It was Ben’s turn to sound contrite. ‘Sorry, I’m out on the yacht for the next couple of days. But I tell you what, you’re a good outdoorsy girl, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah!’ carolled Bunty, lying her head off. The most outdoorsy she’d been recently was belly-crawling through the drainage system in her own back garden, or carrying her shopping across Tesco’s car park.
‘Well, how about meeting up on Saturday for some fresh air. No bedrooms involved, I promise.’
‘Great!’
‘So you’ll find something for us to do, seeing as you’re the local? Ask your fencing mates or whatever.’
‘Sure!’
‘Call you tomorrow.’
‘Right! Bye!’
Bunty had put the phone down, exhausted from having to speak in such an enthusiastic, exclamatory way before she’d even had chance to make the beds. And then she’d set to with the Yellow Pages, finding something in which she could become proficient in half a week, at least enough to impress Ben with her outdoorsyness.
Which was how she and Kat, dragooned in for moral support, found themselves at an archery lesson at 6.30 a.m. on a damp Wednesday. (Or perhaps it was always damp at dawn. Bunty didn’t usually see it.) If she played her cards right she could have three lessons by Saturday, and practice a bit in between times, maybe taking pot shots at Graham, and by the time of meeting Ben on Saturday afternoon (with Graham actually at football, and Charlotte at orchestra rehearsal with her oboe) she could wow him by her expertise with a bow.
‘It’s your turn.’ Kat shoved her from behind. ‘That way!’
Spun around by her friend, Bunty eyed the target. Surely it had got further away? ‘Right,’ the instructor was bellowing, ‘now draw that back till your hand is under your jaw and the string’s pressing on your nose …’
‘My what?’ Bunty turned to look at the instructor, and immediately let go of the taut string. It twanged against her lower left arm like a cat-o’-nine-tails. Bunty yowled.
‘Didn’t you have your arm guard on?’ The female instructor hurried over. ‘It was the first thing we covered this morning. People! Very important to wear your arm guard, or you’ll end up like Binty here.’
‘Bunty.’ The pain was excruciating, and before her eyes a welt was rising on the white skin of her underarm like some sort of Masonic insignia, while the bloom of a new bruise brushed the rest of it.
‘Arm guard on. Onward and upward. Aim and … good!’ The instructor watched Bunty’s arrow sail over the target and pulled Kat forward into her place. ‘Very close. You next.’
Somehow Kat turned out to be a natural, getting two bull’s-eyes out of five shots while Bunty was lucky to hit the target. ‘It’s only cos you’re so little,’ said Kat. ‘I’ve got arms like a shot-putter so I can pull the stringy thing back more easily.’ She loosed another arrow off across the patchy grass and it thunked solidly into the gold area of the target. ‘See. I love it. It’s the only sport I’ve ever been able to do.’
Bunty sighed. ‘I’m not sure it counts as a sport. That’s why I chose it.’
Neither she, Kat, nor Cally had ever been into any kind of sporting activity really. The closest they’d got was paint-balling on a Saturday afternoon, and that had stopped early because Bunty bruised too easily. There was the evidence again, spreading up her arm like yellow fever. She’d tried archery once before, at one of Graham’s corporate events, where they’d been in a team with some tall, dark, geeky kind of guy from Acquisitions. His kindly wife who’d been so bad at everything that Bunty had looked like a trained athlete by comparison. Who were they? Petra and someone. Brian? Or … Ryan. Shit! Maybe there was a Ryan, after all.
‘Course it counts as a sport,’ said Kat, drawing her hand back to her chin like a professional, practically slicing her nose in two with the string. Ah. The instructor had been right, after all. ‘They do it at the Olympics, don’t they? So it must be a proper sport.’
‘Yeah, like beach volleyball,’ scoffed Bunty. ‘And that weird walking with your bum stuck out. And sailing … damn!’
