As It Is On Telly (11 page)

All these thoughts and more zipped through her brain as she tried to stand to greet her ‘date’ but found herself trapped on one side by his walking stick – his bloody
walking
stick
– which at least wasn’t a zimmer but was definitely much needed as Mallory heaved his withered bulk into the chair opposite her with the assistance of a passing waiter.

‘You look shocked.’ Mallory smiled winsomely at Bunty, and she was simultaneously pleased and horrified to note that his teeth were small, white and even, meaning that while they weren’t the tumbledown, acid-yellow gravestones of some elderly mouths, they were most definitely false. Come out at night false. Pucker at the lips in the hope of a gummy snog while the teeth are in a glass false. ‘Is it my stick? Priscilla was meant to tell you that I’m marginally disabled. Not too much, nothing that matters, if you know what I mean,’ he wheezed, ‘but enough to get me one of those nifty little stickers for my car. Park anywhere, Mallory can.’

Bunty recovered slightly, trying not to speak to him as she would her own grandfather, had he been alive. ‘No! Are you comfortable there? We could sit you somewhere else …’

Oh God, she
was
talking to him as if he were her grandfather, or another dusty object that could be plonked somewhere different for a better view. But if she sat him somewhere else, she could run – run, as fast as her nimble, not marginally disabled, tennis-trim legs would carry her.

Mallory smiled again. ‘I’m fine here. As long as I can stretch out my leg,’ and he stiffened his left leg so that it pressed firmly and obtrusively against Bunty’s knee. It was like a metre-long erection, and it was all Bunty could do not to slap it away like a nurse with a naughty patient. In fact, that’s exactly what he was like, a matron character from a
Carry
On
film. ‘So … you like the hotel? Lounge,’ she blurted, correcting herself quickly before Randy the Old Goat could suggest checking it out.

‘I love it,’ said Mallory, and for a moment his craggy features softened. ‘I used to come here a lot with my wife when they did tea dances on a Sunday afternoon.’ In the thirties? Bunty thought, trying very hard not to show that she was calculating his age. ‘They did them right up to the seventies when that chain took over,’ added Mallory, gesturing to the waiter for tea.

‘Oh! Oh, and with your wife,’ said Bunty. ‘Priscilla told me you were widowed early.’ She hadn’t said ‘early last century’, but she had said ‘early.’

‘When she was forty-six,’ said Mallory with a sigh. ‘Your age. You look very like her.’

‘I’m thirty-eight!’ squeaked Bunty. Priscilla had done a little more age-massaging, it seemed.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Not such a good judge, eh, Mallory? I find I can’t tell the difference between thirty and fifty-five any more. You women keep yourself in such good shape.’ Mallory leaned forward and patted Bunty’s thigh in what he appeared to think was an avuncular fashion but which definitely involved a little rub of a gnarled thumb across her skin. Goose bumps ran up her leg instantly, bumps of horror rather than libido.

Edging her knee out of the way as subtly as she could, Bunty drained her cup and poured herself another hasty cup of coffee. She needed something to do with her hands, something to stop her slapping dirty old Mallory across the wizened cheek when bits of him started to roam again. Chancing a surreptitious glance in his direction, she found that he was stirring his tea wistfully, and suddenly he looked less like some black-and-white movie Lothario and more like … well, more like a lonely old man. Be kind, Bunty, she told herself.

‘Did you fancy a cake as well?’ she said. ‘They had a lovely bakewell tart on that trolley in the corner.’

His eyes lit up. ‘Ah, you know how to cheer old Mallory up. I love a bit of tart.’

‘Mallory …’

‘Bakewell tart, I mean. Or jam.’

Bunty waved the waiter over, settling into her chair. She had the measure of him now, this elderly gentleman who talked about himself in the third person, perhaps because nobody said his name much any more, and who clearly still longed for a friendly touch, for some physical contact. ‘When did your wife die, Mallory?’

