by Mavis Cheek
The following week was much the same, full of dates, empty of success and I began to worry that I might be getting high simply on going out with a new man every night, rather than conserving my energy and judgement for the right one. It began to feel rather hopeless - the sort of thing Angela Brazil used to call 'madcap' and which was perpetrated by girls with fresh faces, turned up noses and names like Molly. I did not want to be like a Molly - I wanted to be seductive and be seduced in a grown-up manner that had nothing to do with japes in the dorm and being called Molly.
Clearly, I could not talk to Verity about this, since she was in no state to join in the plot with rapture. Nor to Jill either, because she would have been horrified at so pragmatic an approach to what she stoutly believed should be left to Fate. When - if - I ever achieved my goal I should have to invent a moonlit story about how we met. She had always wanted me to get a proper - she really meant improper - man into my life, preferably one from up there, probably in the same village and quite likely from the house next door. But advertisements?
Never!
Thus, when I was not in a whirl of nail-painting and eyelash-curling, and seriously considering changing my hair colour to Gloriana's auburn for a while, I wandered around pondering the problem alone.
Shuffling rather aimlessly around the local bookshop, I began a close inspection of the jacket blurbs and found, rather dauntingly, that most books of any literary merit with heroine protagonists are either about how to keep a man once they have got him, or how to get away from him when it turns sour. Or lovers just fall, plop, into your lap. So where were the hunting heroines? Was this, I wondered, the result of thousands of years of being hunted? Was it truly not credible or seemly for a woman in print to set out deliberately to find a lover?
Elizabeth Smart did it, of course, but it was more like dementia than fun and ended in a pool of tears at Grand Central. Many heroines, Zen-like in their innocence, got their lovers without expecting it - Emma, Jane Eyre - and in most modern stuff the heroines are, somewhat understandably, attempting to be individuals rather than couples. Deliberately seeking a lover, rather than a husband, protector, father-of-my-children, was a rare concept between bindings. I read Marguerite Duras' The Lover in hope, but her heroine is a schoolgirl and, if laconic later, begins life by being extremely surprised to find herself with a lover while she is still in ankle socks. He just seems to drop by the school gates one day and that's that... I could not find one heroine who from page one declares that among her various life pursuits she intends to find herself a suitable lover to go with them and who, without a lot of mordant angst, goes out and gets one. I was still stuck on page one myself - yearning to break the literary mould but with no success.
Surely there was somebody out there with a like mind? Between thirty and forty, prepared to be transient, solvent but with free time, cultivated, attractive to me, reasonably virile, socially adept, single ... As I ticked off the requirements my heart beat a little less confidently, for it suddenly seemed a very tall order, not unlike requiring some fantasy hero from True Romance to be made flesh. Never mind, I told myself firmly. Buck up and keep plodding on.
After all, the Brazil madcaps always did. And they won through.
I decided to abandon my own advertising in favour of answering advertisements instead. Perhaps that would yield better results. But before I gave my telephone number, or any way of being traced, I would request a photograph from them first. The way we perceive a good photograph of ourselves can be very telling - my chirpy smile and my knees for instance - and maybe that would help. Something had to, for I was beginning to feel quite desperate - time ticking away and all that - and also the longer the hunt went on, the more likely my friends were to find out. If I harboured unliberated prejudices about the method, what would they think? I could imagine introducing him (when I found him) and them staring at him silently, as if he were an exotic fish.
