by Angela Huth
Dan produced two marvellous bottles of wine and Isabel, despite going on about being no cook, had done delicious things to a sea bass. I wasn’t hungry but declared appreciation. I kept wishing it could have been just Dan and me.
After supper, given some subtle, almost invisible marital sign, Dan made the coffee and Isabel and I moved to the sofa. Carlotta stayed at the table with Dan, which was a relief. I wanted to hear about Isabel’s masks – the whole business had not begun when I left England. Diffident as ever, she explained how it had all come about, and when she described how much she loved her work two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. Isabel! Gilbert, she calls me. No one else calls me that. Of course I’ve always thought how lucky is Dan – though it wasn’t just through luck he acquired her. He was, is, the right man for her. And she’s absolutely the most enchanting creature – unworldly, sweet natured, wise and calm as well as beautiful – even more so, now she’s forty (I found this hard to believe) than she was when I first met her. The hour with her passed in moments. When I said I must go, catch up on sleep, she begged me to come round often, now I was back. There was a lot of catching up to be done. ‘We must all carry on where we left off,’ she said. ‘We’ve missed you. We’re so glad you’re back’. ‘So’m I, so’m I’, I muttered, as I got up and I think, though I can’t be sure, our eyes met in a kind of mutual pleasure at the thought of the future no longer parted by the Atlantic. It was then Carlotta jumped in with her offer of tickets to a concert tomorrow night. Isabel and Dan couldn’t go: what could I do but accept? I hope not grudgingly. But it’s the last thing I want to do, spend an evening in a concert hall with Carlotta. Then I suppose I’ll have to take her out to dinner and drive her home – rather, she’ll have to drive me: I’m buggered if I’m going out this morning to buy a car.
CARLOTTA
I hadn’t wanted to go, but in the end I rather enjoyed myself. I was pretty knackered, and due to the overrunning of the Rumbold AGM I didn’t even have time to change into my Manolo’s. Still, the Grants are not the sort of people who would condemn one for that. I managed to snatch up a box of mega-expensive chocolates, and was only about half an hour late.
Funny seeing Bert again after so long. Think I would still have recognised him. Rather fine steely eyes. I remember their boring down at me as we fumbled about in those far-off bushes. Then they snapped shut when he latched onto my mouth. I kept mine open. One of those odd moments when you’re both experiencing it, and at the same time observing it from some distant place.
My feeling is that last night Bert was still a bit disoriented, being back, trying to set foot in a new life. He was sort of there and yet not there. When he looked at each one of us his glance seemed to snag, move away more slowly than he meant it to. It wasn’t till I got him talking about strategy in marketing – a subject he might well know more about than me, though I wasn’t going to admit that – that he began to lighten up, show real interest. Our conversation rather left Isabel and Dan out, so after a while I switched to asking Bert what plans he had in London. He mentioned his despair (he didn’t use the word, but I sussed it) at having to fix up his house. There, of course, I was able to jump in quickly with an offer of help. A small house in Chelsea wouldn’t take me a minute to transform. I’d rather enjoy the easy thought of knocking down walls and choosing colours again, dashing round to a few of my old friends in the business, to pick up the latest stuff, before I get to the office. Bert accepted gratefully. Then as we were leaving I issued this invitation to the concert at the Wigmore Hall tomorrow night (Mike, the sod, having called off). I could see Bert waiting to see if either Isabel or Dan would accept. I’m pretty sure there was a look of hope in his eye. When neither Is or D could come, he accepted pretty swiftly. So it looks as if one way and another he and I are going to be seeing a certain amount of each other. Well, I daresay he could take up a bit of the slack that the disappearing Mike has left. He’d be an agreeable walker, an easy companion. Sex wouldn’t come into it, having got over all that in the teenage bushes.
