by Diana Hunt
‘I think you deserve this.’
I took it from him. ‘Thank you, but what are you doing here?’
‘ I thought you had just seen my reason for being here, Miss Hunt.’ He wore a double-breasted tuxedo; a rose bud in the buttonhole.
‘I mean, I don’t remember your being sent an invitation. Did you know I was here this evening?’
‘Of course; your name was on the list of credits in the catalogue. I couldn’t resist attending. In any case I wanted a couple of pictures for the hotel. I’ve admired Mr Gilbert’s work for years. But never mind that: will you have dinner with me this evening?’
‘What? No. I mean...’
‘Why not? Have you got anything better to do?’
‘Never mind what I’m doing. My your own business. Oh, sorry.’ (Sod it - why am I constantly apologising to this man?)
‘I beg your pardon?’
I took a deep breath. ‘No: I should be asking for yours. Look: can we start again. It’s been one of those days.’
‘I understand.’
‘Then please ask me again.’
‘Miss Hunt: will you do me the honour of joining me for dinner this evening?’
‘I should be delighted.’
‘Then let’s go.’
‘Hang on: I must tell Max where I’ll be.’
‘At my hotel - and tell him I’ll send you home in a taxi.’
We left the room and descended the stairs to the entrance. I turned right: ‘Just got to collect my coat and scarf’.
The dining room at the Quest Ritson was not as I remembered it: tables had been moved; there were candles flickering. Two waiters slid towards us as we entered; one of them pulled a chair out for me. The other said:
‘Good evening, Mr Templeton. Madam. I arranged the table as requested.’
‘Thank you, Charles.’ (So: my host assumed that I would not refuse his invitation.) They flicked menus in front of us.
Richard said to me: ‘Do you mind if I do the ordering?’ He obviously wanted to play the man-in-charge game. He turned to me again:
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving.’
‘We’ll have the lobster bisque, tournedos rossini - then the lady can choose her own dessert, Charles.’ That was nice of him.
‘Of course, Mr Templeton.’
‘And the Cloudy Bay sauvignon blanc with the soup....’ He looked at me: ‘Claret or burgundy with the beef, Diana?’ The waiters stood expectantly; he was still playing games. (God: men are a bore at times.)
‘I like both, fellas - but this time, red Bordeaux.’
‘Then, Charles, find me a bottle of one of our best St. Emilions.’
‘Of course, sir.’
I was really pissed off at that moment. I’d had enough. I stood and pushed the chair back. He stood as well, then said: ‘Do you wish...?’
‘No: I don’t need the Ladies’, Richard. In fact, I’m leaving, because I’m fed up with all this patronising, silly game playing. Find me a taxi, please. I’ve just lost my appetite.’ And I walked slowly down the restaurant, and didn’t look back. Richard must have waited until I got to the door before he followed me, for I didn’t feel his presence until I reached the cloakroom.
‘Diana, please, please wait - I’m very sorry. Please stay.’
I was about an inch taller than he, so I was able to look down. I said: ‘Why did you have to go through all that nonsense, Richard?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Diana. I wanted to impress, I suppose, but ended by behaving like an adolescent.’
‘I am impressed, Richard - by the hotel, the restaurant, and I like you. Look, I promise not to behave like a dragon towards you if we can just have a quiet dinner together.’
‘Of course.’
So I took his arm as we returned to the restaurant, and chatted pleasantly until we reached the table.
Our table was by the window, overlooking the garden where I had lunch previously. The drapes were tied back and we had a view of Sloane Square through the trees. I could see lights from moving vehicles; they seemed far away. I looked at Richard; he returned my glance. The waiter had cleared away the soup. Richard poured more white wine: I stopped him as the level reached half way. I said:
‘Very nice. Now tell me about yourself, Mr Templeton: Age? Are you married? Children? Parents? Siblings?’