Not only was requesting a photograph before committing myself a good idea, but it was also sensible given my vulnerability. Apart from the one in a million chance of a correspondent being Jack the Ripper's great-grandson, there was also the possibility of an unwelcome correspondent turning up on the doorstep .. . 'Hi, I was just passing by on my bike en route for Spud-U-Like and I wondered if you'd like to join me. My name's Kevin and my hobby is breeding goats . . .' But if I wanted a photograph I would no longer have the protection of a box number. I would need a forwarding address. I pondered. I decided. My poste restante victim just had to be Colin. And just for once, I would play him at his own game. We sat in my postage-stamp garden which was looking springlike and sweet and I put him in the canvas director's chair because I thought it would make him feel superior. It was about six o'clock and warm, with the last rays of sun playing on some pink azaleas and a feathery-white spiraea. All very feminine, I thought, and prepared to be all very feminine myself. Colin always said I should try harder. The director's chair was placed next to a viburnum which had caught enough warmth during the day to give ofTa rich vanilla scent, and a clump of tall, golden lilies near by decided to match this with a heady aroma of their own. I had dabbed Chloe behind my ears and was prepared for a bit of eyelash fluttering. I sat in a chair slightly lower than his so that I could gaze up at him, and handed him just about the wickedest Martini I could bring myself to mix. Despite Mrs Mortimer's ethereal voice in my ear saying, 'Just wave the vermouth bottle vaguely in the direction of the gin,' I never quite could. Just as well, because he took one gentle sip and then exploded.
'Jesus Christ,' he said, though not entirely unadmiringly, 'have you heard of vermouth?'
Flutter, flutter, I went.
He sipped again. He gave a small grimace which erred on the side of appreciation. He looked at me.
I smiled a smile that revealed the depths of my interest and friendship.
'You want something,' he stated.
"Haven't seen you for ages,' I shrugged. 'I just wondered how the holiday was.'
'The holiday was fine. Very good in fact.' He allowed a faintly lecherous light to enter the remembering look in his eyes. Normally I would have kicked him.
'Good. Nice place, was it?'
'Oh, nice enough.' He sipped again. His eyes held the unmistakable expression of one who expects to be kicked. 'We didn't go out much ...'
'Oh,' I said. 'Hotel had lots of linen cupboards, then?'
That caught him. Somewhere between a laugh, a snort and a sip of his drink. He patted his chest, his eyes watering. When he had recovered, he said, 'And what have you been up to?'
1 kept my even smile, my depths of interest and friendship. Later, when all this was over, I would tell him how close he came to being tipped out of his chair. It was bad enough, heaven knows, when my father used to come home from work and say the same thing. And I was only twelve then ...
'What have I been up to?' I tapped my teeth with the glass. 'Very little really.' 'You've been out a lot.' 'How do you know?' I forgot to flutter. 'Out a lot:
'Oh,' I said airily. 'Not really.' 'Where?'
'Oh, here and there.' 'Not much here.'
'What is this, Colin? Meet the Neighbourhood Watch?' 'Out a lot and touchy about it.'
'Not at all.'
'So you've found a lover?'
For a moment I forgot our lunch conversation and thought he had discovered about the advertisements. Though part of me desperately wanted to confess, most of me wanted to keep silent. I mean, love is supposed to be for ever, isn't it, according to received wisdom? As they say of marriage, so read for love, it is the triumph of hope over experience -you are not supposed to go advertising for it or giving it a deadline. All I wanted was to treat a love affair as a holiday. Book in advance, go for a limited amount of time, have as much enjoyment as you can get and leave in good spirits. As I looked at Colin, my inner bravado left me. If he knew what I was doing, he would have a joke over me for ever.
He was looking at me expectantly, his head inclined slightly. The air was slig
htly damp now and the chill seeped into my bones. I poured the rest of the rocket fuel into our glasses and tried to recover my calm and flattering disposition. I needed this man, or rather I needed his address. I revived the hamster image and prepared to be gently dismissive. Indeed, given the Martini, a beguiling chuckle was playing about my throat. At least, I hoped it was.
He still looked expectant, though the whites of his eyes had turned a little pink.
'Hooked one, have you?' he said, clearly wanting to throw down a gauntlet.
It was a gauntlet to which I should not have risen. I should have brushed my hair back delicately and. replied with sophisticated calm. Instead, instantly on the defensive, I said, 'No, I haven't!' with the indignation of a Victorian virgin.
