The Penultimate Chance Saloon

by Simon Brett

‘Be in touch.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was nearly half-past three. He found a roaming late-night cab with a mercifully taciturn driver, whose silence was rewarded with a large tip when he drew up outside the Pimlico flat.

  And, as Bill Stratton entered his domain, he felt really good. He had a sex life again.

  Even ignoring the dubious qualification claims of his pre-Andrea fumble, his personal total was now undeniably two. He knew there were people who had achieved that milestone before they were sixty, but that didn’t take away from his achievement.

  His other response was entirely masculine. At the welcome moment of the first climax with Maria, he hadn’t thought, ‘I look forward to doing this many more times with this woman.’ He had thought, ‘I look forward to doing this many more times with lots of other women.’

  Chapter Sseven

  ... and, by way of contrast,

  a local authority initiative to cut down gossip

  in a Gloucestershire village failed because

  everyone knew about it three weeks before it was launched.

  ‘So’ asked Sal on the phone at eleven o’clock the following morning.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You and Maria.’

  ‘What about me and Maria?’

  ‘Come on. You went off together.’

  ‘We shared a taxi, because we were both going south.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. But you spent the entire evening gobbling each other up with your eyes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I want to know how far the gobbling continued.’

  Bill felt rather shaken by this interrogation. He’d woken only half an hour before, tired but surprisingly not hungover. His head felt light and scoured, but his mind felt good. The events of the previous night had left him with a warm, almost complacent, glow.

  And, for a while, he wanted to enjoy that glow. He certainly didn’t want to analyse its causes.

  Sal, though, evidently did. ‘Come on, tell me.’

  He played for time. ‘Oh, I did want to say thank you for the evening. Lovely dinner. I was going to ring you, but –’

  Never mind that. I want to know what happened last night.’ What makes you think anything happened last night?’

  ‘Call it women’s intuition. Or in fact don’t bother with women’s intuition. Maria told me she fancied you.’

  ‘Oh? When?’

  ‘When she nipped out to the kitchen, ostensibly to help me with the coffee. She’d really come out to thank me.’

  ‘Thank you for what – the dinner?’

  ‘No, you fool. To thank me for setting it up.’

  ‘Setting what up?’

  God, you’re being obtuse, Bill. To thank me for setting up you and her.’

  ‘You mean it was a set-up?’

  ‘Of course it was. I’m not an agent for nothing, you know. And being a hostess is very much the same job. You find the right people, you put them in touch, you hope something will come of it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Stop sounding so innocent, Bill. Surely you could see what was happening? Maria was the only single woman there, you were the only single man.’

  ‘What about Eli? He’s a single man.’

  ‘Last night Eli was with me. Though,’ Sal continued with an edge of steel in her voice, ‘this morning he’s about to become single again.’

  ‘Oh, what, are you going to tell him to –’

  ‘Don’t change the subject, Bill. We’re not talking about me and Eli. We’re talking about you and Maria. Come on, give me the dirt.’

  Bill was in a state of bewilderment. Obviously he was aware that matchmaking happened. During their marriage Andrea had occasionally set up dinner parties where some sad bereaved anaesthetist was meant to get off with a recently-dumped nurse. But Bill hadn’t anticipated finding himself in that situation. The divorce must have affected him more than he realised. Preoccupations with its details had fuddled his thinking, slowed down his reflexes, allayed his suspicions.

  So ... he and Maria had been set up. Obvious, now he came to think about it. Why had he been so innocent the night before?

  He tried to work out whether this new knowledge changed his reactions to the previous night’s events. What had felt totally spontaneous now seemed, in retrospect, a little calculated. But that didn’t worry him too much. More disturbing was the fact that what he’d thought of as a private encounter now had a public dimension. Sal knew all about it. And if Sal knew, a lot of other people would also soon know.

  But was that such a bad thing? He wasn’t betraying anyone. Given the difference in their social circles, news of his assignation with Maria was very unlikely to have reached Andrea, but if it did, so what? Could be rather a good thing, actually, demonstrating that he wasn’t moping for her, wasn’t envying her domestic cosiness with Dewi, was in fact getting on with his own life.

