The Society Game

by H. Lanfermeijer

  ‘Soooo pretentious! Oh, and her scathing remarks to me – I was a single mum struggling to raise my gorgeous boy and train as a teacher and I’m extremely proud that I achieved a successful teaching career and raised my boy to be a gentleman. Oh, but that’s just not good enough apparently in the world of your aunt!’

  Mum grabbed my hand from across the table, ‘But you’re worth it my gorgeous baby boy. Anyway, it was the start of all this mess, I really mean that. She never ate and instead spent most of her time engineering ways to get money from various people to get new clothes. Admittedly, she always paid me back but she was like an artist trying to sculpt and then re-sculpt her appearance. It was never good enough. I never saw her wear anything twice or be satisfied with herself. She would obsess about the most irrelevant aspects of her outfit and try and retry different tops to trousers or different skirts with tops or different dresses with different shoes. Ultimately though, her decision was based on the time Tatiana would summon her to go out.

  I hated going over there but I wanted to see Olive and I wanted her to see you, Jay. She really sparkled when you were scuttling about that dive of a flat – though I used to have you on my lap most of the time as I was worried about what you might step in.

  Tatiana used to smoke, incessantly forming smog around her. She’d look for various ashtrays dotted about to deposit another butt. It used to remind me of stone piles on our rambler walks – whenever Colin and I pass one in the Lake District I always mention the ashtrays in that flat, don’t I, Colin? Colin, don’t I…? Ahh, deaf as a post.’

  Dad shook to attention nodding and repeating the last sentence, ‘Ashtrays, stone piles, yes dear.’

  ‘Anyway, in those days, like I said, I was studying to become a teacher. I was working full time and caring for a bubbly four year old, so when an offer of a night out with Olive was offered, I’d always agree. It was ludicrous really because I don’t recall ever having a good night.

  ‘It started by greeting my babysitter and promising I’d be back before one in the morning. I’d arrive at Olive’s flat and sweet, gorgeous Carolanne would open the door. Carolanne was always ready on time and calmly waiting for the others on a nicotine-stained yellow armchair with magazines strewn around her feet (which I suspect was to hide the dusty, manky, yellow carpet which matched the nicotine-stained yellow painted walls). Opposite this chair was a dishevelled navy corduroy settee which had Tatiana’s oblong packs of 200 cigarettes all around and piles of cheap romance books. The windows were brown and again stained with nicotine (apparently Carolanne’s father was a chain smoker as well so the flat didn’t get a break from the chemical). The flat was like the lungs of an old smoker with asthma.

  ‘On these nights, I often tried to wait whilst standing as I hated sitting anywhere in case I sat on something, but my decision to take the chance to sit was based on the stage of dress Tatiana was in; if she had her makeup on then I knew I wouldn’t be waiting for long, but if she was still wrapped in a towel and huffed passed me without acknowledging my presence, then I knew I was paying for at least one hour of unnecessary babysitting. Eventually Olive, then Tatiana, would emerge just before I made my decision to leave in frustration.

  ‘Anyway, both were smothered in makeup, in particular Tatiana’s makeup was heavy enough to paint walls, though it didn’t disguise her disgust of anything, something, I don’t know, but in those days, I assumed it was me. The only person who didn’t laden her eyes down with false eyelashes and mascara or have huge back-combed hair sprayed to cement stiffness was Carolanne, just effortlessly beautiful.

  ‘Oh, but Jay, the foundation Olive and Tatiana wore made their skin look as if they were corpses ready to be presented to the funeral procession. And their lipstick was a high gloss beam that made their lips stick together when their mouths were closed so that a sentence from either one of them always began with a momentary delay whilst they peeled their lips free.

  ‘Don’t look at me that way Colin, or you Jay – okay, okay, I’m being harsh as actually they were stunning and when we finally reached the club men would literally part like the red sea to stare at these three women walking in like Moses and the Israelites. I would take advantage of the space it created as if I was a three-wheeler transit van following a police car in a traffic jam.’