After supper, at the table with Dan, was the good bit. I could talk to him forever. I could see he was a bit agitated and presumed all was not well again with some new play. I know he doesn’t like talking about his writing, but I pick up clues from Isabel. So I asked him some question about where he imagines his characters when he is writing – on stage, or in real life? Actually, a question that’s often occurred to me. That had exactly the response I had expected. He visibly melted in the heat of my sympathy, just as Bert had when I brought up the subject of marketing strategy. Men are such innocents! You only have to fix them with an eye that conveys a hundred percent interest, and ask, and listen, and they think you’re amazing – not that Dan thinks any such thing, sadly. Though I could see he was stirred by my question. As for Bert, I think in his present state he’s positively a bit hostile. But what with looking after his house problems and plying him with invitations to supper with a selection of good looking, intelligent, available women, I don’t doubt I’ll win at least a modicum of his affection in the end.
Chapter Three
BERT
The wretched girl came half an hour before she said she would. I was only just out of the bath. Shirt still undone. Still, at least I’d managed to replenish the drinks table. I said help yourself, and went back upstairs.
When I came down I saw she’d spread a fan of small pieces of material on the sofa. There was a pile of charts, paint colours. She said she’d just snatched up a few things which she’d leave for me to study. I said I didn’t want to study anything to do with decorating and suggested she should do what she liked so long as she chose nothing red. She took that quietly, then asked if she might cast an eye over the place so that she could get some idea of what needed doing. I said go ahead. While she was casting her eye, I sat back with a whisky and soda, and thought what the hell am I doing? Why is this woman here nosing round my house? Visualising things I can’t visualise? There’s a terrible superiority about people who can see how things could be. She came back very quickly, saying she’d got the whole picture, it would be easy. Even though there was some major work that obviously needed to be done, it shouldn’t take too long, she said smugly. Smugly? Was I being unfair? Yes, the place would be overrun with builders for a while. ‘I’ll have to move out, then,’ I said. She nodded.
She’d come in her Mercedes coupé which she explained away by saying it was three years old. Jolly nice car. Might consider one of those myself. We zoomed to Wigmore Street in complete silence, which was a relief. I wasn’t feeling like talking about the budget for the house – which would have to come up sometime – or anything else. Have to admit Carlotta is efficient in all areas – plainly could have been a very efficient chauffeur. She didn’t bore on about lack of parking places: simply found a meter and thrust in a lot of coins before I could so much as put a hand in my pocket. But my slight admiration was then stalled by her having got the concert completely wrong. It wasn’t to be Brahms, but Mozart. Well, fine by me. I infinitely prefer Mozart. It just irritated me that she didn’t… But I’m being unreasonable. Was wonderfully soothed by the piano concertos 21 and 24. Can never work out which is the more sublime.
Re-invigorated by the music, I suppose, I braced up. Being so out of touch with new London restaurants, I’d booked a table at the Savoy for safety. She said she hadn’t been there for years: she wasn’t sniffy about it, but her comment indicated she realised I’d chosen it in order not to have to consult with her where to go. And we had a perfectly agreeable dinner. First omelette Arnold Bennett I’d had for a decade. She burbled on about this and that, asked about my friendship with Dan. I don’t think I provided the answers she was seeking. How had my feelings for him survived such a long absence? That sort of stuff. Not the sort of questioning to which I can eloquently, let alone keenly, respond. Then she got onto Isabel: what did I think of her? I avoided that one by asking her the same question. She hesitated, indicating profound cogitation. Then she sai
d she admired Isabel hugely for being so utterly unlike anyone else: her detachment from the modern world, her hopelessness, in some respects, her brilliance as a wife and mother, her talent – though of course, she sneakily added, mask-making was probably more of a high class craft than an art – and her general sympathy and way of enhancing life. By the time she’d got through all that, she’d luckily forgotten that I hadn’t answered her question.
She drove me back home. I didn’t ask her in, though there was a moment’s silence when I might have done. There was a sort of teenage pause when I could feel her waiting for my decision, which made up my mind pretty swiftly. She shrugged: held up her cheek to be kissed. A street light had turned her beige skin into the colour of a white grape. Her eyes were half shut, the lashes thick and long. Appealing. ‘Oh Lord,’ I thought. ‘I know what she’s after, but I’m not.’ I duly kissed her on the cheek, cold as a grape, too. She smelt of my mother’s loose face powder that was always spilling from a Pond’s box on her dressing table, and said let’s be in touch about the builders. Then I hurried out of the car and into the house.
