To take his mind off her, he glanced at his diary. Hell! He really wasn’t in the mood for letting his hair down and having fun, and he most certainly didn’t feel like making himself look stupid on purpose by wearing fancy dress for the wretched office party this coming weekend.
Whatever it is I go as, he thought (and I suppose there’s no way I can get out of going altogether?), then it’ll have to be something warm. It’s genuine brass-monkey weather these days. I haven’t time to mess about making anything, not that I’d have the first idea anyway, so I’ll just have to go to that theatrical costume-hire place. And I’ll get something with a mask – a little anonymity at this juncture would be most welcome.
By Saturday, Hector had worked out a plan for arriving incognito. The party was to take place in one of the large public rooms on the sea front, where there was ample parking space and good catering facilities. The proprietors of the paper and a handful of local dignitaries had been invited as usual, but this year there was no one that Hector was currently trying to cultivate. He was grateful for this respite. It meant that he could lurk inside his costume for the minimum time required, and then when duty had been served, and without the necessity for any bootlicking, he could get the hell out good and early and bugger off home.
He pondered on this idea with grim satisfaction as he parked his car in the far corner of the car park. Over on the other side he could see the lights of people arriving and hear the whoops and giggles as they identified each other. No one would see him getting out of his Jag. It was nice and dark so no one would know who he was. I’ll get out and walk all round the edge until I’m there, he thought. Good thing it’s not a garish costume; couldn’t be better actually. Right, here goes.
He got out of the car, reached in for the top of his outfit and put it over his head. Seeing out was a little tricky in the dark, and the cold wind whistled in through the slits and made his eyes water, but he finally managed to locate the door lock and turn the key in it. OK, Hector thought, let’s get this over with! As he walked briskly round the perimeter of the car park, he patted his hips, chest and bottom in turn, trying to locate somewhere safe to stow his keys and his wallet. There were no pockets. Stupid bloody get-up; clearly not designed by a man, Hector snorted in disgust. I’ll have to find some female with spare handbag capacity, to look after them for me. What a bore.
The room was already crowded and noisy when he approached the door, and he was seized by a moment of panic, during which he seriously considered beating a hasty retreat. But then the frivolous atmosphere engulfed him like a kick in the pants, and Hector found himself seduced into an impromptu performance.
As Barry had predicted, there were several pirates in the room. He was glad that he had rejected that notion out of hand. He had been surprised how hard it had been to think up a witty idea for a costume, and he would not have admitted to anyone that he’d finally got his from an old university rag magazine from the 1960s which he’d found behind that filing cabinet he was helping to move from the Sales room. Now though, Barry was sorry that he hadn’t had the courage to approach Jess to collaborate in a double act. He should have dressed himself as a clown; Jess could just have come as herself. Then he would have given her a piggyback, and bingo! – virgin on the ridiculous. No, it would have been too unkind to Jess, who was a good sort, but not feminine enough for his taste.
Barry looked round for Wendy. He was determined not to appear sheepish. There she was! She looked so sweet. She was a mass of feathers, all brown and grey, stripy, barred and spotted, even down to the matching shoulder bag. She had a little downy head-dress, obviously home-made, with a beak on it, and a long tail hanging down over her bottom. Her shapely legs were revealed in tight brown leggings, and she even had little yellow claws fastened over the front of her high-heeled shoes.
‘You look terrific,’ Barry said, going over to her. ‘What are you?’
‘I’m a game bird,’ Wendy giggled.
‘Are you indeed? Way-hey!’ he smirked.
‘Now don’t you go getting any saucy ideas, Barry Poole. What are you?’
Barry looked down at himself; at the sandwich-boards of thick white card on which he had printed things very carefully in black ink:
MONSIEUR BARRIE CASANOVA,
RUE DE JOIE,
PARIS, FRANCE…
This appeared on the front, with a big, red postage stamp at the top right-hand corner. On the back, he’d written S.W.A.L.K. (Sealed With A Loving Kiss) and two lines to mark where the flap went. He hoped everyone would get the joke, but worried that it was too out-of-date a euphemism. Nowadays most people simply called them condoms. So, when Wendy asked him, ‘What are you?’ he really should have told her. It was a heaven-sent publicity opportunity. Knowing Wendy, he would only have had to say it once, and it would have been all round the room in no time.
