One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  Having picked my teeth clean in the loo – note to the older woman: ordering rocket salad might flag up fit, body-conscious babe, but it stays with you for three courses – I reapplied my lipstick and weaved unsteadily back through the restaurant. As I negotiated the tables, which seemed to have become a maze, and tried not to nudge too many elbows – ‘Sorry… oops, sorry,’ – I dimly registered that the sly smiles had turned into broad grins. No matter, this man was hot. Granted he wasn’t strictly my type, but where had my type got me in the past? He was also uncomplicated. Most men I met were either married, or divorced with small children, and most wanted to give you the works up front so as not to be accused of being a shit later. But this one had no baby photos to show me, no horror stories of an unfeeling, frigid wife who’d gone off the boil since she’d had them. In short, he was perfect. What he saw in me I’ve no idea, and see me he did that day, in broad daylight, for the first and only time. Ever since then I’ve worn sunglasses whatever the weather – yes, even in the rain, like Anna Wintour. Hats I like too, and then obviously there’s complete and utter darkness for the bedroom. In fact, these days, I’m not sure Ivan has any idea who I am at all.

  He had a room above the restaurant, and my only excuse is that the attraction was immediate, and that two bottles of Sancerre made it even more immediate. We repaired after coffee, and I awoke the following morning entangled only in a sheet, a new man and a warm glow. I couldn’t wait to tell Maggie, who, happily, was minding the shop at the time.

  That was five months ago and, astonishingly, here he still was, beside me on my sofa: huge, blond, gorgeous and raring to go. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I hadn’t fallen in love with him or anything inconvenient like that, nor he with me. No, this was a simple, straightforward relationship that suited us both, but I was surprised he was staying the course. Ivan had plenty of pretty female friends his own age, mostly from Camden Passage, where he worked, and whom I’d met, though through shaded glass, naturally. On one occasion I’d walked past a wine bar and seen him hand in hand with one of them, but pretended I hadn’t. So I wasn’t naïve. I think the truth was he was lazy, and I also suspect the young fillies wanted more from him than he was prepared to give, so this arrangement suited him. We had a laugh, we could witter on about antiques – he had a very good eye, I’d joke, that’s why it had rested on me – and Seffy liked him, which was a relief.

  I’d never really foisted a boyfriend on Seffy before, and although I’d had one or two, had never brought them back: always played away. But Ivan lived flipping miles away, in Crouch End, with a couple of other lads, in what can only be described as a dive. On the odd occasion I’d stayed there, I’d woken up on a hideously uncomfortable futon, stepped in a bowl of stale cereal en route to the loo, picked my way back through the detritus of empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays to fill a kettle in a sink full of stale washing-up, and wondered groggily if my playing away days weren’t over. I’d cleared up once, after they’d all left the flat. Got the place gleaming like a new pin. But that had only made me feel like their mother, so I’d taken a deep breath and changed the venue.

  And, as I say, Seffy liked him. I think he was also relieved I had an interest other than him – there’d been a few hints – so he was probably prepared to like anyone, within reason. One night when I’d coyly and, brick red with embarrassment, asked if he’d mind if Ivan stayed, Seffy had barely taken his eyes off his computer as he replied: ‘Well, I didn’t think you’d been playing Monopoly, Mum.’

  True, when Ivan wasn’t there he called him my toy boy, and for my birthday had given me dumbbells for my bingo wings – marvellous, but you have to keep at it or the muscle reverts to flab – and had once also remarked that Ivan only seemed to come across after nine in the evening, but I’m being picky. On one occasion, when Ivan hadn’t shot out of the door after breakfast, we’d even all walked to Bishop’s Park together, where the two of them had kicked a ball around, and although there’d been an ironic look in Seffy’s eye which had said, gee, Mum, here I am kicking a ball around with your young man, I’d been pleased.

  So, yes, Ivan was still with us: padding back right now from the kitchen, where he’d gone to get us each a glass of wine. He bent over and kissed me on the lips as he handed me mine, then sank down beside me.

  ‘So where did you go?’

  ‘I told you, my sister’s.’

  ‘No, swimming.’

