Chasing Men
by
Edwina Currie


Edwma Currie is a former government minister and for
fourteen years was the well-known Member of Parliament
for Derbyshire South She is now a successful BBC broadcaster
and bestselling novelist

'The irrepressible Edwma Currie is back' Express

'Move over Bridget Jones - your newly liberated mother has
hit town' Daily Mail

'It is impossible to dislike Currie does have some pertinent
and often moving things to say about a woman whose
life was invested in looking after others' Glasgow Herald

'You could see Chasing Men as a handbook for the newly
single But it is cleverer than that in the era of makeover
mama - house makeovers, garden makeovers, fashion
makeovers - Currie has written a life makeover for the
middle-aged frump' Sunday Independent (Ireland)

Also by Edwma Curi le

FICTION

A Parliamentary Affair

A Woman's Place

She's Leaving Home

The Ambassador

NONFICTION

Life Lines Politics and Health 1986-88

What Women Want

Three Line Quips

EDWINA CURRIE

Chasing Men

A Warner Book

First published m Great Britain in 2000

by Little, Brown and Company
This edition published in 2001 by Warner Books

Copyright © 2000, Edwma Curne
The moral right of the author has been asserted

The author gratefully acknowledges permission to quote from the following 'A

Change Would Do You Good' Words and music by Sheryl Crow, Brian Macleod and

Jeffrey Trott © 1995. Old Crow Music, Weenie Stand Music, Warner Tamerlane

Publishing Corp and Rambling Blah Music, USA Wamer/Chappell musk Ltd,

London, W6 8BS (70%) Reproduced by permission of IMP Ltd 'You're the Top'

Words and music by Cole Porter © 1934 Harms Inc , USA Warner/Chappell Music

Ltd, London, W6 8BS Reproduced by permission of IMP Ltd 'A Wonderful Guy'

Words by Oscar Hammerstem 11 and music by Richard Rogers © 1949 Willmmson

Music International, USA Reproduced by permission of EMI Music Publishing Ltd,

London, we2H OEA 'Hey There' Words and music by Richard Adler and Jerry Ross

© 1987 Richard Adler Music and J & J Ross Co , USA Wamer/Chappell Music Ltd,

London, W6 8BS Reproduced by permission of IMP Ltd

All characters m this publication arejictmous and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser

A C1P catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

ISBN 0 7515 3103 0

Typeset m Berkeley by M Rules

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

Warner Books
A Division of
Little, Brown and Company (UK)
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www httlebrown co uk

With warmest thanks to

Gillian, Diana, Rowena, Rob, Liz, Julian, Fronnie,
Christiana, Alan, Sheila, Jonathan, Marion, Valeric, Victor,
Trevor, David, Sharman, Deb, Susie, David, John, Carole,
Terry, Georgina, Matthew, Clare, Jane and many others

for your help and wise advice.

CHAPTER ONE.

Sod the New Curtains Hetty pulled her collar closer. The wind whistled
down Aviary Road, leaves swirling damply in its wake. Above her head the
wooden for-sale sign swung and creaked; it reminded her of a gibbet. The
thin estate agent shuffled his feet and thrust bony hands deeper into
his overcoat pockets. He sniffed. "Fraid that's the best there is. For a
hundred and eighty thou' you won't get anything smarter, not south of
the river."

"It's a staggering sum. For that I could buy a grade-two cottage with
timbered walls and open fireplaces in Dorset."

This isn't Dorset. I have three more clients booked to see it this
afternoon. Aviary Road is quite desirable. Now I'm sorry, Mrs. Clarkson,
shall I cancel them, or what?"

He didn't sound sorry. Weeks of fruitless searching had confirmed his
pessimism. The bijou apartment she had hoped for, overlooking a park, in
immaculate condition with secure parking, a snooty concierge and a
private swimming pool, was not available to her except in her dreams.

Even if

2 Edwina Currie she blew every penny of the divorce settlement, took on
a hefty mortgage and left herself with no savings whatever.

Til take it,' she said weakly, and immediately regretted the decision.

"Glad to hear it.' He pulled out his mobile phone, prodded it like a
piece of dodgy meat and issued brief instructions. That's settled. Come
into the office this afternoon and you can initial the papers.' He
chuckled, as if at a private joke. ' you like the neighbours. Some of
them are a little - ah, odd, I hear. But, then, what can you expect, at
that price?"

It was a question of choice. Or, rather, of precious little choice.

Several weeks later, keys in hand, Hetty stood in the grimy shrubbery
that passed for a front garden and examined her purchase with more care.

The block was an undistinguished brick edifice about thirty years old,
one of several built in the oversized grounds of a Victorian mansion
long since demolished. Hers, the one called The Swallows, contained six
flats; others nearby were larger, each named after birds. Here and
there, mature trees were a reminder of what had previously flourished,
though their leafless state added to the air of desolation and neglect.

Or perhaps not neglect exactly. There was no litter; the paths to the
front porch and around the back to the bins were tidy and unbroken.

Someone had pruned the rose bushes and cut back a buddleia. A large
ginger cat peered at her curiously from under drooping bushes then
waddled off, tail held high. With a bit of luck, in spring she might see
green from every angle of the flat.

As she fumbled with the security lock Hetty caught sight of herself in a
window. She straightened up automatically, as if somebody else might be
watching. The woman who stared Chasing Men 3

back at her was neither slim nor tall. No longer married, but not a
spinster, dried out or shrivelled up. Still ripe. Not exactly pretty,
but not plain either; brown hair tinged with grey, hazel eyes, a clear
skin without wrinkles, a ready smile, mostly. Not young, not old.

Nondescript? She sighed, and pulled a rueful face at her reflection.

"Not sure who I am,' Hetty murmured to herself. ' it's time I found
out."

The hallway was dingy. The jute floor covering was stained, though
upstairs, on what she must now call her landing, it was cleaner and less
scuffed. She tried the key in her front-door lock. It was stiff, but
worked: a good omen.

Inside, a pile of glossy circulars slithered like snakes away from her
feet. Hetty riffled through them. Leaflets for home delivery pizzas were
stacked on the kitchen window-ledge alongside a flowery ' Luck In Your
New Home' card from her mother, postmarked Amsterdam. Off on another
Saga coach holiday, probably. No letter with it. Hetty's mother was not
given to organised effusions of maternal emotion.

The flat's alarm was off. Trying to remember the estate agent's
instructions, Hetty played with it experimentally, panicked briefly when
it started to howl, then sensed a personal victory when she managed to
switch it off and on correctly. Stephen would have laughed indulgently
at her efforts and taken the key from her hand. Now she would have to do
everything herself. A shiver ran down her spine.

The lights worked. One bulb was missing. The bathroom had cheap pale
green tiles. It required a thorough scrub but was a fair size, with a
modern shower. The kitchen needed a roller-blind. Hetty began to make a
list. It would be days before she could move in, maybe longer. She must
resist the temptation to splurge, to redecorate in

4 Edwina Currie a hurry or buy expensive new curtains. No Stephen to
pick up the bills.

"So, sod the new curtains,' Hetty said aloud, with a shrug. They would
have to wail until she found a job.

"Hello? Anyone there?' The voice was unmistakably an East-Ender's. A
short woman in a flowered dress peered round the door. A faded cotton
apron was swathed across a bulky torso; she smelt faintly of fried
onions. Her hair, frizzy and almost white, was bundled up in a headscarf
tied as a turban. In her arms was the fat ginger cat Hetty had seen in
the garden. Its orange eyes examined her coolly.

"Yes. I'm here."

"Oooh! Are you going to buy it? It's been empty ages."

"I might,' Hetty answered cautiously. So the estate agent had been
economical with the truth when he implied he had lots of customers. That
explained why he was so keen to tie up the deal. Then, ', yes, I have.
I've just signed for it. It's mine, as from today." "Oooh!' the woman
said again, her eyes round but red veined, like ox-eye marbles. Her
front teeth were prominent and square, a bit battered, and brought to
mind nothing so much as a stout old mule. Yet there was something of the
gypsy about her. The cat struggled to escape and was restrained. ' a bit
of money spending on it. But it'll be nice to have somebody living here
again - you're the flat over mine. You're not a noisy person, are you?"

"No, I don't think so. Are you?"

The? Nah. I live with Thomas here. The cat. Only rented, mind, can't
afford to buy. I don't have many visitors. Only me gentleman friend."

The woman simpered. That's Jack and he's very quiet. My name's Doris
Archibald, but most people call me Mrs. A. I like my place. It's not bad
round here, honest."

Chasing Men 5

Hetty realised that her own expression might be home counties haughty or
suspicious, probably both. Was this one of the odd neighbours? She
extended her hand and smiled warily. ''m Hetty Clarkson. Or I was. I
might take my maiden name again - I'm not sure yet."

"Bad idea, that. Nobody'll be able to find you in the phone book if you
change your name. That's why some folks do it.' Mrs. A ventured further
into the room. The cat wriggled; ginger hairs detached themselves and
floated to the floor. ''s okay. Kitchen's quite respectable. I can help
with unpacking, if you like. Were you married long?"

Hetty hesitated. Was caution advised? Was it necessary? The woman seemed
harmless enough. She took the plunge. ' twenty years. Is it that
obvious?"

"Course. You're not the first, you won't be the last. These flats are
full of '. Lots of marriages break up, these days. Singles come and go
here all the while. At least you had him tied up proper. My niece Lindy
had two kids by a chap and never saw an altar. So when he takes up with
a younger lass and shows her the door, her and the kids got nothing. Did
you do all right? Must've done, to buy this place. Got family, have
you?"

Hetty stepped back. ' is this, Mrs. A? The Inquisition?"

The cat hissed and threatened to escape. The prospect of cat hairs
everywhere to add to her woes made Hetty feel weary.

Mrs. A appeared chastened. '. You look done in. Cup of tea?"

It would be best, now, to move as quickly as possible. The journey from
Dorset was too far, the trains too uncertain; the

6 Edwina Carrie furtive glances from Stephen too powerful a reminder of
what she had to leave behind. He stood on the landing by the guest room
she had occupied for the last few months, his big shoulders blocking the
light. Behind him, in the main bedroom, could be glimpsed the carved
four-poster bed they had found in Winchester. His, now, not hers. She
carried on packing clothes, mementoes and photographs into suitcases and
boxes, and tried to ignore him.

"Will you still be here at the weekend?"

She took a decision. '. I'll take a few things tomorrow. Hire a van.

Then that should be the last you see of me."

"Hetty ...' He extended his hand, then let it drop. Thank you for being
so ... understanding. You could have been bitter - made it awful. It has
helped. We did have some good times together, didn't we? And there's the
children. We can stay friends. I hope you'll be - okay." She bit her
lip. I will be okay, she thought, but no thanks to you, Stephen, she
should have retorted. He turned, discomforted by her silence, and
trudged down the stairs. It might have been easier to have a row, a
shouting match; behaving as civilised people, as both instinctively did,
left so much unsaid.

His habits need no longer detain her. His preferences, his little
quirks. What had been going on in his mind? How could she have missed
it? He was not a bad man, far from it. She pinched herself, once, hard.

It had happened: her husband had fallen in love with another woman. She
had lost him, even as she had congratulated herself on her wonderfully
stable marriage. This was not a nightmare from which she might wake up,
dazed and breathless, thankful to return to complacent normality. This
was the reality.

He hoped they might stay friends, and no doubt they'd Chasing Men 7

meet at family events: Peter's graduation, Sally's engagement - if any
man of hers ever got round to it. Their daughter worked for Britannia
Airlines in Luton and fell in love with pilots. But Stephen wouldn't be
there as her husband, or as her closest friend. Somebody else would be
on his arm.

Friends - real ones, human beings - would be at a premium from here on.

A sob rose in her throat and was forced away. It would feel dreadful and
disorientating to be alone, not be part of a couple. Most social
activities were designed for pairs. Their acquaintances were mostly
couples: from work - Stephen's work - from the village, from the summer
fete and church events she had actively supported. In all their
activities, indeed, the Clarksons had been a visible and successful part
of coupiedom. They had tended to shun singles who didn't seem to fit in.

Nothing whatever from her previous life could be taken for granted.

Precious little could be taken with her, except regrets. None of it
prepared her for what was to come.

But help was needed right now. She snapped the locks on the first
suitcase, lugged it to the top of the stairs, then tipped it flat and
kicked it down to the bottom like a sled on a hillside. The second one
went down more slowly, banging against the banisters, but did not burst
open. Solidly made, both were too heavy for her to lift more than a few
yards chosen by Stephen, they were made for a man to carry. She followed
them down to the hallway. Stephen had disappeared into the garden.

Her hand shook a little as she reached for the phone. She kept her voice
steady and light.

"Sally? Glad I've caught you. Yes, it's Mum. Listen, darling, I shall
need another pair of hands. Mostly lugging

8 Edwina Currie boxes in and out of a van and up and down stairs. No, I
don't think I should ask your father to pitch in. Or his pals from the
golf club -1 don't need any of them averting their eyes. Tomorrow
morning? Thanks, that'll be lovely. Wear jeans, darling. '."

CHAPTER TWO.

Getting to Know You Sally stood, hand on hip, and pushed a lock of fair
hair out of her eye.

A streak of dirt marked her Tommy Hilfiger sweater and she scrabbled at
it crossly with a wetted thumb. That should do it, Mum. Pity there's no
lift. You didn't bring much, did you?"

"No. Clean break."

Sally rubbed her arms. ''s cold in here. And I could do with a drink."

"I haven't figured out the central heating yet. I'll ask one of the
neighbours. Sorry, I didn't think to bring any booze. Tea?"

Sally shook her head and glanced at her watch. Hetty was becoming more
adept at reading body language. I have about ten minutes more from my
daughter, she thought, then she will have other priorities. The young
woman would not take kindly, for instance, to anyone suggesting supper
tonight.

"Mum, I think I should say it. This is a crazy idea."

Edwina Currie

"What is?"

"Oh, leaving Dad, and coming to live here on your own."

"I didn't have much option. Your father had made it clear that if I made
him choose between his new love and myself, it wouldn't be me. He does
love her, you know."

That's rot. Dad loves you, always has. He's just not very good at saying
it."

"On the contrary. He was very good indeed at saying it. Best in the
world. He drew the line, sadly, at keeping the rules that go with
meaning it."

Sally brooded. ' I'm sure he didn't want you to go. He as good as told
me. That girl isn't important to him, not important the way you are.
Were."

Hetty tried to stop herself sounding sad, but became brusque instead.

"You're kidding yourself, Sally. Whatever we had, it wasn't there any
more. I wish it had been. Splitting up is a horrible business. Though
maybe in a way it was my fault too."

Sally flopped down in the armchair. In her handbag she found a
cigarette, lit it with a silver lighter and glanced round for an
ashtray. Finding none, she had to cup her hand under the cigarette as
she smoked it. Hetty smiled to herself but resisted the temptation to
fetch a saucer. The new flat, she suddenly resolved, her flat, would be
smoke-free.

"I'm still in shock, Mum. You had so much going for you. Our home was
super - it was great, knowing you were always there. Most of my friends
thought you had the perfect home, the perfect marriage. They were
envious. I was envious, come to that."

Hetty shrugged and did not answer. Inside, something began to burn, as
it had the day she had caught her husband enfolded in the embrace of
their neighbour's wife. Younger, Chasing Men 11

lissom, attractive. The two had clung resolutely together, arm in arm,
blushing, as they faced her. Her instinct in the year since had been to
suppress her anger, to behave as calmly and cogently as possible. Now,
it dawned on Hetty, rage could be useful, as armour, to counteract her
own muddled feelings of guilt and shame, and as a defence. Especially
from those who, like Sally, saw themselves as fully qualified to tell
her what to do.

"You and Dad always seemed to get on. I don't think you should have
left, honest. Surely you could have worked something out?"

"Don't, Sally. I don't know why it went wrong. Perhaps because I bored
him. He didn't bore me, but there you are. Maybe I took too much as
read. What I'm absolutely not going to do is dwell on the past. It's
done, finished. Time to move on.' Hetty spread her hands to indicate the
flat.

Sally rose, irresolute, as if there were a lot more to say. She pulled
on her London Fog jacket, made a great play of tying her muffler and
finding her leather gloves. ' must go. You have my number. Ring me in a
day or two, won't you?' She pecked Hetty on the cheek and let herself
out.

Hetty wafted away the fumes of cigarette smoke and stood silent. Then
she picked up her keys. Took too much for granted, Sally,' she said to
the closed door. ''t realise it. But I do now."

There, that'll do it. You'll need to get that boiler serviced. Nobody's
had it on for ages. Now, while your place is warming up, how about ?"

"A cuppa?' Hetty found herself smiling. Thanks, I'd love one.' She
locked the flat and followed the woman's solid body downstairs, grateful
for the invitation.

Edwina Currie Mrs. A's tea was strong and sweet. Her flat was small and
dark, on the ground floor, in the corner facing another block. But it
was warm, blessedly so, with a coal-effect gas- fire in the living room.
Thomas, the cat, was curled up on a cushion; his fluffed-up fur made him
look enormous. Cat hairs gave every surface of the furniture a faint
sheen, but Hetty resisted the urge to brush her chair with her hand. The
smell of cabbage and fried fish lingered from the kitchen. Hetty
suddenly felt hungry. Her own crockery was still crated; that was the
set she had liberated from the house the second best service - and she
had not thought to bring anything to eat.

"Where do we shop around here, Mrs. A? Is there a late night grocer's?

And what about cafes, or restaurants - any decent ones?"

"Wouldn't know about that. My gentleman takes me to the West End when
he's in funds. The garage has a mini supermarket - fine for most of what
you want, nothing fancy. That's open till eleven at night."

"That's better than Dorset. We had one village shop that closed at five
thirty, and half-day Wednesdays. Then they wondered why everyone hared
off to Tesco's in their cars.' Hetty snorted. ' freezer was stuffed with
food. Heavens, I used to spend whole days baking."

"You like cooking?"

Hetty pondered. ', I don't,' she answered slowly, in surprise. '
drudgery. I did it because, well, it was expected of me. I was a great
hostess."

"Bet you were. No need now. Near here there's Tesco's, Safeway,
Sainsbury's, Asda, the lot. Ready meals. You got a microwave? Then you
won't starve. Pensioners' bus goes to Sainsbury's Tuesdays and Fridays.

How old are you?"

Chasing Men 13

"Heavens, do I look like a pensioner?"

Mrs. A shrugged. ''t tell, can you? That Joan Collins, she's older than
me. Mutton dressed as lamb, but gorgeous with it."

Tm - er - forty-seven. Nearly forty-eight. And I don't have a car. So
it'll have to be the little shop at the garage."

It was a lie. Her last birthday had been her fiftieth, and not
celebrated. Stephen had passed that mark two years before. Maybe that
explained the changes in him: a mid-life crisis, a desire to postpone
middle age. An attempt to recapture his carefree lost youth. Perhaps, it
suddenly dawned on her, Stephen had wanted her out, needed pastures new
himself. One thing was for sure: he would not be alone. Solitude was not
his line.

"Are you divorced, Mrs. A?' Helen was startled at her own question. What
had happened to her natural reticence - to feeling ashamed?

The? Nah, I'm a widder."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"What for? Not your fault. Anyway, me and Thomas here suit each other.

He's no trouble, and I can say whatever nonsense comes into my head with
no fear he'll answer back. We gets on fine, don't we, Thomas?"

The cat yawned. A few more hairs worked loose and floated gently to the
floor, as if the moulting animal were determined to leave its mark.

Hetty remembered the estate agent's comments. ' more thing, Mrs. A.

What about the neighbours?"

The old woman chuckled. ''ll meet ' soon enough. You can be sociable or
not, as you like. Next to me are the Mcdonalds and their kiddies. Down
from Scotland, keeps themselves to themselves. Upstairs there's two nice
people

14 Edwina Currie living together, artistic types. You've got three girls
renting number four next to you -- right larks they get up to. They
drink too much, if you ask me. I like a tipple meself, but not enough to
pass out on the stairs. If you find one, just bang on their door and
they'll take her in. Top-floor flat belongs to a foreign couple, out of
the country mostly. That's the one over yours, so it'll be quiet for
you. Bin-men come on Thursdays and the post office is by the
newsagent's. Anything else?"

"No, thank you.' Hetty laughed. ', I'm ravenous. Must go and get some
dinner. D'you think they sell single-person packs at the garage?"

"Oh, yes. I should put on a bit of lipstick before you go. It's quite a
pick-up joint for singles.' Doris prodded Hetty's knee with a stout
finger, as if testing the plumpness of a chicken. ' so I'm told."

Tick-up joint, huh,' Hetty muttered, as she struggled back to the flat
laden with plastic bags. The only men in the store, apart from motorists
paying for petrol, had been the elderly Bangladeshi manager and a pimply
boy lingering near the lighter fuel. The sole good-looking man, a tall
figure in an Aran juniper, had left immediately she entered. ', I'm not
interested. Why does everybody think I should be chasing men?

Been there, done that. Got the scar tissue to prove it."

The answerphone light was blinking. Another infinitesimal shard of
progress. Cards announcing her change of address and phone number had
been sent off the day she had signed for the flat. The light felt like a
confirmation that she existed in her new form. The Swallows, a swallow.

Not yet a summer, but she had spread her wings.

"Mum? Sally. You all right? I'm sorry I left in such a hurry.

Chasing Men 15

I'm worried about you, there on your own. I spoke to Granny. We should
have a council of war so you can decide what you want to do. Maybe while
Erik's on his next tour of overseas duty. He seems to get sent abroad a
lot at the moment. Men -- we have to put up with them the way they are,
don't we?"

Her daughter's voice wittered on until after ninety seconds the tape cut
off suddenly, bleeped and went on to the next message. Hetty smiled
grimly. Sally was currently in a relationship with a man about whom she
was very cagey. At the same age, Hetty had been engaged and flat-hunting
with the love of her life. At least, Hetty consoled herself, she'd had
years of happiness. And the kids. It was a lot to be thankful for.

"Hetty? Do hope I've got the right number, darling. It's Clarissa.

Dreadfully sorry to hear what happened - I can't believe it, not you,
thought your marriage was a rock. Are you up for lunch? I can be a
shoulder to cry on anytime. How about a week on Tuesday? It's on me.

Lots of love. Call me."

Hetty fetched her diary, though it was hardly necessary. Apart from a
final visit to her solicitor and the need to wait in for the
central-heating man, blank pages stretched ahead for months. Lunch,
Tuesday? Certainly.

"Hetty? Brother Larry here. Hope you're okay moving in sorry, like to
help but we're a bit pushed at work right now. Hey, listen, soon as
you're settled, Davinia and I would like you round. Supper, you know.

Nothing elaborate. We'll invite a few friends for you to meet. Can't
have you moping on your own, can we?"

Larry, her only sibling, was three years older than Hetty. Larry and
Davinia were not married. Publicly, boastfully, they lived together in a
high, narrow house in Fulham with their two little boys and a sullen
nanny on the top floor.

16 Edwina Currie Davinia was an advertising executive with an impressive
client list, Larry did something lucrative with computers. Their
favourite restaurant was the River Cafe, but they were not important
enough to get a table on demand. Davinia was thirty-five, and was
Larry's third long-term partner. All his women had looked alike: big,
robust blondes, whose starting age had crept up only slightly. This,
however, was the first liaison to have produced children. The boys were
aggressive and materialistic, miniature versions of their father. The
prospect of being comforted by her brother and sister-in-law over
quails' eggs and ratatouille did not fill Hetty with delight. She made a
note.

"Hi, Hetty. Rosa here. Rosa Weston. Thanks for the message.

Commiserations - sorry to hear your news. Never mind, some fabulous
bloke will come crashing through the jungle to carry you away. Anyway,
that's my theory, though I'm still waiting. As for a job, well, budgets
are tight. If you can accept peanuts, we could use another researcher.

Fancy working in television again? Gimme a ring

"Hi, Mum. It's Peter. Hope you're all right. Listen, my student loan
hasn't arrived - it's two weeks late. Can you let me have some money?"

Hetty reached for the remote control and switched off the set. Her back
ached from heaving boxes, two fingernails were broken, the plaster over
a cut was dirty. A Bird's Eye frozen lasagne had filled a gap, but the
remains congealed in their polystyrene box were a dismal reminder of her
lowered status. She must not let her standards slip. If it meant
learning how to cook for one - for the first time ever - she would have
to do it. There must be cookery books about it. Or maybe a TV series.

Chasing Men 17

On the other hand, it had not been a bad few days. Everything was in
place, the new light-bulb inserted, the heating making the flat
habitable, though a dank smell came from one corner where a radiator
leaked. Photographs in frames sat on a half-full bookcase: the children,
her mother, not Stephen. A bunch of tulips curved gracefully over the
edges of a vase like a glowing pink fountain. A few minor treasures sat
on the mantelpiece: a Lladro figurine, a collection of old perfume
phials, their coloured glass ghostly in the light. Her bed was freshly
made, her nightie wrapped around Peter's childhood fluffy hot-water
bottle to cheer her up. She was desperately tired.

And her diary was no longer empty. Clarissa was a friend from
schooldays, married to Robin. It came to Hetty that she did not know
Robin well and had seen him through Clarissa's eyes as easy-going and
readily exploited. Her new position gave her another perspective. What
were they really like? Would she get on with them as a couple now she
was no longer a couple herself? Or would Clarissa, on her own, be part
of the rescue party?

The call from Peter was par for the course, and a cheque a small one -
was in the post to him. The brightest spark, the response that had made
Hetty's eyes light up, had come from Rosa. They had worked together
years before, at the BBC, as underpaid young secretaries and
researchers. Rosa had been one of the Shepherd's Bush quartet, the most
ambitious, the most sophisticated. Her own mother had originally come
from Barbados and Rosa would joke that in certain politically correct
circles her colour was a distinct advantage. They'd kept in touch, via
Christmas cards; Rosa was on the Clarkson list for parties and birthday
events, while invitations had occasionally arrived to launches of her
television

18 Edwina Currie scries. She worked for an independent company, these
days. It had been natural to ask her advice, among others, about
employment. It looked as if Rosa, more than anyone else, might come up
with the goods.

The new-home card had been moved to the small table. It was sweet of her
mother to send it; amazing, given her busy social round, that she had
remembered. The elegant widow of an army colonel, the old lady seldom
sat still long. ' hardly know her, either,' Hetty mused. ' own daughter
hardly knows me. What a family we are. Or have been."

She found a piece of notepaper and an envelope. ' Thank you for the
card, much appreciated. When you get back from your travels, would you
like to come round? Or, better still, shall we meet - go to a movie -
whatever you'd like? I have a bit more time now.' She stopped: it
sounded too much like a plea. Tm coping fine, so don't feel concerned
about me. But it'd be fun. I'd make it fun. Lots of love." Hetty paused,
pen in hand. Then she added, ' Sally thinks we should have a proper
discussion, to help me decide what to do next. Would you come? You might
talk more sense than any of us."

It still felt weird, sleeping alone: no one else's breathing by her ear,
no heels and ankles in the wrong place, no sleepy gurgles from another's
alimentary canal. Nobody pinching most of the duvet on a cold night. No
cold feet. Hetty smiled despite herself, then snuffled. She cuddled the
hot-water bottle.

And allowed herself a few tears.

To her surprise the weepy feelings did not persist. Underneath, below
the layers of bewilderment and despair, Chasing Men 19

beneath the anger and the hot shame, beneath the fear of the unknown,
somewhere deep inside, something new stirred, like a dormant volcano.

Excitement.

She rolled over, flat on her back. The hot-water bottle clutched over
her heart made her pulse race. The ceiling above her was blank, smooth
and empty. Like a sheet of paper in a typewriter, waiting for her to
begin tapping.

"I can write on there anything I want,' Hetty whispered. ' can do what I
want, go or stay, as I please. Don't have to satisfy anybody else. How
extraordinary! I am free of all obligations, other than to myself. I am
me."

The thought made her hug the unprotesting hot-water bottle so hard she
feared it might burst. In another moment she was asleep.

CHAPTER THREE.

Council of War Hetty drank deeply. The second glass of supermarket wine
would probably give her a headache, but so would the promised council of
war. Sally was slumped on the sofa. By her side were a notebook turned
to a blank page, an unopened packet of cigarettes and a half-eaten bowl
of cashew nuts.

In the best armchair sat Hetty's mother, stylish and composed as ever,
her silvery hair beautifully coiffed, charm bracelet jingling, a stuffed
olive between finger and thumb. She was dressed in a grey irouser suit,
legs crossed at the ankle. Size twelve, Hetty guessed. She sucked in her
stomach.

"Are you quite sure, darling, that this is the right place for you?' Her
mother's tone was oleaginous, her roaming eyes disapproving. The white
chrysanthemums she had brought were too large for their vase and looked
wintry.

Hetty shrugged. ' was all I could afford, unless I wanted Chasing Men 21

to start borrowing heavily, and for that I'd need steady employment."

"Perhaps, dear, you shouldn't have allowed Stephen to keep the house.

You put yourself at a serious disadvantage."

"Did I? If I'd made a fuss, I'd have been stuck with bad feeling, six
bedrooms and a lot of neighbours taking sides for and against. No
thanks."

"Have they set the wedding day yet?' This from Sally, who would expect
to be invited. The girl was not famous for her tact.

"No. They can't get a licence till the decree absolute comes through. To
be frank, I suspect they may hold off for a bit. See if it works. Your
father has his practical side."

Sally snorted. ' what will you do for money? You haven't earned a living
in years - Dad's settlement won't last for ever."

Hetty had not revealed that, after the first few months, no further
maintenance payments were in the offing. It had seemed to her wrong to
expect Stephen to pay for two households from one income when she was
perfectly capable of looking after herself. It might also have
undermined his new relationship; revenge was not on her mind. She
decided against telling them about Rosa's call, since nothing might come
of it. ' shall get a job. I've made a few enquiries, and we'll see."

"I can't quite grasp,' her mother said - a slight deafness meant that
she occasionally missed snippets of conversation, though wild dogs from
hell would not have drawn the admission from her lips - ' you didn't
want to be left with the house. You could have sold it. Bought something
better than this."

"I doubt it. This flat cost as much as a fair-sized country

22 Edwina Currie property. The Swallows is not exactly a dosser's
joint.' Hetty prayed silently that that was true. ''s done now. This is
my new address. I think I could be quite content here. It's no worse
than anywhere else."

A silence fell, during which Hetty and Sally both drained their glasses.

Hetty fetched a second bottle and opened a packet of Ritz crackers. She
was not up to cooking a meal for them, and nor yet was the kitchen.

"Why London, though?' Sally again. Hetty noticed that a few scrawls had
appeared on the notebook. A single unlit cigarette had emerged from the
packet, as if begging permission to be smoked.

"Why not?"

"Well, you and Dad lived the rural idyll for yonks. A quiet life, but
one that loads of people would give their eyeteeth for. Suddenly you
throw it over to bury yourself in this urban wasteland. I don't get it."

"Because ...' Hetty hesitated,'... this is a contrast. That was a very
conservative life. I was occupied, even though I didn't have paid work.
But when I look back, perhaps it wasn't quite enough. Or was heading
that way. I think underneath I was a bit restless."

These remarks drew blank looks from both women.

Hetty groaned inwardly. This might be an exercise in misunderstanding.

Was she so hopeless at making herself clear? Or was it that her ideas
were still muddled? Maybe she was expressing views neither her daughter
nor her mother could credit. She tried again.

"If I had stayed, much of what I'd busied myself with would have
vanished into thin air. Divorced women in a traditional setting have a
tricky time. Everyone's scared of them - even I used to be. They're seen
either as unfortunate Chasing Men 23

or as a threat. I'd have had to give up the parochial church council for
a start, and sit by myself in church. Then I'd have been pursued by
slippy local men who saw me as fair game with black looks from their
wives, and had to put up with nosy-parkers on my meals-on-wheels round
giving me their opinions. Or pity. That's a recipe for terminal decline.

Not ready for that."

Sally frowned. ' how will you pass the time? You're not going to be one
of those dotty women who goes shoplifting for fun, are you? I can't come
and bail you out."

"Don't talk rubbish. I'm not about to start breaking the law. More
likely to find the local library and start reading Proust."

More blank looks. ' shouldn't, dear,' her mother said. ' sounds
dangerous."

Sally refused to be deflected. ' on, how many years is it since you've
lived on your own? Or have you ever?"

Hetty considered. ', you're right. I never have. At college I was in the
hall of residence. Then in the early days at Television Centre I shared
digs in Shepherd's Bush with three other girls. We lived on Ski yoghurt
and Vesta dried meals, and had a whale of a time. I met your father and
fell head over heels. We started off with a tiny pad in Ladbroke Grove.
Proper little love-nest. We were happy. In those days."

"See? You can't possibly live by yourself. You'll be so lonely. You'll
never get used to it. It's awful.' Sally lunged for the cigarette and
disappeared into the kitchen to find an ashtray. She emerged with the
cigarette lit, a saucer in her hand and gloomy defiance on her face.

"Don't tell me I can't, please, Mum. It's hard enough trying to sort you
out. Doing it in a smoke-free zone is beyond me.' She returned to the
sofa.

Edwina Currie

"You aren't going to take up smoking, are you?' Hetty's mother sat up
sharply. ''s dreadfully bad for the skin. Especially for older women."

Hetty and Sally exchanged glances, then both smiled. It was the first
time any of them had smiled. Hetty relaxed a little and munched a
cracker. ' as likely as Proust, Mother. That's not an issue,' she
answered, and was careful to make her voice soothing.

"Staying single,' Sally prompted. ' that definitely the game plan?"

"I don't know. But why not?"

"You can't manage on your own. Nobody could, in your circumstances."

"Your grandmother does. Has for years,' Hetty answered, with a nod in
the older woman's direction.

"That's different,' her mother retorted. ' learned self reliance in the
war. Never short of a date then.' Her eyes became dreamy. ', at my age
there are so few men left. The rest are too decrepit for words. The ones
who want a wife don't deserve one. Or else they're after a housemaid,
cook and nurse in one.' She glared. ''ve washed enough dirty socks in my
time, and wiped bottoms. I'm not about to start again."

Hetty and Sally giggled, and took refuge in their wine. ' feel much the
same,' Hetty responded at last, ' for the moment being alone is simply
the result of being the innocent party in a divorce. It was devastating,
but I don't intend to get bitter if I can avoid it. On the other hand,
I'm not about to pick up any old bloke on the rebound."

"Maybe that's exactly what you should do.' Sally brightened. ' somebody
else quickly, while you still can."

Hetty brooded. Most of the crackers had gone. She Chasing Men 25

tipped up the packet; salty crumbs cascaded on to the carpet. '," she
said, then shrugged. ' is that all there is? Hunting down a replacement
for my erring ex? Isn't there more to look forward to than that? Here I
am, in the midst of the world's greatest metropolis, compos mentis, more
or less solvent and fancy-free. Lord, I sound like one of those contact
ads in the Daily Telegraph.' She struggled. ' till this month I've lived
with, and for, other people. My entire life, Sally, has revolved round
other people - your father, Peter, you. Perhaps it's time to find out
what I want, how I'd like to spend my time. Who with. With nobody,
maybe."

Sally dragged on the cigarette. ''ll suffer from depression. Do you know
what SAD means? Single and desperate. I'm seriously worried about you."

Til manage - you'll see. I'll have to. And it might save me giving in to
the pressure, and inviting you to come and live with me,' Hetty added
wryly.

Sally looked aghast. ' don't think that would be wise. Erik, for
example. It'd put him off."

"Yes, I can see that,' Hetty drawled. ' maybe, if I follow your advice
and go chasing men, it'd cramp my style, too. There are advantages in
living alone."

"You don't mean it,' Sally chided. ''re probably still in love with Dad.
Aren't you?" Hetty sighed. '. We were together half our lifetimes. We
had a lot of good years - in fact, I assumed it would simply go on for
ever. My mistake."

Sally leaned back, eyes closed. It is so obvious, Hetty thought, that
she longs for what I had. Happy marriage is still the ideal. How
astonishing that they had never had this conversation before, these
three women; it was as if they Edwina Currie had never communicated
anything of import till now. It had taken heartbreak to bring them
together.

Hetty's head ached. She rose and put the empty wine bottle on the
mantelpiece. There she played with the perfume phials, rearranging them,
lifting each up to catch the light. ' of options, now,' she observed.
She prodded the wine bottle. This is one, since I no longer have to be
ultra respectable. Or I could get fat - comfort eating can be very nice.
Or become SAD, a depressive, and make a career of crying for help.' She
began to move an ornament with each sentence. That's three. I could,
however, be sensible - get a job, find a new church and a local charity
to potter about in. According to you two, I could chase men or be chased
by them. That's seven - or is it eight?"

"You could go back to the country on your own and make a go of it
there.' said Sally.

"A recipe for genteel poverty. This is where the work is."

"You could go back to Dad.' Sally again.

Hetty's chin came up. That's ten. Enough."

She put the gew-gaws back in their original places, then laughed. ' a
year or so we'll see what I've done. Whether I've survived or not. Along
with my ten green bottles."

"Chasing men isn't the problem,' the old lady said loudly. Her speech
had become slower and grander: she, too, had drunk more than her normal
quantity on an empty stomach. ''s spotting the defects from the
distance, so you can be choosy. Then, if they're any good, catching them
and holding on to them."

"All advice gratefully received, but I'm not sure that's on the agenda.

Yet."

"You've been hurt. I can see that.' Sally spoke quietly. ''m impressed
that you're putting on a brave front. But there are Chasing Men 27

lots of ways you could meet new men, and make friends. Not just those
Telegraph ads. Even if you didn't want to ... you know. Take it any
further."

Hetty was drinking her fourth glass of wine. Her tongue was loosened and
she giggled again. ', Lord, Sally, sex with strangers. Are you about to
warn me to carry condoms?"

Sally gaped. The old lady swivelled round in her chair and stared. ' you
go chasing men, dear, do choose clean ones,' she said.

"Yes, Mother,' Hetty answered, and hiccuped slightly.

Sally stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. ' haven't
decided anything and it's getting late. What are you going to do?"

Hetty remembered the pizza leaflet and made a decision. ' talk for one
night. I am going to phone out for a Meat Feast with garlic bread," she
announced. ' chocolate chip ice cream to follow. Would anybody like to
join me?"

CHAPTER FOUR.

The Odd Couple Hetty was beginning to find her bearings. The children
from the downstairs flat, whom she took to be the Mcdonalds', had
scurried past her one morning. A boy and a girl, aged about five or six,
though not twins, in the uniform of the nearby primary school. Mrs.
Mcdonald, a dumpy woman in her mid-forties, had bobbed quickly behind
them with an anxious look, carrier-bag on her arm. There had been no
time to exchange pleasantries, and Mrs. Mcdonald did not appear to want
to. You can be sociable or not as you wish, Mrs. A had said; apparently,
the Mcdonalds did not wish.

Mrs. A would greet her cheerily; indeed, made it her business to greet
everyone who came near the block, often by leaning out of the window. It
must be her method, Hetty reckoned, of coping with life alone, though
'alone' was hardly an apt description. Some of those the woman hailed
Chasing Men 29

would accept her offer of a cup of tea, as Hetty had. The postman did
every Saturday, the milkman on paydays, though he confided in a whisper
to Hetty that that meant The Swallows had to be at the end of his round.

The newsagent did not deliver. Tm here from five a. m.,' he whined.

"Enough.' To spite him, Hetty bought a copy of the Big Issue from a
scruffy man who crouched on an orange-box nearby, and whom she had seen
roundly cursed by the shopkeeper.

The Big Issue seller had looked her over in a fashion that made Hetty
distinctly uneasy. She hoped he would not start following her home. He
was dirty, his oiled jacket greasy with caked food, his fingers brown
from cigarettes. One lip had an ulcer. Whatever he had been before fate
brought him to this, he was not a pretty sight.

She was musing thus in the little supermarket, and thinking that she
should not make snap judgements: perhaps the man had had bad luck and
his current state was not his fault. Maybe selling the magazine was his
first small step back to civilisation. She joined the queue
absentmindedly.

Suddenly another image came into her view. And made her stare openly.

This man was impossibly handsome, with a shock of tousled golden hair,
blue eyed. Over six foot. Probably around thirteen and a half stone.

Breathtaking. He was in the queue ahead of her. Hetty rebuked herself.

She might not be in the business of chasing men, but it was undeniable
that she had begun to notice them, both good and bad. Unfortunately, her
taste and preferences had been formed years before, when she was a
twenty something on the lookout. This sort of man, so tall, his lean
body hinting at some athleticism did he play squash? cricket? - was
exactly the type that had Edwina Currie once made her catch her breath
in wonder. At a guess, however, he was of an age to be her son.

"Hi,' he said, his voice deep. His jaw was prominent, the nose Roman,
the chin dimpled. Above the green round necked sweater his Adam's apple
moved gently up and down, as if saluting her independently.

Hetty was startled. It was one thing to daydream, surreptitiously spying
the man's basket to see whether he was buying for two. It was another to
have the vision open its mouth and speak to her.

"Hi,' he said again, and grinned. ''t you the new resident at The
Swallows?"

"Oh!' Hetty found her voice. ' mean the flats on Aviary Road? I've just
moved in, yes.' She was about to add, ' three,' then remembered to be
circumspect with strangers. He may look an angel, but you couldn't tell.
''ve bought it. Why?"

"Because that's where I live. Upstairs from you.' Then he must know her
number. Of course: it had been on the for sale sign.

"Really?' He must be one of the artistic types Mrs. A had mentioned. No
doubt about it, as the azure eyes gazed down at her. If the rest of the
neighbours were as '' as this, her days at The Swallows could be ...
enjoyable. If frustrating. She was not about to go in for
baby-snatching. Maybe he had an older brother.

"My name's Christian,' he told her, as his basket was taken from him by
the cashier. ''s not bad round here, don't you think?"

Hetty nodded as her own meagre groceries were charged. She gave her name
and began to tell him her circumstances, then trailed off. If she were
to start afresh, as she meant to Chasing Men 31

as she must - then offering a sob-story as the opening to every
conversation would have to stop. Dorset, the Aga and the four-poster bed
were gone. It was foolish to dwell on them. Or to seek sympathy. She
squared her shoulders.

What would Mrs. A have done? The old woman seemed to make a success of
singledom.

"Are you going back there now?' Hetty asked. ' you like a cup of tea?'
Mentally she checked: the crockery had been unpacked and washed.

There was milk in the fridge, two kinds of tea in the cupboard, and
plenty of biscuits. She smiled encouragingly.

"I'd love one, Mrs. Clarkson.' He smiled back.

Hetty felt her heart skip a beat. Her new life had started.

The answerphone was blinking as she opened the door. Christian indicated
his bags with an easy politeness. Til go and dispose of these then come
back."

