Raven (17 page)

And now here I was, a year on – at sixty-one! – and whilst he no doubt imagined me disporting myself with propriety, confining myself to fitting pursuits such as doting on my grandchildren and shopping for cushions in John Lewis, in reality I was femme fatale-ing my way around London. Oh baby, how fabulous was that?
Vive
les
dating sites, whatever their risks and frustrations.

At times I also recalled how, shortly after my partner's departure, alarmed by the prospect of an unfamiliar solitary existence, I had considered moving into an extended family set-up – an instant antidote to loneliness. What a mistake that would have been. It would have all but pre-empted my recharged sex life. Sneaking some man up the creaking stairs at midnight? Kiddies storming into grandma's bedroom at inopportune moments? Awkward introductions at the breakfast table? I don't think so! Sara and I laughed about this once and she agreed the arrangement would have been a disaster, before adding: ‘Although at least I could have kept an eye on you.'

How long ago that seemed now. No doubt about it, I was wholeheartedly embracing the single life and squeezing every juicy drop out of my post-relationship independence. The debilitating hurt of those first few months after my break-up had by now dissolved without trace. I felt only the rewards of being unbound and in control. I was living a solo adventure punctuated by blasts of ‘togetherness' with chosen others – blasts which at the best of times delivered pleasures and comforts, excitements and amusements. I was not beholden to anyone, I made no demands on anyone, I had no quarrel with anyone. In a peculiar way, despite my uninhibited and reckless adventures, I felt I was in a state of grace.

However, my graceful condition notwithstanding, I decided that after all the rumpy-pumpy it would be judicious to get tested for STDs, just to be on the safe side. So I went to a posh clinic on Harley Street and paid a lot of money to have them done lickety-split. It had suddenly become urgent for me to set my mind at rest.

I was relieved to get a clean bill of health, and showed it to Sara when we next met. ‘You should frame it and hang it up on your bedroom wall,' she said.

I smirked. ‘Like a diploma?'

‘No, like a reminder to keep being careful!'

*

Vanessa and I were sitting in the steam room for a post-aqua powwow and she was describing her latest date, with a retired colonel. A widower. ‘He took me to dinner at the Army and Navy Club, all very respectable. And he was a gentleman. Perfect manners. Really knew how to treat a lady.'

‘Sounds like a success. Seeing him again, then?'

‘Oh no. No way.'

‘Why's that?'

‘He was too normal for me. I like my men to be a bit off the wall. I'm not very good with normal.'

Of course, some men were
too
off the wall, even for Vanessa. A while back she'd told me about the man who took her home after a date and for some reason started talking about nappies. Baffled, she told him she hadn't thought about nappies since her son grew out of them two decades earlier, why the interest? And it turned out that he got his kicks from wearing a nappy in the run-up to sex and wanted her to put one on him when they were in bed together. ‘I told him to get his arse out of my house,' she said, hooting with laughter.

Normal, off the wall. Hard to get the balance right.

Now there was another candidate in the frame. But once again he was too young for Vanessa, so she graciously offered him to me, as she had done with the raunchy Stud123, who'd turned my bed inside out with his exertions. ‘You'll like him. He's just your type – early thirties, good-looking guy. Bit dark and Mediterranean, could be Spanish or Italian.' She cackles. ‘You've got to read his messages. Very funny, the stuff he says in his wonky English.' She went all mock-lyrical: ‘“You are adorable lady, you are one for the kissing and cuddling, you my of cup tea, classy lady!” Ha-ha. Thinks he's Rudolf Valentino or something.'

It all sounded familiar. ‘What's his name?'

She thought for a moment. ‘Cosy and Fruity, something like that.'

‘CosiFanTutte?'

‘Yeah, that's it. Has he been on to you too, then?

‘Yep. Messaged me with the same exact words.
You my of cup tea, classy lady, you right up to my street.
Bastard. When did he message you?'

‘Last night.'

‘That's when he messaged me. Really makes me sick. This fucking game they play. I mean, if he had sent that bullshit to you a fortnight ago and got no joy, then came on to me, that would be one thing. But sending out identical messages to women – God knows how many of us – all at the same time. It's disgusting.'

