Heartbreak Hotel

by Deborah Moggach

  But it wasn’t. During the evening this phantom marriage refused to disappear. Far from being dead, her husband was thickening up into a retired accountant called Phil, who was holding the fort back in Clapham. He was missing her, of course, but sent her jokey texts ending with xxxs and was using her absence to redecorate the lounge. Phil was a homebody; he spent his time looking after her, whisking the telephone bill out of her hand, seeing off the tea-towel sellers when they harangued her on the doorstep. Though balding, in her eyes Phil was still the handsome man she married thirty-five years ago. And my goodness, how they still made each other laugh!

  Monica said nothing about this to her fellow diners, of course; she didn’t want to entangle herself still further in lies. But just for now she believed in it herself, it was her own warm secret. So this was how married women felt, when they were away from their husbands!

  For a moment she even pitied her fellow diners, who were enthusiastically slagging off their exes. A woman called Tess said she had been married to a control freak who barred her from his kitchen. ‘It was like an operating theatre in there,’ she said. Recipes were stored alphabetically and meals were eaten in holy silence. ‘Just his sharp intake of breath when a drop of gravy fell on the table.’

  A handsome black woman said: ‘Me and my ex-boyfriend couldn’t cook for toffee, we lived on takeaways. But now I’ve got together with Martin and he expects a meal on the table.’ This was greeted with groans. ‘He’s got a busy job,’ she said.

  ‘That old excuse,’ said Tess. ‘How busy, exactly?’

  ‘He runs the Foreign Office.’

  Somebody else wanted to learn how to bake cakes as therapy for a broken heart. As the women regaled each other with stories of their disastrous love affairs Monica thought how different this was from a tableful of bankers. None of the City boys confessed to failure; in fact, none of them talked about anything emotional at all. The size of their bonuses was no longer discussed in public, for obvious reasons, but there was still some subtler competitive bragging – moaning about their jet lag, about the wind turbines ruining the view from their country cottage, about their hangover from some Russian crook’s birthday bash. The few women at these events usually joined in, out-machoing the males. They had to be tough, to survive.

  Buffy sat at the next table, a bull surrounded by cows. Anybody who bore less resemblance to a banker was hard to imagine. He really was a frightful old ruin but he seemed to be making those ladies laugh. Maybe some of them could even find him attractive. Monica herself was not that desperate. She still didn’t understand why she had lied to him. To get his attention? His sympathy? To make him believe she had been loved with such devotion? She felt so confused that she decided not to speak to him for the rest of the week. After all, he had plenty of other women to talk to. He wouldn’t even notice.

  Next morning the women gathered in the kitchen. There were nine of them on the course – some had stayed the night elsewhere – plus a latecomer who was apparently arriving at lunchtime.

  Voda, her dreadlocks tied up with string, stood in front of the oven. ‘Today we’re going to make a lasagne, a meat one and a veggie one, which we’ll serve for dinner. You’ll learn how to make a cheese sauce, the basis of all béchamel sauces. You’ll also learn how to make a rich tomato sauce and how to make a bolognese, which can be used in many other dishes – cottage pie, spag bol, stuffed marrow and so on.’

  Her aproned assistant, India, was grating cheese. She too was stocky, with unruly dark hair; they looked like two little tugboats. Monica, who had a hangover, sat on one of the plastic chairs that had been brought in from the bar. This morning she felt brittle and vulnerable. She’d had a restless night, disturbed by violent dreams and the flushing of the lavatory, which was next to her bedroom. Coming downstairs she had tripped over the dog and nearly fallen headlong. She imagined herself splayed in the hallway, her knickers showing. Life nowadays seemed full of minor indignities and traps for the unwary; for a horrible moment she remembered lying in a field beside the A40, a Labrador slobbering over her face. O why do you walk through the field in gloves, fat white woman whom nobody loves? Why am I here? she thought. I should have turned round and gone straight home.

  Voda was weighing out the butter and flour. ‘Twenty-five grams butter, thirty grams flour,’ she said.

  The young girl next to Monica muttered: ‘I hope I’m going to take all this in.’