"Hello, Hetty, dear. This is Mum. Back from my latest jaunt. Scotland
this time -- chilly! Are you in tonight? I'll come round and we can have
supper. Forgive me neglecting you. I'll bring my photos. Edinburgh was
wonderful

"Damn!' Hetty's first reaction was the realisation that, while
entertaining a neighbour to tea was well within her capacity, cooking
for her mother in an unfamiliar kitchen still was not. The freezer
section of her modest fridge contained only ice cubes and a piece of
frozen salmon. There was no time to shop again. In any case, she did not
feel like cooking. A tinge of resentment surfaced, quickly suppressed.

Her own attitudes had shifted alarmingly already: in her previous
incarnation, refusing to serve a four-course dinner on demand would have
been unthinkable.

"Christian,' she said, as the boy tapped at the open door Edwina Currie
then strolled in, ' you wanted to take a girlfriend out to eat,
somewhere in walking distance, nice but not too expensive, where would
you go?" The eyebrows shot up. ',' he said uncertainly, ' could try Chez
Bruce. Just by the station. Quite fair food and ambience."

"My mum is a much-travelled lady. D'you think she'd like it?"

Christian visibly relaxed. '. I take mine there sometimes and she loves
it."

"That's settled, then.' Hetty felt inordinately relieved. Tea was duly
made, Earl Grey, and served quite respectably in a teapot, with almond
biscuits on a doily on a plate. Tell me about yourself,' Hetty invited.

"What do you do?"

"I'm an actor. With the Old Vie company. We go into rehearsals next week
for the Pinter revival.' His chest swelled with pride. That's why I'm
home at the moment, but once we get cracking it's a fourteen-hour day.

Exhausting.' He rolled his exquisite eyes and puffed out his cheeks.

"And do you live here alone?' Hetty could not recall what else Mrs. A
had said, but this was a tactful way to find out more.

"No, with my partner. We've been together five years."

"Ah.' Hetty was cross with herself for feeling disappointed. She was not
about to fall in love, and certainly not with someone who could not
recall Abba first time round, but it did no harm to admire beauty and to
take vicarious pleasure in it. Friends were to be garnered where they
could be found. She and Stephen had enjoyed going to the theatre, but
despite her early BBC experience, no current actors or theatricals were
among their acquaintance. This was something new, and to be savoured.

Chasing Men 33

"Is your partner an actress too?"

"Actor, not actress. They hate being called actresses. That's what women
were called in the days when stage-door johnnies were also part of the
scene."

"Sorry,' Hetty simpered. ''t they still? Don't men still hang about the
stage door waiting for their favourites?"

Christian chuckled in a knowing way. They do, Mrs. Clarkson, but they're
just as likely to be waiting for the male lead."

"Oh!"

He put his head to one side. ' that a problem, Mrs. Clarkson?"

"Call me Hetty.' She thought for a moment. ', I have to admit, I don't
know any ... homosexuals. I did, years ago - must have, I suppose. And
there were a couple of teachers living together in a cottage in the
village. But one didn't mix with them."

"Why not?" "I'd have thought that would be obvious. One worries about
people like that being teachers, for a start. Apart from anything else,
I have a teenage son. And my husband had views on the matter. We
wouldn't have wanted anybody's feelings to be hurt. It was a small
village."

"You don't think maybe their feelings were hurt at being left out?"

"No, why should they have been? They had their own circle. I imagine."

Hetty halted, uncertain. ''s this conversation going, Christian?

Are you a campaigner, or something? I know there are lots of gays in
your profession - is that it?" Thank you for the tea,' the boy said, and
stood up, though with no indication of hurry.

Edwina Currie Hetty rose hastily. ' I upset you? I'm sorry. I thought-"

"No, Hetty, you didn't think. I'm an actor, and my partner is not. He's
a senior producer, quite well known.' '? But you said she-" "I said
nothing of the sort. We're gay, Mrs. Clarkson. Both of us. And your son
would have been perfectly safe in our company. Now I must go."

It was an incident she did not feel she could share with her mother, or
with Sally. But living in such close proximity she could not avoid
seeing Christian on the stairs, and realised that the older, greyer man
who had nodded at her vaguely on the front path was probably his partner
- she would have to find a way to make amends. The discussion, her
stupidity and unthinking rudeness, made her go hot every time the words
came back into her mind. She felt tortured by them for the rest of the
day.

Eventually she wrote a note, the first on her new notepa per.

"Christian, I am sorry if I was rude. I didn't know, but that's no
excuse. Hope you'll forgive me. I'd like to meet your partner, if that's
okay with you both - sorry, I don't know his name. What would you like -
a glass of wine, maybe? Hetty.' Then she scribbled underneath, ''t call
this evening. I don't think my mum would understand. Anyway we'll be out
-1 booked a table at Chez Bruce as you suggested.' That, she suddenly
saw, was both redundant and compounded the rudeness. She tore up the
note and started again, using only the first three sentences.

Then she bit the end of the biro and thought hard. At last she gave a
little whoop of delight and wrote underneath, ' your play is on, I'd
love to come and see it. Would that be possible?

Chasing Men 35

Could you let me have more details?' And added, ', Hetty."

A strange kind of love. If Christian and his partner ignored the note,
she would have been rebuffed, and have deserved it. And would know
better next time. But they were '', weren't they? Lots of people in
London were. If she were to avoid the loneliness that Sally obviously
regarded as her lot, then it was up to her to make an effort. That
included learning to speak other languages, however foreign they seemed.

Anyway, she meant it. It'd be fun to go to the theatre, to a preview or
maybe at the start of the run when everyone was still keen, and to be
able to say to the person in the next seat, ' know that young man.

Isn't he great?' It would be participating instead of standing on the
sidelines. And there would be no dashing away to catch the last train.

If she were invited for drinks afterwards she could go ... That was
gazing too far ahead. For the moment, she had been taught a sharp
lesson.

Hetty's mother, despite her seventy-three years, could still cut quite a
dash. In the restaurant, in her navy suit, Peggy Morris looked ten years
younger than her age. Hetty felt dowdy beside her: under the influence
of comfort eating (the easy sin - those darned biscuits), her own waist
was spreading and her size had crept up to a fourteen.

"Wonderful. How did you find this place?' Peggy was tucking into Bruce's
calamari in Chardonnay with gusto. Without waiting for the answer, she
continued, ' must say, it's an improvement on that ghastly steak house
in that village of yours. At my age one gets picky. I'm not sure I can
cope with Saga coach cuisine much longer. Too many chips." Edwina Currie
Hetty paused, a french-fried potato and a slice of peppered steak
speared on her fork. Her mother had always been a strong personality.

Had she spent more time in Hetty's vicinity, with Stephen nearby, there
would have been little left of Hetty Clarkson. Now was not the moment to
kowtow to her. Hetty raised the fork defiantly and ate. Thank you for
your ideas on the night of the council of war,' she ventured. ' was
grateful. You hadn't said much about my divorce."

The old lady chuckled and poured another glass of Moselle. ', what did
you see in him?"

"Stephen? That's easy. I loved him."

"Honestly - and you never suspected?"

"I adored him - blindly, yes. He was a fine-looking man, he could be
totally kind, was charming, generous. He was intelligent, successful and
well thought-of. I still think I chose well. And, remember, I was a free
agent - I could do what I wanted with my day. That's not so common."

"But he was unfaithful." Hetty sighed. ' see it now, though I was
completely naive then. Her husband guessed, but I didn't. Perhaps my
ignorance was no bad thing - it kept my home intact as long as was
necessary for the children."

"Huh!' Peggy sniffed. ' marriage trivialised you. Turned you into a
doll."

"What?"

"Something else you weren't aware of. Made you brainless, darling.

You're better off without him. You have a brain, now you're going to
have to use it.' The empty plate was pushed away with an air of regret.

"Do you no harm to have to stand on your own two feet. You might even
enjoy it."

"But what do you mean "trivialised" me? I couldn't have Chasing Men 37

competed with Stephen. He was so able. And I wouldn't have wanted to
try. I played it low-key in company - you can't have two prima donnas in
a family. One has to take a back seat, support the other. I'm a bit shy,
really. Right now there are moments when I'm bloody terrified.' Hetty
drained her glass - anything not to meet her mother's candid gaze. The
alcohol was making her maudlin. ''ve none of the social skills I'm going
to need. I'm trained and experienced as a wife. There are no etiquette
books written for women like me."

"So I'm right. He helped make you what you are. Correct?"

"Correct.' Hetty's voice was low. ''t push, Mother. You could say my
confidence is a bit low at present. For all my bravado, I'm not sure how
I'll manage on my own."

The plates were cleared, menus re-presented. The two women dallied over
the choice of dessert as Hetty struggled to understand her own emotions.

A woman's role: that was how she had seen it, and had taken an
inordinate pride in her fulfilment of it.

"It wasn't that easy, keeping a big house running, and being a
stay-at-home wife,' she continued. ' did the lot, as was expected of me:
I was a school governor, I stage managed the village pantomime, I helped
out whenever anyone asked. A vanishing breed, they called me."

"And now you can see why."

Too darned right.' The Death by Chocolate arrived, a darkly gooey
contrast to her mother's sorbet. ' entertained Stephen's business
colleagues and their tedious wives whole weekends of it. Endlessly
cooking and weeding and clearing up and laundry, even though we had help
in the house. No wonder the kids are so helpless. They think toothpaste
grows in the tube and loo rolls reproduce by magic. I don't think either
of them can boil an egg."

Edwina Currie

"Don't put yourself down too much, Hetty. Your stamina always used to
amaze me. Though I did wonder. You're not stupid, dear, and never have
been."

Hetty pouted, ' women, frantically juggling home, family, garden, and a
career on top, would have been quite jealous. Many children suffered far
worse. I made my bed and was content to lie on it."

"A bed - or a doormat?' An elegant eyebrow was raised.

Hetty nodded sadly. ' it. And had no fallback. What happens when the
kids have gone? When the husband gets restless? Sometimes I did feel a
little under-appreciated, but then I'd tell myself that that was women's
lot through the ages too."

"Not any more."

"No. But what is my lot? The world is full of couples, or people wanting
to be couples. I'm single. I really don't want either the loneliness, or
the indignity of trying to start again.' The luscious dessert was nearly
finished. With an effort, Hetty refrained from eating the crumbs.

"But there are loads of people like you!' her mother cried. ' women, and
men! Didn't I read somewhere that we have the highest divorce rate in
Europe?"

"Probably in your Saga magazine,' Hetty responded grimly. ' it'd be
higher if more people got married in the first place. That's no help.

Sad divorced men aren't my cup of tea. Remarriage seems to me, right
now, a thoroughly bad idea."

"I wasn't suggesting that,' her mother retorted.

"But do you see? Most single girls are doing just that looking for a
bloke, desperately seeking a husband, home, mortgage, children, the lot.

What about those of us who are not into that game? Not least because
we're beyond it.

Chasing Men 39

Beyond having more kids, I mean, and probably too old to get another
twenty-five-year mortgage. But not past having ambitions and hopes. Not
too old to want to have/un.' She paused, breathless, and startled at her
own temerity.

The men have it easier. They can't manage by themselves at all, poor
dears.' Peggy chuckled deeply, as if at some long forgotten memory not
to be shared. ''re right, darling. A man of fifty can start again -
might be quite a catch, if he's kept himself in trim. New family - why
not? Proves something about him.' ', exactly?"

That he can still get it up, aim it at the right place and fire live
ammunition at will."

"Mother, you're disgusting. There must have been extra alcohol in that
sorbet.' Hetty laughed, despite herself.

Her mother smiled wickedly. ' should start listing your advantages," she
continued. ''re not about to get pregnant. You don't want to tie a man
down. You can be mature and fascinating at the same time - remember
Cleopatra or Katherine Hepburn or Marlene Dietrich. They had no trouble
attracting men well into old age. And neither have I." This is my
mother?' Hetty asked the air in wonder. This is solidarity?

Suppose, however, that I might like to fill my life in other ways.

Forget men, and find other things to fill that brain you so admire."

"Fine. But don't forget the men,' her mother admonished. ' can only tell
you my recipe,' she offered. ' your father was alive, we went all over
the world with his postings, and I had a marvelous time. If he'd strayed
one tiny inch I'd have cut his balls off, and he knew it.

When he died, I grieved not just for him but for myself. Then I did
three things."

Edwina Currie Hetty raised her eyes. ' those were?"

"Counted my money: sufficient. Renewed my passport. And had a facelift."

"You didn't!"

"I did." "You never told me!"

"Don't have to tell you everything, dear, and I don't expect you to
confide in me either, unless you want to. But one more point. Some of
this you should keep to yourself. I'm not sure Sally is quite ready for
this kind of conversation, and of course Peter, darling grandson though
he is, never will be. This is a woman's world, quite different from a
man's. A singles world - a universe apart from couples and your old
life. And believe me, darling, it can be fabulous. Wait and see."

The stylish old lady picked up the empty bottle. '?"

They went back to the flat for coffee. On the mat was a small white
envelope. Inside, a photocard of Christian, professionally done, looking
his moody best, the shadows across his face bringing out the jutting jaw
and cleft chin. ' to see you at the theatre. Come to the first night.
Two tickets await you at the box office. Knock one evening before then.
Take us as you find us. Love, C."

Later, her dinner companion sent home in a taxi, her head pounding from
too much wine, Hetty lay in bed and let her mind rove. Her mother might
have judged Stephen accurately, but Hetty remained sure that he had been
splendid to begin with. She had not made a mistake in marrying him or in
wanting to be married. She was not about to write off her entire
previous existence, or abandon all her old values.

Chasing Men 41

Now it was her turn. No compromises. No going back. New languages.

Getting to know strangers. Odd couples. Getting to know people who had
been strangers, like her mother. Telling white lies - about her age.

Keeping secrets. Her mother had had a face-lift? Ye gods! Was that the
future?

Two days later, a Sunday morning.

Hetty had slept fitfully, though the hot-water bottle had been relegated
to the cupboard under the sink and a glass of wine had replaced cocoa
before going to bed. She had jollied up the flat with a bunch of lilies,
then realised they looked like funeral flowers and bought a scarlet
cyclamen instead. She had explored the common, trudged across its windy
wastes, discovered a whole shopping centre on the far side complete with
a bus stop. A pot of apricot emulsion had brightened the kitchen. W.H.

Smith's had a bewildering plethora of cookbooks. The ubiquitous Delia
Smith must be psychic: One Is Fun was relentlessly spot on. Or maybe,
Hetty reflected, her situation was all too commonplace in the modern
world, and Delia knew it.

And she had started to live sloppily, in a sweater and jeans, with no
makeup, no nail varnish, her hair a mess. That would not do. As she
yawned into the bathroom mirror, dressing-gown askew, one more item was
added to a growing list: find a hairdresser and smarten up. Preferably
before seeing Rosa next week. Maybe Christian could recommend one? It
was the sort of thing a gay man might know. Would he take umbrage if
asked? What was patronising and what wasn't? She would call on them
tonight - Sunday might be a free day for theatricals.

There was a noise outside the door. It sounded as if somebody had
dropped a heavy bag. Hetty cocked her head and Edwina Currie listened.
Another noise: as if the bag was being rolled about. Then a long
drawn-out wail, low and heartfelt. And a dull bang, something being
thrown against the wall.

This could not be ignored. Hetty rose, tied her dressing gown
decorously, tiptoed down her narrow hallway and peered through the
peephole. She could see nothing. Cautiously she opened the door a few
inches, only to have it crash inwards with the weight of the heavy thing
leaning against it.

"Oh!' Hetty jumped backwards, as the thing opened its mouth and sent
forth a jet of yellow vomit on to the mat, just missing Hetty's
slippers. A dribble slid over a black T shirt and jeans stretched over
plump thighs.

Turk!' said the thing, and retched. On the far side of the lobby an
empty vodka bottle rolled tipsily where it had been thrown. Turk! Oh,
God. I want to die ... "

Hetty ran to fetch an old towel and tried first to clean up the thing -
a fat girl, flushed and gabbling - then the floor. The job was hopeless:
no sooner had one slimy mess been wiped away than another stream surged
forth. Hetty squatted on her haunches, a hand on the girl's shoulder.

Last time something like this had occurred had been at Sally's twenty
first when some of her pals had hit the Amaretto.

"Hello, I'm Hetty,' she said, uncertainly. ' are you? What's the matter?
Can you stand up?"

"M Annabel. Live there.' She gestured drunkenly at the opposite flat.

"And I'm too fat. He said so. I wanna die ... "

"No, you don't. Come on, Annabel, can you get up? Then at least I can
get you into the bathroom and you can be sick in the -"

"No-o-o!' the girl howled, as she struggled to her feet. ' doesn't love
me. He said so. He loves Flo!"

Chasing Men 43

A small brown bottle fell from her inert fingers. Hetty picked it up
then glanced sharply at the girl. '? You haven't taken the whole lot,
have you? And the vodka? God in heaven. Wait! I'll call an ambulance."

Ten minutes later an anxious Hetty, her dressing-gown stained and
smelly, saw off the paramedics with their red blanketed charge, but
declined the offer to travel with her to hospital. An unshaven man from
the flat opposite had volunteered instead. His sheepish manner suggested
that he knew the cause of Annabel's anguish; the girl clung to his hand
pathetically.

There was so much gunge to clean up. It was everywhere - in the hall,
the bathroom, the lobby. To paraphrase Lady Macbeth, who would have
thought the young woman had so much sick in her? One thing every mother
knew, Hetty reflected gloomily, was what bodily fluids looked like. On
the other hand, it had probably saved the girl's life.

She threw her dressing-gown, nightie, the towels and bathmat into the
washing-machine with a double measure of bleach and set it to wash at
the highest temperature. While the machine whirred, she treated herself
to a shower and realised she was shaking.

A cry for help. But to what avail? No man is worth that. Especially if
his evaluation of the girl stretched to her girth and nothing else. As
if only her appearance mattered, and not her soul or her - brain.

Annabel. One of the girls living in flat four. Odd neighbours, indeed.

Whatever next?

CHAPTER FIVE.

First Steps Hetty pushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and handed
over the Harrods, Nicole Farhi and Harvey Nichols bags with relief. Her
fingers were raw from carrying them.

"I am exhausted. Heavens, Clarissa, how often do you do this?"

They were in a narrow stone-flagged lobby. A circular marble staircase
curled behind and above. Opera music - Tosca? - floated down, with the
sound of tinkling glasses and a murmur of well-bred voices. ' this new?
I don't recall Stephen ever mentioning it."

"Darling!' Clarissa feigned surprise. The charm bracelet jingled.

"Christopher's is the place. It was in Harper's and Queen."

"It used to be the National Liberal Club,' said the receptionist. She
was a thin, angular girl with a fashionably wild haircut. She jerked her
head skywards. ' of intrigues. Government disasters and that. Years ago,
of course."

Chasing Men 45

"And men only, I'll bet,' Clarissa added. ''t it a brothel once, too?
Lucky devils."

The airy upstairs room was sparsely furnished: minimalist was in, Hetty
noticed. A polished plank floor, pale drapes, colour-washed stone walls,
simple ironwork tables with white linen. The flowery fabrics and Laura
Ashley style left behind in Dorset suddenly seemed impossibly twee. She
tugged down the new jacket and wished the trousers did not chafe so.

Perhaps size sixteen would have been wiser.

They were seated by the oriole window. Hetty could see the colonnaded
Lyceum Theatre opposite, the activity at its stage door - it must be a
matinee day - and caught the bustle of taxis and a fruit-stall in the
street below. She wriggled her shoulders. ', Clarissa. You're a pal. I
love my new suit."

The menus arrived. Hetty was about to order lamb in red wine with roast
potatoes, then checked herself. Her mother had set an example. The
seafood,' she said, ' a salad."

"And to drink, madam?' Like the receptionist, the waiter was young and
skinny with a gelled hairdo that had taken much art to appear as if he
had just got out of bed.

"It's on me, remember. Let's celebrate.' Clarissa smiled sweetly at the
youth. Two glasses of champagne, please."

"What are we celebrating?"

"Oh, I dunno. Your divorce? Did you screw him for a lot of money? Will
you get the house?"

"Lord, no. I got enough to buy the flat, and to tide me over. Stephen
still has a hefty mortgage, and we have to think of Peter - it's his
home too. Anyway, I didn't want it."

"But it's worth a packet! You mean, you walked away?"

Hetty shrugged.

Edwina Currie

"You're crazy. You should have nailed his ears to the wall. I would
have."

The seafood was beautifully served in a shallow soup dish with a knife,
fork and spoon. A fleshy prawn, a black mussel shell, chunks of
translucent monkfish poked like miniature atolls from a lagoon of
garlicky sauce. Hetty glanced at other diners and saw it was permitted -
encouraged - to eat the sauce with the spoon. And, if she wished, to
wipe up the dregs with a piece of walnut bread.

She took two swallows of champagne. ' am, however, beginning to feel I
have something to celebrate. Getting over the hurdle of the divorce is
one. My mother believes I was put upon for too long."

Clarissa was twiddling with a green salad. Her mouth full of frise
lettuce - not the easiest vegetable to eat daintily. Only a nod was
forthcoming.

"And now I find myself living on my own. It does feel weird. My daughter
says I'll go bonkers and end up in a psychiatric hospital.' Hetty paused
long enough to prise open a mussel. This is truly delicious, Clarissa -
thanks a million." Terribly fattening,' Clarissa said. ' that cream in
the sauce. Murder for the hips."

"Don't be depressing. I've enough on my plate without that."

"She's got a point, though, your Sally.' Clarissa pushed away the
remaining rocket. ' mustn't stay at home and mope. If you like, we could
do this once a fortnight or so. Have lunch, then go to a movie or a
show. Go shopping - Ikea, say, for anything you needed for your flat, or
further afield, like Lakeside in Essex. Even take the Eurostar to Paris
- that's great. We'll go dutch after today, unless it's a birthday
treat. Some of my other friends would join us. A riotous girls' day
out!"

Chasing Men 47

Hetty pondered. ' that what you do with your time?"

"Mostly,' Clarissa replied. ' can't go too far. Robin likes me home in
the evening, even though the children are away at school. He says that's
the way to keep a marriage strong sorry. You stayed at home, and it
didn't work for you."

"Umm ... How is Robin?"

"As per usual. He'll be head of chambers next year, so lots of black-tie
dinners when I'll be on show too. The darling's given me a clothes
allowance. Aren't I a lucky girl?"

He trivialised you. Turned you into a doll.

"Does that completely fulfill you, Clarissa? Is that all you need from
life?' Hetty was startled to hear her own words. ' a bit ... frivolous
to me."

"Well!' Clarissa sounded annoyed. ''d rather be in my shoes than yours,
dear. Shall we take a peek at the puds? Not that I want one. But you
might."

Abashed, Hetty considered the patisserie, then shook her head and
ordered a filter coffee. Black.

Clarissa leaned across the table. ''ve been friends for years, so let's
be blunt. You're the wrong side of fifty, you're ... well, sliding into
middle age would have been an apt description several years ago. What
are your qualifications? Your earning power must be limited.

What're you going to do? Work in a shop? After decades as mistress in
your own home, would you take so easily to being a minion and being told
what to do? No. That's not the answer."

"And what is?"

"Stick with me, baby. I'll smarten you up, then we'll sort you out -1
know a few decent older chaps who are in the market for a kind-hearted
lady. We'll have you organised in no time."

Hetty's eyes widened. ' think I should be chasing men, do you? But what
for?"

Edwina Currie

"Because it's the best for you! Because we should let them do the hard
slog, the frightful stuff like working for a living. Let them be the
wage slaves. They think they're exploiting us, but it's the other way
round.' She touched her Rolex watch, a slim ladies' model, like a
talisman. ', most divorced men are helpless. Infants. They're desperate
to get hitched again - formally or informally. And you're exactly what
they're looking for. You might have to lie about your age, though."

Tm already doing that,' Hetty muttered into her coffee.

"Good. Then you're on the right track."

"But would it not,' Hetty chose her words with care - she had few enough
shoulders to lean on, without alienating any - ' you more satisfaction,
if the money you spent was your own? That you'd earned?1

"No,' said Clarissa, and called for the bill. ' from anything else, I
simply wouldn't get anywhere near the amount I tend to splurge. Come on,
Het, be reasonable. How many women do you know who earn more than men?"

Christian and his unnamed partner had been out on the Sunday evening
when Hetty had knocked. She had left a warm note of thanks for the
tickets under the door. Determined not to give up, she watched for a
light in their flat. It was on as she returned home, laden, after her
day with Clarissa. The purchases stored on hangers, she brushed her
hair, applied lipstick, decided against perfume and climbed the stairs.

At the last moment, hand poised to knock, she recalled that in part she
was trying to make amends. Quickly she ran back downstairs, grabbed her
purse and hurried to the off licence.

"Hello!' The vision stood at the door, his face breaking Chasing Men 49

into a slow grin. ' on in.' He called behind him, ', she's here - our
new neighbour. Hetty." How gracefully that was done, Hetty thought. The
way I used to introduce people at Stephen's business parties - so no one
should feel awkward.

Markus and Christian. Do they use the same surname, I wonder. Is that
the fashion among gay couples or not?

Hetty was ushered into the tiny hall, the mirror image of her own. On
the walls were framed theatrical bills and prints. Michael Redgrave and
John Gielgud brooded in black-and-white photographs. In the main room
stood the grey-haired man she had seen on the path. His skin was grainy
and loose under the chin; he was much older than Christian - perhaps the
same vintage as herself.

Markus accepted the wine and examined its label. ''s Creek Shiraz
Cabernet,' he commented approvingly. ' like Ozzie wines?"

Hetty was nonplussed. ' don't know,' she confessed. ' husband used to
choose the wines. I just asked at Oddbin's what would be suitable for -"

She stopped.

Christian laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. He was so tall. ' a couple
of poofters, hey, Hetty?"

She was scarlet.

"Come on, you're forgiven.' Christian led her into the living room where
Markus was already pulling the cork of her gift.

The older man had a more serious expression on his face as he poured the
wine. ' I understand better than you do, Christian. When Hetty and I
were young, it was illegal to be gay. Nobody would admit it.

They'd be sentenced to ten years. Even Wolfenden regarded it as an
illness. Our family doctor offered psychiatric treatment."

Edwina Currie That's why he needs someone mad like me,' Christian
teased. ' still hasn't properly come out.' He kissed Markus full on the
mouth. Hetty blinked. Markus brushed him off and motioned courteously to
Hetty to sit down.

The furniture was minimalist: tan leather, with a Persian silk carpet in
shades of lilac and gold. A few books, large and glossy. Ovoid glass
tables, a fig tree in a rough ceramic pot. Ikea? Hetty wondered, then
understood. Not Ikea. Carefully, she asked, ''you mean it's a secret
that you - ah - live together? Would you rather I didn't mention it at
the theatre?" "He hasn't told his mother yet,' Christian butted in, in
the same teasing tone. ' still thinks he's playing the field."

"It's not a secret - exactly. But I prefer not to be the centre of
attention for that. I am entitled to my privacy, like anyone else. My
work, that's more important to me, and the most important thing about
me."

"We argue about it, as you can see,' Christian continued. ' reckon if he
said it il'd make it easier for lots of other men. The more the merrier.
He's a public figure, on the Arts Council. He was in the honours list
last year, CBE. He has a duty."

"I'm a producer, not a professional homosexual,' said Markus irritably,
'and I find it much harder than you do, Christian, to talk about it. I'm
not an exhibitionist."

Christian laughed.

Hetty suspected that the glass in his hand was not the first that
evening. She decided to take sides. ' can see Markus's point of view,
Christian. You're too young to remember. But anyone caught had to go and
live abroad, and careers were wrecked. Particularly politicians. It was
seen as - dirty. Nice people didn't. Only ... entertainers, I suppose,
and writers."

"More than that. They got married,' Markus said, bitterly.

Chasing Men 51

"I nearly did, once. We thought you could overcome the urge if you fell
in love with a beautiful girl. Well, I was in love but I couldn't go
through with it. She married somebody else soon after and was terribly
unhappy. But I couldn't tell her.' He brooded, and mentioned a
well-known name. ' can't, but she must have guessed by now."

There was a silence while Christian poured out the remainder of the
wine. That didn't last long, Hetty thought. And this is my second go at
alcohol today. Thanks, but no more for me. If 1 carry on like this, my
daughter will be proved right. She says I can't possibly manage on my
own and that I'll go bonkers. Funny how any - ah, unconventional
behaviour has our friends and family calling for the psychiatrist, isn't
it? Maybe I'll go under without meaning to. Getting sozzled might be one
way." "I'd have gone bonkers alone,' Christian said suddenly. T was a
raving drunk when Markus met me. Plus the cocaine. Ever tried it?"

"No!"

"He pointed out that if I carried on I'd ruin my looks and end up in the
gutter before I was thirty. I was so confused about being gay. He
rescued me. I adore him.' He cast a mocking, loving glance in Markus's
direction, but the older man kept his head down.

Talking of drinkers,' Hetty said brightly, ' you tell me anything about
our other neighbours? The ones who live in number four - that's below
you, isn't it?"

The Bridget Joneses?' Markus hooted. ', you were involved in that
commotion. I hear you were quite the heroine."

"She's okay. They let her out later that day. What did you call them?"

Edwina Currie

"The Bridget Joneses. The three BJs, when we're being cruel. Don't you
know Bridget Jones's Diary!"

"I've heard of it,' Hetty answered dubiously. ''ve never read it. I
prefer Joanna Trollope myself."

Three girls live there. The would-be suicide, Annabel, is the oldest.

Her father bought the flat so the others have to tolerate her,"
Christian explained. ''s not the first time she's tried it. Usually it's
such a spectacular and public event that she's bound to be discovered.
But one of these days she'll go too far and there'll be a tragedy." "She
said the man she loved thought she was too fat, and was in love with
Flo."

"Flo's the youngest and prettiest. She's black. Flirty. If I wasn't gay,
I could fancy her.' Christian winked, but Markus frowned. ''s the one
with red hair, from County Wexford. She pretends to be bog-Irish, but
actually her family are sausage-barons. Quite wealthy."

"And why,' Hetty was determined to find out, ' you call them the Bridget
Joneses?" Markus smiled. ' they spend their whole time yearning for men,
usually totally unsuitable specimens, never manage to pin one down long
enough to marry any of them, are frequently plastered, and seldom take
anything seriously for five minutes. Least of all themselves."

"You're being too hard on them, Markus,' Christian chided. He had opened
another bottle and poured it before Hetty could prevent him. They're
great fun, and quite harmless. You could have far worse neighbours,
Hetty. Now, are you going to have a house-warming? And are we invited?"

"Heavens ...' Hetty considered. ''you think I should? Who would I ask?"
"Us, for a start,' the young man said. ' you're afraid Chasing Men 53

you'd catch something nasty from a pair of raving queers."

Hetty punched his arm playfully. ' it. I've already grovelled and I'm
not going to keep on doing it. Should I ask the BJs?"

"Of course. And their men - then you can see what we mean. Send them
home at eleven, though, or they'll sleep where they fall,' Markus
advised. Then, gently, ''s a splendid idea. People can easily get lost
in flats in London, especially after a crash-landing like yours. You
feel like you've been thrown out with no parachute, right? You could
stay in night after night nursing your wounds, and never speak to a
soul. I know - I've been there. But if you reach out and are friendly,
anything might happen."

"Isn't he wonderful?' Christian cried. ' see why I worship him? And
you'll meet my family when you come to the first night, Hetty. My
grandmother adores Markus. There's a little party afterwards. You will
come, won't you?"

"Yes,' said Hetty. Td love too. Goodness, aren't you kind? What do I
wear?" The Wandsworth Studios, Rosa said, were easy to find: in the
middle of Putney, behind Young's brewery, near the bridge. Hetty, unused
to finding her way on foot around London, soon became lost. For over
forty minutes she wandered in the area near Putney Bridge, before a
traffic warden redirected her. ' bridge, love,' he said. ' Bridge,
that's the one."

So it was a flustered and hideously late Hetty who eventually trotted
into the studios and was nearly knocked over in the flurry of activity.

Ten minutes!' she heard a gruff male voice call. ' on set by four
forty-five or we're mincemeat!"

Edwina Currie A squat man in tight denim jeans, belly overhanging his
belt, pushed past her. Under one arm was a clipboard with pink
typewritten sheets, in the other a biro; another pen was stuck behind
one ear, under his headphones. A microphone extended under his chin. He
stopped, pushed a button on the pack attached to his belt, listened,
then barked, ' mean it!' before walking on.

Suddenly she was grabbed by a whirling figure - wild black hair, red
velvet trouser suit, flashing teeth: Rosa, who hugged her vigorously and
planted a kiss on both cheeks. ', mwah! Hello! It's great you could make
it. Did you find us all right?' The energetic life-force did not pause
for an answer. ' timing's perfect. We've just broken for tea.

Come and meet everyone."

Hetty was half carried along a corridor to a cramped area with banked
seats and Formica tables littered with ketchup and vinegar bottles. The
air crackled with voices and the hiss of steam urns. Condensation misted
the windows, but the smell of baking was cosily welcoming. The canteen
was packed with what she took to be the crew - men with half a day's
growth of beard, wolfing sandwiches and pastries as if half starved,
mugs of tea in their hands; young girls sipped black coffee or Diet
Coke. Everyone smoked. In the far corner a family of four were huddled
with dazed expressions, teacups untouched. ' guests,' Rosa said, in a
stage whisper. ' needn't bother with them, it'll be another bunch next
week."

She propelled Hetty round the room. ', Gerry, Phil cameramen. Dave does
sound, he's a genius. Bob you've already met, he's the floor-manager.
Daisy, Sue, Kate researchers. The makeup ladies are busy with the next
guests upstairs, editors are in the gallery checking the Chasing Men 55

tapes - have I missed anyone?' She clapped her hands and obtained a
momenl's silence. This is Hetty, and she's coming to work for us."

"Hi, Hetty."

"Hello, how're ya doin'?"

"Welcome on board."

The buzz rose to its former volume as each returned to his or her
previous conversation.

"Grab a cup of tea, or whatever, and we'll sit in that corner,' Rosa
ordered.

Hetty obeyed meekly, but muttered a protest: ' haven't agreed to come
yet. Why did you tell them that?"

"Because I need you, that's why.' Rosa glanced up. ' you need a job,
right? So you could do worse than start here. We've had to sack a couple
of youngsters who were misbehaving. Prompting the guests about what to
say and adding a few improbable sexual details of their own. Can't have
that. A mature person like you, Hetty, even a beginner, who I can trust
would be ideal. Not that 1 can offer you much." Tm not a complete
beginner,' said Hetty huffily. The Eurostar with Clarissa suddenly
seemed more templing.

"That's what I've told '. You won't let me down.' Rosa drank her tea
quickly. '! That's hot. I've burnt my tongue."

"What does the job consist of?"

"Mostly fixing up the guests. Phone calls, loads of persuasion. Then you
take care of them while they're here, don't let ' get cold feet. Keep
telling ' how wonderful they are, and how their problems will be
resolved by their appearing on the telly. Natch. The programme's called
Tell Me All. It's a sort of true confessions-cum-agony-aunt setup.

Edwina Currie Daytime TV.' She rolled her eyes, as if that explained
everything. ' to fill the airwaves somehow, and we aim to produce
programmes of integrity and quality. Anyway, the network seems to agree.
We're contracted for next year already - that's why I can put you on the
payroll."

Hetty felt weak. ' should I ask you? Salary, I suppose."

"You're paid per programme. You'll get fifty pounds a show - three
hundred a week. For God's sake, don't go round spouting about it ' some
of them are only workies."

"Workies?"

"Work experience. They get zilch. Students, or ex-students. It's all
that's available, and they're glad to get it.' She snorted at Hetty's
shock. ', don't be so green. That's the only way anything gets made for
TV these days. They'll probably think you're a workie too because you're
a mate of mine. So keep schtoom."

Hetty nodded mutely.

"Now, next week's programmes are just about fixed, but on Monday
planning begins for the following week. You could come in then. Nine
thirty start. Supposed to pack up by five but it's a bit open-ended.

Plenty of nosh on filming days - that's Thursdays and Fridays, we make
three shows a day - otherwise it's packed lunch or the pub."

One of the cameramen - Gerry, Hetty believed - had left the canteen and
now returned, shaking his head. ' five's out,' he announced. ' a minute
or two to fix it."

"Relax, everybody,' called Bob, the floor-manager.

"Oh, good, we have a bit longer.' Rosa grinned. ', apart from needing a
job, how are you doing? Haven't seen you in ages."

Chasing Men 57

Hetty began to insist that she didn't need a job, then thought better of
it. She needed something to do. The creative cacophony of the studio,
though bewildering, was distinctly more to her taste than repeat
episodes of Knightsbridge with Clarissa; she could keep up with the one,
but not with the other, not indefinitely. It dawned on her that Rosa, in
her fast-moving way, was doing her an enormous favour. The least she
could do in return was be grateful.

Til be fine. Suffering a bit of culture shock at the moment.' Keep that
resolution. Don't whinge. Nobody wants to hear your sob-story. Hetty put
her head on one side and examined her friend. ', you look marvelous.
This life obviously suits you."

"Yes, it does. What makes the difference is knowing we've been
recommissioned. TVs a hair-raising business. You can produce an
award-winning series -- and I have - and still come to the last shot
unsure if you can pay the bills next month. Budgets are murderously
tight, like I said on the phone. But we manage. Struggle from one crisis
to the next. What about you?"

The?' Hetty's caution came into play. ' decree absolute is nearly
through. I have a flat, not too far from here, so this is convenient.

I'm beginning to settle in."

"Got a boyfriend yet?' Rosa nudged her arm. ' on, you can tell me. I
won't let on."

Hetty covered her embarrassment with a short laugh. ' thinks I should no
sooner have got rid of one man than be haring off after another. What is
this?"

It was Rosa's turn to seem shocked. ''re not about to turn into a nun,
are you? Because I don't recommend it."

T'm not about to haunt street corners saying, "Hey, fella," either. Or
go night-clubbing with people half my age."

Edwina Currie

"But the sex!' Rosa hissed, loud enough for the two men at the next
table to hear. One snickered but kept his back turned. ''t you miss it?"

Hetty shrugged. Even if she were to confide in Rosa, this was hardly the
moment.

"I mean, I don't know what it was like between Stephen and you. He
seemed a hunky guy, but one never can tell. But if it was okay, then
surely you'll get stuck in soon as possible? And if he wasn't up to much
...' Rosa nudged her again. ''re not past it. Not by a streak.

Believe me."

One of the cameramen twisted round and peered at the two women. ' gets
better with age, like fine Cognac,' he remarked, and made kissing noises
with his lips.

Rosa made a face. ' off, Phil, this is women's talk. Anyway, you're
married."

"Never stopped him before,' guffawed his companion. That must be Mike,
Hetty worked out by a process of elimination. Phil muttered something
the women could not catch. Mike found it wildly funny and spluttered
into his tea.

"You can take my word for it,' Rosa finished loftily, so that the entire
room could hear, ' gets smaller with age. Like their brains."

There was a bus back, which she would be able to use regularly, but for
the moment she would walk in the gathering dusk. Past a smattering of
Italian, French and Indian restaurants - this was hardly a gastronomic
wasteland. More bookshops, a children's clothing shop, a bicycle store
crammed with parts, its window obscured by tyres in neatly tied bunches
like a Victorian child's ringlets. An old fashioned ironmonger's with a
tin bath and tools and faded signs for Eveready batteries. A video shop:
she was tempted Chasing Men 59

to enter, then made her second resolution of the week.

Rather than sit morosely in front of the telly night after night, as
Markus had warned, it would be better to join the library. She had said
it to her mother and Sally as a joke. But her mind did cry out to be
filled, and not with more Delia recipes. Could she aspire to read a book
a week? Where should she start? Fiction? Biography? It was ages since
she had read anything remotely improving or noteworthy. What might
somebody like Markus read, that she could chatter to him about without
seeming a complete fool?

Hetty stood outside the biggest bookshop and examined the contents of
the window. Shortly after, she resumed her walk up the hill towards the
common, with a copy of Pinter's plays and Bridget Jones's Diary under
her arm.

It felt like a step forward. Her spirits were high as she approached the
block of flats.

A house-warming. When? Who?

Markus and Christian, obviously. The three BJs, and their men, if they
would come. Mrs. A. Her mother, and Sally and Sally's Erik, though he
didn't attend family functions. Perhaps he could be persuaded for once.

Hetty felt a fresh curiosity about him. Her son Peter, if invited, would
plead too much on at uni. Rosa, and Clarissa and Robin. Larry and
Davinia, though they would act superior all evening. Heavens, that was
eighteen people already. Mr. and Mrs. Mcdonald, as a courtesy. Twenty.

How much would twenty people drink? A case of twelve bottles, maybe?

Hetty calculated, then recalled Annabel and the empty vodka bottle,
Christian and Markus polishing off a single bottle with her help in less
than half an hour. Her mother, Sally and she had got through two and a
half.

Edwina Currie Twenty bottles, then. Thirty?

Should she make a fruit punch or mulled wine? That was the done thing in
the countryside, to welcome guests after a chilly walk. She glanced up
at the lighted windows above her. A punch did not seem right. Thirty
bottles it would have to be, and Oddbins would lend her the glasses.

"And what do I serve to eat?' she asked aloud. Mystery upon mystery.

What would sophisticated young, and older, Londoners expect?

A footfall came on the path. It was Markus, muffled up against the cold,
a preoccupied frown on his face. ' pardon?' he said, fumbling with his
keys. ', Hetty." "I was wondering,' she mused. ' will have a
housewarming. How about three weeks on Sunday? My pay cheque comes then.
But food. Do I spend the whole day cooking?"

"Mercy, no. If it were me, I'd have oodles of decent plonk and a few
peanuts. Christian wouldn't argue with the first, but he'd think nuts
were distinctly infra dig."

"What would he prefer? I'd like to please."

"Dim sum, probably."

"Dim sum?"

"Yes. Don't be so terrified, Hetty. You'll get them in Sainsbury's."

The replies came back, on the answerphone, or via notes pushed under the
door.

"Annabel, Flo and Shelagh are delighted to accept your kind invitation.

And belated thanks for saving me from death - should've said so before.

Not known for my manners. Likely blokes are Richard (he was the one who
came in the ambulance), and probably Stuart and Ted. But it could
change. See you!"

Chasing Men 61

"Hi, Hetty. Larry here. Thanks for the invite. We're overwhelmed at
work, so please count us out. But we haven't forgotten you're coming to
us. Be in touch. ' ... "

"Clarissa calling. How sweet -- a flat- warning/ Sadly, Robin is
speaking at a weekend seminar and wants me with him, so no good for us.

When are you coming to Lakeside? Give me a buzz

"Lovely idea. Thanks. Can I bring Thomas? D. Archibald. P.S. Do you need
any help? I'll come half an hour early."

"Hello, Mum, Sally here. You're branching out a bit, aren't you? You've
got me worried. Who've you going to invite? You can't just ask your old
Dorset friends. D'you have anybody else? Anyway, III support you. Ring
if you need me."

"Markus and Christian are honoured at your splendid invitation, and will
be there on the dot. Is it bring-a-bottle?"

