Vintage Babes (21 page)

‘Carol, great to see you!’ Tom had exclaimed, and kissed me on the cheek.

What is the etiquette for meeting an ex? I had had no idea, but I had not imagined he would kiss me and my nervousness grew. Cool it, I’d told myself. Be calm and collected. Casual. You’ve moved on in life, remember? He’s no longer of any significance.

‘And you,’ I had said.

‘When I see Lynn, I always ask her about you.’

‘She’s told me.’

Tom had grinned. ‘You’re looking good.’

‘You, too,’ I had said, and chatted a little too fast, a little too brightly, about our daughter and her baby before escaping.

To meet this man who was a stranger, and yet so familiar, had aroused a gallimaufry of emotions and now I wasn’t keen to meet him again. But for Beth’s sake, I would. Desperate circumstances demand desperate actions.

CHAPTER
NINE

Yet again my attention
wandered, this time to Melanie who had stretched across her desk to retrieve a recalcitrant felt-tip pen. She was clad in the usual tight-twanged top and low-rise combat pants which displayed the statutory two and a half inches of midriff and, as she stretched, she exposed her bare lower back and the top of her buttocks, waistbanded and sliced in two by a strip of scarlet nylon. Her thong. According to Jenny, over ten million thongs were sold in Britain last year, but, for me, a thong is an instrument of torture. And not something to be exhibited, which Melanie does routinely.

But in my youth – we’re talking pre-history here, kids – the sight of a bra strap was deemed inappropriate, if not downright slutty, whereas nowadays displaying bra straps has become the fashion. Melanie often displays hers, which vary from black to pink to a dirty white and are substantial in order to hoist up her substantial bust. Tony speaks admiringly of her as ‘voluptuous’. My description would be top-heavy.

Did the glimpse of her thong – and bra straps – raise Steve’s temperature? I wondered. Might they make Captain Cool
molto agitato
? Of late, the girl had spent a lot of time with him in his office where, she said, he’d been stressing the importance of checking and rechecking facts and always making sure of people’s names, because accurate reporting was essential. He had also helped her with her grammar. But could the chance of a peek at the scarlet nylon strip be an incentive in his role as tutor?

Maybe her belly button ring turned him on, too? – even though her belly is of the slightly protuberant variety. The idea of piercing your body and slotting it with metal makes me cringe. It raises visions of how, in another forty years, there could be legions of pensioners with snot constantly seeping from the holes in their noses.

No, Steve was being the efficient boss, that was all. He would never be attracted to a girl who carried around pictures of pop stars and considered mooning to be the last word in amusement. Or would he? Middle-age can be a tricky time.

Forever conscious of Steve’s comment a month ago about ‘not yet’ getting rid of staff, I had done my best to impress on Melanie that his editorship offered her a fresh start. I had also suggested to Tony that Steve had higher standards than Eric and he’d be wise to attempt to meet them. As for myself, although I’d been forced to accept that Steve made the decisions, it still irked like hell. Should I look for another job? The idea of him losing heart and bowing out now seemed a foolish dream. It probably always had been.

I returned to the report I was writing, about how the plans to erect the mobile phone mast had been withdrawn; at a meeting where Councillor Vetch, previously great on grandstanding, had remained mute. His silence was the result of subtle suggestions in a previous piece which I’d written, a piece which Steve had agreed, the sour looks the councillor had flung my way had made that clear. I sighed. I should’ve been triumphant about doing my bit for the integrity of local government, but there were more pressing matters on my mind.

After a night spent tossing, turning and wallowing in despair – there’s no gloom as inky black as three a.m. gloom – the morning had brought no reprieve. I was unhappy, restless. Couldn’t concentrate. I needed to speak to Jenny. Putting thoughts into words can often help clear the mind and provide a firmer grip on a situation, and I needed to talk to her about Lynn.

Although she may well think ‘I told you so’, Jenny would never say it. She would be sympathetic. Comforting. And I was in desperate need of comfort. She isn’t judgemental though, in truth, our generation can’t afford to be. We’re the ones with the kids who may be drug addicts or who live in squats, with sons who shout ‘show us yer tits’ and daughters who oblige. When I hear of the agonies, great and small, that other parents are suffering, I think ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’ But now I had my own agony to contend with.

After deciding my speech and tone – friendly, but brisk – I had taken a deep breath and rung Tom at his office, only to be informed by a snooty secretary that her boss had left that morning for the States and would not be back for ten days. The woman had asked if I would care to leave a message which she would endeavour to pass on, but I had declined. I could, I suppose, have telephoned the slick chick and asked her to ask Tom to telephone me, but I didn’t. Since she commandeered him we’ve never spoken and I had no wish to start. But also I would have needed to explain why I wanted to speak to him and the idea of revealing troubles in
my
child’s life did not appeal. I was damned if I would give her any reason to gloat.

‘There’s a new cut-out of Max in the sports shop window today,’ Melanie said. ‘He looks, like, really really way-out. Are you two still involved?’

I shot her an impatient glance. The idea that Max and I could be more than just associates or, at most, platonic friends, had not only lingered, it seemed to be gaining ground. Amazingly. Incredibly. And for no reason. Although I had come clean to the Post Office Jezebel and explained the reality, she persisted in calling him my ‘hunky bloke’ and talking of how ‘young bucks hook up with more worldly women’. Other people had also, in a nudge-nudge wink-wink way, referred to us dining together. I’d even been invited out and pressed to bring him.

Word travels fast and far in Dursleigh. And inaccurately. The next time they’d met in the charity shop, Eileen had informed Jenny that she had seen me with my boyfriend.

