The Man Who Understood Women

by Rosemary Friedman

  ‘As far as Melanie’s concerned she’d rather shoot Mr Nokes,’ Nigel said.

  Seeing that they were about to get into deep water over Melanie and the squirrels, Brian decided to change the subject to that of the gate at the end of the road, which had by law to be kept closed for twenty-four hours annually in order to preserve the estate’s private status.

  ‘Gate-duty,’ he said. ‘We didn’t exactly get many volunteers.’

  At the station Helen with the Rover was very much in evidence. Come hell or high water, Eric was met nightly with a wifely peck and a clean car and, Brian suspected, with the chilled Martinis waiting in his impeccable home. Some of the other wives came too, but not with the regularity of Helen. She had become part of the landscape and had she not been there they would have been excused for thinking that they had left the train at the wrong station.

  Brian did not expect Veronica to meet him. He did not expect her to cook the dinner and interrupt it in all weathers to get the car out and drive the two and a half miles to the station after a long day. It simply wasn’t fair. Although it entailed a short walk for himself, unpleasant in cold weather and positively muddy in wet, he drove himself to the station in the mornings, left the car in the station car park, and in the evenings drove himself home.

  At The Oaks he shut and locked the garage and took out his front-door key, never so inconsiderate as to bring Veronica unnecessarily to the door. He smelled disaster as he opened it. It was apples, Veronica explained, burned instead of baked. She had put them into the oven before slipping down to the shops and forgotten to put water into the bottom of the dish. Not to worry, she had taken something from the freezer. Unflappable Veronica. He looked at her in her well-cut pants and smock top. She had kept her figure; looked after herself. You would not think she had borne three children, one of whom was now old enough to get married himself. There would certainly be no trouble if she wanted to get married again, she’d probably enjoy it really. She had often said lately she was bored and wished she had a career. Now that the children needed her less she had time on her hands despite the three days a week she spent at the Citizens Advice Bureau. He wondered when he should break the news to her and decided after dinner.

  It was a good dinner: consommé, veal escalopes in an orange sauce, with tiny new Italian potatoes, and a home-made blackcurrant sorbet with fruit from last summer’s crop. To complement it, and perhaps to boost his courage, he had opened an Haut Marbuzet, of which he drank two-thirds and Veronica one.

  He blotted out the polished refectory table with its Harrods table mats and silver wine coaster and wondered how it would be with Lavinia in the cottage. The dinner – well, the dinner he was not so sure about. She was studying the cookery book he had bought her but at the moment elected not to be able to boil the proverbial egg. His imagination baulked. The dinner didn’t really matter anyway. It wasn’t good for one to eat so richly and so well; afterwards though … afterwards! Love in a cottage; how many dreamed of it and how many had the courage of their convictions?

  He glanced at Veronica doing complicated things with the Cona. If there was one thing he enjoyed it was his after dinner coffee. That moment of peace when he felt the day was really over. They had the coffee beans sent especially from South Molton Street each week and Veronica ground them in the electric grinder.

  ‘Paul phoned,’ she said. ‘He’s coming down this weekend. There’re a couple of parties he wants to go to.’

  ‘Didn’t think he was coming to see us,’ Brian said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think he appreciates the home comforts. I thought we might ask the Prices for a drink on Saturday. Claire has turned out to be absolutely stunning. I met them in Sloane Street. It would make a change from some of those frightful girls he brings home, Afro and reeking of smoke.’

  He realised suddenly that he might never see his grandchildren – then, of course, that he would; Veronica was not one to be unreasonable and the children were sufficiently progressive these days to accept anything.

  ‘Whom should we ask with them?’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘The Prices. You can’t just have George and Myra and Claire. It looks so obvious …’

  She was lighting the small lamp beneath the coffee. He wondered if this was the moment to tell her.

  ‘… I thought perhaps Eric and Melanie. We haven’t seen them for ages. Charles and Phillipa might be down.’

  ‘I see Eric on the train twice a day.’