His answer was unexpected. ‘Ten years ago.’ He peered up at Bunty mischievously. ‘Yes, she was a lot younger than me. Twenty-one years between us. Kept me young at heart. What about you?’

‘Young at heart? Well, yes I like to think so. I’m not actually that old anyway.’ I’m roughly half his age, Bunty worked out quickly. ‘Oh, you mean, was I widowed? No.’ She shook her head. ‘My husband’s … trading me in.’

At this Mallory’s rheumy eyes became even more opaque. ‘Bunty, Bunty. How could anyone want for a more lovely companion than yourself? Silly man. You should be cherished. Looked after.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Bunty with a grin.

‘That’s how Mallory likes to treat a woman. With dignity. Respect. And a good bit of how’s your father.’ His eyes twinkled with devilment, and Bunty could suddenly see what an attractive man he must have been, not so very long ago either. Nonetheless, he had just inadvertently introduced her father into the conversation, and she suppressed a shudder.

It was time for a bit of straight talking, and, feeling surprisingly relaxed, Bunty opted for complete honesty. ‘You do know, Mallory, that I’m not that woman – the one you want to treat with respect and dignity and … what have you? You’re very charming, but you might want to think about someone closer to your age? Us younger women these days, well …’ She paused as she came to her conclusion. ‘I don’t think we’re very nice.’

Mallory laughed with a sound of crackling cellophane. ‘You look pretty nice to old Mallory!’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Bunty, pouring him more tea. ‘We’re demanding and contrary, and we’re never happy. Never content to settle for second best. Always thinking there’s something more interesting around the corner. Would you want to work that hard?’

‘Good Lord above, no.’ Bunty could see that Mallory looked quite appalled at the prospect. ‘I just want someone who’s happy with … just with me, I suppose. Content with old Mallory and a bit of bakewell tart for elevenses. And whatever they fancy for supper,’ he added lasciviously.

Bunty munched on some bakewell tart thoughtfully. It really was very good. ‘Do you know what,’ she said suddenly. ‘I may know the perfect person. How are you with dead cats?’

Mallory didn’t skip a beat. ‘More of a dog man, I must say, but since I lost dear old Benson I haven’t really got the heart for another animal. They fill such a space, you know.’

And Bunty made a quick, potentially rash decision. ‘I’m having dinner for a few friends on Saturday. Why don’t you come? Not to be with me, but to meet someone I know.’

‘Love to, my dear,’ said Mallory eagerly.

Bunty scribbled the address on the back of a coaster and handed it to him as she gathered up her coat. ‘And one word about where we met and I’ll thrash your good leg.’

‘Oh, promises, promises,’ purred Mallory.

Well, she thought as she headed round to Mary’s to offer an invitation. Maybe dinner with Ryan and Petra – and Graham – wouldn’t be quite so dull after all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was only as she drove home that Bunty realised the full impact of what she had just arranged – a Ray Cooney farce in her own dining room. The cast list would be:

Graham: Paunchy financial advisor with mid-life crisis, having an affair.

Bunty: Put-upon, cuckolded wife, trying to invent a new life for herself.

Ryan: Nasal and nerdy finance man, with the hots for Bunty.

Petra: Nasal and nerdy wife of finance man, no redeeming features, not even hots.

Mary: Bereaved widow and beloved neighbour.

Mallory: Bereaved widower and septuagenarian sex fiend.

Charlotte: Charlotte.

Charlotte? What the hell was she going to do with Charlotte while six supposedly grown people batted double entendres back and forth across the table? And Mallory – why on earth had she invited Mallory? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but if he couldn’t tell the difference between thirty and fifty-five there was a strong chance he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between thirteen and thirty-three. Charlotte would have to stay completely out of the way. And he could easily let slip about the Croesus Club. Perhaps she’d have to gag him. Although he’d probably like that. And Mary! Fancy inflicting Mallory the Mauler on poor, dignified Mary. What in God’s name had she been thinking?

