by Anna Cheska
‘About what keeps you together after ten years. The material things you share. Stuff like mortgages, pensions, joint bank accounts.’ Richie was becoming maudlin. He was supping his beer as if it were the last one he’d ever get down him. ‘Until you get to the crucial point—’
‘Which is?’ Though Alex wasn’t sure he should even ask.
A muscle twitched in Richie’s left cheek and Alex noticed his glass was already empty. Whatever else had happened, Richie could still put ’em away.
‘The crucial point is when the possession of a dishwasher and a microwave becomes more important than oral sex.’
Alex stared at him. ‘But you and Beth – you’re still OK, aren’t you? I mean, you still love her and all that?’ He realised that he and Richie had probably never talked like this before. And he found himself wishing they had.
‘Love? What’s that?’ Richie wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. ‘It’ll happen to you too. It happens to all romantics in the end, mate.’
Alex didn’t know what to say. Richie and he had a shared past and yet now he seemed like a stranger. He looked the same as ever: dark skin, straight black hair, eyes set close together. He wore jeans and white cotton shirts same as always. But he’d changed. And what made him think Alex was a romantic? Nothing was further from the truth, and he could ask Marisa if he didn’t believe it.
All of a sudden Alex regretted his attempt to get serious. He clapped Richie on the back. What he needed was a good night out; that was what they both needed. A bit of male bonding … He laughed Santa-style. ‘Ho-ho-ho. You’re much too young to be so cynical, my son.’
Richie shrugged. ‘It’s what she wants,’ he said. ‘Gotta get her what she wants.’
‘I guess so.’ Alex was thankful he hadn’t married. There had only been one might-have-been, a fellow student at art college, name of Elaine. Long hair, hippy skirts, into textiles. But somewhere along the line he and Elaine had become friends, and instead of that bringing them together, she had left his bed for that of someone more challenging.
Alex positioned a beermat on the edge of the small round table and flicked it up, catching it neatly first time. Sign of a dissolute youth. He saw Elaine sometimes back in his home town. She helped run a clothes and candles shop in Nottingham, a little cavern of a place that took him instantly back to student days whenever he went in. When he brushed past the rails of thin silk scarves, paisley wraps, Indian hemp shirts, and smelt that familiar musty, musky fragrance of joss sticks, grass and patchouli.
With some difficulty, he brought his mind back to Richie and the here and now. Richie hardly ever went back to Nottingham. He said you couldn’t go back – period.
‘What about yours, Alex, me old mate?’
‘Mine?’
‘Your bird. For Christmas, like? Sexy lingerie or what?’
Marisa was a million miles away from Elaine. And all Alex could think of was coffee percolators, oral sex being out of the question.
Richie laughed. ‘Yeah. What does this Marisa want from you?’
A good question. One that Alex had put to himself many times already. ‘Christ knows.’ The truth was, he didn’t want to talk about Marisa. Neither did he want to get in too deep – but that was another story. How deep was too deep? Was meeting her mother too deep? Was lingerie for Christmas? (Perhaps he should give her the hyacinth?) Was sex in his studio too deep?
It was his round so he got to his feet. He and Marisa hadn’t done normal things like going out for a drink, to the cinema or out for dinner. Courting, his mam would call it. And the thing they’d discussed the most (apart from posing positions for life drawing) was contraception. Bloody hell! Alex delved into the pocket of his jeans, registered that his wallet felt extremely thin. And he thought Richie buying Beth a coffee percolator for Christmas was sad?
‘Been invited to hers for the festive day?’ Richie asked as he picked up the empty glasses.
Jesus! Was everyone thinking about Christmas to the exclusion of all else? He had never known Richie be obsessed with it before. Granted, Alex had begun his Christmas shopping earlier than usual, but the hyacinth had been an accident; a kind of slip of the tongue. ‘No way.’ His mam would kill him if he didn’t do the ritual trip to Nottinghamshire. ‘It’s not like that with Marisa.’
He made his way up to the bar. Like what? Not homes and gardens; certainly not coffee percolators. Though the oral sex was something else again.