Hetty calculated. That would produce a kitchenful of unmatched wine. She
preferred to be the hostess: buying her own would give her some control
over events. The Shiraz Cabernet had been delightful. So had the Moselle
her mother had drunk at Brace's. That would do. A case of each, and a
few spare.

"Hetty. Your mother. Terrific - I will delay my trip to Florida. Can't
imagine why I'm going, I hate mosquitoes. I may have an escort - nobody
terribly grand, one of your father's old cronies. Shall I suggest he
bring somebody alongforyou, too?"

CHAPTER SIX.

Having a Party Would they come? The flat was pristine; the heat had been
on, then turned down in case it got too stuffy. Perfumed candles were
lit on the mantelpiece, their flames flickering over the little
ornaments. The Lladro statuette was adorned for the occasion with a blue
ribbon around her neck. White wine was in the fridge, three bottles were
uncorked on the table with the glasses, washed and wiped. Mrs. A - Doris
- was pottering in the kitchen. A bowl of hyacinths added to the
fragrance.

Thomas the cat had appropriated a chair and curled up to sleep; ginger
hairs scattered with every breath. Hetty heard him purr.

The CD player murmured Enya: suitably anodyne, Hetty hoped. She dried
her hands on a tea-towel, checked around. The dim sum (if Markus had
said spring rolls and bits, Hetty grumbled inwardly, she would not have
balked) sat on baking trays ready to be popped into the oven, or on
Pyrex Chasing Men 63

dishes for the microwave. The house did not run to steaming bamboo
baskets tonight.

Sally would come. Hetty wondered about the boyfriend. Her daughter was
so cagey about Erik. He did exist: he was not a fantasy of Sally's.

Hetty had glimpsed airmail letters postmarked from various parts of the
globe, and accepted that he was constrained by his career in the airline
industry like Sally. But her daughter did not keep a framed photo by her
bed, and never spoke of long-term plans.

"He's probably married, and stringing her along,' was the main
conclusion Hetty could arrive at, in the absence of further information.

How little she knew of her daughter, of what inspired or drove her, if
anything. The girl kept things close to her chest. That hurt.

An icy sliver of melancholy entered her soul. Peter was away, almost a
grown man, and though dutiful - as his grandmother had remarked - was
never likely to be a dear friend to his newly single mother. More
tactful than his sister, he would avoid taking sides, and probably slide
away from either parent. He would go his own way, as he had been brought
up to do. Would that make him a selfish adult? His easy manners Hetty
recognised: they might have been inherited from his father or herself,
but they made him pliant, and thus not available. Sally was less sunny,
more introverted. If additionally she was willing to let a man walk all
over her ... Hetty sighed. That was hardly a recipe for a contented
life. Was she about to admit that her daughter was not a great success
emotionally? Was that Hetty's fault too?

The doorbell rang to interrupt her reverie. Hetty leaped to switch on
the oven and tore off her apron. In the kitchen, like the sprite of the
hearth, Doris hovered with a proprietorial air. The turban had been
discarded revealing dangling earrings Edwina Currie and a fussy perm,
which did little for her appearance, but she had donned a flowered
frock, cheerful and brassy.

"Hey! Happy house-warming! Mwah, mwah!"

Three girls and five men bounced noisily across the threshold, four
carrying bottles of wine and one, Christian, a bouquet of flowers, which
he thrust into her hands. ' you have good fortune in your new home,
Hetty.' He smiled down at her, with the slow bob of the Adanfs apple
that made her gulp. Then he busied himself arranging the blooms
artistically in the other gift they had brought, a Finnish blue vase.

Annabel was still in black, garments too tight for her embonpoint. She
resembled an overstuffed sausage, the type that hangs in glistening
rolls in French delicatessens. Wholesome and worth eating, but a trifle
overpowering. She loomed over Hetty; she must be five feet ten and over
fifteen stone.

Annabel gave her rescuer a bear-hug. ' you for saving my life! God, was
I a pig. Sorry you found me like that. Next time I'll puke on my own
doorstep. Where's the bottle-opener?' And she was gone.

"Hi. I'm Shelagh. That's Flo. Thanks for asking us. Have you got any
music? We can bring over some CDs to dance to, if you'd like.' Shelagh
had a mass of extraordinary flame coloured hair that was confirmed by
her pale skin and freckles to be entirely natural. Even in the dimmed
light her eyes were a bewitching green. She spoke in a high lilt.

"Maybe later,' murmured Hetty. Dancing? That was not quite what she had
had in mind. ' are the boys?"

"Oh, yes.' Shelagh did not seem troubled by the lack of introductions.

She pointed at the young men who were now casually opening bottles and
pouring drinks. ' them Chasing Men 65

selves useful. Richard you've met - he was the one Annabel was breaking
her heart over, but he's after Flo.' Shelagh grinned. Tor the moment.

But I'm working on him. I've told him he doesn't need to kiss the
Blarney Stone, but he should see the Wicklow mountains. He says he may
come in the summer."

"You mean, you're all in love with him? With the same chap?' Hetty's
eyes rounded.

"Not exactly in Iwrve,' Shelagh drawled scornfully. ''s the one who's in
love with him. It's a gross turnoff for a fellow like Richard.

Commitment isn't his scene."

"Isn't he in love with Flo?"

"Not him. He's only ever been in love with one person."

"Who's that?"

"Richard? Himself, of course."

Two glasses of wine were thrust into their hands. Before she could speak
to the young man who had produced them, he had vanished back into the
throng. The other two remained anonymous.

"So why - forgive me being nosy - are you all three so besotted with
Richard?"

"Oh, but he's a catch, isn't he? And/abuloso in bed. Or so I've been
told. On the other hand, you'd want to check that out for yourself,
wouldn't you?"

The doorbell went twice; the nearest person answered it. A timid couple,
one of whom Hetty recognised as Mrs. Mcdonald, tiptoed in, jostled from
behind by a portly gentleman with a moustache booming greetings, who was
completely unfamiliar. Behind him, however, were Hetty's mother and
Sally.

"Darling!' Peggy was being helped out of her coat by the moustachioed
gent. ''ve brought the Colonel. You do Edwina Currie remember him, don't
you, darling? He and your father were adjutants together in Egypt."

Hetty politely composed her face, but could not recall having seen the
mottled jowls and beetle brows before. ' to be here,' he called,
glancing over his shoulder. He pronounced the word '' with some
flourish. ' mother's a splendid woman. D'you know we're going to Florida
together?" "No, I didn't,' Hetty told his retreating back. Who was this
man?

The smell of baking pastry began to waft from the kitchen. Doris had
told Hetty firmly that she would like to make herself useful. There was
a yowl from the corner and a cackle of laughter. Someone had
inadvertently sat on Thomas, who fled in disgust under the sofa.

The doorbell rang once more; Hetty reached it first. Rosa burst in, hair
flying, a bottle wrapped in silvery Cellophane with ribbons in her hand.

More mwah-mwahs ensued. Hetty reflected briefly that she had not been
kissed so much for years. It was rather pleasant.

She fetched a glass of wine for Rosa and refilled her own. ', everyone's
come. I can't believe it,' she said.

"Well, I must admit, you've made lots of new friends already,' Rosa
said, peering round the now crowded living room. ' mover. Who'd have
thought it?"

"It's misleading,' Hetty confessed. ' half of them, apart from family,
I've never seen before. For example, one of those boys is Ted, and one's
Stuart, or at least I think so, but I couldn't say which is which. Or
who each is with. And that's Mr. Mcdonald who lives downstairs, but
that's the sum total I can tell you about him: tonight is the first time
we've met. And as for the Colonel '

Chasing Men 67

"The Colonel? Which one is he?"

Hetty saw that Rosa was casing the joint in a highly practised fashion.

She pointed. ''s with my mother. She's seventy-three. Can you credit it?
Arrives with a bloke I've never heard of before, out of the blue.

Heavens, look at him."

The Colonel's hand was patting her mother's bottom while he knocked back
an entire glass of white wine and smacked his lips.

"Beefy piece of meat. You should be thrilled for her,' Rosa chided.

"I'm a bit startled. One doesn't quite think of one's elderly mother as
a sex object."

"Ask her for her secrets. Is she on HRT?"

"My mother? I haven't the foggiest. It's not the sort of subject we'd
have talked about - before."

"Are you?"

"Sorry?"

"Have you been through the change yet?"

Hetty felt her knees wobble. She drank more wine to steady herself. ',
not yet. Everything seems to be working normally."

"God, then you could still get pregnant. You'll have to be careful."

"Rosa, I have no plans to '

"You never know. Women get pregnant in their fifties. Even without
fertility treatment. Anyway, I wanna give you one piece of advice you'll
thank me for. When the hot flushes come, don't put up with them for a
minute. Not one minute, d'you hear? You get straight down to your doctor
and you demand HRT. If yours won't help, I'll give you the name of one
who will."

Edwina Currie

"But don't they say - the side effects?' Hetty was wilting under the
onslaught.

"Sure. The best. The juices keep flowing and the skin's soft as a
baby's. Here, feel.' She offered her forearm; Hetty prodded it
tentatively. ' me a new woman. The libido's up and running.' Her eyes
roved and settled on Christian, who was talking animatedly to Flo and
Shelagh. ', who is that stunning Adonis over there?"

"He's an actor. Christian Devenish. Lives upstairs."

"Oooh! I wonder if he'll come on the programme.' And with that Rosa was
off, nostrils flaring, a greyhound after a hare.

Mr. and Mrs. Mcdonald were standing quietly together by the wall. Hetty
took a bottle and topped up their nearly full glasses.

"Thank you so much for coming. I wanted to get acquainted, and this
seemed the easiest way.' She shook hands with them, formally. His was
cold and bony, his wife's plumply soft.

"It was kind of you to ask us, Mrs. Clarkson. We can't stay, we don't
have a baby-sitter.' Mrs. Mcdonald's speech was richly accented, and she
spoke so low that it was hard to understand her.

Hetty bent closer. ' the children all right? D'you need me to pop down
and ?"

"No, they'll be fine. They're watching the telly and eating a Chinese
takeaway. Bit of a treat for them. And they know where we are.' Mrs.
Mcdonald smiled faintly.

They were not - odd, exactly, Hetty reckoned. A mite out of place,
maybe. The wife was about five feet four, dumpy, plain, with a careworn
face. The husband was Hetty's height and thin, his face shadowy. He
might have Chasing Men 69

been slightly younger than his spouse - under forty. He wore a cheap
grey suit, a blue shirt and tie. Both, indeed, had dressed up, a
compliment to her. Perhaps they were not asked out much.

"Are you both from up north?"

"We are. From Cathcart. Glasgow, that is."

"Have you been down here long?' The conversation had a forced quality,
but Mrs. Mcdonald did not appear ill at ease. Her husband said nothing;
his eyes darted, but his mind seemed partly elsewhere. The pair stood so
close that they gave an impression of being joined at the hip, needing
no contact with anyone else.

"About three years. We've been married seven; the children were born in
Scotland. We came down here for the work - my husband's a lorry driver."

"Oh.' Hetty felt puzzled. ' there no openings for lorry drivers in
Scotland?"

"Long-distance. He couldn't get home nights. But we're getting used to
London. Better now the children have lost their accents - they don't get
teased so at school."

"Well! If ever 1 can help ...' Hetty stopped. That was unwise. She did
not intend to get stuck as a regular babysitter, not for complete
strangers, though the children had been well behaved when she saw them.

Thank you for that, Mrs. Clarkson, but we're okay. We don't go out
often.

This is quite a treat for us too."

On the other side of the room Sally was signalling for her attention.

One of the men - Stuart? Ted? - was trying to chat her up, an approach
clearly not to Sally's taste. Hetty moved adroitly away from the quiet
couple, as she had begun to dub them, but not before adding, '
yourselves. Food's coming. And please call me Hetty."

Edwina Currie Sally pursued her into the kitchen. With Doris's help,
Hetty transferred the hot pastries and dumplings to platters and thrust
one into her daughter's hands, along with a wad of napkins. ' serve,'
she ordered.

Sally pursed her lips and did as she was told.

Doris's eyes followed her in curiosity. ''s not much like you, your
daughter, is she?' she said.

This was not the time for confidences; in any case, Hetty knew that her
worries about Sally would have to be resolved with the girl herself, if
at all, and with no one else. Too darn like her father,' she replied
briskly. '. Shouldn't have said that. Had two glasses of wine. Goes to
my head. Isn't it awful?"

"Have another.' The old lady grinned. ''re much more relaxed. Doing you
good, it is.' She peeped round the door. ' that your mother? I'd like to
meet her."

"Oh, yes. Excellent idea. Remiss of me. Wait.' Hetty grabbed a second
tray and sailed out into the room. Was it her imagination, or had the
music changed? Madonna, maybe, or an imitator. Not one of her own. The
noise level was higher, too: everyone, apart from the silent Mcdonalds,
seemed lively and happy. The eats were vanishing fast - she should have
bought more. Eight empty bottles already! Everyone would soon be
pie-eyed. Oh, well, that was the objective.

Her mother was leaning against a table edge, elegantly displaying her
figure in a maroon Jean Muir dress and jacket. The Colonel was half bent
over her and appeared to be whispering something entertaining in her
ear. Hetty smiled sweetly, took her mother's arm and led her towards the
kitchen. ' planning to marry him, Mother?' she asked urgently.

Chasing Men 71

"Heavens, no. What a barmy suggestion.' Her mother's laugh tinkled out.

"Why? What's so barmy about it? He seems quite besotted."

"So he should be. But for one thing, he's only a half colonel. Your
father was two ranks up. And if I remarried, I'd lose my pension. We'd
have to manage on his alone."

"Oh! That matters, does it?"

Her mother shrugged. ''t be snotty, dear. Believe me, a lot of
pensioners live tally. In unholy unwedlock. Creature comforts matter
more when you get older. Anyhow, this way he keeps his teeth in in bed."

I am learning, Hetty reflected grimly, a great deal about my mother I
could not have imagined. Am I like that? Am I to become like that?

There was no time to ponder further. Hetty introduced her widowed mother
to her widowed neighbour and left them chatting merrily to each other.

She suspected that she herself might be one of the topics of
conversation, and moved away.

"Mum!' It was Sally. She had hardly touched her wine and had a gloomy
expression. ' are these people?" "People,' said Hetty vaguely, waved a
hand and drank another half-glass.

The wine was super; it had been a wonderful choice. ''mon, Sally, loosen
up. You should be enjoying yourself." "You obviously are,' said Sally,
but she did not smile. ' are you up to? I thought you were down in the
dumps, what with the divorce and that. Beginning to appreciate what
you'd given up. But here you are, giving a frantic party and surrounded
by half a dozen chaps young enough to be your sons. What's going on?"

72 Edwina Currie

"Nothing,' Hetty answered, testily. ''re just acquaintances. I'm not
about to start an affair with any of them. Why should you assume I have
my eyes on anybody? Don't you trust me? Anyway, some of them are gay."

Sally stared hard out of the kitchen at the gathering. The lights had
been turned down further and several guests had started to dance. ', I
get it. You're going to be a fag-hag, Mother. A fine life that'll be."

"What's a fag-hag?"

Sally grunted. ' don't you ask one of them? Look, I have to go - I have
an early call tomorrow morning. Don't get yourself arrested."

Hetty turned her back, suddenly furious. It was plain that she had not
brought Sally up to have impeccable manners; and now it was too late.

Rosa was back, her arm entwined round Markus's.

"Darling! You didn't tell me you knew Markus Krushnikoff! Heavens. He
tells me he lives nearby."

Markus had evidently been economical with the truth. Hetty decided not
to betray him. That's right. We bump into each other out on the street,
don't we, Markus?"

"But have you seen his plays? The Antony and Cleopatra? The Britannicusl
He's marvelous. Hetty, you're so lucky what circles you move in!"

Markus blushed and rubbed his hand over his nonexistent hair. He
murmured modest dissent, soon detached himself and returned to watch
over Christian, who was in deep debate with Stuart - or was it Ted?

"I haven't managed to get to the theatre much, recently,' Hetty said to
Rosa. ' used to go with my hus - ex-husband. Not sure who I could go
with now."

"Why? What would you like to see?"

Chasing Men 73

The new Pinter. I've been given tickets for the first night. Christian's
in it."

"Oo-oo-ooh! Those tickets are like gold dust. You seriously looking for
a taker?"

"Er - yes, I am."

"Can 1 come?"

"If you'd like to. But are you sure you want to come with me?"

Rosa gave her arm a squeeze. ' bet. And is there a boozy knees-up
afterwards? Are we invited to that, too?"

Hetty nodded, dazed. ' the Savoy, apparently."

"Yippeee! Then we'll get dressed in our glad-rags, and we'll whoop it
up. Cinderella, you shall go to the ball."

It was after ten. Several of the guests had bade farewell and slipped
away. The Mcdonalds had vanished discreetly, Sally had gone. Doris was
washing up, humming to herself and swaying her hips. The others seem to
have settled to some solid drinking and slow dancing. The Colonel and
her mother were in the centre of one knot. Christian was still engaged
in earnest conversation, trying to explain a point with much exaggerated
waving of his elongated white hands. The two young men who were arguing
with him had still not been introduced to Hetty, nor did they seem to
feel any need to meet their hostess. Perhaps they were uncertain who was
responsible for the event; it didn't seem to matter to them. Rosa tapped
Richard on the shoulder and was soon sashaying smoochily with him coiled
about her, while Annabel, her back to the gathering, steadily demolished
the remaining food.

Markus returned. ''s a super party. Would you like to dance, Hetty?"

"Lord, I don't -1 can't remember how ... "

74 Edwina Currie He laughed indulgently. ' on. You'll be safe with me."

They moved to the edge of the dancing group and he took her in his arms
the old-fashioned way, one hand on her waist, the other holding hers
high in the air. He moved with grace, lithe and fit. Hetty was taken
aback and had to concentrate. ''re very good,' she puffed. '. I haven't
danced with a man in years - only my ex."

"I started my career as a dancer,' Markus said. ' still go to classes,
once or twice a week. With a young lover, I have to."

"You don't have anything to worry about, surely,' Hetty murmured, her
tone wistful. ' adores you. He said so.' Her head was full of wine and
warmth. What a pity this lovely man was in love with somebody else: it
was like dancing with a girlfriend's husband, a source of mingled
delight and regret.

"But I do have to worry. There's a twenty-year age gap, for a start.

When I met him he was a mess - that bit's true. What he didn't say was
that I had to teach him everything. I was a sophisticated, experienced
homosexual; he knew nothing about himself or his sexuality. He had been
in a clinic, had been self-mutilating. But now look at him. He's a
success, confident and utterly beautiful. I don't think I can hold on to
him much longer."

The pace had not slackened, but the ice had reentered Hetty's heart. '
that why he presses you to come out?"

"It's his way of testing me, yes. He gets angry at what he regards my
lack of support for the cause. But it would be natural for him to find
men closer to his own age. He's propositioned often enough. The theatre
is a queers' paradise."

"And he - does he go chasing men?"

Chasing Men 75

"I don't think so. But he might."

Markus sounded so sad that Hetty pulled back and gazed at him. ' would
you do if ... ?"

"God knows. I might ask Annabel over there for some tips, then do the
job properly."

Odd people. In Dorset the chat would have been about lobelias and the
special offers at the garden centre. Hetty shook her head, a little too
vigorously. ', you can't. Don't. Come and talk to me instead. Cry on my
shoulder. Life goes on. It must."

"Such wisdom, Hetty. Have you learned that already?"

They danced without speaking for a few minutes. As the tune changed to a
slower tempo Markus pulled her closer. She felt quite drunk but, as he
had suggested, quite secure in his arms. He would not lie to her. With
her, he was not playing a game.

"Markus, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"What's a fag-hag?"

He burst out laughing and stopped dancing. '? Where did that come from?"

"My daughter. What does it mean? Come on, Markus, I'm a sea-green
innocent. You taught Christian - you can teach me."

He started dancing again, and this time they moved easily together,
though it was becoming extraordinarily difficult to control her feet.

"Well, Hetty, it means a woman who likes to go round with homosexuals.

Sometimes that suggests she is not interested in sex. But she likes to
be seen with men, as a kind of cover."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I'm not sure anything is wrong with it. It has the

76 Edwina Currie advantage, of course, that she doesn't see the men
she's with as sex objects - provided she accepts that they are not
pursuing her for sex, either. Some women, unfortunately, have a mission
to convert men like us. They argue that if a man can be persuaded to be
gay, he can be unpersuaded. It can be a rotten business."

"It must be quite nice, not to be seen as a sex object,' Hetty mused.

The room was moving round, faster than their dancing could account for.

"Golly, I do believe I'm pissed ... Nice feeling. Not a sex object. Not
to have sex on the brain. I'm supposed to be like that, apparently. To
think naughty thoughts all the time. Everyone says so."

Markus was chuckling. ' does matter. Most people can't imagine life
without it."

"Um, most people in this room. That's what couples are for. Had plenty
of it, in my time. Husband was a big randy bloke. But what I want - what
I'd really like ... " "What's that?' Markus smiled. Hetty had the fuzzy
impression he was holding her up.

"I'd like,' Hetty said with heartfelt emphasis, ' be seen as a person,
first and foremost. A human being." "Yes,' said Markus. ' vino veritas,
perhaps, eh, Hetty?"

"A person. Not a blob of flesh. Not sex-mad. Gotta brain ... A person
But she was sliding gently from his arms and to the floor, a blissful
smile on her face, her eyes closed.

Markus and Christian conferred, lifted her on to the sofa and covered
her with a duvet. Thomas the cat emerged and curled up by her knees. The
company then carried on dancing, till the wine was gone: Rosa with
Richard, Stuart with Flo, the Colonel with his lady and with Doris,
alternately; Markus with Doris and with Hetty's mother, with Annabel
Chasing Men 77

and, at last, as the candles burned low, with Christian. Then they
stacked the empty bottles neatly, left the dirty glasses in rows in the
kitchen, blew out the guttering wicks, turned out the lights, and shut
the door behind them.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Morning After The racket resembled power-drills blasting inside her
head. Her mouth was coated in rusty brown fur. Hetty coughed and rolled
over. What was she doing on the sofa? And what in God's name was that
din? Why wouldn't it stop?

The phone - the bloody phone. Hetty staggered to the other side of the
room, her eyes half shut, dragging the duvet with her.

"Darling!' It was Clarissa. ' did the housewarming go? Was it a great
success?"

"Erggh,' said Hetty, and coughed. ' a minute."

The tinkle of running water from the tap was like surf pounding a beach.

She forced herself to drink two glasses, ignoring the squawking from the
phone. ',' she said, into the mouthpiece. ', what's your cure for a
hangover?"

Chasing Men 79

"You have a hangover?' The voice was astonished.

"Either that, or a brain tumour." "Hair of the dog, Robin always says."

"Eh?"

"Have another drink. A whisky. D'you want me to come over? Is the place
a mess?"

Hetty forced her eyes to open and peered slowly around. ', tidy.

Tidier than before."

"Sounds like it was some party.' A grunt came from the phone. ' than the
boring function we went to last night. Coronation chicken! I ask you!"

"My mother's got a boyfriend."

"What did you say? How do you know?"

They were here. Smooching. My mother looked a million dollars. Not
giving up her pension, though."

"Hetty, you're not making sense. Stay there, I'll be with you in an
hour. Take two aspirin and go back to bed."

"Not been to bed ...' Hetty replied, but the phone had clicked. She sat
down on the floor and pulled the duvet carefully over her shoulders.

"Ooo-ooh ... "

Clarissa arrived, full of solicitude, curiosity like an aura. Her eyes
goggled at the bottles, the empty glasses and plates. The revellers'
consideration had not extended to washing up; perhaps, however, their
hands had been so unsteady that it was better they hadn't.

"How many people did you have here?' she demanded. ' entire army?"

"Feels like an army inside my head,' Hetty muttered. "Bout twenty. Less.

Boy, can they drink."

"You too,' commented Clarissa. ''ve never seen you like this."

80 Edwina Currie The aspirins were having a soothing effect. ' used to
be the maestro.

Now I'm one of the players."

"Come again?"

"Couldn't disgrace my lovely husband, could I? I never drank much. He
did, sometimes. Had to put him to bed. He felt sorry for himself for
days."

"Hetty, I don't like this.' Clarissa had filled the washing-up bowl,
removed six rings, the charm bracelet and the Rolex, and began to sluice
the glasses. ' you going to make a habit of drinking yourself into a
stupor? And did I catch you saying that you didn't go to bed?"

They put me on the sofa,' Hetty admitted. ' it off there. Don't nag,
Clarissa. I'm feeling lousy. It's my life, anyway.' She giggled.

"Lot more fun than rubber chicken, as you said. Or compared with
Hoovering up round Stephen and Peter."

Clarissa stood, one hand on her hip, a tea-towel in the other. ''ll be
back. Not with Stephen, maybe, but with another chap in a beautiful
house with a garden big enough to keep you busy and a four-wheel drive
in the garage. My image of you, dear girl, is on your knees in the
shrubbery putting in bulbs, not on the floor with your head in your
hands. We have to fix you up, Hetty. Otherwise -just look at you. You'll
be going to the dogs in no time."

But Hetty was sliding back into sleep. ' dogs,' she mumbled. '.

Named Thomas."

"Who? What did you say? Thomas? Who's he? Is he married?"

Hetty reawoke, still horribly dehydrated, her tongue sour tasting and
too large for her mouth. This time she was in her Chasing Men 81

bed. It was dusk. The phone was ringing once more. She sat up
cautiously.

Clarissa had moved the new vase with Christian's flowers to the bedside.

On the table a wrapped package suspiciously like a small box of Quality
Street had appeared, with a card: Thank you. From Jane and Andy Mcdonald
and family.' Other than that, there were no thank-you notes, no other
acknowledgements. It was as if the event had vanished completely from
the memories of all the participants. Except hers.

The phone stopped, then began to trill once more. She trudged across to
pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi, Hetty. Is that you?"

"Who else would it be?' Her head still hurt, but the thudding was more
muted.

"Don't be like that. It's Larry. Sorry we couldn't make it to your
drinks thingy."

He and Davinia would have stood out like sore thumbs, Hetty thought
murderously. Larry would have engaged in vociferous argument with
Christian, would have insulted Markus and have belittled Rosa's work on
daytime TV - if she hadn't tried to get off with him first, in which
case Davinia would have brained him with the nearest Moselle bottle. Had
it been known they were coming, her mother would have arrived alone: the
Colonel would not have been let loose anywhere near their inquisitive
gaze. And Sally would have commiserated with them about Hetty taking
leave of her senses. She herself would probably have behaved with her
previous decorum - which is to say, would have drunk little, been a
matronly dampener on other people's spirits, and been left at the end
with a

82 Edwina Currie sensation of something missing. Instead of which ',
Larry, I have a stonking head. What did you say?"

"You poor thing. Coming down with ', are you? There's a lot of it going
round. Look, we were wondering. Christmas and New Year we're heading to
the cottage. D'you want to come?"

Larry had used his share of the legacy on their father's death to buy a
farmhouse near Chichester. Hetty's had paid for a conservatory, which
meant it was now gone.

"I'm not sure. What exactly are you planning? Lots of people down?"

"No,' Larry drawled. Hetty had the impression that he was not levelling
with her. ' Day, yes, and the New Year weekend. But Davinia could do
with some help kitchen wise, and you are always so good with the
children. When we go out, I mean."

"How kind of you to think of me, Larry.' Hetty paused. ' you don't mind
if I say no."

"But what else would you be doing?' Larry wheedled. ' first Christmas
since the divorce? You can't spend it on your own. And you'd be doing us
a favour."

"I realise that. I don't particularly want to spend it babysitting,
either.' Hetty was surprised at her own tartness. ''m sorry. My sense of
familial duty is drying up. I'll come down for the Boxing Day bash, if
you'll have me, then go straight back."

"I'm not sure,' Larry was dubious. Til have to check with Davinia. We
were rather counting on you, Hetty, now you've nothing much else on."

"Right. Understood. Sorry I can't help out."

The conversation ended. Hetty sat staring at the phone for several
minutes with the request, its implications and her Chasing Men 83

refusal still ringing in her ears. Then she blew a raspberry at the
unprotesting instrument, and went to make herself a cup of tea.

"I can't go on! I can't! I can't!"

The chubby woman, her breasts bulbous in a scoop-neck top, bare legs
blue and mottled in spiky-heeled shoes, bottle blonde hair straggling
from an insecure topknot, dabbed furiously at her eyes and left
panda-like smudges on both cheeks.

"But why not? You've got it pat. And you'll look smashing on the box.

Think of it - your friends will be so envious,' Hetty cooed, and
squatted down beside her.

They won't. They'll laugh at me.' The woman sniffed. ' mean, they don't
know I'm a kissogram, do they?"

"But that's the whole point. You're a kissogram who wants to give up for
the sake of your little girl. That's your dilemma. Everyone will admire
you."

"You think so?" "I'm sure of it,' said Hetty, with every scrap of
sincerity at her command. ' will stop you in the street and congratulate
you.

They'll say you're a terrific mother."

The woman pondered, then heaved herself slowly to her feet and tugged
the micro-skirt down over thighs dimpled with cellulite..She hiccuped.

"Come on. I'll take you back to Makeup. They'll soon have you at your
best. You don't want people to see you upset, now, do you?"

Gently but firmly Hetty propelled the reluctant guest out of the studio.

Behind her Rosa, clipboard in hand, mouthed a frantic ' you."

A few moments later Hetty returned as the woman, her

84 Edwina Currie Pan-stick reapplied, tottered on to the podium for the
sound check.

"Well done,' came a chuckle at her ear.

"I didn't do much, Father Roger,' Hetty answered. ' like trying to get a
naughty child back to school."

"Ye-e-es, quite.' Father Roger tweaked his cassock. He was of medium
height and indeterminate shape under the black serge. His robe was not
the badge of a particular order, Hetty had ascertained, since he was
High Anglican, not Roman Catholic. His head was almost bald, his jaw
clean-shaven. His brown eyes twinkled and his expression, as usual,
shone with bonhomie. ' you seen the next one?"

Hetty consulted her notes. ' and her mother. The child who wants her
belly-button pierced?"

"And Mother says no. If I wasn't a priest, and a believer in the
essential goodness of all mankind, I'd have that child whipped."

"Makes you glad you never had them?"

"Rather."

Father Roger was the permanent member of the panel on Tell Me All, and
something of a media star in the capital. He was joined by various minor
celebrities, mainly from soap operas, of varying loquacity and
perception. The presenter was a lofty young man who played with his tie
and had never acknowledged Hetty's existence; he was, it was said,
destined for higher things.

"I love the way you deal with them,' Hetty confided. ' you're so sharp
sometimes. You get away with it when others wouldn't."

"I didn't intend to reduce that stripper to tears, but she was a prize
fool,' Father Roger grunted. '! "How am I to tell my children that they
have four different fathers? I'm Chasing Men 85

so ashamed!" Idiot. If it worried her that much, she should have stuck
with one chap. Or used contraception. As for keeping it a secret -1
mean, Hetty, they act like this is a private conversation, don't they?"

"And the day after it's broadcast they'll wish they hadn't come near
us.' Hetty was laughing. ' human frailty is here. But that stripper
wasn't so dumb. Crocodile tears, I reckon. She had a knowing air about
her."

"Precisely. She was touting for business. See how she leered at the
camera? Vanity, thy name is woman. Harrumph!' And he scuttled away to
take his seat on the set.

Most of the '' of the programme were self-referred. They came in answer
to advertisements placed in various free newspapers round the country.
Others, especially those with disabilities, were recommended by interest
groups. Hetty had been moved by the young woman recovering from ME, who
had haltingly explained what the condition had meant to her.

Others were more sly, less genuine. The skill, she had discovered, was
not in persuading guests to appear: on the contrary, the dottier their
situation, the more eager they could be. The British disease, from the
vantage-point of the broadcaster, was exhibitionism - ' husband is
sleeping with my mother' cases were two a penny, had Rosa allowed them
anywhere near the studio - but shaping issues into dilemmas that could
be argued about and engage audiences was less simple.

"Who's on this afternoon?' a voice hissed in her ear. It was Kate, the
chummiest of the researchers, a tall girl m spectacles The jazz player,'
Hetty hissed back.

"Oh, God, not him."

"You know him?"

"Sort of. I used to work on Kilroy, and he was on that.

86 Edwina Currie And he's been on Vanessa, and Good Morning, and
Thursday Night Live. He makes quite a career of it. They do the rounds,
you know."

"Makes a career of it? What d'you mean?"

"Two hundred and fifty pounds fee, he said, or he wouldn't appear. But
he does give a superb performance. Same every time, but totally
reliable."

"And his dilemma is never resolved?"

"Never. He's so convincing - what is it? Ah, yes. "I'm so gorgeous the
women are all over me. How do I fight them off?" or some such."

"D'you think he's gorgeous?"

The?' Kate snorted. ''ve got to be joking. The only person round here I
think is gorgeous is Rosa, but she prefers the camera crew. The tattier
the better. Heartbreaking."

The jazz player was in his mid-thirties, had been married twice and was
now, by his own claim, footloose and fancy free. The name he wished to
be known by was Al. He was in a corner of the canteen, showily playing
snatches on a tenor saxophone to one of the servers. Chatting her up, at
a guess. Hetty examined him from a distance. He was losing his hair and
had grown the rest longer to compensate. The blond locks curled, quite
fetchingly, on his shoulders. The black leather jacket, navy open-necked
shirt and red neckerchief gave him a louche air. His legs were thin in
their black corduroy trousers.

He immediately caught her eye. ', isn't it?' he called. ' we on yet?"

The server slid regretfully away. The jazz player put down his
instrument and patted the seat beside him. ' and keep me company," he
invited. ' get nervous."

Chasing Men 87

Hetty grinned. ', you? A professional performer? I hear you've done this
once or twice before."

"Yes, well.' His face was shifty. ' explained that when we talked on the
phone. Did I get your name right?"

"Hetty."

"And your phone number's ...' He quoted it correctly. ' never forget a
phone number. Especially when it belongs to an attractive lady."

"You flatter me.' Her tone was faintly sarcastic, but he seemed to take
it as flirtation.

"A lovely dame like you must have lots of fellas wanting your private
number. I bet you keep ' hanging on, don't you?"

She did not answer, though the temptation to put him in his place was
strong. Yet what was his place? Should she tell him she was not
available? What was the language for that? She could say she was
married, though that was no longer true. She could imply she was spoken
for, but doubted she was a good enough liar. Instead she smiled and
tried to look enigmatic. His snigger suggested she had not entirely
succeeded.

"D'you like my music, Hetty?' He stroked the saxophone.

"I liked listening to you. I can't claim to know much about it."

"Well, now, you could learn. If I were to call this ' number and invite
you out for a drink some time, would you slam the phone down on me?"

"Of course not.' This was real devotion to duty. She could maintain the
pretence at least until his piece had been satisfactorily recorded. He
was wearing a scent, an aftershave or spray, reeking of eucalyptus. It
made her nose wrinkle.

"Then I'll do that."

88 Edwina Currie

"I think I'm a bit old for you, Al,' Hetty excused herself.

"No, you're not. Don't talk like that. I love mature women."

That shows you have discrimination and taste,' Hetty replied drily. She
checked her watch. Td better get you and your horn into Makeup. You'll
be on in a minute."

He rose and lunged. She turned her head sharply sideways; he managed
nevertheless to plant a wet kiss, not on her lips but on her burning
cheek. The eucalyptus was excessive and made her want to sneeze. ', huh?
More where that came from. I'll ring you."

Rosa had been held up in the gallery, checking rushes. As the programme
ended she joined the crew in a briefing session for the next day's
shooting. The hair was wilder, the black skin shinier and healthier, the
energy more exuberant than ever. This time she was wearing an orange
silk minidress. Her legs were still those of a twenty-year-old. She
reminds me of the liquorice sticks we had as children, Hetty thought: so
delicious you could eat her.

"Hey! What a life!' She squeezed Hetty's arm affectionately. ' enjoying
yourself, hon? You seem to be making out okay."

"I'm making out, fine,' Hetty answered. Was this another new language?

"I love it."

"You're brilliant at the job. The guests like you and trust you. That's
always a plus.' Rosa gave her a flashing smile. ' forgot to thank you
for inviting me to your party. It turned out quite a night, didn't it?

And since ... "

"Since?"

Rosa nudged her playfully. ', sure. You know. Richard."

"You've been seeing Richard?"

Rosa giggled. '. Seeing quite a lot of him. Terrific Chasing Men 89

body. Pecs like ski jumps and a butt like two walnuts. And nuts like ..

"I can imagine. But I'd have thought he was a bit young for us, I mean?"

"What? Six or seven years' difference? Don't be so old fashioned.

Listen, Hetty, he may be kidding those teenagers in the next-door flat
that he's only thirty, but he's closer to our age, believe me."

"Another guy who makes a career of it,' Hetty commented, cautiously.

"Say again?"

"Mid-forties, still playing the field. Never stops long enough for
anyone to catch him. Has a harem on the go, almost. What's the correct
description? Serial philanderer?"

"Perfect. An experienced sexy bloke who's not after my money. Who could
ask for more?"

Hetty laughed, then turned away. Rosa's riposte seemed too ready an
acceptance of standards sharply lowered. She could ask for more. A lot
more. And could manage with much less. But Rosa's pleasure in life
infected her, and left her pensive.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Home Truths The nights were drawing in; the shortest day loomed. Hetty
and Doris sat in the latter's kitchen comforted by a pot of tea. In the
garden of The Swallows a few hellebore flowers peeped out under the
sodden bushes, pale heads nodding like forlorn refugees. Out of the
window, Hetty saw Thomas sniff the pathetic clumps with lordly
indifference.

"Doris, what do people do round here for Christmas?"

The old lady considered. ' concert and Midnight Mass, if you're
religious. I go to St. Veronica's. It's that trendy vicar - Father
Roger, that's him. Barrel of laughs. The jokes he tells from the pulpit
- he's on telly, did you know?"

"Father Roger? Yes, he's on our programme.' Hetty explained the
connection.

Doris gaped, suddenly respectful, then wily. ''you ever get spare
tickets for the audience?"

"You can come every week, if you like. We're having awful trouble
getting enough bottoms to fill seats. These Chasing Men 91

days, appearing on television doesn't quite compete with staying at home
to watch it, apparently."

"Ooh, yes! I'd love to. Can I bring Thomas?"

"No!"

Doris poured another cup of tea. Her hand slid to the pocket of her
apron. ' could tell your future in the tarot cards, if you like,' she
offered. She put the pack on the table.

A chill touched Hetty around the nape of her neck. ' you second sight,
Doris?" "Maybe,' the old woman said. She began slowly, deliberately to
shuffle the cards, their colours vibrant under her thick fingers. '
grandmother was supposed to have Romany blood. But, then, they said that
of everyone in the East End when I was a kid." "The answer to that one's
no, too, Doris,' said Hetty reluctantly. ' wouldn't feel comfortable. If
our future were set in the stars, or in the cards, there'd be no point
in us trying to do better, would there?

Anyhow, I'm not sure I'm ready to know what Fate has in store for me."

"Not sure I believe it either,' Doris answered, her eyes lowered. ' when
you hear some people's misfortunes, however much they've tried, you do
wonder."

Her voice had such a hollow note that Hetty stared at her. But the
moment had gone, and the cards had been returned to their hiding-place.

It was acutely embarrassing, particularly when the guest was a
distinguished, smartly dressed man, who sat, bemused but patient, as Bob
the floor-manager ran his ragged troops through their paces.

The four rostrum cameras were trained on the rows of seats. Most were
empty.

92 Edwina Currie Instead of serried ranks of enthusiastic supporters,
only about thirty people had turned up, mainly a minibus-load of
pensioners from a Darby and Joan club. Most of those seemed too far gone
to follow a single word. Several shoppers had been dragged from the
street with the plea that they need only stay for half an hour to rest
their feet, then have a cup of tea - after the recording, not before.
Three drunks had slouched in from the local pub. A trio of giggling
gum-chewing schoolboys in multi-coloured windcheaters three sizes too
large and huge trainers, unlaced and loose, were the sole occupants at
the back. The entire '' was bunched together in the middle of the rows
to make it appear to the cameras that the studio was packed.

Bob was squinting upwards at a screen. ',' he squawked. ''t stare at the
monitors - look at Johnnie there."

The presenter waved a languid hand. Every eye swivelled naturally to
Bob, the speaker, except those already shut. The shrunken crone in the
front row was dozing and threatening to slide off her chair. Bob prodded
her tentatively with his foot; she revived with a snort. He leaped
sideways at the boys. ' no waving your arms or pulling faces, either.'
He scowled. ' aren't you at school, anyway?"

"Baker day,' the boys chortled in unison. One started blowing lurid pink
bubbles. ''re let off early."

"What's a Baker day?' Hetty saw that Bob instantly regretted asking, but
the boys were happy to enlighten him.

"For training our teachers. To give ' some ejjicashun. So they can teach
us beer."

"Is it effective?' Hetty asked under her breath, then gazed askance at
the restless imps. ' a chance." "Everyone ready?' Bob demanded. ' on
Johnnie. Big smiles, come on."

Chasing Men 93

He danced on the spot, clapping his hands over his head, the clipboard
papers flapping about. One leaf detached itself and floated to the floor
and he scrabbled to catch it, cursing. The audience stirred, shuffled
and clapped in a desultory fashion.

"No, no. That won't do. You're watching the best programme on telly!

You're going to be on telly yourselves!"

That did it, though it took two more attempts before Bob was satisfied.

The required noise level was achieved eventually by playing the first
tape over in synch, so that it sounded as if double the numbers were
present. Thus encouraged, the boys and the drunks whooped and hollered,
though he would not permit them to stamp their boots. The set'll
collapse,' he explained ominously. The boys glanced down anxiously.

"Okay. On your feet. To your left - one, two, three, go!!"

The entire crowd rose, collected itself and its belongings and shuffled
ten paces to the left, then with much grumbling (and a few guffaws from
the boys) settled itself once more in front of a different part of the
backdrop.

Bob pointed at Johnnie. '! Big smiles! And let's hear you!!"

The drinkers indulged themselves, this time, in hearty cheering. Bob's
eyes lit up. That's more like it. Once more!"

Hetty found herself observing the guest sitting pensively on set,
miked-up and ready. He was a banker in his forties, with a tanned,
handsome face and a trim haircut silvering above his ears. He had told
Kate, who had handled the contact, that he was agonising whether to give
up the financial world in order to follow his dream, to be a writer.

Nicholas was his name. Father Roger thought he was a bit of a poseur.

Hetty had taken his part. ' man like that,' she had 94 Edwina Currie
argued, ' have to be very brave to abandon everything and reach out for
the unknown. It's admirable."

Such a decision, for a man, had parallels with her own in divorcing
Stephen and quitting the cosy world of marriage and coupledom. Maybe
Nicholas, too, felt he had little choice, if restlessness had come to
the fore. But the future would still be a shock. His security would
vanish, all previous points of reference be destroyed. He would need
every scrap of self-confidence to survive.

