As It Is On Telly (10 page)

Bunty nodded. She’d given up even collecting her arrows now and was just loitering around behind Kat, letting the pale sunlight freckle her face. ‘Like me with tennis. I started out really well. Francois was even going to put me in the intermediate group. And then the more I learned, the more pathetic I got.’

‘You did,’ said Kat kindly. ‘You were really only ball-girl material by the end of that course.’

‘Thanks.’ It was true, but harsh to hear it none the less. Her last few lessons had been laughable. ‘Oh God. What if it’s the same with all physical activities?’

Kat guffawed, sending her arrow wonkily through the air so it hit next door’s target. ‘What, do you mean sex?’

‘Don’t laugh! Maybe that’s why I couldn’t do it last week.’ Bunty remembered the scene, appalled. ‘Perhaps I’ve done it too much and learned more, and now I’m thinking about it too hard, and technique and all that, and maybe I’m just really crap at it now.’ In a crazed way it made sense. She had the distinct feeling that she had been much better at it with Adam when she knew nothing, and in the early days of Graham when he knew nothing, than in the current frame of watching TV sex and knowing that everyone these days had to be a professionally trained lap dancer and amateur porn star to ensnare anyone in the bedroom department.

‘Well, I haven’t done it for about a year,’ said Kat, prodding her with the feathered end of an arrow. Even that hurt. ‘I must be bloody excellent again by now.’

‘Poor Simon,’ said Bunty with a grin.

‘I know! Three weeks and counting.’ Kat couldn’t have looked more pleased with the prospect. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it. Ben’s obviously dead keen. And the only reason you couldn’t do anything last week was because you were feeling guilty.’

‘I was.’

‘I tell you what,’ said Kat with a distinct gleam in her eye. ‘Why don’t you surprise him this afternoon and book a room somewhere yourself? After all, your shagging ability has got to be better than your archery.’

There was a warped logic to her friend’s idea, thought Bunty, as she shoved lunch dishes into the dishwasher a few hours later. What was blatantly evident was that she wasn’t going to be able to impress Ben with her sporting prowess. And she’d left it too late to cook up some delicious spread and get to him through his stomach. Plus, now she thought about it, she hadn’t had sex for several months now. Perhaps she was a novice all over again. She might even be really, really good at it.

Just to stand her in good stead, after she’d flicked a desultory hand at Graham dropping Charlotte at orchestra on his way to the match (she thought about trailing him but was too excited by the prospect of her own date), she sprayed Chanel No 5 behind her knees, then instantly regretted it. Was Chanel too old fashioned? Old, even? Perhaps she ought to raid Charlotte’s dressing table for Eau de Britney or ‘Pink’ by Pink, or whatever the latest scent was. But then she’d have to shower to get the Chanel off, or spray Pink somewhere else like a patch test, and then she’d smell like a perfume department, or worse, like some Tawdry Audrey in a saloon scene … and anyway, there wasn’t time. Chanel smelt nice. That would have to do.

Bunty put on her best underwear, then her best casual-and-not-trying-too-hard summer dress, and an extra squirt of No 5 across her belly, just for good luck. Then, grabbing the box of Marks & Spencers nibbles, a plaid rug and a bottle of vintage cava (a casual-and-not-trying-too-hard champagne), she headed out to the Mini, then on to the park-like grounds of the hotel they’d agreed on. At the perfect moment she could let him know there was a suite booked in her name. He’d be able to stay in it all night, if he wanted. After.

She could hardly wait.

*

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Hi! Priscilla! Me again.

Just wondering if you could let me have Ben’s mobile number. Again. I can’t seem to find it on my mobile although we have spoken so, so often. Only he didn’t turn up for a date and I really need to contact him.

How are you, by the way?

Bunty x

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Hello Bunty, I am well, thank you for your concern.

Unfortunately we only give out our ladies’ numbers to the gentlemen who express an interest, and it is up to them to make contact. You’ll appreciate that it is mainly, though not exclusively, the gentleman who are the ‘breadwinners’ and targeted members, and if any of them do not choose to stay in touch after their dates, then that is their prerogative.

Shall we move on to a third candidate for you? There is another gentleman on the books who has expressed an interest in meeting with you.

Yours,

Priscilla

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Hi, P, no, I don’t think you get it. Ben and I were in constant contact, it’s just that his phone must be a New Zealand one or something because the number doesn’t come up on my mobile. And I’m worried about him! Suppose he’s drowned or something? I know he would have turned up to our date. It was all arranged and we’d spoken about it every day for the previous ten.