  ‘Oh, it’s easy,’ said Monica.

  The girl looked at her curiously. ‘You know how to do it?’

  Monica remained silent. Tess, on her other side, was writing down measurements in a notebook. ‘I think he’s rather irresistible,’ she whispered.

  ‘Who?’ asked Monica.

  ‘Buffy, our host.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Don’t you think so? Apparently he’s had lots of wives. I know he’s awfully old, but I can sort of see why.’

  ‘Really?’

  Monica got up and joined the women who had gathered round the oven. Voda was stirring the butter and flour into a creamy paste while India stood by, holding a bottle of milk. Monica thought: They should warm the milk first.

  Buffy was nowhere to be seen. So he’d had a lot of wives, had he? She wondered what had brought him to this little town. Was he still an actor? If she had brought along her laptop she could look him up. Maybe he just donned a costume once a year to play Father Christmas, a role for which he seemed eminently suited. She remembered those women gathered around him last night; the shrieks of laughter. They looked like eager children – glowing faces, sparkling eyes – waiting for their presents. They were practically children, of course, compared to her.

  Buffy’s remark still smarted. Of course she could remember Terry-Thomas but he needn’t have pointed it out. Besides, it was unfair. Though she was the oldest woman there, she wasn’t as old as Buffy – he was over seventy, she had worked it out in bed last night. He had appeared in a film, playing Susannah York’s brother, when Monica was still a teenager. She would tell him this when they next met.

  ‘Close your eyes, veggies,’ said Voda. ‘I’m going to cook the mince.’

  Far off, the phone rang. India hurried out to answer it.

  Monica tried to remember the last time she had heard laughter in her flat. Whistling she could recollect – it was when the man came to fix the boiler. But laughter? Once or twice she had laughed out loud when her cat, who grew portly towards the end of his life, had difficulty squeezing through the catflap, but the sound had startled her. A madwoman, her cackles echoing in the silence! At least she didn’t talk out loud, she only muttered under her breath.

  India rushed back into the kitchen. ‘It’s Conor!’ she gasped. ‘There’s been an accident!’

  Voda tore off her apron. Muttering an apology, she ran out of the room.

  There was a silence. India looked at the students. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  The front door slammed as Voda left the house.

  ‘Oh God,’ said India. ‘What shall we do now?’

  ‘You tell us,’ said somebody.

  ‘I can’t take the class,’ she said. ‘I can’t boil an egg.’

  ‘Great,’ muttered a voice.

  Suddenly the young girl piped up. Pointing to Monica, she said: ‘She knows how to do it.’

  Heads turned.

  ‘That true?’ asked Tess.

  Monica shrugged. ‘I’m hopeless at cooking in general,’ she lied. ‘But I can make lasagne.’

  She got to her feet. India passed her the apron.

  The secret of a good lasagne? Plenty of cheese, more than you think, preferably mature Cheddar with grated Parmesan on top. Plenty of garlic, more than you imagine. Fry the mince until all the liquid has evaporated and it starts sticking to the pan, this will make it dark and rich, we don’t want it flabby and grey, do we? A glass of red wine flung in, so it hisses.

  The students were clustered around her. As Monica stirred and fried, talking
and even joking, she felt an unfamiliar sensation – happiness. She used to be known for her dinner parties but she hadn’t cooked one for years. The equipment was somewhat dated – a sluggish Raeburn and a grease-spattered electric stove – but she was coping; she even demonstrated how to mix a perfect vinaigrette for a salad. ‘The secret? You stir together some mustard, salt, sugar and balsamic vinegar first, then add the olive oil, ratio three to one. Here, have a taste.’

  At midday Buffy came in, well muffled up in overcoat, scarf and beret. Apparently he had been at the dentist’s in Hereford and knew nothing of the morning’s drama.

  As India explained what had happened, Monica pulled off her apron and furtively wiped her face with a piece of kitchen towel. Sweat was trickling down her armpits. And now Buffy was walking over to her, making his way through the chairs.

