Chasing Men (32 page)

‘I was sliding back into being a wife,’ she told the mirror in her bedroom, as she towelled her hair dry one morning. ‘Reverting to type. I am so furious with myself.’

‘Amazing how fast it can occur,’ the mirror sympathised.

‘Becoming narrow and self-satisfied again,’ commented the mousse dispenser.

‘Once more the living shadow of a male, no longer yourself,’ hummed the hair-dryer.

‘And yet …’ Hetty paused, dryer in hand. ‘It was great while it lasted. Haven’t felt as light-hearted in years.’

‘You’re not
absolutely
devastated, are you?’ The mirror had a mocking tone.

‘I was, when I saw the two of them together.’ Hetty took several breaths and let the air out of her nose in a slow snort. ‘Felt a complete dope for being taken in so easily. That can only have been because I
wanted
to be taken in.’

“‘You used to be so wise …”’ the hairbrush was singing gently.

‘I did not have stars in my eyes. Stop giving me that old Broadway hooey,’ Hetty chided. ‘But I did start off after the divorce with a pile of resolutions I’ve forgotten. Like valuing people for what they are, not as sex objects. Like not wishing to be regarded myself as a sex object. That didn’t last, did it? Like not treating the world as a collection of men on the one hand and women on the other, but as individuals …’

‘Like not chasing men, because it was undignified.’ The mirror again. It appeared to be the leader of this talkative troupe.

‘Stand up straight, Hetty,’ urged the wardrobe, as it handed over her woollen skirt and a new sweater, a gift from Sally. ‘Face the outside world with confidence.’

‘At least they’re chasing me now.’ Hetty flicked back her hair and applied some lipstick. ‘An improvement on being unchaseable. There, how’s that?’

‘Tasty,’ complimented the mirror, and shivered in emphasis. ‘Very tasty. You’ll do.’

The Professor, she was informed, had not been well in the couple of weeks since her last visit. Unusually, he was not in his wheelchair in the lounge, or in the quiet corner that passed for a library. Given his determination to live in as civilised a manner as possible, it was early for him to have retired to bed. Hetty began to be alarmed.

‘I think you’ll find him changed, Mrs Clarkson,’ said the assistant matron, when she enquired. ‘He is over eighty, you know, though he won’t admit it. Getting frail. We think he’s had another stroke. Affected his speech, mostly.’

‘Shouldn’t he be in hospital?’

‘He was for a couple of days, but wanted to come out. Stroke patients get distressed in unfamiliar surroundings, especially an open ward. And there’s not much can be done for them. They’ll have more little episodes, each one more disabling, till when the end comes, it’s a blessing … Anyway, he’s made it clear he’d rather not be moved. Doesn’t want to be parted from his precious pictures.’

‘Can I go up and see him?’

‘Of course. I’m sure he’d like that. He’s had his tea served. Don’t tire him, will you?’

Hetty felt anxious as she went up in the lift. She had brought the catalogue of the exhibition of Rembrandt self-portraits at the National Gallery and had intended to enthuse and seek his opinion. Instead she feared he might be morose or depressed. Her heart sank as the floor number appeared and the lift doors swished open. She found his room, tapped on the door and cautiously let herself in.

‘Herro, Hetty,’ he said.
Hello
.

He was in bed, dozing, his upper body propped up on pillows. The scrawny neck emerged from pyjamas of magenta silk, louche and incongruous, a tuft of white fuzz at the neck. His long silvery hair was sticking up and needed brushing. Whoever had shaved him that morning had done it perfunctorily, and left bristles under his nose.

In his left hand rested the remote control for the mini-console; Glenn Gould was playing the Goldberg Variations. With a struggle he pressed the button to reduce the volume, though Hetty indicated no objection. His right hand trembled, lifted an inch but no more. The fingers that had painted with such verve were white and useless.

‘Carn hear you,’ he said, and attempted to smile.
Can’t hear you, with that music on
. He was choosing his words with economy.

