Not That Kind of Girl

by Catherine Alliott

  By the time Friday evening arrived though, my bravado had evaporated as quickly as it had arrived. Suddenly I was as nervous as a kitten. What had I been thinking of, I wondered in horror, as I paced the flat, a glass of wine in hand. Taking Rupert? I must be mad! Well, I was mad, I reasoned as I stopped at the window. It had been a moment of pure insanity. A moment of et tu, Brutus, or up yours, Marcus, with Rupert and my friends and family as the fall guys. Because all I’d really been thinking about when I’d made that call, was my husband’s face. Marcus’s face when he found out, which I sorely hoped he would.

  ‘She took who? To Penny’s? And Benji and Francis were there?’

  Oh, that would hurt. That would really hurt.

  ‘But only for dinner, Marcus,’ I’d say innocently. ‘Not for a bunk-up. Not for sex, like you and Perdita.’

  I lowered myself onto the sofa arm and gripped my wine glass tightly. Oh yes, we were really slugging at each other now, weren’t we? I gazed out over the Kensington rooftops. Really in the ring.

  When the doorbell went I jumped from the sofa arm and threw the remains of my drink – literally – down my throat. As I lunged for a cushion to mop frantically at my wet neck, I gazed in horror at my new pink cardi. A great lake had appeared over one bosom. Shit. I looked like I was lactating! I peeled the wet patch from my breast and shook it in a futile attempt to dry it, then ran to the bedroom ripping it off, buttons popping. With fluttery hands I seized a white shirt from the cupboard, threw it on then caught sight of myself in the mirror. Oh God, with my black skirt I looked like a waitress! Something from the trolley, sir? The doorbell went again. I panicked. Old black top, old black top, where are you …ah. I pounced on it, threw it on, but – oh God. I stared in horror at my reflection. A widow. Now I was a widow in weeds!

  I finally ran out of the bedroom tugging down a rather low-cut red lacy number. The choice had been clear. Waitress, widow or tart, and I’d gone for tart. Didn’t bode very well, did it? Get your breath, Henny, get your breath. And for God’s sake, smile. I practised, but it twitched maniacally. The bell went again.

  ‘Coming,’ I called, in what I hoped was a light-hearted sing-song manner as I grabbed the door knob. I flung it open. ‘Rupert.’

  ‘Henny.’

  Actually the smile wasn’t hard. I felt it spread foolishly over my face as we gazed at each other. Naturally I was already panting from the exertion in the bedroom, but if I hadn’t been – oh Lord, my hand shot to my throat to fiddle nervously with my necklace – I would be now. He looked divine. Quite … divine. His hair was recently washed and a bit damp at the edges, but the front was dry and flopped attractively in his eyes. Those familiar eyes, as blue as the sea and just as deep, all crinkly at the edges. I stared into them, hopefully without my mouth open.

  ‘Thought you’d changed your mind.’ He grinned. That lovely, lopsided grin.

  ‘Hm? Oh no, I was – on the loo.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said politely.

  Damn. Too graphic, Henny. Why on, not in? Why paint a picture?

  His smile became quizzical. ‘Er …shall I come in?’

  ‘Oh! Oh yes. Good idea. Come in.’ God, calm down, woman. He’s the one who should be nervous, not you.

  I led him into the drawing room, trying to sort of sashay elegantly across it, moving my hips a bit.

  ‘Glass of wine?’ I reached casually for the bottle I’d already opened on the side.

  ‘I’ll have a beer, if I may.’

  Of course. He always drank beer. Damn.

  ‘Right. Won’t be a mo.’

  I dropped the sashaying bit and hastened to the kitchen to get one from the fridge, my heart pounding. I nearly broke a nail getting the ring pull up, and as I poured it into a glass, I did it too quickly and got froth all over my hands. Suddenly he was beside me. He laughed.

  ‘Here. Let me do that.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  He took it from me and our fingers touched briefly. I reached for a tea-towel to wipe the beer off, then wondered if he thought I was wiping where our hands had touched. Flustered, I exited swiftly and made for the drawing room again. As I propped myself up nonchalantly by the fireplace – tummy in, bottom in, shoulders back, heart racing – he came into the room slowly, pouring the rest of the beer. He glanced around, his face watchful, and made for the other end of the fireplace.

