Heartbreak Hotel

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘Are you all right?’ Buffy helped her up.

  ‘I’m fine!’

  He brushed some leaves off her skirt. ‘Listen, Monica, I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she muttered, pulling away.

  He pulled her back. ‘I just didn’t want you to be lumbered with my drunken advances, really too revolting for a woman of your calibre.’

  ‘My age, you mean.’

  ‘No! calibre. I had a horrible feeling I’d taken advantage of you – if I was capable of such a thing, which I rather doubt.’ Holding her hands, he searched her face. ‘Especially after all you’ve been through.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, with your bereavement.’

  ‘I’m not bereaved,’ Monica blurted out. ‘I’ve never even been married.’

  Buffy stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘I made it up.’ She shrugged carelessly, her heart pounding.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just felt like it. You’re an actor, you do it. I just felt like trying something else out. New place, new people. I’d be a different person.’

  Why had she said that? She hadn’t a clue. Buffy gazed at her, his chest heaving. Beyond the wall she could hear the sound of a lute playing. She suddenly felt hopelessly, swooningly, intimate with him.

  ‘I think I ought to leave,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll walk back with you.’

  ‘I mean, go home.’

  He jerked back, as if he’d been slapped. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve made a total idiot of myself.’

  ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’

  ‘See? You thought the whole thing was ridiculous.’

  He searched her face. ‘Was it?’ He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. ‘I thought it was rather nice.’

  Monica’s heart lurched. The lute plucked her own unsaid words out of the air. Maybe Buffy was thinking that too because neither of them spoke.

  ‘Who’s that playing?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Simon, my neighbour. A hairy, good sort of person. His wife runs a vintage clothes shop that smells of mothballs.’

  ‘I’ve never understood why people want to look like their grannies.’

  ‘We’re in a bit of a time warp here,’ he said. ‘It’s one of its charms.’

  Up the lane, the engine spluttered into life. They heard it revving, over and over.

  ‘Don’t go home,’ said Buffy. ‘Sit with me at dinner.’

  Penny

  ‘Do you think there’s something up with Monica and Buffy?’ asked Penny. She was sitting with Harold in the Coffee Cup.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ He pointed to the young woman pouring tea. ‘Romance seems to blossom at Buffy’s establishment. That’s Amy, she’s just started work here. She copped off with the tutor on her course. And another bloke found love at a camper-van outlet.’

  Penny’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s something going on, I just know it. I’ve got a sixth sense, you see. At school I hired myself out as a lie-detector.’

  ‘How much did you charge?’

  ‘Threepence a time. I was always right.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d better watch out, then.’

  Penny liked Monica. There was something brittle and defensive about her but beneath it Penny could sense, with her sixth sense, a woman trembling with insecurity. Monica might not be Buffy’s type but then who was? When it came to female companionship he was catholic in his tastes. Dim, daffy, intense, feminist, glamorous, dowdy . . . they came in all shapes and sizes, though, to do Buffy justice, he remained faithful to each one as long as it lasted. The man was just a hopeless romantic. And no doubt he was lonely here, miles from the bright lights of Soho. Who could begrudge the chap a bit of love?

  Penny could, of course. She was his ex-wife, for God’s sake. Any subsequent liaison could stir up a rich brew of feelings. Resentment, that this time round it could be more of a success. A patronising pity for the woman about to embark on that dubious adventure called Life With Buffy. Curiosity, of course. A complex sense of sisterhood, muddied by various emotions she preferred not to analyse. Surely not envy – surely not. She wouldn’t take Buffy back if he begged her on bended knee. It would be like picking up a dead walrus.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Harold.

  ‘Nothing. Good luck to her, she’ll need it.’

  ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘Were you happy?’

  Penny considered this for a moment. ‘I was never bored, I’ll give him that. And we did have fun.’

  Suddenly she felt dizzy with loss. How she had adored him! She remembered their early years, the physical pain when they were apart. She remembered how Buffy’s very possessions – a pair of espadrilles, the book he’d been reading – were irradiated with her passion for him. O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! She must have been mad.