He grinned. ‘I suppose I shall get used to your bluntness, Diana. Well, I’m 34; I am not married, neither do I have children. My parents live in Hampshire; and I have a brother who is a solicitor - and before you ask, I am not gay; just a workaholic; no hobbies, except the occasional round of golf. And here comes our steak.’
We ate in silence; companionably. Then I said as the waiters cleared the table: ‘That is the second free meal I have had in this hotel.’
‘You are very welcome; I enjoy your company. Now then: your turn.’
‘All right...(Do I want to go this far? Even just one step further? Oh, what the hell) I am 22 years old, unmarried, no kids. Both parents died just over 12 months go; one married brother...’
‘Both parents did you say?’
‘Yes: I nursed my mother through cancer. My father died some months after.’
‘That’s dreadful. And you speak both French and Italian...’
‘....and read and write it. I also spend one night each week at the gym. I didn’t go to university...did you?’
‘No: hotel management college.’
‘Anything else you would like to know? My figure measurements? Bust and hips, perhaps?’
‘I can see those from here. You obviously have excellent taste in clothes....’
(But you should see what I’m wearing underneath.)
It was time to put an end to biographies, so I said: ‘That was a lovely meal, Richard: thank you’ (I can be polite). I stood and he followed my example. He said: ‘Let’s have coffee in my office, all right?’
‘Certainly.’ We sat opposite each other. His office was behind the Reception; very functional: metal desk and filing cabinets; two computer screens; a fax machine.. He sipped coffee and I drank green tea.
‘Do you always drink green tea?’
‘Yes: it’s the oriental influence.’
‘Oh.’ He didn’t know what I was talking about. I said:
‘Right: cards on table. Do you want to see me again?’
‘Yes, I think I do. What about you?’
‘Yes. But let me warn you, Richard: I am not always a nice person; I can be bloody difficult. But I have excellent taste in clothes; you won’t be ashamed to be seen with me. Do you like my mauve dress?’
‘Abolutely.’
‘I’m also wearing under....’
‘Don’t say it, you trollop.’
‘I might let you have a peep some day.’
‘It’s time you went: this is a respectable establishment, Miss Hunt.’
We faced each other. I placed my hands on each side of his face, then stroked his eyebrows with my thumbs. I kissed him gently on the lips twice. I said:
‘You can order me that taxi now.’
Gotcha...
Chapter 13
LONDON, PIMLICO
MONEY: THAT WAS THE NEXT STEP. That thought brought me off cloud nine as I inserted my key in the front door of Max’s house. All the rooms and hallway were in darkness (rather in spooky in this old house). But Max, very considerately, had left a light on the landing.
I hung my precious dress in the old mahogany wardrobe, did the usual ablutions before lying smugly in bed, thinking of my future liaisons with Richard and money - what I was going to do with my small fortune - property, land. That was the route. I no longer felt that I was just entitled to the money from my parents’ est
ate; there was no bitterness or envy or frustration left. But neither was I going to waste time dwelling on the past. I had got used to living with someone who was cultured, talented, refined - ’civilized’.
I had heard my mother saying, shaking her head, ‘Money doesn’t bring happiness, you know.’ And I felt like saying, ‘No, mother: but that is not its function. Its function enables you not to be beholden to anyone else. Money gives you freedom - freedom of movement, freedom from worry about paying bills. And that gives you contentment.’ But I didn’t say that to her, of course.
When I took Max his breakfast in the conservatory the next morning he said: ‘Did you have a pleasant dinner with your young man last evening?’ He had that roguish twinkle in his eye.
‘He is not my young man, and yes, very nice, thank you, Max. Tea or coffee?’
‘You know I always have tea. Sit down, like a good girl, and tell Max all about it.’
‘There is nothing to tell.’
‘For goodness sake, Diana, get the tea and sit with me - do as I say.’ So I went to the kitchen, muttering under my breath. I returned with his tea - and strong coffee for me. Before he could speak I asked:
‘More important, Max, how do you think it went last night?’