  ‘Nice place,’ he ventured politely. ‘Girl done well.’

  I flushed, realizing I’d wanted him to register that, to see that my husband was successful and wealthy – that I had, indeed, ‘done well’ without him. Except it had backfired, hadn’t it? Because suddenly I knew he knew I’d wanted to show off. And was it my imagination, or were his blue eyes slightly mocking as they took in the expensive antiques, the hastily purchased modern art on the walls, the stab at understated, classy opulence? This venue had been a mistake, I thought in a panic. Why hadn’t I met him straight after work in a bar in Covent Garden? Where we’d have some atmosphere to rely on, some buzz to sink into? The expensive hush here was oppressive, and why were we perched at the mantelpiece like this? It was too high to rest my elbow on comfortably, and the angle was killing me, not to mention pushing my boobs out of this disastrous top. I felt like a barmaid. Probably looked like one. I dropped the arm. Now I looked as if I was waiting for a bus. Why hadn’t I conducted this conversation curled up in a kittenish manner on the sofa? I looked at it longingly.

  ‘Marcus still in Spain?’ he asked conversationally, resting his elbow easily, but then he was over six foot tall. A large, Rococo-style clock loomed between us. I’d felt it was ostentatious when we bought it, but Marcus had insisted a marble fireplace needed a centrepiece. Suddenly I wanted to smash it. It seemed vulgar. And so huge. I had to practically crane my neck round it to see him. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Rupert, I think we both know that Marcus isn’t in Spain. Marcus and I have split up. We’re living apart.’

  He watched me across the clock. It ticked quietly between us.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I shrugged. ‘So am I.’ I roared on, no brakes now. ‘The situation is all of his making, though. He’s having an affair.’

  Naturally I hadn’t meant to tell him. Of course I hadn’t meant to tell him, and certainly not the moment he’d walked in, but something had broken loose within me, worked free of its moorings and sailed defiantly out to sea, and suddenly – well, suddenly, Rupert seemed like the most natural person to tell. The only person, and yet, confusingly, probably the worst.

  He put his glass down. ‘I’m sorry again.’

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. To steady whatever was out there, bobbing frantically on the waves. ‘I’m sure it will resolve itself.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ he agreed quietly, his eyes not leaving mine. He was watching me as a panther would a gazelle.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just – well, you know …’ I twisted my wine glass feverishly on the marble, ‘a midlife crisis, or whatever it is you men are supposed to get at a certain age.’

  ‘Women too, Henny.’

  I flushed. ‘Oh yes, women too. It’s just a little blip, or whatever marriages as long as ours are expected to go through. It’s well-known, isn’t it? About fifteen years in, apparently.’ I laughed nervously. ‘A fifteen-year itch.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t mind if Marcus has an affair?’

  ‘Oh I mind, of course I mind. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t. No, I’m just saying I’d be surprised if any marriage lasted as long as ours without some little hiccup along the way.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said carefully. ‘But I’d like to think that “little hiccups” as you call them are not necessarily an occupational hazard. I’d like to think that when two people commit to each other for ever – that’s it. For ever. Either that, or they shouldn’t bother in the first place.’

  I flushed. There were a couple of things being said here. Firstly, that Marcus had no excuse and I shouldn’t be his apol
ogist, and secondly, that Marcus, having made a commitment, should have stuck to it, and that if he, Rupert, had made it, he certainly would have. But that was easy to say, wasn’t it? When he hadn’t? When he’d bottled out? I was also aware that this was not the light friendly banter I’d envisaged before going out for the evening with an old friend. We hadn’t even got beyond the decor before we’d embarked on affairs of the heart. My fault, naturally, but then …Rupert wasn’t an old friend, was he? Who was I trying to kid? There were no dimmer switches in this relationship. It was full on or nothing.

  ‘So,’ I smiled. ‘How’s Army life? Still Changing the Guard at Buckingham Palace and socialising in the Officers’ Mess at Jimmy’s? Tough life.’

  He laughed. ‘Not any longer. I wish. No, now I’m no longer in the Guards, life is a bit more basic. Less refined.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

  I listened abstractedly as he chatted on easily enough about the SAS, and I think I even managed to ask a couple of pertinent questions about secrecy and security and that sort of thing, and for the next ten minutes we achieved an acceptable level of conversation. I knew the damage had been done, though. Knew I’d said too much.