Sailing. Of course! She would have had a chance for at least a couple of sailing lessons, and then she could have thoroughly impressed Ben with her expertise and jargon while they shot round the Isle of Wight on his yacht with champagne in their free hand – the one they weren’t using to caress the other’s cheek.
But sailing wasn’t a possibility right now, so archery it was – anything to try to convince Ben, who had showered her with ten days of phone attention, all at the right times when Graham wouldn’t get suspicious and all solicitous, sweet, funny phone calls that made Bunty squirm with glee. It was like being a teenager again, only without pimples. And, okay, with a husband and child in their place.
By Saturday morning, however, she’d given up altogether on archery. Even Kat’s enthusiasm had palled, since the third lesson of the week had them standing behind the twenty-five metre line so that Kat’s laser-straight arrows no longer hit the target every time. ‘I’m getting worse,’ she complained. ‘I thought lessons were supposed to help you to get better.’
Bunty nodded. She’d given up even collecting her arrows now and was just loitering around behind Kat, letting the pale sunlight freckle her face. ‘Like me with tennis. I started out really well. Francois was even going to put me in the intermediate group. And then the more I learned, the more pathetic I got.’
‘You did,’ said Kat kindly. ‘You were really only ball-girl material by the end of that course.’
‘Thanks.’ It was true, but harsh to hear it none the less. Her last few lessons had been laughable. ‘Oh God. What if it’s the same with all physical activities?’
Kat guffawed, sending her arrow wonkily through the air so it hit next door’s target. ‘What, do you mean sex?’
‘Don’t laugh! Maybe that’s why I couldn’t do it last week.’ Bunty remembered the scene, appalled. ‘Perhaps I’ve done it too much and learned more, and now I’m thinking about it too hard, and technique and all that, and maybe I’m just really crap at it now.’ In a crazed way it made sense. She had the distinct feeling that she had been much better at it with Adam when she knew nothing, and in the early days of Graham when he knew nothing, than in the current frame of watching TV sex and knowing that everyone these days had to be a professionally trained lap dancer and amateur porn star to ensnare anyone in the bedroom department.
‘Well, I haven’t done it for about a year,’ said Kat, prodding her with the feathered end of an arrow. Even that hurt. ‘I must be bloody excellent again by now.’
‘Poor Simon,’ said Bunty with a grin.
‘I know! Three weeks and counting.’ Kat couldn’t have looked more pleased with the prospect. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it. Ben’s obviously dead keen. And the only reason you couldn’t do anything last week was because you were feeling guilty.’
‘I was.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Kat with a distinct gleam in her eye. ‘Why don’t you surprise him this afternoon and book a room somewhere yourself? After all, your shagging ability has got to be better than your archery.’
There was a warped logic to her friend’s idea, thought Bunty, as she shoved lunch dishes into the dishwasher a few hours later. What was blatantly evident was that she wasn’t going to be able to impress Ben with her sporting prowess. And she’d left it too late to cook up some delicious spread and get to him through his stomach. Plus, now she thought about it, she hadn’t had sex for several months now. Perhaps she was a novice all over again. She might even be really, really good at it.
Just to stand her in good stead, after she’d flicked a desultory hand at Graham dropping Charlotte at orchestra on his way to the match (she thought about trailing him but was too excited by the prospect of her own date), she sprayed Chanel No 5 behind her knees, then instantly regretted it. Was Chanel too old fashioned? Old, even? Perhaps she ought to raid Charlotte’s dressing table for Eau de Britney or ‘Pink’ by Pink, or whatever
the latest scent was. But then she’d have to shower to get the Chanel off, or spray Pink somewhere else like a patch test, and then she’d smell like a perfume department, or worse, like some Tawdry Audrey in a saloon scene … and anyway, there wasn’t time. Chanel smelt nice. That would have to do.
Bunty put on her best underwear, then her best casual-and-not-trying-too-hard summer dress, and an extra squirt of No 5 across her belly, just for good luck. Then, grabbing the box of Marks & Spencers nibbles, a plaid rug and a bottle of vintage cava (a casual-and-not-trying-too-hard champagne), she headed out to the Mini, then on to the park-like grounds of the hotel they’d agreed on. At the perfect moment she could let him know there was a suite booked in her name. He’d be able to stay in it all night, if he wanted. After.