His face lit up. ‘Wasn’t that splendid? Quite a success. And - because you slipped away with your young man - I didn’t thank you for all your hard work.’
It was no use arguing with Max. ‘You’re welcome. But I can’t sit here chatting. The bed linen needs changing and this is Mrs Mills’s cleaning day. What are you doing today, Max?’
‘You mean you want me out from under your feet. Well, as it happens I have an appointment this morning. And I won’t be in for lunch.’ He rose from the table and trotted off; I cleared the breakfast dishes (why do men scatter crumbs everywhere?)
I helped him on with his coat, then passed him his hat and stick. I said:
‘Take care, Max: do you have your key?’
‘I will, and I do.’ He turned. ‘Why? Won’t you be in?’
‘I will: I just like to be sure.’
I watched him go down the street to the Tube, a sprightly elderly man on a cold bright morning.
Now for the boring bit. I stripped the beds of the sheets and pillow cases and parcelled them for collection by the laundry; then I remade-up the beds with clean linen (making sure Max had fresh pyjamas). I washed my smalls; then ironed Max’s shirts. All this while Mrs Mills vacuumed, dusted and polished. That brought us both to around eleven. Time to stop for tea break. Mrs Mills and I rubbed along together OK. We saw each other twice a week, and didn’t get in each other’s space. She liked to natter over tea and biscuits. I just listened and nodded politely. I passed the biscuit tin (we were sat round the kitchen table).
‘Ooh, lovely, dear: custard creams’. (I think they are disgusting; but they are Mrs Mills’s favourites.) ‘By the way, Diana; did you see you and Mr Gilbert’s picture in the paper?’ She drew out the Daily Mail and turned to page 5:
‘DISTINGUISHED ARTIST AUCTIONS PIX FOR CANCER CHARITY’
There was a picture of Max and the President of the RA; and in the background was me and Holroyd on the rostrum - fame at last....Mrs Mills helped herself to another custard cream, and said:
‘That’s a lovely dress you were wearing.’
‘Thank you.’
After Mrs Mills left - the washing hung, the bed linen collected, and the house smelling of room freshener and beeswax - I sat in front of the PC in the library with sandwiches and green tea and got down to some serious property research. What was needed was to find a flat in an up-and-coming part of London; my plan was to purchase so I could buy and let - in other words, put a healthy deposit down, let it, and allow the rent to pay the mortgage. I would need to find a new development which would appeal to the ‘young professionals’ (awful phrase). All this took the remainder of the morning and the rest of the afternoon. I didn’t know what time Max would return; I certainly did not want him to find out what I was doing. So when I finished I deleted all the files after I had printed -out.
Then the phone rang.
‘Good afternoon, Diana.’
‘Richard. Good afternoon.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’ve been very busy all day: the trials of a housekeeper. But how are you?’
‘You are polite today, Miss Hunt.’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. What do you want? And how much more of my time are you going to waste?’
He laughed. ‘I want to see you as soon as possible.’
‘Do you now. I wonder why.’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’
‘It’s like that, is it? It sounds as though a girl would not be safe in your company. By the way, I did wonder what you would be like without that tuxedo.’
‘I think we had better stop right there. When are you free?’
‘At the end of the week - Friday. I’ll take you to lunch.’
‘You will take me to lunch?’
‘Yes, you chauvinist. Fifth floor, Harvey Nicks, 12.30.’
‘Yes, maam.’
After that silly game play (which of course I rather enjoyed), I took the paperwork upstairs with a sandwich and a pot of coffee and lay on my bed. I must have fallen asleep, for the front door closing woke me and I heard Max call me. I slid off the bed and ran down the stairs. He was hanging his hat and coat on the hall stand.
‘There you are, Diana.’
‘Hello, Max.’
I followed him into the sitting room. He dropped on to the sofa and sighed. I said:
‘Have a good day? You look tired.’
