Life After Lunch

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘He behaved like a perfect gentleman,’ he mused, ‘more’s the pity. If he’d put his hand on my knee then I’d really have had something to write about. It could have been the making of me, in every sense.’

  I sipped my tea. ‘ What did you think of Susan?’

  ‘A gas,’ said Glyn. ‘But I wouldn’t want her as an enemy.’

  A year later as we sat in a heap on the sofa with both girls one wet Saturday afternoon, trying to persuade Verity to take a nap, we saw Jimmy’s Renault spin off the track during the Hungarian Grand Prix and watched, horrified, as his dead body was prised from the wreckage. Reports of the memorial service, held in London, contained no reference to a ‘constant companion’ or ‘lifelong friend’ and we reflected in the slightly smug way of married couples that he must have been lonely. In one newspaper photograph of people outside the church we saw Susan in the background in dark glasses.

  That was when she and I began having lunch regularly.

  Chapter Four

  Two days after our party I met Susan at Pizza Parade and we ordered the Four Seasons for two with garlic and herb bread, and a bottle of Valpolicella, to be brought at once.

  ‘We can’t thank you enough,’ I said. ‘ This one’s definitely on me.’

  ‘No, no, you can’t do that. Rules are rules.’

  ‘Rules are made to be broken.’

  ‘Not these ones. Once we start to make exceptions there’ll be no end to it.’

  ‘Well …’ It had only been a token suggestion anyway.

  Susan lit a cigarette. She liked being thanked. ‘So you enjoyed my little Henry, did you?’

  ‘He was wonderful. Where did you find him?’

  She tapped her nose. ‘ I have my contacts. No, I heard him play at an otherwise boring party before Christmas, and as soon as you mentioned your celebration I knew he’d be the very thing.’

  Hearing her say this in person, it seemed incredible that I could have been so miffed about it at the time. ‘He was.’

  She poured the wine with what seemed to be an especially gleeful giggle.

  ‘What did you think when you opened the door and saw this saturnine stranger standing there?’

  ‘Well, actually—’

  ‘Because he is, don’t you think? A little bit mad and bad?’

  ‘I don’t know about—’

  ‘You can’t believe when you see him that he can play like an angel. But it’s all part of his charm, I think. That out of the whatever comes forth sweetness – out of the what?’ She hesitated momentarily, allowing me to take a short, sharp breath and plunge in.

  ‘Strong,’ I said. ‘ Out of the strong.’

  ‘Really? Well, that isn’t what I meant. So much for free-ranging quotation.’

  ‘And it wasn’t me that opened the door, as a matter of fact, it was my horsey sister-in-law—’

  ‘Is that horsey in appearance or persuasion?’

  ‘Both. She and David regard us as some sort of sub-culture anyway, so nothing would surprise them. But when she fetched me I admit I was pretty gobsmacked. He doesn’t exactly launch a charm offensive.’ Susan chuckled. ‘Anyway, he was a smash hit. Glyn asked me to say a special thank-you.’

  ‘And how is Glyn?’ asked Susan searchingly. ‘And the rest of the tribe?’

  ‘Oh, they’re fine.’ It was always hard to know how much to say on this subject, or how genuine the enquiry was in the first place. For once, Susan allowed a short pause to elapse as if trying to tempt me into indiscretion, before asking, ‘What did Glyn give you on your anniversary?’

  ‘These earrings.’ I turned my head so she could see.

  She fingered them appreciatively. ‘They’re nice. You may continue to wear them in my presence. What about the children?’

  ‘They made us an album of special occasions.’

  ‘Good for them!’ This accorded well with Susan’s hopelessly idealized picture of how offspring should behave. I didn’t bother to add that I suspected the album had been almost entirely the work of Verity, while Josh’s and Becca’s contributions had been confined to a pro rata financial donation and the presentation itself, when Verity had stood blushing in the background with Sinead in her arms while Becca took centre stage.

  ‘Did they make a speech?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Becca did, sort of—’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said we must be completely bonkers—’

  ‘Bet she didn’t use bonkers—’

  ‘She said we must be mad but she admired us for it anyway.’