She could hardly wait.
*
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hi! Priscilla! Me again.
Just wondering if you could let me have Ben’s mobile number. Again. I can’t seem to find it on my mobile although we have spoken so, so often. Only he didn’t turn up for a date and I really need to contact him.
How are you, by the way?
Bunty x
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hello Bunty, I am well, thank you for your concern.
Unfortunately we only give out our ladies’ numbers to the gentlemen who express an interest, and it is up to them to make contact. You’ll appreciate that it is mainly, though not exclusively, the gentleman who are the ‘breadwinners’ and targeted members, and if any of them do not choose to stay in touch after their dates, then that is their prerogative.
Shall we move on to a third candidate for you? There is another gentleman on the books who has expressed an interest in meeting with you.
Yours,
Priscilla
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hi, P, no, I don’t think you get it. Ben and I were in constant contact, it’s just that his phone must be a New Zealand one or something because the number doesn’t come up on my mobile. And I’m worried about him! Suppose he’s drowned or something? I know he would have turned up to our date. It was all arranged and we’d spoken about it every day for the previous ten.
Just his number? Please, Priscilla? And then I’m sure we’ll all find that we don’t need to bother with a third candidate. You can even charge your Love Lottery fee!
Bun x
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Bunty,
You don’t think he was blocking his calls, and then didn’t turn up deliberately? It’s just one theory.
Yours,
Priscilla
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Ouch, Priscilla. No, I don’t think that. Or at least, I didn’t.
No, I’m genuinely concerned. He may be in need of help. Rolled up in a sail and hoisted half way up a mast. Trapped under a barrel of rum. I’m sure I saw something like that on Howard’s Way once.
Just one little call?
B x
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Fine. Just to be sure that Ben is indeed not incapacitated in some way, I will make contact with him and make sure he is okay.
I’ll confirm as soon as I hear, but I would point out that we cannot operate as go-betweens once dates have been established, nor am I a nursemaid. If he just doesn’t want to get in touch, there’s very little I can do.
Yours,
Priscilla
PS. Do let me know if you reconsider on that third date option. Mallory is very keen!
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Okay, well over a week now. I suppose I could give Mallory a try.
Bunty
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Waiting for Ben had been bad enough. Realising that he wasn’t going to be in contact again, after a whole week of pacing, hand-rubbing waiting, was like having teeth pulled without anaesthetic. Although she had sworn she would not and had even promised Kat that she wouldn’t do these things, Bunty had engaged in several activities that would have made Jammy Jason proud and that bordered, in fact, on stalking. This included calling back any unidentified person who had rung her mobile in the last three weeks, even people for whom the date of the call came slightly before she had ever met Ben. (He’d called earlier to set up their date, hadn’t he?) Consequently she’d had several confused, ill-prepared conversations. ‘Dan, Dan the Drainage Man’, who was waiting for a pump, thought she’d rung to hassle him. Mary, who was waiting for Dan to turn up with the pump, thought she’d rung to hassle her. And when she got the instructor from archery all Bunty could think of to say was, ‘Oh! Hi. I had to tell you how much I’m enjoying the course. It’s fabulous.’
‘But you haven’t been for the last five sessions.’
‘I’m … I’m just nursing an injury but I’ll be back very soon.’
‘Well, the next course starts a week on Saturday and will be another 120.’
‘Fine! See you there! Great!’
One very disturbing conversation was with Ryan from Graham’s work. On hearing a man’s voice she’d thought with a leap of her heart it was Ben. Then she realised with disappointment that the unidentified number on the same Saturday as she’d been waiting for Ben to picnic with her (or on her, whatever he fancied) was Graham using Ryan’s phone and calling from the match he was genuinely attending to tell her he’d be late home. And now she’d put herself through it twice, first on the day itself, when of course she’d failed to pick up Charlotte in time and had been in trouble from all quarters while trying to bite back her own anxiety at the lack of Ben, and secondly when she responded to a deep ‘Hello,’ with ‘Hi stranger!’ in what she hoped was a breezy, sexy voice.