  ‘I meant socially. You know we were thinking about Spetsai for the summer. They can tell us about it. They seemed to have had a wonderful time. Only if we want to we shall have to call the villa people soon. I believe the best ones go quite early in the year. It would be nice if the children would join us but I don’t suppose they will.’

  He wondered if she would go to Spetsai on her own. Probably a hotel, more likely, where she could meet people.

  She gave him his coffee, black as night, as he liked it. He knew it would taste as good as it smelled.

  ‘Come and sit down. There’s something I have to tell you.’

  ‘When I’ve finished.’ She was clearing the table. ‘Just get this lot into the dishwasher. Once I’ve sat down I never want to get up again.’

  Orderly, methodical; with Lavinia it would be different. They might not clear the table ever. At least not until they’d made love. On the table perhaps, under the table.

  ‘If it’s about having the outside painted I thought we should stick to the same colour. Iris has this marvellous new man, Italian, doesn’t speak a word of English but frightfully cheap. He did their kitchen and utility room. He does odd jobs, too, like putting up things so I thought biscuit again …?’

  ‘No, not about the house.’

  ‘Shan’t be long then.’

  He didn’t hurry her. She’d had a busy day and liked to relax at the end of it. He understood how it was with women. He listened to the small familiar sounds coming from the kitchen. The clunk of the fridge as leftover food was stored away. The fierce, noisy motor of the waste grinder, the chink of china, the rattle of cutlery. Like the captain of a ship Veronica kept everything in its place. She was a good girl, good wife, in fact. Probably if Lavinia hadn’t come along …

  She came in, running her fingers through her hair, which, unlike Lavinia’s, was short. She had the roots tinted every three weeks and the whole lot every six, making jokes about the increasing encroachment of the grey. It was a soft auburn; if one did not know, one would not know. It was amazing what could be done these days.

  She sat down. There was something in her hand. She held it out.

  ‘These are the new colours. But I still think biscuit has a warmth, a mellowness about it.’

  ‘It wasn’t about the house.’

  ‘What then? More coffee?’

  ‘No. No more coffee. I don’t know quite how to put this.’

  ‘Put what? You think Paul should change his course? You never did think History frightfully important but—’

  ‘It’s not about Paul. It’s about me.’

  ‘You’re not well?’

  ‘Quite well. I meant you and me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You remember Lavinia? Lavinia March who works for me?’

  ‘What are you talking about? Of course I know Lavinia.’

  ‘We’re going away together. I’m going to leave you.’

  Veronica had been sitting still but somehow sat stiller.

  ‘It’s been going on for some time. Quite a long time now really. I’d better tell you the whole story.’

  He told her about the trips abroad, the business trips, about the two or three nights a week he came home late, about the cottage in the country, about how much they loved each other.

  When he had finished she was still sitting in exactly the same position, except that she was twining and intertwining her hands as she did when she was anxious.

  He looked at her kindly.

  ‘You won’t have to worry about
a thing. I’ve put the house in your name and you’ll have more than enough to live on, I think you’ll find I’ve been particularly generous. The children are provided for too. Until they get married, that is.’

  Having got it all off his chest he felt better. He looked at Veronica.

  ‘Lavinia March?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s been going on for some time’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been rather stupid, haven’t I?’

  ‘I did my best to keep it from you. I didn’t want to worry you. When there really wasn’t anything to be worried about, I mean.’

  ‘That was very considerate.’

  ‘I do try.’

  ‘When will you be going?’

  ‘I thought quite soon. I thought it better than … prolonging things … tomorrow or the next day.’

  ‘What about the Prices?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d asked them. I could stay till after the weekend if you like.’

  ‘No. I’ll make some excuse. They’ll have to know sooner or later anyway. You’ll want your suitcases from the loft.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re always so practical.’

  ‘You can’t go away without suitcases.’

  ‘Indeed. ‘

  ‘There’s just one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Those presents. The pearls from Hong Kong, the candlesticks from Copenhagen. Did she choose them?’

