Choral Society

by Prue Leith

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  As soon as Nelson and Angelica had gone the women’s conversation turned to the men in their lives. ‘Is Stewart for keeps then, Jo?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘He could be, I think. He says he wants to marry me.’

  Rebecca exclaimed, ‘Oh Jo-Jo, how wonderful. When’s it to be?’

  ‘But how about you, Jo?’ Lucy cut in, her face serious. ‘Do you want to marry him?

  Afterwards, Joanna realised that it had been at that very moment, when, confronted by the question from Lucy that she had been asking herself hourly for weeks, she suddenly knew the answer.

  ‘No. I don’t. I did before he vanished. When he’d never even said he loved me. I thought I’d lost him, and I realised how badly I wanted him back. I had this schoolgirl idea of ever-after love-and-marriage, maybe because I’ve never been married. But then, when he came back, I was so conscious of the spectre of my parents’ marriage – sixty years of incompatibility – and I was sure I could not sustain a relationship …’ She trailed off, shaking her head.

  Then she jabbed into her panna cotta, her eyes on the spoon. She felt the others watching her, knowing she hadn’t finished her speech. She looked up.

  ‘Anyhow, I’m now sure that what makes him so exciting, what keeps us in love and desperate to see each other are the gaps when we are not together. Apart from absence making lust grow fonder, we have more to say to each other if we aren’t in each other’s pockets all the time.’

  ‘But do you want to spend the rest of your lives together? That’s the test question, isn’t it?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Yes, I think I do. If he were ill, for instance, I could not bear anyone else to nurse him. I feel he’s mine, and I’m his, but I don’t want him every hour of every day, or even every week of every month.’ She sat back, content that she was telling the truth, to herself as well as to her friends.

  ‘Oh, I so understand that!’ said Rebecca. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if you could lease men by the week, or for a jolly weekend, and hand them back when they fell asleep in front of the football.’

  Lucy laughed and said, ‘Becca, that’s exactly what you do already! You’ve just dumped that poor Frenchman, haven’t you? But Joanna really cares about Stewart, don’t you, Jo?’

  ‘I do, but I’m not ready for a routine retirement. And nor is he, though he thinks he is. He has his family in Yorkshire, he’s still chairman of Greenfarms, and he has directorships all over the place.’ Joanna frowned down at her empty pudding plate. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘I’ve had a lifetime of making my own decisions, and I’m not used to considering anyone else much: wondering if they would like fish for supper; asking whether it’s time to change my car.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Lucy. ‘You’re both such Alpha characters. Retirement for captains of industry is difficult enough with well-broken in wives. But even they object to having the chap who’s said “very nice dear” for forty years suddenly taking a controlling interest in her garden.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Joanna. ‘Anyhow, I just want to see what happens. See how he likes Cornwall – next week he’s coming down again – see how I get on with the new-model Caroline. See if we can stay in his house without the ghost of his dead wife haunting me!’ She sat up straight and shook her head. ‘And besides, we all need to concentrate on Pencarrick and make it work. So I think we’ll just stay as we are.’

  ‘But,’ said Rebecca, ‘I’m sorry to be crude, but if you love him, hadn’t you better grab him now, rather than wait for him to fall out of love with you and go for a younger model?’

  Both Lucy and Joanna laughed. It was so typical of Rebecca to get right to the meat of the matter. Joanna nodded.

  ‘There’s that risk. Sure there is. Men in their sixties want women in their thirties or forties, I’m very aware of that. And if they are as rich and charming and unattached as Stewart they can get them too. He wants me now because he missed me so much while he was trying to forget me, and he’s so impressed that I could do what he couldn’t – turn round his business. But of course he could leave me. Well, OK – better before we get our assets tangled up. That’s all.’

  Lucy leant over and kissed Joanna’s cheek. ‘Oh Joanna, you are so logical and businesslike. But it’s right. It’s good sense.’ She sat back, smiling. ‘Bully for you, Jo.’

  Joanna suddenly felt extraordinarily content, on a wave of optimism and satisfaction combined. She shook her head as though to dispel a dream, then, aware that the conversation had been all about her, said,

  ‘So c’mon, you two, let’s have it. Have you really ditched your banker, Rebecca? And Lucy, Josh looks as adoring as ever. Is that good?’

  Lucy told them about her relationship with Josh being the reverse of Joanna’s with Stewart. Maximum time together, occasional cosy sex, a close, for ever relationship.

  ‘I’m sure we’re together for good or ill,’ said Lucy, scraping her pudding plate for the last traces of cream. ‘We’re working on another book, probably going to do a TV series together. The only reason he doesn’t stay with me every night is because he likes to start working early when the light is right, and so he sometimes stays in his studio. But more often than not he’s with me, and it’s good.’

  ‘But are you in love with him?’ asked Rebecca, frowning.

  ‘God knows. But whatever it is we have, it’s good enough for me.’ Frowning slightly, she added, ‘You know, when David died the hardest thing was not the lack of a mate to do things with – I can always do things with you two, or with the family – it was having no one to do nothing with that was so devastating. And Josh is wonderful for that.’

  When they turned to her, Rebecca confirmed that indeed the banker was history. ‘And,’ she said, ‘my big news is that I’m going to take a break from the man-hunt to get into shape to do it better.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  Rebecca looked at each of them in turn, trying not to laugh at their solemn faces.