  ‘He really was hopeless,’ she said. ‘Drunk, self-absorbed . . . he was an actor, for goodness’ sake! He lived in total chaos. And then there were all those children crawling out of the woodwork.’

  ‘Only one, surely. He knew about the other ones.’

  ‘It just seemed typical, somehow,’ she said. ‘He was always forgetting where he left things.’

  ‘Well, he seems to be making a go of it here,’ said Harold, stirring the froth in his cup.

  ‘Yes, because he’s got two women to do all the work.’

  ‘Rather a cunning plan, though, to get people to pay him for fixing his car and sorting out his garden and whatnot. He’s going to get the DIY course to do all the repairs on his house.’

  Penny paused thoughtfully. ‘So that was his idea? And cooking the dinners too? Bloody brilliant.’

  Harold’s spoon stopped. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he said. ‘Buffy told me about that look.’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘That look in your eyes. The is-there-a-piece-in-it look. Well, you can’t have it. I’ve bagged it for my novel.’

  Penny blushed. ‘I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole,’ she lied.

  Harold’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’ll be threepence.’

  Penny laughed. Outside it was pouring with rain but here in the cafe, with its steamed-up windows and hissing espresso machine, it felt cosy and confidential. Harold was good company, she had to give him that. Colin had been great in bed but he’d had no sense of humour at all. It had taken her a while to admit this, just as it had taken her a while to admit that moving to the country had been a disaster. Could she really face a second winter there alone?

  Harold, sipping his coffee, was gazing with interest at the other customers. Beneath his moth-eaten cardigan he wore a Fudge Factory T-shirt. His ex-wife must have given it to him. By now Penny knew a little about Pia. Just for a moment, startling herself, she felt the same stab of jealousy she had felt about Jacquetta. The two women sounded so similar – arty, self-absorbed. Pia had once been a dancer. She would have a flat stomach and strong vaginal muscles. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Harold.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Luckily, Amy came to the rescue. She was passing their table and paused to chat to Harold.

  ‘Nolan’s mum’s going speed-dating tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m giving her another makeover. She’s going to look a million dollars.’

  Penny said: ‘When the speed-dating craze started I signed up for one; I was going to write a piece about it. Then I discovered that all the other people were doing exactly the same thing. We were all journalists, speed-dating each other.’

  Harold laughed. Then a gleam came into his eye, a gleam she recognised.

  ‘Don’t you dare use it,’ she said. ‘It’s mine.’

  Harold sighed. ‘We’d better make a pact. You don’t use me and I don’t use you.’

  ‘OK.’

  They shook hands. His hand was dry and warm, th
e same size as hers. Something shifted in Penny’s stomach. She removed her hand and inspected the sugar bowl.

  Amy moved off, to serve another customer. Harold looked at her, writing in her little notebook.

  ‘What were you like at her age?’ he asked.

  ‘Ambitious,’ said Penny. ‘I would have got out of this place like a bat out of hell.’

  ‘Amy’s done the opposite. Given up her job, everything, to come and live here. She says she’s never been happier in her life.’

  A dead-end town. That was Penny’s first impression. Now she wasn’t so sure. She watched the people in the cafe leaning back in their chairs and chatting to each other; she watched someone greeting a woman as she came in. Never in her life had she been part of a community.

  She turned back to Harold. ‘So what were you like, when you were her age?’

  ‘A nice Jewish boy married to a nice Jewish girl.’

  ‘Of course. Doris.’

  ‘She turned out to be a plate-thrower but I probably deserved it.’ He scratched his head. ‘I’m a lot easier to live with now. So, I suspect, is she.’

  They both fell into a thoughtful silence. Penny returned her attention to the bowl, patting the sugar flat with her spoon.

  ‘What do we do about it?’ Harold said at last. ‘All this history?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Do you feel that great swathes of your life have happened to somebody you hardly recognise?’

  Penny nodded. ‘It’s called being sixty, I guess.’ She stopped. ‘Oh gosh, you’re not yet, are you?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s a couple of years, between friends?’

