Vintage Babes (2 page)

‘’Fraid not.’

‘He did seem a touch… intense.’

‘He was. So no more fixing. Please, Jen.
Pleeease.
I do not want, do not need, have not the slightest inclination to be partnered off with anyone. Understand?’

She sighed. ‘Alright. Unless,’ she added, with a smile, ‘he happens to look like George Clooney.’

‘Not even if he
is
George Clooney!’

‘You’d change your mind,’ she said.

What I needed, I thought as I climbed into bed in the early hours, was a walker, a poodle faker, one of those debonair, anonymous types who do duty as escorts to film actresses and high society divas. A man I could trot out from time to time as my current interest – red-hot lover understood – but with no strings attached. Someone who’d be willing to accompany me to dinner parties, village am-dram productions, any ‘twosome’ events and who looked the part and would act the part, following my instructions to the letter.

‘Flirt with me, gaze in adoration, converse brilliantly with all and sundry without revealing any personal detail, then lie low until I call you again.’

Not so much a wolf in sheep’s clothing as a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

Be a divorced woman and it is automatically assumed,
in toto,
that you must be in want of a man. Even if you’ve been on your own for aeons, are happy with your single status and have reached an age which is politely termed ‘mature’. You would think that after years of trying and failing to pair you off with Mr Wonderful, people would get the message that your independence is a choice and not a session in purgatory, or at least suffer battle fatigue. On the contrary. The longer you spend
sans homme,
the more doggedly determined they seem to become. And the less attractive are the Mr Wonderfuls. Or am I too picky?

‘We thought we’d invite Jeremy,’ – or Norman or Phil – friends, invariably female, say, dredging up a pot-bellied widower, twitchy bachelor, or divorced liver-spotted uncle as a potential beau.

‘Found yourself a bloke yet?’ the thrice-married Jezebel in the Post Office wants to know, with irritating regularity.

‘Getting any nooky these days, princess?’ the dustbin man enquires whenever our paths cross, and winks.

But an on-call escort would mean no more jug-eared bores, no more queries about my sad lack of a sex life, no more heavy hints from family, friends and shop assistants that it was high time I got cracking. An escort seemed the ideal solution and if he could fix a wonky loo and ferry a regular load of empties down to the bottle bank, so much the better. Trouble was, how to find one? If you’re famous and beautiful or filthy rich and well-connected, and live in Hollywood or Monte Carlo, they’re probably beating down your door. Otherwise – what’s in it for him?

Hiring a guy from an agency had crossed my mind, briefly. But the prospect of forking out hard cash didn’t appeal and when a trawl of the Net for ‘male escorts’ produced shots of butt-naked hunks sprawled over leopard skin sofas and adverts for ‘the ultimate adult experience’ – no thanks. It’s not that I’m anti-sex – anything but – I just prefer it to evolve naturally.

I could, I suppose, buy a blow-up Bertie doll, sit him in my car beside me on dark nights, speed along the High Street and when people comment, act coy. People would comment. Work on a local paper in a smallish community and it’s amazing how many folk know you, or know you by sight and notice you. And, as a reporter, I’m well aware of how rumours fly, can be exaggerated and embellished. How thistledown fiction hardens overnight into cast-iron fact.

‘So you’ve shacked up with the landed gentry/millionaire banker/ageing pop star who lives in the area,’ the Post Office Jezebel would say enviously. ‘And he makes love non-stop/is buying you real diamonds/will be whisking you off in his Lear jet to his private Caribbean island next month.’

‘Hear you’re walking bandy-legged these days, princess,’ the dustbin man would remark, and leer.

‘Don’t be so secretive, I’m dying to meet him,’ Jenny would declare.

But if a red light flashed at the pedestrian crossing, I was forced to halt and someone looked closer at my inflated passenger with his merry, fixed, half-moon smile…

Time for a rethink.

CHAPTER
TWO

As I had few
grumbles with my personal circumstances, so my working life pleased me, too. I’ve always been passionate about journalism and while working on
The Dursleigh Siren
I had pinpointed plenty of local issues, aired subjects which had prompted readers’ responses, interviewed all manner of interesting folk. Admittedly Eric’s lackadaisical attitude riled me and, at times, had had me damn near headbanging in frustration, yet, on the plus side, it meant I had freedom. Freedom to make my own choices, freedom to follow my own instincts
,
freedom to develop a busy but satisfying routine.

Then Eric exited and Steve Lingard arrived.

Eyeing the guy one Tuesday morning in March, I did not feel kindly disposed towards him. Firstly, because he was sat in the editor’s office at
The Siren,
behind the editor’s desk in the editor’s high-back chair – where
I
should have been sitting. Secondly, because he looked brisk, critical, impatient. A new broom set to sweep clean and make all the changes which I would have made. Third, because the binning of his predecessor’s pub-counter sized ashtray indicated he did not smoke. I, of course, do. And as the general office is designated a ‘no smoking’ area, whenever I had come in to speak to Eric I had been able to wallow in nicotine heaven.

After his late December visit, the proprietor had kept clear of
The Siren.
I had decided I must have misinterpreted his reference to ‘a change at the top’ when, mid-February, Eric had dropped a hint that he could be leaving. As it had seemed correct to go through the motions, I had promptly applied for the editorship and, to my surprise and indignation, been refused. This was due to the fact that, unbeknownst to me, Eric’s replacement had already been lined up, but also thanks to the proprietor’s inherent belief that women are nature’s also-rans. Fine in the kitchen, in the nursery, in a négligée. In charge? Forget it.