She headed straight down the road parallel to her own and knocked at Mary’s door. No time like the present for a very back-handed invitation which she almost hoped Mary would refuse. There was no reply, so Bunty wandered down the side path and out into the back garden, following the squeak of the rotary clothesline. ‘Mary, I … oh! Hi, Dan.’

Mary and Dan looked up from the graveside. ‘Look,’ said Mary, dotting a tear away on yet another laundered handkerchief – pink this time to match Mary’s Marks & Spencer polo neck and cardigan, teamed today to contrast prettily with her neat brown trousers. For a lady in her seventies, she dressed very well. Bunty followed her crooked finger to the little mound of earth at their feet. ‘Look what Dan did.’

Dan grinned sheepishly, looking suddenly like an overgrown school-kid in his serviceable overalls. ‘I told you, Mary, it was nothing. I had the stuff spare and …’ He spread his hands towards Bunty in a manner that meant ‘Can you take over?’ Sobbing elderly ladies were clearly not in his remit.

Bunty put her head on one side and considered Dan’s masterpiece. Flinders’ new grave had been sited quite high up behind a small retaining wall, in the flower bed that used to house Colin’s collection of potted fuchsias. There was a little mound of earth in a carefully regulated rectangle, with a border of small white rings that looked like lace but turned out, on closer inspection, to be neat slender slices of three inch drainpipe. Mounted on the top was a small grey cross (guttering?) on which someone – Dan, presumably – had painted the cat’s name in neat gloss letters. A small pot of purple-tipped fuchsias danced nearby, adding just the right hint of colour. And life.

‘All waterproof and not blocking anything,’ hissed Dan out of the corner of his mouth. ‘The cat’s in a 12-inch rain trap.’

Bunty put an arm around the pair of them. ‘That’s truly beautiful,’ she said, giving Mary’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Mary, Flinders will never have to be moved again. Dan, you’re very, very kind.’

‘Colin would have loved it.’ Mary sniffled loudly into her hanky.

Oh God. Colin. How could Bunty possibly mention Mallory and dinner when they were standing over the cat Colin had loved in the garden he’d nurtured.

Dan coughed. ‘Glad you like it. And, of course, your drains are cleared now.’

‘Oh-oo! Daniel.’ Mary swatted at him and giggled like … well, Charlotte, actually. Bunty whipped her head between the two of them. Was that a bit of a flirt? A slightly dirty flirt, for that matter?

‘Mary!’

‘Oh, now, Bunty. Don’t look like that. Even us older women enjoy a bit of … you know, dirty drains talk.’

‘Colin handy with the old plunger, was he, Mary?’ said Dan with a cheeky nudge of the elbow. Mary cackled madly.

‘Dan! Mary!’ Bunty shook her head at the pair of them. ‘I’ll have to cover Flinders’ ears.’

‘Tosh,’ said Mary, stuffing her handkerchief up her sleeve. Bunty half-expected to see leather bracelets hidden up there too. ‘Flinders could have told you a thing or two, that’s for sure.’

This was unbelievable. ‘Am I the only one without a sex life?’ Bunty blurted. ‘Oh God, did I say that out loud?’

Mary and Dan shrugged at each other, sniggering. Clearly she
was
the only one without a sex life. Or a recent one, at any rate. Still, clearly she need have no qualms about setting Mallory on Mary and adding her to her cast list. Damn. Dinner list. ‘Mary, when you’ve quite calmed down,’ she said with a grin, ‘we’re having a dinner party on Saturday, and I wondered if you’d like to come. There’s a … friend I’d like to introduce you to.’

Mary’s papery face lit up like a harvest moon. ‘Dinner? Friends? How lovely! Oh, thank you, Bunty. Can I make something?’

‘Oh my word, yes.’ Two birds, one stone, thought Bunty. Keep Mary feeling useful, and avoid the need to make all three courses herself. ‘Could you bring dessert?’