  ‘That’s what we are, aren’t we?’ she said. ‘Such a relief, not fancying each other.’

  He nodded. ‘Such a relief.’

  She stood up. ‘Back to your book then.’

  ‘Back to your cooking.’ He got to his feet. ‘Same time tomorrow?’

  She nodded. ‘You really should do something about that cardigan.’

  Monica

  Monica missed the pre-dinner drinks so she could have a bath; it was the only time the bathroom was guaranteed to be free. She had bought herself a screw-top bottle of wine so she poured some into a tooth mug and sipped it while she lay soaking in the meagre bubbles squeezed from her sachet.

  Sit with me at dinner. There was something startlingly erotic about that sentence. It was like May I have this dance? She knew she was being foolish. Buffy was probably just being polite. Besides, he wasn’t her type – his eyes were watery and he had split veins in his nose. Anyway, he was an actor and who could trust one of those?

  But who was her type? Nowadays, to be perfectly frank, it was anybody who would have her. The slightest flicker of interest and she was theirs. Or would be, if such a thing happened at all. Monica watched a lonely wasp, a relic from the summer, drag itself along the windowsill. I’m just a sex-starved old hag, she thought.

  And yet . . . and yet. There was something about Buffy that put a skip in her step. The lunch with him had been so larky; it reminded her of being with Malcolm – the complicity, the jokes.

  How many women had Buffy entertained at lunch? There was a handrail beside the bath, installed by the previous owner who had apparently reached a ripe old age. The woman must have been madly in love with Buffy, to leave him her house. And she wasn’t even one of his wives.

  Monica climbed out of the bath without the help of the handrail; she could manage that. The mirror, thankfully, was too steamed-up to reflect her naked body. She dried herself, returned to her room and fished out her Janet Reger underwear. This time she would be prepared – if, indeed, anything were to happen, which she doubted. But her stupid heart was pounding. If I was capable of such a thing, he had said. But failure could be bonding. Naked in each other’s arms, they could have a giggle. She was a woman of experience; she would understand. Maybe none of his wives or lovers had understood him. Maybe his life had been a series of false starts. She despised romantic fiction but that was the point of it, wasn’t it? The right person coming along, when one least expected it.

  The whole thing was insane. She was insane, fantasising after a couple of tumblers of wine. Sitting on the bed, her tights bundled in one hand, she caressed the heel of her foot. How cracked it was, how dry and neglected! Like her mother’s, in her last years. Monica remembered the ruthless grip of her mother’s hand – her claws – on her arm, as if she were drowning, and she thought: I don’t want to grow old alone. I want to sit by the fire eating crumpets with Buffy. I don’t mind about all those other women who had him when he was young and slim and successful, whizzing off to premieres and whatnot. I’ll be happy with what I can get.

  Monica descended the stairs with caution, due not to the wine – God forbid – but to wearing high heels. Voices came from the bar, but when she looked in, there was no sign of Buffy.

  Just then she heard a bellow of laughter from the kitchen. She made her way along the corridor and peered in through the doorway.

  Buffy sat on a chair, a towel around his neck. Penny sat beside him, cutting his beard.

  She saw Monica and called out: ‘I couldn’t bear it any longer. Soon he’ll be getting little bits of food stuck in it.’

  Buffy tried to turn but Penny jerked his head back. He rolled his eyes heavenwards.

  Voda stood at the stove, stirring the bouillabaisse. ‘Great time to choose,’ she grumbled. ‘Just as I’m dishing up.’

  ‘He looked like Old Father Time.’ Penny stood back and inspected Buffy, her head tilted. ‘Anyway, it’s done now.’ She bundled up the towel. ‘I know it’s hard to believe, but he used to cut quite a dash. Quite the boulevardier.’

  ‘Hard to boulevard in Knockton,’ he said, brushing hairs off his cardigan.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Penny. ‘I’m growing rather fond of the place.’

  ‘Coming to live here, are you?’ he said. ‘Join the club.’