  ‘Right on, Becca. Any sign of her marrying anyone?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Either of her children’s fathers, for instance?’ Susan laughed piercingly, but she knew she’d touched a nerve and adjusted her expression to accord with my pained smile.

  ‘What did Glyn do, did he make a speech?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Goodness, I thought he’d serenade you in front of the guests or something.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Gosh,’ sighed Susan, ‘what a foolish old romantic I must be …’

  The herb bread arrived and we dug in, tearing off delicious greasy chunks and losing all our lipstick in the process. We neither of us made any secret of our liking for Pizza Parade. No pretensions, pure pig-out.

  Susan scrubbed at her mouth and hands with a paper napkin. ‘You’re looking terribly good by the way.’

  ‘Heavens.’ I looked down at myself, surprised but pleased. ‘ I thought I might have put on weight.’

  ‘You have a bit,’ said Susan, with the gracious candour of the true friend. ‘And about to put on a bit more,’ she added as our giant, deep-pan Four Seasons with extra peperoni and black olives hove in view. ‘ But that doesn’t matter. You’re lucky you carry your weight in the right places. And there is an indefinable sparkle … What have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Or perhaps I should ask,’ she leaned forward and looked up at me from beneath her brows, ‘what has Glyn been doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Her brows shot up. ‘No, I don’t mean nothing, but honestly – we’re just another year older and deeper in debt.’

  Susan screeched. ‘ You’re the only person I know who’d admit to a quoting acquaintance with the songs of Tennessee Ernie Ford—’

  ‘Who?

  She screeched again. She was in cracking form. ‘Well …

  She sat up and glugged out more wine. ‘One of you must be doing something right. Tell Glyn I said so. If he looks half as good as you I’m going to be straight round to your place in my crotchless knickers. It’s not fair that you married people should keep all the talent to yourselves.’

  It was at that moment, tempted as I was to unbosom myself, and old and valued friend though she was, that I decided to keep schtum. I did not mention the short handwritten note which had appeared on the doormat the previous evening, addressed to ‘Mrs Lewis’and signed ‘Your admiring gatecrasher, Patrick Lynch.’ Secrets, however slight and incomplete, are erotic.

  ‘I meant it when I said that about Glyn,’ she continued. ‘I need a little romance in my life. I need sex, for crying out loud, and if it comes without the carnations and the box of Black Magic I can very easily put up with it. You’re a woman of the world,’ she announced contentiously, ‘what do you recommend?’

  I was happier now the conversation had moved into familiar territory.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, you have to ask me?’ I said. ‘Get out your little black book.’

  ‘I could,’ she conceded, ‘I do know several who would be only too happy to do the honours, but Laura, I need someone new.’

  ‘What about Simon? Hasn’t he got any ideas?’

  ‘He’s nothing but ideas, both of them are, but it’s not exactly their field. When they do come across someone they think would suit me they generally wind up staking a prior claim. It’s like buying people presents you want for yourself.’

 
; ‘Yes.’ I pondered. ‘ I can see that.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Susan, wagging a slice of peperoni at me, ‘I suppose I could join a dating agency.’

  ‘Not quite your style, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Not in the least my style, but desperate times need desperate measures. Maybe I could go on one of those late-night cattlemarket TV shows.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I mean, be honest, I could knock most of the no-hopers you see on those things into a cocked hat.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Blind Date!’ She was warming to her theme – the peperoni slipped from her fingers without her even noticing. ‘They do middle-aged Blind Dates from time to time, don’t they? That would be far more fun – I shall audition for Cilia, have a free weekend in Tenerife and be thoroughly outrageous on the sofa afterwards!’

  ‘That could be fun.’

  ‘Limiting, though. And there might be rather a high fake-tan and chest-wig count.’

  ‘You never know.’

  At last she put in a large mouthful, and I took advantage of this natural break to ask, ‘What about at work? I’m always reading about the workplace being a hotbed of sexual liaisons – I mean, the CAB’s not like that, but I’d have thought in your line—’

  ‘Some of my best lays have been clients,’ she agreed. ‘But it does leave one open to the charge of massaging the sale.’

