Authors: Angela Huth
Perhaps I’m being unfair. Carlotta is definitely a life-giver, vivacious to a fault. There’s something quite endearing about her energy, her enthusiasm, her sudden moments of attention, so acute that they make you feel almost dizzy. Then she pulls away from you, which is very slightly provocative. I have to say I was entertained by her interest in marketing strategy, and her appalling over-use of all the jargon. I teased her a bit about that. I’m not sure she was amused. But she managed to laugh. I quickly changed to the subject of my wretched house, and she offered to help. A picture flashed before my eyes: Carlotta in and out the place being serious about paint and curtains. Not sure I wanted any of that, but I said you’re very kind.
Have to say the years have improved her looks. When I last saw her, at that awful dance when we went in for a bit of clumsy fumbling in the bushes, she was plump and unmemorable. Now, what, almost twenty years later, she’s a smart London woman. Obviously fashion is of importance to her, and trends and future trends seem to interest her. We have almost nothing in common, so that hasn’t changed. And yet I have to admit that she’s bright, attractive, beguiling in a noisy way. But not my sort of woman. During the evening my
feelings
for her – wonder if she guessed? – could be charted as some highs, but mostly lows.
Dan produced two marvellous bottles of wine and Isabel, despite going on about being no cook, had done delicious things to a sea bass. I wasn’t hungry but declared appreciation. I kept wishing it could have been just Dan and me.
After supper, given some subtle, almost invisible marital sign, Dan made the coffee and Isabel and I moved to the sofa. Carlotta stayed at the table with Dan, which was a relief. I wanted to hear about Isabel’s masks – the whole business had not begun when I left England. Diffident as ever, she explained how it had all come about, and when she described how much she loved her work two pink spots appeared on her cheeks. Isabel!
Gil
bert, she calls me. No one else calls me that. Of course I’ve always thought how lucky is Dan – though it wasn’t just through luck he acquired her. He was, is, the right man for her. And she’s absolutely the most enchanting creature – unworldly, sweet natured, wise and calm as well as beautiful – even more so, now she’s forty (I found this hard to believe) than she was when I first met her. The hour with her passed in moments. When I said I must go, catch up on sleep, she begged me to come round often, now I was back. There was a lot of catching up to be done. ‘We must all carry on where we left off,’ she said. ‘We’ve missed you. We’re so glad you’re back’. ‘So’m I, so’m I’, I muttered, as I got up and I think, though I can’t be sure, our eyes met in a kind of mutual pleasure at the thought of the future no longer parted by the Atlantic. It was then Carlotta jumped in with her offer of tickets to a concert tomorrow night. Isabel and Dan couldn’t go: what could I do but accept? I hope not grudgingly. But it’s the last thing I want to do, spend an evening in a concert hall with Carlotta. Then I suppose I’ll have to take her out to dinner and drive her home – rather, she’ll have to drive me: I’m buggered if I’m going out this morning to buy a car.
I hadn’t wanted to go, but in the end I rather enjoyed myself. I was pretty knackered, and due to the overrunning of the Rumbold AGM I didn’t even have time to change into my Manolo’s. Still, the Grants are not the sort of people who would condemn one for
that
. I managed to snatch up a box of mega-expensive chocolates, and was only about half an hour late.
Funny seeing Bert again after so long. Think I would still have recognised him. Rather fine steely eyes. I remember their boring down at me as we fumbled about in those far-off bushes. Then they snapped shut when he latched onto my mouth. I kept mine open. One of those odd moments when you’re both experiencing it, and at the same time observing it from some distant place.
My feeling is that last night Bert was still a bit disoriented, being back, trying to set foot in a new life. He was sort of there and yet not there. When he looked at each one of us his glance seemed to snag, move away more slowly than he meant it to. It wasn’t till I got him talking about strategy in marketing – a subject he might well know more about than me, though I wasn’t going to admit that – that he began to lighten up, show real interest. Our conversation rather left Isabel and Dan out, so after a while I switched to asking Bert what plans he had in London. He mentioned his despair (he didn’t use the word, but I sussed it) at having to fix up his house. There, of course, I was able to jump in quickly with an offer of help. A small house in Chelsea wouldn’t take me a minute to transform. I’d rather enjoy the easy thought of knocking down walls and choosing colours again, dashing round to a few of my old friends in the business, to pick up the latest stuff, before I get to the office. Bert accepted gratefully. Then as we were leaving I issued this invitation to the concert at the Wigmore Hall tomorrow night (Mike, the sod, having called off). I could see Bert waiting to see if either Isabel or Dan would accept. I’m pretty sure there was a look of hope in his eye. When neither Is or D could come, he accepted pretty swiftly. So it looks as if one way and another he and I are going to be seeing a certain amount of each other. Well, I daresay he could take up a bit of the slack that the disappearing Mike has left. He’d be an agreeable walker, an easy companion. Sex wouldn’t come into it, having got over all that in the teenage bushes.