The room was not quite in darkness: a light over the bed made a halo round his head. More than ever it resembled an Aladdin’s cave of vivid imagery. On each wall the prints and paintings made a jumbled and magical display, crowding each other out – were there more, perhaps, than before? Maybe he had had a few more hung, or she had not taken them in on previous visits. A still-life appeared to float in suspended animation, the landscapes were 
windows to a distant, beckoning horizon. The little bronze dancer on her pedestal seemed about to pirouette. Most striking, the many nudes were so real she could almost hear them breathing: it was as if the women were in the room, eyes lowered modestly or wide in challenge, flesh gleaming and ghostly, in reverent attendance, with Hetty, at the bedside of the man who had adored them.

On the bed-top table sat the tray with the remains of tea. Hetty removed it, put it on the floor outside the room for collection and returned to sit with him, leaving her coat on a chair.

She opened the catalogue on the bed where the Professor could examine it. ‘I thought you’d like this. You’ve made me examine art with such curiosity. The exhibition was amazing. Rembrandt started off a cocky youth, posturing and eager, and ended up, quite plainly, dreadfully battered and much wiser. The paintings of himself as an old man are almost unbearable. Wonderful stuff.’ She turned the pages.

‘Ay am … mee.’
Same as me
.

‘Same as us all.’ Hetty was quiet. ‘Professor, do we get wiser as we get older? Or do we only learn the lessons when it’s too late? When we’ve gone past the point where we could apply them?’

His eyes slid towards her. ‘Wassup, Hetty? You sad …’

She slumped in her chair. ‘A bit. I thought my boat had come in. Then I found it ahead of me in a queue. And I knew it had been holed.’ She told him the story of Norman from the agency, dwelling on her emotions before and after, particularly her euphoria followed by her sense of having been played for a fool.

‘He has taste. Pretty woman like you.’

‘Oh, stuff, Professor. I hoped he might see me as an intelligent person he wanted to spend time with. Not just as a physical being, a plaything.’

‘You
are
intelligent. And kind.’ Beads of sweat broke out on the Professor’s brow with the titanic battle to talk. Hetty fetched a flannel, dampened it under the tap and patted his thin face. She found a hairbrush and brushed the silvery strands of hair that he had worn Bohemian-style, in defiance of the short-back-and-sides tradition of his time. His eyes went to the water jug. She poured a glass, helping him to hold it and sip.

‘Thank you. Hate being ill,’ he mumbled at last. ‘Can’t do anything.’ Then he tried again, as if he had decided to devote his remaining strength to this dialogue. ‘You
are
a physical being. You’re beautiful, Hetty. That matters too.’

The faces on the walls seemed to sigh and nod in agreement. Hetty glanced over her shoulder as if half expecting them to join in. She placed a hand on his, on the dead hand with the relentless tremor. ‘You’ve said that before,’ she answered. ‘I wish I’d known you earlier. At your fiery best. Maybe I could have posed for you. I think it must have been tremendous fun, being painted by you.’

He chuckled at the notion, gagged, spluttered. The spasm lasted a minute while his face contorted and Hetty held him. Then he lay quietly, his chest heaving, and chuckled to himself again. The CD changed, more robust music filled the room: Ravel’s
Bolero
. The Professor’s gaze strayed to the paintings opposite the bed, those he had made himself, particularly those of the lovely woman who had been his wife.

‘Exquisite,’ he murmured. He raised himself a little. ‘What I miss most, Hetty, is
women. Seeing women, as they should be.’ He stopped, as if unable or unwilling to elaborate, jaw thrust forward in the pugnacious manner he adopted when arguing the toss with the ladies of the book club.

The music was getting louder, insistent in its pacing and rhythm. Without understanding why she did so, Hetty left the bedside and began to move round the room in time to it, her body swaying, much as she had seen skaters do on the ice, in imitation of the little bronze dancer. The old man raised his left hand and haltingly adjusted the overhead lamp so that it fell on her like a spotlight. He tilted his head, a smile on his lips, his index finger conducting her as if she were an entire orchestra.