  ‘You’ve saved our bacon,’ he said, unwinding his scarf. ‘What a star you are!’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she shrugged.

  The students were leaving, filing out of the door. India was taking food out of the fridge, for lunch. Buffy pulled off his beret and sat down heavily.

  ‘Blimey, it’s hot in here.’ He looked up at her, his brow furrowed. ‘I didn’t know you could cook.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I just know how to make lasagne.’

  It was a lie, of course. Yet another lie. How could she admit to him the depths of her desperation, that she had enrolled on the cookery course with the sole intention of meeting a man? That she presumed that this course, of all courses, would be crammed with them? Of course she could fucking cook. Maybe all the other women here could cook too! Maybe they had come for exactly the same reason!

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I owe you,’ he said. ‘Let me take you out for lunch.’

  ‘Isn’t it fun playing truant!’ said Buffy.

  They were sitting in a restaurant called Chez Adele, a chintzy establishment in a cobbled alley off the high street. Buffy had told her that the eponymous Adele was an ex-model, now run to fat, who had once walked out with Mick Jagger. Walked out. Monica wondered if he had used this quaint phrase in deference to her age.

  ‘Now, what shall we have to drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Just water for me, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t leave me alone. I’ve just been to the dentist’s, I need the consolation of alcohol.’

  ‘What did you have done?’

  ‘He cleaned what remains of my teeth.’

  Monica raised her eyebrows. ‘Traumatic, was it?’

  Buffy nodded. ‘He said there was a lot of staining.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said.

  ‘Red wine and so forth.’

  ‘Now you mention it,’ she said, ‘maybe just a glass.’

  Buffy ordered a bottle of Rioja. He was only giving her lunch out of gratitude. And pity, of course – for her age, for her widowhood. Monica still resented him for believing her lie. How on earth was she going to wriggle out of it? She would have to keep her wits about her during lunch, and after that avoid his company. There were plenty of other women for him to flirt with.

  Not that he was flirting with her, oh no chance of that. He liked a chat, he was a sociable fellow, and obviously found more in common with someone her age than some bimbo of forty, but this was hardly one of those pre-seduction lunches she remembered fondly from her dim-distant past. Anyway, in the City nobody had lunch any more, it was all a Pret sandwich at one’s desk. An afternoon’s fornication had become an extinct activity, like clog-dancing. Besides, Buffy was far too decrepit, even for her. That women apparently still found him attractive – irresistible – just proved the terrible unfairness of life. As if she needed reminding.

  They both ordered pasta. Her hangover had made her ravenous. As she tucked in Buffy said: ‘I do like a woman who eats.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘There’s nothing more irritating than someone picking at their food.’

  ‘What else do you find irritating?’ she asked.

  ‘People who drink a mug of tea with the bag still hanging from a string.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Oh yes there is,’ he said.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Pavement cyclists. People who say five-and-twenty past twelve instead of twenty-five past. People who say twenty-four-seven. People who glug from water bottles in the street.’

  ‘Goodness, you must be permanently in a bate.’

  He nodded. ‘Joggers. People who say love you when they’re finishing a mobile phone call. People having any sort of conversation on their bloody mobile. Car stickers saying Keep Your Distance, Baby on Board.’

  ‘You really are bad-tempered, aren’t you?’

  ‘And dachshunds,’ said Buffy.

  ‘Why dachshunds?’

  ‘They’re too small,’ he said.

  ‘But your dog’s small.’

  ‘Mine’s got longer legs.’

  ‘Only an inch or two.’

  ‘So what irritates you?’ he asked. ‘There must be something.’

  Monica drained her glass. The wine had gone straight to her head. ‘All right then. Elderly couples holding hands.’

  ‘Totally agree.’

  ‘Striding along with their Ordnance Survey maps, fit as fiddles.’

  He nodded. ‘Striding along Offa’s Dyke. I’ve seen the bastards.’

  She spoke in a rush. ‘Living forever, hoovering up their children’s inheritance, going on cycling holidays together, being each other’s bloody best friend. I think they should be culled. They’ve had their fun, it’s time for them to go. I think there should be trained marksmen stationed at National Trust properties, ready to shoot. And along the South Downs Way, and Hadrian’s Wall.’