After supper, at the table with Dan, was the good bit. I could talk to him forever. I could see he was a bit agitated and presumed all was not well again with some new play. I know he doesn’t like talking about his writing, but I pick up clues from Isabel. So I asked him some question about
where
he imagines his characters when he is writing – on stage, or in real life? Actually, a question that’s often occurred to me. That had exactly the response I had expected. He visibly melted in the heat of my sympathy, just as Bert had when I brought up the subject of marketing strategy. Men are such innocents! You only have to fix them with an eye that conveys a hundred percent interest, and ask, and listen, and they think you’re amazing – not that Dan thinks any such thing, sadly. Though I could see he was stirred by my question. As for Bert, I think in his present state he’s positively a bit hostile. But what with looking after his house problems and plying him with invitations to supper with a selection of good looking, intelligent, available women, I don’t doubt I’ll win at least a modicum of his affection in the end.
The wretched girl came half an hour before she said she would. I was only just out of the bath. Shirt still undone. Still, at least I’d managed to replenish the drinks table. I said help yourself, and went back upstairs.
When I came down I saw she’d spread a fan of small pieces of material on the sofa. There was a pile of charts, paint colours. She said she’d just snatched up a few things which she’d leave for me to study. I said I didn’t want to study anything to do with decorating and suggested she should do what she liked so long as she chose nothing red. She took that quietly, then asked if she might cast an eye over the place so that she could get some idea of what needed doing. I said go ahead. While she was casting her eye, I sat back with a whisky and soda, and thought what the hell am I doing? Why is this woman here nosing round my house? Visualising things I can’t visualise? There’s a terrible superiority about people who can see how things could be. She came back very quickly, saying she’d got the whole picture, it would be easy. Even though there was some major work that obviously needed to be done, it shouldn’t take too long, she said smugly. Smugly? Was I being unfair? Yes, the place would be overrun with builders for a while. ‘I’ll have to move out, then,’ I said. She nodded.
She’d come in her Mercedes coupé which she explained away by saying it was three years old. Jolly nice car. Might consider one of those myself. We zoomed to Wigmore Street in complete silence, which was a relief. I wasn’t feeling like talking about the budget for the house – which would have to come up sometime – or anything else. Have to admit Carlotta is efficient in all areas – plainly could have been a very efficient chauffeur. She didn’t bore on about lack of parking places: simply found a meter and thrust in a lot of coins before I could so much as put a hand in my pocket. But my slight admiration was then stalled by her having got the concert completely wrong. It wasn’t to be Brahms, but Mozart. Well, fine by me. I infinitely prefer Mozart. It just irritated me that she didn’t… But I’m being unreasonable. Was wonderfully soothed by the piano concertos 21 and 24. Can never work out which is the more sublime.
Re-invigorated by the music, I suppose, I braced up. Being so out of touch with new London restaurants, I’d booked a table at the Savoy for safety. She said she hadn’t been there for
years:
she wasn’t sniffy about it, but her comment indicated she realised I’d chosen it in order not to have to consult with her where to go. And we had a perfectly agreeable dinner. First omelette Arnold Bennett I’d had for a decade. She burbled on about this and that, asked about my friendship with Dan. I don’t think I provided the answers she was seeking. How had my feelings for him survived such a long absence? That sort of stuff. Not the sort of questioning to which I can eloquently, let alone keenly, respond. Then she got onto Isabel: what did I think of her? I avoided that one by asking her the same question. She hesitated, indicating profound cogitation. Then she said she admired Isabel hugely for being so utterly unlike anyone else: her detachment from the modern world, her hopelessness, in some respects, her brilliance as a wife and mother, her talent – though of course, she sneakily added, mask-making was probably more of a high class craft than an art – and her general sympathy and way of enhancing life. By the time she’d got through all that, she’d luckily forgotten that I hadn’t answered her question.