  Luckily it was quite dark, as an unattractive blush swept up my neck like a high-speed elevator.

  ‘Oh, um, Putney.’

  ‘Really?’ He turned from the gorillas, interested. ‘They’ve reopened it?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s been shut for ages for refurbishment. I tried to go the other day.’

  ‘Oh, yes, right. You’re quite right. I did go to Putney, but it was… still shut. So I – went somewhere else.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ He waited, interested now, because of course Ivan swam. Lengths and lengths. Powering up and down the pool in what seemed to me a fairly mindless manner. Surely once you’d been to both ends you’d pretty much covered it? Was there one in Fulham? Fulham Pool, Fulham Baths, Fulham Lido… no, didn’t ring a bell. He was still waiting. I licked my lips.

  ‘Yes, a chap was passing, saw me trying to get in, and told me about one in Roehampton. D’you want some crisps with that? I’ve got loads.’ I nipped off to the kitchen to rummage in a low cupboard, head down.

  ‘Roehampton,’ he was saying thoughtfully, following me out. ‘Quite near then. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Oh, miles away, nowhere near here really, right on the edge. More Brentford. Dodgy area too, and so crowded. Smoky bacon or plain?’

  ‘Yes, but still. While Putney’s shut… and Fulham’s so expensive.’ Damn. Fulham. Wouldn’t you know? ‘I’ll Google it.’ And he turned to sit at the computer in the corner of the kitchen.

  ‘No, you won’t find it,’ I said, darting across, as indeed he was failing to, ‘because actually, it’s not public. I remember now, this chap owns it. He just let me use it because I was – you know – desperate.’

  ‘Private?’

  ‘Yes. In his garden.’

  Ivan blinked, as well he might. For what we had now was a man who hung around public pools mid-refurbishment in order to lure women back to his house in a dubious area of west London, which none the less boasted a pool in its back garden, and was crowded with similarly desperate souls. It’s worth mentioning I haven’t been to a pool for about thirty years, and the only time I trouble the water is in the Mediterranean, with temperatures nudging ninety, and even then only in sunglasses and a hat.

  Ivan’s brow puckered. He looked confused. He also looked like a little boy who needed distracting. In a trice I’d slipped onto his lap at the computer and reverted to plan A. His plan A, admittedly, but needs must.

  ‘Anyway, since when have you been so interested in my secret fitness regime?’ I wrapped my arms round his neck and nuzzled his ear. ‘What is this, twenty questions?’

  Clearly not. There was no confirming and no hesitation, he just nuzzled right back. In fact he did more than that, and before long, I was shedding clothing again.

  I wouldn’t say the trouble with going out with a younger man is their insatiable carnal appetite, but there are times when a boiled egg in front of a Sunday night period drama, just me and my spectacularly greasy hair, appeals. When the sex kitten in me is not necessarily purring ferociously. Having said that, if anyone can persuade me to lay down my boiled egg spoon and take the hand that leads, not necessarily up the stairs, incidentally, to a king-sized fully sprung divan, but to who knows where, it’s Ivan. Which brings me to another occupational hazard of not punching one’s age weight: location. Or location location location in Ivan’s case, because really, it could be anywhere. The kitchen floor has seen a fair amount of action in its time, as have the stairs, and even the cupboard beneath them, where a Hoover attachment in my back ensured spine-shattering sex in every se
nse. Ivan was the master of invention, and tonight, whilst one hand attended to a tricky belt buckle on my jeans, another was already clearing the computer table – Victorian pine, stripped to within an inch of its life, not unlike its owner was about to be – for action. The kitchen lights blazed down like the Gestapo – I made a long arm to snap them off – and over Ivan’s shoulder, my son on my screen saver looked on in a quizzically amused fashion. It wasn’t terribly conducive to the moment and I lunged for the mouse, pressing randomly, convulsively, only for Seffy to be replaced by a stern warning: ‘Stand By’. Yes, indeed, I thought, turning my full attention to Ivan’s appetite and shutting my eyes. You don’t have to tell me.