  I tried to redeem the situation with yet more small talk in the taxi on the way to Penny’s, but it was very small, and I was aware that Rupert was distracted. Deep in thought. You fool, Henny, I chided myself, my hands clenched on my suede skirt. How could you have given the game away so early on? On the other hand, I thought feverishly, all cards were on the table now, weren’t they, so that was quite good. But in preparation for what, I wondered. What particular game was I about to play?

  ‘Hi!’ I greeted Penny nervously and extravagantly when she came to the door, horribly aware that I had quite a shock in store for her.

  ‘Rupert.’ She ignored me and bestowed a serene and practised smile on him, together with a peck on the cheek. He greeted her equally politely and I blinked as they exchanged a few words about how long it had been and how neither of them had changed very much, and then Rupert went through to the drawing room to see Tommy.

  ‘Blimey. You don’t seem very surprised,’ I muttered, lingering to help her with the coats.

  ‘If you weren’t going to tell me,’ she muttered back, ‘it could only be one person. I hope you know what you’re doing, Henny.’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea,’ I informed her as I swept on through.

  Tommy, who clearly hadn’t believed his wife’s prediction, looked staggered as he came up to shake Rupert’s hand, and behind him, I saw Benji and Francis turn. They were standing over by the fire, and as Benji saw Rupert, he did a double-take. He shot me an astonished glance, then a wave of mirth swept over his face. He came up to kiss me.

  ‘I know I said get out and about and make Marcus sit up, but this is ridiculous,’ he said.

  ‘I thought it was quite a trump card,’ I murmured back.

  ‘Oh, it’s a trump card all right. Let’s just hope Marcus hasn’t got the Ace of Spades up his sleeve. Tread carefully, my love. You’re on hallowed ground.’

  ‘I shall. Francis, have you met Rupert?’

  He hadn’t, of course, and ostensibly was charm itself, but on hearing the name he exchanged a glance with Benji, whose nod confirmed his worst fears. Francis rolled theatrical eyes at me and I grinned brazenly back.

  ‘And of course none of you have met the Thompsons, General and Mrs …er, well. Gerald and Pamela, perhaps.’ Penny laughed nervously.

  ‘Gerald and Pam will be fine,’ growled the General.

  ‘Tommy was the General’s ADC in the Army,’ Penny added, by way of explanation. ‘Which is, kind of like being a servant, I think. Isn’t it, darling? Er – no. Maybe not,’ she tailed off helplessly as Tommy looked horrified.

  We shook hands with a rather frightening-looking middle-aged couple, both of whom were tall with sleek grey hair swept back off high foreheads and thin, pinched noses. They were made for each other, I decided, as the doorbell went again.

  ‘I thought we were eight?’

  ‘Tommy’s mother, plus latest squeeze,’ Penny confided. ‘When she heard there was a party going on, she wouldn’t be dissuaded. I’m going to kill you later, incidentally.’

  I grinned at this last aside, and as she went to answer the door, glanced across at Benji and Rupert, talking over by the fireplace. Some brothers might well have socked the cad who had jilted their sister squarely on the jaw, but not Benji. He had a few polite questions about Army life before landing his killer punch, which was where the hell had Rupert managed to find a cashmere pullover in such a divine shade of delphinium blue? If anyone could be relied upon to defuse a situation it was Benji, and as Mariella, Tommy’s mother, gushed into the room on a whirl of costume jewellery jiggling in her over-tanned cleavage, her dyed blonde hair swirling around her shoulders, I decided she was a welcome addition too. I’d met her once or twice years ago, and remembered her as being good value in a louche, Merry Widow sort of way. She definitely liked the spotlight and was guaranteed to take the heat off me.

  ‘Darling!’ She kissed me enthusiastically in a wave of stale scent. ‘Have we met?’ She peered myopically, her pale blue eyes rheumy.

  ‘Years ago,’ I assured her. ‘I’m Henriettta Levin, an old friend of Penny’s.’