  He’d still rather Sal didn’t know about it, though.

  But undeniably she did. And, what’s more, she wanted every last gory detail.

  ‘Give me the dirt,’ she repeated.

  ‘I don’t think,’ Bill replied, in a voice of aristocratic decorum, ‘that it is proper for a gentleman to reveal the secrets of a lady’s boudoir.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t tell me, I’ll find out from Maria.’

  ‘Maybe she too,’ said Bill, maintaining his formal manner, ‘has some instinct for discretion, and will not respond to your vulgar interrogation.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, sunshine. Been such a long time waiting that, now Maria’s finally got laid, everyone in London will know about it within twenty-four hours.’

  This was another ramification of his actions that Bill had not anticipated. Indeed, the more he thought about his situation, the more he realised how little he had anticipated of anything. He wondered what the chances were of anyone he knew hearing about his amorous adventure. How different from his own were Maria’s social circles? He realised he hadn’t a clue. Except that she worked – or had worked – in PR, and that she was a grandmother, he knew absolutely nothing about his previous night’s sexual partner.

  With slight shock at his own callousness, he recognised that he wasn’t that interested in finding out more about her either.

  ‘Well, if you’re going to be a spoilsport and clam up on me,’ said Sal, affecting the tone of an aggrieved child, ‘I’ll just have to get the dirt from Maria herself. Have you rung her yet?’

  Bill was puzzled. ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Bill! You have been out of the dating loop for a long time, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been married to Andrea for most of the last forty years.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You poor bugger. Sorry, allowances must be made. The thing is ...’ her voice took on a school-teacherly quality ‘... even though there is now more equality between the genders, even though men and women act as free sexual agents, a woman who invites a man into her bed does still appreciate the courtesy of a thank you call the next day!’

  Her final screech was so strong he had to move the phone away from his ear. ‘Yes, of course, Sal. Of course I’m going to be in touch with Maria. Give me a chance, though. I’ve only just woken up.’

  ‘All right.’ His words had calmed her. ‘Just make sure you don’t forget.’

  ‘I wont.’

  ‘Good. Meanwhile,’ Sal continued gleefully, ‘I’ll get on to her, and find out your marks out of ten ... not to mention bonuses for artistic impression. I’ll phone her straight away.’ Doubt crept into her voice. ‘Or maybe I should dump Eli first, then call Maria...?’

  ‘I can’t possibly advise you on that.’

  ‘I think dump Eli first. I can’t really tell Maria what crap he was in bed while he’s still here.’

  Another shadow flickered across Bill’s sunny disposition. Was

  Maria about to give Sal a blow-by-blow (damn, they hadn’t got round to doing that) account of his sexual prowess?
r />   ‘Well, sorry it didn’t work out with you and Eli,’ he said formally.

  ‘Never had a chance. You see, I’m a Virgo and Eli’s Sagittarius. I should have remembered what I read in that book Astroturf-out: How To Dump Incompatible Lovers. With the configurations of stars at Eli’s birth, there was no chance that we were going to have a physical conjunction that was anything but ...’

  * * *

  Bill Stratton was thoughtful as he set his coffeemaker to produce some really brain-kicking espresso. The phrase ‘whole new ball-game’ kept rising to his mind. Dear, oh dear, had he somehow managed to enter the murky world defined by the awful word ‘dating’?

  He’d had a really enjoyable – and very necessary – sexual encounter with Maria. And he wouldn’t mind, at some point, having the same again. The one thing he didn’t want to have with her was ... he felt another awful word creeping into his mind ... a ‘relationship’.

  He knew that was a very masculine response, but, for God’s sake, he was a man. What else did anyone expect from him?

  And yet ... And yet ... He didn’t want to be thought a heel. The pathetic desire to be liked had been the guiding principle of his life. For most of his marriage, that hadn’t been a problem. He had believed that Andrea liked him (though that may have been an illusion), and her earnest friends at least tolerated him as her trivial appendage. But now ... he needed someone to explain the rules of the complex new world in which he found himself.