  ‘Everybody seems to know everybody else,’ said Penny. ‘It’s not dead, like where I live, and it’s not lonely like London. There’s something to be said for small-town life.’

  Buffy laughed. ‘Never, ever, in my wildest dreams, would I imagine those words coming out of your mouth.’

  ‘In fact I rather adore it.’ Penny shook the towel out in the sink. ‘It’s never too late to fall in love, don’t you think, Monica?’

  There was no question of sitting next to Buffy at dinner. Tess and another woman patted the empty seat between them and he sat down without a glance at Monica. He had obviously forgotten his earlier words.

  And a good thing too. The trim beard had made him a stranger. He looked natty, no doubt about that, and slimmer, but in his mustard cardigan and striped shirt he resembled a jazzman from the Acker Bilk era, a sartorial look Monica had never found arousing. Besides, that glimpse of domestic intimacy had undone her. He and Penny had looked as if they were still married – teasing and needling each other, familiar with each other, the currents between them too deep to be understood by a mere onlooker like herself. A spinster; an outsider. She was beaten. And to add to it all, her knickers were digging into her crotch; she could hardly shift onto one buttock and pull them out.

  Her neighbours – an Indian girl whose name she hadn’t caught, and another girl, ditto – were discussing the fish pie and their part in its creation, ending each sentence with a question mark, like Australians. Why did kids do that nowadays? Didn’t they realise how annoying it was? Harold sat on her other side, but he was talking to Penny. This was the second night that they had sat together. The two women opposite were slagging off their exes.

  ‘I find it so supportive, being with you all?’ said one of them. Christ, they were at it too. ‘There’s such a feeling of sisterhood here, us all being in the same boat?’

  ‘They should call this place Heartbreak Hotel?’ said the other one. ‘We’ve come here to lick our wounds?’

  They obviously considered Monic
a too old to be included in this conversation. Monica removed a fishbone from her mouth. Another thing she had noticed, about getting on, was that food got stuck in one’s teeth. Now she knew why elderly people in restaurants jabbed away with a toothpick, sometimes shielding their mouth with a gnarled hand, sometimes not.

  Only three days to go until Friday. For the sake of her pride she would stick it out until the end of the course. If she bailed out early Buffy might think that he was the cause, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She would be perfectly pleasant to him, needless to say, but basically she would avoid him. This wouldn’t be hard as he was invariably surrounded by females. Who knows? Maybe another of his ex-wives would show up.

  Buffy

  Off and on, throughout the evening, Buffy tried to catch Monica’s eye. He tried to indicate Sorry, I’m trapped in this seat. After dinner he tried to indicate Are you watching the film? She ignored him and trooped into the bar with the others. He sat in the back row, his view of Julie & Julia partially blocked by the abundant hair of Denise, one of his more demanding guests (no gluten, no food with a face). Monica sat in the front row, slightly to his left. She appeared to be absorbed by the film, which struck him as sentimental and girly, not her thing at all. Perhaps she was pretending. Beside him sat India and Voda, fingers laced together. Sometimes they removed their hands and tenderly stroked each other’s thigh. Penny and Harold sat together in the front row, whispering and giggling. Somebody leaned forward and told them to shut up.

  The presence of Penny was deeply disorientating – her bodily presence in his new home, shifting the molecules in the air; the memories she triggered from the past. Buffy should have got used to her by now but it still gave him a jolt when she appeared wearing the jumper he had bought her when they were married. Of course he had seen her over the years; they had bumped into each other in the street, they had met at parties when she was accompanied by her toyboy Colin, now consigned to history. But they hadn’t been together under the same roof for seven years or more. It was so odd to see her in a domestic setting – walking out of the bathroom with her damp hair in a turban, loading her breakfast toast with the usual great dollop of butter (would she have a heart attack? Not his problem now). So odd and yet so familiar. She seemed perfectly relaxed about it; they had slipped back into something resembling their old relationship or a close parallel to it. He had forgotten how she treated him in that fond, vaguely amused way, as if he were the family dog.