An Eligible Man

by Rosemary Friedman

  He felt a hand on his, pulling him to his feet.

  “It’s the interval,” Lucille said. “I’m dry as a bone!”

  The second half of the show passed more quickly. “Gus: The Theatre Cat”, “Growl Tiger’s Last Stand”, “Skimble-shanks”, and the rousing choruses of “Mr Mistoffeles”. Finally it was Grizabella who was chosen to ascend (in a red cloud) to the Heaviside Layer from where – lucky moggie – she would eventually be reborn.

  Outside the theatre Lucille said: “Wasn’t it smashing? I could see it all over again.”

  While, in the second half at least, the show had not been as bad as Topher had feared, he could not exactly share Lucille’s sentiments. The thought occurred to him that he should have booked up somewhere for dinner.

  Lucille was waiting expectantly.

  “How about something to eat?” Topher hoped that she would decline the invitation and he could go home. He would just be in time to hear the end of the Late Quartets.

  “I’m starving,” Lucille said.

  She seemed always to be either dry or starving.

  They walked to Soho, Lucille clinging to Topher’s arm. Outside a strip club she pulled him to an abrupt halt.

  “Just look at that!”

  “That” was a photograph of a naked and well-endowed female manipulating a snake in a manner which left very little to the imagination.

  “You don’t see many of those in Bingley,” Lucille said.

  A person of indeterminate sex, wearing evening dress and heavy make-up, informed them from the brightly lit doorway that they would be just in time for the second show.

  “Shall we?” Lucille said. “Just for a laugh.”

  Topher was appalled. SEX SHOW CIRCUIT JUDGE…

  He pulled his companion away from the photographs of the snake charmer and other redoubtable, moist-lipped ladies who inclined towards the camera at such an angle that their inflated bosoms threatened to shatter the lens.

  “Not even for a laugh.”

  In the quasi-Italian restaurant they faced each other across the breadsticks. Over a large vodka (she was absolutely parched) Lucille opened her handbag to show Topher the souvenirs she had bought in the interval at Cats. A black tee-shirt from which stared two green cat’s eyes, six Cats coasters, a Cats record, a Cats poster, and half a dozen Cats badges for her nieces and nephews.

  With the first course of seafood (which when it came looked more like an aquarium) they shared a bottle of white Villa Antinori. Assisted only marginally by Topher, who had to drive home, Lucille managed a carafe of the house red with her breaded veal escalope (captivating the waiter who hovered with the giant pepper mill), and a Tia Maria with her zabaglione which was itself laced with Marsala.

  Sucking delicately on the sponge finger which she had dunked into the amber froth in its tall glass, she said: “This stuff takes me back. I used to make it for Harold.”

  Topher guessed that Harold must have been one of her husbands. He was not sure which one.

  Before he had a chance to enquire, Lucille, an expression of sadness coming over her face, said quietly: “Harold was my last husband. I was married when I was seventeen. Straight from school. To get away from home I suppose. That was Walter. “Walter…Walter…lead me to the altar…” Walter led me to the altar all right but that was about as much as he could manage. He was a captain in the army. He should have married Stanley. Stanley was his batman. He did everything for Walter, bar get into bed with us. He would have done that too given half the chance!” Lucille scraped up the last spoon of the zabaglione with her long spoon.

  “After Walter it was Micky. Nothing suspect about Micky. Six feet two in his socks and the spitting image of Marlon Brando. I thought he loved me. He did really. It was just that he had a funny way of showing it. What he didn’t know about women wasn’t worth knowing. After Walter I thought this is it, Lucille, everything is going to be OK. It was for a bit. Then Micky started with the rough stuff. He had this terrible temper. I don’t think he could help it. Afterwards he’d be as sweet as pie. My father used to tell us, if a man ever raises a hand to you girls – there were five of us, I was the youngest – you’ve to open the window and tell the whole street. I didn’t know what he was on about. I never did what he said. I was too ashamed. Sometimes I was in a right state…” Lucille put a hand to the back of her neck. “…I never let on though. Not to anyone. People always said how sweet Micky was. He did have a lovely way with him. We were married for fifteen years.

  “I think I’d still be married to him if Harold hadn’t come along. I used to work in Schofield’s, that’s a big department store in Leeds. I was the fashion buyer. Harold manufactured dresses. As soon as I saw him…I couldn’t help myself. Neither of us could. We used to see each other every Wednesday – Harold’s wife went to Rug Making and Micky played poker. Harold took a little pied-à-terre for us. One Wednesday the pipes burst so Harold came to my place. Unfortunately Micky had a migraine – he suffered from them – and came home early. He almost killed Harold. It was all over the papers. Anyway, that was that. Harold and I got married. We had five years together and shall I tell you something?”

  Topher waited.

  “I’d never known what it was like to be happy. It was like…Well, it was like nothing on this earth. We had a nice little bungalow and lived very quietly. Just a few close friends. Harold’s children used to come. Harold did the garden. We didn’t go away much. We were planning to go round the world when Harold retired.”

  The waiter was standing by the table.

  “Coffee?” Topher said.