In herself, the ache for security was vividly present, reawakened each
Sunday evening as she sat down to sort out her bills. At the council of
war Sally had painted a gloomy scenario: a reflection of her own fears,
perhaps, or of her unsatisfactory experience so far. Clarissa, also, had
common sense on her side. Marriage was a meal ticket. It had been
wonderful not to worry about money, to spend whatever was necessary, not
to puzzle why her bank account emptied so fast. Stephen was not the only
one spoiled under the old regime. She had been too, and she missed it.

A man like Nicholas might be totally sympathetic. Hetty began to examine
their guest with greater interest. He did not seem like a poseur -
Father Roger could be too worldly wise altogether. Did Nicholas have a
wife or partner? Was he in any way available? His personal details were
on the computer; she could bring them up without revealing her reasons
to anyone. That would also give his home phone number.

She watched Rosa dashing about: the lady exuded joie de vivre, though
there was no suggestion she was in love with this Richard. A great sex
life, it was no more than that. Nothing would come of it, but although
she felt superior, Hetty could not suppress a niggling desire to follow
suit. Sex Chasing Men 95

with a masculine man. A professional, a lover who could make a woman's
body sing. Pecs like - what had she said? Oh, lucky Rosa.

Hetty checked herself. She was not in the business of chasing men. So
soon after the break-up it did not seem either dignified or a
responsible way to behave. Not least, because it takes an age for scar
tissue to heal. The rebound from an unhappy marriage was probably the
worst possible springboard for a relationship.

Pity ... Bob was still leaping about but with relief on his features. He
had persuaded the able-bodied audience, who were wearying of the game,
to rise and move twenty seats to their right. Johnnie was standing
before them on the balls of his feet, facing camera one, and was reading
from autocue the bouncy words of introduction to Tell Me All.

Suddenly Bob screamed like a banshee, yelled, ', stop,' and lunged at
the nearest schoolboy, dragging him out by the scruff of his neck. ' saw
you, you horrible insect. Get out, and your friends with you. Now."

He stood panting and running his finger under his collar. The boys
hooted, made obscene gestures and slouched to the exit.

"What were they doing?' Hetty whispered to Kate.

"Mouthing FUCK at the camera. Right behind Johnnie's head. Appropriate,
somehow."

"Larry and Davinia have asked me to have a word with you. They're
terribly keen that you should go there for the holidays."

The takeaway curry from the shop by the station had been an experiment.

Not entirely successful, Hetty decided, as she nibbled the remaining
poppadum. The excruciating

96 Edwina Currie Delia had a recipe for curried beef in yoghurt and
another for Sri Lankan egg with garlic, root ginger, turmeric
(Sainsbury's had it), Madras curry powder and creamed coconut. Maybe
that would be a better bet next time Sally came. She poured the rest of
the chilled Riesling into her daughter's glass. ' and Davinia want a
chief cook, bottlewasher and baby-sitter for those two horrible little
boys, Sally.

I'm not going."

"Heavens, Mum, what has got into you? And you're being unfair. They are
only trying to be supportive."

How liberating wine is, Hetty reflected. '. I've said I'll go as a
house-guest, but not otherwise. That flattened their enthusiasm."

"But what else will you do?"

"Not sure. Maybe not much, other than go to church. I don't intend to
start cooking a turkey. Or to feel guilty, whatever decisions I make.

That I have promised myself.' She eyed her daughter. ' about you?"
"Well, Dad says I can spend Christmas in Dorset, if I want. He and -
they will be having a few friends round, nothing elaborate. He says
you'd be welcome."

"How very cordial.' Hetty was aware that her tone was curt.

"He told me, when she wasn't listening, that he was dreading the
holiday. It'd remind him of the kind of get-togethers we used to have."

"Oh, my. Does that mean the new girlfriend can't cook?"

"It's not that. She has a name - Natalie. They want to be civilised,
honestly, Mum. You wouldn't consider ?"

"I would not. I couldn't. Worse than Larry's, that'd be."

There was a silence. Hetty reopened: ' haven't answered me. Where will
you and whatsisname be over the Chasing Men 97

holiday? Incidentally, am I ever going to meet him?"

"Erik'll be in Sweden - that's the roster. I could volunteer for holiday
duty, I suppose. Triple pay, plus days off in lieu."

"Doesn't sound too exciting.' Hetty guessed that Erik would be with his
family, and that Sally knew it. His wife? His children?

"No, well, it isn't.' Sally drained her glass and ignored Hetty's second
question. Theni I despair, sometimes, Mum. That's why I'd much rather
you had a proper Christmas, either with us at home or with my uncle and
aunt. Peter'd come, instead of going to his pals. Maybe we could
persuade Grandma to stay as well, and Larry and Davinia might pop in
with the boys before they go to Chichester. That'd be great."

"It'd be a disaster, Sally.' Hetty suddenly felt sorry for her wistful
daughter. ''d fight or get maudlin or paranoid. Your dad would creep
around not sure whether to show off his new love or hide her. That's not
fair - I'm sure she ... Natalie is quite, er, nice. The village would be
agog. And my brother! God help us. Larry and Davinia would carp and
fidget, their boys would vandalise something - they're incapable of
walking past an ornament without touching or a blank space without
scribbling on it. I'd end up in tears. Nobody'd eat the bloody turkey -
nobody in our family likes turkey anyway, never did.' She paused for
breath.

"Don't,' Sally begged. ''s so ghastly. My whole life is disintegrating."

I am responsible for this, Hetty thought. Her voice softened. ' baby. I
hadn't realised how devastated you'd be. I assumed, with you being
older, that you wouldn't be affected, but that's not so. Is Peter the
same?"

"No, not him. Water off a duck's back. He has plenty of mates. They'll
be delighted to have him."

98 Edwina Currie Hetty cleared away the plates and discarded the uneaten
food. Tm not averse to advice, Sally,' she ventured quietly. ' - apart
from going backwards - do you think I should do? Not just Christmas,
that's of minor importance. Generally."

"Golly.' Sally cradled her almost empty glass. Hetty wondered whether to
open another bottle of wine; she had laid in quite a substantial stock,
with the help of Malcolm Gluck and Superplonk, but a glance at her
daughter's woeful face decided her against it. There was a limit to the
volume of vino veritas a person could take, especially from a virtual
stranger.

Her daughter sighed. ' on your own isn't normal. I still think you
should aim at finding another chap. Maybe not next week, I grant you.

And p'raps somebody different from Dad, who won't let you down. But
you'll need to take action, now."

"In what way?"

Sally's eyes roamed over her mother. Hetty felt uneasy under the
scrutiny. She went to the mantelpiece where she twiddled the glass
perfume phials, which she had come to think of as representing her
various options. One had got broken at the house-warming: repaired, it
was covered in cracks, its surface misshapen with tiny beads of glue.

"Come on, Sally. What exactly do you have in mind? If I'm to go chasing
men, as you seem to think I must, what steps do I take? Go to an agency?

Answer adverts?"

"Something else first.' Sally seemed to wish she had never started. Then
she gulped down the remaining wine and spoke in a rush. ' me, but at the
moment you wouldn't attract a blind man at midnight in a dark alley,
Mum. Look at you - you're two stone overweight and your Chasing Men 99

roots are showing. You need to get fit and firm. More like Grandma.

Maybe she can fix you up with one of her friends. Or on second
thoughts,' she had caught Hetty's glare, ' not. But you see what I
mean?" "I do,' said Hetty frostily. Her mind was racing. ' did ask.
Heavens, we've had more conversation, shared more - what can I call it?
intimacy, I suppose - in the last few months, Sally, than ever before.
Life since my divorce is turning out more a voyage of discovery than a
shipwreck."

The girl kept her eyes averted. '. That was rude of me."

Hetty touched her hand. ' love you, Sally, and I want to be close to
you."

The too, Mum,' was all her daughter could manage. I didn't even teach
her to say I love you, Hetty reflected sadly.

"Tell you what, Sally, how about a few days at a health farm?"

"Exactly. That would help."

Hetty took a deep breath. ' could kill two birds with one stone, and
neither would be a turkey. How about we take a double room, you and I,
over the holiday, and go together? Do you think we could get along?"

Sally began to cry. She touched her mother's hand. There was a long
hiatus, during which Hetty could hear only the beat of her own heart and
the damp gulps of her daughter.

At last Sally gave a short, rueful laugh. ' not? Yes. We can try. At
least I could keep an eye on you. I'll make it my Christmas present. How
about that?"

CHAPTER NINE.

Sex and the Single Girl

(J Ji. Al here. We met when I was on your show. How are J. J.you?

Listen, I meant it when I said I'd like to see you again. You're a foxy
lady, y'know? Come and have a drink with me. Call me ... "

"What on earth would a man like that see in a woman like me?' Hetty
pondered. What does he mean by "foxy"?"

She stood in front of the mirror, the full-length one attached to the
wardrobe door, and made an honest appraisal of herself. Sally had been
brutally accurate. Two excess stones - which would not be shifted by
four days' indulgence at a health farm. She lifted her sweater and
prodded her midriff. Her fingers sank into yielding flesh. Allure and
flab were mutually incompatible. But the prospect of sweating it out in
a gym or joining the morose joggers who trundled every evening around
the common filled her with dread.

"I think I'll get a bike,' Hetty resolved, without any great conviction.

A bike could take her to the studio, and offered Chasing Men 101

potential at weekends: Richmond Park and Wimbledon Common were within
reasonable distance. Box Hill - no, not Box Hill. Hampton Court: yes. In
the spring she could take a picnic and a novel. That would keep her out
of trouble. Or were bikers attractive men? Might she meet someone?

"Stop it,' she rebuked herself, and twisted sideways. The bulge of her
backside brought a wave of despair. Did she want it even larger, more
muscular? ' Watchers,' Hetty told herself gloomily. ' the bike.

Oh, Lord."

She played Al's message again and, after a moment's hesitation, wrote
down the number. If desperate, she might use it. Desperate for what?

Hetty turned her back on the mirror. What could Al give her that she
didn't have already?

Sex ... What was on offer was a night in the sack. With a new man.

Maybe lots of nights in the sack. Nothing else: no commitment, no
promises, of undying love. Sex, pure and simple, and with a younger,
slimmer man, who was clearly well up in the sensual arts. No more and no
less.

Her body thrilled to the idea. Hetty pulled up the sweater once more,
and ran her hands over her breasts in their Marks and Spencer bra. To
her surprise, her nipples stiffened at once. She reached back and
unhooked the bra, pulled the sweater over her head and looked at
herself. Then she ran her hands again over her breasts, pressing and
squeezing, as a man might. Her body tensed and she gasped. ' Lord," she
murmured. ' do miss it. Didn't think I did, but I do."

In the early days of their marriage their love-life had been hectic and
sweaty. She and Stephen had explored together with manuals. They read
the Kama Sutra and, with much laughter, tried the positions. They teased
each other about how many times they could perform, until the night he

102 Edwina Currie ricked his back. After that they had settled into a
comfortable regime, as most married couples do.

When had it started to fade? Hetty reached for her bra and sweater and
dressed pensively. On the shelf stood photographs of those happier
years, of herself with Peter and Sally as small children. As she had
become engrossed in motherhood, as Stephen made enough to buy first a
house in Netting Hill Gate (it was not so fashionable in those days),
then the property in Dorset, her eyes had been taken off the ball. The
solidity of their marriage had not been in question but that urgency had
no longer been present. They no longer had to prove anything to each
other. Occasionally, Hetty wondered if her husband wasn't taking too
much for granted. Once, after a speedy early-morning session, he had
left the bed and trotted to the bathroom. A few minutes later she had
glimpsed him through the door, seated on the lavatory, engrossed in the
business pages.

But as their friends' partnerships broke up and the Clarksons' proved
more durable, she'd reminded herself she had a lot to be thankful for.

Sex wasn't everything. Middle aged people did not expect to be sexual
athletes. A man over fifty had less oomph. Except that he was secretly
devoting an increasing proportion of his oomph to another woman, wife of
a neighbour, while contriving to keep his wife on board. The strong
marriage in which both had basked had become a romantic fiction.

Now, nothing. No sex of any kind with anyone. Hetty sighed, and rubbed
her thighs. A warmth she had almost forgotten was rekindled; it chafed
and throbbed. She bit her lip, pressed her knees together. Celibacy. A
cruel, unfamiliar word for something so intimate. So barren. So
unaccustomed and uncomfortable.

Chasing Men 103

Her reaction intrigued her. The warmth between her legs, the twinge in
her groin, meant that she needed sex. It would be miserable to live
without it indefinitely. Celibacy did not feel natural. Not for her.

Sleeping alone was not a problem. She was working so hard at the studio
that afterwards she was not much use for anything in company other than
to drink a glass of wine, or possibly see a movie at the cinema across
the common. Doris was happy to oblige for either, or her mother or
Sally, though Sally could be a morose and uncommunicative companion.

Probably for the same reason: the Britannia job was punishing.

Absentmindedly Hetty pottered about. The orderliness of her home soothed
her. The bed was made as she liked it with four big lace-fringed
pillows; cosmetics and face creams were arranged neatly on the
window-ledge beside a pot of "anemones and a doll from Tahiti, a gift
from Sally. Her clothes, such as they were, hung in mute rows in the
wardrobe, not flung about collecting fluff and making the place untidy.

In the kitchen, plates were stacked by size in the cupboards, a clean
National Trust tea towel was draped over the sink, her favourite brand
of ground coffee sat in the canister. The air was fresh: there were no
overflowing ashtrays. How on earth would she cope with an invasion, for
any reason, by another human being?

But the sex, the sex. What was the answer to that? Al, or someone like
him? A more refined creature - Nicholas, whose details still nestled in
the computer? Or a man she had never met - via an advert, say, in a
respectable newspaper?

It got dark so early. Hetty went to the window to draw the curtains.

Down by the common, which she could just glimpse, the street-lights were
coming on. The great stretch

104 Edwina Currie of windswept turf was supposed to be unsafe at night,
though Hetty had walked across it several times without being
approached. It stood to reason: the hooded loiterers, she guessed, were
seeking other men.

A jogger bounced by on the far side of the road, a young blonde female,
her pony-tail swinging, eyes half shut. Headphones protected her ears
from the cold; the thin black wire flapped down her back to the Walkman
hitched to her belt. What was she listening to? Bach? Oasis? Maeve
Binchy? Teach Yourself Japanese?

The light from the doorway of the flats caught an aureole of golden
hair. She would know that glorious head anywhere, even from the back:
Christian, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.

He did not glance up. His show was a success; he would have to leave for
the theatre soon. Was he going shopping?

As Hetty watched idly, her hand on the curtains, she saw Christian stand
at the roadside, waiting for traffic to clear. Then he crossed over and
strode purposefully towards the shrubbery on the northern side, as if he
knew what he was looking for.

"Julia Roberts may be a pretty woman, but she's a stinker as an
actress."

"Yes,' Hetty answered cautiously. ' what wouldn't I give for a face like
that?"

"Looks aren't everything. But I grant you, they matter.' Hetty and her
mother were walking back after the film on the well-lit pavement along
the south side of the common, their arms linked against the chill wind.

Peggy's stylish high heels clicked along the paving stones next to
Hetty's mute flatties. That made the older woman two Chasing Men 105

inches taller, and a great deal loftier and more confident.

"Mother,' said Hetty cautiously, ' Dad died, what did you miss most?"

"Let me see. It's ten years ago. First, friendship. I was dreadfully
lonely. We'd hardly spent a day apart in thirty years, other than when
he was on active service. When he retired, we set about enjoying
ourselves. His passion was following the tracks of ancient battles -
Alexander, the Crusades, Wellington. Mine was following him, guidebook
and maps in hand. It was fascinating. And lovely to share in a man's
hobby: most men don't want their wives with them, but he did."

"You were an intelligent companion, Mum. D'you still take an interest?"

"Not so much. Robert,' the moustachioed colonel, ' in the Far East.

Prisoner of war. I don't think he wants to see the swamps of Borneo ever
again."

"So how did you fill the gap?"

"Kept myself busy. Joined everything in sight. Took up golf, but it
bored me rigid. Terribly boring people play golf, you know. Tried a bit
of sailing, hated getting wet."

"You never considered getting a paid job, did you?"

"No. It was different for my generation. We avoided going out to work,
if we could. That was a last resort, and a negative comment on your
husband's income."

"And pension." Her mother smiled in the dark. ' pension. I feel so sorry
for the girls today, don't you? They feel they must work, that they'll
lose their identity if they don't. Then one day the biological clock's
ticking and they're thirty, forty. No babies. No husband. Only the
wonderful career, which by then they're sick of. Poor things."

106 Edwina Currie

"My friend Clarissa would agree. While I value my hard won independence,
she urges me to find a bloke who would keep me in luxury. Candidates
galore, she says, though she hasn't come up with any names. But it'd
feel like putting myself on the market. Akin to prostitution, almost."
Hetty thought again fleetingly of Nicholas, the would-be writer, and his
hesitant manner as he explained on camera why he had become
dissatisfied. Independence mattered to him, too. He was more genuine a
seeker than most on the programme. If, the day after the broadcast, a
telephone call came from a competent professional adviser, he would hand
in his notice without ado and bury himself in his laptop.

"Marriage was always a market,' her mother observed. ' least we
recognised it as such."

Hetty waved her hands. ' we can have it both ways. Women your age worked
during the war - you had no option. At demob, wives were sent back to
the kitchen - no option, again. But in the sixties we were the first
girls to take advantage of university education, in big numbers.

We had careers and we had families. We could have both."

"You didn't. You chose to stay at home, like me. You sound regretful."

"No. I could have carried on at the BBC. But I queened it in Dorset,
Mother. I had my own little realm. Small beer, I know, compared with
Stephen's responsibilities in an international firm. But there were days
when I think he envied me none the less."

"Women's lib wasn't all it was cracked up to be,' said her mother,
sagely. ' feminists never seemed to me to be very happy, despite all
their posturing."

Hetty frowned. ' don't know any feminists. Rosa's not an Chasing Men 107

activist but a sexy lady. Sally would be the closest, I suppose. She
might say that happiness had nothing to do with it. Equality is a
principle."

"Happiness has everything to do with it. And if you can't achieve
happiness, serenity is a fair substitute,' Peggy said, and squeezed her
daughter's arm. ' wants to be equally miserable?"

They walked on in silence. Then Hetty tried again. ' you miss - anything
else?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, you know."

"Oh, that?"

"Er, yes."

Hetty's mother laughed. '. Big man, your father.' There was another
thoughtful silence. ''s another stupid myth, that ladies my vintage
didn't enjoy it. It depended on your luck, whether you had a sympathetic
and skilled partner or not. I became a fan of Queen Victoria when I read
that she had been warned, after her ninth child, that she was risking
her health if she had any more. "Does that mean no more fun in bed?" she
asked the doctor. Splendid woman."

"D'you reckon she had it off with John Brown?"

"Oh, absolutely. Now there was a he-man. Especially if he looked
anything like Billy Connolly in the movie. Did you see his -?' They
giggled together.

"Does it - ah - improve as you get older?"

Her mother laughed. ', darling. It gets harder. For the men especially.
It's a fact that most men over the age of sixty have prostate -
waterworks - problems. And do avoid a chap on beta-blockers, unless you
want a quiet life."

There are new drugs ... "

"Viagra? Oh, sure. Recipe for a heart-attack. Anyway, they

108 Edwina Currie don't help the rest of the time. The Colonel is a
sweetie, but in Florida he spent most of his days asleep under a palm
tree. Some Lothario he turned out to be."

The dark created an envelope of intimacy. The two women walked steadily,
their gait strikingly similar despite the different footwear. They did
not look at each other. ' never imagined you like that. My mother. It
feels strange, almost wicked,' Hetty said.

"Every child believes its parents couldn't possibly have done it, every
parent thinks their children absolutely shouldn't,' Peggy murmured. '
mother never told me anything - one simply didn't mention it."

"We don't talk about it. This is the first time we've ever broached the
subject - realistically. I'm an adult, and so are you, but we still find
it awkward ... "

"What is it you're trying to tell me, Hetty?' Her mother stopped,
concerned.

Hetty paused, then shook her head. ', nothing. It can be hard, living
without a man. That's all. But I'm managing somewhat to my own
surprise."

"Early days yet.' Her mother's eyes showed her curiosity.

"Early days. But I'm not going to be passive: I shall make things
happen. Watch."

Rosa picked up the dark green gherkin with a suggestive grin and popped
the end in her mouth. ' could try one of these,' she said.

Hetty flapped a hand helplessly and spluttered into her Diet Coke. ',
don't, Rosa. You'll give me hysterics. You have such a filthy mind."

"I have not,' Rosa responded, in mock indignation. She had suggested a
pub lunch: it was a non-filming day, when Chasing Men 109

the tempo was slower. The studios had been booked by other programme
makers who had commandeered the canteen. Hetty and the researchers were
crammed into a crowded office, rented for the duration of the run. That
encouraged them to get out and about, Rosa had asserted: guest contact
was best done in the guests' own homes, not down an impersonal
phone-line.

"So how'm I doing?' Hetty asked.

"Well, Mike and Phil both think you're terrific. Bob is wearing his
heart on his sleeve for you. Kate thinks you're cute. You're doing okay,
Hetty.' Her eyes were alive.

"God, you've got sex on the brain today. I've told you, I'm not in the
market."

"Not now or not ever?" Hetty sighed. ', is it showing? The nun's habit
is not exactly me.

Stephen and I got on quite well in that direction. I did like it."

"Most people like it.' Rosa was on her second pint of Carling Special;
Hetty had tried the strong lager, but had found a single half set her
head spinning all afternoon.

"I don't think so, Rosa. Lots of women loathe the physical side,
especially if they've had a bad experience."

"Or if they've never met a man who's good at it.' Rosa smacked her lips.

"Ho! Ho!"

"Can't take you anywhere.' A group of men at a nearby table were ogling
them and chuckling. ' did wonder whether I should try answering an
advert or two. A few phone calls can't do any harm. If they sound awful,
I don't have to meet them."

"Yeah, brill. You could land yourself a couple of hot dates, if nothing
else."

Hetty ignored Rosa's nudge. ' do you watch out for

110 Edwina Currie when you meet a stranger? How can you tell if he's
going to be both nice and, well, capable?"

"Hell, Hetty, that's the oldest question in the world,' Rosa replied.

"You were married. You must know the signs better than I do. What are
you after? D'you want to fall in love again and get hitched? You want
him wealthy, tall, cultivated, what?"

"I don't know,' Hetty confessed. ' it's ages now.' Her voice trailed
off.

"Since what?"

"Since - since last time."

"Oooh, I geddit. You're missing the sex, aren't you? That's natural.

Healthy lass like you."

Hetty nodded miserably. ' feel such a fool. I'm a grown woman with a job
I love. But something is definitely amiss. I feel - edgy. I'm beginning
to dream. I had to wake myself up this morning, otherwise ..

"Lucky you. Wet dreams are wonderful."

"Rosa! How can you?"

"As I take it,' her friend offered, ' have several options. Apart from
accepting when Artful Dodgers like Al call you, of course. You could do
worse.' She began to tick off points on her fingers. ' could certainly
answer an advert. Or go to an agency. Or just let it be known that
you're on the lookout - that can be surprisingly effective, though if
you find the perfect man, do let me know."

"How come you know about Al?' Hetty was mystified.

"Him? He calls everybody. Me, Kate, the girls. He took the phone number
of that stripper, but he's on a hiding to nothing there - her husband'd
razor the pair of '."

Hetty stared gloomily into her glass. ' don't believe the perfect man
exists, do you? I thought that was a notion Chasing Men 111

we discarded with our navy-blue school knickers."

"Often the same night. Schoolboys! Acne, bad teeth and GO . Too much Old
Spice, yuk. Plus a lot of fumbling in the dark. One laddie used to count
out loud - he never got past five, then it was finished. No, I don't
think so. But hunting for the perfect man is one of life's great games.

It's the only search that counts.' The men nearby were listening
intently. Whenever Rosa paused, they burst into barely suppressed
guffaws.

Rosa picked up the last pickle and put her head to one side. ' could
explore one other possibility, Hetty,' she said.

"What's that?"

The shiny wet vegetable was wiggled provocatively back and forth. Then
Rosa lowered it beneath the table, spread her legs, threw her head back
and grunted loudly and rhythmically: '! Oh! Ohr The male drinkers were
transfixed. Rosa returned to the present with a hoot. That always works,
Hetty. Though I wouldn't recommend it quite with a dill pickle."

Near the pub where she and Rosa ate was a busy shopping centre. It was
convenient to pop into during the lunch-hour for odd items or at the end
of the day. Hetty was impressed by how many shops stayed open late and
seemed to think nothing of providing a full range of services even as
the streets emptied and commuters headed home.

She strolled about one damp afternoon, aware that she was searching for
something but unsure what. Fresh fruit, a slice of chicken pie for
supper, a bunch of daffodils were safely in her bag. She turned a corner
and halted before a window painted matt dark blue all over so that not a
chink of light could emerge from inside.

112 Edwina Currie

'adult shop,' the lettering stated. ' are exhibited here WHICH MAY
OFFEND. PERSONS UNDER 18 NOT ADMITTED."

"It's persons under eighteen who need this help most,' Hetty muttered.

Not her kind of place at all. But, as she had realised in conversation
with her mother and Rosa, big gaps existed in her knowledge. Maybe she
should persuade Rosa to come here with her for a laugh. Maybe not. She
gathered her courage and pushed open the door.

A blast of hot air hit her from an overhead blower; garish spotlights
made her blink. A camera swivelled to examine her. There were no other
customers. Hetty hid her mundane shopping behind her coat and stepped
inside.

The sight that greeted her took her breath away. Straight ahead,
ludicrous in the small space, was a six-foot blown-up plastic model of a
woman, blatantly anatomically correct, trussed up in scarlet and black
lace underwear. The crotch of the panties was open; shiny nipples
protruded from slits in the bra. The hands with their red-painted
fingernails displayed more underwear in jewel colours, vivid scraps of
fabric leaving little to the imagination. Hetty had to squeeze past to
get further into the shop.

On the far wall, on a sheet of silver paper were arranged a collection
of whips, manacles, chains, studded dog collars and gloves and other
leather gear. Facing her were several bookshelves and an array of
well-thumbed magazines and videos. On the floor stood a three-foot-high
erect phallus in the same salmon-pink plastic as the blow-up doll, but
exaggeratedly ruched and lipped in purple. Nearby was a parody of a
tinsel Christmas tree, its branches adorned with condom samples in blue,
green, red, and Dayglo yellow, with knobs and prongs, ' to keep the lady
screaming for more'. They were, a scribbled note said, Chasing Men 113

available in ten different flavours from strawberry to chocolate mint.

Some played musical tunes on ejaculation. Hetty gulped.

"Can I ' yew?"

The thin girl at the counter, her open mouth masticating gum, eyes
hidden under lashes encrusted with violet mascara, barely glanced up.

She was flicking through a magazine of colour pictures of naked men.

Hetty kept her eyes averted from the multiple erections and gestured
dumbly round the stuffy room.

"Admirin' Mona, was yer?' The girl chewed. The doll. We caller Mona.

If you push her belly-button, she moans. We got a male version too, if
yer int'rested."

"Merciful heavens,' Hetty answered weakly. ' 1 just browse?' It was a
far cry from Rosa and her gherkins. Or was it?

The girl shrugged. ', course. I'm going' off in a minute, at six. The
manageress'll take care of you, if you need any thin'."

"Thank you."

Hetty walked, nonchalantly, she hoped, towards the bookcase. It
contained a section of new books and many scruffy paperbacks with torn
covers. Bondage seemed to play a large part in the fantasies of the
shop's literate customers. On the bottom shelf were a grubby boxed album
of Robert Mapplethorpe photographs, a heap of old girly calendars,
scores of glossy postcards by photographers with a stocking fetish or a
taste for the grotesque. Some of the poses looked painful, in Hetty's
opinion. Is this what turned people on?

A glass-covered stand contained odd-shaped implements. It was a moment
before Hetty could identify them, then she

114 Edwina Currie gulped again, twice. A faint mewing sound escaped from
her throat.

Battery-driven or mains, smooth or ridged, in sizes from six inches up
to a monster of over a foot long and two inches thick. Surely those were
not for real.

"You'd do yourself an injury with one of those,' she remarked aloud.

"Nah. Completely safe,' said a familiar voice behind her.

Hetty whirled round. The girl had been replaced by an elderly woman,
dumpy and short, her grey hair in tight curls about her ears. Coral red
lipstick, haphazardly applied, covered her mouth; spots of rouge turned
her cheeks into a painter's palette. Metallic earrings dangled in the
harsh light. The teeth were strong and square, in a slight leer, until
the manageress took in her customer. Both gasped.

"Hetty!"

"Doris! God, Doris, what are you doing here?"

The old lady's manner became shifty. "I work ' two days a week. Pays the
gas bill. They gets busy towards the weekend.' She became more
officious. ' you looking for anything in particular?"

But Hetty had fled.

Hetty sat on the edge of the bed, lifted the whisky glass to her lips
and drank. She shook her head as if to disperse the alcohol more
quickly, then poured herself another. The ice clinked invitingly. The
door was shut, the answerphone switched on, though at ten at night she
was expecting no calls. The bedside light's pink shade cast a rosy glow
over the duvet, the pillows, the library copy of Anais Nin, the washed
fruit in a bowl. And the copy of Hot Sex left on the studio canteen
table, which nobody had claimed.

The door of the wardrobe was open, so that the tall Chasing Men 115

mirror reflected the bed. So she could see herself, but nobody could see
her.

She took off her clothes with calm deliberation, let them fall
unhindered to the floor. And sat facing the mirror. It needed more
whisky: she had never done this before. Never needed to before. She
drank and tossed her head, and giggled at the sight ... Her breasts were
round and full over a curving belly. The thighs, head on, were almost
circular, the knees dimpled. Two stone too much. Never mind for the
moment: no one else was watching. She breathed in, held her breath until
she could see the thump of her own heart under her ribcage.

She pressed her fingers over her heart, then slid them to her right
breast, and tweaked the nipple, sharply.

The pillows made a mound for her head, so she could lean back and still
see herself. The thighs elongated, the tyres of fat disappeared and
became smooth. Her feet were in good shape, the toes tiny and pink.

Without any hurry, she opened her legs. The hairy bush was dark and
luxuriant; Stephen used to remark on it. She smiled. He used to start
her off by putting his fingers - here. She pressed, then settled back,
lifted her heels on to the edge of the bed.

And began to rub. It was moist inside the bush: surprisingly so, but
then she had been thinking about this the entire evening. Ever since
returning from the sex-shop and the startling encounter with her
downstairs neighbour. The shop could not help. No one could, not
tonight. She had to do it herself.

And doing it herself ... was a curious sensation. Heady. Not bad. Her
two middle fingers slid up and down, up and down. It was great to move
at her own pace. The flesh was swelling and hot to the touch: it guided
her where to go, 116 Edwina Currie easily. Not too rapidly, steady. Not
heavy, just rhythmic, up and down, in and out. Not dirty, not
pornographic. As good as eating chocolate, but a great deal less
fattening.

With her other hand she massaged her breasts till they almost hurt,
pinched and tugged the nipples as if they were being sucked or nibbled,
rubbed her abdomen. Deep in her pelvis muscles stirred, something almost
forgotten ... Her heart seemed to have shifted to a location down
between her legs and was pounding, strongly. This was almost better than
with Stephen: by now he would be grunting in her ear, his eyes shut
tight, and she would be concentrating on ensuring that he was enjoying
himself. Her own needs would have been secondary.

Oh! It was beginning to happen. '!' Hetty yelped. Her hand flung out and
nearly knocked the lamp off the bedside table. It connected with an
object. Not a book. The right shape. God in heaven. Did it fit? It did .

.. Marvellous.

In and out - there was a spot inside her that responded intensely ...
the G-spot, wasn't it called? '! Oh!' Waves and explosions swept over
her and she shuddered, appalled and delighted. ', my God ... oh, this is
fantastic. Oooooh."

It was like being carried off on a magic carpet, swooning in the
delirium, disorientated but utterly joyous. Uplifted and panting, her
body shuddered ... Her arms clasped about herself, a broad smile on her
face, she flew ... and at last, lay still.

If she had missed sex, she had found an answer - one answer, at least.

She half sat up and regarded herself triumphantly in the mirror. Her
hair was tousled, the skin over her breasts and throat mottled and
flushed. '!' she exclaimed, in pleasure. Orgasm was achievable: men were
not absolutely Chasing Men 117

necessary. She lay back, reached for a peach and began to eat it
greedily, letting the juice run down her chin.

Then she pulled the duvet over herself and fell into a . deep, dreamless
sleep.

The only casualty was the banana, which she found, bruised and
blackened, under the bed two days later. Next time, she would have to
ask the greengrocer for the green ones. As firm, and as hefty, as
possible.

CHAPTER TEN.

A Warm Bath Al was being a pest. Or was he? ' on, Eddie, I'm keen to see
you.

What are you up to New Year's Eve? I'm booked to play at the Millennium
Club - that's near Trafalgar Square. Come and see me. Nothing too grand,
but I'd be pleased if you would."

This invitation was couched in quite formal terms. Hetty wondered if he
had phoned everyone he had met on Tell Me All - and his other programmes
- with a similar request. His tales of females fawning over him sounded
hollow. Maybe she would be doing him a favour, not vice versa. And,
although a Christmas of self-indulgence loomed at a health farm with
Sally, New Year's Eve was blank as yet in her diary.

Why not? She left a message on his machine, spelling her name, and felt
oddly pleased with herself.

Chasing Men 119

"Right,' said Rosa, ''s look at these ads. Time to get you started."

She and Hetty were seated, their feet tucked up under them, in her
cubby-hole office. The computer screen had been unused for some while;
Hetty noticed that the screen saver message urged, ' it up - don't stop
now -- think of the money!"

Hetty sipped a diet drink. '. This stuff is disgusting, even if it does
have only one calorie,' she said. And, ' had thought about it. But what
sort of sad geeks put ads in newspapers? Or answer them, come to that."
"Geeks like you,' said Rosa robustly. ' you any idea how many are
lurking out there, Het, single but not satisfied with being single? Men
and women. Men especially. Thousands of them. It's a modern phenomenon."

Tm not dissatisfied. And I'm not too sure about this. Supposing they
start making obscene remarks?"

"You should be so lucky. But if it happens, you shriek loudly enough to
deafen the guy and slam down the phone. And don't start giving your
address. Take a positive view, Het."

"No harm trying, I agree. I'm not totally averse to an evening out with
somebody glamorous. Or even vaguely attractive. Pass me that paper."

Hetty decided not to mention Al. These used to be called lonely-hearts
columns, didn't they? Heavens, it's mostly blokes. You'd think men would
have no trouble finding partners."

"How do you figure that?"

"Don't men still take the initiative? Make the running? It's much
trickier for a woman in a pub, for instance, to approach a man she quite
fancies and start chatting him up."

"Not these days. You're showing your age. The lads are

120 Edwina Currie often far more timid. And so many blokes are complete
workaholics, they're slaving late at the office, or are forever on an
international flight that arrives after midnight. They never get time
for a proper social life, though they'd like one. Otherwise '

'- they wouldn't need the ads."

"Correct. Now let's see who's in this week. We can listen to the browse
lines as well. At the very least, it'll be a gas."

The two heads bent over the folded newspaper as Rosa wielded a
highlighter pen.

"How about

"Educated male, divorced, blue eyes, slim, good appearance, tactile,
sensual, wide interests, WLTM" - that's would like to meet - "similar,
very warm female, for fun times." Not terribly original. "For fun times"
- they all say that. It means they have no strong tastes, or they don't
gel out much."

"Or they're indecisive. But I'd far rather a chap know what he wants."

Hetty pulled a face. ' and sensual, eh? Wants a "very warm female" -
what's the code there?"

"Making it clear. He wants sex."

"Oh."

Rosa giggled. ''t turn you on, then?"

Hetty shook her head. ' a lot. Allied to the fun times bit, he sounds
excruciating. What's next?"

"Aha! "Age/colour/size/status immaterial."'

"In other words, he's desperate."

"Probably a chap who's tried many times before, and hopes for loads of
replies rather than just a few."

"Cheapskate?"

"Yeah.' Rosa pursed her lips. ' there's another clue. If age is
immaterial, his probably isn't. In most of these ads the vintage is
stated - forty-three in that one, sixty in Chasing Men 121

another. If this babe doesn't give it, there's an obvious reason why
not."

"What's that?"

"He's old. Probably a lot more than sixty. I wouldn't touch him."

"Older than sixty? Good Lord."

Rosa nudged her. ' if he can still get it up, he might be just what
you're looking for."

"Or he could be decrepit enough to be my grandad. No, thanks,' said
Hetty sourly.

"Would you fancy an intellectual?"

"I might. What does it say?"

'"London publisher, tired of conversation with neighbour's dog and
occupying his bed like a starfish, WLTM sensuous, very intelligent
woman, seeking deserving man. London/South East area."'

"Let me see that.' Hetty peered at the page. ' be worth a call, anyway.'
She made a note.

"Very intelligent probably means he's an intellectual snob. An arrogant
bastard. But I agree, one to try. The one below is far more specific.

"Funny, unconventional, kind man, forty-two, non-smoker, IQ a hundred
and forty, seeks similar woman to share life and times." What's your IQ,
Hetty?"

"Haven't the faintest. Not sure I want a love-match built round IQs. And
he's a bit young for me, don't you think? Ah, he lives in Inverness.

That lets me off the hook."

There's a skier your age wants an attractive, intelligent, passionate
woman."

Hetty rested her chin on her hands. Tm beginning to understand the
terms. "Sensual" means sex, please. So does "passionate" or "tactile".

If it doesn't say "slim", he isn't.' ('And may not be, even if he claims
he is,' Rosa reminded

122 Edwina Currie her.) '"Well-built" means fat, period. "Distinguished"
means grey-haired. "Sincere" means he isn't - or why say so? Sincerity
is a quality most people take for granted. "Adventurous" means - what?"

"Into S and M, in all probability.' Rosa rolled her eyes. They're not
likely to put

"Bull whips and chains preferred" in the ads, are they?"

'"Down-to-earth widower "'

"Means rude sod. Won't modify his language or his manners for a lady.

Take me or leave me, he's saying, which is why he's reduced to putting
in an ad."

'"Easy-going, fifty-five, GSOH, WLTM female similar, for relationship,
age unimportant ... "'

"For easy-going read idle. GSOH means good sense of humour, usually, and
often implies it's missing entirely. He's retired and bored to tears -
but if he had any interests he'd mention them, surely. Tedious old slob,
I'd say."

"I quite like the

"Welsh, handsome has-been, sixty-four, seeks educated woman to cuddle up
to",' said Hetty, with a smile. ' least he's being honest."

"Umm. But you can see why they lie,' Rosa pointed out. ' he called
himself "a Welsh dragon, breathing fire, fit and active, seeking a
willing soul-mate to tie to my rock", he'd have dozens of replies."
"Stop!' said Hetty. ' my courage fails entirely, let's call a few.

Can I use this phone?"

"Sure. I'll allow you a quick ten minutes. Those special numbers charge
at a pound a minute. You can run up a helluva bill."

Rosa patted Hetty on the back, and soon left her to it.

A week later Rosa asked Hetty about progress. Hetty flipped Chasing Men
123

back through a notepad covered in scribbles and phone numbers.

"Mixed. You were spot on about the guy for whom age was immaterial.

He'll be seventy-three next birthday. He is old enough to be my father.

But you have to admire his nerve. He seemed sparky on the phone, but I
decided against. I'd prefer someone closer to my own generation."

Wise. Next?"

The easy-going fifty-five-year-old asked me out for a drink. 1 was quite
hopeful, till he started asking what I would wear. He was insistent on
my coming in a dress. 1 told him that wasn't the height of fashion any
more and I'd rather wear a trouser suit, but he seemed most put out.

Said he didn't like women in trousers. If we'd carried on talking, he'd
have been demanding I turn up in stockings and high heels. So you were
wrong, he does have some ideas. The problem is, they're set in aspic."

Rosa's eyes were dancing. ' gentleman with taste. Did you crack any more
codes?"

"Did I ever. "Romantic and sensitive" means divorced and wants to moan
about how badly his ex treated him. Over the phone, to a complete
stranger. Aren't they dopes? A lot of selfish little boys out there, 1
reckon."

"Go on. Did you try the publisher - the one who's fed up talking to the
dog and sleeping like a starfish?"

"Him!' Hetty snorted. ' did, but it took an heroic amount of effort.

The recorded message he left, in which they're supposed to fill in
details, simply said that everything was in the ad. So I told him I was
in broadcasting, and I tried to make my own reply bright and amusing.

When he called back his manner was brusque, but I put that down to
shyness. Then he had to stop talking abruptly as his other phone rang.

124 Edwina Currie That happened three times. You'd think he'd put the
other one on hold, wouldn't you?"

"Did you arrange to meet?' Rosa wriggled with curiosity.

"That was the daft bit. I wasn't keen merely to chat aimlessly, though
many of the blokes are content to do just that - makes you wonder what
they're up to while they have a pliant female safely miles away on the
other end of the phone."

Rosa mimed an obscene movement till Hetty slapped her hand. ' it.

It's enough of an advance for me even to make the calls. Don't put me
off."

"I'm all ears."

"If I'm going to make progress I have to meet real flesh and blood. So I
started dropping hints, like getting together for lunch in town on a
non-filming day. He barked that he never ate lunch. Then how about a
glass of wine one evening? But no, he hated town and left to go home to
Mill Hill as soon as possible. Did he enjoy the theatre, I asked? No, he
hated the theatre, hadn't been in twenty years. I began to feel
stumped."

"Did you give up?" "Not yet. Don't go too fast. I asked him then what he
wanted, and how he thought we might meet - over the holiday, say. And he
answered, "I could offer you a cup of tea and a piece of cake. How about
this afternoon?

Could you come to Mill Hill?"'

"He didn't!" "He did. So I thought, sod him. That's why he's occupying
his bed like a starfish. And I said goodbye."

The two women chuckled together, but it was clear that Hetty had drawn a
blank.

"It made me think, Rosa,' she said slowly. ' are Chasing Men 125

thousands of singles out there, as you said, men and women. Lots of
them, I'm now convinced, are basically decent. Most subscribe to the
principle that coupledom - a man and a woman - in love, gazing adoringly
into each other's eyes over a candlelit supper is the ideal. Some just
want to fantasise, and not to meet. A few are more cynical: they want a
one-to-one, but they want several of them. Or, whatever they'd prefer,
they're chary of commitment."

"As you are, in fact, at present. But you're capable of love, and many
of them aren't."

"It's a strange world. Quite extraordinary. So many facets of it that I
knew nothing about when I spent my afternoons pruning the hedges in
Dorset."

"You could always,' Rosa drawled, ' an ad in yourself."