‘Beautiful …’ he croaked hoarsely. ‘Don’t stop …’

The curtains had been drawn, probably when the tea was delivered. They would not be disturbed. If a tray was placed outside in the corridor, as in a hotel, staff understood that the occupant wished to rest. Even when they knew that the resident could do nothing whatever for himself. Still, it made sense to lock the door.

His brow darkened in the dim light. Hetty twirled in slow motion as if in a dream, her arms like fronds above her head letting him control her, judging from those hooded, limpid eyes, what he wanted her to do: whatever she could give him, a last gift, she would lay freely before him.

They were alone, with the music coming to a steady crescendo, in the warm room, surrounded by striking images of feminine grace. The pictures’ subjects seemed to form a chorus: it was almost as if they were murmuring descants to the music. The Professor beat time awkwardly, directed her, his head up, mouth half open. He increased the volume slightly, not so loud as to bring complaints, but sufficient to make his intentions absolutely clear.

And Hetty danced for him, for the gaunt figure in the bed, for the dying spirit, in homage to the undimmed adoration this man felt for all women, but especially those before him, in the portraits on the wall from his earlier years, and for the living woman who was now slipping out of her clothes, and letting them lie where they fell.

The skirt came first, then the sweater and the unbuttoned blouse; she kicked them out of the way. The undergarments followed swiftly, as if they were a constraint. There was nothing unduly sexual about the small heap of white lace on the edge of the rug. The male artist needed to observe, without adornments: the female model needed to be admired, uncovered, unashamed …

The light fell on her body, on her hips and her thighs, on her belly and her shoulders and breasts, as Hetty danced for him. Round and round, arms in the air, eyes closed, on tiptoe, running her fingers down her flanks, letting the surging harmonies take over: like a lone priestess dancing in the depths of the oracle before her god, a soul in ecstasy, acquiring new truths and ancient knowledge, offering herself in supplication and thanks…

‘Oh, Hetty …’

… dancing, dancing, a woman for a man who could see, and could ask for no more …

Then it was over. The music came to its sudden full stop. The Professor pressed a button and the silence lingered. She stood calmly, her fingers entwined in her hair, then let her arms fall, and picked up her clothes to put them on.

The Professor was clapping, slowly, one hand coming down on the palm of the other, his uplifted face wreathed in joy.

‘And now I have to go,’ said Hetty, in as matter-of-fact a voice as she could muster. She fastened her skirt, swung it round, slipped her feet back into her shoes. For a moment she fumbled with her coat, then recovered her composure. ‘You take care. I’ll call and see you again soon, maybe at the book club.’ She kissed the desiccated cheek and brushed the withered hand.

As she unlocked the door and glanced back, the Professor was still applauding.

Hetty sipped the infusion of raspberry tea and gave a grateful if wan smile to Markus, its originator. Weary after the day’s recording, she had decided against a movie; it might be a while before she joined a cinema queue again. A mild headache, beans on toast and a slothful night in front of the television had been her agenda, until a knock had brought the craggy features of her upstairs neighbour into view.

‘Haven’t seen you for ages,’ Markus had said, reproachfully. ‘Not on Sundays at the café, not at the theatre, not in and out of our living room like earlier this year. Then by chance I spot you putting out the rubbish and you’re bent over with misery. Here am I, trying to read a bad script and bored to tears. Come and cry on my shoulder.’

Soon she was settled on the tan leather sofa, her feet on the silk carpet, fingers fiddling with the fig tree in its minimalist pot. A Japanese print had been hung in an alcove with a squat jade Buddha, the whole tastefully illuminated by an exactly placed spotlight. The decor with its understated elegance could not fail to calm Hetty’s jangled nerves.

‘So, what’s the matter?’ Markus poured tea and pushed a cookie jar towards her.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. Bit preoccupied, I’m afraid.’

‘Work?’

She shook her head.