'Hold on,' he said, 'I was only inquiring. I thought you would have done by now.' He looked smug. 'You're taking your time to get started.'
I let it pass, temporarily. But vowed to get even some day. A photograph of Colin next to a picture of a hamster with the caption 'Can you tell the difference' loomed comfortingly large.
'How do you know I've been out a lot?' 'I've rung. Quite a few times.' 'You didn't leave a message.' He sipped. 'I couldn't,' he said. 'Oh, why?'
'Because every time I heard your voice on the answerphone I just fell about.'
Some kind spirit put a small but strong rod down my back. I straightened, grew six inches in my chair, and our eyes were practically level. I put false bonhomie into mine.
'Why was that, Colin?' I asked.
'Well, go and listen to it. Have you listened to it? You sound like a cross between Mae West and a madam. Talking of which' - he raised his nose and sniffed - 'this garden smells like an Egyptian brothel.' Clearly amused, he smiled at a lily head, reaching out to touch it so that it nodded acquiescently. 'Sexy flowers,' he said, taking the nodding acquiescence in his hand and peering into the private waxy depth. 'All you'll need is a red light.'
'Who? Me or the lily?'
I was about to forget the friendly flattery and the forwarding address and tell him what I thought of him when his arch expression gave way to a sudden softness and the hand that had touched the lily touched my cheek.
'Margaret,' he said, 'if you go putting out a message in that voice you're asking for trouble. I mean, I know you, so I don't find it a come on, but somebody else - anybody male - hearing that kind of up-front allure, might get the wrong idea . . .'
Up-front allure? I thought. I was impressed. However, the rod came out of my back and spinal curvature renewed itself. It had never occurred to me that I was being naive.
'I know about things like provocation,' he continued, far too pretentiously. 'After all, I am a man.'
'No you're not,' I suddenly giggled. 'You're a hamster.'
And while he was looking puzzled and a little anxious about that statement, a shaft of wondrous deceit hit me.
'Colin,' I said confidingly. 'You are right. I have got a lover. Only he's married.'
'Why a hamster?' said Colin wonderingly.
I waved my arm dismissively. It had goose bumps. I had to move swiftly before the dropping temperature restored his vigilance. 'The thing is, he doesn't want to have any connection with my address here in case his wife is using a detective. You know. They can' - I thought of V. I. Warshawski -'they can trace anything. Even post. So I wondered if I could use you as a safe letter-box. You know. He could send his letters to you and I could come and collect them.'
He stared at me, then rubbed the tip of his nose thoughtfully. I waited. He said nothing.
'Oh, go on,' I said. 'You can't go getting all moral about it, considering your checkered past.'
'Two things,' he said, extending the correct number of fingers. 'One: why a hamster? And two: you want me to be a holding address so that when the crap hits the spinometer I get the knock in the night? And for ever after get branded as a covert homosexual?'
'I thought you were liberated. You read the Guardian.'
'Honey, I am liberated. If I were gay, I would tell the world and celebrate it if necessary. But I'm not. And I don't think my .. .' - he paused, looking worried now - 'my women would be impressed.'
'They wouldn't know.'
'Try keeping women away from scrutinizing incoming mail.'
'OK,' I said, prepared to be kind. 'Tell them.'
He scratched his head in genuine confusion. 'This just doesn't sound quite right to me. I mean, it's a hell of a lot of subterfuge. What is he? The Prime Minister or something?'
Deceit has a way of enticing us further into wicked abandon. 'Nearly,' I said. 'He's a diplomat. A very high-ranking diplomat. Now do you see?'
'What's his name?'
By now I was clone of Mata Hari. I looked down at my empty glass wistfully. 'I can't tell you that,' I said. Which was true.
He agreed, if slightly fuzzily, and so, fluttering femininity over, I slipped into Mama Pasta mode. 'What you need is something to eat.'