"Mmm ...' Al came to mind. ''s see the New Year in first."

"A happy New Year, then, Het?"

Hetty gathered up her notes for the next recording and tapped the list
of guests, then the folded newspaper. ' than this lot. Moderately happy.
That'll have to do."

Season of goodwill. A battered holly wreath was nailed on the main door,
slightly askew: Doris's doing. It looked as if it might have been saved
since last year. On Doris's window ledge, Christmas cards kept company
with an electric candelabrum that switched itself off and on
incessantly. Thomas had acquired a red ribbon and a tinkling bell on his
collar: he must have been catching mice or small birds. He did not have
a festive demeanour, but prowled crossly about the damp garden,
instincts thwarted.

Hetty had not dared go near Doris's corner of the shopping centre again,
or knock on her door to explain.

126 Edwina Currie Explanations that made sense and did not reek of
humbug would have been difficult. Instead she scuttled inside the block
each night, trying not to notice if the rosy face was peering out at the
sound of the key in the lock. The call inviting her to the ubiquitous
cup of tea did not come. Maybe the sex-shop was extra busy and required
Doris's services.

Hetty wondered, irreverently, whether its customers were also offered a
cup of tea. Or something stronger.

The estate agent had hinted that the block had some odd residents. Was
he aware that the teapot-wielding occupant of number one had more than a
passing acquaintance with dildoes and penis rings? Maybe he was himself
familiar with the shop's contents. He could hardly have avoided the self
appointed concierge when checking the empty flat. Doris could not have
resisted that temptation.

The gentleman friend, Jack, had never materialised. Did he exist? Or was
he, like Rosa's perfect man, a figment of the imagination? Maybe he too
visited the shop. Hetty began to laugh. Could it be that Doris's unusual
proclivities, suggested by those rouged cheeks and dangling earrings,
had once extended to other types of customer? Though probably not in a
respectable location like The Swallows. Maybe Jack had been a client of
another kind. Or the estate agent. Or both.

Rosa was rushing to finish the series in time for the winter break.

After each day's wrap Hetty was drained of energy. It was ages since she
had worked so hard. It was still fun, but the gilt had gone off the
gingerbread when she realised that a typical fifty-hour week brought in
a mere six pounds an hour before tax and insurance. Once the series was
in the can, there would be no holiday pay or retainers. Hetty began to
understand why the young researchers had turned gloomy during programme
forty. Recommissioned or Chasing Men 127

otherwise, they would have to manage on their meagre savings till the
next round started in February.

Other people, meanwhile, were celebrating the year end rather more
thoroughly. The three BJs were out partying every night, a bunch of
mistletoe slung rakishly low over their doorway. Their ability to leave
a trail of human debris continued to amaze Hetty.

The Sunday morning before Christmas, as she returned from the
newsagent's with a double edition of the TV Times, she was about to let
herself in when there came an intermittent moaning from the steps above
her head, out of her sight. Cautiously, the bulky newsprint clutched
under her arm, she tiptoed up to investigate.

A young man was sitting on the stairs, his head held in his hands. From
his chest issued soft growls. He sounded rather like Thomas in a bad
mood. He wore no coat, gloves or scarf, but was in shirtsleeves and
tieless. He was shivering violently.

"Hello,' said Hetty. ' okay?"

"What? Where, in God's name, am I?' The young man had a superior accent.

"Clapham. Is that where you want to be?"

"Clapham? God!' And he rolled over and put his head between his knees.

He did not look like any of Christian and Markus's circle, Hetty
decided. Markus was in Leeds supervising what he called ' intellectual
pantomime', while Christian was playing to packed houses and was in all
probability fast asleep in his own bed.

"Are you with the BJs -1 mean, the girls in number four?"

The man groaned, as if such a proposal were utterly out of the question.

"Who?"

128 Edwina Currie

"Ah - Flo and the other girls."

The haggard boy opened one eye and peered out between his fingers. '?

Florence, do you mean? Don't abbreviate, it isn't smart."

Hetty nodded.

"Black?"

"Yes."

"Frightfully attractive, if you like that kind of thing."

"I -1 guess so. She has plenty of admirers."

"Well, then, I could be in the right place. What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Saturday or Sunday?"

"Sunday morning. Eleven a. m."

"Christ!' The boy sat up and scrabbled about wildly, clutching at his
shoulders and open neck as if bewildered about the lack of jacket and
tie. He twisted about and found his wallet in a back pocket, yelped in
exaggerated relief, and jumped up.

"Watch it!' Hetty warned, for he was swaying.

"Father's expecting me at Simpson's. Oh, God, he'll kill me. The state
I'm in ... " And with that, he took the steps an alarming two at a time
and vanished out into the cold air.

Hetty knocked tentatively on number four. It was several minutes before
Flo, sleepy in a pink silk wrap, opened it a crack.

"Did you lose a young man?' Hetty enquired. Tall, skinny. Well spoken."

"Hooray Henry, you mean?' Flo was having the same trouble focusing her
eyes as the boy. ', Hetty, he didn't pee on your doorstep, did he?

That's his usual trick. Where is he?" "Gone to meet his father,' Hetty
told her, then realised Chasing Men 129

that this message could be misunderstood to suggest the boy had died.

"His real father. At Simpson's."

"He insisted on coming home with us, but only after he'd filled his car
with petrol. It must have taken ages. We gave up on him."

"He drove in that condition?"

"Yeah, sort of. His daddy's a judge. Henry thinks he can do whatever he
likes. Master of the universe, him. Sorry, Hetty.' And the door was
closed.

The Big Issue seller had a mournful air. Hetty had purchased the
magazine from him more than once and had been intrigued at the content
and quality of its articles. A whole world existed with which she had
had little contact: urban, decayed and self-pitying. The society she had
previously kept had been exactly the opposite.

Terrible weather,' she said, as she gave him the pound coin. What did
one say to a homeless man? The weather must matter more to him than to
most.

He pulled indifferently on the stub of a hand-rolled cigarette and
tossed her a copy from a pile protected by a flapping plastic sheet. The
greasy jacket was no cleaner than before, though its design had altered.

Did he wear his clothes until they were too dirty even for him, then
swap them in their entirety for a new set?

"Can I buy you a cup of tea?' Hetty said, on impulse. There's a cafe
opposite."

The man scratched his tousled head, eyes averted. He's a marginal
improvement on Hooray Henry, Hetty thought, but not much. What possessed
me ... ?

"Yeah, why not?' The vendor tucked plastic over the pile. ''re right, it
is fucking freezing."

130 Edwina Currie The two crossed by the zebra to the workmen's cafe. In
a few minutes the man was wolfing down bread and butter and a vast slice
of apple pie to go with the tea. Hetty sipped hers, fascinated and
repelled. Behind the counter the owner, a small moustachioed Greek with
a mournful expression, eyed them curiously.

Tuckin' great, missus,' the vendor said, and wiped his mouth on the back
of his hand. The intonation was Liverpool. The fingers and nails were
blackened with grime and endless contact with nicotine. A damp odour
wafted from him, but he had shaved within the last two days and the hair
was not too matted. Despite the no-smoking notice, he took out a tin and
began to roll a cigarette, shakily placing the orange fibres of tobacco
one at a time in the flimsy paper.

"You're not supposed to,' Hetty pointed.

Tuckin' rubbish.' He licked the gum, pulled a stray bit of tobacco out
of one end and tucked the meagre cigarette behind one ear. He pronounced
the expletive ',' and seemed incapable of uttering a sentence without
it. Hetty decided to treat its use as the equivalent of a slammer, and
ignored it.

"What's your name?' she asked.

The? Brian."

"Brian what?"

"Brian fuckin' nothin'. None of your business.' But he grinned. '
offence."

"No offence taken. How long have you been selling the Big Issue?"

Brian considered, squinting up at the ceiling as if the answer was
scribbled in its cracks. "Bout six months. Fuckin' ages."

Chasing Men 131

"D'you enjoy it?"

"It's a livin'. Of sorts. I get ' fifty pence each. Anythin' I make over
that is mine. A fuckin' fortune."

"Where do you live?' An idea had begun to form in Hetty's mind, to do
with Tell Me AH. Cleaned up, Brian might be moderately presentable. He
was certainly less of a fraud than the superannuated strippers or the
media professionals like Al.

"Hey, what is this, missus?' He had smeared tomato ketchup on two slices
of bread and made a sandwich of it. Now he paused with the thick
doorstep half-way to his mouth. ' some kind of fuckin' social worker, or
what?"

"No. I work in television. Have you ever been on TV, Brian?"

"No. Fuckin' ', who'd want me?"

"It pays, you know. A bit more than you'd make selling magazines,' Hetty
ventured.

"What would I have to do?"

"Tell your story, explain how you need help, how you want to get back to
normality."

"Oh, yeah. An' then what?"

Hetty was stumped. Tell Me All had no follow-up system; indeed, the team
studiously avoided contact with its guests victims - after the
broadcast. Only if a complaint was made was any kind of investigation
warranted. As long as it could be proven that every participant knew
exactly what they were agreeing to (and had signed to that effect), and
since all had stuck tenaciously to their tales of woe however unlikely,
no complaint had been upheld, so far. The entire crew, however, was
perpetually on the lookout for authentic oddities, Hetty included,
though she had offered Brian tea without any ulterior motive.

132 Edwina Currie The idea,' Hetty said slowly, ' that you tell your
story, as I say.

About a million people tune in every day, and the best episodes are
repeated. Someone might be watching who could advise you."

"Only if they can make me a millionaire, missus!' The man cackled, then
coughed and banged his chest. Muttering to himself he retrieved the
cigarette from behind his ear and, with a belligerent oath towards the
counter, lit up. The proprietor slid away.

"Would you want to be a millionaire?"

A blob of ketchup had spilled on the table. He traced a circle with a
grubby forefinger. ' was, once,' he said, or at least, Hetty thought
she'd heard it, but could not be sure. He looked up, his eyes dull. "S
not worth it, missus. But thanks, anyway."

"Merry Christmas,' Hetty said, and rose, feeling obscurely humiliated.

"Oh, yeah,' Brian laughed, ' fuckin' Christmas."

The notice near St. Veronica's advertised four special services
including Midnight Mass, and three carol concerts. Trust Father Roger
not to do things by halves, Hetty reflected. He had handed out flyers
and pressed everyone: ' your family, whoever. On Christmas Eve we have
mince pies and sherry. Do come!"

But by Christmas Eve she would be at the health farm with Sally so it
was on the Monday beforehand when, muffled up against the cold, she
caught the bus.

It felt almost a lark, going out to a strange church, alone, simply for
the heck of it. In Dorset she had been a server and had done a stint on
the parochial church council. There, church attendance for families like
theirs was virtually de Chasing Men 133

rigueur. It would have been more of a statement not to go. With a guilty
start she recalled the two gay teachers who had attended on Sunday
mornings, regular as clockwork, for years. She had never exchanged more
than a cool nod with them. Why on earth had she bought Brian a meal?

Maybe it was the time of year, some vestige of the Christianity she had
once taken for granted. But religious feeling had had little to do with
it. Freed of some of her former prejudices wrenched from them, rather,
in the case of her new friendship with Markus and Christian - she was
beginning, tentatively, to challenge a few more.

What a mixed collection of motives, she teased herself as she alighted
from the bus. You're becoming quite devious. Once, you were a nice
woman, if instantly forgettable. Is this a change for the better - or
worse?

The church was brightly lit: ablaze with candles, and tinsel, and shiny
green holly with fat red berries. A huge decorated tree dominated the
entrance. Mistletoe like a pearly fountain hung from a rafter. Beneath,
arms outstretched, was a beaming Father Roger. '! Darling lady! How
wonderful. Oh, do come here.' He pulled her sideways. ' won't have the
tree and mistletoe inside the body of the church - far too pagan - but
that doesn't mean I can't take advantage. Mwah, mwah!"

Hetty dimpled. ' Christmas, Roger."

He was already transferring his attention to the next arrivals and waved
her inside. ' anywhere. And, mind, I want to hear you sing!" Hetty
paused in pleasure at the end of the nave. St. Veronica's was a
Victorian stone edifice of no great architectural merit, but it had the
grandeur and self-confidence of its builders. Every cranny was adorned
with flowers and

134 Edwina Currie greenery; the air was heavy with the smell of lilies,
and of the incense Father Roger was partial to using in some quantity.
His congregation could forgive him: his exuberance and commitment filled
the church and the offertory plates, despite the popish smoke.

"Hello. Didn't expect to see you here.' It was Doris, dressed in an old
coat, a headscarf over her curls. Gone were the lipstick and rouge; if
the earrings were still a feature, they were hidden.

Hetty hesitated. Doris patted the pew. ' and sit down. Starting in a
mo."

The whole gathering heaved to its feet as the procession, with Father
Roger, several acolytes with silver-plated crosses held aloft, the
churchwardens and the entire surpliced choir strode in.

Hark, the herald angels sing, Glory to the new-born King ... Something
was let loose in Hetty. She opened her mouth and sang with enormous
relish, savouring the glorious verse and the exquisite melody.

When the trebles began to soar with the descant, she followed them, note
for note.

Once in Royal Daaa-vid's city Stood a loo-owly cattle shed, Where a
mother laid her baby ... Hetty felt a surge of emotion. Laid her baby:
the sweetest moments had been when the children were small. Little
bodies, warm and pink after their bath, asleep on her Chasing Men 135

shoulder. There had been no question about it: then, she had been in
charge, her role supreme, in her arms the greatest achievement any woman
can know - her own child.

She glanced sideways at Doris and was surprised to see silent tears
trickling down the lined cheeks. As they sat for the readings, Hetty
whispered, ' all right, Doris? Anything the matter?"

"Nah.' The voice was muffled. '. I'm a sentimental old eejit.

Be a pal - take no notice."

Hetty fished in her pocket and found a clean handkerchief. Without a
word Doris took it and blew her nose.

Heads bowed for the Lord's Prayer. ' us this day our daily bread," Hetty
prayed, with some fervour. Not far beneath her surface lay the ingrained
middle-class fear of getting into a mess. Singledom, above everything
else, meant insecurity.

"Forgive us our trespasses ...' She hadn't committed any. Not yet. Or
had she? Brian, maybe, though intruding on his grim day wasn't a
trespass, was it? Was she being a busybody? Might she trespass with Al?

"For ever and ever, amen."

Hetty stayed kneeling for a moment longer, sunk in rather muddled
reflections.

"You taking the bus back?' Doris's lone was noncommittal.

Hetty pulled on gloves and buttoned her coat. "I was, yes. You going
home?"

Doris nodded. ''s go. There's one on the hour, if we don't dawdle."

Once installed on the narrow seats of the bus, their coated arms and
thighs touching, the slight frostiness of an hour ago was unsustainable.

"Doris,' Hetty started, ' me not to be nosy, if you like, but what on
earth are you doing in that shop?"

136 Edwina Currie

"Obvious, innit? I work there. Pays well. And they need a mature woman:
the youngsters don't last five minutes. The customers keep
propositioning them."

"Ugh!' Hetty shuddered.

"You should talk, you were a customer,' Doris replied briskly. '
would've been, if I'd stayed in the back another minute. The good girls
go off in a huff, see, saying they didn't realise what they'd let
themselves in for. The rest accept an offer and vanish. We're forever
training replacements. It's quite technical. Got to know your stuff."
Til bet,' Hetty murmured. Her curiosity surfaced. ' will you be seeing
your gentleman friend over Christmas?"

"Jack?"

"Yes."

"No. New Year, maybe. He goes north this time of year. To be with his
wife."

"Oh."

The bus rounded a corner. Hetty continued, ' does he do for a living,
Doris?"

"Jack? He's a businessman. He was a police officer."

"What kind of business?"

"Him? He owns the sex-shop. He owns three. Quite a little money-spinner,
they are. Now, are you coming in for a cup of tea?"

"A health farm?' Her mother had sounded dubious. ' Sally? That's mighty
maternal of you, Hetty, but it wouldn't be my preference. And Sally
doesn't need to lose any weight.' The last comment, Hetty thought, had
been a mite too barbed. Clarissa had been more supportive. She had
recommended Hoar Cross Hall as better value than the grander
establishments near London, though less likely to Chasing Men 137

secrete recuperating celebrities. Springs in Bedfordshire, or Champneys,
it had to he, if one wanted to bump into the likes of Roger Moore or
Shirley Bassey.

"I would find those two depressing,' Hetty said glumly.

"Why?"

"Because they're both older than me and still stunning."

"Well,' Clarissa had added diplomatically, ' the most of it, darling. I
recommend the aromatherapy, a hot seaweed face-pack, and a foot
massage."

Rosa's response had been predictable. '! You jammy devil. Can you
squeeze in a third? I'll sleep on the floor. No? Shame. Anyway, make
sure you go to every single class. The instructor might be just what the
doctor ordered ... "

Sally had already checked in. She had explored the handsome manor house
and its wintry gardens, and had familiarised herself with the timetable.

Her manner was uncertain and a little awkward.

A few hours later, Hetty was naked, wrapped in thick towels, lying on
her front on a padded trolley with a wide hole for her bosom and a
narrower one for her face. In a towelling robe on another trolley was a
floppy Sally, who had volunteered to go first.

"Aaagh!' Hetty squealed.

"I apologise, Mrs. Clarkson, but your shoulders are a mass of knots.'
The masseuse was a hefty woman dressed in white from head to toe.
Sleeves rolled above the elbow revealed forearms like hams and fists
like mallets, which were now kneading Hetty's neck. A prison wardress
from a Soviet gulag was the image that came to mind. ' shout if I'm
really hurting you."

"Ooof!"

"What have you been doing? Sitting in one position all

138 Edwina Currie day and no exercise? No wonder. There!' And the heel
of a beefy hand was ground into a recalcitrant spot.

Hetty sagged limply. ' exercise." "No excuse,' said her torturer. '
over."

Later, in the hot whirlpool, Hetty gingerly tested her shoulder. ' does
feel looser,' she admitted, ' I'm glad there's only time for one
massage. Unbelievable."

Sally spread her arms, held on to the bar and lifted her feet in the
rushing water. ' idea of yours, Mum,' she said. ' do seem more relaxed -
compared with when you first moved into your flat, anyway."

"Absolutely. You said then that I should turn tail and scoot straight
back home."

"Umm ... I didn't believe you'd last a week. You've proved me wrong. So
far."

Hetty kicked up her heels in the hot stream. ', I could get used to
this."

"You don't miss the old life? I thought you'd be in tears every night,
to be honest."

"I've been so busy. Earning a living is a great antidote. Not had time
to miss anything.' Hetty glanced sideways at her daughter. ' you, of
course. And Peter. He seems to have grown away from me completely.

He's sent a Christmas card, but that's it."

"Not lonely?"

"Nope. Made friends. Every day brings something new. Look, I'm turning
puce."

"I only wondered, after the failure of your marriage ... "

"I don't see it as a failure, Sally. It succeeded, after a fashion, for
quite a long stretch."

"But you failed. Don't you feel it, even a bit? Isn't that what most
women would feel, if their man goes off?"

Chasing Men 139

Hetty held still. ''you know, Sally? Six months ago a comment like that
would have made me weep. Of course, you have a point. A woman always
asks herself if there was anything she might have done differently to
save the marriage or to prevent it going wrong to begin with. That's how
we're brought up.' A sudden anxiety flashed into her mind. ', did I
bring you up like that? D'you tend to assume, if a relationship isn't
going well, that it must be your fault? For not pleasing your bloke,
say."

Sally shrugged. ' bit. I'm not terribly good at picking them in the
first place."

"Is your current chap married?"

"Yes."

"D'you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not yet."

"It is a chap - not a woman - is that right, at least?"

"Lord above, Mum. You have been widening your scope. No, he's male,
though there are moments ... Men are so complicated."

Hetty moved to the cooler part of the bath, swam a little, testing the
freshly supple shoulders. Then she returned and put an arm round her
daughter. ' won't push. I've not the most tactful soul. But I grieve,
Sally, for the mistakes I've made. I wasn't brilliant at picking,
either. As it turned out."

"Maybe we're better off without them."

Then?"

Then."

In the distance a bell rang; supper beckoned. Hetty hauled herself out
with a sigh. Swathed in white robes, hair dripping and expressions
pensive, the two women left wet footprints, similar in shape and size,
on the edge of the pool.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Ring in the New New Year's Eve. The Millennium Club, near Trafalgar
Square. To join in, watch and listen as a saxophonist performed, a man
whom she had met properly only once.

What to wear? The weather report said the night would be freezing but
dry. The club might be very warm, and she might be asked to dance, in
which case she had made up her mind to try it, and not to care if she
made a fool of herself. She would need a clutch bag, to be kept with her
at all times. A coat not worth stealing from the cloakroom. And enough
money tucked down her bra to get a taxi home.

Hetty had not made calculations of this kind for over two decades and
was amused even as she fretted. Who was she trying to satisfy? Al, who
couldn't even get her name right? Al, who hadn't bothered to dress up
even for his appearance on television, but who reportedly was delighted
with his efforts on the show? Nor was anyone likely to attend who knew
her. It was her first visit to the club - to any club, for Chasing Men
141

years - and the management probably wouldn't give her a second glance.

"I can please myself,' she told her image in the dress-shop mirror. She
could ignore the slight excess of weight, the roll of podgy fat that
disappeared if she held her breath. ' the first time in God knows how
long."

It was a peculiar experience. Before, she would have dressed hurriedly
as Stephen barged around the bedroom hunting for the tie and socks that
she had set out on the bed, and which inevitably he had managed to cover
with his jacket. On completion she would seek his approval, and
automatically obtain it; that was hardly surprising, as her main
objective in life, then, had been to please Stephen. She had assessed
everything with his eyes. It had not been necessary to develop her own
judgement or taste. ' fact, I have no idea what my taste is, or if I
have any,' Hetty answered herself, sotto voce. ' would I wear in my
dreams? Chanel or Yves St. Laurent? Monsoon? Zandra Rhodes? Would I go
for Vivienne Westwood?' She stopped. ' I already look like Vivienne
Westwood. The designer, not the clothes. Oh dear."

The assistant was a tubby woman in a buttoned suit. ' looks
delaightful,' she said eloquently. ' think the blue suits Modom rather
better than the red."

The blue dress swirled, its spangled hem dashing against her calves. It
tantalised and swished. It fitted without wrinkles and was ten pounds
cheaper. Til take it,' said Hetty, and her eyes sparkled.

It also felt strange to be going somewhere smart alone. Coupledom ruled
socially; singles stood out, forlorn and awkward. Hetty had overcome her
fear of entering a pub or

142 Edwina Currie a wine bar by herself, but had quickly decided that,
in any case, pubs were not her natural stamping ground. If a movie
appeared that she was keen to see, she would propose it to friends, but
did not take their refusal as a veto; she would march across the common
for an early-evening showing, and be delighted with herself for doing
so.

Theatre tickets came unbidden via Markus and Christian, who ensured an
enthusiastic welcome. Many of their circle were not in couples either:
she felt at ease with them. Since most were gay, she was not forced to
endure any ham-fisted chatting up.

But this New Year's Eve jaunt was different. She would be chatted up by
Al. His pals were almost certainly hetero, and some would be on the
lookout behind their escorts' backs. A club was a place for getting off
with someone, wasn't it? Should she have asked Rosa or Sally along for
protection?

Rosa would not have protected her for five minutes. She would have
raised that beautiful nose in the air, literally, and sniffed. Then she
would have gone haring off in the direction of the first man who took
her fancy. At some point she would have pinched Hetty's arm and hissed
that she and whoever were leaving, and that much would be revealed, with
giggling and rolling of eyes, in a day or so. Hetty would have wished
her luck, and have been left wondering once more what Rosa's secret was,
and whether she truly wanted lo emulate it.

Sally might have accepted. The boyfriend Erik was back in the UK, but
her daughter's glum demeanour hinted that he was attending to other
duties besides flying. Hetty had considered the matter with some care
and felt selfish for not inviting Sally. But the fact was, she would not
have been the greatest company. She would have resisted any attempts by
jolly men to partner her, and - Hetty could easily picture it Chasing
Men 143

would have sat, smoking, a half-full glass to hand, gloomy and
forbidding. Had Hetty tried to enjoy herself- by accepting an offer to
dance, or by getting carried away a little Sally would have muttered a
barbed comment to put the man off, and possibly Hetty too.

As she tried bits of jewellery against the cocktail dress, Hetty's eye
caught the assemblage of family photos on the bookcase. Sally was no
longer the gawky girl, knees overlarge on thin legs, hiding behind her
mother. The cheeky shock-haired child who had been Peter had vanished
for ever. It was not easy to come to terms with these changes: her
children were, effectively, people she barely knew. Neither she nor
Stephen had expected their absent offspring to call daily or even
weekly, nor had they phoned their own parents very often. But to think
of a daughter as a social companion, albeit a rather prickly one, was
definitely an unaccustomed proposition.

It was apparent that Sally, too, was struggling to come to terms with
Hetty's altered state. A contradiction clouded her attitudes. On the one
hand she obviously wanted her mother to remain Mum, the central rock of
the family, immutable and asexual. On the other, if that were not
possible and her mother was to consort with new men, Sally would have to
cope with Hetty becoming a sexual creature once more. If her own private
life was foundering that could open up fresh resentments. Children,
Hetty admitted ruefully to their childish faces in the photo frames,
could be a pain.

Too many complications. Coping with her own minor crises was quite
sufficient. Sally could stew, just for tonight. Hetty had determined to
make the most of an unusual opportunity and to follow where it led.

144 Edwina Currie Taking the tube into town at nine in the evening was
an adventure in itself. She was surrounded by youngsters, in groups and,
inevitably, pairs, bundled up in fleeces, scarves and woolly hats,
heading for the conviviality of Trafalgar Square. An energy flowed from
them, from their never-still bodies, the vibrancy of youth in a
celebrating city. Some had started their indulgence early. Opposite, a
smelly alcoholic lurched and sang snatches of an unintelligible song,
his hand grasped round a bottle in a paper bag. He was observed with
mute disapproval by a gaggle of Japanese tourists. At the far end of the
carriage somebody was strumming an ill tuned guitar. All humankind, it
seemed, was on its way into central London, in a rattling carriage
stained by old graffiti, their feet half hidden by litter, faces creased
in anticipatory smiles.

"Happy New Year,' Hetty said lightly to the drunk, as the train halted
at her stop.

"Urkk,' he belched, and leered at her.

She found the club without effort and presented her ticket. It was
larger than she had anticipated, rather better appointed, with flashing
pink neon over the entrance. The bouncers were enormous: two huge men in
their thirties, one black, one white, both shaven-headed with skulls
bulging through shiny skin, their steroid-enhanced chests draped in
frilled evening shirts, tiny dickey-bows like red ticks at their
throats. But they were polite enough and unhitched the tasselled cord to
let Hetty through, while keeping others at bay.

Inside, the noise was deafening. Dozens of tables were ranged in tiered
semicircles around a small stage. Every surface was painted matt black,
but silver tinsel had been wrapped round railings and light-fittings.

Strobe lights Chasing Men 145

played over a raised platform where a handful of couples gyrated to
recorded music. Blue laser beams shimmered over the scene. It was
extremely hot. She deposited her coat, touched the money in her bra,
renewed her lipstick and was shown to a table near the side of the
stage.

"You came! Terrific.' Al was in black tie, his hair tied back neatly.

Working clothes. The effect was oddly demure.

It was too noisy to have a proper dialogue. He leaned close and
screeched into Hetty's ear, ''re on at ten thirty. Order yourself some
dinner. Put it on the tab. The bubbly's coming. Have a wild time!"

A basket on the table was full of silvered hats and party poppers. She
tried on a crown, which fitted, and practised making the party poppers
reach out to the next tier. In a moment she was joined by a florid man
in a fancy brocaded waistcoat accompanied by a younger, buxom blonde in
a low-cut sequined dress. '! I'm Ted,' he mouthed, ' band's agent.

This is Mandy."

Hetty shook hands and began to explain. Ted cut her short. ', we know.
One of Al's pals. He usually has a couple of birds floating about.

I must say, he's gone up a notch with you. Very nice."

He and Mandy selected party hats and put them on roguishly. The elastic
cut into fleshy cheeks; they looked like a pair of well-fed clowns.

Ted's attention was immediately engaged in ordering the meal. Hetty
turned to the blonde. ' in showbiz too?' she asked.

In a manner of speaking.' The girl simpered and waggled her shoulders so
that her substantial breasts wobbled. I've made blancmange like that,
Hetty thought. She raised an eyebrow in friendly enquiry. The girl
leaned across the table, threatening to spill the blancmanges out of the
dress

146 Edwina Currie entirely. ' agency,' she hissed, with a wink.

Hetty glanced at Ted, who was pressing twenty-pound notes into the
waiter's hand. ' a good customer tonight, then?' Hetty hissed back,
woman to woman.

"Oh, yeah. He's a regular.' Mandy patted her cheeks. ' in ', innit?"

The standard of discourse was not going to rise much higher than that,
Hetty guessed, but she did not mind. The champagne was served with a
flourish in a bucket full of ice. A plate of savoury pastries was
plonked down. As the cork was popped by the grinning waiter and poured
overflowing into Babycham-style glasses, cries and whoops came from
nearby guests and glasses were raised in mock toasts.

Hetty took a long swallow and let the bubbles get up her nose. '
celebrating anything in particular?"

"Nah,' Ted answered. He pulled Mandy to him and kissed her wetly on the
mouth, then patted her bosom proprietorially. ''ve asked ' to marry me a
dozen times an' she won't. I'll keep poppin' the question, though.

Maybe she'll say yes tonight."

Mandy pushed him off and picked up a canape. ', you,' she gurgled.

"Why should I want to marry you? Anyway, you're already married. Best
you stay that way."

"I love the wimmin,' Ted confided. Trails of streamers covered his
jacket. ' married four times, so far. Twice to the same woman, that's
the current one, but we don't get on. Can't live wither, can't live
without '." "Expensive, I'd have thought,' Hetty said, with a smile.

"Oh, God, tell me about it,' Ted answered. There, they're starting."

An ME in a midnight-blue tuxedo and pink shirt jumped on-stage, trailing
a microphone. The voice boomed, tables Chasing Men 147

and plates rattled in sympathy. ' and gennlemen! The Badger Boys and
Lindy present their New Year spectacular! A big hand, please!"

The band consisted of six musicians with a singer. Al was in the front
row, saxophone in hand, a silly hat on his head, a garland of tinsel
round his neck. He fiddled nervously with the stops, blew through the
reed, pinched his nose. He seemed a more diminutive personality than
close to in- the studio. They struck up vigorously, a tune that began by
resembling ' Bye Birdie', but which was soon lost in syncopations and
jazzy improvisations. Ted was tapping on the table with a spare hand, a
lit cigar jauntily in his mouth. The other hand was under the table,
hidden from view.

The meal arrived, large platefuls, an avocado with smoked salmon to
start, followed by Ted's choice of steak and oyster pie with all the
trimmings. A special menu, she was informed: on normal band nights it
was chicken in a basket. It made for a heavy meal, especially washed
down by the champagne. A second bottle was cooling in the bucket.

The music had changed to a heated version of '' Man River', laid down to
a thumping beat. Feet planted wide apart, Al forced riffs through the
horn, his cheeks distorted and purple. The singer, an anorexic girl in
black, alternated with wordless warbles.

"Yeah, my man!' Ted urged him on, between mouthfuls of suet pastry. The
cigar was employed like a baton, keeping time, its swirling smoke
creating a bluish fug through which Mandy's sequins, the brocade
waistcoat, the laser lights flickered hazily. The noise from nearby
tables had grown to a crescendo; despite the amplification, it must have
been impossible to hear any melody at the back of the club.

148 Edwina Currie Hetty's eyes began to water and her ears rang tinnily
as the notes reverberated off the walls.

"Shape of a tit, this,' Ted announced between numbers, the glass held up
between forefinger and thumb. ' French king's mistress. Madame de
Pompidou.' He nudged Mandy. ' prefer ' bigger these days, don' we?"

Mandy buried her face in her glass and gulped her drink. A dribble fell
on her dress and she prodded herself. '!"

It was not done to dance during the main band section, Hetty saw. At the
side of the stage people were on their feet, clapping and swaying,
engrossed. Her brain was swimming; the noise was horrendous, a cacophony
of jangled sounds, Al's saxophone shrieking above the rest, the girl
singer yodelling in another key. Hetty could not tell whether this was
deliberate or not. She could make no sense whatever of the music, other
than the thundering beat laid down by the flailing drummer.

To loud cheers, a big clock with spangled hands was lowered from the
ceiling. It showed five minutes to twelve. Around the club people were
swaying in time to the beat, arms round each other, glasses in hand. A
man walked casually in front of her view. If she stayed seated she would
be unable to see anything. She rose, and tried to join in the general
merriment, wishing she did not feel quite so sober.

A woman at a nearby table threw streamers in her direction. Giggling,
Hetty seized a handful of party poppers and fired back. Behind her
somebody was spraying a can of fluorescent goo that snaked across bare
shoulders, ice buckets and the remains of dinner. A lighted sparkler was
thrust into her hand and she was urged to wave it.

Ten! Nine! Eight!' Hetty chanted with the rest and waved Chasing Men 149

her sparkler obediently. She blinked furiously in the smoke and heat.

Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!"

Ted and Mandy fell into an embrace, eyes closed, their mouths chewing
hungrily at each other, Ted's paws massaging her sequined bottom, though
he retained a firm grip on his cigar.

On all sides strangers were kissing and hugging. On another tier a conga
had started. Someone grabbed Hetty and planted a smacking kiss on her
lips, then the would-be Don Juan passed swiftly down the aisle and
embraced every female within reach. He was gone so quickly that she had
only the faintest impression of excess Brylcreem, aftershave and
tobacco. It could have been anybody.

'"Should auld acquaintance be forgot Hands were grabbed, a disjointed
line formed. Hetty twisted round to find Al, but he was still on stage,
blowing as if his soul depended on it. She opened her mouth and tried to
sing, but found she was hoarse from the shouted exchanges earlier. Her
throat hurt. She felt slightly sick.

When she turned to sit down again, Ted was still munching his blowsy
escort, and had one hand thrust down her dress. Hetty lifted her glass,
cleared a piece of streamer from the stem and finished the flat
champagne. She knew what to do next.

Quietly, without disturbing the writhing lovers, she tiptoed slowly
away. Al was still totally absorbed in the love of his life: his music.

She collected her coat, left a tip and walked out into the chilly night.

Crowds of youngsters were milling about, their breath white on the
frosty air. Black-helmeted police officers on horses, their mounts' eyes
protected by plastic blinkers, 150 Edwina Currie stood guard at the
entrance to Trafalgar Square, exchanging banter with the more boisterous
visitors, warning off those laden with bottles and six-packs and
instructing everyone to keep moving. Hetty let the sharp chill clear her
befuddled head. The cigar smell clung to her skin; her nose wrinkled in
disgust. Stephen had smoked them at banquets, the kind of event she used
to attend to support him. But now that she had a choice, she found them
neither sophisticated nor alluring.

The multitudes were strolling somewhat aimlessly past the National
Gallery, away from Nelson's Column, as if they sensed that the party
spirit was somewhere nearby, if only they could find it. The fountains
were boarded up: the crowd's disappointment was tangible. Any wildness
was elsewhere; under the watchful eyes of the police the behaviour on
display was sedate and good-humoured. Hetty let herself be carried along
and offered no resistance.

She found herself on the steps of Leicester Square station and was
informed that the last tube was leaving shortly. ' might as well go
home,' she told herself, a trifle miserably.

As the carriage - a replica of the scruffy one that had brought her, but
now knee-high in litter, including beer cans and hamburger wrappers -
careened towards her stop, she leaned her hot face against the window
and gazed at the blackness beyond.

Why had it not worked? Why had she not been engaged? Would it have been
belter if Al had been at her elbow, had carried her off to dance, been
solicitous and attentive? He had been utterly engrossed: he'd probably
not noticed yet that she had left. It was as if he had paid court all
night to another woman and had ignored her, though since he'd made it
clear he would be working she should have Chasing Men 151

expected nothing else. How very vexing. At least he hadn't let her sit
on her own. Ted and Mandy, however, had hardly been the most
scintillating company.

"I don't like jazz. I didn't know that before, but I do now,' Hetty told
her jerky image in the grimy window. ' don't like smoky atmospheres.

And I'd rather have a conversation any day. Or night. Preferably with
someone intelligent."

She coughed slightly. That appeared to rule out Al.

By the time she emerged from the tube station with a straggle of other
late passengers the night had grown colder. A scruffy youth was tugging
half-heartedly at the handle of a cigarette machine. The sleepy
attendant wished her goodnight and a happy New Year, then turfed out the
youth and dragged the folding gates closed behind him.

Any New Year resolutions? Only those that had emerged in recent weeks:
to carry on as she was, not to look back, to regret little, apologise
when necessary, mope seldom, and learn something from everyone she met.

To keep trying new experiences, regularly, and not to be fearful of
disappointment. To lose some weight, take more exercise. Take any
exercise. On yer bike.

To chase men? To be chased by them - better men than Al - and let them
catch her?

The year before, her mind had been blank. Asked what she wished for, she
would have replied in terms of the health and happiness of her family,
and continued peace and prosperity for the world. Her own positive
ambitions had been nonexistent.

She trudged away from the lights of the station, head down, gloved hands
thrust deep into her pockets. The common was dark and bleak. Any men
seeking love out

152 Edwina Currie there tonight would have to be quick: there was little
shelter to he had from the gusty wind.

One of the street-lights was out. At its base, someone had dumped a
bundle of rags that straggled across the narrow pavement. Hetty went to
step over the heap, and inadvertently prodded it with her foot. '!

Wotcher fuckin' dom'?' The voice, slurred and guttural, came from the
depths of the bundle.

Hetty hesitated. '. Is that you, Brian?"

"Who de fuck's that?' The bundle struggled half upright. A filthy head
gazed blearily about. From the battered nose came a trail of dried
blood. There was a powerful odour of cheap liquor.

"You okay? Can I get any help?"

She wasn't sure how she would fetch assistance other than dialling 999,
and the emergency services would not be ecstatic about a liquor-sodden
vagabond early on New Year's Day.

"Bugger off. Fuck you. Fuck you all."

The figure slumped back. A dark stain began to appear on the trousers;
the acrid stink of urine sullied the night air. Hetty trod daintily
around the body, relieved that he was alive, and walked on quickly.

A taxi, empty, but with its light off, slowed down at her side. ' for
The Swallows, Miss.,' the. driver said.

"Next corner, first block,' she answered, lost in her own reverie.

Her head had cleared, though the tinnitus still buzzed loudly in her
ears. What a rum evening. Not a disaster, just not quite what she'd
expected. Too much like hard work. Not to be repeated. Not every
negative event was as gentle, Chasing Men 153

she reflected moodily. Still, she had learned a lot from tonight: that
she could look attractive when she chose despite the unwanted plumpness,
that she could hold several glasses of champagne, that her presence did
not spoil other people's fun. And, now, that she could resist the
temptation to be a Good Samaritan. Other people had rights, including
Brian, which included the right to be left alone, to go to hell in their
own way.

Time was when she could not have imagined leaving a man lying in the
street. It didn't happen in the countryside, or not much. The victims
would be known, and would be carried by their drinking buddies to a
place of safety. She had heard that pedestrians were more at risk on a
night like this than drivers, not least because so many of them were on
a blinder. Had Brian tried to cross the road, an unwary motorist would
not have stood a chance. It was probably the end Brian most wished for
himself. She hoped, when it came, it would be easy.

The taxi was waiting outside the block of flats. The cabby was smoking
and listening calmly to the chatter of Radio Five Live.

"Busy night for you?' Hetty asked.

"Yeah. An' if this lady doesn't hurry up, I'll be off. I've got three
more fares waiting."

Lady? Was Doris about to go out on the razzle? The three BJs had left
early that afternoon, laden with bags and bottles for a location some
distance away, so it could not be them. Hetty's brain was too weary to
puzzle. She fumbled for her key.

The door opened suddenly.

"Oh!' Hetty stepped back in surprise.

She was confronted with a tall figure, a woman. A full

154 Edwina Currie head of flowing black hair. Elaborate makeup, glitter
eyeshadow and a Cupid's bow of glossy lipstick. As the extraordinary
apparition pushed wordlessly past, Hetty took in diamante earrings, a
quilted velvet coat with a narrow waist and a fur collar, fishnet tights
with perfectly aligned seams on muscular calves, and shiny high-heeled
shoes.

Who the hell was that? Hetty wondered groggily. Looks like a dog's
dinner. She shook her head. It was time to start minding her own
business. Another resolution for the New Year. Head drooping, she
climbed the stairs to bed.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Seizing Control In the garden, snowdrops had given way to clutches of
erect daffodils, like platoons of royal trumpeters heralding the
imminence of spring.

Under the oldest trees, crocuses doggedly pushed gold and purple silk
through the mud. The afternoons were no longer so brief, nor so dark.

Hetty stood in front of the full-length mirror, stark naked. ' are fat,'
her eyes told her with brutal exactitude.

"So what? I'm comfortable. Mature. Carry the marks of a fully lived
life. Motherhood. Pregnancy. Nothing to be ashamed of.' Her shoulders
shrugged, attempting disdain.

Take a handful of those folds around your waist.' Her hands did so,
reluctantly. ''s be honest about it. They aren't round your waist.

They're several inches below. Any more, and your pubes will disappear
for ever."

That's unkind. And irrelevant. Appearance is the least important thing
about a person. Personality counts for far more. Who wants to look like
a bimbo, anyway?"

156 Edwina Currie

"You did, once. What makes the first impact? What we see."

"I'm feeling defiant. And feminist. Fat is a feminist issue. We don't
have to conform to that skinny Barbie doll image men think they prefer.

They don't anyway - they like us plump. And I don't judge people on
their appearance. I'm not so shallow."

"Yes, you are. Yes, you do. Christian, for example. Even Rosa. Your own
mother."

"Ah ... Okay, so first impressions do count. But what's truly important
is how a person does her job and relates to other people."

"Now you're talking complete rubbish. How she relates, as you put it,
depends on how she looks. Instant assessments are made before the
subject has opened her mouth. Tells you loads in a few seconds. And
often there isn't a second chance. Not for somebody like you, anyway."

"What do you mean, somebody like me?"

"Look at you. You're a grey-haired, flabby, turkey-skinned
fifty-year-old. And you're fat. Past it. Period."

"I am not past it! How dare you? I have years ahead of me."

"But you look past it. That's the whole point. Geddit now?" Hetty was
silenced. She continued to palpate the flap of podgy flesh that was her
belly, lifting it up and down like a mini-apron. '," she said, ' won't
do anything drastic. I'm not having it cut off, and I'm not going in for
liposuction.' ' can't afford either,' said the inner voice smugly.

Hetty turned sideways, holding in her abdomen. She closed her eyes,
clenched her fists and let her stomach muscles relax completely.

Chasing Men 157

"Go on. You have to know the worst,' came the accusatory whine.