‘I’m a French…’ His nerve failed him. ‘I’m an envelope,’ he said.
‘How peculiar,’ Wendy giggled again. ‘Oh no! Look at that!’
A gorilla had bounded into the room, grunting and swinging the knuckles of its large paws close to the floor, and everyone fell silent and stood back to let it into the centre. Once there, it started to beat its chest, but the heroic effect was slightly marred when it dropped something on the floor and had to pat about between people’s feet to find it.
‘Whoever is it?’ Wendy wondered. ‘You just can’t tell, can you? It’s amazing. Oooh it’s coming this way. Perhaps it’s a gorilla-gram!’
It’s a cheat, Barry thought, hiring a costume. Any fool can do that. It isn’t the least bit clever. ‘So, what are you game for, then?’ he asked Wendy, but she wasn’t listening. The gorilla was advancing towards her, holding out what looked like a bunch of keys and something else.
‘Hi Wend,’ it said gruffly in a disguised bass voice. ‘You wouldn’t be an angel and look after these for me, would you; pop them into your reticule?’
Wendy let out a little shriek of pleasure. ‘It’s you!’ she breathed. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
The gorilla put a fat digit to its lips. ‘Sssssh,’ it said.
Wendy laughed delightedly. ‘I haven’t got a retic… whatever it was you said,’ she apologised, taking the wallet and keys, ‘but I’ll keep them safe in my handbag if you, like.’
‘Perfect’ the gorilla said, patting her feathery bottom with a hairy paw. ‘And what species of sporting birdy are you, then? If I snipe, duck and dive, or even goose you, will you grouse or quail or just be pheasant to me?’
Oh wonderful! Barry thought bitterly, as they moved away together. Thank you God, so much. Would-be Lothario upstaged by Pun-man wrapped in hearthrug; how stunningly incompetent!
Jess knew at once that the gorilla was Hector, and thought, How clever! I wish I’d got myself covered up so that I could pretend I’m not who I am. If only I wasn’t me, I could be the life and soul of this party, but reality is so dreadfully inhibiting. She had realised as soon as she had arrived that she should have spent more time trying to think of something clever and topical to wear. Even Wendy seemed to have hit the spot. Jess had simply come as ‘Westcountry Year’ and had stapled some of her best photos of the previous twelve months on to an old kaftan, including as many amusing ones as she could find. It wasn’t daring or original as she now acknowledged to herself, but it was warm and safe, and a surprising number of people came up and peered at her.
‘Lift your arm up a bit,’ Barry said, beside her. ‘I don’t remember that one?’ He was looking at a moody photograph of a drainage ditch on the Somerset Levels under louring clouds, in which the gleaming silver rhyne sliced through the flat fields into the middle distance in a hard straight line. In the foreground an untidy bay had been cut into its bank and a drunken hand-painted notice beside it read: NO FISHING IN COW DRINK.
‘No,’ Jess agreed, ‘it was just one I liked. I quite often walk down there on the moor for fun, you know. I take binoculars and watch birds.’
‘What, in
this weather?’
‘Well no, it’s far too wet at the moment. Most of the droves are under water; have been for weeks.’
‘I’d hate to live down there,’ Barry said, making a face. ‘Horrible foggy, boggy sort of place, full of peat mumps and far too much sky. Looks like it’s in the process of getting even wetter too.’ He inclined his head towards the large dark windows. Someone had forgotten to draw the curtains, so it was possible to look out over the sea front. Jess did so. In the yellow glare from the street lamps she could see that it was raining hard. The wind had got up too, bowling an empty fish and chip wrapper at speed along the promenade, and sending odd waves high over the sea wall in a flurry of froth and sand. She could imagine the combined noises of wind, waves and rain, but the thick glazing of the windows and the swell of party voices kept it at bay for the moment.
Leaving here is going to be horrible, Jess thought. But I won’t think about that now. Maybe the weather will have calmed down by then?
