twenty-five-year mortgage. But not past having ambitions and hopes. Not too old to want to have
fun
.’ She paused, breathless, and startled at her own temerity.

‘The men have it easier. They can’t manage by themselves at all, poor dears.’ Peggy chuckled deeply, as if at some long-forgotten memory not to be shared. ‘You’re right, darling. A man of fifty can start again – might be quite a catch, if he’s kept himself in trim. New family – why not? Proves something about him.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘That he can still get it up, aim it at the right place and fire live ammunition at will.’

‘Mother, you’re disgusting. There must have been extra alcohol in that sorbet.’ Hetty laughed, despite herself.

Her mother smiled wickedly. ‘You should start listing your advantages,’ she continued. ‘You’re not about to get pregnant. You don’t want to tie a man down. You can be mature and fascinating at the same time – remember Cleopatra or Katherine Hepburn or Marlene Dietrich. They had no trouble attracting men well into old age. And neither have I.’

‘This is my mother?’ Hetty asked the air in wonder. ‘This is solidarity? Suppose, however, that I might like to fill my life in other ways. Forget men, and find other things to fill that brain you so admire.’

‘Fine. But don’t forget the men,’ her mother admonished. ‘I can only tell you my recipe,’ she offered. When your father was alive, we went all over the world with his postings, and I had a marvellous time. If he’d strayed one tiny inch I’d have cut his balls off, and he knew it. When he died, I grieved – not just for him but for myself. Then I did three things.’

Hetty raised her eyes. ‘And those were?’

‘Counted my money: sufficient. Renewed my passport. And had a face-lift.’

‘You didn’t!’

‘I did.’

‘You never told me!’

‘Don’t have to tell you everything, dear, and I don’t expect you to confide in me either, unless you want to. But one more point. Some of this you should keep to yourself. I’m not sure Sally is quite ready for this kind of conversation, and of course Peter, darling grandson though he is, never will be. This is a woman’s world, quite different from a man’s. A singles world – a universe apart from couples and your old life. And believe me, darling, it can be fabulous. Wait and see.’

The stylish old lady picked up the empty bottle. ‘Another?’

They went back to the flat for coffee. On the mat was a small white envelope. Inside, a photocard of Christian, professionally done, looking his moody best, the shadows across his face bringing out the jutting jaw and cleft chin. ‘Love to see you at the theatre. Come to the first night. Two tickets await you at the box office. Knock one evening before then. Take us as you find us. Love, C.’

Later, her dinner companion sent home in a taxi, her head pounding from too much wine, Hetty lay in bed and let her mind rove. Her mother might have judged Stephen accurately, but Hetty remained sure that he had been splendid to begin with. She had not made a mistake in marrying him or in wanting to be married. She was not about to write off her entire previous existence, or abandon all her old values.

Now it was her turn. No compromises. No going back. New languages. Getting to know strangers. Odd couples. Getting to know people who had been strangers, like her mother. Telling white lies – about her age. Keeping secrets. Her
mother had had a face-lift
? Ye gods! Was that the future?

Two days later, a Sunday morning.

Hetty had slept fitfully, though the hot-water bottle had been relegated to the cupboard under the sink and a glass of wine had replaced cocoa before going to bed. She had jollied up the flat with a bunch of lilies, then realised they looked like funeral flowers and bought a scarlet cyclamen instead. She had explored the common, trudged across its windy wastes, discovered a whole shopping centre on the far side complete with a bus stop. A pot of apricot emulsion had brightened the kitchen. W.H. Smith’s had a bewildering plethora of cookbooks. The ubiquitous Delia Smith must be psychic:
One Is Fun
was relentlessly spot on. Or maybe, Hetty reflected, her situation was all too commonplace in the modern world, and Delia knew it.

And she had started to live sloppily, in a sweater and jeans, with no makeup, no nail varnish, her hair a mess. That would not do. As she yawned into the bathroom mirror, dressing-gown askew, one more item was added to a growing list: find a hairdresser and smarten up. Preferably before seeing Rosa next week. Maybe Christian could recommend one? It was the sort of thing a gay man might know. Would he take umbrage if asked? What was patronising and what wasn’t? She would call on them tonight – Sunday might be a free day for theatricals.

