‘How many blondes are there?’
‘I’m blonde,’ said Kat, reasonably. ‘But I don’t have a small tight bottom.’
‘Anyway,’ said Bunty, now thoroughly depressed. ‘Graham is clearly having an affair with Kylie Minogue, and the person I thought I was about to be having an affair with, leading to marriage and my get-out clause from Graham and his second family, has done a runner. Gone. Vanished.’
The reality finally hit her. She’d sat like an idiot, spread out on her plaid blanket weaving her daisy chain in what she hoped would be a picture of bucolic loveliness, waiting for him to stride around the corner in Byronic perfection and whisk her away to his yacht like some long-gone episode of Poldark. And he hadn’t even called with an excuse. ‘He’s gone,’ she whispered.
‘I know,’ said Kat slowly, and she filled up Bunty’s glass with an empathy bordering on reverence.
Bunty sighed, as much for Kat as for herself. ‘God, this is what it’s like for you all the time, isn’t it? Waiting for a call, hoping something will come of a chance meeting, wondering why the man who was so lovely to you yesterday has forgotten you exist today.’
‘It’s called ‘being single’, my friend.’ Kat clinked her glass against Bunty’s. ‘Welcome to my world. No, I mean it, you’re welcome to it. He may be twelve thousand miles away, but at least I now have Simon.’
‘I need a Simon,’ wailed Bunty, the third glass of wine starting to turn her red neck even redder.
Kat scowled, a sign that she was thinking very hard. ‘That’s what’s weird,’ she said. ‘I thought you had one. A Simon, I mean.’
‘With Ben?’
‘No. With Graham. I mean, he had to have been a bit Simonish. Otherwise I couldn’t have seen any other reason why you’d be with him. He’s so … so not an Adam.’
It was a pivotal moment. Bunty slumped back in her chair, defeated. God, Kat was probably right. She’d had a Simon – a steadfast, constant sort of a person who, from what she could glean from Kat and from Cally, liked being a provider, liked the old-fashioned approach to life. Her own Simon didn’t, sadly, have the stomach of a Greek statue as Simon was rumoured to possess, although … hadn’t she seen what might be the beginning of a muscle when Graham had got out of the shower that morning? ‘It doeshn’t matter,’ she slurred out of nowhere, startling Kat who had not really been waiting for her to respond. ‘I had a Shimon, and he’s sh … shagging Kylie. And I had a Ben, but he’s disapproved. I mean, disappeared. I need a … a new man,’ and she thumped the table to underline the point, scattering Bombay mix in all directions.
‘Good.’ Kat nodded approvingly. ‘See, if that were me, I’d have had the ‘all men are bastards’ discussion for two weeks, then eaten myself silly for another month, then gone into hibernation for maybe two years. You are so …’ She searched for the word. ‘So man-wise.’
‘I think like a man?’
Kat surged forward, her breasts spilling over the table like an unrestrained duvet. ‘No. Yes. You are wise to men. And to be wise to men, you have to think like one. Don’t be like me … all chocolate-eating and sorry for yourself. No! You have to move on. Get the next one. Find a new man. Forget Simons and Bens. Who needs ’em? Go and find a … a good one!’
‘I bloody will!’ shouted Bunty, slapping the table again.
There and then, while Kat blearily texted Simon as he got up that same morning on the other side of the world, Bunty sent an email from the newfangled phone slash movie theatre slash personal computer that Graham had insisted on her having, even though she only knew how two of the functions worked.
‘I just dumped Simon,’ said Kat proudly.
‘Oh.’ Bunty frowned. That wasn’t quite how this was meant to go, was it? ‘Is he upset?’
Kat peered at the tiny screen on her phone. ‘No, he says, ‘All right, lovely, why don’t you have a sleep and text me in the morning. Love you, Simon.’’
‘He doesn’t sound very dumped.’
‘Nah, I’m always doing it,’ said Kat, wrinkling her nose with delicious thoughts of Simon. ‘He really gets me, you know?’
So this was what it was going to be like, thought Bunty, shaking her head in wonderment and not a little fear. Having to find someone who really ‘got’ her. Dumping people when you didn’t mean it just to find out how much they really wanted you. Playing games. Not turning up to dates. Disappearing just when the other person was hooked.