‘Family?’

‘No, nothing like that. All well.’

‘Aha. Love?’

Hetty snorted. ‘How did you guess? Or at least I thought I’d found it at last. Instead I was subject to the oldest cliché in the world.’

Once she started talking, to Markus’s sympathetic nods, it came out: not in a rush, but composed, self-critical and rueful. She recounted the tale of Norman from the agency and the queue for
The Mummy
. Then, for good measure, she added James the trainspotter, Al the jazz player, and Stephen the ex. She kept to herself the call from Annabel’s father; its brevity and lack of outcome meant it didn’t count. And then she described, briefly, her distress at the Professor’s illness and its appalling effect on him. The dance had been buried in the innermost recesses of her heart, and would never be alluded to. ‘Hence, I’m off men,’ she concluded.

Markus sipped the fragrant tea. ‘I’m not surprised, after a string of misadventures like that. But temporarily, please. They can’t all be bad.’

‘That’s what I say. The Professor isn’t. But one gets discouraged. And I ask myself, Why do I feel such an idiot? Because I was letting myself down, that’s why. For the first time ever, I know who I am. Made real progress in the last year. If some chap seriously tried to persuade me to get hitched again, I’d hesitate. I hope.’

Markus waited, but Hetty did not elaborate. ‘You said that your ex has been dropping heavy hints?’ he asked.

‘Mmm. I’ve had four letters. A card for my birthday – he didn’t forget. A dreadfully sloppy card for the date of our anniversary, which
I’d
tried to forget. He hasn’t actually come
out with it, but I could go back. What I haven’t figured out is whether he believes he’s being kind to a poor lost soul, or whether the lost soul is him.’

‘Maybe both. Have you spoken to each other?’

‘No. I wouldn’t want to,’ said Hetty sadly. ‘Got quite enough on my plate without further complications. He’d make me feel small again, and insecure, like I did before, and guilty for not rushing to his side, if he needed me. Too much muddle altogether.’

Markus checked the pot and poured in hot water. ‘You didn’t run away from that life willingly, Hetty.’

‘True. I was suited to it then, but now? For example, I adore working these days, and can’t imagine how I’d spend my time otherwise.’ The image of Clarissa laden with shopping surfaced and she shuddered. ‘The pressures in the village on wives
not
to take outside work were enormous, but I couldn’t see how unfair it was. If I’d got a job, become a commuter like my husband, the gossips would have had a field day. I’d have been accused of neglecting my home and setting a bad example. Then when my marriage broke up it would, naturally, have been regarded as my fault. Not his.’

‘Sounds like double standards to me,’ Markus grunted.

‘By the bucketload. Oh, if I had got a job, of course something would have gone to the wall. The garden, probably. I must have been mad: I was devoted to that sodding garden, and now I don’t have one I couldn’t care less.’ She giggled and held up the cup. ‘Here’s to gardeners. May they never learn how futile their passion is.’

‘You don’t mean that. You enjoy the common,’ Markus rebuked her gently.

‘I don’t have to mow it, or weed it. That helps.’

Markus laughed. ‘Dear Hetty. Almost cynical. But many people would have envied you. Isn’t it supposed to be most women’s dream – a big house, a half-acre garden, two cars, children? And if you could have that back again, wouldn’t you be tempted?’

Hetty sighed. ‘Not with the accompanying social strait-jacket. The squeals of censure if you don’t do what the old biddies say you should. The bleak looks if you miss church or refuse the rota for meals-on-wheels. The whispers at the post office. You should be thankful, Markus, that you and Christian never have to put up with any of that.’

‘I was expected to serve on the committee of Gay Pride, and drew the line,’ said Markus tartly. ‘Too much bickering and in-fighting. If it’s old biddies you despise, Hetty, the gay community has more than its share. It was their way of trying to make me come out publicly, and I was not about to satisfy them.’

Hetty’s voice lifted in frustration. ‘Why does everyone want us to conform? Why can’t they leave us be? If we’re different, we’re not doing any harm.’