  The espresso was ready. He took perverse pleasure in scalding his mouth as his system took in its first caffeine shock.

  Sal had been right. He did need to contact Maria. Not to do so would be simply churlish. He stretched out his hand towards the phone.

  But immediately doubt assailed him. What should he say to her? He trusted himself to come up with something more gracious than a ‘Thank you, ma’am’ to follow his ‘Wham’ and his ‘Bam’, but exactly what would be appropriate to his new circumstances? He tried to remember their conversation of the night before, but all that came back to him were BWOC lines. Maybe that was all their conversation had consisted of.

  No, tricky to talk to her. He might end up revealing too much about himself, or taking on the role of porter for her baggage. There had to be a safer way. He reached for the Yellow Pages.

  Surprising how many florists there were in Central London. He supposed they’d always been there, but when you’re not looking for something, you don’t see it. Surprising also, for a rare user of the service, how many of them offered same day delivery ‘at no extra cost’.

  He dialled the first number on the list, and the transaction was quickly concluded. Rejecting red roses as hazardously symbolic, he settled on a Large Hand-Tied Display of Summer Blooms. He decided against adding Belgian Chocolates or a Bottle of Champagne.

  Yes, that would do. A gentlemanly gesture. A holding operation.

  While the details of his order were being checked, he decided how he’d spend the rest of his day. There was a local pub near the Thames, where he had enough acquaintances to ensure a pleasant boozy lunchtime. Then he’d catch up on some of the previous night’s sleep.

  When the patient florist at the other end of the line asked what message he wanted to send with the flowers, Bill came up with: ‘... and, by way of contrast, thank you for an unforgettable experience.’

  Then he went down to the pub to try and forget about it.

  * * *

  It was about six when the phone rang. He felt better after a couple of hours sleep and had recovered from the bleariness of waking. A contentment about the events of the previous night had returned.

  ‘It’s Ginnie.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Good heavens, did she know about Maria too? But the anxiety was quickly defused. The actress had never met Sal, she moved in completely different social circles. He was being paranoid.

  ‘I’m ringing because I find myself at a loose end this evening.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was meant to be taking part in a programme of readings in support of a writer who’s imprisoned in China, but it’s been cancelled.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Chinese authorities released him on Thursday.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘No sense of theatre, these totalitarian regimes. We’ve had to pull the plug on the whole show.’

  ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘I’ll survive. So, anyway, I find myself with this lovely, juicy Sunday evening free. And, since there’s never anything to watch on television on Sunday evening ...’

  This was absolutely true, but Bill had still intended to watch it. That’s what he felt like, a little undemanding cosseting. Mindless television and a few glasses of wine would do the trick.

  ‘So, anyway,’ Ginnie went on, ‘I’m at a loose end ... and if you happened to be at a loose end too ... well, I thought we could meet up for a bit of supper ...?’

  ‘I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m committed elsewhere.’

  Bill was surprised by the speed and the instinctiveness of the lie. Also by why he’d lied. An evening with Ginnie had got to be more interesting than Sunday night television schmaltz.

  ‘Oh.’ She was too professional to sound put down. ‘Don’t worry. Very short notice, just the off-chance. We must do it another time.’

  ‘I’d love that.’

  ‘Give me a call.’

  ‘Oh, I will, Ginnie. Of course I will.’

  After he’d put the phone down, he found himself still in a state of mild shock at his behaviour. Ginnie meant far more to him than the woman he’d been with the previous night, and yet he’d instinctively turned down the offer of her company. Surely he hadn’t done it for reasons of guilt?

  No, he didn’t feel guilty. Maybe he feared that, caught in the beam of Ginnie’s perceptive hazel eyes, he wouldn’t be able to keep his encounter with Maria a secret. But why would it matter if he did own up to what he’d done? He wasn’t betraying anyone. He had no one to betray.