  “I’d love some…” Lucille said as if from miles away. “…and a teeny crème de menthe, if that’s all right. Harold never did retire. He came home one day and fell over the front doorstep. I thought he’d just tripped. Then he walked into the glass door on to the patio. Soon after he began to complain of a terrible smell of burning rubber. Of course there was nothing burning. When he started to go blank in the middle of a conversation I knew that something was wrong.”

  She paused, lost apparently in thought.

  “To cut a long story short, in three weeks Harold was dead. Tumour on the brain. They did operate but he never recovered.” She reached for the wine bucket and up-ended the empty bottle over her glass.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but before Harold died I never touched the stuff.”

  Over coffee she said: “I don’t know what got me started on that rigmarole. I’m sure you’re not the least bit interested.”

  “You’ve had a bad time.” Topher looked at his companion with new eyes.

  “If it hadn’t been for Tina I don’t know how I would have managed. She’s a wonderful woman, your sister. Which reminds me – she made a cake for you. It’s back at the hotel.”

  They were crossing Oxford Street in the car on the way back to the Mount Royal, when Lucille shrieked. Topher slammed his foot on the brakes.

  “What is it?”

  Lucille held up her hand.

  “My ring!” Her outstretched fingers were bare. “It’s gone!”

  Topher noticed that her speech, not surprisingly considering the amount she had drunk, was slurred.

  “I’ve lost my ring!”

  “You were wearing it when you arrived,” Topher said, “I remember distinctly.”

  “I always wear it. Harold gave it to me. It’s a bit showy but I’m not bothered.”

  “Did you have it on in the theatre?” Topher said.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Think carefully.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “When was the last time you noticed it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you take it off for any reason?”

  Lucille was looking distractedly in her bag, pulling out the tee-shirt and coasters.

  “Cast your mind back,” Topher said. “Did you at any time…?”

  “It’s no use coming the judge with me.” Lucille said,
hysterically. She was emptying out the contents of her purse now into her lap. “I can’t even think straight.”

  Topher had pulled up outside the Mount Royal and switched off the engine when he recalled that on her arrival at his house Lucille had paid a visit to the cloakroom.

  “Do you take your ring off to wash your hands?” he said.

  “It’s not even insured. Harold said if I wear it all the time…or else I have to keep it in the bank…”

  Switching on the ignition Topher headed for Hampstead.

  Sixteen

  In the cloakroom, on the wash-basin next to the soap, lay the ring with its over-sized diamond. Putting it in the palm of his hand, Topher held it out to Lucille who was sitting despondently on the chair in the hall.

  The Koh-i-noor itself could not have inspired a more dramatic reaction. Lucille took the ring, slipped it on to her finger, jumped up and hugged Topher so tightly that he was almost strangled.

  “You’re an angel.” Releasing him, she held the ring up to the light. “An absolute angel. I remember now. I took it off and put it on the side of the basin.”

  She followed Topher into the kitchen.

  “This calls for a celebration.” She eyed the whisky bottle which Topher had replaced on the top of the fridge. “I really thought I’d lost it.”

  “It’s almost one-thirty. By the time we get back to the Mount Royal…”

  “Just a little one.” Her eye was still on the bottle, her voice coaxing.

  Topher poured her a very small whisky. She could not be much more the worse for wear.

  When she had finished it she slumped forwards on to the table with her head on her arms, Harold’s ring sparkling in the light.

  “I’m really tired…” She sounded as if she was almost asleep.

  “Can’t I stay here?”

  There were three spare bedrooms, not counting the top floor. Topher could think of no good reason why Lucille should not spend the night in one of them.

  “I’d better take you back to the hotel.”

  Lucille opened one eye.

  “I’ll be no trouble.”

  Topher pulled her to her feet. Her head fell heavily on to his shoulder. If she was going to get back to the hotel it looked as if he would have to carry her there.

  “I promise to be good,” she pleaded.

  Removing her arms from around his neck, Topher thought that she was in no state to be anything else.

  “I’ll cook you the most smashing breakfast.” Lucille sat heavily on the chair again. “Harold used to say I was the best cook for…the best cook for…Sunday mornings we’d get up late…it was more of a brunch really…scrambled eggs…and sausages…once in a while I’d make a kedgeree…or a Finnan Haddie with a poached egg on top…and we’d read the papers… sometimes we’d go back to bed again…”

  “You can sleep in Penge’s room,” Topher said. “Just for tonight.”

  He was woken next morning by the sound of music.

  “‘Midnight…not a sound from the pavement…’”

  He thought he was still dreaming and that he was at Cats. Then he remembered Lucille.

  There was a tap on the door which was opened before he could answer it. Lucille came in with a cup on a tray. She was wearing her tee-shirt (a green cat’s eye on either breast) which came down to the tops of her bare thighs. In the half-light, without her make-up, she looked like a young girl.

  Putting the tray down on the bedside table, she started to dance round the room in time to the music, which was loud enough to rouse the entire street.

  “‘Daylight …’” Her voice was not at all bad. “‘I must wait for the sunrise …’”

  Topher hoped that she was wearing something beneath the black tee-shirt which barely covered her bottom.