Yes, there was the faintest inkling – I suppose it’s been some months since Minneapolis Mary had enjoyed exhausting me for six weeks - and a man can only go for so long before his thoughts turn to all that. But I have always found availability a turn off. I could see quite clearly how easily I could fit into Carlotta’s life. She vaguely mentioned at dinner how some rotter of a man had disappeared without so much as an explanation. Perhaps there was a gap that needed to be filled. I was not prepared to be the filler. But I would like to be a friend. Carlotta’s kind of bossy liveliness is enjoyable from time to time.
I poured myself a whisky, took it up to bed. The bed is harder and less comfortable than I remembered. New bed will have to go on the list, I suppose. I don’t much fancy asking Carlotta to choose me a decent one. She might come up with some terrible suggestion that we should try it out. A picture came to mind. I smiled.
Then I remembered Dan was off to Rome. I would keep to my word: ring Isabel and suggest some sort of meeting. It would be nice to see her again, alone.
CARLOTTA
I think Bert must have pressed me to more red wine than I’m used to – me, with the strongest head of any woman I know. What was in his mind? It was a Mouton something, terribly expensive and utterly delicious. But this morning it left a rim like a burning wire round my head, sizzling over my eyes. So I was late getting to the office: not a good start to a hellishly busy day.
I quite enjoyed the evening. Bert was easy to be with, not very exciting. Nice hands. Plainly he’s a long way to go till he sorts himself out, but I’ll be able to help there. His ghastly little house won’t take a moment to do, especially as he doesn’t want to interfere and money obviously isn’t a problem. It means we’ll see a certain amount of one another and perhaps he’ll slot into being a useful sort of walker, a good spare man. I owe him dinner, now. I’ll ask him next week. See how things go from there.
But I shall have to be careful. Driving him back I was acutely aware of an amorphous question between us. For my part, the answer was plain: no. He sat with his hands on his knees, keen as mustard, I reckoned. When we stopped I flashed a cheek at him, the conventionally polite thing to do. He paused for a moment, I daresay wondering why I hadn’t turned to him with eager eyes and parted lips. Then he just brushed my cheek with his and got out of the car with the speed of one who is fighting to control various urges. I drove away very pleased. The last thing I wanted was more fumbling with Bert. He behaved perfectly. It means there’ll be no complications in our future business of the house … or friendship.
Odd, then, that driving home a sort of weakness fluttered through my whole body. I felt the chill that descends when something that might have been possible didn’t happen.
I’ll ring him, but not for two or three days.
GWEN
Thursdays are what I hate: Thursdays are the days I most dread. There’s not the safety of going to the Grants for the morning. Gary knows I don’t work Thursday mornings and then takes his chance, takes me unawares.
This morning I’d just slipped down to the shop to get the paper, looking all about me, as I always do, when I saw him across the street. I quickly looked away, but not before he’d smiled at me, knowing I’d seen him, and my heart started its beating. I gave up the idea of going on to Tesco’s to get a few things for my lunch: Gary’s sometimes trawled the aisles, a few yards behind me. It gives him a kick to see me in a state. Sometimes he goes ahead of me, lingers in the cereals or the washing powders, knowing I need to be there. He gives me one of his sickening smiles and goes off to buy himself a packet of Marlborough while I’m paying at the check-out, my fingers all of a fumble. Then he’s waiting for me outside. Follows me home, about ten yards behind me. He doesn’t try to get in, these days. But he just stands watching, knowing he’s got me all shaken up.