  ‘Of course you are, of course,’ she beamed, none the wiser. I detected whisky on her breath. ‘And this is Juan, by the way.’ She ushered a small, swarthy man into the circle. He had heavily lifted eyes and the most obvious black toupée I’d ever seen. ‘Everyone, this is Juan. He’s a Polynesian prince,’ she declared proudly.

  ‘That’s a bit like being a Belgian chocolate,’ Francis breathed in my ear. ‘They’re two a penny over there.’

  I giggled and saw the Thompsons’ eyes pop at the pair of them.

  ‘He speaks no English, mes enfants,’ warned Mariella, affecting a husky French accent as if that would help the communication, ‘and I met him in Monte Carlo. Wasn’t that lucky?’ She turned wide eyes on her son.

  Tommy, who couldn’t have been more different from his mother, with his pale, consumptive good looks, very much the ex-Guards Officer with carefully parted hair and a sharp crease down his moleskins, managed to bare his teeth in an approximation of a smile.

  ‘Terribly lucky,’ he affirmed, clearly used to potential stepfathers of this ilk being foisted upon him. He shook hands politely.

  ‘Hello, Juan.’

  Juan accepted the hand gravely, did a dinky little bow, and clicked his heels. ‘Enchanté,’ he informed the carpet. As his head came up, he found the mirror above the fire-place and soberly checked his toupée, giving it a little shift to the right.

  ‘Champagne, everyone?’ Tommy seized a bottle and wandered around waving it. I relaxed slightly and caught Rupert’s eye as Tommy filled his glass. He winked. This is fine, I thought. This is going to be fine. And at least I was surrounded by people. Safety in numbers.

  ‘I won’t, thanks,’ I said as Tommy attempted to fill my glass. ‘I had a couple of glasses earlier. In fact, I might help myself to some water.’

  ‘In the fridge, I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘No, no, you’re busy. I’ll go.’ I waved him back and disappeared out to the kitchen.

  It would be a mistake, I decided, finding the Evian bottle in the fridge, to get disastrously drunk, and the wine I’d had at the flat was slightly edging up on me. I glugged down a couple of glasses of water, and as I shut the fridge door, heard a scuffle behind me. I turned to find Penny, Benji and Francis coming through the door in a huddle. Penny’s eyes were huge.

  ‘I cannot believe you’ve done this,’ she whispered, gripping the edge of her kitchen table for support.

  ‘Done what?’ I asked foolishly, playing for time.

  ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. Brought him – Rupert!’ she hissed.

  ‘Shh, he’ll hear you.’

  Francis quietly shut the door.

  ‘Well, honestly Henny,
how long have you been seeing him?’ she demanded. ‘Does Marcus know?’

  ‘Since he followed me home from work, and no, Marcus doesn’t know. But I don’t mind if he does, because I’m not seeing him in that way. He’s just an old friend.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ she snorted. ‘You were going to marry him! How the hell did he track you down?’

  ‘Through your uncle, if you must know. He was in the Army with him. Rang to speak to him at work and got me instead.’

  ‘Laurie? Oh God, I might have known,’ she moaned. She sank into a chair at the table and clutched her head. ‘Might have known it would be my fault. But what’s Marcus going to say? What are you thinking of, Henny?’

  ‘Marcus can say what he likes,’ I said stiffly. ‘Christ, he’s the love-rat. He’s the one having an affair, so why shouldn’t I –’ I stopped. Three pairs of eyes looked accusingly at me.

  ‘What?’ demanded Penny. ‘Have one too?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say, why shouldn’t I catch up with an old mate? For old times’ sake.’

  ‘An old mate?’ enquired Benji mildly. ‘Well, only in the zoological sense, surely? Only as in Mr Orang-utan with the red bottom meets Mrs Orang-utan with the pink bottom. God, I can smell that cage of yours a mile off, it reeks of sex. And I can practically see the hormones hopping between you. Take care, my love.’

  ‘Why does everyone keep telling me to take care?’ I flared up. ‘Why am I assumed to be so out of control?’

  ‘Perhaps because you have the faintest whiff of the innocent about you?’ offered Francis kindly. ‘As if you’ve never seen quite so many sweeties in one shop before?’

  ‘You mean I don’t know how to handle myself,’ I said crossly. ‘A gauche, unsophisticated housewife who’s up from the country and ripe for the picking because her heartstrings haven’t been plucked in a while.’