‘I’ll make an apple betty.’ Mary looked over at the apple tree, ready to start picking there and then, and at the same moment Dan and Bunty remembered what had been festering around the roots. Dead cat and human crap betty didn’t have quite the same allure.

‘Tell you what I like,’ said Dan quickly. ‘A nice peach cobbler.’

Mary’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes. So do I. I’ll make one just for you, Daniel.’

Oh. So Dan was coming too. ‘You are free on Saturday night, Dan,’ said Bunty hastily, trying to make it sound like she’d been intending to invite him all along.

‘Depends. Have you got a friend for me too?’ Dan looked rather pointedly down Bunty’s top, and she realised instantly just which friend he meant.

‘I’ll see if Kat’s free,’ she said with a sigh. Holy shit! Forget Ray Cooney and polite, air-clappy, titter-titter theatre. This was going to be like an episode of
Survivor
. She’d have to kill them all off one by one just to make sure she was the one who made it to the end. Maybe apply betty wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

*

Charlotte was stoical, in her teenage fashion, about the prospect of an evening with six – no, eight – ‘olds’ around the place. ‘Well, du-uh. I know when I’m not wanted. And I don’t want to come to your stupid dinner party. Like, how boring would that be? I’ll just stay in my bedroom. Okayyyy?’

She bared the whites of her eyes at Bunty, for some inexplicable reason, before traipsing disconsolately from the room. Bunty thought about it for a moment, hand on hip, caught in the middle of a movement. Caught in the middle, again. All she’d said was, ‘Dad and I have got some work people round to dinner on Saturday. You could go to the movies with a friend – my treat.’ Somehow between her lips and Charlotte’s ears that had apparently turned into ‘Get out of our way, we don’t want you around while we’re doing grown up things’ and that had put Charlotte on the defensive. Of course, that was more or less what she’d meant, but somehow everything Bunty said to Charlotte these days was seen as something combative. Sometimes she even thought twice about opening her mouth at all, knowing that whatever she said would come out the wrong way, or be taken the wrong way, or most certainly would be answered the wrong way. Kids. Who’d have ’em. Bunty thought fleetingly of Ben, of the touching little vista she’d drawn in her mind’s eye of Ben’s little darlings fitting somehow into their new conjoined life. She batted the thought away defiantly. ‘Don’t need it. Okayyyyy,’ she said, mimicking Charlotte’s rolling eyeballs.

‘I’m sorry?’ During her reverie, Graham had entered the lounge dressed fetchingly in his socks and boxers, shirt and tie.

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Argument with Charlotte.’

Graham just nodded. There were plenty of those to go round. He didn’t need any details. ‘Should I wear a tie for dinner?’

Just as she was about to launch into a ‘why would you and who cares anyway’ sort of speech, Bunty took a look at his shirt. It was new. White. Fitted. The tie was also new and a rather fetching purple shade. And back to that shirt. It was definitely fitted. ‘That’s new,’ she said accusingly. ‘It’s … nice,’ she added, even more accusingly.

Was he actually blushing? Bunty watched, amazed, as Graham slid his hands down over the shirt. ‘I’ve lost a bit of weight,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘My old work shirts were getting a bit big.’

Yeah, and a bit old, and a bit crusty around the armpits, and a bit not-right-for-Kylie, she wanted to say. But she stopped herself. For tonight, at least, he seemed to be making an effort. There was no harm in her doing the same. ‘No tie,’ she said eventually. ‘And leave the shirt out, over your jeans.’

It was how Ben had worn his shirt, and it had looked amazing. Even Graham managed to look reasonable dressed that way; slightly cute even, with his little Shrek ears, pink and smelling of Lifebuoy, bobbing above his open collar.