There was a noise outside the door. It sounded as if somebody had dropped a heavy bag. Hetty cocked her head and listened. Another noise: as if the bag was being rolled about.
Then a long drawn-out wail, low and heartfelt. And a dull bang, something being thrown against the wall.

This could not be ignored. Hetty rose, tied her dressing-gown decorously, tiptoed down her narrow hallway and peered through the peephole. She could see nothing. Cautiously she opened the door a few inches, only to have it crash inwards with the weight of the heavy thing leaning against it.

‘Oh!’ Hetty jumped backwards, as the
thing
opened its mouth and sent forth a jet of yellow vomit on to the mat, just missing Hetty’s slippers. A dribble slid over a black T-shirt and jeans stretched over plump thighs.

‘Yurk!’ said the thing, and retched. On the far side of the lobby an empty vodka bottle rolled tipsily where it had been thrown. ‘Yurk! Oh, God. I want to die …’

Hetty ran to fetch an old towel and tried first to clean up the thing – a fat girl, flushed and gabbling – then the floor. The job was hopeless: no sooner had one slimy mess been wiped away than another stream surged forth. Hetty squatted on her haunches, a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Last time something like this had occurred had been at Sally’s twenty-first when some of her pals had hit the Amaretto.

‘Hello, I’m Hetty,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘Who are you? What’s the matter? Can you stand up?’

‘I’m Annabel. Live
there
.’ She gestured drunkenly at the opposite flat. ‘And I’m too fat. He said so. I wanna
die
…’

‘No, you don’t. Come on, Annabel, can you get up? Then at least I can get you into the bathroom and you can be sick in the –’

‘No-o-o!’ the girl howled, as she struggled to her feet. ‘He doesn’t love me. He said so. He loves Flo!’

A small brown bottle fell from her inert fingers. Hetty picked it up then glanced sharply at the girl. ‘Aspirin? You haven’t taken the whole lot, have you? And the vodka? God in heaven. Wait! I’ll call an ambulance.’

Ten minutes later an anxious Hetty, her dressing-gown stained and smelly, saw off the paramedics with their red-blanketed charge, but declined the offer to travel with her to hospital. An unshaven man from the flat opposite had volunteered instead. His sheepish manner suggested that he knew the cause of Annabel’s anguish; the girl clung to his hand pathetically.

There was so much gunge to clean up. It was everywhere – in the hall, the bathroom, the lobby. To paraphrase Lady Macbeth, who would have thought the young woman had so much sick in her? One thing every mother knew, Hetty reflected gloomily, was what bodily fluids looked like. On the other hand, it had probably saved the girl’s life.

She threw her dressing-gown, nightie, the towels and bathmat into the washing-machine with a double measure of bleach and set it to wash at the highest temperature. While the machine whirred, she treated herself to a shower and realised she was shaking.

A cry for help. But to what avail?
No man is worth that
. Especially if his evaluation of the girl stretched to her girth and nothing else. As if only her appearance mattered, and not her soul or her – brain.

Annabel. One of the girls living in flat four. Odd neighbours, indeed.

Whatever next?

Hetty pushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and handed over the Harrods, Nicole Farhi and Harvey Nichols bags with relief. Her fingers were raw from carrying them.

‘I am
exhausted
. Heavens, Clarissa, how often do you do this?’

They were in a narrow stone-flagged lobby. A circular marble staircase curled behind and above. Opera music –
Tosca
? – floated down, with the sound of tinkling glasses and a murmur of well-bred voices. ‘Is this new? I don’t recall Stephen ever mentioning it.’

‘Darling!’ Clarissa feigned surprise. The charm bracelet jingled. ‘Christopher’s is
the
place. It was in
Harper’s and Queen
.’

‘It used to be the National Liberal Club,’ said the receptionist. She was a thin, angular girl with a fashionably wild haircut. She jerked her head skywards. ‘Lots of intrigues. Government disasters and that. Years ago, of course.’

‘And men only, I’ll bet,’ Clarissa added. ‘Wasn’t it a brothel once, too? Lucky devils.’