‘Oh get real. That's what everybody does. And we're not much different.'

I grunted. A case of Cosi Fan Tutte indeed.
So do they all
. I had got quite pumped up by the Italian's attention, which promised some exuberant Latin-lover frolics. Now it meant nothing. ‘Maybe we're not all that different,' I said to Vanessa through the haze of swirling steam. ‘But at least I don't use that scattergun method. And my English doesn't suck.'

Later in the changing room as we were getting dressed, Vanessa had a proposal for me. She was going out that evening to her favourite hangout, a smart bar-restaurant in Belgravia, to meet up with old friends. Why didn't I come along?

‘I think you'll get on with them,' she said. ‘These men really look after you. They're rich, never let you pay a bill.' She explained that she had been frequenting that place for many years and everyone knew her there. Her wealthy men friends plied her with champagne and she always had a splendid time, often returning home in the early hours ‘completely off my face'. I asked what her friends did but she was vague on that point.

After months of meeting men online, the concept of being introduced to someone in the real world, perhaps even someone I clicked with, was strangely novel and stimulating. So I accepted the invitation. I suspected that a night on the town with champagne-swilling Vanessa and her moneyed mates would be fun, whatever transpired.

We both had our hair done that afternoon and got togged up in our finest. Then we ordered a cab and set off full sail for Belgravia. What a life. And to think Vanessa did this sort of thing all the time.

Her hangout was a sleek establishment with crisp white tablecloths and subtle lighting. Bold contemporary paintings adorned the walls and the bar was adorned by a handsome young bartender. I liked the place already. Parked outside it were a Bentley, a Porsche and something so high-gloss and rarefied in metallic blue I'd never even seen the like before.

Vanessa's pals were sitting at a large table by the window and at our entrance they greeted her enthusiastically. The bubbly was already in full flow. There were three men, in their sixties I reckoned, and a much younger woman, an attractive blonde in killer heels. They pulled up a couple of chairs for us and we were away.

They were an affable crowd and Vanessa had been absolutely right about the bill-paying. Whatever we wanted was ordered for us with a raised finger or nod to our waitress, a ‘darling' here, a ‘love' there, nothing was a problem.

Every once in a while I caught a flash of gold from a huge, elaborate wristwatch. The watches worn by those men looked as though they could fly you to the moon and let you play among the stars (sorry, Frank) and they weren't even Arabs. Judging by their accents and general demeanour, I guessed they were former East End boys made good. But
how
had they made good, exactly? I never did find out. I had a vague sense that perhaps I shouldn't inquire. There are times to be a nosy journalist and times to keep schtum.

One of the men, a silver-haired smoothie, was married. His wife was apparently at home, minding her own business, whilst hubby was out at his usual evening haunt, making jokey asides full of sexual innuendo. Another was a local businessman with an oily manner who seemed more hanger-on than Big Spender. I never noticed him raise a finger or nod for more of the booze which he swigged with gusto. The third was the one with the blonde arm-candy. He had the unmistakable appearance of a practised womaniser. She, on the other hand, turned out to be sharp and likeable, rather in the mould of those wisecracking Hollywood blondes, e.g. Carole Lombard. She had found her sugar daddy and I wished her well.

Vanessa and her gang gossiped about mutual friends, made in-jokes and regaled each other with anecdotes, often involving their recent globetrotting. They were friendly enough to me, if not overly curious as to how I had landed in their midst, and I found the scene absorbing in its way. But it wasn't
my
scene. And as the night wore on and we got steadily more sloshed (particularly Vanessa, who refused to eat any of the nibbles provided), I found myself hankering after my Tinder boys. A bit green maybe, impecunious probably, and certainly not in a position to make promises. But I would rather have been spending those hours with any one of my enticing, delectable and eager young men – although there was no future at all in it – than with that tableful of smooth-talking sugar daddies of mysterious provenance.