‘Quite.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it before,’ Hetty said. ‘But gay or straight, a couple is a couple. If you’re still devoted, and still have lots in common, it’s fabulous. If one partner’s hankering after something illicit, there’s a problem.’

Markus’s face darkened. ‘Straight couples have children. That can keep some marriages alive, can’t it? The children are what they have in common. Many gay men find it hard to form long-term relationships. They flit from conquest to conquest, and only feel the buzz in the opening stages. It’s a man thing, I suppose.’

Hetty was startled. ‘But you and Christian?’ Into her mind came the fleeing figure on
the common. She spoke more slowly, ‘You’re the most durable pairing I know at the moment. With the possible exception of the McDonalds.’ She gazed up anxiously from her tea. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there, Markus?’

The older man shifted in his tubular steel chair. The furniture of their apartment had probably been chosen more for style than for comfort; behind Hetty’s knees a numbness was spreading. She shifted also, as if in sympathy.

‘I am getting older,’ Markus said quietly. ‘I keep myself in shape. But Christian – when we met, he was very young, very troubled. Today he’s the talk of the arts magazines, his name pops up everywhere. If he strayed, it wouldn’t be surprising …’

‘But you’d be devastated.’

‘Absolutely. Perhaps it matters more just because we don’t have children. Or a dog, or even a budgie. We have only each other.’

A silence fell, brooding and sombre. Then Hetty stirred. ‘What about the other way round? My husband didn’t set out to fall for somebody else. It started off as a fling, I’m pretty sure. Might it happen to you? Could you imagine yourself straying?’

Markus treated the question solemnly. ‘Not under present circumstances. But suppose Christian became a fat old man with a paunch and unpleasant personal habits. Would I try to find a younger version, maybe? I don’t know the answer to that. Some gay men are repeatedly attracted to lovers of the same age and appearance. Except that the age gap widens till it’s quite grotesque.’

‘Not just gays. Straight men often fall for retreads. My Stephen, for one.’

‘A man thing, like I said.’

‘In which case, I’m awfully glad I’m a woman.
I
can’t start having a second family. That at least, Markus, is a great relief.’

Instinct had warned Hetty not to raise, however obliquely, the mystery of Christian’s outings on the common. One glance between the two at the café months before had shown that the young actor regarded such activities with a levity not shared by his partner. Maybe Christian was restless, or frustrated, or simply flighty; or maybe a joke had twisted itself into a dare, then had slid into a habit. Maybe, as Markus had hinted, Christian preferred casual relations, and the older man turned a blind eye, desperate to keep him. She cared too much about both to wish to cause them any grief.

Meanwhile her gloomy feelings persisted, though she threw herself into the research for
Tell Me All
and drummed up enough new guests for half the next series. Soul Mates, the agency, sent fresh sheets of names but Hetty could not bring herself to give them more than a perfunctory shuffle. Some brightness had been extinguished in her, and made her melancholy.

Doris rode to her rescue over a warming tot of Scotch in her kitchen one evening. The turban was pink cotton, the pinny fixedly in place, the tarot cards unboxed. The effect was oddly incongruous, as of a wizard caught doing his chores. ‘Tell Doris, dear,’ the old woman urged. In her hands the overlarge cards slithered and flicked over, as if by their own volition.

‘I can’t shake off this sense of failure. All the men I’ve dallied with so far have been a disaster. What do I do next?’

‘Try a younger bloke?’ Doris suggested. She turned over a card: a knight in armour
appeared, as if by a miracle.

‘God forbid,’ Hetty muttered. Then, ‘Markus says that’s quite normal amongst gays. That tastes don’t change even if one gets older. And we can think of loads of straight men like that. Rod Stewart, for example. Or Donald Trump, that millionaire.’

‘When they’re asked why they do it, they answer, “Because I can,”’ said Doris grimly. ‘They’re saying, if they can still pull the dolly-birds, why shouldn’t they?’ The next card was of a buxom maid with a wayward eye.

