The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted

by William Coles

  ‘That’s a very stirring image.’

  ‘It wasn’t just horror, you see,’ she said. ‘Your face was also mixed with annoyance and incredulity.’

  ‘And you saved my life.’

  ‘In some circles, that means I now own you.’

  ‘I can think of worse mistresses.’

  She laughed at that. ‘And I can think of worse slaves.’

  We were coming up to the road that led to her house. ‘You moved very fast to save me, didn’t you?’

  ‘I had to!’ she said. ‘If you’d fallen off, I don’t think I’d ever have forgiven myself.’

  ‘I’ll bet the picture would have sold for a fortune.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she said. ‘The papers would have loved it: “Painter’s Muse Plummets to His Death”.’

  ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ I gave her a light kiss on the cheek.

  ‘See you soon, I hope.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ I said. ‘When you’re around, Cally, I have adventures.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The next two months were torture. I longed to see more of Cally, but at best I only saw her once a week when she came for her lunch in the hotel. We would laugh and we would talk and I would gaze at her from afar like some love-starved kitten. Cally just seemed quite oblivious to it all. Not that I ever flirted with her – that would have been inconceivable. But when I waited at her table, I would do my level best to be alluring: happy and busy and full of good cheer and good energy. For even in my youth, I still had the wit to realise that no woman could ever fall in love with a dull dog; rather, what is sexy in a man is vigour and optimism. So unwittingly, I was presenting the exact same front to Cally that she herself was presenting to me: the most robust indifference.

  I found that I was thinking about her almost all the time. If I were not in the dining room and not actively involved in some activity, then up would swim Cally’s image. It was a new experience for me. If Cally had been the same sort of age as me, I would have asked her out. But the age gap between us, while it didn’t necessarily seem wrong, it did make it seem inappropriate. I don’t know why I didn’t just declare my hand. After all, what was the worst that could have happened? She could have laughed in my face and told me not to be so stupid. But actually, now that I think of it, Cally was much too kind to have done something like that. Instead, my mind only half in gear, I mooned about the dining room pining after her.

  By now, the staff in the dining room had settled down into their various camps and allegiances. There were allies and there were enemies and there were also the non-combatants who didn’t register very much one way or the other. Chief among my allies was, of course, Oliver; his girlfriend, Annette, also became a dear friend. Roland was up there, though his miserliness did tend to grate after a while. It wasn’t just money; whether he was dealing with emotions or time, Roland was tight. I always got on well with Michelle and Tracy, and Janeen was an on–off ally, depending on how her relationship was going with Darren.

  There were two people who actively wished me ill. The first was Giles the cook, though since he was in the kitchens, he was limited as to the amount of harm he could do me. I found that what vexed him most was to present an attitude of the most sublime cheerfulness, seemingly unaware of the Neanderthal taunts that he directed at me.

  ‘Good morning, Giles,’ I’d say as I picked up the day’s first order of eggs and bacon. ‘And how are we on this wonderful Monday?’

  ‘I’d be doing a lot better if I didn’t have to listen to you.’

  ‘Get out of the wrong side of the bed again, did we, Giles?’

  ‘Go screw yourself.’

  ‘Or should I do what you do so well, Giles – and start playing with myself?’

  Dealing with Giles was mere knockabout stuff. He would still occasionally try and hit me with a ladle or whatever else came to hand, but I was much too quick on my feet.

  Darren, however, was of a different category altogether. He was much more sharp and much more dangerous. But seeing as he had a small but pivotal role in the development of my relationship with Cally, I suppose I ought to be grateful to him.

  It was May, I think, and Cally had come along for another of her lunches with Greta. Cally was in a tight black skirt and a creamy silk top. She really knew how to carry herself. Greta, as always, was done up like some exotic fruit cocktail. I’d already delivered their first bottle of champagne and was biding my time at the central station. Even if nothing much was happening, a waiter would still keep an eye out for his guests. I may have been looking at Cally and Greta, but I don’t really remember. I was polishing a glass with a white napkin.

