Aunt Margaret's Lover Read online

  'You certainly did most of them,' says Margaret, pouring out the tea.

  'What? To you?'

  'Well, no. Not to me. You didn't have time to get around to it. But you did it to your wife and presumably' - she hands him a mug - 'you continue to do it since you go through women at a rate of knots . . .'

  ' You're not doing so badly,' says Verity.

  'I mean he does it when the relationship has been going on for some time. Don't you?'

  They both look at him. He is faced with two pairs of wide female eyes whose wideness requires an answer.

  'Perhaps I am just looking for the right woman.'

  'For fifteen years? Oh, come on, Colin,' Margaret snorts. 'Some of them must be coming round for a second inspection.'

  'What was it you accused me of?'

  'Well, not you in particular - just men in general.' Verity counts on her fingers. 'One. You flirt with other women even while in a stable and happy relationship. Don't you?'

  Colin sips his tea. He thinks. Eventually he says, 'Yes.'

  'Well, why?'

  There are those eyes again.

  He shrugs. 'I don't really know. Because it's fun.' He nods, as much to himself as to them. 'That's it. It's fun - and it's harmless.'

  'How can it be harmless if it upsets your partner?'

  He shrugs again. 'That's her problem.'

  The two pairs of eyes engage each other; if eyes could sigh despairingly, these would.

  'What about eyeing women up and down? You know -sort of sexual assessment? All men are potential rapists?'

  Colin puts down his mug and looks unamused. 'If you are going to get all strident feminist about this, I'm not playing. I'm attempting to answer your questions honestly and just because I, or the men I know, like to look at other women, it does not mean we're bent on violence. Frankly I can't think of anything worse than a frightened, unwilling woman. I like mine very confident and very willing. Most of us do.'

  Margaret feels a little buzz in her middle anatomy. Very confident and very willing, she thinks. Oh crikey, as Madcap Molly of the Fourth would say. She meets Simon tomorrow and it is his birthday. For some reason she remembers the old joke about men, birthdays and sex. According to Max Miller and his comic descendants, a chap in a long-term, last-gasp marriage can still expect a birthday coupling even if his wife continues to read her Jackie Collins over his shoulder while complying with natal indulgence. And like any comedy, Margaret is sure, the joke contains a grain or more of truth. If Andy Capp expects it then a new lover must certainly expect it too. They are going to do It tomorrow, without a doubt, and she had better be good. What did Colin say? 'Confident and willing'? She doesn't feel it. She wonders if Simon feels a bit nervous too. She doubts this. He didn't seem the sort who would.

  Beyond her thoughts Colin and Verity are still going at it.

  'We are built to be permanently aware of sex,' says Colin.

  'Would you,' Verity asks, her eyes wide and swimmy, 'flirt with other women in front of your lover of only a year?'

  Colin, being a man and good at this sort of thing, takes a sharp right-hand turn. 'Mine never last that long.'

  'That's probably why,' says Margaret waspishly.

  Verity continues. 'And would you forget important things, like birthdays, anniversaries - that sort of thing?'

  'Anniversaries,' says Colin, 'are strictly for married couples. I don't hold with them. Birthdays - well, I agree, that's a bit different. They are special.'

  Margaret's heart sinks. Very definitely they will have to do It tomorrow. Where? Here? There? - Wherever 'there' is .. .

  Somewhat absently she says, 'Do you expect sex on your birthday, Colin?'

  He laughs uncertainly. 'This year's in particular? Or generally?'

  'Generally.'

  He thinks. 'That's an odd sort of question.' 'But do you?'

  He thinks some more. 'I suppose, now you come to mention it, I probably do. If I'm going out with someone' - he allows a modicum of immodesty - 'which I usually am. Why?'

  Margaret adds water to the pot. She can feel that both

  Verity and Colin are looking at her expectantly. 'I mean,' she says to the kettle, 'what if it was only your - oh, I don't know - let's say second date?'