*
Right at that moment, she’d been ready for it. Bring it on, she thought. Man number three from the Croesus Club.
Now that she was actually waiting for Mallory (sexy voice, posh, rather Nigel Havers-ish), parked in a corner of the lounge bar of the very same hotel she had booked in her seduction plan for Ben, Bunty was rather less sure of what she doing. She had to prepare herself for her husband’s imminent departure. For one thing. Graham’s behaviour was ever more erratic and bizarre. Having been delighted that Bunty had arranged dinner with Ryan and Petra (‘I didn’t think you even liked them. Great! Great to be doing something together.’), he had now taken to lurking behind the letterbox, practically wrestling the letters from the postwoman’s hand as she fed them through the slot. Bunty was almost enjoying his discomfort.
‘What are you waiting for now? The bill for your hair plugs? More indicting Visa statements?’
Graham laughed, a peculiar high-pitched keening. ‘Ha! Ha, funny. Funny Bunny, that’s you. No, just … just expecting Ryan’s acceptance to dinner.’
‘Very formal,’ said Bunty, ‘writing and so on. Most people just text these days.’
Graham nodded slowly. ‘Well, that’s Ryan. He is very formal.’
Bunty had just shrugged. She didn’t honestly care any more, about Ryan, or the forthcoming dinner, or Graham and his prevaricating. She was moving on. Man-wise, like Kat said. Waiting for her third man.
The third man, thought Bunty, glancing at her watch. At least she had become a little more man-wise, or certainly date-wise. This time she’d suggested coffee, morning coffee, in a very lovely lounge from which she could make an early escape and would surely not be expected to drink champagne or anything else alcoholic, or slip off to a waiting bedroom. She’d also made sure, through Priscilla, that Mallory was seriously looking for a new wife, wasn’t just out of a relationship, and wasn’t masquerading as his own father. No, Priscilla had assured her, Mallory was a very trustworthy client, widowed early, keen to settle down again, and was definitely old enough to date without a chaperone. Things were looking good for the third man, even though deep down Bunty knew he wouldn’t be able to win her over as ably as the second man had. Plus, he might have children. Little children if he’d been widowed early. Was she ready to take on someone else’s kids? She had enough trouble with her own. Trying not to jump her head too far into the future, Bunty sipped her coffee in its dainty china cup. The third man. Orson Welles sprang into her head. Ding de ding de dingggg, de dinggggg. Ding de ding de dingggg, de dinggggg …
‘Bunty, hello, what a lovely setting you’ve chosen.’
Christ, it is Orson Welles, thought Bunty, smiling up at the man who’d appeared from behind her chair. Orson Welles as he would be now if he were alive. Was he still alive? Anyway, he’d be about a hundred and sort of a caved-in mountain of a man like Mallory before her. Or was she thinking of Hemingway? In Bunty’s mind they were always one and the same person. Why was that?
All these thoughts and more zipped through her brain as she tried to stand to greet her ‘date’ but found herself trapped on one side by his walking stick – his bloody walking stick – which at least wasn’t a zimmer but was definitely much needed as Mallory heaved his withered bulk into the chair opposite her with the assistance of a passing waiter.
‘You look shocked.’ Mallory smiled winsomely at Bunty, and she was simultaneously pleased and horrified to note that his teeth were small, white and even, meaning that while they weren’t the tumbledown, acid-yellow gravestones of some el
derly mouths, they were most definitely false. Come out at night false. Pucker at the lips in the hope of a gummy snog while the teeth are in a glass false. ‘Is it my stick? Priscilla was meant to tell you that I’m marginally disabled. Not too much, nothing that matters, if you know what I mean,’ he wheezed, ‘but enough to get me one of those nifty little stickers for my car. Park anywhere, Mallory can.’
Bunty recovered slightly, trying not to speak to him as she would her own grandfather, had he been alive. ‘No! Are you comfortable there? We could sit you somewhere else …’
Oh God, she was talking to him as if he were her grandfather, or another dusty object that could be plonked somewhere different for a better view. But if she sat him somewhere else, she could run – run, as fast as her nimble, not marginally disabled, tennis-trim legs would carry her.