  ‘You fancy her, don’t you?’ Darren had sidled up to me. He was also looking at Cally and Greta.

  ‘Fancy who?’

  ‘That woman who you’ve been staring at for the last month.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I continued blandly to polish the glass.

  ‘You must think I’m blind.’

  ‘Not blind, no. Though, other words do spring to mind.’

  ‘She’s not bad, is she?’ said Darren. ‘At least not bad for someone in her forties.’

  ‘Is she now?’ I dead-balled the question. As so often in my life, the closer that someone gets to touching me on the raw, the more seemingly indifferent I become.

  ‘You fancy her rotten.’

  ‘Though I’m sure she’d just love to become a member of the Darren harem.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I did not think anything more about it, until the next time that Cally came over. It was for dinner and she was with one of the middle-aged men who so loved to court her. She beamed at me as I brought over the menus, and then introduced me to Hugh, an antiques dealer from Wareham.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ I’d said as I handed him his menu. He wasn’t much interested in either the menu or me.

  It was a busy night and I had a lot of tables. By now at the Knoll House, I was competent enough to be able to handle them all, but it did take concentration. It was like keeping twenty plates forever spinning in the air, this whirlwind of charming activity. I had just been getting some wine for a table and had returned to the dining room to find that Darren had insinuated himself onto Cally’s table. He was clearing away their plates and Cally was laughing at something that he had said. I wondered, at first, whether to go over, but then another table was waving at me for the bill and so I left them to it. The next thing I noticed, Darren was trotting off to get Cally another bottle of wine.

  I waited until he came back. ‘Thanks very much, Darren,’ I said. ‘I’ll take over from here.’

  ‘No I’m fine, mate,’ he said and made to continue walking to Cally’s table.

  ‘No, I am fine, mate,’ I said. ‘I can handle my tables.’

  ‘Sure you can.’ He pointed to some elderly woman by the windows who was holding up her water jug. ‘She looks thirsty,’ and off Darren went to give Cally her wine.

  That was the start of it and by the end of the evening, Darren had all but wormed his way into her affections, or so it seemed to my love-drugged brain.

  It was a few days later, after I’d had a day off, that Darren accosted me again in the dining room. ‘Cally was sorry not to see you yesterday,’ he said.

  Immediately, I realised that Darren must have been waiting at her table. ‘I’m sure you looked after her as best you could,’ I said.

  ‘I’m meeting her for a drink tonight,’ he said. ‘Should be fun.’

  Now this I had not expected. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll have a lovely time,’ said Darren. He sleeked back his hair at the sides. He was a good-looking guy, very smooth and he had the patter. It was all too possible, I realised, that I had met my match. After all, why should Cally have been interested in me? It was ludicrous to even think that this sophisticated artist would want anything to do with me. But Darren? Even Hugh the antiques dealer fro
m Wareham would have been preferable to Darren.

  But on the other hand, why shouldn’t Cally have been interested in Darren? He was earthier than me. He dripped with raunch. A number of the waitresses were a little in love with him. Why not Cally?

  I was in two minds as to whether to go to the pub. I certainly didn’t want to be forced to look at Cally cosying up with Darren on one of the corner tables. But a part of me was also fascinated to see what would actually occur between them.

  She couldn’t…

  It wasn’t possible…

  And then in an instant, I had realised that although Cally might not, Darren most certainly would.

  I went to the pub with my usual little coterie, the two lovebirds, Oliver and Annette, and Roland. Cally’s horse Dapple-Down was already tethered up outside the pub.

  I put on my most gregarious mask as I walked in. I bought four pints of lager and was so focused on being Jack the Lad having fun with his friends, that I did not even look round the bar.

  We chinked and we looked each other in the eye, and Oliver and Annette held hands under the table. They were so loved up it only served to highlight the lack of love in my own life.