Just his number? Please, Priscilla? And then I’m sure we’ll all find that we don’t need to bother with a third candidate. You can even charge your Love Lottery fee!

Bun x

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Bunty,

You don’t think he was blocking his calls, and then didn’t turn up deliberately? It’s just one theory.

Yours,

Priscilla

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Ouch, Priscilla. No, I don’t think that. Or at least, I didn’t.

No, I’m genuinely concerned. He may be in need of help. Rolled up in a sail and hoisted half way up a mast. Trapped under a barrel of rum. I’m sure I saw something like that on Howard’s Way once.

Just one little call?

B x

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Fine. Just to be sure that Ben is indeed not incapacitated in some way, I will make contact with him and make sure he is okay.

I’ll confirm as soon as I hear, but I would point out that we cannot operate as go-betweens once dates have been established, nor am I a nursemaid. If he just doesn’t want to get in touch, there’s very little I can do.

Yours,

Priscilla

PS. Do let me know if you reconsider on that third date option. Mallory is very keen!

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Okay, well over a week now. I suppose I could give Mallory a try.

Bunty 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Waiting for Ben had been bad enough. Realising that he wasn’t going to be in contact again, after a whole week of pacing, hand-rubbing waiting, was like having teeth pulled without anaesthetic. Although she had sworn she would not and had even promised Kat that she wouldn’t do these things, Bunty had engaged in several activities that would have made Jammy Jason proud and that bordered, in fact, on stalking. This included calling back any unidentified person who had rung her mobile in the last three weeks, even people for whom the date of the call came slightly before she had ever met Ben. (He’d called earlier to set up their date, hadn’t he?) Consequently she’d had several confused, ill-prepared conversations. ‘Dan, Dan the Drainage Man’, who was waiting for a pump, thought she’d rung to hassle him. Mary, who was waiting for Dan to turn up with the pump, thought she’d rung to hassle her. And when she got the instructor from archery all Bunty could think of to say was, ‘Oh! Hi. I had to tell you how much I’m enjoying the course. It’s fabulous.’

‘But you haven’t been for the last five sessions.’

‘I’m … I’m just nursing an injury but I’ll be back very soon.’

‘Well, the next course starts a week on Saturday and will be another 120.’

‘Fine! See you there! Great!’

One very disturbing conversation was with Ryan from Graham’s work. On hearing a man’s voice she’d thought with a leap of her heart it was Ben. Then she realised with disappointment that the unidentified number on the same Saturday as she’d been waiting for Ben to picnic with her (or on her, whatever he fancied) was Graham using Ryan’s phone and calling from the match he was genuinely attending to tell her he’d be late home. And now she’d put herself through it twice, first on the day itself, when of course she’d failed to pick up Charlotte in time and had been in trouble from all quarters while trying to bite back her own anxiety at the lack of Ben, and secondly when she responded to a deep ‘Hello,’ with ‘Hi stranger!’ in what she hoped was a breezy, sexy voice.

‘Who’s that?’ the man had said cautiously, and Bunty realised instantly that it was an English accent on the end.

She’d laughed airily, saying ‘Who’s that yourself. It’s Bunty, of course,’ while racking her brains trying to think who it could be on the other end.

‘Graham’s wife Bunty?’

‘Yep! Surprise, huh?’ Graham’s wife Bunty. It had to be someone from work. Nobody else would put Graham’s name before hers. Who the hell could it be?

The voice sounded half-pleased, half-surprised. ‘Very much so. Haven’t seen you since that corporate activity day.’

Oh Jesus. Now it came back to her in all its glory. Ryan and Petra. The most boring couple in the world. There really was a Ryan. And hadn’t he … hadn’t he … Oh God. He’d flirted with her, in his disgusting ‘I’m-such-an-outgoing-actuary-I’ll look-at-your-shoes instead-of-my-own-when-I’m-talking-to-you and perving at her ankles’ kind of a way. So that was who Graham was using as his alibi. Was that the best he could do?

Anyway, now she was stuck with him. She’d rung on his private number, and from the sound of it he was more than a little pleased to hear from her. ‘I heard things weren’t going too well, you know, between you and Graham,’ said Ryan conspiratorially. ‘I’m always …. available … if you want to talk.’

So that’s what he’d heard, was it? And now he was offering a shoulder to cry on. Bunty nearly gagged. ‘No, no, nothing like that! I just thought, well, we’ve not seen you in so long, I was wondering if you and Petra would like to come to dinner? Soon.’

‘Oh. Oh, yes! We’d love to. When were you thinking?’