The airy upstairs room was sparsely furnished: minimalist was in, Hetty noticed. A polished plank floor, pale drapes, colour-washed stone walls, simple ironwork tables with white linen. The flowery fabrics and Laura Ashley style left behind in Dorset suddenly seemed impossibly twee. She tugged down the new jacket and wished the trousers did not chafe so. Perhaps size sixteen would have been wiser.

They were seated by the oriole window. Hetty could see the colonnaded Lyceum Theatre opposite, the activity at its stage door – it must be a matinee day – and caught the bustle of taxis and a fruit-stall in the street below. She wriggled her shoulders. ‘Thanks, Clarissa. You’re a pal. I love my new suit.’

The menus arrived. Hetty was about to order lamb in red wine with roast potatoes, then checked herself. Her mother had set an example. ‘The seafood,’ she said, ‘and a salad.’

‘And to drink, madam?’ Like the receptionist, the waiter was young and skinny with a gelled hairdo that had taken much art to appear as if he had just got out of bed.

‘It’s on me, remember. Let’s celebrate.’ Clarissa smiled sweetly at the youth. ‘Two glasses of champagne, please.’

‘What are we celebrating?’

‘Oh, I dunno. Your divorce? Did you screw him for a lot of money? Will you get the house?’

‘Lord, no. I got enough to buy the flat, and to tide me over. Stephen still has a hefty mortgage, and we have to think of Peter – it’s his home too. Anyway, I didn’t want it.’

‘But it’s worth a packet! You mean, you walked away?’

Hetty shrugged.

‘You’re crazy. You should have nailed his ears to the wall. I would have.’

The seafood was beautifully served in a shallow soup dish with a knife, fork and spoon. A fleshy prawn, a black mussel shell, chunks of translucent monkfish poked like miniature atolls from a lagoon of garlicky sauce. Hetty glanced at other diners and saw it was permitted – encouraged – to eat the sauce with the spoon. And, if she wished, to wipe up the
dregs with a piece of walnut bread.

She took two swallows of champagne. ‘I am, however, beginning to feel I have something to celebrate. Getting over the hurdle of the divorce is one. My mother believes I was put upon for too long.’

Clarissa was twiddling with a green salad. Her mouth full of frisé lettuce – not the easiest vegetable to eat daintily. Only a nod was forthcoming.

‘And now I find myself living on my own. It does feel weird. My daughter says I’ll go bonkers and end up in a psychiatric hospital.’ Hetty paused long enough to prise open a mussel. ‘This is truly delicious, Clarissa – thanks a million.’

‘Terribly fattening,’ Clarissa said. ‘All that cream in the sauce. Murder for the hips.’

‘Don’t be depressing. I’ve enough on my plate without that.’

‘She’s got a point, though, your Sally.’ Clarissa pushed away the remaining rocket. ‘You mustn’t stay at home and mope. If you like, we could do this once a fortnight or so. Have lunch, then go to a movie or a show. Go shopping – Ikea, say, for anything you needed for your flat, or further afield, like Lakeside in Essex. Even take the Eurostar to Paris – that’s great. We’ll go Dutch after today, unless it’s a birthday treat. Some of my other friends would join us. A riotous girls’ day out!’

Hetty pondered. ‘Is that what you do with your time?’

‘Mostly,’ Clarissa replied. ‘I can’t go too far. Robin likes me home in the evening, even though the children are away at school. He says that’s the way to keep a marriage strong – sorry. You stayed at home, and it didn’t work for you.’

‘Umm … How is Robin?’

‘As per usual. He’ll be head of chambers next year, so lots of black-tie dinners when I’ll be on show too. The darling’s given me a clothes allowance. Aren’t I a lucky girl?’

He trivialised you. Turned you into a doll.

‘Does that completely fulfil you, Clarissa? Is that all you need from life?’ Hetty was startled to hear her own words. ‘Seems a bit… frivolous to me.’

‘Well!’ Clarissa sounded annoyed. ‘I’d rather be in my shoes than
yours
, dear. Shall we take a peek at the puds? Not that I want one. But
you
might.’

Abashed, Hetty considered the patisserie, then shook her head and ordered a filter coffee. Black.