  ‘You two are sick making,’ Roland said.

  ‘We are in love,’ Oliver said. Annette giggled. She truly was a woman in love; she radiated it.

  ‘Do you have to paw each other in public?’ Roland said.

  ‘Do these public displays of affection disgust you, my friend?’ Oliver said.

  ‘He’s just jealous, aren’t you, Roland, you old stoat,’ I said. He did not like it when I ruffled his hair.

  ‘Get off me.’

  ‘I’ll find you a nice girl, Roland,’ Annette said. ‘There are lots of pretty girls among the housekeepers.’

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver said. ‘That is a plan. We must get a girlfriend for Roland. And that will make Roland happy and then we can all double date in the pub together.

  ‘And what about Kim?’ Annette said. She looked at me, and I wondered if there had ever been that sort of spark between us.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ I said.

  ‘So what’s it like being in love?’ Roland said.

  I was pleased that Roland had changed the subject. I was a little too chary to bring up the matter of my unrequited love for Cally. At the thought of Cally, I instinctively looked up. She was at her usual table in the corner. Wherever she was, whether in the pub, her own kitchen or the Knoll House dining room, she always loved to be able to survey the room. Darren was at her table, facing the wall. His hair gleamed with wet gel. The very moment that I looked up, Cally caught my eye. It was instantaneous. She raised her wine glass in greeting, and then she gave me a elliptical raise of an eyebrow. I was not sure what it meant, but I liked it. It was a private intimacy. I winked at her.

  Oliver and Annette were gazing at each other, exuding love from their very pores.

  ‘What is it like being in love?’ Oliver repeated. He was still gazing at Annette. ‘I have never been in love before. It is… it is the best thing, the nicest thing, that has ever happened to me.’ He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her on the wrist.

  ‘And you, Annette?’ Roland said.

  She gave a shy smile. ‘I love being in love with Oliver. He makes me very happy.’

  ‘I am going to marry you,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Are you proposing to me?’ Annette said.

  ‘Am I?’ Oliver said. ‘I think I am. Annette, will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said. They laughed and they kissed, and we none of us knew whether they’d agreed to get hitched or whether they were just larking around, but it was fun, and they were happy.

  ‘My fiancée,’ Oliver said to me. ‘My fiancée, Annette. We are going to be married.’

  ‘And how many children are you going to have?’

  ‘Lots of them!’ Annette said.

  ‘We can only hope that they inherit their looks from their mother,’ I said.

  ‘And what will they inherit from me?’ said Oliver. He drank almost three-quarters of a pint in about ten seconds, his Adam’s apple the size of a plum as it joggled up and down. We all of us watched.

  ‘From you?’ I said. ‘The children will inherit your pleasing personality—’

  ‘And your amazing dexterity and sure-footedness,’ Roland said.

  ‘Me?’ Oliver said. ‘Clumsy?’

  Annette laughed and kissed him. ‘I don’t want a ring,’ she said. ‘All I want is you.’

  ‘Of course I am going to get you a ring,’ Oliver said. ‘Are you saying we Germans do not know how to do things properly?’

  Michael, the publican, came over with a bottle of white wine and four glasses. It was decent white wine too, Sancerre. It was in an ice bucket, with the cool condensation deliciously dripping down the side.

  ‘What have we here?’ I said.

  ‘From a secret admirer,’ he said. ‘And this is for you.’ He gave me a note that had been folded over several times and then crossed in the middle, so that it looked like a pretzel.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  On the side of the note, was written, ‘For Kim’. Black ink and with a very thick nib; I think the thickest nib that I had ever seen. It was large, florid writing, and with the thick nib was almost a version of copperplate.

  As Oliver poured the wine, I discreetly opened the note. Already I had an inkling that I would want to keep it secret.

  First I noticed the picture. It was a very simple sketch, done with the same ink pen. It was undoubtedly Cally sitting at her table. She had a glass of wine in front of her and a large Dunce’s cap on her head.