  It was still the speed of his knee-jerk instinct to lie that surprised him. Maybe, now he had entered into the world of different women, surreptitiousness had become essential. There was no necessity for everyone to know everything. Kissing and telling was a course which held no attraction for Bill Stratton. He would become more cautious, secretive even, controlling the flow of information that he vouchsafed to his various friends.

  Ten minutes after he had put the phone down, the thought of seeing Ginnie that evening had become more attractive. He contemplated ringing her back, telling her he’d managed to untangle himself from his previous commitment, that he’d love to meet up with her for supper.

  But he didn’t.

  * * *

  On the Monday morning, Bill paid another visit to the BWOC office. Determined to be organised about the after-dinner speaking possibilities Sal had mentioned, he decided he was going to build up a file of suitable ‘by way of contrast’ lines. The facility with which he’d remembered so many, in what he now recognised had been a chat-up routine with Maria, encouraged him. So did the reaction the lines had received at Sal’s dinner party.

  His spirits were high that morning. The varied responses to his encounter with Maria had settled down into a warm glow. Bill Stratton had been rehabilitated as a sexual player. The world was full of new possibilities. And old possibilities, he thought as he entered Carolyn’s world of cigarette smoke, sweet tea and Radio 2.

  The fullness of her body looked more attractive than ever. What Andrea had described as her ‘obvious sexuality’ was, that morning, very obvious. And yes, all right, her brassiness was obvious too. Bill knew he’d never be mad enough to come on to Carolyn, but he enjoyed his awareness of her sexuality.

  She also seemed aware of the change of him. Was he being paranoid to detect a new knowingness in her blue eyes, as she said, ‘You’re looking very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning’?

  ‘You’re looking good yourself.’

  It was the first time in their relat
ionship that he had complimented Carolyn on her appearance. Perhaps his new self was more relaxed about that kind of thing.

  Not an easy woman to flatter, she snorted back, ‘Yeah, but I don’t look like you, not like I’m the cat that got the cream.’

  The possibility that she did know about him and Maria could not be ruled out. Carolyn knew Sal. They hadn’t met many times, but had talked a lot on the phone, co-ordinating the BWOC books and promotion. Had there already been a phone call between them that morning?

  On balance, Bill thought it unlikely. He was just so conscious himself of what had happened that, in spite of four showers since the event, he still felt as though he reeked of sex. And he felt rather proud of the fact.

  ‘I can look cheerful if I want to,’ he riposted lightly. ‘I just have a natural sense of well-being.’

  ‘Oh yeah? With most men I’ve known, they only get that Cheshire Cat grin when they’ve had their oats.’

  Surely she didn’t know? Did she?

  Deftly, Bill turned the conversation round. In the past he wouldn’t have responded to Carolyn’s frequent innuendoes. Now he felt empowered to do so. And would that explain why you're looking so bright this morning?’

  But any thought that the enquiry might bring him information about Carolyn’s sex life was doomed to disappointment. Expelling a derisive puff of air from her mouth, she said ‘I’ve done with men, thank you very much’, before continuing, ‘Right, so presumably these BWOCS you want are going to be in different categories, according to the kind of audience you’re speaking to ...?’

  Chapter Eight

  ... and, by way of contrast,

  in the recent Bristol West by-election,

  the candidate for the More Sex For All Party

  lost his deposit.

  The after-dinner speaking bookings flooded in.

  So did the dinner invitations.

  And the number of Bill Stratton’s sexual encounters increased too. He may have missed out on the sixties’ Summer of Love, but he certainly enjoyed the Indian summer of his own sixties.

  He thought of them as ‘sexual encounters’ rather than anything else. He certainly didn’t think of them as ‘conquests’. A ‘conquest’ suggests the subjugation of one participant by another, and all of Bill Stratton’s sexual encounters were consensual. He couldn’t see the attraction of any other kind of sex. He may have had a bit of the atavistic male rapist in him when younger, but now found sex no less satisfying, but less urgent. It was all a lot simpler at sixty.