Clarissa leaned across the table. ‘We’ve been friends for years, so let’s be blunt. You’re the wrong side of fifty, you’re … well, sliding into middle age would have been an apt description several years ago. What are your qualifications? Your earning power must be limited. What’re you going to do? Work in a shop? After decades as mistress in your own home, would you take so easily to being a minion and being told what to do? No. That’s not the answer.’

‘And what is?’

‘Stick with me, baby. I’ll smarten you up, then we’ll sort you out – I know a few decent older chaps who are in the market for a kind-hearted lady. We’ll have you organised in no time.’

Hetty’s eyes widened. ‘You think I should be chasing men, do you? But what for?’

‘Because it’s the best for you! Because we should let them do the hard slog, the frightful stuff like working for a living. Let them be the wage slaves. They think they’re
exploiting us, but it’s the other way round.’ She touched her Rolex watch, a slim ladies’ model, like a talisman. ‘Darling, most divorced men are helpless. Infants. They’re desperate to get hitched again – formally or informally. And you’re exactly what they’re looking for. You might have to lie about your age, though.’

‘I’m already doing that,’ Hetty muttered into her coffee.

‘Good. Then you’re on the right track.’

‘But would it not,’ Hetty chose her words with care – she had few enough shoulders to lean on, without alienating any – ‘give you more satisfaction, if the money you spent was your own? That you’d earned?’

‘No,’ said Clarissa, and called for the bill. ‘Apart from anything else, I simply wouldn’t get anywhere near the amount I tend to splurge. Come on, Het, be reasonable. How many women do you know who earn more than men?’

Christian and his unnamed partner had been out on the Sunday evening when Hetty had knocked. She had left a warm note of thanks for the tickets under the door. Determined not to give up, she watched for a light in their flat. It was on as she returned home, laden, after her day with Clarissa. The purchases stored on hangers, she brushed her hair, applied lipstick, decided against perfume and climbed the stairs.

At the last moment, hand poised to knock, she recalled that in part she was trying to make amends. Quickly she ran back downstairs, grabbed her purse and hurried to the
off-licence
.

‘Hello!’ The vision stood at the door, his face breaking into a slow grin. ‘Come on in.’ He called behind him, ‘Markus, she’s here – our new neighbour. Hetty.’

How gracefully that was done, Hetty thought. The way I used to introduce people at Stephen’s business parties – so no one should feel awkward. Markus and Christian. Do they use the same surname, I wonder. Is that the fashion among gay couples or not?

Hetty was ushered into the tiny hall, the mirror image of her own. On the walls were framed theatrical bills and prints. Michael Redgrave and John Gielgud brooded in black-
and-white
photographs. In the main room stood the grey-haired man she had seen on the path. His skin was grainy and loose under the chin; he was much older than Christian – perhaps the same vintage as herself.

Markus accepted the wine and examined its label. ‘Jacob’s Creek Shiraz Cabernet,’ he commented approvingly. ‘You like Ozzie wines?’

Hetty was nonplussed. ‘I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘My husband used to choose the wines. I just asked at Oddbin’s what would be suitable for –’ she stopped.

Christian laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. He was so
tall
. ‘For a couple of poofters, hey, Hetty?’

She was scarlet.

‘Come on, you’re forgiven.’ Christian led her into the living room where Markus was already pulling the cork of her gift.

The older man had a more serious expression on his face as he poured the wine. ‘Perhaps I understand better than you do, Christian. When Hetty and I were young, it was illegal to be gay. Nobody would admit it. They’d be sentenced to ten years. Even Wolfenden regarded it as an illness. Our family doctor offered psychiatric treatment.’

‘That’s why he needs someone mad like me,’ Christian teased. ‘He still hasn’t properly come out.’ He kissed Markus full on the mouth. Hetty blinked. Markus brushed him off and motioned courteously to Hetty to sit down.

The furniture was minimalist: tan leather, with a Persian silk carpet in shades of lilac and gold. A few books, large and glossy. Ovoid glass tables, a fig tree in a rough ceramic pot. Ikea? Hetty wondered, then understood.
Not
Ikea. Carefully, she asked, ‘D’you mean it’s a secret that you – ah – live together? Would you rather I didn’t mention it at the theatre?’