Mallory smiled again. ‘I’m fine here. As long as I can stretch out my leg,’ and he stiffened his left leg so that it pressed firmly and obtrusively against Bunty’s knee. It was like a metre-long erection, and it was all Bunty could do not to slap it away like a nurse with a naughty patient. In fact, that’s exactly what he was like, a matron character from a Carry On film. ‘So … you like the hotel? Lounge,’ she blurted, correcting herself quickly before Randy the Old Goat could suggest checking it out.
‘I love it,’ said Mallory, and for a moment his craggy features softened. ‘I used to come here a lot with my wife when they did tea dances on a Sunday afternoon.’ In the thirties? Bunty thought, trying very hard not to show that she was calculating his age. ‘They did them right up to the seventies when that chain took over,’ added Mallory, gesturing to the waiter for tea.
‘Oh! Oh, and with your wife,’ said Bunty. ‘Priscilla told me you were widowed early.’ She hadn’t said ‘early last century’, but she had said ‘early.’
‘When she was forty-six,’ said Mallory with a sigh. ‘Your age. You look very like her.’
‘I’m thirty-eight!’ squeaked Bunty. Priscilla had done a little more age-massaging, it seemed.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Not such a good judge, eh, Mallory? I find I can’t tell the difference between thirty and fifty-five any more. You women keep yourself in such good shape.’ Mallory leaned forward and patted Bunty’s thigh in what he appeared to think was an avuncular fashion but which definitely involved a little rub of a gnarled thumb across her skin. Goose bumps ran up her leg instantly, bumps of horror rather than libido.
Edging her knee out of the way as subtly as she could, Bunty drained her cup and poured herself another hasty cup of coffee. She needed something to do with her hands, something to stop her slapping dirty old Mallory across the wizened cheek when bits of him started to roam again. Chancing a surreptitious glance in his direction, she found that he was stirring his tea wistfully, and suddenly he looked less like some black-and-white movie Lothario and more like … well, more like a lonely old man. Be kind, Bunty, she told herself.
‘Did you fancy a cake as well?’ she said. ‘They had a lovely bakewell tart on that trolley in the corner.’
His eyes lit up. ‘Ah, you know how to cheer old Mallory up. I love a bit of tart.’
‘Mallory …’
‘Bakewell tart, I mean. Or jam.’
Bunty waved the waiter over, settling into her chair. She had the measure of him now, this elderly gentleman who talked about himself in the third person, perhaps because nobody said his name much any more, and who clearly still longed for a friendly touch, for some physical contact. ‘When did your wife die, Mallory?’
His answer was unexpected. ‘Ten years ago.’ He peered up at Bunty mischievously. ‘Yes, she was a lot younger than me. Twenty-one years between us. Kept me young at heart. What about you?’
‘Young at heart? Well, yes I like to think so. I’m not actually that old anyway.’ I’m roughly half his age, Bunty worked out quickly. ‘Oh, you mean, was I widowed? No.’ She shook her head. ‘My husband’s … trading me in.’
At this Mallory’s rheumy eyes became even more opaque. ‘Bunty, Bunty. How could anyone want for a more lovely companion than yourself? Silly man. You should be cherished. Looked after.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Bunty with a grin.
‘That’s how Mallory likes to treat a woman. With dignity. Respect. And a good bit of how’s your father.’ His eyes twinkled with devilment, and Bunty could suddenly see what an attractive man he must have been, not so very long ago either. Nonetheless, he had just inadvertently introduced her father into the conversation, and she suppressed a shudder.
It was time for a bit of straight talking, and, feeling surprisingly relaxed, Bunty opted for complete honesty. ‘You do know, Mallory, that I’m not that woman – the one you want to treat with respect and dignity and … what have you? You’re very charming, but you might want to think about someone closer to your age? Us younger women these days, well …’ She paused as she came to her conclusion. ‘I don’t think we’re very nice.’
Mallory laughed with a sound of crackling cellophane. ‘You look pretty nice to old Mallory!’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Bunty, pouring him more tea. ‘We’re demanding and contrary, and we’re never happy. Never content to settle for second best. Always thinking there’s something more interesting around the corner. Would you want to work that hard?’
‘Good Lord above, no.’ Bunty could see that Mallory looked quite appalled at the prospect. ‘I just want someone who’s happy with … just with me, I suppose. Content with old Mallory and a bit of bakewell tart for elevenses. And whatever they fancy for supper,’ he added lasciviously.