Hetty opened her eyes, then quickly shut them again. The profile that
had greeted her had a pronounced curvature with a distinct gravitational
pull downwards. ',' she groaned, ' could be six months pregnant with
twins. Oh, that's awful."

"Absolutely.' The voice was triumphant. '! The first step to redemption
is to recognise that a problem exists. You've been in denial.

That has to end." "Oh, piss off,' said Hetty, and reached for her
clothes.

"They are all mad. I swear it.' Rosa mimed tearing out her hair, then
pulled the two top pink sheets from her script and melodramatically
ripped them up. They promise to perform, and we send a car for them to
effing Sunderland, agree a fee over the odds and they arrive with every
item of kit. So why back out at the last minute?" Hetty sighed, and read
from her notes- ' Delilah, aged twenty-eight. Telephone number at the
dungeons, etcetera, and bleep. "I have been working as a dominatrix for
four years and love my work. I'm twenty-eight now. I can't work as a
dominatrix for ever and am frustrated that I'm not doing something as
creative as I'd like.'"

'"Is it about time I got a proper job?" Yeah, yeah,' Rosa grunted. ' you
seen the trunk load of stuff she brought? We should've sent a van, never
mind a Ford Mondeo. The whips and chains, the straps - heavens.

Her dressing room could double for the tack shop where I went riding as
a kid. And the penis restrainers - ugh! Some poor bugger must have a
pathological need to be chastised if he's going to wear those."

158 Edwina Currie

"Were you honestly going to let her show one on screen? It's hardly
family viewing."

Too true. We're nowhere near the nine p.m. watershed. This series is
likely to transmit just after nine a.m. So you're right, we haven't a
snowball's chance in hell of getting away with it."

"But you'd still like me to try to persuade her, with everything toned
down a jot?' Hetty was smiling broadly.

"We'll have to. Spent a chunk of budget on her and can't waste it. Tell
her to lace up that revolting rubber body-shaper two inches higher, and
make sure her knickers aren't showing. Superglue her nipples inside that
basque, if necessary. But get her on diis set if it kills you, Hetty.

You have five minutes."

The canteen was unusually crowded, with a queue at the tea urn and some
bickering over the cakes and pastries. A stranger, a short wide man in a
blue T-shirt, trod on Hetty's foot and muttered an apology.

"What's going on?' she asked Kate.

The researcher pushed her spectacles up her nose. ' Style. They've taken
the big studio. Very popular - four million audience, and it's repeated.
Have you seen it?"

Hetty had to confess she hadn't. Working on television herself left
precious little time for watching it, especially during the day. In any
case, her determination not to spend hours passively ogling the box was
bearing fruit, as she had begun to plough happily through the later
novels of Jane Austen. Joanna Trollope had been long abandoned.

"It's a makeover programme,' Kate explained. ' take two ordinary people,
friends or a couple, and redo the lot: hair, makeup and clothes.

Quite clever - the result is usually a transformation."

Chasing Men 159

"Probably choose ' grotty to begin with,' Hetty said. ''s the sort of
thing I might almost have volunteered for, in the old days, with my
husband. Though I'm not sure he'd have been vain enough to do it."

"Um,' said Kate, noncommittally. ''s normally harder persuading men.

Women are no sweat - they queue up for the free beautification and
ignore the ritual public humiliation. But men are far more wary."

"Yet they need it more than we do."

"D'you reckon? I'm not an expert on men. They all look alike to me."

Kate's eyes were roving towards Rosa; her face assumed a hangdog
expression.

"Oh, sure, especially in middle age. Women make more effort. The men let
themselves go. Men in their fifties can be ghastly.' Hetty was aware of
a tinge of insincerity in her voice. What was it? Wishful thinking? Was
she still arguing with the mirror?

If you say so.' Kate sounded doubtful. ' many women are as adorable as
our beloved producer, at any age. With respect. You don't think she
might be a teensy-weensy bit bisexual, do you?"

"Not a chance,' laughed Hetty, and squeezed Kate's arm.

Hetty cursed as she tried, but failed, to stop her fingers straying to
the turkey-and-Brie-stuffed croissants. The receptionist appeared in the
doorway and called to her, ' young lady's arrived, says she knows you,
but she's not on the list of guests. Says she's your daughter."

"Sally? What's she doing here?' Hetty felt anxious and hurried into
Reception. But Sally was grinning broadly, and seemed rather pleased
with herself.

"Hi.' She greeted her mother with a brief kiss. ' you

160 Edwina Currie don't mind. I wanted to tell somebody quickly."

"You're pregnant.' It came out like an accusation. Sally blinked,
astonished.

"No, of course not. Not much chance of that. No, I've got a new job.

Sorry to barge in. Can I tell you about it?"

Hetty led the way back into the canteen, found two polystyrene cups and
poured coffee. The crew of Star Style were drifting back to their
studio. The short man was talking in a corner. According to Kate, he was
the producer.

"So, shoot,' Hetty said, in her best television manner. They sat
opposite each other. Sally's hair was blonder than before and layered
neatly, in place of the rather careworn disorder, replete with split
ends, of the days at the health farm. ''ve had your hair done. It's
lovely. Did it cost a fortune?"

Sally rolled her eyes. '. A hundred quid including highlights.

But I'll have to get used to the expense. Gotta go upmarket for the
world's biggest airline, haven't I?"

"British Airways? Is that the job?"

"Yes!' Sally was clearly delighted. ' was time for a change, Mum.

Charter holidays to Ibiza were getting me down. The passengers, not the
crew - they were fine. But, ugh, the drunks guzzling the duty-free and
goosing us, and horrible kids running around being sick. I was
threatened with a bottle last month, though we pinned down the guy
quickly he was in no shape to stand, let alone fight. He ended the
flight in handcuffs. I've often felt I could do better. So I'm
upgrading. Going for the hot shots. I'll be doing business class from
here on, mainly on transatlantic flights."

"Businessmen? They get drunk too, you know."

"At least they tip well. And, you never know. I might get to meet Mr.
Right."

"On a plane?"

Chasing Men 161

"Sure. It's eleven hours to San Francisco. Maybe I'll get to join the
Mile High Club."

Hetty had read the term somewhere, but couldn't be sure. ' d'you mean?"

Sally's peal of laughter rang out. ' mean you don't know? You have led a
sheltered life. It means sex in the stratosphere. Lots of people manage
it. You'd be surprised. One pair called me over recently on a flight to
Athens and asked for permission to make love under a blanket.

1 ask you!"

"And you'd like to be one of them,' Hetty responded drily, though she
had no wish to dent her daughter's newfound enthusiasm. ' did know - I'd
just forgotten. Not the sort of thing we discussed at the parish
council.' She checked the clock. ' must go. I am thrilled for you, and
especially pleased that you wanted to come and tell me. Last time you
did that, you were eleven and you'd come first in the art exam at
school."

They were interrupted by the man in the blue T-shirt. He introduced
himself as Tom, then, eyes flitting from one to the other, said, ' hear
you're mother and daughter. You can see the resemblance." "We are,' said
Sally.

"Ever been on TV?' the man asked.

"No,' came from them both, Hetty cautious, Sally intrigued.

He took a greasy wallet from a back pocket, extracted a card and
addressed Sally.

"I work for Star Style. We're forever on the lookout for interesting
couples. People our audience could relate to. You two'd do great. Pretty
young lass - our stylists could make you stunning. And your mother here,
very typical of our

162 Edwina Currie viewers at home. Middle-aged - know what I mean? A
makeover'd do her the world of good, and it's free.' He waggled a hand.
' get to keep the clothes and the cosmetics. Give it some thought, and
let us know.' He hurried away.

Sally's eyes shone. She began to chatter about the possibilities, then
stopped. '. I don't suppose I should. Not with a new position. My
employers mightn't like it."

Hetty snatched the card. Typically middle-aged. Huh!"

"Well, you are. Face it. But I can suggest somebody you should do it
with. Someone a lot older, who could help put you in a favourable light

"Who?"

"Granny. Your mother. And wouldn't she just steal the show?"

She had missed a bus, and began to walk. As she headed away from the
studio, Hetty's route took her past the bicycle shop half-way up the
hill. It was still light. Slightly puffed with the mild exertion, she
gazed idly in at the window, through the rolls of tyres that hung about
the door frame like ringlets, past the tattered advertisements for
ancient brands of batteries.

She peered inside. The shopkeeper was tinkering with a bicycle which sat
helpless, upside down on its handlebars. The man was tall and spare in a
blue overall, with steel rimmed spectacles. Beside him crouched a skinny
cyclist in green Lycra leggings. The bike's complex gear system had them
scratching their heads.

There was no harm in looking. The interior was crammed with frames,
tyres, handlebars, saddles, chrome pipework, silver and red headlights
and reflectors in racks. Clothing in every garish hue was piled
higgledy-piggledy on shelves, Chasing Men 163

hung from the ceiling and tacked to the walls. The smell of rubber and
lubricating oil enriched with a faint tinge of sweat stirred her memory.

It was thirty years since she had ridden a bike.

"Hello. Were you interested in anything?"

"Maybe,' said Hetty. ''you sell second-hand bikes?"

"We do. A ladies', was it? A road-bike? You'd need a twenty-inch frame.

Let me see.' , The biker righted his machine as if it weighed almost
nothing, opened the street door and left. Her last glimpse of him was of
a stick-thin praying mantis crouched over the handlebars, helmeted head
down, buttocks pumping from a standing start uphill. He had not
registered her existence; she could not fail to admire his.

"What is the bike to be used for, miss?"

To and from work, mainly. And perhaps to go to the leisure centre for a
swim. It's a bit far to walk and I should feel guilty going by bus,"
Hetty said shyly.

The man smiled. ' cross-country?"

"Absolutely not. The roads are bad enough,' Hetty answered. She smiled
back.

"Safer than the roads, it is.' He took off the spectacles and wiped them
on a clean corner of his apron. ' till you've tried Putney high street
in the rush-hour."

Hetty made a mental note not to.

The rest of the walk home seemed further than usual. Three buses came
and went before she could get to a bus stop. But from tomorrow onwards,
when her chosen steed would be ready for her, the journey would be half
an hour shorter.

Should she get green Lycra leggings? Now, or wait?

164 Edwina Currie

"Darling Hetty! You came to my gig. Hope you enjoyed it. Dying to see
you again. My agent Ted says you're gorgeous, he says it was all he
could do to keep his hands off you. I said, "Lay off, the lady's mine."

So how's about it? When do 1 get to toot my tin horn for you again? I'm
appearing on Sunday ... "

Hetty frowned. It was the third message Al had left. In none had he
apologised for leaving her to her fate on New Year's Eve. In his own
eyes it was obvious that he had behaved impeccably. His tone betrayed
puzzlement as to why she had left before the end of the night; he
assumed that perhaps she had not been feeling well, which she took as a
euphemism for having drunk too much. The comment from Ted, so patently
false, must be intended as a compliment. More strange language.

But her presence had been an irrelevance to Al, to Ted, to Mandy and
everyone else in the night-club. They had barely noticed she was there.

It was not stupid to suspect that, if she were to accept further
invitations, the pattern would repeat itself. Not only would she have to
endure the incomprehensible caterwauling that passed for music - and
pretend to love it - but she would be an adjunct, ignored by her host
until it suited him, with no guarantee even then that he would pay her
much attention.

Since she had not hung around, what might have happened afterwards was a
mystery. Sex, probably. That in itself would be a welcome and positive
act, even with Al, assuming he was competent. She had to break her duck,
sooner or later: it might be easier with a man with little emotional
baggage. But before that? Jazz players drank, and took substances, and
smoked cannabis. Was she expected to be a good sport and join in that,
too? Should she? She'd draw the line at hard drugs. If that's what it
took for him and his Chasing Men 165

ladies to get high, they could count her out. Cannabis maybe. And what
if Al took it for granted that she was a sophisticated type. Perhaps he
liked group sex. Suppose Ted and Mandy got involved too?

Hetty's fingers paused over the erase button. What did a man like that
see in a woman like herself - fat and middle aged, as the mirror, her
daughter and practically everyone else kept telling her? Except that she
had glowed that night, had been glamorous and excited. Ted's compliments
had the ring of truth. She had not disgraced herself.

Was he the sort of man who didn't give up, who assumed all women found
him irresistible? That's what he'd claimed on the show. It could explain
why he was so casual about the niceties. Yet, in fact, she had been the
sole female groupie present.

Al was younger. A younger lover was not such a crazy idea. If she could
keep him satisfied. That would make Sally's eyebrows shoot up into her
fancy new hairdo. It would be something to boast about to Clarissa. And
Rosa would be agog.

From her meagre acquaintance a few conclusions could be drawn. Al was a
big kid, a one-track-minded adolescent engrossed in his own talent. If
she did want to sleep with him, she would have to do the chasing.

"One thing's for sure,' Hetty told herself, ' am not fixated on him.

And I'm not quite desperate enough. On the other hand, waste not, want
not." She pressed the button for the next message, and gaped as it
played.

"Oh, hello. Not sure I've got the right number. If it's Hetty Clarkson,
then this is James Dolland. Your brother Larry suggested I call. We were
at school together, remember? I work in

166 Edwina Currie London during the week. Larry thought we ought to
renew the friendship.

My number is ... "

"Goddamn!' Hetty swore.

Her brother was matchmaking. How dare he? Her brow furrowed. James
Dolland. Had he been in her class or Larry's? Which school? She
cudgelled her brain to remember, but came up with a complete blank.

Whoever he was, he had not made much impression on her at the time.

Maybe he had improved. Maybe he was splendid. Especially if he did not
like jazz.

Hetty made a note of the number. But she did not call back. It would not
do to appear too keen.

The sound equipment was giving trouble and the crew had been given a
hour off. Hetty found Rosa in the tiny office, engrossed on the
Internet.

"What are you doing? Researching for guests?' Hetty asked.

Rosa pointed at the monitor. ', I'm playing hooky. Every so often I call
up one of the interconnect services. Chat rooms for adults. Meeting
places, if you like. Lunatics unlimited."

The cursor was blinking; letters flickered into a line. Hetty drew up a
chair. ''s this guy asking - what size shoe you wear?"

"He's from Basingstoke. I've told him five and a half, and he says
that's too small."

"Maybe he's a chiropodist."

Rosa blew a raspberry. Hetty tried again. ' a foot fetishist."

"Usually, that sort prefer small feet. Toes like nipples. Little toe
like a clit, as one of my lovers once said. That's Chasing Men 167

why they like to suck them. I think this geezer wants a tall partner,
and doesn't like to come out with it."

"Why not? He can't see you. You could lie, Rosa."

"If he were tall himself, he'd say so. That means he isn't. And I don't
fancy a dinky guy who wants a big lass with boobs that can bob about on
the top of his head. Maybe he's so petite he just wants to burrow his
noddle inside my - what the hell? Let's tell him to push off, and we'll
try another."

Hetty was amazed. She did not have a computer, though she was accustomed
to using one in Dorset. For the time being, she had no need: letters
could be written by hand, and phone calls sufficed for most purposes.

She also feared getting lost on a global network and running up vast
phone bills. Rosa, however, was a competent surfer.

"Here's one! Look." The screen said, ' there. Are you shapely?
Beautiful? Looking for a new man? Tell me truthfully. How old are you?"

Rosa tapped in, ''m Rosa. I'm five foot five, nine stone, and in my
adorable forties. '

That is a lie,' hissed Hetty. Rosa hushed her.

"Perfect. My name's lan. I live in Watford. What would you say to a
slim, handsome 28-year-old who's into older women?"

"I'd say, keep talking, lan. Tell me about yourself."

"I can see you. You're fabulous. I'd like to put my big cock into your
cunt right now. It's huge. I've got it right here in'my hand. Are you
juicy?"

168 Edwina Currie Rosa and Hetty squealed and clutched each other.
Hetty's chair threatened to collapse. It was several moments before they
could stop shrieking with laughter, wipe their eyes and whisper to each
other.

"Oh, sod him,' said Rosa. She tapped in, '' s the matter with you?

What a rotten way to say hello to a respectable lady you've never met.

Can't you do better than that?"

There was a pause. Then came, v That' s the nicest response I've ever
had. Sorry. SORRY. Can we start again?"

Her mother was elated. ' you sure Star Style want me?"

Hetty decided to be diplomatic. She was unsure how her mother might take
her substitution for Sally. ' know how vague these things are.

Nothing's fixed. But if it does go ahead, then we make the programme in
Wandsworth. It lakes less than an hour - it's made as broadcast,
virtually. And you get to keep the outfit."

"I've seen the show on TV. But they won't try to make idiots of us, will
they?"

"As far as I can tell, it's entirely above board. And if anyone's going
to end up a fright, it'll be me. You'll be the picture of elegance."

"Thank you, dear.' Hetty's mother was nothing if not gracious. However,
a coup de grace was not beyond her. ' is it? Not for a couple of months,
I suppose?"

That's about right. I can tell you nearer the date."

"Oh, splendid. And that gives you a bit of time too, Hetty dear."

"Time for what?"

Chasing Men 169

To lose some weight. You want to be at your best, don't you?"

The smiling, slim woman in the narrow leg trousers and cropped top
pointed at Hetty. ' why are you here?"

Hetty took a deep breath. ' everyone I know thinks I should be chasing
men, and that it'd be a lot easier if I shed a stone. Or two."

Titters ran round the room. The massive woman to Hetty's left clapped
her hands together: her billowing thighs wobbled in unison.

It had taken more than two hours of pleading with herself, sitting on
the bed in an unlit room as the dusk gathered, before Hetty had plucked
up enough courage. The slimming club was in a local community hall. She
knew the location: she passed it every day on her way to the bus stop.

It was unthreatening, ordinary, inoffensive. The moments had ticked by
as she sat frozen. Why was it such a struggle? Why couldn't she simply
shrug, reach for her jacket, and march out into the night to the club?

What battle was going on inside her that made her legs so leaden, and
forced her instead to enter the kitchen and raid the fridge?

The confrontation with the mirror had become a daily event. Her
resentment at being categorised on her appearance was real and sound,
but infuriatingly irrelevant. It might have been acceptable had she
aimed at earning her living as an academic, say, or in circumstances
where homeliness was a virtue: for example, working with small children.

And she wasn't gross, just pleasantly plump. But in the television world
it was a disadvantage. Not that Hetty planned to perform in front of the
camera, but at the studios she was surrounded by beautifully dressed
girls skinny as

170 Edwina Currie beanpoles, who did have such aspirations. The male
presenter had a habit of not so much looking through her as round her.
She was in danger of becoming a non-person.

But there was more to it. The word '' floated into her-brain.

Victim of what? Of the world's superficiality? Of the sardonic,
dismissive glances that came in her direction, that took in the
spreading hips and sagging jawline, and relegated her to the lower
depths of whatever hierarchical system they had in mind?

Victim of her own stupidity. Of self-indulgence. Of a yearning for an
easy way, when there was none. Self-pity oozed invitingly like an old
scab asking to be scratched, and begged to be soothed with a Danish
pastry. The results produced more self-pity. It was a vicious circle
that ended up weighing two stones or more, then sat like a retread tyre
slung round her middle.

She did not have to be a victim. It was up to her.

"I have to take back control of my life,' Hetty added quietly, but the
instructor's questing finger had moved on.

The community hall suffered from a lack of finance, but was in constant
use. The parquet floor was dusty and broken in places. The blackout
curtains had not been renewed since the war and not cleaned, at a guess,
for decades. The chairs Hetty recognised from her youth: tubular steel
with frayed canvas seats and backs, and loose screws at the edges to
catch unwary legs and fingers. They smelt musty. But the walls were
alive with children's paintings from the nursery and playgroup: Ailsa
and Ibrahim had been busy in the park, Sonali and Karim's offerings of
buses and cars were wildly exuberant. Along one wall danced a cheerful
alphabet, each letter illustrated with an animal or household object, so
that a smiling Cat chased a nappied Baby, a Giraffe galloped Chasing Men
171

before a Hand, a Sock and a Teapot were gaily intertwined. The
celebration of childhood lifted Hetty's spirits as she had waited in
line to join. She clung to that feeling as she read the club's booklets,
and tried to concentrate.

The hall was full. This club was popular, with over a hundred in
attendance each Monday evening. Ten minutes after the time the club was
supposed to start Hetty had tentatively crept through the door, to be
greeted by a barrage of chattering voices. Mostly women, of every shape
and size, some vast, some black, many young, a few older than herself. A
select few, slim and smug, flaunted gold cards, proof of success. The
two men present sucked in beer bellies, examined their record cards with
hopeful expressions and did not stay for the pep talk. Nobody took much
notice of her; established members were comparing their week,
congratulating each other on pounds lost, ruefully or with outbursts of
hilarity. As Hetty watched, one woman jumped off the scales with a
delighted squeal and hugged the instructor.

Tt'd be nice,' Hetty ventured to her obese neighbour, ' we could do this
by ourselves. Stay under control without help."

The woman was in her fifties and must have weighed twenty stone. Her
immense bulk, spread across two chairs pushed together, had a liquid
quality as if held together only by the envelope of her skin. A husky
chuckle heaved from the depths of a multiple hairy chin. ' put it on in
company, and I'm getting it off in company. Take me another year at
least. But it's shifting, thank God."

"How much have you got to lose?' Hetty asked in awe.

"Bout ten stone more,' wheezed the woman affably. ' three already.

It's going at about three pounds a week at the

172 Edwina Currie moment. Later on it'll slow down. But by then I'll be
able to walk a bit, and we'll get a dog."

"Doesn't it make you slightly cross,' Hetty ventured, ' we're judged so
much by our appearance in modern society?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. ' I cared how I look, I wouldn't look like
this, dear."

Hetty was abashed. The woman patted her knee. ' told me I had three
months to live. I ran a chip shop and used to demolish five
fish-and-chip meals a day, mega portions, plus hamburgers, saveloys, the
lot - they called me the Human Shovel. Tried every quack cure - mouth
wired, my stomach stapled. I'd lose some, it'd go back on again. Heavier
each time. Then Marge stopped me in the street.' She indicated the
instructor, who was speaking to a squat Asian woman in a said. ' said
she'd been almost as big as me once, and she could help me. No potions,
no hospitals. So I upped and sold the business. And here I am."

Hetty was silent. By contrast, her own agonising seemed pathetic. She
examined the instructor from a distance, then realised with a jolt that
the nearby blown-up photo of a barrel-like woman in a flowered print
tent must be the same individual.

"Oh, no. Hetty?' A young voice groaned behind her. It was Annabel, in
black, her clothes still too tight for her, with her usual mournful air.

"What are you doing here?' she continued as she plonked down hard on a
vacant chair, which sagged alarmingly. ' don't need to slim." "I do,'
said Hetty firmly, with missionary zeal. ''s going to take me ages. Then
I intend to keep it off. I have a choice. Do I want to be a middle-aged
frump, past it, or a vibrant single woman starting out afresh?" "Come
again?' said Annabel.

Chasing Men 173

Hetty giggled. ' about you, Annabel? How's the love life?"

"Ghastly. Non-existent. That's why I'm here. D'you think she'll tell me
to stop drinking?"

"Mmm. Possibly to stop drinking so much."

Annabel was dubious. ' sure I can cut down, honestly. I mean, if a girl
calls a halt before she's finished the bottle, her friends'll think
she's on the wagon."

"Diet Coke?' suggested Hetty.

"Yurrkk!' said Annabel.

The instructor was standing in front of them. Her narrow hips failed to
fill out her blue trousers; her wrists were bony, the fingernails almost
bloodless. ',' she said.

"Pardon?' asked Hetty. She had missed the first part of the woman's
remark.

"Courgettes. Vegetables. They have no calories, provided you cook them
according to the booklet. Very tasty."

To Hetty, courgettes were a tedious watery nothingness at which both
Stephen and the children had turned up their noses. She pondered, then
shrugged.

She would try courgettes. Why not? They might, at any rate, make a solid
change from bananas.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Valentine Tomorrow it would be Valentine's Day. A Sunday. Nothing had
arrived in the post. Not a card, not a letter. Hetty unlocked the
postbox and cleared out the plain envelopes with their window labels.
Nothing handwritten. She opened them over a meagre breakfast and coffee:
two offers to lend her up to 15,000, pounds the information that her
name was in a draw for a car provided she attended a presentation on
time-share in Sicily, and a coding notice from the Inland Revenue.

There was no reason to expect any cards. Al, who might have been idiotic
enough to send one, did not have her address: the liaison had never
progressed that far. James Dolland probably didn't have it either. Once,
a person's phone number had been regarded as private information; now it
was the first detail anyone expected, while an address had receded to a
hinterland of greater intimacy. In any case, Chasing Men 175

all James wanted was to make contact. A Valentine would have been
inappropriate. Next year? Maybe.

Last year had been different. A fancy lace-frilled card had materialised
on her pillow, and Stephen had been effusive with a hug. Her response
had been more modest and stilted. At lunchtime on the day (it had been a
Saturday) they had gone to the village pub, only to discover that the
dining room was packed, and since Stephen had forgotten to book, they
had had to wait. As they had sat, drinks before them, for more than an
hour, conversation had waned. By the time they had been served a limp
prawn cocktail, overdone roast beef and soggy trimmings, a barren
irritation had set in on both sides. Most of the meal had been eaten in
silence, punctuated only by brief comments. It had been a relief to get
home. Hetty had then pulled out the ironing board, Stephen had switched
on the television and promptly fallen asleep. Later she had heard him
murmuring on the phone. She had wondered who he was speaking to, but did
not ask.

But at least there'd been that card in the morning, and the hope, as
ever, that their love might recover. It was the same belief that had
deceived her for years. But here in The Swallows, nothing. Loneliness
and melancholy lay in wait in the little jam-pot, the single teacup.

Hope, that gentle protector, was spread too thinly for comfort.

Helty finished her toast and found herself staring blankly at the plate.

She moved; a fuzzy image reflecting her red sweater moved with her. but
the dish's crumb-ridden surface could give but a blurred impression.

Someone alive was nearby, the plate said, but ill-defined and
unrecognisable. Someone who did not receive Valentine cards. About whom
nobody cared.

A tear tell on the plate, then another. Hetty wiped her

176 Edwina Currie eyes with her fingers. She let herself cry, just for a
moment. Then, swiftly, she gathered up the crockery, knife and spoon and
swept them into the sink.

On the phone, Mother waxed excited and schooigirlish.

"I've had my invitation from Star Style] They say to come in my everyday
clothes, and not to worry about getting my hair done or anything
special. What do you think?"

The idea is to transform you. They need a clear "before", I suppose,"
Hetty answered.

"But I can't turn up in old trousers and a pinny, with my hair a mess,
can I?"

Hetty had a sudden picture of her mother dressed like the domestic
version of Doris. ' could, but it wouldn't be the authentic you,' she
admitted. ''t overdo it. They may make some unkind remarks to start
with."

"Such as?' Her mother's voice betrayed concern.

In reality, since Hetty still had not found time to watch the video of
an earlier show, she hadn't the faintest idea. But it seemed wise to
dampen her mother's enthusiasm.

"Such as - they would describe you, for example, as a mature woman."

"Oh, really.' Her mother sounded offended. ' that case, dear, how would
they describe you?"

This was the best way to tackle it. Seize the day, or whatever. Gather
ye rosebuds. If Sunday - Valentine's Day - was to be rescued from
self-pity and disaster, then an excess of zeal on her new bike would
serve as well as anything. Hetty shifted the gears to a lower notch and
pedalled furiously up the steepest part of West Hill towards Tibbet's
Corner. The heavy gravel surface of the A3, designed to reduce skidding
Chasing Men 177

in the wet, was gruelling to two-wheel users. But as she reached the top
without stopping, she congratulated herself on progress made so far.

At first, cycling had been a refined system of torture. Leg tendons and
muscles ached maddeningly the next day. To her surprise, so did her
shoulders and wrists, till she caught sight of herself in a shop window,
hunched over the handlebars like a mad crow or a Valkyrie. Whenever she
remembered, she would sit upright, and flap one hand then the other to
relieve the tension.

She rode alone: to the studios during the week, and out, more
ambitiously, at weekends on those days that, like this one, held no
promise of other entertainment. The option of joining a club had entered
her mind but had been dismissed. It was grim enough coping with new
acquaintances at work and in her personal life, without adding another
element that might be competitive and raw. In any case Hetty soon came
to enjoy her own company, especially in fair weather. This was almost
the only extended period when she was on her own and not tired out.

Mostly, the rides felt like an escape.

She halted cautiously at the main roundabout. At ten thirty on a brisk
Sunday morning not much traffic was about. Her return route through
Kingston later would be busy and she could expect to encounter irritated
motorists stuck in bottlenecks, who would refuse to make room on the
near side for a cyclist to pass.

Then it was over the main road and on to Putney Heath, and a clean
breeze in her face. Although she had initially feared going off-road,
the bridle-paths of the heath and of Wimbledon Common a couple of miles
further on were a great attraction. The nearer, northern part was scrub,
gorse

178 Edwina Currie and uncut grass, with a sweep of open land near the
windmill full of yapping Labradors and ill-parked jeeps. Closer to
Wimbledon itself, mature woodland took over. There, she would be riding
squishily along muddy paths deep in mouldering leaves, accompanied by
magpies, jays and the occasional robin. Grey squirrels would perk up,
their paws like tiny hands possessively clutching nuts, and eye her
passage. There were worse ways of spending a spare couple of hours.

Hetty accepted that she probably looked odd. A scarf constantly
threatened to unwind and fly off. Her knuckles were frozen despite
gloves. She was hardly a proper sportswoman, but that was not her
objective: the aim was to increase her fitness level, not compete in the
Tour de France. Or appear in Zest magazine or Here's Health. Hetty had
never summoned up the courage to buy the green stretch leggings, though
her thighs and buttocks were soon tightening up nicely. She did,
however, return to the store and braved the shopkeeper's amused
expression to buy two sets of padded shorts. Saddle-soreness was not on
the agenda.

On one issue, the man had been spot on. Cycling round south London was a
nerve-racking terror. It felt, and probably was, horribly dangerous.

Hetty suffered a hot flush of shame as she remembered how often, as a
car driver, she had failed to notice a biker, who had had to swerve as
she pulled out. Now, she saw, cyclists were invisible to most motorists,
even if they were sporting, as she was, a Dayglo jacket with their
lights switched on. Cars and vans respected vehicles big enough to do
some damage, and no others. A two wheeler was no more than a gnat on the
skin of a rhinoceros.

In her new guise she began to harbour uncharacteristically uncharitable
thoughts about school runs. Four Chasing Men 179

wheel-drive monsters too large for suburbia with screaming infants in
the back, driven by harassed mothers in desperate need of a cigarette
and a coffee tried pitilessly to force their passage, with dire
consequences for anyone in their path. The biker's viewpoint was several
feet more elevated than theirs: Hetty could see trouble coming much
earlier than they could. Traffic round a corner, an elderly person
trying to cross, a milk-float about to pull out. There was no point in
shouting: no one could hear. Again and again the car would screech to a
halt, the driver would lower the window and let loose a stream of
invective, the cyclist would fall off and get the blame.

On the other hand, bikers were hardly blameless. As she paused at
traffic lights enroute to the studio, Hetty found herself categorising
riders drawn up alongside.

The cycling buff, exemplified by the praying mantis in the bike shop,
was less common than she had supposed. As lean and taut as his machine,
often a racing model bristling with accessories, he would glide silently
to a stop in front of her, and be a hundred yards down the road again
before she had managed to place a foot on a pedal. Invariably they were
male, with narrow hips and ribcages lifting through silky fabric. They
sported gloves like knuckle-dusters and toe guards like sabre handles:
their saddles were fearsomely pointed, the handlebars slung low and held
like machine guns. Some, she suspected, given their style, must be into
sado-masochism with a vengeance.

Then there were the commuters. Some, however, unlike herself, made no
concessions to their mode of transport. Amongst the girls helmets were
infra dig: loose untied hair streamed behind and whipped wetly into the
eyes when it rained. Skirts flapped at ankles and threatened to get
caught

180 Edwina Currie in the spokes or chain. A handbag was often slung
precariously over one shoulder, a carrier bag balanced on the front. As
traffic lights changed they wobbled menacingly. Hetty gave them a wide
berth.

A third group came into view on a route near a major construction site:
the Lads. Everything about them announced their unwillingness to be
cyclists. The battered bikes sagged unhappily like ancient mules under
their riders' considerable weight. Their knees stuck out at an angle
from seats set too low, as if comfort adjustments were disdained. No
nonsense about protective headgear or warning Dayglo troubled the Lads'
brains. Instead, the trademark was a mortar-encrusted donkey jacket.

Beneath the jackets, and increasingly visible as the weather grew
warmer, pale buttocks heaved up over their jeans. As she waited
patiently for the lights to change, Hetty was mischievously tempted to
pinch the bulging flesh, but reckoned they could outride her.

"I wouldn't have thought you guys would enjoy cycling,' she said one
morning.

Too bloody right,' one answered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. ' me
licence, didn't I? Get it back next year, though. Then you won't see us
for dust."

She was close to the windmill now. A dog barked excitedly in the
distance. Above, the strengthening sun turned the bark of upper branches
to gold and sent slanting shadows through those darker, mysterious
corners of the common yet to be explored. She lifted her head and
sniffed the air, almost animal herself. A feeling of joy, and of
serenity, seeped through her, as her system settled rhythmically into
the exercise.

As open land gave way to trees, she was forced to pedal Chasing Men 181

more gently. In the bushes to one side, low down, came a commotion; she
slowed, and a small leggy animal, a young deer, trotted across. The long
fronds closed behind it, leaving only a trail of pert footprints in the
mud. Could it have been a muntjak? Hetty waited, fascinated, but no more
followed. This was a moment to savour, and she breathed deep, taking in
the budded trees, the freshness of the new grass, the blossom starting
in the hedges, the pale warmth of the sun on her back.

Unbidden, the picture came into her mind of Clarissa and her bags of
shopping, and of Sally serving gin to jaded businessmen on a plane. Her
mother might well be sinking a G and T with a half-sozzled colonel on a
cut-price romantic weekend. Rosa could be anywhere, with anyone. Al,
having blown his soul into his saxophone, was in all probability snoring
in some seedy bedroom, his head pillowed on someone's bosom. The three
BJs would be out cold, and so too would Brian, the seller of the Big
Issue. She had not seen him since New Year's Eve. Father Roger would be
active in his pulpit. Larry and Davinia were almost certainly eating
more than was good for them, and snapping at their children. Were she
still married herself, she might have been basting a Sunday roast, a
meal that would have been praised but not appreciated. Or sitting,
desperately trying to think of something to say that would not lead to a
row, in that stuffy mock-Tudor pub with Stephen. Neither proposition, it
came to her, was something she desperately missed.

She would ride through Wimbledon, in no hurry, and window-shop. Then she
would head home, buy croissants and orange juice in the cafe that was
open on Sunday, plus the newspapers, and spend a lazy half-hour soaking
in a

182 Edwtna Currie soapy tub. She might amuse herself with the contact
ads, might even ring a few that caught her fancy.

If this was to be her lot for a while, it would serve. A muted rapture,
perhaps, but tinged with a sense of well being. On the whole, she felt
content.

On her mat was a small brown box, with a red ribbon tied in an elaborate
bow. No name or details were written on it. Intrigued, helmet in hand,
Hetty picked it up and fished in her pockets for her keys. Her limbs
felt numb and weary, but not painful. Later, she would sleep soundly,
and wake refreshed and fulfilled.

The phone began to ring as she opened the door. Wiping grime from her
face, she picked it up. '?"

"Is that you, Het? Glad I've caught you in. Have you got your diary
handy?"

Hetty took the handset away from her ear and stared at it. ' is this,
please?"

"Hetty! 1 know it's been a while since we spoke. Larry. Your loving
brother."

"Larry. Yes. Hi,' she replied, without enthusiasm.

"Davinia and I have been talking. Sorry about the mixup over Christmas.

We should have realised you wouldn't want to babysit, having so recently
left all that behind you. Might be different when you have
grandchildren, hey?"

"That's okay, Larry. I wasn't in the mood." He paused as if expecting
her to apologise and offer help in the future.

The screeching of the two monsters who passed for infants in Larry and
Davinia's household was unmissable in the background. She resisted the
temptation without a qualm.

"Right. Fine,' he continued uncertainly.

Chasing Men 183

"So what exactly were you and Davinia thinking, Lany?"

"About you. How are you getting on?"

"Great. I've just been on a bike ride. I need a bath."

"A bike ride? What - on your own?"

"On my bike, Lany."

"Yes - er, I see. Well, look. What we thought was this. You shouldn't be
on your own. It's not right." Hetty sighed audibly but did not answer.

"See?' Larry had apparently taken the sigh as forlorn agreement. His
tone became eager. ' want to try and help you, sis. So we're at last
organising that dinner party we promised. Sorry it's taken so long, but
you understand ... "

"Did you give my phone number to James Dolland?"

Larry snickered. ' guy we were at school with? We met up at a client's
and got talking about you. He used to be quite keen, he said."

"I can't remember him at all,' Hetty said, crossly. Her muscles were
starting to stiffen. ', Larry, I'm sure you mean well, but I'd rather
you didn't hand out my number willynilly. Even if he was passable as a
schoolboy, who knows what he's like now?"

"I know,' said Larry triumphantly. ''s in good shape, honest. I wouldn't
pick a turkey for my own sister, now, would 1?"

Hetty stopped herself giving a tart reply.

Larry continued, ', we're going to arrange this dinner party for you.
James has already said he'll come. How about ... "

Several minutes' negotiation ensued, until Hetty ran out of excuses. A
date was fixed. Ten minutes later she was up to her nose in perfumed
bubbles and watching the mud of the ride floating off as planned, but
the atmosphere had been soured.

184 Edwina Currie Who was James? She could not put a face to him, nor
had his voice, brief on the answerphone, rung bells. He had called only
once, and she had not called back, though some instinct told her she
ought to. She was not entirely hostile to the man. About him, indeed,
she had no feelings whatsoever. It was the manner in which the contact
had been made that was depressing.

"You ought to be grateful.' The trenchant, supercilious voice was
hovering over her navel. It was her own, that infuriating alter ego that
had tormented her into both cycling and the slimming club. Hetty
groaned, and sank lower into the tub.

"Here are your friends and family, concerned about your welfare, trying
to ensure that you aren't condemned to a lifetime of solitary misery."

That's not what they're up to,' Hetty retorted. ' I am not lonely, or at
least not often. The tears at yesterday's breakfast were a blip."

"You should be delighted that they're flinging desirable male company at
you,' the voice lilted, menacingly.

"I don't need it."

"You sure?"

Hetty considered, tossing the flannel from hand to hand. The very idea
of her family as matchmakers was excruciating. If she were to make
progress, she would rather do it at her own pace, and under her own
control.

The voice wheedled, ' least you'll acknowledge that your brother means
well?"

"Him?' Hetty snorted. ' doubt it. He never means well, pure and simple.

He doesn't like anything untidy. He hates it if anything unexpected
breaks cover in case it'll bite him. My unusual state - or, at least,
Larry and Davinia'd regard it Chasing Men 185

as unusual - would niggle at him till he had to do something. I'm in a
defective condition. He sees it as his familial duty to put me right."

"Hetty, you need all the help you can get."

"Do I? The term "control freak" could have been invented for Larry. He
and Davinia are bad news. They're militant marrieds, though they've
never gone near an altar."

"Ah, loving coupledom. They've been together ages. You're not knocking
it now?"

"Not at all. But I'd love ' more if it wasn't so blatant. Their version
- their unmarried state - is just a fad. They're slaves to the mores of
Fulham and Chelsea. It's far smarter for Larry to introduce Davinia as
"my partner" than as "my wife"."

"Perhaps they'd claim that a piece of paper, or vows in church, don't
make a marriage,' opined the voice unctuously.

"I don't believe it,' Hetty muttered. ' and when their circle of friends
head for legality, they will too. Avoid the stampede? Not join the
uncommon herd? You've got to be joking. They won't be the first but they
would never be the last."

Hetty brooded as the water began to cool. What Larry and Davinia
couldn't cope with was any notion that their fashion-driven lifestyle
wasn't for everybody. Since they saw their choices as both necessary and
sufficient for success, so must everyone else, and it followed that
alternatives implied failure.

"I am not a failure!' Hetty told the bathroom ceiling fiercely. ' I
won't have my prat of a brother telling me so. Damn his eyeballs."

Her toes, pale and white-nailed, wiggled their agreement

186 Edwina Currie at the far end of the tub; the mountains of her knees
and her hilly breasts wallowed in sympathy. The bump of her belly
disappeared when she sucked it in, the water swishing merrily into the
hollow. It was like a new landscape, one entirely private, about to be
invaded by her brother, trailing in his wake potential lovers, men whom
he regarded as suitable.

Invaders were to be repelled. Hetty skimmed the soap into the sudsy
water by her feet and made a splash, like the puff of smoke after an
explosion. It was heartily satisfying. She giggled, retrieved the
slippery missile and threw again. Who was to object? Soon the floor was
awash with foam and puddles, and her hair was soaked.

She heaved herself from the water and reached for a towel. Two towels,
then four, warm and cosy from the heated rail. The sodden bathroom could
take care of itself. Swaddled like a Roman, she stumbled into the
kitchen and poured a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge.

Outside it had begun to rain, and she was hungry.

Till Larry had phoned she had been at ease. The best defence to his
onslaught, however, was obvious. She would go to their precious dinner
party dressed to the nines, elegant and feminine with '' written on her
face. She would flirt with James and any other man present, as might be
expected of a single woman in her position - her unfortunate position.
She would allow herself to be patronised by her brother and
sister-in-law, and try to be good company.

And she would keep her temper, and her own counsel.

It was not till a while later that Hetty rediscovered the cardboard box
under the helmet and gloves; not till she had dressed, finished the wine
and was drowsy and content. Who might have put it there? Somebody who
knew her Chasing Men 187

address, certainly. The ribbon suggested it was a gift, of sorts. Not
chocolates: the box was too utilitarian. She shook it experimentally and
heard a clinking noise. Metal? Electrical? What could it be?

Inside was tissue paper and an illustrated card. Hetty began to laugh.

New stock for Valentine's. Thought you might like a free sample. I put
batteries in. Enjoy yourself. Doris.

The glossy leaflet dubbed it the ' Orgasm Kit'. Hetty gingerly picked up
the translucent hobbled, ribbed and spiky attachments, then pressed the
switch and rubbed the multi-speed pink gadget experimentally against her
arm. It made her skin tingle. ' and a half inches,' she murmured,
glancing at the leaflet. ', Doris, are we being pessimistic, or isn't
that a bit small?"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Stepping Out Clarissa's voice sounded odd. So did her request. ' need
some moral support. Be a pal, Hetty."

Hetty pulled a cushion off the sofa on to the floor and sat on it, her
legs tucked under her, the phone cradled in her lap. The attempts at
slimming seemed to be working, but at the end of a busy day left her
weary. She was not sure what reservoir of energy remained to cope with
Clarissa's moral needs, whatever they might be.