  He understood how important these small things were to women.

  ‘Of course not,’ he lied, managing to get some indignation in his voice.

  ‘You’re old enough to be her father. She’s only a year or two older than Jennifer.’

  ‘We love each other. I’m sorry.’

  She didn’t shout or scream. He hadn’t expected her to. He knew they could sort the whole thing out amicably.

  She stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘Want me to come with you?’

  ‘No. I’d rather be alone for a while.’

  He understood.

  ‘I’ll take a walk. Stretch my legs. Shan’t be long.’

  He shut the front door quietly and walked down the drive into the dark road.

  Some men would have followed her upstairs. Made a nuisance of themselves.

  He was congratulating himself on his understanding of women and their need to be alone when he heard the shot ring out.

  Soufflé à L’orange

  1976

  My mother had always told me I should learn to cook. So of course I did everything but. By the time I was eighteen I could ride, skate, play the violin (a bit), water-ski, and do batik, but I couldn’t make gravy.

  ‘You’ll settle down one day, I suppose,’ Mother said. ‘And then what will you do? All the violin-playing in the world won’t fill his stomach.’

  ‘I’ll get by,’ I said, and at first it seemed that I would.

  At twenty-one I was engaged to Charles who could afford to employ a hundred cooks, and preferred eating in restaurants anyway.

  At dinner time I nibbled exotic delicacies at the Connaught or the Mirabelle. No anxiously stirring sauces over a hot stove for me!

  Unfortunately, the more I liked his way of life, the less I liked Charles. I had already made up my mind to stop seeing him when I met Alexis and Mother was at last able to say ‘I told you so’.

  Alexis had been married before. His wife had been French and a paragon of all the wifely virtues (except fidelity). She was an accomplished needlewoman and every night she whipped up meals fit for a king. According to Alexis her most unforgettable dish was soufflé à l’orange, a heavenly concoction the like of which he’d never tasted before and was not likely to again since she was settled cosily and permanently in Peru with a tin millionaire Alexis had once regarded as his best friend.

  Alexis’s flat was a testament to his ex-wife’s capabilities. If you sat, it was on petit-point cushions she had worked; if you stood, a watercolour she had painted stared you delicately in the eye; in the bathroom you dried your hands on a linen towel she had embroidered. I could see there was to be no restaurant circuit with Alexis. The Connaught and the Mirabelle once in a while, but he was patently a man who loved his home. I loved him. This man I knew was for me. Oh yes: when you find it you know what it is you have been looking for. I thought he would not be unduly impressed with the riding, the violin and the batik. I purported not to understand the look in my mother’s eye. What she did not know was that along with the skating and the skiing I had acquired a not unnatural cunning. It had always stood me in good stead.

  He did all the right things, Alexis – wooed me, courted me, showered me with gifts – in the best trad manner.

  Of course I knew the kissing had to stop some time but I put that time off as long as I could.

  At the time I was sharing a flat with Diane. I invented a passionate and ubiquitous lover for her so that when Alexis finally said the words I’d been expecting I was one jump ahead.

  ‘Why don’t we just have a quiet dinner at home?’ he said one night. I wasn’t sure whether he meant his or mine but I was ready with the answer.

  ‘I’ll come over to you,’ I said, my heart thumping. ‘I don’t want to jeopardise this big thing of Diane’s. I’ll bring dinner with me.’

  I didn’t say ‘cook’, note.

  Next morning, I paid a visit to Luigi who kept the delicatessen underneath the block of flats where I lived. He sold every sort of pasta you could imagine and the finest olive oil and black and green olives and exotic things in bottles. Luigi also made luscious takeaways. Pizzas and quiches, lasagnes, portions of duck with oranges in foil dishes ready to heat, terrines and pâtés.

  I think he was a little in love with me, you couldn’t tell with those eloquent Sicilian eyes, but anyhow, we came to an arrangement! Together we would plan a menu. Luigi would cook it and deliver it to my flat. I would transfer it to my own dishes, pop it in the car, and away to Alexis. It worked brilliantly.