Bunty munched on some bakewell tart thoughtfully. It really was very good. ‘Do you know what,’ she said suddenly. ‘I may know the perfect person. How are you with dead cats?’
Mallory didn’t skip a beat. ‘More of a dog man, I must say, but since I lost dear old Benson I haven’t really got the heart for another animal. They fill such a space, you know.’
And Bunty made a quick, potentially rash decision. ‘I’m having dinner for a few friends on Saturday. Why don’t you come? Not to be with me, but to meet someone I know.’
‘Love to, my dear,’ said Mallory eagerly.
Bunty scribbled the address on the back of a coaster and handed it to him as she gathered up her coat. ‘And one word about where we met and I’ll thrash your good leg.’
‘Oh, promises, promises,’ purred Mallory.
Well, she thought as she headed round to Mary’s to offer an invitation. Maybe dinner with Ryan and Petra – and Graham – wouldn’t be quite so dull after all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was only as she drove home that Bunty realised the full impact of what she had just arranged – a Ray Cooney farce in her own dining room. The cast list would be:
Graham: Paunchy financial advisor with mid-life crisis, having an affair.
Bunty: Put-upon, cuckolded wife, trying to invent a new life for herself.
Ryan: Nasal and nerdy finance man, with the hots for Bunty.
Petra: Nasal and nerdy wife of finance man, no redeeming features, not even hots.
Mary: Bereaved widow and beloved neighbour.
Mallory: Bereaved widower and septuagenarian sex fiend.
Charlotte: Charlotte.
Charlotte? What the hell was she going to do with Charlotte while six supposedly grown people batted double entendres back and forth across the table? And Mallory – why on earth had she invited Mallory? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but if he couldn’t tell the difference between thirty and fifty-five there was a strong chance he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between thirteen and thirty-three. Charlotte would have to stay completely out of the way. And he could easily let slip about the Croesus Club. Perhaps she’d have to gag him. Although he’d probably like that. And Mary! Fancy inflicting Mallory the Mauler on poor, dignified Mary. What in God’s name had she been thinking?
She headed straight down the road parallel to her own
and knocked at Mary’s door. No time like the present for a very back-handed invitation which she almost hoped Mary would refuse. There was no reply, so Bunty wandered down the side path and out into the back garden, following the squeak of the rotary clothesline. ‘Mary, I … oh! Hi, Dan.’
Mary and Dan looked up from the graveside. ‘Look,’ said Mary, dotting a tear away on yet another laundered handkerchief – pink this time to match Mary’s Marks & Spencer polo neck and cardigan, teamed today to contrast prettily with her neat brown trousers. For a lady in her seventies, she dressed very well. Bunty followed her crooked finger to the little mound of earth at their feet. ‘Look what Dan did.’
Dan grinned sheepishly, looking suddenly like an overgrown school-kid in his serviceable overalls. ‘I told you, Mary, it was nothing. I had the stuff spare and …’ He spread his hands towards Bunty in a manner that meant ‘Can you take over?’ Sobbing elderly ladies were clearly not in his remit.
Bunty put her head on one side and considered Dan’s masterpiece. Flinders’ new grave had been sited quite high up behind a small retaining wall, in the flower bed that used to house Colin’s collection of potted fuchsias. There was a little mound of earth in a carefully regulated rectangle, with a border of small white rings that looked like lace but turned out, on closer inspection, to be neat slender slices of three inch drainpipe. Mounted on the top was a small grey cross (guttering?) on which someone – Dan, presumably – had painted the cat’s name in neat gloss letters. A small pot of purple-tipped fuchsias danced nearby, adding just the right hint of colour. And life.
‘All waterproof and not blocking anything,’ hissed Dan out of the corner of his mouth. ‘The cat’s in a 12-inch rain trap.’
Bunty put an arm around the pair of them. ‘That’s truly beautiful,’ she said, giving Mary’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Mary, Flinders will never have to be moved again. Dan, you’re very, very kind.’
‘Colin would have loved it.’ Mary sniffled loudly into her hanky.
Oh God. Colin. How could Bunty possibly mention Mallory and dinner when they were standing over the cat Colin had loved in the garden he’d nurtured.
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