  ‘He’ll walk into your life any day now,’ I declared. ‘And your eyes will meet, and you’ll know. It happens all the time.’

  ‘Does it?’ she asked, darting me one of those warm, shrewd looks which showed she paid me more attention than I thought. ‘Does it now, Mrs Lewis?’

  Although she was a little older, Susan had arrived at Queen Edelrath’s after me, and left a couple of years later, having made twice the impression in half the time. My own early days at the school had been a slough of homesickness and incompetence. It was several terms before I began to fit in and when I did it was with a slavish need to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  QE’s was a jolly, middle-rank, uncomplicated sort of place on the northern outskirts of London, with a relatively enlightened headmistress and a good reputation for sports (lacrosse, tennis) and music (the choir and orchestra took their budding libidos on tour each spring). The uniform, available from Gorringes, was in a colour then unflinchingly known as nigger-brown. Long cloaks for winter – seniors only – were brown with a yellow lining. Summer dresses were beige and white striped cotton with a detachable white collar. Hats were panamas — brown felt with a yellow band for winter, beige straw with a brown ribbon for summer. There was no really serious bullying, the staff were mostly sane, the food edible if not palatable, and the plumbing adequate. There was a dance at Christmas for which the older boys of nearby Harefield Hall were bussed in, accompanied by a squad of rumpled masters who were the unwitting cause of a hundred humid gussets. Up to three teddies were allowed on the bed and pin-ups ‘ within reason’ on the cubicle walls. These had to be vetted, but only by Matron, who was a broadminded divorcee with tinted hair. Even she had been scandalized by one girl’s picture of a pouting, acne’d teenage rocker named Cliff Richard, and asked what on earth we saw in him when there were gorgeous hunks of men like Rock Hudson about. If dear Matron were still extant today, I wondered what she would have made of the recent ennobling of our idol and the death, from Aids, of hers.

  Parents’ consciences were salved by the much-repeated mantra, ‘It’s such a happy school,’ and it was – up to a point. What QE didn’t allow for was girls who were not happy: wet, moping, disconsolate girls were beyond its collective comprehension. In consequence I was a pariah for most of my first year, not so much vilified as utterly ignored, like one of the more disgusting beggars on the streets of Calcutta. When I did begin to cheer up there was an almost audible sigh of relief, as girls and staff alike realized they were no longer going to have to get stiff necks looking the other way.

  So I settled down, but remained big, and shy, and unexceptional. You couldn’t say I built up a circle of friends. What I did was hover on the edge of an existing circle until, by a process of osmosis, I became part of it. There were Annette, Mijou, Lucilla, Daffs and Bunny. Mijou was Persian (as then was), and had an angora cardigan with pearl embroidery and a sister who’d caught the eye of the Shah; Annette was fat and insubordinate and smoked; Lucilla took up with a ski instructor, left before O-levels and was later seen modelling nursing bras in the Mothercare catalogue; Daffs was incorrigibly giggly and got married young to an RAF dentist; Bunny was vivacious and busty and could pull even in school uniform.

  Hierarchies were strictly observed at QE, and the six of us were all in the same class. Friendships across form barriers were rare, and generally denoted a ‘pash’. A true pash had to be at a distance of at least three forms. So it was hardly surprising that Susan, with her cavalier disregard for these conventions, caused quite a stir.

  She came for the sixth form only, because she’d been at a school in Hagley Wood which had closed down, and QE had an understanding with the trustees. The other girls from the Hagley Wood school were perfectly unexceptional, so Susan’s differences were clearly genetic. She was virtually tone-deaf and hopeless at games, but neither of these shortcomings prevented her singing loudly in chapel and taking on the suicidal role of goalie in lax. She was a gifted actress, who could laugh and cry on stage at will, which QE found somewhat de trop. When she landed the role of the Dauphin in Anouilh’s The Lark, she gave herself a historically accurate pudding-basin haircut which caused the Maid of Orleans to corpse in all three performances. She conducted an entire current events assembly on the rise of the Beatles, and got away with it. Until, years later, my daughter Becca became a teenager, Susan was my sole exemplar of a person who could bend and stretch the system to her advantage without ever actually falling foul of it.