‘But I can drum up loads of reasons why not.’ Hetty was definite. ‘Who wants a pretty bimbo with no brain?’

‘
They
do.’ Doris was equally definite. ‘Usually ’cause the last thing that matters to them in a partner is a brain. A girl with something between the ears’d see through them in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Even the bimbos do, eventually. Then they start again.’

‘It does clarify one’s values.’ Hetty accepted a second small Scotch. She had no intention of getting drunk but the liquor helped her delve into subjects that would once have left her tongue-tied. ‘Markus was speculating how he might react if Christian got old and fat. I don’t know – does personality get more important, as we get older?’

Doris did not reply, but pushed the next card towards Hetty. It showed a still-life, a basket of fruit. Neither commented. Hetty continued, ‘For me, if a bloke popped up tomorrow who was unattractive but nice, I can imagine a chummy platonic friendship, but not sex. Bed still means that spark has to be there.’

The memory of Norman suddenly seized her and she almost started to cry. ‘Sorry, Doris, but Norman was – excellent in that department. I do miss him.
It
.’

‘Buy new batteries for that gadget I gave you,’ Doris advised stoutly, as she gathered up the cards. ‘It’ll keep you going. Something better will come along.’

Hetty smiled through her misery. ‘You are a pal, Doris. And quite right. I shan’t give in. I’m not about to hang up my boots and spurs yet.’

Doris sat up. ‘Boots and spurs? Oooh! You didn’t say you were into S and M. Got some terrific new stuff in the shop. You must come …’

Clarissa was in a rush and had only a moment to talk on the phone. ‘Another party? We missed the last one. I’ll check with Robin but the date sounds okay. Is it bring a bottle?’

‘Bring whatever you like. I was wondering if your aunt would like an invitation.’

‘Millie? Good Lord, one doesn’t think of the aged as suitable invitees. It’s up to you. I dashed in there yesterday – the whole caboodle’s as ghastly as ever, but she’s on good form. Your friend the Professor is no more, of course.’

‘The Professor?’ Hetty went cold.

‘Died. Buried yesterday morning, in fact – he was Jewish, or his family were, and they can’t hang about, have to do it within twenty-four hours. He’d had a stroke.’

‘Yes, I knew about the stroke.’ Hetty’s voice dropped till Clarissa told her to speak up. ‘I saw him about a week ago. He was a bit poorly, I had meant to pop in again.’

‘No need now,’ said Clarissa airily. ‘But rumour has it he’s left you something in his will. His family mentioned it to the matron. He’d taken quite a shine to you, Hetty.’

‘I loved him,’ said Hetty softly. ‘I never told him, but I’m sure he was aware.’

‘Loved him? Surely not. He was
old
, Hetty.’

‘He was wise, and kind, and funny, and …’ She wanted to add
sexy
, but stopped.

‘Ugh!’ said Clarissa. ‘I can’t bear it. Those scrawny bodies. The mad eyes. I’ve told Robin, the moment I start to disintegrate, he’s to take his shotgun and bump me off.’

‘I was going to invite him,’ Hetty continued wistfully, ‘to the party. It’s a kind of celebration of my freedom, and he was part of that. We’d have got him here somehow, even if I’d had to push the wheelchair myself.’

‘You’re a basket-case. Let me know about the will, won’t you? I’m dying of curiosity,’ said Clarissa. ‘’Bye.’ The handset clicked.

Slowly Hetty put the phone down. Where had she been yesterday? At the studio, but it would not have been impossible to take the morning off for the funeral, had anybody bothered to tell her. She felt an agonising choke of remorse. If she had been a daily visitor or had checked more regularly on his welfare, staff would have informed her in time. It had not happened, and was probably nobody’s fault. As she was not family, and had never met them, the relatives had not thought to include her. Since she had felt faintly embarrassed in retrospect about the dance in the dark, and worried that he might ask for a repeat performance, she had put off calling. And now it was too late.