  Underneath, in words so big that they filled the rest of the page, she had written, ‘Kim, can you kindly come and rescue me. Please!’

  I looked. I read it again.

  ‘What does it say?’ Roland said.

  ‘It says that you, specifically, should not have more than one glass of wine,’ I said as I folded the note up and tucked it into my pocket. ‘Otherwise you are likely to get drunk and abusive.’

  ‘Again,’ Oliver added.

  ‘Yes, again,’ I said.

  ‘So who’s it from?’ Roland said.

  ‘That’s the point about secret admirers, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘They kind of want to remain secret.’

  ‘So you don’t know, or you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Is it likely that I’m going to tell the biggest blabbermouth in the hotel?’

  ‘What if I said please?’

  ‘Okay. Say please.’

  ‘Please?’ Roland said.

  ‘Say it like you mean it.’

  ‘Pretty please?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m still not telling.’

  The wine was delicious. We were all of us big drinkers in those days, but we were still capable of recognising decent wine when we drank it. As I drank, I pondered just how I was going to go about rescuing Cally.

  Oliver swirled the wine in his glass, letting it breathe before he took a small sip.

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I am afraid that the French produce much better wine than the Germans.’

  ‘And much better women!’ Roland said. ‘All that hair! Hairy armpits, hairy legs! Why don’t they ever shave?’

  ‘They shave their moustaches,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Too bad,’ Roland said. ‘I’ll bet those German Fräuleins would look really hot with a little Hitler ’tache.’

  We cackled at the idea of these comely German girls sporting dainty little toothbrush moustaches. A germ of an idea was filtering through. As the others continued to chafe each other, I slipped on my coat and excused myself.

  I went outside. It was a lovely night, cool but not cold. Cally’s horse was still standing stolidly by the side of the pub. I waited for a minute, breathed the air deep into my lungs, and then hurried back inside. I went straight over to Cally’s table. Darren was talking and Cally was drinking. She looked up as I came over.


  ‘Hi Cally,’ I said. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I think there’s something up with your horse.’

  ‘My horse?’ she said. ‘Right. I better…’ She downed her wine in one. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to Darren. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

  It all happened very fast. Cally gave Darren’s shoulder a squeeze and a moment later she was flying out of the pub.

  Darren caught my eye. I tried to look bland, bored, indifferent, just a humble minion who had duly passed on a piece of information to an acquaintance. I gave him a shrug and dickered for a second at the door before following Cally outside.

  She had already untethered Dapple-Down and was waiting for me by the side of the pub. ‘Quick thinking,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Any time,’ I said.

  ‘I should never have come.’ She scratched at Dapple-Down’s cheek. ‘At least, I should never have come with Darren.’

  All words, words, meaningless words, and the tension crackled between us like so much static. I could smell the horse and the sea, and in the dull light of the porch I looked at Cally and she looked at me, and nothing was said. Yet what a welter of thoughts kaleidoscoped through my mind, this incredible longing to stretch out and touch her, kiss her, and aware that she was so much older than me, knew so much more about the ways of the world.

  ‘Would you like to give Dapple-Down a carrot?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d love to.’

  She pulled a carrot from her pocket and gave it to me. I offered it up to the horse on the flat of my palm, with my thumb tucked low.

  Dapple-Down leaned forward and kissed my hand with his lips. I could feel his teeth smooth on my skin. We listened in silence to the sound of the horse contentedly champing. Our eyes were locked. I had a sense of our faces, our lips, moving closer to each other, but maybe that’s just what happens when you look long enough into a woman’s eyes.

  There was a bang from the pub door. It was Roland.

  ‘There you are!’ He bumbled over. The spell was broken. Cally stepped in towards the horse and stroked its nose.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ she said softly, and we looked and we stared, and she gave me this calm nod, as if to say that we must accept whatever it was that the fates decided to throw at us.