  ‘I’m off for a dose of cosmetic surgery. In Russia!’

  A moment of shocked silence followed this and then Lucy and Joanna both tried to speak at once.

  ‘Rebecca, you are off your head! Why for God’s sake? Is it some new chap half your age you are doing this for?’ Joanna sounded almost angry.

  In milder tones, Lucy said, ‘Darling, you look really good, younger than I’ve ever known you. Isn’t it a mad risk? How do you know they won’t screw up? Or give you some horrible hospital bug?’

  ‘Because I’ve checked out the clinic, and they have a great record, and because I just know it will work.’ She placed her fingers each side of her neck. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m going to start with just a mild neck-lift. Nothing that could go disastrously wrong.’

  She eased the skin gently backwards. She’d tried it out in front of the mirror dozens of times and knew that her neck, soft and a little crêpy when relaxed, instantly became youthful and wrinkle free. ‘And if that works, I’ll go back for the bags under my eyes, and maybe a tummy tuck too.’ She turned to Joanna. ‘And then maybe I’ll ensnare a thirty-year-old. But to answer your question, Jo, no, I’m doing this for me, not for some man.’

  Joanna at once looked contrite. ‘Sorry, Becca,’ she said, ‘but I hate the idea of you risking …’

  Rebecca put one hand on Joanna’s arm and one on Lucy’s. ‘Don’t look so worried, darlings. I’m fine, and I know what I’m doing.’ She looked round the table, leant back in her chair. She wasn’t finished yet. ‘There’s more! I’ve bought a Mercedes SL 500 with my first decent earnings. Second-hand. Can’t quite afford eighty grand. But it’s in mint condition and it’s fantastic. Goes like a bullet and the top comes down at the touch of a button, and it makes me feel a million dollars. That’s why I need the face-job. I don’t want people thinking, “What’s that geriatric old bird doing with a car like that”.’

  Rebecca was pleased with the sensation both her announcements had made. She sensed
that Joanna, at least, was impressed by the sports car – not just the car, but the fact that she’d blown her savings on it.

  And once they had got over their initial prejudice, their questioning about the cosmetic surgery showed an interest beyond their avowed concern for her: all women, without exception, she thought, are tempted.

  ‘OK,’ Rebecca said, ‘I can see however intrigued you two might be, neither of you will have any nips or tucks. But that is a kind of vanity too, isn’t it? Being too proud, or too ashamed to want some help in the looks department? At least I know what’s important to me.’

  ‘But,’ countered Lucy, ‘should it be important to you? You’re a good-looking woman. You’re in your mid-fifties and look ten years younger. Isn’t that enough?’

  Joanna sat silent, thinking maybe Rebecca had a point. She could tell the world truthfully that she’d had her knees fixed out of medical necessity. But half her pleasure in the result was that her knees had lost their swollen look. Was there such a difference between her and Becca?

  Rebecca was answering Lucy’s question. ‘No, of course it’s not enough to look younger than I am. Not if I can improve things further. My body is an ongoing project. If I look younger, I feel younger. If in thirty years time I’m the only old crone in the rest-home still shaving her legs and dyeing her hair, then good. I’ll be proud of me.’

  Lucy and Joanna laughed, and Rebecca felt a glow of happiness. She knew that her new spirit, her reborn confidence were due mostly to her new career, but also, a little bit, to Bill’s now admiring attitude and Jean-Pierre’s astonishment at being dumped. She was flying high and high-flyers deserved a treat or two, like a new face and a new car.

  It was well after eleven when the three of them emerged, none of them quite sober. It was raining gently, and there were no cabs. In the end, Joanna managed to flag one down by sprinting across the road. As she did it, she thought, medical necessity, that’s what it was. I’d never have managed this six weeks ago. She called across to the others.

  ‘C’mon, we’ll share. Lucy, we’ll drop you first.’

  As Lucy climbed into the cab, Joanna asked, ‘Pembridge Square? You’re staying with Grace, I suppose?’

  ‘No, I was going to, but I’ve changed my mind. Can you take me to Paddington station? I think I’ll take the sleeper and follow Josh down to Cornwall. He has a new exhibition in Falmouth tomorrow. I’ll surprise him.’

  Joanna looked at Rebecca, lifting her shoulders in mock despair. ‘Definitely love,’ she said.

  Rebecca nodded. ‘No question.’

  Lucy smiled. ‘Of a sort, yes.’

  ‘But you’ve no night bag,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘No matter. I’ll sleep in the buff. And they give you a little pack, toothbrush and stuff. I’ll be fine. Josh won’t even notice that I’m still in this suit.’

  Joanna and Rebecca watched Lucy hurrying into the station, her curvy hips swinging under the flared jacket.

  ‘You know what, Becca?’ Joanna said. ‘We’re all pretty good at this growing old business. You just keep dancing, Lucy has settled for affection, and I’m keeping my options open. All good stratagems for holding the inevitable at bay.’

  ‘Yeah, and none of us is droning on about our growing list of ailments …’

  ‘…or the price of everything, or how the world is going to hell in a handcart.’

  ‘At least not yet.’

  ‘It’ll come,’ said Joanna.

  ‘But not yet,’ said Rebecca.