  ‘Janet, you’re gorgeous and my lovely lady; I’d have been staring at you.’ Dad sweetly interjected with a supporting grin.

  ‘Thank you darling, aren’t you trained well. But trust me, I really didn’t care. I was just pleased to be out. In fact, going out then was like some sort of prescription drug. I would crave a night away to escape the intense concentration of rearing a child, (as much as I loved you darling) plus studying, but I was always so tired and by the time I arrived I was already wishing I was home. I would persevere hoping for a high inside but actually, what came instead, was the draining sense of boredom and frustration.

  ‘Boredom, as in these clubs it was too crowded to chat and catch up with Olive so I spent the night nodding: nodding to reply to Olive’s attempt to say a sentence, then I’d receive a nod whenever I reciprocated a sentence to Olive, which again was greeted with a covering nod of agreement.

  ‘And frustration which started at the queuing stage; whether it was the queue to get in or the queue for the cloak room (it was only me who had a coat even in the depths of winter) or, worst of all, the queue for the drinks. In that particular queue I would be shoved from side to side as I shuffled forward for my eventual turn. I’d pay an extortionate amount of money for four drinks then weave my way back to Olive and an ungrateful Tatiana. Sometimes Carolanne was still waiting for her drink but usually she was chatting to friends or some good-looking man was chatting to her which meant I got two drinks (this was actually an advantage as I didn’t have the money for another round and Tatiana never offered; Olive sometimes did but it was rare).’

  ‘So why did you always offer first? Why didn’t you just take it in turns?’ I said.

  ‘Olive didn’t have any money but offered when she could, Tatiana was far too protective of her own money and never offered and she would look for anyone else to pay for them and Carolanne always had someone buying her drinks without trying. I suppose if I waited for someone to offer I would have gone thirsty, plus it broke up the monotony of the evening to queue for drinks.

  ‘Apart from this, I’d stand for hours as there was never anywhere to sit so, even in my twenties, I’d ache like old lady. But the worst part of the evening was the feeling that I was on some sort of shopping channel run by judgemental women for a slobbering male shopping audience:

  ‘There was a distinct ritual to it all that I never really got into. It would start at the ‘walking in stage’: we were presented and eyes would scan the goods. Then the second stage was the drinks ritual: I would hand the drinks out to my sister and co. who would be looking anywhere except at me to say thank you. I would attempt a conversation but, although there were nods and ‘ahas’, their eyes were not looking my way but instead scanning the room for a captive buyer. Should there be a catch, then the next stage was: the girls giving an animated laugh followed by the catch phrase, ‘Ahhh I love this song’ and they would sing to one another. This was the buyer’s cue to reel in and try to infiltrate the girls’ net. I would stand back and just watch as Tatiana would assess whether they had the purchasing power.’

  ‘Purchasing power? You mean they got their wallets out? What sort of club was this?’ I questioned,

  ‘Oh no, nothing as direct as that, far less honest. Tatiana trained both Olive and Carolanne to notice the subtleties of a successful man’s financial emblems – wealth tags if you like. For example, shoes; brogues or fashionable designer footwear and the like – strictly no buckles or old tatty black shoes. However, the main wealth tag was the watch. To this day, I can distinguish between a Breitling, a Tag or a Rolex and a cheap high street watch.

  ‘If they
failed any of her tests then she would pull the net in and the men duly skulked off, but if they were successful then stage four of the buying ritual commenced and these candidates would say some inane comment like, ‘You’re far too beautiful to be dancing alone, so here I am.’ And the girls would giggle and basic flirtation would begin which allowed for the men to ultimately pair with their chosen girl. This stage was the only time I saw Tatiana smile, normally her expression was an aloof stare, as if she had discovered you’d behaved badly and she knew and she had every intention of bribing you with her solicited discovery.

  ‘The final stage: the breaking away from the group. This was the purpose of the dance floor. Even though the music was mainly a beat and no rhythm, it just meant that they could finalise the transaction away from other people watching.