* * *
Hazel swung the interior door open wide – she’d understood the advantages of maximum entrance impact since she was her granddaughter’s age, and hadn’t needed to join a theatrical society to learn. The chairs were arranged in a circle in the middle of the hall. Not an inspiring place, thought Hazel, adding her coat to those hanging by the door, but at least it had a stage and a piano. She slipped into a seat opposite Giorgio in order to maintain total eye contact. The effect of her new perfume could come later – when she got close to him.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ She noted with pleasure that on seeing her he had half-risen in his seat and that he was wearing a smart dark suit and tie. She had always liked a man in a suit. And Giorgio Manelli, whilst undeniably foreign, was a gentleman.
Gracefully, she inclined her head in his direction. It was true that she had never been one for foreigners … She drew her knees together under the blue dress. Foreigners could be a minefield. Look what had happened to Brenda in Streetlife. You knew where you were with a certain sort of Englishness.
‘I don’t see why we have to do Gershwin anyway,’ Daphne was complaining. As usual she was dressed in a blue skirt, low-heeled shoes, and a blouse and cardigan both buttoned up tight around her scrawny neck. And as usual she was seated at the piano.
‘It’s better than Sondheim,’ Belinda sniffed, readjusting the pile of sheet music on her lap. ‘Everyone does Sondheim. Singalong with, stars of, songs of, you name it.’
‘But what’s wrong with a nice musical?’
‘Such as?’
Hazel crossed her legs and allowed herself to look a teeny bit bored. Daphne and Belinda were getting into one of their power struggles. As far as Hazel could tell, Belinda generally won, but she would presumably have to concede occasional points to Daphne since otherwise they would lack a pianist. It hadn’t taken Hazel long to grasp the internal politics of the Trident Musical Comedy Society.
‘Pirates of Penzance. Now that’s what I call a musical production.’ Daphne shuffled her sheet music around and struck a few chords as if to remind herself what she was there for. There were a few titters from the others. Daphne enjoyed a reputation as a Gilbert and Sullivan fanatic.
Hazel smiled at Giorgio – a special, secret smile which was unfortunately intercepted by Belinda, a large-bosomed woman in her early-sixties, Hazel guessed, although not terribly well preserved. Her posture was good but Jude could certainly teach her a thing or two about powder application. Hazel touched her own cheek carefully with one fingertip.
‘Gershwin is far more original,’ Belinda said authoritatively. ‘And our charming Giorgio must do “Summertime”.’ She turned to him. ‘You simply must! With that adorable accent…’ She clasped her hands together in front of massive breasts that wobbled precariously, Hazel observed, with every sigh.
Giorgio looked flattered – well, he was a man, wasn’t he? – so Hazel raised one delicate eyebrow in Belinda’s direction, just to put him straight.
‘Zummertime?’ Giorgio made it sound soooo romantic, Hazel thought. He spread his hands and looked down modestly.
Belinda leaned forward – with enviable balancing skills, in Hazel’s opinion. ‘Would you, Giorgio?’ she cooed, sorting through the music on her lap. She passed one of the sheets over to him.
Hazel seethed in silence. If that woman fluttered her eyelashes any more, she’d take off.
Giorgio smoothed back his dark hair (getting a little thin, Hazel noted, but still there in principle), held the sheet music at arm’s length and
cleared his throat. There was a swift glance in Hazel’s direction (she smiled encouragingly) and then Daphne thumped out the introduction, in a manner that could only be called sour grapissimo.
Giorgio began, in his mellow tenor, and almost imperceptibly Hazel swayed in time. Music could be so meaningful, and Giorgio did give the song a certain something. Hardly the power of Pavarotti, but with bucketloads of emotion. Still, that was Italians for you.
Hazel thought that perhaps she would accept if he invited her for a bite to eat after the rehearsal. It would put Belinda’s over-powdered nose out of joint for a start to see them sweeping out of the hall together. She allowed herself another smile. Modesty and mystery were all very well to start with but maybe they’d run their course.
‘Does it remind you of your homeland?’ Belinda asked when Giorgio had finished. She sighed and those breasts quivered. ‘Garda…’
Hazel looked away in disgust. Garda indeed. But nevertheless she made a mental note to buy a book on Italy so she could at least keep up. She and Byron had once spent a weekend in Venice visiting – among other things – the apartment of his namesake, but a coach and boat tour wasn’t exactly the height of sophistication.