She drove me back home. I didn’t ask her in, though there was a moment’s silence when I might have done. There was a sort of teenage pause when I could feel her waiting for my decision, which made up my mind pretty swiftly. She shrugged: held up her cheek to be kissed. A street light had turned her beige skin into the colour of a white grape. Her eyes were half shut, the lashes thick and long. Appealing. ‘Oh Lord,’ I thought. ‘I know what she’s after, but I’m not.’ I duly kissed her on the cheek, cold as a grape, too. She smelt of my mother’s loose face powder that was always spilling from a Pond’s box on her dressing table, and said let’s be in touch about the builders. Then I hurried out of the car and into the house.
Yes, there was the faintest inkling – I suppose it’s been some months since Minneapolis Mary had enjoyed exhausting me for six weeks - and a man can only go for so long before his thoughts turn to all that. But I have always found availability a turn off. I could see quite clearly how easily I could fit into Carlotta’s life. She vaguely mentioned at dinner how some rotter of a man had disappeared without so much as an explanation. Perhaps there was a gap that needed to be filled. I was not prepared to be the filler. But I would like to be a friend. Carlotta’s kind of bossy liveliness is enjoyable from time to time.
I poured myself a whisky, took it up to bed. The bed is harder and less comfortable than I remembered. New bed will have to go on the list, I suppose. I don’t much fancy asking Carlotta to choose me a decent one. She might come up with some terrible suggestion that we should try it out. A picture came to mind. I smiled.
Then I remembered Dan was off to Rome. I would keep to my word: ring Isabel and suggest some sort of meeting. It would be nice to see her again, alone.
I think Bert must have pressed me to more red wine than I’m used to – me, with the strongest head of any woman I know. What was in his mind? It was a Mouton something, terribly expensive and utterly delicious. But this morning it left a rim like a burning wire round my head, sizzling over my eyes. So I was late getting to the office: not a good start to a hellishly busy day.
I quite enjoyed the evening. Bert was easy to be with, not very exciting. Nice hands. Plainly he’s a long way to go till he sorts himself out, but I’ll be able to help there. His ghastly little house won’t take a moment to do, especially as he doesn’t want to interfere and money obviously isn’t a problem. It means we’ll see a certain amount of one another and perhaps he’ll slot into being a useful sort of walker, a good spare man. I owe him dinner, now. I’ll ask him next week. See how things go from there.
But I shall have to be careful. Driving him back I was acutely aware of an amorphous question between us. For my part, the answer was plain: no. He sat with his hands on his knees, keen as mustard, I reckoned. When we stopped I flashed a cheek at him, the conventionally polite thing to do. He paused for a moment, I daresay wondering why I hadn’t turned to him with eager eyes and parted lips. Then he just brushed my cheek with his and got out of the car with the speed of one who is fighting to control various urges. I drove away very pleased. The last thing I wanted was more fumbling with Bert. He behaved perfectly. It means there’ll be no complications in our future business of the house … or friendship.
Odd, then, that driving home a sort of weakness fluttered through my whole body. I felt the chill that descends when something that might have been possible didn’t happen.
I’ll ring him, but not for two or three days.
Thursdays are what I hate: Thursdays are the days I most dread. There’s not the safety of going to the Grants for the morning. Gary knows I don’t work Thursday mornings and then takes his chance, takes me unawares.
This morning I’d just slipped down to the shop to get the paper, looking all about me, as I always do, when I saw him across the street. I quickly looked away, but not before he’d smiled at me, knowing I’d seen him, and my heart started its beating. I gave up the idea of going on to Tesco’s to get a few things for my lunch: Gary’s sometimes trawled the aisles, a few yards behind me. It gives him a kick to see me in a state. Sometimes he goes ahead of me, lingers in the cereals or the washing powders, knowing I need to be there. He gives me one of his sickening smiles and goes off to buy himself a packet of Marlborough while I’m paying at the check-out, my fingers all of a fumble. Then he’s waiting for me outside. Follows me home, about ten yards behind me. He doesn’t try to get in, these days. But he just stands watching, knowing he’s got me all shaken up.