  ‘This was the worst part of the evening as it meant that I was now alone to wander round and round the same dark, small space again and again searching for somewhere to sit and clock-watch until a decent hour came for me to find Olive and tell her I was catching the last train home. In summary Jay, dull, boring, dull!’

  ‘Why didn’t you meet anyone? I’ve seen pictures of you when you were younger and I think you weren’t bad, in fact, alright-looking for a mum.’

  ‘Alright looking for a mum!’ All the sincere encouragement a lady needs to hear, I think I was more than alright looking – don’t you agree Colin?’

  ‘Yes of course, beautiful dear – well I married you so I thought you were alright.’ Dad ruffled from his Sunday afternoon trance.

  ‘Oh, the sweet compliments are flying in! Well in answer to your question, I was and I was chatted up by many men.’

  Mum smiled and stroked her curled hair; her hair still had the indentation of the curlers she’d used a few hours earlier.

  ‘Well, my happiness was a little boy tugging at my ankles and snuggling into my arms and so I really didn’t care or need being chatted up by drunk men. That said, I was pretty – as were most of the women in the club – but the men certainly weren’t handsome. If I ever came across someone I liked, whom Tatiana approved of, then their brash, patronising, insincere personality eroded away any initial attraction I may have had.

  ‘I often wondered whether these men all owned the same book on, ‘How to Influence Women.’ Chapter One was a sleazy line congratulating a woman on being pretty; no matter how the woman is dressed tell her she is the prettiest in the room. This was a short chapter so that they could quickly get to Chapter Two. This chapter was about them; how they worked in London but they are soon to get a promotion which means an overseas detachment, thus trebling their salary – a salary that is so vast they struggle to know what to spend their money on. At this page of Chapter Two, there are a few suffixes, such as: tell the lady she must have a ride in their new Porsche, or they must try out the amazing restaurants they dine at which are exclusive only to them and what a privilege it would be to experience such fine dining. If this didn’t work then they went onto the next chapter; their sporting prowess. I met many men who told me how they could have been a professional tennis player. In fact, if you want to know why Wimbledon tournament is not dominated by the British then it’s because they all work in the City of London or New York and they just don’t have the time to compete.

  ‘Should any of this hypnotise a woman onto the dance floor then it was onto Chapter Four: buying as many drinks as they could shove down their prey until they stumbled into a taxi with them.

  ‘However, should any of this not be successful then the book instructed these men to revert to Chapter One then Chapter Two and so on, in a cyclical whirl for the woman in question, until either she gives in or the man spots a more willing candidate and abruptly abandons his shopping cart for another.’

  ‘Wow, we’re just all transparent bastards aren’t we… Did it ever work on you?’ I winked.

  ‘No it did not!’ Mum replied curtly. ‘And in any case, I soon met your dad at a teacher training day.’

  ‘And that was the end of it?’

  ‘And that was the end of that. But it often worked on your aunt.’

  Mum giggled to herself as she cleared the plates away to make room for the roly-poly jam sponge she had been steaming for the last two hours. The steam from the pudding fogged her glasses and she wiped them clear with her oven glove.

  ‘I can’t see it in Aunt Olive, she’s too, I dunno, up-tight, prudish maybe?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I have a few stories about your aunt. Would you like custard or cream?’

  She had already poured the custard into the family Sunday roast jug; an old jug covered in roses, burnt custard stains from past Sundays, complete with chips on the handle.

  ‘I have some cream in the fridge from yesterday’s pudding, a gooseberry pie – gooseberries picked from the garden by your father, there are some left if you’d prefer that?’ Mum was standing with one hand holding the custard and the other poised to grab whatever we desired for pudding.

  ‘Custard and no to gooseberry pie, but finish what you were talking about,’ I said impatiently.

  ‘I can’t tell you darling it would embarrass you,’ she sighed at her memories.

  ‘He’s thirty-six Jan,’ Dad said, ‘I think he’ll cope – and cream for me and if there is gooseberry pie then I wouldn’t mind that as well – it was a good pie don’t you think? A great gooseberry crop this year.’