Giorgio’s eyes darkened with warmth at Belinda’s words and he hadn’t glanced at Hazel for at least thirty seconds. ‘Eet does, eet does.’
‘Blue skies.’ Belinda was in her element. ‘Smooth water rippling on the lake, olives, cypress trees…’
‘Pizza?’ Daphne provided a welcome note of discord. ‘Can we get on?’
Hazel decided it was time to offer a suggestion. Trident’s newest member she might be, but she was entitled to express an opinion, and there were times when one simply had to get noticed. She took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps we could construct a story around our Gershwin songs?’
‘A story?’ She had everyone’s attention now, especially Giorgio’s. The word compromise hung in the very air of the room; it was something Trident needed in order to survive.
‘His life story perhaps?’ she went on.
‘Excellent!’ Giorgio clapped and beamed, flashing his very white teeth at all and sundry as if Hazel were his own discovery. ‘You may be our newest recruit, dear Hazel –’ at this Hazel beamed and Belinda glowered ‘– but I sense an…’ow do you say?… an instant understanding of Trident Musical Comedy Society, its aims and ethos—’
‘Didn’t know it had any.’ Daphne swung round on the piano stool to face them. ‘But I’m all for a story.’
‘I could do some research,’ piped up a mousey fifty-something called Patricia who worked in the library.
Better and better. Hazel glowed with pride.
‘Capital.’ Arthur Brown expanded his chest. ‘As leading man, I—’
‘Well, now.’ Belinda created a hiccup in the general bonhomie. She was rearranging the sheet music on her lap and did not look a happy bunny, Hazel thought. ‘I’m not sure that we should have one leading man as such.’ She switched her 150-watt gaze back to Giorgio.
‘No?’
There was an instant hush. Hazel guessed that such a suggestion had never been made before. Arthur was undisputed lead; he had once sung in the choir at Westminster.
‘Giorgio has such a good tenor. Very affecting.’ Belinda’s shoulders were back and her breasts visibly heaving.
Hazel sighed. This was going to be a battle, and no mistake.
‘That voice is a gift.’ Belinda got to her feet, moved along the circle to Giorgio and actually put her hand on his shoulder. It was Hazel’s turn to frown.
‘I suggest that for this production,’ Belinda went on, ‘we spread the load a little. And, Giorgio, I think we should start with you.’
* * *
‘Tell me about your home, Giorgio?’ Hazel suggested two hours later when they were seated face to face in Mario’s.
‘Ah, but it is beautiful.’ Giorgio looked deep into her eyes. ‘You have the lake to one side, the mountains to the other. A pink ’aze in the morning, a grey mist in winter.’
‘I’ve always adored Italy.’ Hazel glanced at the menu. This was a nice place – light and airy with lots of chrome and glass, a fan on the ceiling and Mediterranean greenery, yukkas, palms, even a lemon tree. But as for the menu … Minestra di pasta e lenticchie? Hopefully he would order for her. ‘How could you bear to leave?’
He shrugged. ‘You adore Italy. Me, I was always ’alf in love with England.’
‘Ah.’ Hazel sipped her wine. White and fresh, so much more refined than those heavy reds Jude preferred. And was it her imagination or was Giorgio looking at her with those intense dark eyes as if he might already be half in love with her?
‘Buckingham Palace … the Tower of London…’ he elaborated with a wave of one hand.
Hmmm. Not a patch on the shores of Lake Garda, she would have thought. What would it be like there in the summertime – when, as Gershwin said, the living was easy? ‘Culturally, England is very rich,’ she agreed.
‘I came to England when my wife died.’
Hazel gave him her most sympathetic half smile. She knew what it was like to lose a mate. Even when one knew their shortcomings like the back of one’s hand, it was hard to be alone again. ‘Wouldn’t she have liked it?’ she enquired delicately, hoping he would feel able to confide in her.
‘She was a wonderful woman,’ Giorgio said.
‘I’m sure.’ She waited for the but.
‘But she was not … how can I say…?’
‘Culturally aware?’ Hazel offered. She knew the feeling. Many was the time she had trailed Byron around art exhibitions and galleries, but the poor man had died still unable to tell a Van Gogh from a Renoir.