‘Well, I just have to get Graham’s dates off him, seeing as he’s so busy with … with football, and I’ll get right back to you. Bye.’

And she’d belted the ‘end call’ button, not quite sure which was creating the bile in her stomach – her loathing for Ryan, or her self-loathing for the scheming cow this whole thing had turned her into.

Not that it stopped her in her new role as stalker supreme, driving several times a day past the Pig and Cauli, and the wine bar where they’d first met, in the hope of spotting Ben (although what she would have done had she seen him, she wasn’t quite sure, especially as it seemed eminently possible that he could be with someone else). She’d even spent an afternoon at the local marina, which wasn’t actually that local at all, trying to see which yachts looked most like a Kiwi yacht, after first establishing which boats looked most like yachts.

It was only when she’d agreed to have a glass of wine with Kat and insisted on meeting at ‘their’ wine bar that she finally spotted the error of her ways. Kat patted her hand. ‘He’s gone, love.’

‘But what if he’s not? What if he’s still here?’ Bunty could feel her neck getting blotchy and hot.

Kat shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. Whether he’s here right now, in this very bar, the facts are that one, he stood you up; two, he hasn’t called you in ten days; and three, you’re looking far too skinny so you obviously haven’t eaten in a week and it’s not fair that he should be doing that to you when you barely even know the guy.’

Bunty sipped her wine thoughtfully. All that Kat said was correct, factually, but that didn’t stop her from feeling that they should have had something very special going on between them. There’d been the instant attraction, the assiduous attention, the kiss … Oh, that kiss!

‘… Graham?’ Kat was saying.

‘What? Sorry.’

‘I was asking,’ said Kat patiently, ‘how Graham’s been behaving recently. Do you still think he’s having an affair?’

Bunty flushed. ‘I’m sure of it. I just happened to be driving past the squash club the other afternoon and – ’

‘Which just happens to be near the Pig and Cauli,’ said Kat.

‘And anyway, there was Graham, getting out of bloody Ryan’s car – who I now have to have dinner with, by the way – and kissing that same blonde woman. ’

‘The one with the small tight bottom?’

‘How many blondes are there?’

‘I’m blonde,’ said Kat, reasonably. ‘But I don’t have a small tight bottom.’

‘Anyway,’ said Bunty, now thoroughly depressed. ‘Graham is clearly having an affair with Kylie Minogue, and the person I thought I was about to be having an affair with, leading to marriage and my get-out clause from Graham and his second family, has done a runner. Gone. Vanished.’

The reality finally hit her. She’d sat like an idiot, spread out on her plaid blanket weaving her daisy chain in what she hoped would be a picture of bucolic loveliness, waiting for him to stride around the corner in Byronic perfection and whisk her away to his yacht like some long-gone episode of
Poldark
. And he hadn’t even called with an excuse. ‘He’s gone,’ she whispered.

‘I know,’ said Kat slowly, and she filled up Bunty’s glass with an empathy bordering on reverence.

Bunty sighed, as much for Kat as for herself. ‘God, this is what it’s like for you all the time, isn’t it? Waiting for a call, hoping something will come of a chance meeting, wondering why the man who was so lovely to you yesterday has forgotten you exist today.’

‘It’s called ‘being single’, my friend.’ Kat clinked her glass against Bunty’s. ‘Welcome to my world. No, I mean it, you’re welcome to it. He may be twelve thousand miles away, but at least I now have Simon.’

‘I need a Simon,’ wailed Bunty, the third glass of wine starting to turn her red neck even redder.

Kat scowled, a sign that she was thinking very hard. ‘That’s what’s weird,’ she said. ‘I thought you had one. A Simon, I mean.’

‘With Ben?’

‘No. With Graham. I mean, he had to have been a bit Simonish. Otherwise I couldn’t have seen any other reason why you’d be with him. He’s so … so not an Adam.’

It was a pivotal moment. Bunty slumped back in her chair, defeated. God, Kat was probably right. She’d
had
a Simon – a steadfast, constant sort of a person who, from what she could glean from Kat and from Cally, liked being a provider, liked the old-fashioned approach to life. Her own Simon didn’t, sadly, have the stomach of a Greek statue as Simon was rumoured to possess, although … hadn’t she seen what might be the beginning of a muscle when Graham had got out of the shower that morning? ‘It doeshn’t matter,’ she slurred out of nowhere, startling Kat who had not really been waiting for her to respond. ‘I had a Shimon, and he’s sh … shagging Kylie. And I had a Ben, but he’s disapproved. I mean, disappeared. I need a … a new man,’ and she thumped the table to underline the point, scattering Bombay mix in all directions.