‘He hasn’t told his mother yet,’ Christian butted in, in the same teasing tone. ‘She still thinks he’s playing the field.’

‘It’s not a secret – exactly. But I prefer not to be the centre of attention for that. I am entitled to my privacy, like anyone else. My work, that’s more important to me, and the most important thing
about
me.’

‘We argue about it, as you can see,’ Christian continued. ‘I reckon if he said it it’d make it easier for lots of other men. The more the merrier. He’s a public figure, on the Arts Council. He was in the honours list last year, CBE. He has a duty.’

‘I’m a producer, not a professional homosexual,’ said Markus irritably, ‘and I find it much harder than you do, Christian, to talk about it. I’m not an exhibitionist.’

Christian laughed.

Hetty suspected that the glass in his hand was not the first that evening. She decided to take sides. ‘I can see Markus’s point of view, Christian. You’re too young to remember. But anyone caught had to go and live abroad, and careers were wrecked. Particularly politicians. It was seen as – dirty. Nice people didn’t. Only … entertainers, I suppose, and writers.’

‘More than that. They got married,’ Markus said, bitterly. ‘I nearly did, once. We thought you could overcome the urge if you fell in love with a beautiful girl. Well, I was in love but I couldn’t go through with it. She married somebody else soon after and was terribly unhappy. But I couldn’t tell her.’ He brooded, and mentioned a well-known name. ‘Still can’t, but she must have guessed by now.’

There was a silence while Christian poured out the remainder of the wine. That didn’t last long, Hetty thought. And this is my second go at alcohol today. ‘Thanks, but no more for me. If I carry on like this, my daughter will be proved right. She says I can’t possibly manage on my own and that I’ll go bonkers. Funny how any – ah,
unconventional
behaviour has our friends and family calling for the psychiatrist, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll go under without meaning to. Getting sozzled might be one way.’

‘I’d have gone bonkers alone,’ Christian said suddenly. ‘I was a raving drunk when Markus met me. Plus the cocaine. Ever tried it?’

‘No!’

‘He pointed out that if I carried on I’d ruin my looks and end up in the gutter before I was thirty. I was so confused about being gay. He rescued me. I adore him.’ He cast a mocking, loving glance in Markus’s direction, but the older man kept his head down.

‘Talking of drinkers,’ Hetty said brightly, ‘can you tell me anything about our other neighbours? The ones who live in number four – that’s below you, isn’t it?’

‘The Bridget Joneses?’ Markus hooted. ‘Ah, you were involved in that commotion. I hear you were quite the heroine.’

‘She’s okay. They let her out later that day. What did you call them?’

‘The Bridget Joneses. The three BJs, when we’re being cruel. Don’t you know
Bridget Jones’s Diary
?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Hetty answered dubiously. ‘I’ve never read it. I prefer Joanna Trollope myself.’

‘Three girls live there. The would-be suicide, Annabel, is the oldest. Her father bought the flat so the others have to tolerate her,’ Christian explained. ‘That’s not the first time she’s tried it. Usually it’s such a spectacular and public event that she’s bound to be discovered. But one of these days she’ll go too far and there’ll be a tragedy.’

‘She said the man she loved thought she was too fat, and was in love with Flo.’

‘Flo’s the youngest and prettiest. She’s black. Flirty. If I wasn’t gay, I could fancy her.’ Christian winked, but Markus frowned. ‘Shelagh’s the one with red hair, from County Wexford. She pretends to be bog-Irish, but actually her family are sausage-barons. Quite wealthy.’

‘And why,’ Hetty was determined to find out, ‘do you call them the Bridget Joneses?’

Markus smiled. ‘Because they spend their whole time yearning for men, usually totally unsuitable specimens, never manage to pin one down long enough to marry any of them, are frequently plastered, and seldom take anything seriously for five minutes. Least of all themselves.’

‘You’re being too hard on them, Markus,’ Christian chided. He had opened another bottle and poured it before Hetty could prevent him. ‘They’re great fun, and quite harmless. You could have far worse neighbours, Hetty. Now, are you going to have a house-warming? And are we invited?’