  “‘…I must think of a new life …’”

  She twirled over to the curtains.

  “‘…and I mustn’t give in.’”

  The mid-morning light flooded into the room.

  “‘When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory too…’”

  Lucille waltzed over to the bed and collapsed on top of Topher.

  “‘and a new day…’” Her voice was husky. “‘…will begin.’”

  She looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “That’s all right,” Topher said magnanimously. Lucille was heavier than she looked and he had difficulty in breathing.

  “I drink too much. There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s not a pretty sight. I made you a cup of tea. I didn’t know about the sugar. There’s two lumps in the saucer. Would you like me to hand it you?”

  “I can manage,” Topher said, thinking that he could if Lucille would remove herself from his chest.

  She ran her fingers over his face. “You remind me of Harold in a way. You have nice ears. I like ears. There’s not many people notice ears.”

  Topher struggled to sit up.

  “I didn’t leave it there on purpose,” Lucille said.

  “Leave what there on purpose?”

  She was talking in riddles.

  “The ring.”

  “I didn’t think for one moment…”

  “Would you like me to pop into bed?”

  “No,” Topher said. And as soon as the answer was out of his mouth he realised that it was not strictly true.

  Lucille slid a hand beneath the covers.

  Topher caught his breath.

  As she leaned towards him he saw that she was not wearing a thing beneath the Cats tee-shirt.

  “Lucille!” Topher said sternly.

  He was just about to remove her blonde hair with its dark roots from his face when the doorbell rang insistently.

  “Do you have to?”

  Topher got out of bed and drew the curtain aside until he could see the front porch.

  “Topher…” April was standing on the step looking up at him.

  “I’m locked out. I went to post a letter and I posted my door keys by mistake. They slipped out of my hand. Marcus is in Brussels.”

  “Who is it?” Lucille hissed.

  “A neighbour. She’s locked out. I’ve got her spare house keys.”

  Topher opened the window and stuck his head out. “I’m coming down.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” April said, when he’d put on his dressing gown and opened the front door. “I know you’re usually around by now.”

  “I must have overslept.” Topher feigned a yawn. April followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he looked for the keys. She cupped her hands round the teapot. “Ouch!” She looked at Topher.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” he said quickly, listening with one ear for sounds of Lucille and wishing April would go away.

  “I might as well keep you company. I wanted to pick your brains anyway.”

  Topher poured out the tea and offered her the Fairy Cubes from the box on the table.

  “Sugar?”

  April shook her head.

  “I don’t. I didn’t think you did.”

  “Now and then,” Topher put one lump into his cup, rendering it undrinkable. “What is it you want to ask me?”

  “I’ve got this client,” April said. “An Iranian. He asked me to decorate his flat while he was in the States. He didn’t want to make any decisions. Money was no object. Everything had to be of the finest quality. Inez and I worked extremely hard to get the place finished on time. We did a fantastic job. When the client came back he took one look at it and started picking holes in everything. We’d put in white baths and he wanted navy-blue baths. We’d used plain mirrors and he wanted peach mirrors. We’d made blinds and he wanted festoons…”

  “Festoons?”

  April opened her mouth to answer when there was a crash from upstairs.

  “What was that?”

  “I left a pile of books.” Topher looked at the ceiling. “They must have fallen off the bed.”

  “Sort of drapey curtains…” A
pril said.

  Topher heard the flush of the lavatory cistern. He coughed loudly.

  “Are you all right, Topher?”

  “I think I’ve got a bit of a cold coming on.”

  “You do look a bit odd. Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll bring you up some breakfast.”

  Topher looked at her in horror.

  “You haven’t finished telling me about the festoons.”

  Praying that Lucille wasn’t going to make any more noises, Topher tried to pay attention to the end of April’s story which was that the Iranian had refused to settle his account until she had redecorated the entire flat. April poured herself a second cup of tea while he advised her how to go about the recoupment of her fees. When he had finished April stood up.

  “Thanks for the keys.” Picking them up from the table she looked at Topher. “Marcus will be back at lunchtime. Would you like him to pop down?”

  “What on earth for?” Topher remembered his cough. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  In the bedroom Topher found Lucille, wrapped in his bathrobe, on her knees, trying to remove a tea stain from the carpet with a towel.

  “I’m ever so sorry. I knocked the tray over. I think it’s all come out.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Topher pulled her to her feet.

  “I took a shower.”

  “I heard you.”

  “I thought she’d never go.” Lucille moved towards him. “My friends are picking me up from the Mount Royal at twelve. We’re going to Windsor for the day.”

  “We’d better be making a move then.” Topher removed her arms from around his neck.

  “I’ve got to change. I can’t go to Windsor in my black lace.”

  She drew away from him suddenly as if she had been electrocuted.

  “What is it?” Topher said.

  “I heard something.”

  Topher noticed that the bathrobe had come untied. He found it hard to concentrate on some imagined noise.

  The front door closed unmistakably and there was the sound of a bicycle being dragged along the floor.

  “It’s Penge.” Making for the door he held a finger to his lips. “She has the key.”