‘Good.’ Kat nodded approvingly. ‘See, if that were me, I’d have had the ‘all men are bastards’ discussion for two weeks, then eaten myself silly for another month, then gone into hibernation for maybe two years. You are so …’ She searched for the word. ‘So man-wise.’

‘I think like a man?’

Kat surged forward, her breasts spilling over the table like an unrestrained duvet. ‘No. Yes. You are wise to men. And to be wise to men, you have to think like one. Don’t be like me … all chocolate-eating and sorry for yourself. No! You have to move on. Get the next one. Find a new man. Forget Simons and Bens. Who needs ’em? Go and find a … a good one!’

‘I bloody will!’ shouted Bunty, slapping the table again.

There and then, while Kat blearily texted Simon as he got up that same morning on the other side of the world, Bunty sent an email from the newfangled phone slash movie theatre slash personal computer that Graham had insisted on her having, even though she only knew how two of the functions worked.

‘I just dumped Simon,’ said Kat proudly.

‘Oh.’ Bunty frowned. That wasn’t quite how this was meant to go, was it? ‘Is he upset?’

Kat peered at the tiny screen on her phone. ‘No, he says, ‘All right, lovely, why don’t you have a sleep and text me in the morning. Love you, Simon.’’

‘He doesn’t sound very dumped.’

‘Nah, I’m always doing it,’ said Kat, wrinkling her nose with delicious thoughts of Simon. ‘He really gets me, you know?’

So this was what it was going to be like, thought Bunty, shaking her head in wonderment and not a little fear. Having to find someone who really ‘got’ her. Dumping people when you didn’t mean it just to find out how much they really wanted you. Playing games. Not turning up to dates. Disappearing just when the other person was hooked.

*

Right at that moment, she’d been ready for it. Bring it on, she thought. Man number three from the Croesus Club.

Now that she was actually waiting for Mallory (sexy voice, posh, rather Nigel Havers-ish), parked in a corner of the lounge bar of the very same hotel she had booked in her seduction plan for Ben, Bunty was rather less sure of what she doing. She had to prepare herself for her husband’s imminent departure. For one thing. Graham’s behaviour was ever more erratic and bizarre. Having been delighted that Bunty had arranged dinner with Ryan and Petra (‘I didn’t think you even liked them. Great! Great to be doing something together.’), he had now taken to lurking behind the letterbox, practically wrestling the letters from the postwoman’s hand as she fed them through the slot. Bunty was almost enjoying his discomfort.

‘What are you waiting for now? The bill for your hair plugs? More indicting Visa statements?’

Graham laughed, a peculiar high-pitched keening. ‘Ha! Ha, funny. Funny Bunny, that’s you. No, just … just expecting Ryan’s acceptance to dinner.’

‘Very formal,’ said Bunty, ‘writing and so on. Most people just text these days.’

Graham nodded slowly. ‘Well, that’s Ryan. He is very formal.’

Bunty had just shrugged. She didn’t honestly care any more, about Ryan, or the forthcoming dinner, or Graham and his prevaricating. She was moving on. Man-wise, like Kat said. Waiting for her third man.

The third man, thought Bunty, glancing at her watch. At least she had become a little more man-wise, or certainly date-wise. This time she’d suggested coffee, morning coffee, in a very lovely lounge from which she could make an early escape and would surely not be expected to drink champagne or anything else alcoholic, or slip off to a waiting bedroom. She’d also made sure, through Priscilla, that Mallory was seriously looking for a new wife, wasn’t just out of a relationship, and wasn’t masquerading as his own father. No, Priscilla had assured her, Mallory was a very trustworthy client, widowed early, keen to settle down again, and was definitely old enough to date without a chaperone. Things were looking good for the third man, even though deep down Bunty knew he wouldn’t be able to win her over as ably as the second man had. Plus, he might have children. Little children if he’d been widowed early. Was she ready to take on someone else’s kids? She had enough trouble with her own. Trying not to jump her head too far into the future, Bunty sipped her coffee in its dainty china cup. The third man. Orson Welles sprang into her head. Ding de ding de dingggg, de dinggggg. Ding de ding de dingggg, de dinggggg …

‘Bunty, hello, what a lovely setting you’ve chosen.’

Christ, it is Orson Welles, thought Bunty, smiling up at the man who’d appeared from behind her chair. Orson Welles as he would be now if he were alive. Was he still alive? Anyway, he’d be about a hundred and sort of a caved-in mountain of a man like Mallory before her. Or was she thinking of Hemingway? In Bunty’s mind they were always one and the same person. Why was that?