‘Who’s that?’ the man had said cautiously, and Bunty realised instantly that it was an English accent on the end.
She’d laughed airily, saying ‘Who’s that yourself. It’s Bunty, of course,’ while racking her brains trying to think who it could be on the other end.
‘Graham’s wife Bunty?’
‘Yep! Surprise, huh?’ Graham’s wife Bunty. It had to be someone from work. Nobody else would put Graham’s name before hers. Who the hell could it be?
The voice sounded half-pleased, half-surprised. ‘Very much so. Haven’t seen you since that corporate activity day.’
Oh Jesus. Now it came back to her in all its glory. Ryan and Petra. The most boring couple in the world. There really was a Ryan. And hadn’t he … hadn’t he … Oh God. He’d flirted with her, in his disgusting ‘I’m-such-an-outgoing-actuary-I’ll look-at-your-shoes instead-of-my-own-when-I’m-talking-to-you and perving at her ankles’ kind of a way. So that was who Graham was using as his alibi. Was that the best he could do?
Anyway, now she was stuck with him. She’d rung on his private number, and from the sound of it he was more than a little pleased to hear from her. ‘I heard things weren’t going too well, you know, between you and Graham,’ said Ryan conspiratorially. ‘I’m always …. available … if you want to talk.’
So that’s what he’d heard, was it? And now he was offering a shoulder to cry on. Bunty nearly gagged. ‘No, no, nothing like that! I just thought, well, we’ve not seen you in so long, I was wondering if you and Petra would like to come to dinner? Soon.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes! We’d love to. When were you thinking?’
‘Well, I just have to get Graham’s dates off him, seeing as he’s so busy with … with football, and I’ll get right back to you. Bye.’
And she’d belted the ‘end call’ button, not quite sure which was creating the bile in her stomach – her loathing for Ryan, or her self-loathing for the scheming cow this whole thing had turned her into.
> Not that it stopped her in her new role as stalker supreme, driving several times a day past the Pig and Cauli, and the wine bar where they’d first met, in the hope of spotting Ben (although what she would have done had she seen him, she wasn’t quite sure, especially as it seemed eminently possible that he could be with someone else). She’d even spent an afternoon at the local marina, which wasn’t actually that local at all, trying to see which yachts looked most like a Kiwi yacht, after first establishing which boats looked most like yachts.
It was only when she’d agreed to have a glass of wine with Kat and insisted on meeting at ‘their’ wine bar that she finally spotted the error of her ways. Kat patted her hand. ‘He’s gone, love.’
‘But what if he’s not? What if he’s still here?’ Bunty could feel her neck getting blotchy and hot.
Kat shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. Whether he’s here right now, in this very bar, the facts are that one, he stood you up; two, he hasn’t called you in ten days; and three, you’re looking far too skinny so you obviously haven’t eaten in a week and it’s not fair that he should be doing that to you when you barely even know the guy.’
Bunty sipped her wine thoughtfully. All that Kat said was correct, factually, but that didn’t stop her from feeling that they should have had something very special going on between them. There’d been the instant attraction, the assiduous attention, the kiss … Oh, that kiss!
‘… Graham?’ Kat was saying.
‘What? Sorry.’
‘I was asking,’ said Kat patiently, ‘how Graham’s been behaving recently. Do you still think he’s having an affair?’
Bunty flushed. ‘I’m sure of it. I just happened to be driving past the squash club the other afternoon and – ’
‘Which just happens to be near the Pig and Cauli,’ said Kat.
‘And anyway, there was Graham, getting out of bloody Ryan’s car – who I now have to have dinner with, by the way – and kissing that same blonde woman. ’
‘The one with the small tight bottom?’
As It Is On Telly Page 9