  Later, when I’d fled to the bathroom and the supreme comfort of a long hot bath, Ivan languishing happily on my bed in front of the telly in a dressing gown he kept here, I thought: this is more like it. I stroked the bubbles right up to my nose. More like marriage, perhaps. This – afterwards bit – at any rate. The cosy familiarity. I wondered if he’d stay. He did, occasionally. But then again, he often went home, claiming it was closer to work, and he was so appalling at getting up in the mornings. I’d rung once, when he’d gone, to tell him he’d forgotten his wallet, something making me ring his land line instead of his mobile, and a girl had answered, bright and breezy. His flatmate’s sister, he’d said quickly when he came on the line. I didn’t pry. He had to get back at weekends too, when Camden Passage was certainly at its busiest, but tomorrow was Monday: a quiet day. And it was well after nine now. Surely he was here for the duration?

  Moments later a head came round the door, followed by a fully dressed Ivan.

  ‘See ya.’

  ‘See ya.’ I grinned gamely back. Ah.

  He came across to the bath and kneeled down. Naturally I’d carefully arranged the bubbles to cover me completely, and naturally the room was candlelit.

  He carefully cleared a few bubbles from my lips and kissed me. ‘I’ll be back for more next week,’ he warned, resting his arms on the bath edge. ‘I thought we might go to that new Italian on Lillie Road.’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  Out. We didn’t generally do Out, Ivan much preferring In, regarding anything further afield as a retrograde step. Which was fine by me. I’d got over that stage of needing to be wined and dined long ago. And anyway, we did a lot of that in France, on our jaunts, which were frequent.

  ‘Or on second thoughts,’ he said, clearing a few more bubbles and gazing contemplatively, ‘perhaps I should just hop in with you?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ I smiled, rearranging the bubbles.

  ‘You haven’t finished your wine.’ He plucked it from the tiled shelf at the side and put it to my lips.

  I took a sip, but wrinkled my nose. ‘I can’t drink in the bath,’ I confided. ‘It gives me wind.’

  ‘That’s erotic.’

  I grinned. ‘It was supposed to be. Go home, Ivan.’

  He ignored me and kissed me again; languorously this time, his tongue like a warm sea snake in my mouth. ‘Oh, you’ll have to do better than that, Miss Carrington,’ he murmured. ‘I’m rather enjoying this trapped and supine scenario. In fact, if I didn’t have to see a man about some eighteenth-century firedogs…’ He resumed the kiss, long and luxurious, and, despite myself, I began to join in, when a sudden burst of Vivaldi stopped us in our tracks.

  Ivan sat back on his heels and pulled his phone from his pocket. ‘Hello? Yes… yes I know. I’m on my way now.’

  ‘Man about the dogs?’ I enquired lightly.

  ‘Hm?’ He looked at me vaguely as he pocketed it. ‘Oh, yup.’ He sprang to his feet. Gave me a lopsided grin. ‘Night, Miss Carrington.’ He bent to kiss me, but this time it was a peck.

  ‘Night.’

  And he was gone.

  I reached for a face cloth to wipe away my mascara, kept on until the last minute as an insurance policy. Yes, this suited me, I thought as I heard the front door slam behind him; listened to his footsteps going down the path. I balled the flannel and tossed it in the water. Maggie was right. I had all the fun of a man, with none of the aggro. No snoring lump beside me – but then Ivan didn’t snore – no one drinking me out of fruit juice then, or demanding supper. No one hogging the computer. It was perfect.

  Later, downstairs in the kitchen, in my dressing gown, not the slinky silk one I reserved for Ivan, but my comfortable old towelling one, I locked up and made myself a cup of cocoa. On the way back upstairs I tripped on a bit of rucked-up carpet I’d been meaning to fix for ages; spilled some of my drink. Annoyed, I went and found the hammer in the kitchen drawer and banged in a few tacks. Then I mopped up. When I eventually got into bed with the remains of my cocoa, I took a sip. A skin had formed; clung coldly to my lips. It wasn’t ideal.

  15

  Laura rang me in the shop the following morning. Maggie was out getting the skinny lattes at the time, and I had a blonde woman browsing, picking things up and peering incredulously at the prices: not the most convenient time to be interrogated by my sister.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d seen Letty and Hal in the village?’