  ‘Then get it yourself Dad. Mum, sit down and finish.’

  Mum swivelled around, grabbed the cream and sat down.

  ‘It started slowly at first with just one weekly night out. All Olive’s wages were spent on her dress, which certainly followed fashion but didn’t follow taste. I often wonder whether fashion designers get stumped for fresh ideas, so create designs that only a model with good lighting and a clever photographer can pull off. These unflattering designs seep down into the general public who the designers rely upon to buy under the guise of ‘following fashion’. Olivia, my sweet sister, was one of them. Her dresses became shorter and tighter but even though I balked at the daring length of them they, nevertheless, achieved the desired effect.’

  ‘Yeah, and?’ I said.

  ‘One particular dress had a see-through top and Olivia would wear a half cup bra with it. It was actually passible some years ago as it was well before her first boob operation but it still gave men a creak in their neck.’ Mum giggled to herself again as she watched this particular memory.

  ‘In her letter she said she was on a diet to lose weight; was she very skinny?’

  ‘She idolised Tatiana and tried to copy everything she did but when she first came back from Australia she was still quite plump. It took a while for her to really slim down.’

  ‘When I first met her,’ interjected Dad, ‘she was quite voluptuous, with flaming red hair. I have to say she was a looker and she should have stayed that way. I’d say she had the Marilyn Monroe style and I can’t understand why that isn’t good enough for you women. After all, Monroe was an iconic beauty.’

  ‘A beauty who died having led a tragic life. But even so, Olivia just wanted to look like Tatiana; thin, ironed-straight hair and a permanent look of disgust,’ replied Mum.

  Mum and Dad shook their heads; Dad took a bite of his jam sponge.

  ‘Complete waste of God’s wrapping paper if you ask me,’ he said between bites.

  ‘So, apart from her being a misguided groupie of Tatiana, what was so dangerous for my ears?’

  ‘As I said, she spent every penny she earned on clothes, makeup and hair styles and her demeanour became slightly slutty as she progressed through the ranks of nightclub connoisseurs. I eventually stopped going so frequently as, whenever I went, I would be abandoned by all three by at least midnight and I would walk endless laps of the club we were in, desperately trying to find my sister to angrily tell her that I was leaving and thanks for another awful night.
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  ‘Olive would call me the next day to apologise for her disappearing act, however, it was merely an excuse to tell me about the amazing man she had met the night before; how he lavished her with champagne and, because he had bought a particular bottle, then they had a private booth. I’m fuzzy on details as I never got to sit down in these places; the clubs we went to, well, they were just walking gyms to me by the end.

  ‘Olive was affected by the flash arrogance of these men. She never tired of their boasts even though each man had the same story to tell and the same catchphrases to woo a woman into their bed. These slimy, sycophantic snakes had a shelf life and that was about five minutes after feeding off my sister and then she was no longer the goddess they professed she was. These men always had a busy day or breakfast meeting, so she needed to leave as soon as they had slept with her, but they would call her very soon, all untrue. Alas she never saw it. Instead she focused on the lavish lies and promises of a call. On one occasion she convinced herself that this man was a genuine perfect prince who had fallen in love with her because after the deed he paid for a cab for her to return to the club he had picked her up from!

  ‘Unfortunately, my attempts to explain to her that these men were fake and please leave them in the pond she had scraped them up from, was met with anger and defiance. She would tell me I was jealous and I couldn’t handle the fact she had met someone amazing and I was stuck with Colin, who wasn’t rich or cavalier enough to ever buy me champagne; the fact he was an intelligent, kind and genuine human being was an insignificance to her as he was just a trainee teacher who couldn’t possibly afford the exciting life she wanted.’

  Mum sighed and looked down at the table. Dad grabbed her hand and she squeezed his hand in return.

  ‘You were a good sister, Jan, and I’m sure she knows that now and I’m sure she knew that then, she just couldn’t deal with someone telling her the truth,’ Dad said.