  Blushing, she stopped. Had she really said that out loud? But Buffy was nodding. ‘And don’t forget Tate Modern,’ he said. ‘And grandchildren’s nativity bloody plays. You find plenty of them there, the smug buggers.’

  ‘Withered hand in withered hand.’

  ‘Golden wedding celebrations!’

  ‘Cull the lot.’

  They laughed. Buffy was wearing a frayed green shirt and spotted neckerchief. He looked like the aged owner of a fairground ride. Tipsily, Monica pictured the roller coaster of his own rackety past – no chance of him being a Smug Married. How many wives had he actually had? Her life seemed so sterile compared to what she imagined his had been – wives and actresses and greasepaint and fun. Bankers weren’t any fun unless they were pissed. Even then it was simply a bunfight. They were such emotional retards; she blamed the public schools. And when did they ever step into a theatre?

  ‘I shouldn’t be laughing,’ he said. ‘Not after what you’ve been through.’

  Monica froze. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s not, then.’ He gazed at her, his eyes moist with sympathy. ‘My first wife, Popsi, died five years ago. It wasn’t like your situation, we’d been divorced for decades. And Bridie, the woman who left me the house, she had been a dear friend . . . But I didn’t realise how much I would miss them. It must be much, much worse for you. So I’m just very sorry.’ He passed her the menu. ‘Now, how about some pudding?’

  Monica shook her head. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back?’

  What an idiot she was! Despite herself, she had been warming to Buffy. Of course he wasn’t interested in her – how could anyone be? – but it was a long time since she’d been treated to a non-business lunch, and a very long time since she’d laughed out loud. There was something companionable about Buffy; she herself felt more amusing in his company. Wasn’t it Falstaff, appropriately enough, who was not just witty in himself, but the cause of wit in others? And she had ruined it all; the whole thing was based on a falsehood. Who said one grew wiser as the years passed? They were the stupid ones.

  Buffy helped her on with her coat. As his hands brushed her
shoulders Monica felt a small, electric jolt. My God, she was a tinderbox! Any man’s touch could ignite her. Four years – four years – had passed since she’d had what could even vaguely be described as sex: a drunken fumble with the functions manager at the Royal Thistle Hotel, Harrogate, which had lasted all of ten minutes and had ended in humiliating failure. The image swam up of herself, lying half clothed on her bed as he stumbled from the room.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Buffy, holding open the door.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You had a sudden, haunted look.’

  ‘It’s nothing!’ she snapped.

  She thought: Maybe I have an atrophied vagina. The functions manager couldn’t get it in, but then he couldn’t get it up. And who could blame him?

  They walked along the alley. A tractor clattered down the high street, its tyres scattering mud. Buffy pointed out people to her; he seemed to know half the town. It was a raw, blustery day, the air stinking of manure, but suddenly Monica felt exhilarated; she had a mad desire to put her hand through Buffy’s arm, to saunter down the street like a couple. Like Smug Marrieds! He looked so large and reassuring, bundled up in his Rupert Bear scarf. She had a ridiculous picture of herself and Buffy cosied up on the sofa in front of the TV, pot of tea, nights drawing in. And laughing. Laughing.

  Monica walked slowly, relishing the fantasy. She dawdled at a shop window; in fact, she was gazing at herself and Buffy, reflected in the glass. She stopped him in the street, her hand on his arm, and pointed out a passer-by. ‘Tell me about him,’ she whispered. Anything to delay their arrival at Myrtle House. Just for the moment she had him to herself. Maybe they could sit next to each other at dinner.

  As they walked down Church Street she thought: What would happen if I told him the truth? If I said: I’m so lonely I could scream.

  Buffy opened the front door. ‘Back to class,’ he said. ‘Tell teacher it was all my fault.’

  He helped her off with her coat. Her happiness drained away. Back to school, the summer holidays over. She thought: How did I suddenly get so old? It seems like last week that I was packing my homework in my satchel.