‘If it carries on like this, I’ll be papier maché by the time I get home,’ Barry said, echoing her thoughts. ‘I knew I should have come as a frogman.’
He wandered off to get his glass refilled, and Jess looked round to find someone else to talk to. Hector was not far off, in the centre of a group of people. He had taken his gorilla head off and left it somewhere, and his paws dangled from his wrists on bits of elastic, like a child’s gloves. Jess smiled. Then Hector turned in mid-sentence and saw her, beckoning her to join them with a gesture of his head and an answering smile.
‘Nice get-up,’ Jess said when she arrived beside him. ‘Suits you.’
‘No pockets,’ Hector said. ‘Honestly, how do gorillas manage?’
Hector was enjoying himself in spite of overheating in his tight-fitting costume. To cool himself off, he drank a lot of ice-cold lager and wiped his damp forehead from time to time on a hairy arm. As he was exchanging friendly banter with Jess, the food was announced and they went through to the buffet together.
‘It’s simply pouring down outside,’ she said to him. ‘There’ll be more floods at this rate.’
‘I’ll be OK,’ Hector said. ‘I’m on a slight hill. Your flat’s high up too, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes. I was thinking more of the cottages on the edge of the Levels.’ They joined the queue for food.
‘Daft place to live if you ask me; just asking for trouble.’
‘I’ve got some lovely photos down there, over the years.’
‘You’re a good photographer. Ever thought of going freelance, moving to London even?’
‘You trying to get rid of me?’
“Course not. Fancy a vol-au-vent?’
I mustn’t talk to Jess too long, Hector thought. I’d be more gainfully employed having a good look round just in case Caroline’s successor-in-title happens to be here; unlikely but always a possibility. Mustn’t miss a trick. No time to lose! He piled his plate high with goodies from the buffet table and then moved through the crowd, eating as he went, exchanging polite but brief chit-chat with those he bumped into or couldn’t avoid. After another hour, when it was obvious that there was not a single woman at the party who was remotely eligible, Hector decided to push off.
It was a bit on the early side, so he slipped out into the storm without making any demonstrations of farewell, and walked briskly across the car park to his car. Even before he got there, he was soaked to the skin. The gorilla suit which had trapped his sweat on the inside all too efficiently, was now leaking like a colander the other way round! He’d put the headpiece on to act as a hat, but the rain was oozing in at the join and dripping down the back of his neck. Then he couldn’t see through the eye slits to find his car in the semi-darkness, so he was obliged to take the head off again and carry it under one arm. Not long now, he thought, thank God. Home and a hot bath, whisky and bed. It had never seemed so welcome. He located his car with a sigh of relief and felt for his key…
‘SHIT!’ Hector cursed loudly, dumped the head on the bonnet of the Jaguar and stumped angrily back through the rain in search of Wendy and her handbag.
Wendy had noticed Hector slipping out into the night and had been on the verge of running after him, calling, ‘Hey! Don’t forget your things!’ when a much better idea had occurred to her. It was so fiendishly good that she nearly gasped aloud. Instead she made a dash for the cloakroom, grabbed her mackintosh and umbrella, and then set off to walk home through the wind and rain as fast as her unsuitable shoes would carry her. As she passed a line of stationary taxis at the rank, her umbrella blew inside-out for the third time and Wendy, hanging the expense, took one for the rest of the way home. Then she kicked off her high heels, ran upstairs, tore all her feathers off, put on her best silky robe and a liberal spraying of perfume, repaired her make-up, brushed her hair and sat down to wait.
Hector took an inordinately long time to arrive. Wendy almost gave up on him and went to bed, but kept waiting for five minutes more each time, just in case, yawning all the while and having great difficulty in keeping her eyes open. She rehearsed what she would say when he did eventually show up, and hoped it would sound convincing. In the meantime she cuddled up in her big armchair in front of the gas fire and crossed her fingers.
The chiming of the front-door bell threw her into an instant tizzy. She leapt out of the armchair, discovering as she did so that one leg had gone to sleep and was now all prickly with pins and needles. She clutched the front edges of her robe together with one hand and, rubbing her leg with the other, limped to the door and opened it only as far as the chain would allow.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Hector,’ he sounded cross.