  ‘Didn’t I? I must have forgotten. There was all that Ralphie de Granville business when we got back. Must have slipped my mind.’

  ‘So what did you think?’

  ‘Of Letty?’

  ‘No! We all know what we think of Letty: a poor lost soul who’s never got over her husband dying and has embraced the bottle with brio. No, Hal.’

  ‘Oh, Hal.’

  ‘Yes, Hal! Don’t you think he’s completely gorgeous?’

  ‘Laura, I’ve known Hal for years. I know what he looks like.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she scoffed, ‘he didn’t look anything like that when you knew him. I came up to see you in Edinburgh, remember? He was a skinny, sunken-chested yoof with long greasy hair. He’s filled out beautifully now, and those dark brooding eyes – heaven. Very like his brother, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ I lied. It hadn’t escaped my notice that the family resemblance was more marked now that Hal was older: a good few years older than Dom had been when he died, I realized with a start.

  ‘He’s getting married in the autumn, in Provence. It’s going to be huge, apparently.’

  ‘Yes, he said.’

  ‘What, that it’s going to be huge?’

  ‘No, that he’s getting married. Or Letty said, I think. Um, yes, that’s right, seven hundred and fifty pounds…’ This, to the heavily highlighted woman who was reaching up and fondling the chandelier, peering at the price tag. ‘It’s turn of the century and each drop is crystal.’

  ‘Of course, he had the hots for you years ago.’

  ‘Years ago,’ I said brusquely. ‘We were a couple of teenagers at university, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Well, early twenties, by the time you left. And you know what they say: the first cut is the deepest and all that.’

  ‘Laura,’ I said with studied calm, ‘where exactly is this going? You’ve just told me he’s getting married.’

  ‘Oh, I know, it’s just that when I saw Letty in the butcher’s just now, she said Hal was so affected by seeing you again, yesterday. Went all quiet and thoughtful and snapped at her when she asked how many invitations they were sending out.’

  ‘Letty?’ I scoffed derisively. ‘She barely knows what day it is, poor thing. I don’t think I’d trust her to gauge anyone’s inner turmoil.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say inner turmoil,’ Laura said briskly. ‘Just went a bit quiet.’

  I ground my teeth silently at my sister’s well-aimed parry. ‘I’m afraid that’s sold.’ This, to the blonde, who’d turned her attention to a Napoleonic jardinière.

  ‘Anyway, I was really ringing to see if Seffy wanted to shoot here. Hughie’s got a few locals coming on the twenty-fourth of October and thought Seffy might enjoy it. It’s a Saturday, I think.’

  ‘Oh, he’d love it,’ I said, instantly brightening. Seffy, under Hugh’s gu
idance, and after some initial sneering about it being a toffs’ sport, had recently enjoyed going off with his uncle to shoot a few rabbits for the pot, which had led to a few pheasants, and the odd day’s shooting. I had a wholly unsustainable antipathy to the whole thing, which I kept under wraps, accepting Seffy’s very valid argument that battery hens had a far worse time of it and the pheasant the best and most natural. I just knew I could never pull the trigger. Nevertheless, I loved seeing Seffy striding off with his uncle, jeans tucked into wellies, uncharacteristic flat cap on his unruly long hair: loved seeing him come back flushed from the exercise and the hunt, bubbling with enthusiasm, looking so bright-eyed and healthy and more like the Seffy of old. I grabbed at any opportunity for him.

  ‘Good,’ said Laura. ‘And you’ll come too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Because I’ve got Luca coming. Carla’s just rung.’

  Ah. That would explain the brittle, combative tone to her voice. The needless, initial needling. A common trait in our family: lash out under pressure.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ I soothed, ‘don’t panic. You said yourself the last time he was over he’d improved, and Seffy said he was easy.’

  ‘Seffy’s never intimidated by anyone. He’s got the in-built confidence of generations of proud Serbs behind him. The girls are still scared of him though, especially Daisy. And I hate it that she has to spend her precious few days at home wondering where he is.’