‘You’re a valued employee, Carol, and we’ve been so fortunate to have you,’ Mr Pinkney-Jones had said, speaking in his plummy voice and smiling his latex smile. ‘But the editor’s position is really a man’s position. You wouldn’t want the rough and tumble. The responsibility.’

‘Yes, I would,’ I informed him. ‘I do.’

I not only wanted the job, ravenously, I had
expected
it. Lying in bed at night, I had imagined myself rejigging the paper with expertise and to wide acclaim. Being interviewed on radio and television, in high demand as a journalistic guru. Becoming an icon. Okay, I’m pushing it, but given the chance I could have, would have, shone. It was not to be. Mr P-J had blithely ignored my insistence, my arguments, even my shameful attempt at a girly, wide-eyed plea, and brought in Steve Lingard.

I studied the man who had been transferred from
The Ringley Bugle,
another in the group of six local weekly papers which includes
The Siren.
During his tenure
The Bugle
’
s
sales had increased by an astonishing thirty-five per cent, which was why the proprietor considered him to be a wunderkind – and expected him to work the same miracle again. Although Eric had spoken begrudgingly of Steve Lingard, who, he said, had been held up as a shining example, I had never met him. Mr P-J does not encourage rapport between his various staffs. Probably scared we might compare grievances, band together in a workers’ army and revolt.

‘He’s tall, dark and handsome. A regular Captain Cool,’ Eric had muttered, when I’d asked what Steve Lingard was like. But men have different ideas to women on what constitutes good looks – for example, Tom, my ex, used to rave about the ‘delectable Cher’ – and my description of the new editor was tall, dark and grim. Edging on the severe.

Did I want to work with him, for him, under him? No thanks. So should I ask for a transfer to another paper in the group? Mr P-J would agree. While he may not see me as an overlord, he recognised that I was a hardworking professional. I could also study the journalistic ‘situations vacant’ columns in general. Yet why should I put myself through all the turmoil of changing jobs? If anyone shovelled their belongings into a bin bag and pedalled off to the blue horizon, it ought to be Steve Lingard. Admitting defeat. Tail between legs. Soonest. Then I could do such a fantastic job of holding things together and creating my own initiatives that Mr P-J would be forced to abandon his sexist views. Or perhaps I should sue for discrimination?

‘Residents’ meeting to protest about mobile phone mast. Seven-thirty tonight in the village hall,’ Steve Lingard said, in no-nonsense, whip-cracking mode. ‘Tony, I need a full report on what happens, together with a photograph of the proposed site, quotes from the chief protestors and comment from the phone company. Around nine hundred words.’

‘Nine hundred!’ Tony looked shell-shocked.

He was not enamoured of our new boss, either. Tony, who usually covers sports, road accidents and court cases, which are considered a male domain, is a younger – thirty-nine to be exact – version of Eric, in that he bumbles along and doesn’t overstretch himself. The change at the top threatened to ruin this. However, Melanie, the bosomy graduate who is the latest addition to our reporting team, replacing another easy-going Friar Tuck, had been making eyes at Steve Lingard since the moment he arrived. While she could be involved in a move to seduce and curry favour, she makes eyes at virtually any male who ventures within allurement distance – even if she is in her early twenties and, in this case, the male looked to be in his mid to late forties.

‘Nine hundred,’ Steve Lingard confirmed. ‘Masts are the current hot issue and this could develop.’

‘I usually cover evening meetings,’ I said.

‘Carol covers any events at weekends and on Bank Holidays, too,’ Tony told him, at speed.

‘She’s divorced and lives on her own, so she doesn’t mind,’ Melanie gratuitously explained.

Sharp grey eyes met mine. ‘That true?’

‘Yes, yes and yes,’ I replied, wondering if the noble saddo should add that her carnal desires had gone unrequited for the past five years and she had a hole in the toe of her tights.

The golden boy had arrived on Monday, spent the day reading, scrutinising, investigating and, wasting no time, had summoned us three reporters to a ‘planning meeting’. Eric, who had been shunted out and pensioned off – though he claimed to have opted for early retirement – had never aspired to planning meetings. A mistake maybe, for neither had he increased the circulation figures nor won a Scoop of the Year award. His good fortune had been in attending the same public school as Mr Pinkney-Jones, a connection which had allowed him to coast for years and push
The Siren’s
expenses claims to the limit. Mr P-J, who had inherited the newspapers from an uncle, was none too bright, far too lax and not too interested. Though, so I’ve been told, he greatly welcomed the increased profits which Steve Lingard’s success at
The Bugle
had generated. Instead of viewing the papers as a pesky albatross slung around his neck, Mr P-J had belatedly realised they could be a cash cow. And now came close to genuflecting whenever he saw his benefactor.

‘So you wrote the previous pieces on protests about phone masts,’ Steve Lingard said, sounding surprised, ‘and objections to a skateboarding park and –’

‘The uprising over advertisement hoardings beside the river. Plus reports of council meetings and Neighbourhood Watch and healthcare discussions,’ I listed, with what was intended to be crisp authority. If he rated as Captain Cool, I could play Princess Pert. ‘I did. And I’m happy to go along tonight.’

‘Do that. But keep an eye out for anything… untoward.’

‘You’re referring to Councillor Vetch, who is pals with the phone company chairman and who could be in receipt of a backhander, arguing in favour of the mast?’

He cast me a quizzical look. ‘You’re aware of the situation?’