Maybe I wasn't yet ready for Belgravia.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I had become used to the fact that the fanciable men on the dating site were almost invariably under thirty-five. The oldies – at least the ones who fancied me and made contact – were by and large a yawn-inducing bunch, dull in appearance and predictable in their statements. One older man, however, stuck out from the crowd. He was fifty-six but had eye-catching good looks – a youthful, smiling face, a full head of greying hair and blue eyes. He was evidently in good physical shape, judging by his photos, which showed him posing on skis as well as with tennis racket in hand. I expected him to ignore me when I winked, but a couple of days later, he winked back.

His name was Elliot and we opened a conversation, although it was intermittent because he only logged on to the site once every few days. I thoroughly approved of that. So many people seemed to squat there forever, indolently refusing to budge, like slugs in a vegetable garden. But obviously Elliot had better things to do.

He was a school teacher and sports coach and sounded breezy and direct. Divorced and with two grown children, he mentioned that he had been internet dating, on and off, for a few years. Had met a few women, but the right one hadn't come along yet. He declared himself an optimist, however.

When I showed his profile to Vanessa she shook her head and remarked: ‘I would never go out with him. He's got those clean-cut, college looks.' She made it sound like a bad thing. But as I already knew, she didn't ‘do normal'.

Personally, I was fine with normal if normal looked like Elliot.

It was true that he was a ‘straight' sort of guy, given to following the proper procedures and protocols for online dating. Maybe school teachers had to be especially careful about that type of thing. Public sector political correctness and all that. So Elliot dropped no hints of sexy antics to come, there were no lustful undertones, nothing the slightest bit indecorous. After Bob the libidinous Aussie, he seemed positively eunuch-like. It was everyday pleasantries and politeness all the way. Obviously some, like Elliot, don't like it hot.

Finally came the satisfying day when we arranged our first date. Elliot lived in faraway Ruislip and suggested we could either meet in the West End or somewhere near me, if I didn't feel like trekking into town. How thoughtful.

I considered the options and one thing was for sure: I wouldn't be suggesting the bar at Waterstones. Never again would I have a potentially amorous assignation there. Following the flop with SpecialOneForYou (date venue: Waterstones bar) and back in the early days, my futile rendezvous there with Ramon, the sexless South American with the flowery spiel, I had begun to view the place as a dating black hole. So, with a comforting sense of familiarity, perhaps even inevitability, it was back to The Bells.

Tall, lean and tanned, Elliot came bounding in confidently, looking like an American Vice President. He bought drinks and we proceeded, as per the rules of the game, to get acquainted. He was super-sporty and I wondered how much we would have in common, should we start dating. I didn't do sports. With every newspaper I read, the sports section was the first to be hurled aside, without so much as a how-do-you-do.

Indeed Elliot was so keen on sports of all kinds that he had been a volunteer at the 2012 Olympics just to be near all the action, and ‘breathe in the excitement'. He described the unforgettable experience in detail, but I missed much of it because whilst he was nattering, I was speculating on whether or not I'd be shagging him later.

At one point he asked whether I had any hobbies and for a split second I was going to answer ‘sex'. But I caught myself in time. It would have been meant as a carefree, spicy bit of banter, but I am sure he would have taken to his heels like a rabbit and I never would have seen him again. Elliot was not a spicy kind of guy.

At the end of the evening I offered to give him a lift back to the tube station and as it was raining he gladly accepted. During the short drive I toyed briefly with the idea of inviting him back for a nightcap or coffee. Surely, not such an outrageous proposal. Happens all the time in the movies. And he was certainly physically appealing, with all important boxes ticked: good teeth, nice hair, no beer belly, no scraggly beard. But I decided not to. He would have seen it as a come-on. Which it would have been. Obviously.

The truth was, I found it an easy decision to make. A few months earlier I would have tried it on. But not now. Despite his undoubted assets, I was fairly indifferent to the prospect of going to bed with Elliot. Perhaps we would do it one day, if we saw each other again. Or not, if this evening proved to be a one-off. It didn't matter to me greatly either way.