‘Oh, Hector! Just a minute, I’ll open the door.’ She undid the chain and the force of the wind burst the door wide open. Wendy clutched at herself and gabbled, ‘Oh! Come in. You look wet through! I’m ever so sorry about your stuff in my bag. I looked everywhere for you to give them back, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. I didn’t know what to do. I thought maybe someone had given you a lift home, or even a bed for…’
‘No,’ Hector said shortly, stepping over the threshold and leaning his full weight against the door to close it again. ‘I’ve been looking for you too. If only you’d stayed at the party a little longer, then I wouldn’t have had all this trouble.’ He looked down at his feet. Water was dripping from the black fur and forming dark patches on Wendy’s hall carpet. ‘Hell! I’m wet to the bloody bone.’
‘You’ll catch your death like that,’ Wendy said. ‘I’m really sorry. I just didn’t know what to do for the best. Look, you mustn’t stay all cold and wet. How about having a hot bath here, now? I could pop the gorilla suit into the tumble dryer – I mean, you really can’t go out again like that, can you?’
‘Oh I don’t know…’ Hector began, then a shiver went right through him, making his teeth chatter, and he grudgingly agreed. ‘Oh, all right then. God, what a farce.’
Hector had found it hard to believe that Wendy had left the party without giving him his things from her bag. Surely no one could be that dim? How the hell did she think he was going to get home without them? He had wasted a lot of time rushing round all the party rooms, the cloakroom, the bogs, the entrance hall, every-bloody-where looking for the stupid woman. Then, when he concluded that she really must have gone home, he couldn’t find anyone who knew where she lived! Oh he knew roughly where it was, but roughly wasn’t good enough on a night like this and in such a ridiculous get-up. So he went to look for a phone book, but there wasn’t one. He tried Directory Enquiries and they gave him her number but refused to divulge her address. Then he saw it was a payphone, but he didn’t have any money, and by the time he’d realised this, he’d forgotten the number, because he hadn’t anything to write it down on. By this time, he was incandescent with frustration, jumping up and down and beating his head with his fists.
‘Something wrong?’ Barry enquired, on his way to the cloakroom.
‘Yo
u don’t happen to know Wendy’s phone number by any extraordinary chance, do you?’ Hector was clutching at straws.
“Course I do. Why?’
‘She’s only taken my bloody keys… You DO know it? Thank Christ for that! I don’t suppose you’ve got change for the phone as well?’
‘Sorry. Spent it all on booze. You could always reverse the charge, or, better still, I could pop round there for you, if you like. Have to be on foot though; I left the car at home so’s I could drink.’
‘You mean you know her address?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well why the blazes didn’t you say so in the first place?’
‘Well you never asked m…’ but Hector interrupted him and made him say it twice, and slowly so that he could get it properly memorised.
‘D’you want me to go then?’ Barry asked. He seemed eager to do so for some reason.
Hector stared at him. ‘What, like that?’
Barry looked down at his sandwich-boards and then out at the gale. ‘Well, on second thoughts, perhaps not.’
‘No,’ Hector said. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. This is my disaster. I’ll sort it out myself.’
He walked briskly through the wind and rain, and was grateful the weather was so bad that there were few people around to jeer at his costume. A few cars hooted, and one youth wound down a window and wolf-whistled, but he strode on regardless. He felt very irritated with Wendy, but he made himself concentrate on the task in hand. He would get his keys etc. and then leave, walking fast (which would keep him warm – rather like wearing a wet suit actually) back to his car and finally, God willing, get home.
When Wendy opened her front door to him, Hector was taken aback. She was clearly ready for bed, and equally obviously wasn’t wearing anything at all under that dressing-gown thing! He hadn’t realised before what good legs she had. She looked younger too, and even fluffier than usual. He had intended waiting on the doorstep whilst she fetched his things, but with the gale roaring into the house as it was, he really had no option but to go inside and close the door.
The Would-Begetter Page 5