  'No point in hanging around,' Colin replies. 'All this wooing stuff went out with the ark, or should have. You can't have it both ways. Either you want the hearts and flowers treatment and are prepared to continue in second place to us, or you come up front and be counted. And that applies to all things. Not just sex.'

  'You're getting pompous,' says Margaret.

  'Second date?' muses Colin. 'Oh, I see. It's Oxford's birthday next time . . . Oh well, then. I think in those circumstances I'd expect it even more. After all, you've dispensed with the uncertainties. You've offered yourself to be an item straight away. So why hang around?'

  'Who is this Oxford?' asks Verity.

  'Colin,' says Margaret, 'are you serious?'

  He has the grace to look a little humbled, but only a little. 'Sort of,' he says, but there is an edge of teasing in his voice.

  'Margaret,' says Verity, 'are you going to tell?'

  'There's nothing to tell, Verity.'

  'Well, is it a man?'

  Margaret nods.

  Verity tries to look pleased. She fails. 'Where did you meet?'

  Margaret realizes that if she wants to remain on good terms with her neighbour and friend, she must be more informative. However, she can equivocate quite easily. Fortunately, Verity has not asked how she met him, only where - and that's easy. She moves to the kitchen table. Verity, following like a hungry cat, sits down opposite her. Colin, being male, continues to stand up. Endurance.

  'In a pub in Oxford,' says Margaret.

  'A pub in Oxford?' Verity exclaims, as if Margaret had said a strip joint in Tooting. 'What on earth were you doing in a pub in Oxford?'

  'Meeting someone?' offers Colin.

  'Shut up,' says Verity to Colin. She turns back to Margaret. 'Hmm?'

  Margaret shoots Colin a look of serious warning. 'Oxford has a very good museum,' she says. Which is quite correct.

  'I wish you'd told me you were going out for a jaunt to Oxford,' says Verity wistfully, 'I'd have loved to come.'

  Colin guffaws. 'Now that's a thought .. . Why didn't you take your friend? Old meanie.'

  Verity gives Colin a grateful look. 'Well, it's too late now.' She returns her gaze to her friend. 'So, you went into this pub in Oxford, and there he was and . . . what?'

  'Well, that's it, really. We talked, had some sandwiches together, and then he asked me out on his birthday.'

  'When?'

  'Tomorrow.'

  'And you're going to have sex with him? Just like that?' Verity is aghast. She puts her hands under her chin and lowers her voice to what she assumes is a confiding and counselling tone. 'You really must be more careful. I mean, you don't know anything about him . . .'

  'By gosh!' says Colin. 'That's true. You should ask him to write it all down for you, send a photograph - check his credentials. Never thought of that.. .'

  'Colin,' says Margaret, 'haven't you got a home to go to? Now?'

  'No, he's right,' says Verity. 'You need to be really careful nowadays. I hope you're meeting him in a public place?'

  'He's coming here to pick me up. Look, what is all this? I am almost forty, you know.'

  She twirls her mug in her hands. She knows she has a perfect right to tell Verity to stop the third degree. She's tempted to tell her the truth, but Verity's reaction to this apparently common or garden pick-up is bad enough. If she were to know how Margaret had really met Oxford - the name might as well stick - she'd go into orbit. Margaret has quite enough on her mind with regard to the morrow, without dealing with all that 'How could you not tell your best friend?' stuff. Verity plays the 'best friend' card when she is down, but it is little in evidence when she is up again. With Tintoretto in mind, Margaret does not feel bitter about this -
only aware, which saves her from the blackmail.

  Margaret looks at the clock. Half past seven. This time tomorrow, she thinks, he will be ringing my doorbell and we'll be ofT the starting blocks. She wishes she were more elated, but she feel distinctly nervous - and neither of her visitors is helping. One more sally from Colin, she promises herself, and he'll get more than a few tea-leaves up his nostrils.