He smiled up at me. ‘Yes to both. The house looks and smells delightful.’
‘Mrs Mills and I slaved on your behalf. Would care for a pot of tea, sir? Earl Grey? Lapsong Souchon? Or perhaps a glass of sherry? Before dinner?’
‘Very amusing. A cup of PG tips will suffice. I don’t think I will need any dinner: I had an excellent lunch at my club.’
So I left Max for a while, leaving the house wearing an anorak, jeans a sweater and gloves - October had turned cold. I wandered down Cambridge street and eventually found myself in Lupus street (recall: lupus, a wolf; TB of the nose). Why on earth would they name a street after a disease? These streets were now familiar to me: the shops, bars, restaurants and cafes and the Pimlico farmers market, where I did the weekly grocery shopping. I found myself near Tate Britain. Across the road from the gallery there are several park benches; one could sit and watch the traffic going down the River Thames. It made me recall the river Ouse. I stared across the darkened water and thought of what I was doing, and where I had come from. I was content - but was that good enough? Is this what I really wanted? I certainly wasn’t using my languages. And it seemed as if I was going to get involved in a love affair with a man I barely knew. There is a destiny that shapes our ends, rough hew it as we may....
Rubbish. Out of the corner of my right eye I saw two young men approaching: alarm bells rang. (Oh no: not again...) As they got nearer, their raw laughter reached me before their physical presence. I sat up straight. As they reached opposite me, one said something; I ignored it. Then he approached close to the seat. He stood right in front of me, legs spread apart. He was obviously drunk. And at this time in the evening!
‘Didn’t you ‘ere me, darlin’? Not very polite, are you?’ His mate giggled behind him. You silly boy, I thought. As he thrust himself forward, his legs spread I hooked insde his right ankle with my left foot and slammed the inside of his left knee (against the nerve) with my right foot. He yelled and fell back hard, cracking his head on the pavement. (Then I got really angry: who the hell did these yobbos think they were?) Judo is a defensive martial art; but I didn’t allow his mate to run. Instead I lurched forward, grabbing hi
s left arm, pulling it down, then smacking the heel of my right hand under his nose and locking my right leg behind his right knee and sweeping (o-soto-gari). He also fell heavily backwards on the pavement. I looked round in the dusk: nobody about. Walk: don’t run. I walked steadily in the direction from where the young men had come. When I reached the traffic lights fifty yards down I crossed the road and retraced my steps. As I came opposite them at the Tate I saw a small crowd bending over my assailants. I didn’t stop until I reached my front door, hardly out of breath - well not much. But I was still furious. And trembling Even then, I wondered what the Budokwai would say if they ever learnt about what had just happened.
If one brings judo into disrepute one can be banned from British Judo Association clubs for life. That didn’t apply in this case, I was sure. Unless I had killed one of them - but that wouldn’t be the first time, would it? I closed the door behind me and locked it: I was feeling a reaction. I heard Max’s voice:
‘Diana, is that you?’
‘Yes, Max, it’s me’. I followed the source of his voice. He was in the sitting room opposite the gas fire, reading and listening to music on the radio. He questioned me: ‘Do you know this piece?’
‘The Magic Flute?’ (recall: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart)
‘Well done!’
‘What are you reading, Max?’
‘Writing Home’. Do you know it?
‘Yes.’ (recall: Alan Bennett, Yorkshireman, distinguished playwright and author; homosexual. Had inherited stomach cancer.)
‘What did you think of it?’
‘I enjoyed it - but I wouldn’t have put up with that old woman in my front garden.’
Max smiled. ‘An act of compassion, don’t you think?’
‘No. She should have been looked after by professional carers. And anyway, she was a danger to public health in her smelly old van.’
He looked at me and frowned. ‘Is everything all right, Diana?’
‘Yes, Max, fine. It’s been a long day. I’m going to have a long soak, then a bowl of soup, then bed.’