"I can't do it alone. The thought fills me with panic,' Clarissa
continued, in a wail.

A great yearning came upon Hetty to put the call on hold and retrieve a
hidden packet of chocolate digestives. She gritted her teeth. ''m
listening."

"You know that big modern building near you? Further down your road.

Swallow House, it's called."

"Yes - a posh old people's home, isn't it? I've walked past."

Chasing Men 189

"Very posh. Better carpeting than I can afford. And they keep it so hot!

Their heating bill ... "

"Clarissa. What has their heating bill got to do with your moral
dilemma? You don't have to pay it, do you?"

"What? Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. My aunt, Auntie Millie, my
father's sister. Widowed twenty years ago. She had a mild stroke
recently and decided to give up the house in St. John's Wood." "I see,'
said Hetty, who didn't quite. An image of the biscuit, the chocolate
melting temptingly, shimmered in the air before her lips. She swatted it
away.

"She's taken herself off to live in Swallow House. It was the only place
- she was adamant. Robin and I help with the fees. So the hotter it is,
the twitchier 1 get. It's understandable,' said Clarissa grumpily.

"She's a nice old dear, quite civilised. Doesn't ask for much and talks
sense when she wants to. I try to keep her sweet."

"And that means?' Hetty was beginning to guess.

"Oh, Hetty, I find it so tough going on my own. Not that the home is
smelly or disgusting. It isn't - it's more like a five-star hotel. But
all those old people! They're like dodgems with their wheelchairs - and
those steel things they push around, like mobile crash barriers ... "

"Zimmer frames?"

"Yes. And they make me shiver - age spots and turkey skin and scrawny
ankles."

"You are being unkind. We'll all be like that one day,' said Hetty
severely.

"Exactly. I can't bear it. Vacant mad eyes. And death everywhere,
lurking round every corner."

"But your aunt isn't dotty, is she? You said she was nice."

"It's the others. The whole atmosphere. Gives me the

190 Edwina Currie creeps. Last time it was as much as I could do to stay
half an hour.

Auntie Millie was most put out. She's hinted since that if I don't visit
properly, she'll come back from the other side and haunt me. She's into
astrology and I believe her. * Please, Hetty."

"You want me to go with you?"

"Would you? You are a darling. Oh, Hetty, you've saved my bacon. When?"

"I was rather wondering,' Father Roger twinkled at her, ' your
attendance at the carol concert and your lusty singing might be more
than a flash in the pan, Hetty."

You are an incorrigible rogue, Hetty said to herself. In another
incarnation you were a medieval barrow boy, or a ticket tout for
Shakespeare's Globe. You're a salesman at heart, even if you're selling
salvation. Or the hope of it. ', you could sell fire extinguishers to
the devil,' she replied, with a smile.

"I'm to take that as a compliment, I suppose.' The priest laughed. ' you
haven't answered me. You have the makings of a splendid choir member.
Given that our Anglican congregations are becoming ever more ancient and
decrepit, rather like our church fabric, the quicker you accept your
fate and come the better."

Tm not sure. I may occasionally. But more for sentimental reasons rather
than out of belief. I don't feel any great sense of commitment."

Father Roger tucked his hands inside his voluminous black sleeves and
rolled his eyes in mock horror. '? Stuff and nonsense. Come because you
enjoy it."

"Aren't you supposed to say something like, "Christ was Chasing Men 191

committed enough for you, it's the least you can do in return"?' Hetty
chided gently.

"No.' Father Roger shook his head vigorously.

"Why not?"

"Because it puts people off, that's why not. It's preaching. I loathe
preachers."

They were standing at the side of the set while Dave the sound man fixed
the small clip microphones on to the clothing of the next pair of
guests, a brash young couple. The man, Gary, wore white jeans and an
Arsenal top, the girl a low-cut tight sweater and a miniskirt, and silky
black hair down to her waist. Their swagger showed they knew their good
looks; their motive for participating must be their almost tangible
vanity.

A great deal of giggling ensued as the girl was required to push the
clip up under the sweater. Hetty reckoned, from what she could see, that
the proprieties were being observed, but the girl squealed
provocatively. Her boyfriend sat back on his rump, legs splayed wide
before him, and encouraged her by uttering mild threats at the sweating
Dave. Job done, Dave retreated, red-faced and muttering.

"Now there's commitment for you.' Father Roger nodded towards the young
man. ' he loves Arsenal more than anything - more than his girl, more
than his job."

They're a fine pair,' Hetty agreed. They deserve each other."

"Quiet, please. We're rolling,' called Bob, the floor manager. He waved
Father Roger to his seat on set. ', remember, this is family viewing."

In a moment Gary was pouting archly at the presenter. ''s like this,
see,' he was explaining. ''m in trouble with Darleen here. I do love
her, and she knows it, but I love my

192 Edwina Currie Arsenal more than anyfink. An' they'll be playing a
cup-tie in Amsterdam the weekend it's her birthday. And she wants me to
take her to Paris instead. An' I can't, I can't."

"Could I ask,' Father Roger leaned forward, his body language almost as
macho as Gary's, ' is to stop you going to Amsterdam on the Saturday
night with your mates, and then joining Darleen in Paris on the Sunday
for her birthday?"

"Nah, I'd be smashed,' said Gary.

Darleen nodded energetically. ',' she sniffed, ' wouldn't prove he loves
me, would it? An' he wouldn't turn up. I could take myself off to Paris
an' spend all that money, and I'd be sitting at a restaurant on me tod
till it was time to head home. No thanks." "How is it at home?' asked
the other panellist, a soap actress of no great brain.

"Well, bit weird, really,' the girl admitted. ', my half of the
bedroom's normal. His is in the Arsenal colours. An' the bedspread, his
half. All over."

"What, red and white strip wallpaper?"

"Yes."

"Carpet?"

"Yes. He used carpet squares. Done ' quite fetching."

"But, see,' the fan broke in, his face serious, ' couldn't cope wiv her
taste, could I? I mean, a pink fluffy bedspread and thick pink shag pile
an' flock wallpaper. Stuffed toy animals. So she has her half the way
she likes it, and I have mine."

"And do you have Arsenal posters up?"

"Yeah, but she's got Robbie Williams. Or rather, she had. Opening his
flies. I said I'd leave unless she took that down."

"I understand entirely.' Father Roger oozed synthetic Chasing Men 193

sympathy. ' strict demarcation line. And you live the whole of your
lives like that, do you? How long have you been together?"

"Five years,' the two said proudly, in unison. They held hands and gazed
fondly at each other. He flexed his thighs and rose slightly in his
chair, sucking air into his nose like a gorilla on heat. She tossed the
silky black mane back from her face and dimpled.

The soap star, whose spectacular but speedy amours, usually with other
women's husbands, often featured in the tabloids, sighed romantically.

"Do you see yourselves staying together, having children, maybe?" "Oooh,
yeah,' the girl said, and snickered. She tugged his hand. '' you do too,
Gary. You've said so." "Only if they're boys,' her boyfriend said
stoutly. Then I can take them to watch Arsenal."

"Oh, you are a bleedin' horror,' the girl yelped. '' what about my
bleedin' birthday, then?" A screech came from Bob, the floor manager. '
said family viewing. Cut.

Can we do that again?"

The recording finished almost on schedule. Though the football fan and
his girlfriend caused much grief before their piece was acceptable, the
pallid teenager who featured in the second half of the show was given
short shrift. He had been put in charge of a girlfriend's cat while the
friend was on holiday. She was due back the following week. The cat
wandered, as cats will, and had been run over and killed. Should he come
clean and tell her, or buy a new cat and hope the hapless owner could
not tell the difference?

The soap star, it turned out, was a feline fanatic. The

194 Edwina Currie owner would know, instantly, and be devastated. Her
solution was for the youth to meet the girl at the airport with a
contrite expression and a box under his arm. And a tiny winsome kitten
inside the box.

"Right, that's a wrap,' said Bob with a grateful sigh. ' time tomorrow,
boys and girls. Thank you all."

Father Roger lingered with members of the audience. He was handing out
cards with pictures of St. Veronica's inset with a photograph of himself
and signing autographs. Hetty watched him as she shooed people out.

He caught her eye, winked, then excused himself and came back to her.

"You don't approve,' he said.

"It's only-' Hetty stopped. ''re a rum sort of priest, Roger. Do you
ever stop working?"

He considered. '. But then I love what I do."

"A calling.' '-e-es. I certainly felt called when I was a young man.

Can get wearisome sometimes, when parishioners roll up in numbers with
their disasters - real-life ones, not the minor stupidities we've had
today. Confession is the penance of High Church ministers. After dealing
with half a dozen impending broken marriages in one evening, I do feel a
little drained."

"When do you do confession?"

"Mondays and Wednesdays. After choir practice. Too often at the moment
it's members of the choir. They tend to assume they can sleep with each
other with impunity, that their misbehaviour is somehow Teflon-coated,
simply because they met in church. I tell them it won't wash in a
divorce court and they must make up their minds. Awful!"

Though he was shaking his head with a twinkle in his eye, Hetty sensed
that he was more deeply upset by such Chasing Men 195

adulteries than he might admit. ' you're inviting me, a single divorced
woman, to join in?' she countered wryly. ''t worry. If I do come, I'll
leave the surplices alone. But it sounds, Roger, as if you need a break.
What do you do when you're free?"

"Sleep. Read. Eat."

Hetty wondered what made her ask the next question. She had not planned
it. A priest had never figured in her potential list of companions. Nor,
even in fantasy, as a possible lover. He was a celibate by choice; she
was not about to challenge that. Perhaps that was why he intrigued her.

She noted that he had not said, Tray.' That fitted with his generally
secular approach to the programme as well.

"D'you ever go to the theatre? I get tickets quite often. One of my
neighbours is an actor. Might you like to?"

A fleeting wistfulness crossed his face. He opened his mouth as if to
refuse, then chuckled. ' a lovely idea,' he said. ' frivolous, mind.
Since you don't plan to become a regular attender yet, I can say I'm
still trying to persuade you."

She should not make assumptions. ' can always get an extra ticket, if
there's somebody - ah, a special friend - you'd like to bring along
too."

He drew himself up. ' am wedded to Mother Church. At least, in theory.

A kind offer, but no, no one skulks in the shadows. Though the diocese
is threatening me with a curate, God help me. They say a helper will
take the burden off my shoulders. Add to it, more like."

"Male or female?"

The priest crossed himself. ' am in their hands. I'll resist to the last
minute. I don't care what goes on under the cassock, Hetty. It's the
prospect of having another human being

196 Edwina Currie endlessly at my side, whimpering and pinching my
elbow, that puts me off. At least now, when the grumblers have gone, I
can sit and enjoy my solitude."

The job's getting to you. A night on the town will do you good."

"Dear girl, you're on."

They chose a Friday afternoon, when Tell Me All finished early. Clarissa
crashed the gears and swung the Volvo back into the street as Hetty
fumbled for the seatbelt.

"I have insisted to Robin that the next car must be automatic,' Clarissa
grunted. ' in the long run - I've wrecked three clutches. Now, how are
you?"

"I'm okay."

"No more drunken orgies, I hope?"

"It wasn't an orgy, Clarissa. It was a house-warming. And it was months
ago already."

"It sounded to me,' Clarissa disapproved, ' if you have some strange
neighbours. I should be very cautious."

"Unconventional. Not what I was used to, I grant you. But fun."

"Huh! Flotsam and jetsam. Nothings and nobodies. Hetty, darling, you can
do better than that. Now what else have you been up to?"

"I joined a slimming club. Bought a bike."

"God! Whatever for?"

"To try and keep fit, to get me to work quicker."

"You'll arrive looking a fright, and you'll get killed. Can't you afford
a car?"

"I can, just, but I don't want to. Anyway, parking round here's a
nightmare."

"You're mad. And you're getting madder. How can you Chasing Men 197

possibly manage without a car? Come to that, what about the other
necessities of life?"

"Such as?' Hetty had found the seatbelt clasp at last and snapped it
closed as Clarissa slammed on the brakes at a zebra crossing. They
rocked forward.

Two harassed mothers with pushchairs and toddlers straggled over the
crossing. Both women were pregnant. Clarissa pointed. ' they've got that
you haven't? A man and a home. Have you found yourself another chap
yet?"

What?"

"Another man. Have you got yourself fixed up? A boyfriend?"

"No:

"Why not? Aren't you trying?"

"A bit.' Hetty briefly described the episode with the adverts. ''m not
their type, I guess. They see me in fishnet tights and high heels, or
else they only want to chat on the phone. Or they offer nothing but a
cup of tea. Maybe when I've got trim my talent-spotting will improve."

"I hope so. It's been ages, Hetty."

"But I'm perfectly content as I am.' She said it defensively, but as the
words came out she realised it was not altogether a lie.

"Oh, rot. You say that, but you can't possibly be."

"Why can't I?' A hint of rebellion entered her tone.

"Because men are essential. We're sociable animals, Hetty. We mate,
we're bred to live in pairs. You'll go barmy, or strange, without a chap
in tow."

"I went a little strange when I had one,' Hetty ruminated. ' lost my
identity completely. These days I occupy much of my time finding out who
Hetty is, and what she is capable of."

198 Edwina Carrie Clarissa sniffed. ' me. I know what you need, and so
do you. Here we are."

Clarissa was right about the home at least. Deep-pile Wilton in lilac
welcomed their feet with an eerie sponginess. Hot air and neon hit them
as the automatic doors slid open, as if they had entered a hermetically
sealed netherworld. Muzak - a version of Bach, or was it Burt Bacharach?

caressed their ears.

A tiny old lady in a cream trouser suit scurried up to them, a clipboard
on her arm. '! Hello. Who are you looking for? I can take you there.
This place is such a rabbit warren. We like to make everybody welcome.
Tea is at three thirty in the coffee shop to the right on this floor.
Our sale of work starts on Friday, in the annexe. The Mayor is coming -
isn't that wonderful?' She paused for breath, her eyes wide and anxious.

"Millie Curtis, please. Can I ring her room?' Clarissa had a terrified
expression and reached behind her for Hetty's hand.

"Millie? No, she won't be in her room. I shouldn't try there. I saw her
ten minutes ago, heading for the library on the second floor. She'll be
going to the book club. Take the lift -- to your right, then left ... "

They followed instructions. As the greeter's voice hallooed after them,
"Have a nice day,' Hetty could feel Clarissa shudder.

"It's something else, this home,' said Hetty warmly, in an effort to
cheer up her friend. Both had removed their coats and were carrying them
over their arms, along with the bottle of Bristol Cream and a bunch of
spring flowers that Clarissa had brought. ' it as superb as this only on
the Chasing Men 199

ground floor, or is the rest equally luxurious?"

"Like a stick of rock. The same right through, except the top floor is
even hotter,' Clarissa answered grimly. They found the lift, pressed the
button and were transported silently and sedately to their destination.

It took a few moments to locate the library. From inside came a babble
of voices, then a shriek. ', I hated it! Hated it, I tell you!

Boring as hell. Nobody lives like that."

"You didn't like it because there was no sex."

"Precisely. What's the point of describing adultery and broken promises
and such - the plot was fine, I grant you if the action stops at the
bedroom door?"

"You are beyond redemption. You'd rather have those sleazy parliamentary
novels. Plenty of red meat for you in those."

The speakers were seated at opposite ends of a large table in the middle
of a room lined with filled bookshelves. One was a bosomy body in a
tweed suit, her left hand adorned with rings, the other ringless,
stick-thin and reedy, as if the faintest wind would blow her over. Hetty
learned later that these were respectively Phyllis and Moira, both in
their eighties, retired headmistresses of rival girls' schools. Phyllis,
the tubby one, was the fan of explicit fiction; the writer under
discussion, Hetty saw, was Maeve Binchy.

As Clarissa flinched in the presence of so much aged flesh, Hetty gazed
about. Every one of the ten or so residents present wore spectacles; two
were also using magnifying glasses. One old lady was bent double with a
dowager's hump. Her nose almost touched the tablecloth, but her
expression was alert and interested. Two participants, a grey-haired man
with a patrician manner and a short, shapeless woman in a Crimplene
dress, were in wheelchairs. The

200 Edwina Currie two other men present were shrinking before the
machine gun onslaught of the teachers. The table with its white cloth
and china crockery was set for tea.

"Millie?' Clarissa asked uncertainly.

A rangy individual in the far corner perked up. She wore what was
evidently a Chanel suit in dark red and a great deal of shiny jewellery.

"Clarissa! You've come. Lovely. Everybody, this is my niece. And you've
brought sherry! Quick, Phyllis, phone the kitchen for some glasses. How
delightful. And your friend - who is this, dear?"

Introductions were made as the tea trolley arrived laden with fruit-cake
and sticky pastries, pushed by a rotund black woman with a huge smile.

The glasses were soon filled and refilled. The conversation became
noisier and more animated. Space was made for Clarissa near her aunt,
and for Hetty beside the old gentleman in a wheelchair.

"I'm Hetty,' she addressed him. He was sitting bolt upright, silvery
hair framing a still handsome face with a square jaw and beetling
eyebrows. The hair was cut long so that it touched his shoulders and,
with the bottle-green velvet jacket and bow-tie, gave him a Bohemian
appearance.

"Professor Bernstein,' he answered, and shook hands. His speech had a
soft slur. No first name was offered.

Hetty helped him to tea and held the cake plate for him to choose.

"Professor of what?"

"Fine art. Slade. London University,' he said. He pointed at her empty
plate. ' eating?"

"I'm dieting. Or trying to."

He tipped his head back and examined her frankly, up and down. His brown
eyes were fierce under the brows. Hetty crossed her legs, uncomfortable
at his scrutiny.

"You have a Rubenesque figure. Womanly. Don't lose it.

Chasing Men 201

You would make a splendid life model. Most women these days are too
thin."

"Er, yes. Thank you,' said Hetty. Tell me about the club, Professor.

When does it meet?"

"Last Friday in each month. We choose an author. Usually by a process of
the lowest common denominator. I suggested the Hilary Spurling biography
of Matisse but nobody was interested. Maeve Binchy is not my cup of tea,
either, I'm afraid. But, then, neither was Jeffrey Archer.' He half
closed his eyes and sighed.

"Do you do the classics?"

"We do anything Phyllis and I can persuade them to do,' the Professor
replied. ' make endless deals. They can have Deborah Moggach next month,
for example, provided that after that it's Michael Wood on Alexander. I
have the video of him, which is a great incentive - some of them prefer
to read their books on TV. More politicking goes on in this room every
month than in the Doge's palace."

He opened his eyes again and stared at her, as if suddenly aware of her
presence. ' are you reading right now?"

"Pride and Prejudice," she answered instantly. ' I've got the video,
too."

He laughed then, a sweet, sad sound, as if he did not laugh often. '
remind me of my wife,' he added, but did not elaborate.

Hetty glanced around. The room was full of chattering noisy residents,
most of them disabled, each in need of assistance for the most personal
and intimate functions. Yet they were arguing convincingly and to the
point, managing at the same time to cram in enough tea, sandwiches and
homemade cakes to put a school cricket team to shame. Clarissa

202 Edwina Currie was the only person present who, jammed up against her
aunt (who was ignoring her) and Phyllis (who was slamming The Glass Lake
down furiously on the table, as if she wished to brain someone with it),
seemed ill at ease.

Hetty found herself smiling, and turned again to the Professor. They
seem happy,' she remarked.

"That's deceptive. Not one soul would be here if they had the choice.

But we haven't. Take me. I had a stroke. Would I truly prefer to spend
my last days with people I've never met before, whose tastes and ideas
may be a million light years from my own? But I can't manage in a normal
house any more, so here I am."

Hetty hesitated, then decided to be nosy. ' about your family?"

"I'm a widower. I have one daughter. She married against my wishes, and
we are not close.' The old man's mouth clamped tight shut and he stared
ahead of him.

It was safer to return to generalities. Hetty gestured discreetly at the
lively room. This is not quite what I anticipated when I said I'd tag
along with Clarissa,' she observed. ' reckon you're being too hard on
them, Professor. You could make new friends. They're a bright lot. They
still have their marbles."

"Don't be so surprised at that. Senility is not the main scourge of
ageing for most of us. One person in five over eighty goes peculiar, but
the other four stay mentally competent. Jenny there, who is so bowed
with osteoporosis, is ninety-two. She ran a multi-million-pound business
and has buried three husbands. She writes poetry. Phyllis and Moira
between them compile the home's newsletter - far snappier than the South
London Press. They pinch the crosswords from back copies of the Times.

We get slower and more Chasing Men 203

forgetful, maybe, but that's all. Don't patronise us, Hetty."

"I'm not. I'm correcting my own ignorance.' It had to be a self-selected
group; elsewhere, out of sight, must be many others whose grasp of
reality had long vanished. Hetty wondered whether to apologise, then saw
that the Professor was not angry. Emboldened, she tried another tack.

"Do you get lots of visitors - former students and colleagues, perhaps?"

"A few. I'm old, Hetty. So are they. They die. Or get so decrepit, like
me, that they can't visit either. I do use the phone a lot. And e-mail
and the Internet are a blessing."

A sudden vision of the Professor indulging in Rosa's chat room came to
Hetty's mind. She dismissed it, but not before a naughty giggle escaped
from her lips.

The Professor bridled. ''s so funny?"

Hetty was about to demur, then explained in a low voice. The Professor
chuckled. ' shall have to log on to that,' he said.

A possibility was forming in Hetty's mind. It might be dismissed out of
hand but there was no harm in trying. ',' she said slowly, 'this club is
more fun than I've had for ages. I have some spare Friday afternoons.
Suppose I came regularly? I'd love to learn more about books, and maybe
I could make myself useful, pushing wheelchairs, or whatever. It's about
time I did some volunteering. And maybe I could be your ally."

"In choosing authors?"

Hetty nodded.

"An excellent notion. And afterwards, if you do that, you could come and
have a glass of good wine with me before I go in for supper. I like
you."

The tea was being tidied away. Phyllis tapped her saucer with a spoon
for attention. ', are we clear? Deborah

204 Edwina Currie Moggach next time, concentrating on Close Relations.
We'll set up the video, then we can compare the televised and printed
versions."

"She pontificates as if she's setting us all an essay,' Hetty hissed to
the Professor. It was his turn to nod, and half smile.

"It's horrible! It's dirty! Three in a bed,' protested Moira. ''s the
literature in that?"

Jenny, bent almost in a semicircle by her bowed spine, uncurled herself
with great effort and glared at the scrawny spinster. ' had assumed,"
she said, in a startlingly resonant voice, ' we were all grown-up here."

"Hear, hear,' came from round the room, and '!' and ' for you, Jenny!'
The matter was settled, with Moira fluttering back into her seat
abashed, Phyllis triumphant, the two silent old men somewhat flushed
with anticipation, and Clarissa's aunt asking in a loud squawk what had
been decided.

Hetty rose and shook hands with the Professor as a porter came to take
his chair. She left Clarissa with her aunt and went to find the
volunteer organiser. It was soon arranged. In a trice a roomful of new
acquaintances, people of whom she could make no pre-judgements but would
have to take on their merits, had entered her world - or, rather, she
had entered theirs.

The Professor in particular, with his vigour and intelligence, had
intrigued her. And the way he had swept her up and down, as if sizing
her up sexually. The idea was preposterous, but she did not feel
disgusted. Instead, those dark eyes under the fierce brows had paid her
a heady compliment, to which she was not immune.

Chasing Men 205

When she got home the answerphone was blinking.

"Hi, Hetty. Al here. I'm playing a gig near you this weekend - Brixton.

Not as salubrious as New Year's Eve, but they're a great bunch. Don't be
put off by the neighbourhood - Brixton's cool. Will you come? And party
with us afterwards?"

Hetty took off her gloves and coat, and put the kettle on. Then she came
back to the phone, picked up the handset and dialled. It was the first
time she had responded quickly to one of Al's calls. With relief she
heard a recorded message: ' here! I'm not far away, so leave a message,
or try my mobile ... " "Al,' she said firmly. ' is Hetty. Please stop
phoning me. I came to one of your gigs, but 1 don't want to come to any
more. Jazz isn't for me, sorry. I don't need it, don't like it, and
don't want it. Forgive me. '."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Lurry's Party Hetty stood in front of the mirror, holding the blue
cocktail dress from New Year's Eve. It would fit well now that she had
lost a few pounds. ' absolutely don't want to go to Larry's party,' she
said, as she zipped up the dress. ' am sick to death of pseudo-friends
trying to push me around."

Her reflection in the mirror frowned. ''re being too hard on them," it
chided. ''s not so bad. Better than him, in many ways."

Hetty shrugged, perplexed, as she applied her lipstick. ' must be doing
something right. This is the longest he's stayed with anybody." "Or
maybe,' her alter ego suggested cruelly, ''s getting too old to move
on."

Hetty clipped on her earrings and reached for her coat. Thanks. I'll
keep that by me, as my bigger, older brother tries to re-order my life.

I do wish he wouldn't."

Chasing Men 207

"Maybe he'll resist the temptation ... ?"

"Larry? Larry ? You must be joking. Here we go ... " The long-promised,
long-delayed dinner party for Hetty was to be mid-week at the house in
Fulham. That required minicabs, but in turn that meant she could drink.
With a determined air Hetty paid off the scruffy cab with its unshaven
driver, picked her way through tightly parked Audis and BMWs, and rang
the doorbell.

"Hetty! Mwah, mwah!' It was Larry, in an open-necked navy shirt and too
much Hugo Boss aftershave. He held her by the shoulders at arm's length.

"It's yonks since we've seen you, sis. You're thinner. You okay?"

"Yes, well, I've been trying to get the weight off,' said Hetty.

"Weight is very ageing,' Larry agreed, as he led her into the narrow
hall and took her coat. He patted his midriff. ' to lose a pound or two
myself, eh?"

If the correct reply to that was ', Larry, you're magnificent as you
are,' Hetty was not about to oblige. The doorbell rang again. She waited
patiently to be shown into the living room and offered some hospitality.

"Aha! Nicholas!' Larry hooted the name as if it carried a spell. Hetty
edged out of the firing line as a large camel overcoat was flung at the
coathanger rack, and found herself at the top of steps leading into the
warmth of the kitchen.

"Hello, Davinia. Smells wonderful.' Hetty handed over the bottle of
South African Shiraz, which was accepted without thanks and placed next
to two other assorted bottles on the dresser. Larry and Davinia would
not leave the wine selection to chance.

Davinia was bent over a bubbling pot, tasting and

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Lurry's Party Hetty stood in front of the mirror, holding the blue
cocktail dress from New Year's Eve. It would fit well now that she had
lost a few pounds. ' absolutely don't want to go to Larry's party,' she
said, as she zipped up the dress. ' am sick to death of pseudo-friends
trying to push me around."

Her reflection in the mirror frowned. ''re being too hard on them," it
chided. ''s not so bad. Better than him, in many ways."

Hetty shrugged, perplexed, as she applied her lipstick. ' must be doing
something right. This is the longest he's stayed with anybody."

"Or maybe,' her alter ego suggested cruelly, ''s getting too old to move
on."

Hetty clipped on her earrings and reached for her coat. Thanks. I'll
keep that by me, as my bigger, older brother tries to re-order my life.

I do wish he wouldn't."

Chasing Men 209

A tall man, dressed in a dark Armani suit, striped shirt and silk tie,
held out his hand. '. So you're the famous sister?"

Hetty nodded meekly. He was tanned and pleasant-looking, a glass of red
wine in his hand. Then she blinked. ''t I know you from somewhere?"

"I don't think so ...' Nicholas began. Then he stopped. His hand flew to
his mouth. He leaned forward. ' Me Allt he asked in a low voice.

Hetty nodded. This was the same Nicholas with a well paid job in the
City, who dreamed of throwing it all up to become a writer. The Nicholas
whom she had considered, fleetingly, as a potential partner for herself,
but had never followed up. A failure of nerve, perhaps, or a perverse
irritation with all those who were so insistent that she could not
survive alone.

Larry was glancing quickly from one to the other. ''ve met already?"

"Kind of,' Hetty replied. She waited till Larry had scuttled away once
more to answer the door. Then she turned her attention more fully to
Nicholas, and noted that the description on the computer of a
rugged-looking man with fair hair and brown eyes was accurate. He was -
nice. ' programme you're in will be broadcast in a fortnight or so," she
told him. ' or one of the other researchers will contact you."

"And the day after I'll be famous, I suppose,' Nicholas murmured.

"You'd be surprised how many people watch it.' Hetty was unclear whether
this would reassure or worry him. ' might be wise to cover your back.

At work, I mean. You did imply you were on the point of resigning."

210 Edwina Currie Tm in a bit of flux at present - that wasn't flannel.
It's a secure income but, as I said on the programme, I have found
myself so restless.' He smiled, a slow gentle smile, and seemed to gaze
deep into her eyes.

Hetty felt herself become flustered. ' ... Your employers might not take
too kindly to that. At worst, you could find yourself out on your ear."

Nicholas gulped half his wine, moodily. Television - it's so immoral. Or
do I mean amoral? I hoped I might get some in-depth analysis. But it's
just entertainment, isn't it? The schedules dish up endless makeovers -
people with problems, rooms, gardens, even pets. You claim to resolve
their dilemmas, but it's illusory."

"It's what the viewers want. I shall be taking part in a makeover myself
shortly,' she told him, and outlined the theme of Star Style. ' must be
crazy. I don't approve of us judging everyone on their appearance.

There's illusion for you. And I share your distaste for the letdown
afterwards."

"You do? Surely what happens afterwards, to your victims, is of no
concern to you programme makers."

Tm a mere researcher,' Hetty responded crisply. ' we do try to persuade
participants to weigh the consequences. They never listen, of course.
What about yourself, why did you agree to appear?"

"It was Davinia, actually,' Nicholas said lightly. ' convinced me. I
don't think she knew it was your series. But she said it'd do no harm.

It'd make my boss realise I meant it. They'd see they need me. She says
the most likely outcome is promotion."

"Oh, really?' Hetty could not help sounding waspish. Best to change the
subject. ' you known them long?"

"Years.' Nicholas's glass was empty and he examined the Chasing Men 211

dregs. Then he barked, ' say, you haven't got a drink. What would you
like? Red? White?" "Same as you,' said Hetty, glad that someone had
noticed at last.

Nicholas marched off, seeming to know his way about.

A clatter in the hall announced Clarissa and Robin, and Hetty's mother,
who had arrived on the doorstep at the same moment. Robin and Larry had
kept in touch since college days. The table in the conservatory was set
for eight, so that left only James Dolland still missing.

"Darling!' Clarissa enfolded her in a bear-hug, then, as Larry had,
examined Hetty from head to foot. ''re getting ... "

Thinner, I hope,' Hetty forestalled her. ''s deliberate, so don't tell
me 1 was perfect before. If anybody's going to make me over, I'd rather
do it myself."

Clarissa looked mystified, as Robin took their coats. ''t forget what I
said in the car. Larry explained when he rang. Tonight could be the
start of a great adventure."

"Clarissa -' Hetty tried to protest, but Robin had returned: Robin,
bluff, red-faced and exuberant, who put his arm round her and gave her a
breath-crushing squeeze.

"Hello, Hetty old girl. You surviving? Never mind, it won't be long."

"What won't be long?' Hetty felt herself begin to burn.

"Oh, you know. Larry's told us. He feels so responsible for you. Couple
of likely lads for you to check over tonight. Not one but two. Take your
time. You gotta start somewhere.' And he gave her another gasping
squeeze.

Hetty spluttered, but he and Clarissa had swept into the further reaches
of the living room, where introductions were made with Nicholas. Hetty's
mother emerged from the

212 Edwina Curne kitchen and gave her a kiss ' will be edible, if
nothing else," she announced to her daughter The tyranny of the
committed cook1 Come upstairs while I say hello to my grandsons'

Hetty wondered privately why her mother had been invited, if the
objective was as blatant a matchmaking - or meat market - as Robin
implied Perhaps she was an obvious adjunct at an event involving her two
children It would have required a decision, and not a pleasant one, to
leave her out Her mother's tact in not bringing an escort - in being
Mother -- was noteworthy, but not entirely plausible Maybe she was in on
the conspiracy as well The two women traipsed up six flights to the top
storey The house was badly organised, dark and cramped bathrooms were
not next to bedrooms, windows gave out on to blank walls, store
cupboards spilled open with laundry cast higgledy-piggledy over the
stairs Not for the first time Hetty pondered the values of those who
paid over half a million pounds for a property arranged on four
minuscule floors with naught but an attic for the surly nanny and
nowhere to park the Alfa Romeo A racket came from one of the bedrooms
Two small boys in the latest Star Wars pyjamas were hurling pillows at a
television They were surrounded by a dozen snack packs and Fanta
bottles, crumbs littered the duvet Behind them a computer screen flashed
with repetitions of a game involving a great deal of kicking and
slashing of opponents This was the bedroom of the older boy, similar to
his brother's next door

"Isn't that Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels7' Hetty asked,
astonished ' grown up for you - should you be watching it7'

Chasing Men 213

"Bang' Pow1 Gotcha,' was the reply Neither child acknowledged the
visitors

"Say hello to your grandma,' Hetty suggested ' your Auntie Hetty'

"Yeah1 How many's that71 counted fourteen dead bodies,' one shock-haired
infant challenged the other Hetty tried again, but it was apparent that
in the children's world, adults intruded only if they were armed with
pump-action shotguns and litres of fake blood After several more
attempts and anodyne remarks, the women crept back downstairs

"Yours were better behaved, even at that age,' was Peggy's comment

"It's unacceptable,' said Hetty ' kind of kids are we producing7'

"I blame television,' said her mother knowingly Hetty bit her lip It was
possible that James had appeared in their absence Hetty was in no hurry
to find out ''s the Colonel7 Still going strong7'

"Still asleep, more like,' was her parent's answer Peggy, as elegantly
dressed as ever, straightened and rubbed her back ''s a nuisance Do I
want him at it morning, noon and night7 I should be relieved if he dozes
off at the drop of a hat'

Hetty giggled ' we should get Larry to pair you off with some of his
pals, instead of me, she mused ' feel most uncomfortable about tonight I
wish everyone wouldn't keep trying to stuff me into a mould of their own
manufacture Why do I have to be like everyone else7 I am changing
changed a heap since I bought my flat - but at my own pace'

214 Edwina Currie

"You could have refused the invitation,' her mother said.

"Not without causing a family row. I'd have preferred it if Larry and
Davinia had asked me round after the divorce. Then, I needed every ounce
of support. Maybe that's exactly why they didn't. Brother dear took his
time, but then he wouldn't be put off."

Her mother touched her arm. ' all want you to be happy, Hetty."

"Oh, don't you start too. I am happy. More or less. For the moment,
anyhow."

But for the moment it was easier to scale down the resistance movement
and go with the flow. As the doorbell rang again, Hetty was well into
her second glass of red wine, and was watching amused as her mother
flirted mildly with Nicholas. He did indeed seem familiar with the
layout: when the Celine Dion CD ended, he casually slipped another into
the midi-system.

Davinia appeared, pulling off a plastic pinny emblazoned with the Naked
Chef, and urged them to the table. It was stylishly set, Hetty had to
admit, and must have taken hours to do. Davinia, a devotee of Harper's
and Queen like Clarissa, had probably copied a photospread. Cutlery and
Venetian glassware gleamed. Each napkin was folded in a winged shape. In
the centrepiece purple nasturtiums and cornflower heads floated
fetchingly in water at the base of frosted blue candles. The lights were
dimmed, the candles lit. The glow over the blue tablecloth, silver
napkin rings and gilt-edged white Thomas china was seductive, if
contrived.

The seating-plan must have been the source of some dismay to her host
and hostess. Two couples, no fewer than four singles. Hetty could just
imagine the arguments: it must have felt so untidy. The guest of honour,
Hetty, was seated Chasing Men 215

with her back to the French windows, with Nicholas to her left and Robin
to her right. Larry was too far away to chat to but winked at her
infuriatingly. Next to Nicholas was Davinia. The City man was pouring
wine and chatting graciously. He was undoubtedly at ease.

And opposite her, in a fluster because he had so nearly been late and
ruined the meal, was James. James Dolland, he of the phone call, of the
totally forgettable features. Hetty smiled politely, half rose, shook
hands. Davinia was busying herself ladling soup; Clarissa's eyes locked
on Hetty, to catch her immediate reaction.

James. Pleasant enough, Hetty decided. About five foot ten, a little
heavy for his height, smooth-shaven, a bit jowly. Greying at the edges,
his hair might once have been quite dark. In a lightly pin-striped suit,
with a blue shirt, a club tie. From the way he was breaking his bread
roll and talking too fast, he was highly nervous.

"So, do you remember me? I was in Larry's class at school."

Hetty let her gaze drop demurely. ' was a while ago, James."

"Well, I remember you. Larry's little sister. You had pigtails and
scraped knees."

"That's because my brother was forever pushing me over. If not him, then
his gang,' Hetty reminisced. She reached for her glass, her third. ' it
wasn't you, James."

The?' The idea appeared to floor him. ', I didn't go round knocking
girls over. Not my scene, even then. I was a shy boy."

Not setting me on fire now, either, Hetty reflected, but suppressed it.

She smiled her way through the sour-tasting orange soup, leaving as much
as she dared in the bowl. Only

216 Edwina Currie Larry ate it with gusto. Peggy helped clear the
plates. Davinia brought in a large leg of lamb garnished with rosemary
and smelling strongly of garlic to cries of synthetic delight; the
platter was placed in front of Larry. He wielded the carving knife with
a wide flourish and less skill, the embodiment of a paterfamilias. Roast
potatoes, roast fennel and peppers, cauliflower and broccoli, sauceboats
with thin winy jus and redcurrant conserve were passed around. Mint
sauce, it appeared, was too infra dig.

The noise level increased. Larry was telling a complicated tale to Robin
whose jocularity and rotundity waxed with every mouthful. Mother was
listening, a sliver of vegetable on her fork, a faraway haze in her
eyes. Hetty realised, with a wistful pang, how pretty her mother was,
despite her age. Or perhaps because of it: that understated elegance had
not come easily or soon. Nicholas was leaning close to Davinia,
murmuring so low Hetty could not grasp his words. Clarissa was offering
James fresh English mustard, spooning it on to his plate with a flick of
her wrist. So that's how you flirt, Hetty observed. But this guy needs
more than mustard.

"Hey! That's mine! Give it back!"

A screech came from the stairwell, followed by a series of bangs and
crunches, as if two bodies were being flung against each other and the
staircase. There was a crash of splintering wood, then another, louder
bang, and a squeal of pain and rage.

Davinia dropped her napkin. ' what?' she yelped, and ran out of the
conservatory. She returned in a moment, panting hard and dragging the
two boys, one by the arm, the other by his Darth Vader pyjama bottoms.

The smaller one was clutching a lurid plastic tommy-gun, the other the
video in its box.

Chasing Men 217

"You give the bloody nanny the night off, and see what happens,' she
fumed, to no one in particular, though the accusation could only be
directed at Larry. She shook the infants like wet puppies. ' told you
two not to watch that crap. It makes you hyper. Encourages you to thump
each other."

"Hello, kids,' Larry greeted them mildly. The other guests sat frozen,
unsure whether to react or offer advice, except Robin who continued to
masticate steadily and Clarissa who sipped her wine, her eyes alight.

They've done it this time,' Davinia said crossly, dropping the children
in a heap on the carpet, where they continued to tumble about and hit
each other with balled-up fists, though to no apparent effect. They've
broken a piece of the banister. The beech part you had restored last
year. It'll cost a fortune to have it mended."

"No, it won't.' Larry eased back in his chair. Til have a go at it
tomorrow. Nothing a nail and a bit of wood glue won't fix."

"Are they okay?' came doubtfully from James. The boys had rolled over
and were pummelling each other under his feet. He shifted his chair.

"Oh, yes. Indestructible. Boys will be boys,' said Larry. Then, somewhat
reluctantly he stood up, grabbed each infant from under the table by the
scruff of its neck, and hauled them out of the room. The guests could
hear Davinia mutter crossly to him, ' time, we get rid of the kids.

There's a limit,' before the two partners resumed their seats, full of
fluttering apology.

"Do you have children?' Hetty asked James.

"Yes. Grown-up, now I'm afraid."

"Mine too. Nineteen and twenty-three. Quite an

218 Edwina Currie achievement to get them off our hands, isn't it?
Though I miss them."

"You have children that age? I'm surprised.' James was almost smirking.

Hetty sighed. Since he knew her year at school - and the same went for
him: if he was in her brother's class then he was fifty-three or
thereabouts - there was no mileage in pretence.

"Started young. You too.' Now that was flirting. Hetty felt a twinge of
shame and pushed it away. She ploughed on, feeling a total amateur. '
view is that we're lucky to be mature people. We've experienced the most
important elements in life - marriage, kids and so on. I'm glad I did,
but I don't want to mourn what's past. Or to repeat the exercise,
necessarily. Maybe I'll try pastures new."

"Footloose and fancy-free, then?' He was smirking.

"In a manner of speaking.' Hetty considered whether she was simply too
sober to relish this man's conversation and drained her glass. ' you
pour me some more?"

As the meal proceeded the wax candles dripped slowly into the water to
make blobby islands. The candlelight flickered through the red wine: she
could easily have spent the evening twiddling the fluted glass,
fascinated, paying no attention to those around her. It was proving
difficult to find topics of conversation to share with James. If Markus
had been here, she'd have interrogated him about his latest theatre
project, even if much he said was over her head. Doris would have
offered gossip from the neighbourhood; Father Roger would have told
tales of his parishioners, or what the bishop was getting up to, or the
latest synod fuss. The BJs would probably have gurgled through conquests
and lost loves, real and imaginary. Rosa would have been telling dirty
jokes by now, and would leave with at least one Chasing Men 219

of the men hanging on her arm. Even Sally was a worthwhile companion in
private, though still morose and withdrawn in public.

Getting to know a new person was not easy. Hetty sat up straight and
gamely tried again. ' you go to movies? What did you see most recently?'
she asked James.

"We don't get to see many films where we live,' he said, then coloured.

"I mean,' he stammered, ' don't see many films."

"Aaah.' She let the vowels emerge slowly. ''s we, James?"

"I live in the countryside,' was all he would add. But Hetty had arrived
at her own conclusion. In a minute James had excused himself and gone to
the bathroom.

Clarissa leaned across the table. ''re you getting on?' she demanded.

"I think he's married, Clarissa,' Hetty mouthed.

"So what? He wouldn't be here alone if he was happily married,' came
back the swift reply. ''d have brought his wife. He's available, I'll
bet."

Hetty groaned, and subsided. James, looking sheepish, slid back into his
seat.