Was I losing my stomach for the mating game? I didn't think so. But something was happening to the Raven, that was clear. Could it be that she was beginning to feel a little too old for these larks? I thought about it.

Unlikely.

*

I'm at the pool, having a lie-down on one of the loungers after a long swim. It is late on a Saturday evening and there are few people around. My eyes are closed but I am made aware of someone sitting down on the lounger beside mine. Then I hear a voice: ‘Hi.'

I turn my head lazily and open my eyes. It is a young man I have seen around the pool on many occasions, sometimes in the jacuzzi, sometimes in the sauna or steam room. Mid-twenties, medium height, medium build. Slight pudginess around the midriff. On the spectrum of male members at my health club – with tasty young dishes at one end, and fat, revolting slobs at the other – he is roughly in the middle. We have on occasion exchanged ‘hellos' and smiles, but never yet spoken to each other.

‘Hi,' I say.

He tells me his name is Brendan and he has been wanting to introduce himself. ‘You really love your aqua, don't you?' he says. ‘I've seen you doing the classes, really going for it. You're obviously very fit.' He peers at me with a serious expression.

I nod and smile at him nonchalantly, before turning away and closing my eyes again. Do I need this? I do not.

Brendan then tells me he is a lawyer, that he read law at Oxford, and is soon to be made a partner in a major firm. Furthermore, he has been writing a book about a crucial but little understood aspect of the law and it is going to be published soon.

I am not really interested. I wasn't that interested in the law during the seventeen years I was married to a lawyer, so why should I be interested now? But I feign interest, out of kindness. ‘Oh, what aspect is that?'

‘Can't really talk about it yet. It's a work in progress.'

Something tells me Brendan is not sitting next to me merely in order to discuss his high-flying career. I can see where this is going.

I do not have long to wait. A moment later: ‘When are you and I going to go out for a drink?'

‘Why should we do that? I see you here all the time anyway.'

‘Ouch!' he says.

I give a short, low laugh to show that I bear no ill will. But I wish he would go away. For God's sake, this is my health club, my retreat. Not the dating site. Besides, I don't like the ungainly Crocs he wears on his feet. Although his bare feet might be even worse.

Next he blurts out, with no shame whatsoever: ‘Would you consider a younger lover?'

I lie quietly but on the inside I'm groaning. I glance around. Luckily there is no one within earshot. ‘Brendan, don't be silly. You seem a nice guy and we can be friends. That's all. But thanks for the offer. I'll take it as a compliment.'

‘No, no,' he says quickly. ‘I'm asking for a different reason altogether. I have a girlfriend anyway, just to be clear. It's just that I've noticed an increase in the number of relationships in London between younger guys and older women. It's a distinctly modern cultural phenomenon. And I wondered what your view is on such relationships.'

I am greatly relieved. ‘Oh sorry, why didn't you say so! Yes, I agree. As it happens, I am in a kind of relationship with a younger guy.' I am thinking of Pup.

‘Hmm. That's interesting. May I ask how much younger he is?'

I am not sure he needs to know more than I have already told him. But this is a subject close to my heart, so he has finally piqued my interest. ‘What have you been learning about this phenomenon, then? Do you have mates with older women lovers?'

‘Well, I've had a few experiences with older women myself,' he answers. ‘I much prefer the company of older women to younger ones. But generally speaking I'm not sure whether it's a fad or a function of a post-feminist society. In any event, there is something to be said for women having the right to equal sexual opportunities.'

‘Amen to that!' Brendan sounds positively erudite on the topic and I am beginning to appreciate his company. ‘In my view much of this particular dynamic has to do with young men not wanting to be pressured into commitment by girls their own age. Which is clearly not an issue with older women.'

‘I think you're right. That's just one side of the coin, though. The other side is that there's a whole generation of older, divorced females who have decided that they prefer their independence to domestic bonds. As well as many women who never married at all and are keen to let their hair down. For women like that, younger guys represent freedom too.'

‘Maybe you should be writing a thesis on this,' I suggest, ‘instead of some obscure bit of the law.'