He stuck out his underlip. 'Why a hamster?' he said with an insistence that brooked no denial.
So while I chopped onions and garlic and he mashed up the basil leaves, I told him about what Saskia had said.
'That child always had the devil in her,' he said fondly.
I felt a sudden pang. 'Yes,' I said, chopping more fiercely. 'It came from her father's side.'
'I thought you had let all that go,' he said, pushing all the greenery into the sizzling pan.
'I think I have. I think that was a Pavlovian reaction rather than what I feel now. Time heals and I can't hold on to hatred for ever.' I could use strong words like 'hatred' because that was how I had felt and the Martini countered caution.
'How's she doing?'
'She is doing fine. She writes me long, long letters all about Canada and the people she's meeting and little snippets about the different ways of living and looking at things - it really has worked so far as broadening her out. She's in Quebec at the moment for the ice hockey which is very exciting ...'
'And the other thing?'
'You mean Dickie? Or Richard, as we are supposed to call him now.'
I paused. I realized that I had not really thought about it properly. Afraid it would hurt, I suppose. Curiously it didn't. I turned down the flame and folded my arms. I looked at Colin and felt an immense rush of gratitude for his friendship. Being a friend, he could touch these sensitive areas without appearing obtrusive.
'She and he,' I said, 'are quite clearly made to love each
other. And reading between the lines, she wants me to love him too. Of course I can't. But I don't begrudge her the closeness of a father. So long as he stays over there and out of the way. She's painting a lot, which is what she wanted. And she's happy.'
Colin pulled a cork out of a bottle of Merlot. 'You've changed your tune,' he said. 'There was a time when you considered him entirely evil. In fact you built your whole life around that notion.'
'It's only for a year. I can't deny genes after all. I only hope she's got the few good ones he may have.'
'Well, well,' he said, sniffing the cork. 'Aunt Margaret resurgat. Pity it's with a married man, though.'
'What are you talking about, Colin?'
'Your new lover,' he said, eyeing me over the bottle.
'Oh, that. Yes.' I sighed as convincingly as possible. 'Well, who knows where love will lead us?' I turned back to the bubbling pot.
'Indeed,' he said, in a tone that made me feel like kicking him again. 'Glasses?'
Chapter Sixteen
Dad has gone away for a week with Judith, so I have the place entirely to myself. I could do with a bit more twentieth-century stuff out here. You don't send me any news of the London scene. Isn't there an Auerbach show open/opening soon? It's at the Hayward, I think. Can you get me the catalogue? You've been out such a lot that I feel a bit guilty. Is the loss of Roger hitting you? Dad and Judith have been a bit fraught recently, hence the holiday. Your answerphone voice is disgusting. Why?
I had given myself
until the end of May to meet Mr Right so that he could be with me when I visited Jill. There were about three weeks to go. Or to be precise, two weeks, since we would need at least a week beforehand to . . . um . .. get to know each other a little first. Hardly fair to meet him in a wine bar and tell him to have his bag packed - a little time was necessary. Also I didn't want to make any bloomers at Jill's. I could imagine it:
Jill: How did you two meet?' Me: At a party.
Him: Through an advert in On Sight. Jill: Is that a joke? Me: Yes. Him: No.
Jill was clearly fed up and I hoped that she would get some vicarious pleasure from my happiness. She needed occasional reminders that the world could, indeed, be frosted pink and sweet to the lips occasionally, but David seemed increasingly unable to provide such reminders. There really are virtues to the life singular. Maybe Jill and David had grown apart because the children had left home, for the family unit had been their lodestar. With just the two of them now, all the flaws took on a sharper edge. But it was hardly fair for Jill to expect more pink fluff from a man who had never claimed to have any in the first place. So, I decided, she could turn to me. If Jill wanted candyfloss, why then I would provide it -in abundance if the lover was willing - the darlings and endearments dropping like dew from a rose leaf.