Giorgio nodded eagerly. ‘I came, meaning to stay a few months…’ He shrugged. ‘And that was two years ago.’
‘Goodness.’ Maybe she’d caught him just in time. ‘But you miss Italy?’
‘I miss the warmth.’ The waiter appeared and Giorgio ordered something unintelligible from the menu. ‘And for you, dearest Hazel?’
Dearest Hazel? ‘Dear Hazel’ back in the hall, and now ‘Dearest Hazel’ … ‘You order for me.’ She showed him her vulnerability. Now that was the way to a man’s heart, she must remember to tell Jude. All this independence lark was a lot of old hooey. ‘I simply can’t decide.’ She sighed at the pure enormity of the task.
He obliged. And, yes, she could see that he was pleased. Now all she had to do was manage to eat it.
Giorgio continued to wave his hands around and talk about Italy. Hazel noted the gold cufflinks. She liked smartness in a man too.
‘So you miss the sun?’ That was hardly surprising, she thought, and decided to take things a small step further. ‘And what about human warmth?’
He took her hand over the table. A little premature perhaps, it was probably all that Latin blood. ‘And human warmth, my dear Hazel. Ah, I miss that most of all.’
She smiled in terror – not at Giorgio’s words but at the pasta and shellfish concoction that had appeared before her, delivered by the deft hands of a silent-footed waiter. But nevertheless she was also aware of a distinct – and pleasurable – kind of fluttering. Life, she felt, certainly had something special left in store for her. And one couldn’t deny the possibility of what one might call an Italian connection.
* * *
‘So how about it, Imo?’ Jude asked, emptying the last dregs of the second bottle of wine into their glasses. They had created an ad that said it all, that focused, as Imo put it, on the him rather than on her. ‘Do you like women?’ their ad read. ‘Do you have the courage of your convictions? Like to laugh? If you’re 40ish, solvent and decent-looking, you could be the man for me.’ Oh, yes. Jude thought that would do it.
And now they were planning a secondary strike. ‘Shall we make a move on the singles scene?’ Jude continued. ‘What a partnership we’ll make. How about the Singles Only Saturday dance at the White Rabbit Hotel? They won’t know what’s hit ’em.’
‘
Any time, any place, anywhere…’ Apart from sounding like a well-known advertising slogan, Imogen’s speech was slurred. ‘Why shouldn’t I be ready? I’m more than ready. I’m not exactly a grieving widow, am I?’
‘Aren’t you?’ Jude blinked. Was she missing something here?
‘I should have left him years ago,’ Imo moaned. She grabbed one of Jude’s maroon scatter cushions and hugged it ferociously. ‘How could I have been such a fool?’
Now they were getting somewhere. Jude sank back into the sofa next to her, ready with sympathy and a shoulder for Imogen to cry on. ‘But you were happy together,’ she soothed. And then, because drinking a bottle of wine compelled a certain honesty, ‘More or less,’ she added.
Imogen leapt on this. ‘Yes, but which?’ she demanded.
‘What?’
‘Which? More or less?’
Jude felt she was in danger of losing the thread, and Imo seemed to be in danger of losing her entire box of marbles. She retrieved her cigarettes and lighter from the floor at her feet and lit one slowly to give herself time. Edward had never seemed enough for Imo. But that was in the past. There was no point in brooding about it now.
‘More or less?’ Imo looked quite threatening. Her grey eyes were fierce and her jaw jutted in determination.
‘You got by,’ Jude said at last, resorting to platitudes. ‘And anyway, it’s all over now.’
Imo’s face crumpled. ‘I thought he loved me,’ she wailed.
‘He did. But now he’s gone.’ Was it her imagination or were they talking in song titles? Jude got unsteadily to her feet to search for the ashtray. ‘’Course he loved you.’ She found it on the other side of the room, half hidden under Daisy’s polka-dot-and-daisy bean bag. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘And who wouldn’t love her?’ Imo groped for her bag.
Her? ‘Are you all right, Imo?’ Obviously not. Jude stared at her in alarm. She was crying now, great glutinous tears running down her cheeks. Anyone else and Jude would have called it self-pity. But Imo was not the self-pitying kind.