In the end, Bunty settled for a similar look herself, with tight jeans, a fitted linen shirt that showed just a hint of lacy bra, and strappy shoes. She didn’t want to make too much effort, as there was actually nobody there she wanted to impress – and she’d definitely rather not inflame Ryan if at all possible, or Mallory for that matter – but she was still quite pleased with the result. At least she didn’t look like a woman about to be dumped by her present husband and already dumped by her future one. On impulse, she grabbed a tiny diamante hairpin from Charlotte’s room and shoved it among her short dark curls, where it glinted like a snowflake.

‘That’s mine,’ whined Charlotte, spotting it even from the bottom of the stairs. She had a nose for anything taken from her small stock of fripperies, which was strangely at odds with her willingness to filch anything from shoes to vintage winter coats from her mother’s wardrobe.

‘You look nice, Mum. Nice shoes, Mum,’ said Bunty plaintively as she came down towards her.

‘Yeah, well, you would look nice; that’s
my
hair clip.’

Bunty gave up. ‘Have you had your tea?’

‘Some rubbish out of the freezer. Enjoy your lovely dinner,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ll just be in my room. On my own. Starving.’

‘You’re welcome to have some, but it’s lamb,’ said Bunty. ‘I could bring it up on a plate.’

Charlotte held up a hand at the top of the stairs. The teenage stop sign. Go no further. At least she didn’t tell Bunty to ‘talk to’ it. ‘I’m fine. You just enjoy yourself. And don’t drink too much. And if anyone’s smoking send them outside because I don’t want that poison in my lungs. Ever. Okay?’

Once again the tables had turned. Bunty half-waited for Charlotte to tell her to be in at a reasonable hour, young lady. She was distracted by the doorbell.

Mary and Dan were standing side by side on the doorstep bearing a pie dish and a bottle of wine respectively, for all the world as though they’d stepped out of a clock and were just about to set off in different directions along the front path. ‘Sorry if we’re a bit early,’ said Dan quietly. Bunty could see instantly that he’d had trouble with Mary.

‘It’s seven, isn’t it, Bunty? That’s what time you said.’

Bunty checked her watch – 7.01. ‘It is indeed, Mary, come on in.’

Mary stepped inside and held out her arms. ‘Cobbler. I don’t know what the matter is with Dan. He wanted to be ‘fashionably late’ whatever that means. I told him, seven o’clock means seven o’clock. And I normally have my tea at five thirty so I’m more than ready by now. Everyone must be famished by seven.’

‘I quite agree, ma’am,’ said a mellifluous, Donald Sinden type voice from behind them. Mallory had made quite an effort with his appearance, and was looking quite the gentleman in a three-piece suit complete with fob watch, which he was studying on the door step. ‘Seven oh two. I do hope I’m not late, Bunty dearest.’

Fortunately Graham had heard the commotion and stepped into corporate mode. ‘Mary, hello, come on in. I’ve got a nice sherry waiting for you. And this is … Mallory, hello. Sherry for you too? Straight through to the lounge. And you must be Dan.’ He clapped Dan’s hand heartily – Bunty almost expected a matey hug. But then they’d gone, discussing which beer they were going to have and how Chelsea was going to do in the league. It was a Graham she used to hate, taking charge, moving things along, being orderly and work-orientated. For now, however, it was a bit of a relief, and she left him in charge of cloakroom duties as Ryan, Petra and Kat arrived all at once, while she sought refuge in the kitchen.

Kat shimmied in with a bottle and poured out a large glass for Bunty. ‘Graham neglecting the chef again? I must say, he’s almost looking a bit tasty tonight.’

‘Dan?’

‘No, Graham.’

‘What!’

Kat shrugged. ‘Well, for Graham, I mean. Must suit him, having this affair.’

‘Talking of which,’ said Bunty, changing the subject as quickly as possible, ‘I think Dan has his eye on you. Bits of you at any rate.’

‘Oooh. Nice.’ Kat gave a little satisfied smile. ‘Could be a good night then.’

Bunty slammed down the hot dish of coquilles saint-jacques. ‘Kat! God, what is wrong with everyone? It’s like everyone’s in season! Even bloody Mary.’