  One, and sometimes two, nights a week I sat at Alexis’s dining table and served him tempting morsels of Italian masterpieces. We had soup of two colours, capelletti (as made in Rome), red mullets a la Livorna, mussels fried in oil; we had liver in the style of Venice, cutlets in the style of Milan, and ‘intoxicated pork’. We had gnocchi and torta, pastry with honey and nuts, rice fritters, and Bolognese bread. One day, when Luigi was in a particularly creative mood, I surpassed myself with partridges, with zabaglione, small pastry rissoles with anchovies in brine, and cenci to follow.

  Replete, I looked at Alexis from beneath my lashes. He was putting on weight. He lit a cigar and examined its glowing end in the serious manner of cigar smokers.

  ‘I have found myself a paragon,’ he said, indicating the scraped clean dishes that littered the table. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  I collected the casseroles. ‘It’s just a question of organisation.’

  The cigar was going well now. He settled down contentedly.

  ‘I must be the luckiest man in the world.’

  Lucky he may have been, but as the winter passed and Luigi sent delicious salads of pimentos, tomatoes and chicory to mark its demise he seemed no nearer to making our liaison a permanent one. He was the gentlest, kindest, most considerate man I had ever met, with his full share of passion when necessary. I loved him madly and I didn’t know what to do about it.

  It was Diane, my flatmate, who came up with the soufflé à l’orange.

  ‘You said that was her speciality,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you try it too?’

  Excited that it might just sway the balance, I put on my coat and went straight down to Luigi.

  ‘The problem is the soufflé must be served immediately. The customer must wait for the soufflé. The soufflé don’t wait for the customer,’ he told me.

  ‘I could drive very fast,’ I said.

  ‘Mamma mia!’ His face
was ashen. He leant forward. ‘Open the door, close the door, open the door, close the door, the soufflé …’ he gesticulated violently, ‘… pouff!’

  ‘Pouff!’ I said, ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No!’ The Sicilian eyes flashed. He stood up. ‘I’ll do it.’

  I waited for a propitious evening. We had a week with no quarrels. Alexis seemed particularly sweet. ‘OK,’ I told Luigi. ‘Wednesday.’ On Wednesday I rang the office to say I would not be in and booked myself in at my favourite beauty place. I had the whole bit, massage, sauna, facial, manicure, pedicure, hair. When I came out I hoped I looked like a million dollars; it had certainly cost me that.

  At five-thirty it began to rain. I watched it out of the window, not appreciating its significance.

  By seven-thirty it was not only raining heavily but blowing half a gale.

  Excited as a child, I laid Luigi’s offering in its cardboard hatbox on the back seat of the car. I had collected the cold collation early in the morning, so I was free to concentrate on the soufflé now.

  I switched on the ignition. Nothing. Not a murmur, not a whirr. A dull click; nothing. I could not believe it. Not tonight. I looked at the hatbox and wondered what was going on inside while various alternatives slid through my mind. The breakdown service? Too long. Diane? No car. A passerby hopefully mechanically minded? I did not want to stand there out in the wind and the weather with my head beneath the bonnet pretending it all meant something. A taxi? At this time of the evening, in this weather! It seemed the only way.

  I stood on the pavement, the hatbox clutched to my bosom. My hairdo flagged, my make-up ran, I could feel the mascara in my eyes. I did not really care, not even when my skirt stuck wetly to my legs and my shoes filled with water. I was concerned only for the soufflé.

  It must have been twenty minutes, although it seemed like more, before a taxi dropped someone off at the flats.

  Alexis, when he saw me, clucked with sympathy and suggested whisky and a hot bath. I babbled on about my cardboard box and needing to get to the kitchen. I think I was quite demented.

  So far, so good. I popped the soufflé into the oven and, stopping only to dab at myself ineffectively with a tea towel, I insisted that we eat.