  Verity says, 'I can't believe you've done that. You've actually told him where you live and you're going to let him come here.'

  'Yes,' says Margaret. 'At half past seven tomorrow, actually. It may be the last you ever see of me.'

  'And how do you know he isn't a rapist?' asks Verity, dismissing the attempt at humour.

  Colin is torn between making another ironic quip and speaking up for the male of the species. Fortunately for his nostrils, he chooses the latter. 'I think that's tabloid hysteria.'

  'Nuts!' says Verity. 'Tell that to Rape Crisis.'

  The kitchen is looking a mess, the upstairs isn't hoovered (Why the upstairs? she shudders and asks herself), the bathroom needs cleaning and the back garden looks like a Paul Nash view of Ypres. There is much to be done.

  'He isn't a rapist, Verity. He's an architect,' says Margaret. 'And I think he's very nice.' Both statements are true, which is heartening. Margaret will fight back. 'Besides, you met Mark in the post office and - as I recall - your bedroom curtains didn't open very early after your first date . . .'

  'And look at me now,' moans Verity. Which somehow seems to be relevant, but isn't.

  After they have gone, Margaret continues to tidy. She has reassured Verity, she thinks, and Colin's knife-edged taunts

  have died down. As the house emerges into a fresh and neat appearance, Margaret feels better. Mustn't forget to change the bedding, she thinks, and to put on something more stylish than the faded roses on beige from Barkers which were in their sale, draped in the window, and so cheap it was impossible not to buy. Roger had never minded them, but Oxford undoubtedly would. She recalls his perplexed look at her mention of Sex. 'It'll happen . . .' Ah, she thinks, one thing for him to say that in the desensualized atmosphere of a lunchtime pub and mean it - quite another after wine, good food, a celebratory 'Where's my birthday treat, then?' atmosphere, and the presence of one who has advertised for a lover. With Roger it had been easy: sometimes the bed didn't even look disturbed.

  Verity shakes hands with Colin at Margaret's gate and saunters off home thoughtfully. Colin drives away feeling that all this talk of sex has made him a little warm around the trousers. He might just call in on the girl from the chocolate shop whom he has seen a few times. Then he remembers, looks down, shudders ... He is wearing Roger's old shirt. Home and change. Then out into the night. Hunting and fun. Advertising? Who needs it?

  Chapter Nineteen

  We should make a date to speak on the phone. Either I'm out or you're out and you never say where. I'm thinking of you. I'm also determined to get Dad a show in London. Any ideas for venues?

  I found myself skirting round the bed as if it were a monster, beds being so blatantly symbolic. I suppose it is the best place for sex because of its comfort, softness and convenience for sleep afterwards (if not during, with reference to my immediate ex), though it seems to me a curiously domestic item on which to begin rampant carnality. Mine was about five years old and apart from a few limp tusslings with Roger, had led a blameless life.

  I duly changed the bedding to something less floral, eyed its square familiarity, and shook my head. It somehow didn't look the part. Well, I thought, seated at my dressing-table with about half an hour to go, if it didn't, I had certainly better. Much smudging and wiping followed to no avail -my face looked as much a palette as a painting. So I washed it clean and, with about five minutes left, just bunged on the usual. Besides, I didn't need too much makeup, given that I was wearing the Very Not Much Else Pre-Teen Frou-Frou and the BSL with the DP. And my hair had changed colour radically. I put out of my mind the London Brick Company. Sour grapes. It was the aureole of Gloriana to my mind and, anyway, his letter hadn't said, 'No redheads,' had it?

  We had spoken on the telephone briefly to confirm everything. He had said he was looking forward to seeing me again. I said ditto. The word itself: ditto. Not exactly romantic, I thought as I put down the phone. Only out of practice, I counselled myself. You'll get better at it. At what? Oh! At the whole desirable thing. The notion that it was a desirable thing required some work because it was beginning to feel more like a pretty dreadfully contrived thing. Ah well, cold feet were inevitable, I suppose ...