But he is still being serious and ignores my remark. ‘I just think this is all psychologically revealing of the times we live in. It's almost a post-modern incarnation of a relationship. It's a relationship without a relationship. You know, sex and intimacy without commitment and responsibility. I think a feminist writer would argue, “well, if men can do it, why can't we?”. But whether this really represents an advance for society, I'm not so sure.'

I am impressed by his lucid and insightful analysis. ‘All very true. So tell me Brendan, is your girlfriend older than you or not?'

He turns away for an instant, as a middle-aged man with a towel wrapped around his waist passes us on his way to the jacuzzi. Then he says: ‘I don't really have a girlfriend, as I'm sure a perceptive lady like you would have guessed. I was just trying to lull you into a false sense of security.'

I throw him a mock-stern look.

Undeterred, he continues: ‘I was twenty-four when I had my first girlfriend. She was forty-nine.'

‘Ah. Impressive.'

And a moment later: ‘So, when are you and I going to have that drink?'

I close my eyes again and lie back very still on the lounger. ‘Bye, Brendan.' And I don't move an inch until I hear his Crocs padding off in the direction of the men's changing room.

*

After our last exchange I thought I had heard the last of Jock the Hump, but he popped up one last time in one of his typically emoticon-enriched speech bubbles. ‘Do you fancy hooking up again?'

ME (in jokey mood): Na, you're too old for me.

JOCK: I'm a lot younger than you.

ME: True, but you're a lot older than my toy boys, who are in their early twenties.

JOCK: Shame on you, baby snatcher. Your underwear is probably older than them.

ME: You're just jealous.

JOCK: Are you kidding? Well, it sounds like you're settled with your babies. Take care.

ME: If I took care I wouldn't have gone home with you!

Aussie Bob was not done yet, either. ‘You realise that when we meet again I am going to try to seduce you,' read one of his texts. ‘Fair warning!'

ME: Uh-oh.

BOB: I'll take you for a nice dinner first, of course.

ME: You said that last time. Then you fell into my pond.

BOB: That's easily done.

ME: Have you read my book yet?

BOB: Not yet but it's on my bedside table.

ME: I'm not impressed.

BOB: Don't worry. I'll bone up before I see you (no pun intended).

ME: Oh I'm sure a pun was intended.

BOB: Ha ha…Well, time for your water aerobics, isn't it? Got to keep that lovely ass trim. Don't ever want to see you at my monthly Porkers Anonymous meetings.

Not the man of my dreams, but it was hard not to like the guy.

The one whose appearance on my mobile I would have warmly welcomed was Pup. But although he always seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me whenever I made contact, he wasn't so good at initiating a conversation himself. And since revealing his big secret he had been even quieter. I wondered whether the two things were connected. Had he regretted his confession and was he now embarrassed and uncomfortable? I sensed him moving away from me and although I did my best to suppress it, I found it slightly upsetting. What of our friendship, our bond?

As the weeks passed I deliberately didn't message him, to see whether he would get in touch. He didn't. Had he met someone? The last time we were together he had assured me (totally unprompted) that were he to start seeing someone, he would let me know. Meeting a ‘nice young girl' and going out with her would have been the natural course of events, only to be expected one day, and fine with me. Maybe that was it. And we all know how tough it is for males, whatever their age, to lay their emotional cards on the table. Easier to slip quietly away and hope no questions were asked. So I would not ask them. But it occurred to me that if he
had
acquired a girlfriend, she would be unlikely to have my
sangfroid
on finding out about his cross-dressing, which she was bound to do one day. She might scamper off in alarm.

Once or twice in a weak moment whilst alone, watching a film on TV or in the kitchen preparing a meal, I caught myself wishing Pup were there to share it with me. This, I knew, was a very bad thing. This I must guard against at all costs. Neither Pup nor Charles nor Jon nor anyone else who had got close enough to touch the core of me would be allowed to dwell for long in that vulnerable place where feelings are born and burnished and then buried. I wasn't the woman I used to be. I had become someone –
something
– else. Raven. And while the Raven was not averse to a screw, she would let no one screw her over.