I still can’t work out how I came to my decision three years ago. But I suppose we all sometimes do things that seem right at the time, then live to regret them. He’d been following me for months. Never attacked me, just unnerved me. Then that day I thought maybe he’s a troubled soul, maybe I can help. Maybe if I just talk to him, listen to what’s on his mind. Maybe he’ll realise I can’t help and he’ll stop bothering me. So when I got to the door – he was just a few feet behind me, closer than normal – instead of hurrying in without looking back, my usual way, I said would he like to step in for a cup of tea? It didn’t occur to me I might be inviting an attack of some sort – me, an elderly woman with a scarf and my perm coming undone: not exactly your Nicole Kidman. You have to trust people. Instead of smiling, he just nodded and followed me in. He sat at the kitchen table, didn’t seem interested in his surroundings, never mentioned my nice clock or anything. Then he began to talk, all about his childhood and that, all very sad. I felt so sorry for him. If he cleaned up a bit and had a haircut he could be quite a presentable man, despite missing a few teeth. I don’t know why, but when he started talking I forgot all about the annoyance and frights he’d given me. ‘I forgive you, Gary,’ I said, when he got up to go. He apologised very gently. He said he hadn’t meant to scare me, just found me a lovely woman who he hadn’t dared approach. ‘Let’s be friends,’ he said. I had the feeling I’d be his only friend in the world.
I don’t know how it was, he only ever came in for a cup of tea, never brought me so much as a pot plant, but I fell in love with him (I’d never have guessed you could feel so dizzy at sixty). I never breathed a word of this, but I think he knew. Then one afternoon, I remember I’d just disinfected the sink, he came round and the way he looked at me I think he could read how I felt. So he had his way with me – there we were, at three o clock in the afternoon. We had several such afternoons in my small bed. I’ve never enjoyed the physical side of things very much, but he was gentle, got it all over nice and quick, none of that slow messing about that Bill used to called ‘forward play’.
I remember Mrs. Grant, around that time – she notices everything – was concerned about a rash on my cheek. It was Gary’s stubble agitated the skin, I knew, but of course I couldn’t tell her. She gave me a lovely tube of cream: didn’t do anything, though I pretended it did. Mrs. Grant would have been horrified to think I’d taken up with a man who followed me – an unknown man – a stalker, no less.
I may have been kidding myself about being in love with Gary, of course: it’s nice to think you’re in love with someone, though. In honesty our friendship was going nowhere, he only talked about football. It became quite boring. Then one day – one of the days it was tea only, bed had been petering out – he said goodbye Gwen in an odd, gruff sort of voice, and went. And never came back. I didn’t see him anywhere in the streets or the local shops, for two years. Disappeared off the face of the earth. In my heart of hearts I was relieved.
But a couple of months ago, just as I was taking out a pack of peas from the chiller cabinet, I heard this
voice behind me. ‘Gwen,’ he said. I froze cold as the peas in my hand. I turned. There he was, same stubble, teeth still missing. ‘I’m not interested in any more cups of tea and afternoons in bed,’ he said. ‘That’s not what I’m after. What turns me on is finding out what’s going on, the unlocking of mystery, know what I mean?’ The unlocking of mystery? Whatever was he talking about? I swear he had murder in his eyes. Before I had time to say a word, ask him what on earth he meant, he’d gone. My knees were shaking so much I had to lean on my trolley. God knows how I managed to get to the check-out. I felt sick, cold, terrified. What was he going to do to me? Why had I ever let him in?
I got home best as I could, tried to turn my mind to comforting things like doing out Mr. Grant’s study next day. But I was really unnerved, and there was no one I could talk to, was there? I thought of going to the police, but they wouldn’t be very sympathetic to that sort of domestic matter, would they? ‘What, once your lover, now he follows you about? Never hit you?’ They’d laugh in my face.
This afternoon I took a peep behind the curtain to see if the way was clear. I needed to go to the shops to get something for my supper. Blow me down, Gary was still there, other side of the road, looking about. So I stayed indoors, heart beating, hungry, cursing Thursdays. He stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, whistling. He was still there at tea time. I sat at the table, not up to anything, full of regrets. Over and over again, I thought, what a fool I’d been. What a fool I’d been to let him in in the first place.