  I put my mind to something else while I waited. During the day I had been to the Auerbach show and met Fisher there. He was all smiles but not very complimentary about my hair. 'A little bright' was the way he put it. But as I pointed out, compared to some of the Auerbachs, it looked quite subdued.

  'I'm having a relationship,' I said rather proudly. 'And I want to conduct it in much the same way as Elizabeth Tudor - hair and all,' I added defiantly.

  Fisher is very good at not looking surprised at anything. He merely said, 'She was the quintessential baroque masterpiece - all ornament hiding the structure. A rose-tinted dissembler with a will of iron.'

  'Exactly,' I said.

  'Who's playing Essex?'

  I tapped my nose.

  We walked around for a while. It was a good show and Saskia had been quite right to remind me to go. It would not do to lose sight of the person I would always be underneath all these metaphorical ruffs and farthingales. While we walked, Fisher told me, with an extremely wicked look on his face, that it was all-round stalemate on the Mortimer collection and that 1 was not to do anything with my Picasso portfolio for the time being. I must do nothing until I had consulted him first.

  'In every respect?' I asked. 'Or only in the matter of my pictures?'

  'Life, art - I deal in them all,' he said wryly. 'And nowadays it seems there is a monetary value attached to both. In the old days, you know, I not only bought and sold pictures, but I matched what I sold to the client. No use selling a Rembrandt etching to a woman who really wanted something with blue in it to match the curtains, however rich she might be. Nor a lyrical Lanyon to somebody living in immaculate high tech. And so on. It was as much that side of things I enjoyed as seeing the noughts on the invoices. Now we have cheque book dealers and collectors who view things as investments. Valuations are much less painful than seeing a beautiful, let us say, Matisse scooped up and hung on a wall for the chattering classes to admire for its record price and then ignore over dinner. I should say Mrs Mortimer was one of the last few collectors with soul. And I'll be damned if Linda and Julius will mock that.'

  'You've seen them?'

  'Oh yes. I'm a friend of the family now.' He laughed at my expression. 'I love the home counties in spring . . . And, as I said to Linda only the other day, as we prune in the garden, so we can prune an art collection to make it better and stronger. I'm cataloguing and considering and taking my time. I have her in my palm.' He held it out flat and then suddenly squeezed it tight. 'Swimming-pool - really! Silly woman.'

  'You sound positively venomous.'

  He took my arm and led me towards a series of later Auerbachs. 'He goes on in strength to the end,' Fisher said, pointing at the series, 'and has the courage aforethought, or simply the need, still to take risks.'

  'I'd rather have these than my Picasso,' I said.

  He tapped my arm again and smiled his wicked smile. 'Ah, now you are being greedy. That I cannot do . . .'

  We walked on.

  'I've heard from Saskia,' he said. 'She's bent on getting Dickie a show over here.'

  I inspected the paint on a canvas a little more closely than was strictly necessary - a thing only nervous amateurs do at exhibitions.

  'It'll die down,' I said. 'Once she's back.'

  I bought the catalogue for Sassy and posted it with a short, uninformative note. Any daughter would think her father's work brilliant. I
t didn't mean that it was. Fisher would soon sort it out. He had lost interest, more or less, in the contemporary art scene. Oh yes, she would forget all about it once she was back. April was a long, long way away. Meanwhile - there was some fun to be had. Oxford, Essex - it was all the same - and I liked the idea of baroque.

  At about three minutes after half past seven the doorbell rang. I noted the three minutes because such things were small clues to the persona I could expect. Have no expectations, I reminded myself, as I walked fairly casually down the stairs, the skirt rustling above my knees and the stretchy lace clinging perhaps a little too tightly. Have no expectations.

  I opened the door. Had I been the owner of expectations, I would have been forced to let them go. For standing on the doorstep, along with Oxford, and slightly in front of him, looking distinctly resolute, was Verity. At whom he was smiling politely.