  It was astonishing for the rest of us to see this proof that you could be yourself and survive. For when the Head, Mrs Puddifut (we suspected the ‘ Mrs’ of being a purely honorary title), spoke of girls being ‘ natural’, she did not mean naturally themselves, but natural in some generic, wholesome way of which she approved. Susan was not exactly a rebel – that would have been too much like work – but she didn’t conform, and for the six terms she was at QE the staff seemed hypnotized by her.

  It would be overstating the case to say that she and I were friendly, but we were more friendly than was usual between girls in different years. I took part in an end-of-term revue of Susan’s devising, rashly entitled Stir Crazy, and on Sports Day we were both obliged to be in the same team for our house, Edith Cavell. I think it was this that provided the seedcorn for our later friendship. We were both atrocious at PT, but the liberal regime at QE stopped well short of allowing girls to duck these healthy and character-forming activities. On sports day, rabbits like us were entered for low-status, high-manpower events such as the house relay, where our ineptitude would, in theory, attract the least attention. In practice it meant that one invariably took the baton from the sinewy hand of the meanest, fastest thing on two legs, and was then exposed to the onlookers’ screams of despair as one proceeded to throw away a hard-won lead.

  Lining up for the relay, I found I was behind Susan.

  ‘Shall we run away to sea?’ she asked.

  ‘Jolly good idea.’

  ‘Except for the running bit!’ She screeched with laughter, and then was suddenly serious. ‘I hate this. I really hate this.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘If I ever have children,’ she confided, ‘not that I intend to, I shall make bloody sure no fat teacher with hairy legs and BO has the nerve to tell them what’s good for them.’

  ‘Quite!’

  It’s hard for anyone who didn’t attend a girls’ boarding school at that time – it was the early sixties, but at QE the fifties lasted well into the next decade – to appreciate the sheer dazzle of a sixth-former who spoke freely to a girl two years belo
w, let alone one who ‘bloody-ed’ in that casual and comradely fashion. I was ensnared.

  We both ran. Susan, I remembered, laughed for the whole hundred yards, flung the baton at her waiting team-mate and threw herself, howling with mirth, into the arms of the rest of them. The baton came back to me at alarming speed. I snatched it, dropped it, and finally lumbered down the field, fiery with humiliation, to ensure that Edith Cavell got the wooden spoon.

  As I trudged back up to school-house for tea with Annette and Mijou, Susan hove alongside once more.

  ‘Traitor!’ she said. ‘You went like a bloody train!’

  ‘I was still last,’ I pointed out.

  ‘That’s true.’ She poked a long finger at me and waggled it up and down. ‘So honour is satisfied.’

  This was the trick I came to associate with her of making everything suit her ends. I, poor hidebound creature that I was, would rather like to have won. In the face of all evidence and experience I nurtured a Mallory Towers-ish fantasy of myself, head back, chest out, arms pumping, flying down the field to breast the tape an inch ahead of my nearest rival. The thrill, even in this fantasy, consisted not in personal glory, but in saving the honour of the house. When Susan spoke of honour being satisfied, she meant something diametrically different. Honour consisted in making a virtue of necessity, a triumph of your failures, and a positive blitzkrieg of your strengths.

  I was essentially a team player. Susan, like Groucho Marx, wanted no part of any team that would have her.

  From the time of Jimmy’s death she became a feature of my life, and mine only. ‘How’s Susan?’ Glyn would ask, but he only needed the briefest token run-down. And when she asked about him it was either to commiserate presumptuously with my plight, or to build up sufficient credit to hold forth for the next hour. She very flatteringly believed I was too bright to be anything but bored and frustrated hanging around at home with the girls. When I fell pregnant with Josh she evinced sufficient pity and horror to sustain several Greek tragedies. You’d have thought Glyn – in reality the most sensitive of lovers – was some drunken Victorian wife-abuser, reeling home of a Saturday night, belt at the ready and flies gaping, to ensure his threadbare little wife remained safely up the duff.