‘He is not Carol’s boyfriend,’ Jenny had insisted, and had later explained how, because I’d assumed Eileen had been joking about Max and me being a pair, I had joked, too, but the old lady refused to believe her. And, so Jenny has since reported, never misses a chance to pass on the news.

I had, I recalled, wanted a walker, a pretend boyfriend to fool the masses. No longer. Not when I was continually having to explain that Max and I were not, repeat not, in a relationship – and my explanation went ignored. Yet a part of me couldn’t help feeling flattered by the notion that folk imagined such a young, handsome man would be smitten by a golden oldie like me.

If I had suggested another evening out, would Max have agreed? I think so. Not only did I possess useful contacts, but there’s a touch of the little boy lost about him which could find solace in the company of an older woman.

‘I attend his classes twice a week, if that’s what you mean,’ I said to Melanie.

‘No more intimate evenings?’ a male voice asked.

I turned, Steve had poked his head around the door.

‘None.’

‘Or none you’re prepared to tell us about. Can I have a word?’

‘Sure,’ I replied, and followed him into his office.

‘When is Tina Kincaid due to appear on television?’ he enquired. ‘We could mention it in the ‘Morsels’ column. People are always excited to think there’s a celebrity in their midst.’

‘Any time now, though, as of last Thursday, she hadn’t been given the exact date. But who told you about it?’

A couple of weeks ago, Tina had announced at a work-out that she had agreed to join Joe Fernandez’ series in the new year and would be a guest on one of the current run of shows ‘sometime soon’. The comedian had been continually persuading and urging her.

‘Tina did. She stopped me in the street last week and told me how Joe Fernandez was keen to have her on his show. I can understand why. Then she mentioned the trouble she was having with some bolts on a door. Seems they were so stiff, the poor girl could hardly move them. I suggested a drop of oil or WD40, and she was so grateful.’ He grinned. ‘Praised me to the skies, then wrapped her arms around me and hugged me.’

He sounded amused and yet, personally, I felt Tina’s response went way over the top. Though, remembering her performance at the wake, it seemed to be her usual behaviour with men. She laid on compliments with a trowel and they were beguiled.

‘Do you think she’d be happy if we mentioned her TV appearance?’ Steve went on.

‘I’m sure she’d love it. And she’s loving the idea of going on television again. Last Thursday she was full of it, wondering what to wear, if she should go for elegance or be more up-to-the-minute trendy – seems she gets a dress allowance – agonising over whether or not she should have her hair restyled.’

‘Speaking of hair, my hair growth seems to have gone berserk,’ he said. ‘I never used to have hair around my nipples, but now it’s as thick as grass and I’m gathering a veritable pelt across my shoulders. Turning into a baboon,’ he declared, lifting his elbows and dangling his arms.

I laughed. I could, I suppose, have told him about my chin hairs, but depicting yourself as an old hag is a bit different to equating with King Kong.

‘I’ve raised a smile. Thank God,’ Steve said. ‘You’ve been looking so bloody miserable this morning.’

‘I’m worried.’

‘About what?’

‘Lynn, my daughter.’

‘And?’

Did I want to reveal my family woes? It was not as though we were buddies. All we did was rub along, grittily. Besides, wouldn’t he be bored? Tom had had little patience with other people’s personal anxieties.

‘Come on,’ Steve encouraged. ‘I told you my troubles.’

‘Lynn arrived at my house yesterday,’ I began slowly. ‘She announced that she’d left Justin, her partner, and asked if she and Beth, her little girl, could stay for a while. Lynn and Justin had quarrelled and she’d walked out.’

My pace quickened, and I found myself explaining in detail and at some length. I had never imagined Steve as a confidant, yet knowing of his torment over his divorce – and also the mention of his hairy nipples – had knocked down a barrier or two. And he didn’t look bored. On the contrary, he was receptive and reassuring.

‘Lynn’ll soon realise she’s made a mistake,’ he said, when I ground to a halt. ‘It’s easy to rush out in the heat of the moment, but when she’s had time to think things through it’ll all look different. She’ll return.’

‘I hope so. And thanks. Thanks for listening.’

He smiled. ‘Anytime.’

I rose to leave. ‘By the way, does the name William Langsdon ring any bells?’

‘Nope.’

‘He’s fiftyish, slim and around five-nine, with cropped brown hair going grey. Bit of a tough guy in the good-looking football manager mode.’

‘He’s another of your men?’

‘No! And I don’t have ‘men’.’

Steve grinned. ‘Not even the muscular Max?’

‘Especially not Max! Our dinner at the Barley Mow was a one-off and so I could interview him, that’s all. We are not a couple. I met William Langsdon yesterday,’ I continued. ‘He’s the son of someone my father knows. It’s just that I’m certain I’ve seen him before, or perhaps I saw his photograph. In the past. Distant past. But I can’t remember where or when.’

‘Sorry, can’t help.’

Following Max’s dictum of walking instead of driving, shortly after noon I set off down the High Street and towards the river. The sunny weather had continued and high above in the clear blue, jumbo jets swanned up and out from Heathrow and an eye-in-the-sky helicopter tracked the motorway for snarl-ups. As I walked, I scanned the shop windows. Dursleigh has shops which, in my youth, would have been considered bizarre. There’s the party shop, selling balloons and masks and paper trumpets. A shop dedicated to tiles, another to flooring and an angel shop dispensing – would you believe? – angel memorabilia, including gilded angel statues. And, of course, there are the charity shops.