Pudding time. The doors to the kitchen were hauled open, the lights
switched off. Then came a zizzzz and suddenly the conservatory was
ablaze, as the sparklers on top of the bombe surprise caught alight and
fizzled brilliantly. '!' and '!' greeted the sight, as Larry and Davinia
carefully shuffled their display before their guests. There was nowhere
to put the tray on the crowded table, so it was deposited precariously
on a bookcase. As the dessert was spooned on to plates, gobs of meringue
and ice cream dripped unheeded on to the leather bound books. On future
visits to this house, 220 Edwina Currie Hetty realised, the stained
spines would serve as a reminder of this night's curious ordeal, and as
proof that the volumes were for show and seldom for reading.

She toyed with the dessert, she listened to James, debating with herself
whether to make more effort or not. It was one thing to resent the
matchmaking. It would be another to reject the match out of hand. Hetty
had neglected Nicholas: he might be a livelier companion. When she
twisted about to speak to him, however, he was gazing fondly at Davinia,
bent over the bombe, her hair tumbling over her flushed face.

"Lovely meal,' Hetty commented, fork in hand. The meringue had not quite
set and slid in slimy whiteness about the plate. Hetty remembered what
uncooked eggs can do and deftly extracted the ice cream and sponge.

"Hasn't Davinia done well?" "She's a lovely girl,' Nicholas murmured,
rather drunkenly. His face was blotchy and he had loosened his tie,
though that air of well-meant niceness had not forsaken him.

Hetty glanced sharply at him. ' been friends how long?"

"Depends what you mean. ' a year, properly."

Hetty explored. ' and Larry seem well suited. A highly successful
couple."

"He's a lucky man. He doesn't know it."

"Oh, I think he does. He is my brother."

"No.' Nicholas spoke with asperity. The object of his devotion was out
of earshot at the far end of the table, offering seconds. ' does not
appreciate her qualities. He expects her to behave entirely as a
traditional wife. And that's wrong for her."

"It is?"

Chasing Men 221

"Yesss.' His speech was slurred. ''s a terrific girl. It's a tragedy.

Getting dragged down by dome-estissitty.' Completion of the word clearly
gave him some satisfaction and Nicholas repeated it to himself.

"I've always considered them quite a conventional pair,' said Hetty
cautiously. ' are much agitated about my being out on a limb, at any
rate." "She used to be a model. A beauty,' said Nicholas mournfully.

This was too juicy to miss. Hetty's sense of mischief surfaced. ', if
you decide to quit the City and become a writer,' she whispered, ' will
Davinia make of that?"

"She says I should go for it. No more being tied down and miserable. No
more commuting. Freedom!"

"And what about the children?"

"I don't have any. Or I do, but my wife has them. Nothing to do with me,
now."

"I meant hers."

Nicholas gave her a bleary glance, reached for his glass and drained it.

"God-awful little monsters,' he said. With that at least Hetty could
agree. The man had taste.

The guests rose from the table to the buzz of a whirring dishwasher.

Liqueurs, brandy and vodka made their appearance in the living room with
the coffee. Hetty settled for a Drambuie on ice and was soothed by its
chilled sweetness. James, to her relief, began to converse on the sofa
with Robin.

She headed upstairs to tidy her hair, and halted outside the bedroom
door.

"Well, you should be worried about her,' came Clarissa's loud voice from
the bedroom. ' has started hitting the bottle, you know."

222 Edwina Curne

"Nonsense1' came her mother, robustly ''s coping far better than I
expected '

"She's terribly lonely You can see it in her eyes' Clarissa was fierce
"Look at the way she was chatting James up across the table tonight'

"James7 Did she7 I didn't check' Her mother laughed lightly, as if the
idea was extraordinary Hidden from their view, Hetty pressed her fist to
her mouth

"Desperate for a man Any man, if we're not careful Poor Hetty I feel so
sorry for her '

"That's admirable of you And you her best friend'

Hetty was shaking, her emotions boiling within her How dare they7
Clarissa especially What right had they - or anyone - to discuss her as
if she were a three-legged dog or a threat to polite society7 She fled
and hid behind the first door she came to the bathroom She locked
herself in With friends like that, who needed anyone7

Yet she had gone along with it, this flirtation with James It would have
been rude to ignore him, but she had persevered and tried to get him to
relax That had led to his slip about the cinema, but at least she had a
clearer picture Larry must be aware of the wife in the countryside,
surely7 Odd that her brother, so bent on seeing her coupled once more,
was casually willing to forget the potential damage to another couple Or
maybe Larry was so eager to reform her that he hadn't given it a
moment's pause Should she walk out now7 Hetty seethed, and held her
temper only with the greatest effort She washed her hands, twice, and
twisted the towel till her knuckles went white She banged her palm
furiously on the porcelain and wished she shared the vicious destructive
tendencies of her nephews Chasing Men 223

Above the bath, on a shelf, sat an array of scent bottles and jars
Allure and Dune, De La Renta and Fifth Avenue, relics of countless
duty-free traps They recalled the antique perfume phials on her own
mantelpiece, those mute witnesses to the choices originally facing her
Some had been rejected - such as getting perpetually drunk or eating
herself silly Or turning tail and running back home, or succumbing to
genteel poverty Some she had avoided, so far becoming depressed or
making a career of crying for help, though that message had not been
received by either Clarissa or Larry, it seemed Hetty screwed up her
eyes and tried to remember the other options, taking dabs of Davima's
perfumes with shaky fingertips She had indeed found a job and a church
and some voluntary work, though the book club with its raucous
discussions on sex was distinctly unexpected That left chasing men, or
being chased by them Or both At last she peered out the bedroom opposite
was silent and empty She reeked, powerfully As she splashed a final dash
of Davima's Passion on her hot brow, she pointed crossly at the mirror

"Don't you say a word I will do my best But do they have to be so dull7
Or married7 Or mad7 Are there no normal, kind, friendly, attractive
unmarried men out there7'

"No,' replied the image bluntly ' do with what's on offer It could be
worse '

She started to descend the stairs, conscious of being a bit wobbly They
had had a lot to drink the empties must come to over a dozen bottles At
the corner of the half-landing a door was slightly ajar As she passed,
it was closed from inside by a foot But not before she had caught a
glimpse of a man in shirtsleeves and Armam trousers in a clinch with a
tousled strawberry blonde

224 Edwina Currie From the kitchen came a yell and a loud oath.
Clarissa's squeal rose above the commotion, but there was giggly
collusion in it rather than real fear: ', he's passed out. Daft old
bugger. I warned you you'd had enough. Robin, do get up. Don't make such
a fool of yourself ... "

The future head of chambers was sprawled on the floor amid the debris of
dinner, eyes shut tight, bald head pink and shiny, knees tucked up
almost in the foetal position, likt a beached walrus. His expression was
merry and he was gurgling gently. '' wanna get up! Better down here .

.. tired." "Is he ill?' Hetty asked. ' we fetch a doctor?"

Clarissa prodded him with her foot in distaste. ' the first time he's
done it, won't be the last. He calls it "letting gravity take hold"."

She bent over and yelled, ', darling, you're a fat slob. I'm going to
get the car and bring it round. You'd better jump to it, ' I'm not
carrying you."

The walrus hiccuped from its prone position, grunted and began to snore.

James was at her side. ', you smell gorgeous. Delightful evening, wasn't
it?" "Er, yes,' said Hetty. Her head was starting to pound. Bed would be
a good idea. But (done. Taxi first. Where had she left that card?

"I have your phone number, Hetty. Larry gave it me. If I contact you
again, maybe we could have a meal together?"

"Er, yes, if you like.' Hetty was too weary to argue. James squeezed her
hand and looked smug; he turned aside to speak to Larry, as if to report
success.

Her arm was suddenly grabbed from the direction of the pantry, and she
found herself held tightly by Davinia, jammed up against stone-ground
flour and jars of guacamole, out of sight of the other milling guests.

Chasing Men 225

"You didn't see anything,' came a fierce whisper.

Hetty was unclear whether this was a statement of fact or a plea. ' sure
I know what you're talking about, Davinia,' she answered hesitantly.

The and - you know. You won't let on, will you?"

Despite her headache, Hetty found herself inquisitive. Did she mean
Nicholas? ' two an item, then?"

"Sort of. Nothing serious. Don't fret - I shan't be leaving your
precious brother."

Hetty was sorely tempted. ' Davinia, you and Larry so deserve each
other."

Davinia shrugged: she obviously took the remark as a compliment. Hetty
did not elaborate. The puzzle was how Nicholas, earnest and
well-meaning, could have let himself get embroiled with this household.

Davinia must have hidden talents.

Time for coats, for hugs, for goodbyes. The minicab was even dirtier
than its predecessor, its driver more evilly villainous. The alternative
was to stay over in the spare room. Home, however, was a bare ten
minutes away. If the cabby tried anything, Hetty would be too far gone
to care.

"So, sis, enjoy yourself?' Larry was as overbearing as ever, though his
eyes were drooping and bloodshot. He sniffed, twice.

"Rather!' she answered gaily. ' was kind of you both. I'm so grateful."

He leered. ' any conquests? James is impressed. You might have tried
harder with Nicholas but, then, he's the sensitive type. According to
Davinia, anyway."

"He was charming.' She struggled into her coat, then looked her brother
straight in the eye. Tm fine, Larry. I appreciate your concern."

226 Edwina Currie

"Nah. You can't be. Not till your love-life is restored. A new chap. And
you need the whole hog, sis. A house, garden, the lot." "Like yours?'
she asked, archly, then regretted the implied sarcasm. Not that either
Larry or Davinia had caught her mood. ' do have a super home, honest.
And the boys,' she added hastily.

"Thanks, sis.' He preened, and kissed her cheek. His breath smelt of
garlic and brandy. ''ve got everything a man could want here. A woman
too, if she's got any sense. Keep in touch."

"I will. And thanks."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

In Style The reception at the Wandsworth studios was a square lobby
bland with beige paint, low sofas, overlarge dried flowers and dusty
foliage in brown pots. The area was a familiar stamping ground to Hetty.
Here daily she would greet guests, soothe their neuroses and nurture
them like a mother hen till it was time for their performance. It was
strange to be the guest herself for the recording of Star Style, dressed
down in jeans and a baggy sweater.

"Good Lord, Mother! What have you done?"

Hetty stared in disbelief as her mother came through the door. Peggy was
blonde. Not an understated ash tint, but a bold yellow colour. Like a
canary.

The new Goldie Hawn patted her hair nervously. ' don't like it?"

"I'm not sure.' Hetty circled her cagily. ''m not used to having a
vibrant sexy lady as a parent. You put me to shame."

Peggy shrugged. ' figured if I was going to be on TV I'd

228 Edwina Currie better make a splash. I could not - could not - obey
that instruction to start off ordinary. I tried a new hairdresser
yesterday, but she overdid it. It is a bit bright."

"You make me appear positively dowdy. What colour will my hair have to
be if I'm to compete - fuchsia?"

Peggy found her lipstick and compact and checked the frizz, her
confidence intact. She wore the same elegant maroon Jean Muir dress and
jacket as at Larry's party. ''t you excited?' she trilled.

"No,' Hetty said shortly. ' can't imagine what made me agree to this
farce. It's a load of trivial nonsense. I must have taken leave of my
senses."

"But made over, you'll look fabulous, dear,' her mother soothed. ''t you
find that a simply magical experience?"

Hetty began to say ',' again, then settled for accepting her mother's
enthusiasm. ' wonder, genuinely, why I did agree to it. Perhaps because
it's telly, arid I work in the business: it would have been churlish to
refuse. They caught me at a weak moment when Sally had dashed in to tell
me about her new job. I was feeling magnanimous. Or maybe my battered
vanity surfaced, what remains of it. Hope I don't live to regret it."

"Why should you, dear? Both yours and this are splendid programmes."

"Thank you. We try. But Tell Me All isn't intended to make them look
good on screen, as Star Style is. As some people arrive it dawns on them
that, for all their boasting or whingeing over the phone, it's entirely
another matter to go on TV and expose their privates in public. Some
have the wit to fast forward to the day after transmission.' And some
haven't, she said to herself, as Nicholas floated into her mind.

"I feel sorry for a lot of them,' her mother said, stoutly.

Chasing Men 229

"Like the woman who suffered from blushing. Father Roger was too unkind
to her. Suggesting that if she hadn't announced the fact to the nation,
nobody would have noticed."

"But that was true. She was no more a blusher than I am. What kind of
strange personality is so keen to be on the box that she makes out she
has a major disability?"

"And that lady you had with the awful pimply teenagers who wanted to
spend their grandfather's legacy on CDs and a Gameboy, when she offered
to put it away for them. I had no doubts which side I was on."

The law, unfortunately, was on their side,' Hetty answered. ' Grandad
knew he was making mischief when he wrote that will. He probably died
laughing."

Tve made my will,' Peggy said suddenly. ''re in it, of course."

"Don't talk like that. You'll be around for years yet."

"I hope so. But in case. Have you made yours?"

Hetty was startled. "I honestly hadn't thought about it. Enough to cope
with, living from day to day."

"You should. If you fell under a bus without one, it's a terrible
wrangle for those left behind. And the taxman could get his sticky
fingers on what's left. Take my advice."

Hetty gazed at her mother with renewed respect. ' Lord,' she said again,
and was silent.

"Ah! There you are!"

A short, solid woman bustled towards them. She wore a tunic-style
trouser suit in a shiny grey fabric; her stout figure was without
discernible bosom, waist or hips but bounded with energy. Half-moon
spectacles were perched on a snub nose. Steely hair fell in a straight
fringe over the forehead. The eyes were brown and darting.

230 Edwina Currie

"I was wondering where you'd got to. My name's Alexandra Hillary. C'mon,
Hetty. You can find your dressing rooms. You're in Three. Is this your
mother? She's next to you in Four. Quick! Quick!"

"We've been waiting twenty minutes,' Hetty mumbled, as they trotted
along after the steel-grey dynamo.

"Silly girls. Not you - the researchers. We've just had a celeb on,
Jason Donovan, and they're still gaga with excitement. I'm so glad you
agreed to appear, Hetty. You understand the problems of getting good
guests. We're all paranoid about fraudsters, but for us the difficulties
are obvious: finding people who won't act like scared rabbits, who'll
smile at the right camera, and who won't take offence at the results.

Like you."

"Absolutely,' Hetty muttered. This was beginning to feel like a moral
obligation.

Ms. Hillary stopped dead before the dressing rooms and her two guests
cannonaded into her. ' in and get undressed. Down to pants, tights and
bra. There should be robes on the door - clean ones, I pray. We'll be
along shortly with the blindfold." "Blindfold?' said Peggy blankly.

"You have to be blindfolded,' said the steel magnolia firmly, ' that the
first time you see the outfit we've chosen for you will be on air.

When you shout, "Oh! That's wonderful," it'll be hunky-dory for real."
"Yes, I see,' said Peggy doubtfully. ' happens while we're blindfolded?"

"We try the kit on.' Ms. Hillary chuckled wickedly, as if explaining to
condemned prisoners how the trapdoor worked. ' cheating - you mustn't
peep. We've had loads of practice. Then, once we've decided, we can
press the Chasing Men 231

outfit or shorten hems or whatever, so it'll be perfect at the
denouement."

"And do we go on - in our bra and dressing gown?' Peggy shrank back.

"No, no. Who gave you that idea? In those things you're wearing now."

She gestured with mild distaste at Hetty's jeans, then stared at Peggy's
hair. ''you mind if our stylist takes that down a couple of shades or
so? Or streaks it, perhaps?"

"Why? Don't you like it?' Hetty's mother sounded affronted.

"Oh, it's terrific. For our purposes. That colour is excellent for
"before" - it'll be splendidly loud under the lights. But you want to
end up much improved, don't you?"

The noise in her mother's throat was suspiciously like a protesting
growl.

The dressing rooms were tiny and smelt of talcum powder and spray
deodorant. Keys in hand, mother and daughter entered and, calling
through the thin walls to each other, made themselves ready, as lambs to
the slaughter.

A tap came on Hetty's door. Without further ceremony it was flung open.

Three frantic girls rushed in, their arms laden with clothes concealed
in opaque plastic wrappers, with bags from Harrods, Fenwicks and Peter
Jones. In a trice Hetty's head and face were swathed in a chiffon scarf,
her eyes covered by a stiff black blindfold.

She was helped clumsily to try on several pairs of trousers then a
blouse and jacket. Much discussion ensued in heated whispers.

"Mind that zip. It's a bit tight. Did you say you were a size fourteen,
Mrs. Clarkson?"

"Those trousers don't hang properly. Her thighs will rub

232 Edwina Currie together as she walks. And the jacket's not long
enough."

Try the other one. That'll cover her bum. Ah, much better."

"Shoes. The Manolo Blahnik? Why not?"

"Bit posh to go with a Bhs suit, don't you think? Oh, well, if you say
so."

Try the leather skirt - or PVC?"

"Nah. Mutton dressed as lamb."

"Okay. Jewellery?"

"Nothing too flash. She can't take it. Restrained. Yes, that'll do."

Sleeves and legs were pinned to the correct length, shoes and
accessories selected. The team vanished, instructing their victims to
dress as fast as possible.

Hetty emerged, flustered and annoyed, from the headscarf. How dare they?

And yet, the comments, she guessed, had not been meant as insults. With
so many programmes to make each day under pressure, the girls would
simply forget that a human being was suffocating under the blindfold,
with burning ears. She resolved to swallow her dignity, concentrate, and
learn whatever she could. If she had any plans to go chasing men, even
the remotest stirrings, the knowledge might prove invaluable.

Another girl tapped on the door, entered, and introduced herself as
assistant floor manager. Her manner was harassed; twice, messages on her
radio interrupted her flow. Hetty's dismay increased with each bleep.

The girl's task was to outline the choreography required on set. Dazed,
Hetty began to share her mother's empathy for the stream of guests
appearing on her own programme. The process was bewildering, and seemed
to have precious little connection with the job in hand. What difference
did it make if she Chasing Men 233

stood still for a count of three, or forgot and turned left instead of
right?

"We make it as broadcast. Thirty minutes in total. No retakes if we can
avoid them,1 the AFM explained. Hetty started to tell her that Tell Me
All was run on the same lines but the girl was not interested. ' do six
shows on the trot,' the girl interrupted. ''re the second today.

So we have to get a move on if we're to finish by seven."

"So you're going to finish our hair and faces in - what? About twenty
minutes?' Hetty was incredulous. The outcome might be trivial, but the
input was highly skilled.

"Yah,' said the girl, with a world-weary grin? The professional stylists
are fast movers. Wait till you see them. Best way, actually."

"I suppose so.' Hetty was struggling with buttons. Tell me, should I
know Alexandra Hillary's name?"

The girl took a step back. ' mean you've not heard of her? Golly, we
have punters dying to come on, just so they can have her attention.

She's editor of World Chic. British edition. She's really cool, yah."

The girl's voice betrayed reverential awe.

"Yah,' Hetty echoed, uncertainly. ' mean, yes, I see. Do I go to Makeup
now?"

The ASM reached out and tweaked Hetty's everyday sweater disdainfully.

"No. You'll do as you are,' she announced. ' me."

Accustomed to the modest proportions of the Tell Me All set, Hetty was
amazed at the sheer size of the studio that greeted her. It was
enormous. Ten cameras, including a sweeping eye on an extended tendril,
covered the whole arena. Along the whole of one thirty-foot wall, banks
of seating were

234 Edwinct Currie crammed with the audience who sat clutching handbags
and coats on their knees and talking excitedly. No artificial padding
filled out this show: the public wrote in considerable numbers demanding
tickets. Hetty wondered fleetingly if it might be possible to borrow a
few when their own attendance was thin. And maybe, just maybe, some of
this crowd jnight have true-life dilemmas they'd love to share? A little
networking after the recording might be useful.

Somebody on the second row waved at her. '! Hetty!' The rouged cheeks
and dangling earrings were unmistakable.

"Doris! What are you doing here?' Hetty leaned hurriedly over the front
row.

"Come to see you pampered up. How did you get on with my prezzie?"
"You're a naughty lady, Doris,' said Hetty severely, but her mood had
lightened considerably. She turned, and felt set for whatever fray would
ensue.

A very tall man, perhaps six feet five, loped on to the set, beautifully
dressed in a tailored suit with a modish knee length jacket and a mauve
shirt and tie. Already made up, he was fiddling with his earpiece and
adjusting the radio pack on his belt. He appeared to be talking to
himself, nodding and gazing about, then pointed, listened and moved four
steps forward. The audience's chatter quietened, and they observed his
antics intently. This was Simon Darling, heartthrob co-presenter with
Ms. Hillary.

Hetty waited pensively with her mother. The set was in two halves,
mirror images of each other. On each part, assistants were hurriedly
checking the sinks and makeup sections, laying out sponges, brushes,
tissues, cotton-buds, towels. The steel dynamo was fidgeting at the
back, flitting Chasing Men 235

about with garments on hangers and deploying hats, shoes and handbags on
stands tastefully underlit with bluish light. The catwalk in front was
covered in silvered tiles. At each end was a vast poster-sized board
emblazoned with the Star Style motif in sequins. The effect was garishly
jolly, like a tatty circus.

"Where are the big mirrors? For the - ah - denouement?' Hetty asked.

The AFM's voice over the loudspeaker announced, Two minutes."

"Over there.' Simon Darling adjusted his tie and indicated. ' posters.
When we twist ' round, you'll see what we've created. You'll adore it, I
promise you."

The next half-hour went in a whirl. Hetty and her mother were pulled
behind the set, combed and brushed, for their '' appearance.

Alexandra Hillary patted Peggy's canary coiffure with unfeigned
pleasure. Her own had acquired purple streaks that made her witch-like.

"And today,' a voice boomed, ' meet a wonderful mother and daughter
team, both with new lives, who sought our advice. Will you please
welcome Hetty Clarkson and Peggy Morris!"

To loud cheering and whooping from the audience, Hetty and Peggy were
propelled from behind into the whitest light Hetty had ever experienced.

She was immediately certain it could not be flattering. Simon Darling
leaped up to them in turn, his teeth flashing. Under the Pan-stick he
was sweating.

"Peggy! You look wonderful! You're an army widow, isn't that right?"

Hetty's mother simpered as if to the manner born. ' am, Simon - a merry
widow ... "

"And you, Hetty! You find yourself on your own too?"

236 Edwina Currie

"I do,' Hetty said, and tried hard not to sound peeved. She set her lips
in a cheesy smile. Why, oh, why had she agreed to do this?

"When we've finished with you, they'll be queuing up! You ready, Hetty?"

"Yes,' answered Hetty, through gritted teeth.

"And your stylists today are ... "

Each participant had a different pair. Hetty's makeup artist was small,
sandy-haired and American with a high fluting voice. Whether he was
nervous or for some other reason, his hands shook violently as he dabbed
and powdered Hetty's cheeks. Alarmed, she wondered how on earth he was
to avoid poking the mascara wand into her eye, and offered to do it
herself. The hair stylist was older, calmer. A lean man in a charcoal
grey suit and tieless shirt, he chattered gaily, sotto voce, as he
snipped and pampered. ' hair's not bad,' he commented in one ear.

"Your mother's oof! Does she always wear it like that?"

Hetty tried to shake her head. ' of an accident."

Til give you my card. Let me attend to it properly for her. Tell her to
come to my salon.' His voice was seductive.

"Where is it?' asked Hetty hopefully. That might make a splendid
birthday present for Peggy.

"Mayfair."

"And what would you charge for the works? Coloured, trimmed, the lot."

That depends. A time-served stylist and colourist, average-length hair?

In the region of a hundred and twenty pounds."

Hetty gulped. ' if you were to do it yourself?"

"Aha. Bit more than that. Two, three hundred. But I'd do your mother's
half-price, just as a challenge."

Chasing Men 237

"Er - thanks."

The portable camera swooped about her wet head, examined her fingernails
as they were being manicured, her eyebrows as they were plucked, focused
on her double chin. Simon Darling gambolled determinedly from one woman
to the other with increasingly vacuous questions. The audience laughed
indulgently and clapped at every sally. Hetty kept smiling, though her
jaw muscles were beginning to ache. This excruciatingly cheery simper
was deeply alien to her. Not for the first time she felt a sense of
relief at earning her living behind the camera, rather than before it.

It was almost over. More speedily than she could have imagined, the
snipping had stopped and hairspray hissed in her eyes. Now came Ms.
Hillary's moment. The mauve streaked fringe flapped puckishly about her
brow, the shiny suit swished like aluminium foil. A witch from The
Wizard ofoz, Hetty decided groggily. Was this fashion?

"Now, Hetty," Ms. Hillary commented portentously to camera, ' short -
about average height for her age group, certainly. And she would be
the/irst to admit she does not have the ideal figure.' ('I'm dieting.

And getting there,' Hetty muttered furiously.). ' I suggest - trousers,
which are so slimming, and an extra-long jacket, to hide the bumps. And,
of course, to lift the whole outfit, these three-inch high stilettos."

Hetty's heart sank. She had not worn high heels in years not since her
twenties. The lonely-hearts advertiser's hinted request for them had
immediately painted him as dotty. Could she cram her spreading,
be-corned toes into such instruments of torture? Would she fall over and
make an utter fool of herself? If that happened, would they halt the
recording and do it again? Suppose she broke her ankle? Was any of this
worth it?

238 Edwina Currie She and her mother were bundled out to the back of the
set as mood music and jungle drums rumbled. A clock could be heard
ticking loudly - only thirty seconds were allowed for dressing. Her
mother's hair was now a soft peach tint, but fluffed out like a Joan
Collins wig; her makeup involved a lot of blusher and pink lipstick.

"Have they made me a complete freak?' Peggy hissed. Hetty, her face
buried in a beaded T-shirt, could not reply.

Assistants were shoving them into clothes, pulling down jackets,
pinching earlobes with earrings, fastening chromed collars, the latest
in jewellery. Hetty's feet were thrust stock ingless into the stiff
distorting cages that passed for shoes. ',' she groaned, as one toe
stuck through a metal grille. The jungle drums grew deafening. The
ticktock boomed overhead. Buttons and buckles were frenziedly fastened,
zips secured. ' in, Hetty,' commanded her mother.

"And here we go!' came Simon Darling's voice, like an avenging angel on
Judgement Day.

Tall, slim, in a cream silk dress and jacket with an enormous cartwheel
hat trimmed with feathers, her fluffed-out hair dazzling, the pink
lipstick a-shimmer, Peggy walked regally down the catwalk and into the
limelight. On cue she stopped, twirled, sauntered, showed off the lining
of the jacket. The applause was admiring and sincere.

Then came Hetty, trying hard not to trip in the metal cages, her calf
tendons protesting with every step, the trousers' belt digging into her
midriff. It was an enormous struggle to stay upright without holding out
her arms for balance. To do so and keep smiling was almost beyond her.

Then, to trumpets, the great posters were reversed into gigantic
mirrors. Both women could see themselves as others saw them.

Chasing Men 239

"Satisfied?' the image smirked at Hetty.

The hair and face were vaguely familiar and, in a tarted up way, not
unattractive. But though the navy striped trouser-suited female who
gazed back had the same body and the same slack-jawed mouth half-open in
astonishment, the personality had changed beyond all recognition.

That's not me,' said Hetty promptly, while grinning gamely.

"But is it how you'd like to be?' The image seemed anxious.

"No. I don't think so."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's just that ... I'm not sure. She looks a dog's
dinner."

"But come on. It's great. Different, anyway."

"Granted. I've gained a lot from this. My mother's having a whale of a
time, bless her. But for me? I still don't accept that appearance
matters that much. Al didn't seem to think so, and James was more taken
by that mix of perfume. I'd hate having to go through this palaver
whenever I wanted to poke my nose outside my door. And I'd rather be
with people who appreciate me in other ways." "Huh,' said the image
huffily. ' pleasing you, is there?"

In a few moments the show was finished, the closing credits rolled to
triumphant music and they were hustled out. Behind them assistants
scurried on stage as the sinks and worktops were wiped down. On the side
the next pair, an elderly art teacher and his wife from the wilds of
north Cumbria, waited hesitantly, their expressions betraying mixed fear
and disbelief.

Doris had extricated herself from the audience and rushed up to Hetty
with a hug. Terrific,' she said. Then, in

240 Edwina Currie a stage whisper, ' you need is some decent frilly
underwear and you'll knock ' dead."

"Indecent, I think you mean,' Hetty murmured, but not loud enough for
her parent to hear. The entire outfit was hers now. The suit was worth
keeping, and the T-shirt, though it cut under the arms. The belt could
be undone a notch. She kicked off the shoes and stood barefoot with them
in her hand. An idea occurred to her.

"Here,' she offered Doris. ' are murderous machines, but with a pair of
fishnet tights they'd suit one of your kinkier clients down to the
ground. D'you want them?"

Doris giggled. ', you keep '. They make you look proper nifty. You never
know when they'll come in handy, now, do you?' She squeezed Hetty's arm.
' did your cards last night. Guess what?"

"I'm not sure I can bear it, Doris."

"Good stuff. A man. Several men. You're in for a whopper soon, you'll
see."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Sex Fiends

4T T e didn't like it, you know."

J. J- Sally and her mother were at an outside table in the Oblivion wine
bar, SW4. The evening was warm, with the breeze of early summer.

Full-leaved trees on the common hung heavy beneath the traffic dust,
bees thrummed lazily in nearby gardens over the exuberant first flush of
roses. The tube station was spewing out tired customers whose step
picked up as they headed home.

Hetty sipped her chilled Chardonnay. The Swallows had been a forced
purchase and she could not have imagined, then, ever being truly at ease
in this urban cocoon. But she had chosen well, perhaps instinctively.

The location had its charms.

Her attention returned to her daughter. ' should your father have any
views on my appearance on Star Style?' she enquired, slightly cross. It
was too pleasant an evening for a confrontation.

242 Edwina Currie

"He still feels concerned for your welfare. At least, that's how he put
it. There was a lot of comment in the village and he was ribbed. You had
altered. You'd have turned up your nose before at a trouser suit -
remember swanning about in flowery dresses by Laura Ashley? He was
worried you'd made a fool of yourself."

"I was never slim enough to do a trouser suit justice.' Hetty smoothed
down the wrinkles in her Levi's. Under the denim firm muscle flexed, the
legacy of riding her bike. ' you agree with him? That I made a fool of
myself?' ' exactly. To be honest, you looked splendid. But you didn't
seem keen."

"I wasn't,' Hetty said. ' grandmother wowed everyone, as you said she
would. She's an example to us all. I kept the outfit and will wear it
when the opportunity arises. Not with those damn shoes, though. But I
was not comfortable. To me, the show glorified the wrong values." Two
million people saw it, you told me."

"Two million people with nothing else to do but watch daytime TV. Whose
heads are shallow and empty. Or maybe they're not. Maybe I simply want
more than the casual approval of strangers."

The two women drank companionably. Hetty saw Markus emerge from the
station with an attache case. He was too far away to notice or speak to
them. Hetty summoned her courage. She did not want to discuss Stephen,
but it was clear Sally did. ' sure I'm after your father's approval,
either. How is he?"

"You interested?' Sally's eyes were owlish.

"No. Yes. We knew each other for such a big chunk of our lives. I hope
he's happy."

Sally pondered. ' don't believe he is, entirely. The new Chasing Men 243

girlfriend is a poppet - sorry, Mum - but perhaps she didn't realise she
was taking on a middle-aged man."

Tell me more ...' Hetty buried her face in her glass and suppressed a
giggle.

"I shouldn't - Oh, what the hell? You're both grownups. He's been
complaining about a bad back, visiting an osteopath, that sort of thing.

Fretting that he might have a touch of arthritis. It may stem from ...
trying to do too much.' Sally was also giggling now.

"It's odd,' Hetty reflected quietly. ''s a year since I knew we couldn't
stay together, and I had to make plans to get out. Eight months since I
came here. I never thought I could have talked about him objectively,
without terrible anguish. He's just another ordinary human being. He
used to be the centre of my little universe." "Healing process,' said
Sally. ''re more in control, you have friends, you have loads to occupy
you. So he's receded. Shrunk. To something more manageable."

"Makes me feel almost guilty. Aren't I supposed to rage against him
still, and seek revenge? I ought to hate the girlfriend and be madly
jealous. Instead, to all intents and purposes, I'm indifferent."

"You're not a bitter sort, Mum. You're too nice."

Hetty frowned. ''t count on it. There are moments ... "

"Go on.' Sally drained her glass, her face alight with curiosity.

"Oh, I don't know.' Hetty backed off. ' of my old lifestyle I do dream
about, sometimes. Money is a struggle but, then, I had it so cushy
before. I don't miss the house as such, but I do miss the space. And the
calm satisfaction of weeding the garden and having time to watch what I
planted growing, and the smell of fresh linen in the cupboard after

244 Edwina Currie wash-day. I don't get any of that now. And gifts from
Doris may be entertaining, but they're no substitute.' She had regaled
Sally with the encounter in the sex shop and its aftermath. ''re getting
ready."

Sally's tone was teasing.

Tor what?"

"Boyfriend. No, I mean it. Your confidence has increased. And you've ..

. changed. Yes, that's it."

"Changed? Apart from losing that flab, and chuntering round on my bike,
and going to a few movies with you?' Hetty's reticence surfaced. She was
not about to tell Sally about James. Not yet.

"You've moved on, Mum. In my eyes, and in other people's as well. Though
I doubt if Dad has any idea. To him, you're still the same as you were.

He's the one with guilty feelings. He's convinced you must be
desperately miserable and can't possibly cope."

"He's wrong about that." "So was I,' Sally admitted generously. She
gazed out over the common, eyes screwed up as if choosing her words with
care. ' you on that weird programme, and here in this wine bar, and in
your flat that you've made so cosy, and plain busy, like at the studio
when I called in, that made me think. Gave me quite a jolt, in fact.
Just as you now see Dad in perspective as a human being, that's true for
me about you."

"What are you trying to say, Sally?' Hetty's voice was gentle.

"I'm not sure quite how to put it. It's taken me a while, but you're not
just Mum any more to me. You're a person."

"I always was a person, you know,' said Hetty gravely.

"No, you weren't. You only existed as a reflection of Dad, Chasing Men
245

Peter and me. We were a rotten, selfish little bunch. We never
considered you, and your needs, for a second, and maybe you didn't have
any, except us. But you're a real person, you're Hetty Clarkson, not
merely an adjunct of our family. Dad doesn't know it, Peter never will,
but I do. And I like it."

"Heavens,' Hetty muttered. Then, ' round is it? I could use another."

When she returned to the flat the answerphone light was winking.

"Hi, Hetty. James here. It was great to meet you at Larry and Davinia's.

I wonder -1 work in London all week and it gets a bit dull in the
evenings. Might you be free? Dinner somewhere in town? Do call ... "

"You live in London all week, and in the countryside at weekends,' Hetty
commented coolly, ' you don't go to movies. Pity.' A movie escort was
not required to churn out sparkling conversation: a dinner companion
was.

The answerphone crackled at her. ' could be useful practice, Hetty. Go
on. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Early signs of madness,' Hetty chided herself severely. ' the ruddy
mirror tells me what to do, now it's you."

There you are!' the answerphone squeaked derisively. Talking to yourself
when you could be meeting a respectable bloke. And a slap-up meal into
the bargain. He wants to see you - that's a mark in his favour. Stop
dithering. Make a date." Hetty went to fetch her diary, and did as she
was told.

The Tell Me All set was particularly noisy and disorganised. A gaggle of
athletic young Australians in T-shirts and cutoff

246 Edwina Currie jeans were milling about, five boys and two girls,
banging awkwardly into cameras, their big feet tripping over cables. It
was decided eventually to select two, Clive and Mark, for the show and
seat the rest in the audience. Their bulk filled out the depleted
numbers superbly.

They're a collection of complete wankers,' Father Roger hissed to Hetty.

"Roger, shame on you. You shouldn't be using bad language."

"Oh, I won't. Rest assured. "Twats" isn't allowed on a daytime show
either. But I should be able to get away with "prats". Nobody these days
knows what it means."

"And what's that?"

"Buttocks."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

The Australians had a tale of woe. Seven of them rented a three-bedroom
flat in Earl's Court, the centre of expatriate Ozziedom in London. Two
shared each room - the girls were together - and one had the lounge,
which was also the communal living area with the television and a pair
of beat up sofas. Hetty had visited it in the course of her research.

Her nose had wrinkled at the mixed odours of dirty bed linen,
cigarettes, lager and aftershave. She hoped Peter lived better at
college, but suspected not.

"The problem,' Clive drawled, ' that we rub along brilliantly, except
for him.' He jerked his thumb at Mark, at his side. The accused slid
lower in his chair.

Tm perfectly reasonable,' he protested. ' ' I have to be in work for
seven each morning ... "

"He wants us to clear out of the lounge by nine each night,' Clive
finished for him. ' that means, no telly, no Chasing Men 247

mates, unless we go out. And we aren't all City slickers, like '. We
can't afford to take over the pub every evening. Anyway, we each of us
pay towards the telly. It's not his exclusive property."

Mark, it transpired, operated on the trading floor; arrival at seven was
the latest he could manage, since much of his activity involved deals
with Australia itself and the Far East. ''d like me there twenty-four
hours,' he commented gloomily.

They pay you enough to get your own place,' Clive prodded him.

"Saving,' was Mark's reply, with an expressive shrug.

"An' what's more, he's got both the girls after him. You can't do that
with flatmates,' Clive continued, a trifle pompously. ' have to get on.
It's making the atmosphere poisonous. We told him to leave, and he
won't." "Ye-e-es,' murmured Father Roger, as the camera switched to him.
', Mark, when you reach your first million, you'll be able to buy the
whole house, won't you?" The smirk on the young man's face suggested
that the notion had occurred to him. ''s owned by an Ozzie, yes,' he
answered.

The presenter peered at them. ' what's the solution, then?"

"I suggest you take off elsewhere with one of the girls, shack up
together, and then you'll only have to pay half rent,' Father Roger
answered smoothly. ', given your remarkable charm, Mark, you'd make not
only her but lots of people very pleased."

The boy sat up and preened. In the corner Hetty covered her mouth.

"At least they're genuine,' Rosa remarked, as the recording

248 Edwina Currie ended. ' couldn't fake that kind of prissy jealousy.
Lucky girls.

Mark's a dish, isn't he?' She pointed to the next guest. ' sure about
him. You and Father Roger will have to check him out."

The man was of medium height with glossy dark hair: dyed, probably,
though it looked his own, not a wig. He was dressed in full Scottish
regalia with a tailored kilt, woollen socks with a dagger, a
silky-haired sporran across his groin, the whole topped off with a black
velvet jacket, silver buttons, niched collar and lacy cuffs. He stood,
legs akimbo, a swagger about him, as if about to break into ' the
Brave'.

"Overdone it, hasn't he?' Hetty commented.

"Okay for Burns' Night. Or to make a point. But what point?"

The case was not one of Hetty's. ''s the matter?"

Rosa consulted her notes. ' says he's bisexual. Fifty-two years old.

Wants to settle down - claims he's had enough of playing the field. The
dilemma is, who should he choose as a permanent partner? A woman or a
man?" "Blimey,' Hetty said. ' people don't have the option."

Trouble is, I don't believe him. Given the God-awful mess with Vanessa,
we can't be too careful. Being taken off the air because we're using
fakes is not in the game plan."

"Maybe he's sick of sleeping like a starfish? This could be his free
advert."

"Could be. I wouldn't have any objection. With a getup like that, he'll
be great on screen. So I'd like you and Roger to find out."

"How?"

Rosa became vague. ''ll be going back to the dressing Chasing Men 249

room - I've given everyone a twenty-minute break. Get in there and see
what happens."

Hetty refreshed her hair, sprayed a little eau de parfum on her throat
and wrists and tapped on the door. Without waiting for a response she
pushed it open and peeped in.

"Gordon, isn't it? I need to fill in a few details about you. My name's
Hetty.' She smiled beguilingly and tapped her clipboard.

He held out his hand. His voice was deep, a Scottish burr that, if
false, took some skill to create. ' to meet you. You understand my
little difficulty, don't you? A lovely mature woman like you."

Hetty steeled herself to go on smiling. After Star Style, anything in
that line was easy. ' do. I need to flesh out a few facts. You have had
women friends, haven't you? Am I right in thinking you were married
once?"

"Married twice,' he corrected her smugly. ' ladies, both. The first when
I was in my early twenties. The second, ten years ago. That lasted
longer than any of my other - ah, liaisons. But they both finished for
the same reason."

"And what's that?' Hetty enquired brightly.

"My fondness for young men,' he said, and winked.

Hetty gulped. The guest was perched on the end of the sofa-bed, a meaty
fist on each knee. As Hetty let her glance drop, he twitched up the kilt
so that his bony kneecaps were exposed. And then a slice of thigh. And
Gordon was parting his legs, inviting her to look up between them. What
did Scotsmen wear beneath their kilts? Hetty decided hastily not to find
out. She stepped back, scrabbling at her clipsheet. ', that's fine.

Thanks. We'll call you in a minute."

250 Edwina Currie Outside, Rosa caught her arm. '?"

"He's a creep, but he's not messing with us. At least, as far as women
are concerned.' She paused. ' warn the gallery. Keep the cameras away
from his hairy legs."

Hetty stood aside as Father Roger gathered up his cassock, crossed
himself with a theatrical gesture, tapped on the same door and was
admitted. She and Rosa strolled down the corridor, looked in on the
makeup girls, then went for a cup of tea.

In a few moments there was a commotion, a banging of a door and a loud
curse. Father Roger, his face flushed, came hastily down the corridor
into the canteen. From behind him floated a whinny of high laughter.

He clutched the counter, swaying. Then with a shaky hand he helped
himself to tea and a biscuit, and sat opposite Rosa and Hetty. Both
women were agog.

"Shoot: is he gay? Bisexual?' Rosa asked.

Father Roger's eyes flickered from one to the other. ' don't know why I
do this job. It's not as if you pay a fortune. And I don't earn any
Brownie points in heaven.' He broke the digestive biscuit and made a
great show of dunking it in the tea until it disintegrated and fell in.

He groaned.

"Is he for real? I have to know. Or some out-of-work actor or agency
freak pulling the wool over our eyes?' Rosa demanded.

"He's a sex-mad fiend. Poor women, when he gets his hands on them."

"Poor men, too?' Hetty asked.

Father Roger nodded vigorously. ' tried to grope me. Nearly succeeded.

An actor wouldn't do that. He'd draw the line at a priest. Unless, of
course ... "

"Go on."

Chasing Men 251

"Let's just say he picked the wrong priest.' And he cracked his
knuckles, one by one, with a relieved chuckle. But his face was pale.

Afterwards, in the small office with the flickering computer screen,
Hetty touched Rosa's arm. ' I miss something?' she enquired.

"Mmm?' Rosa was preoccupied, scrolling down lists of guests for the
following day.

"Father Roger. Is he gay?" "Dunno. He's never said so."

"But he hinted. That a priest might enjoy that sort of thing."

"Why don't you ask him?"

Hetty was shocked. ' couldn't. Not straight off." "Why not? I expect
he's been asked crazier things in his time. He's hardly a sea-green
innocent, or he wouldn't be on this show. We may not be cutting edge,
but we're not exactly Songs of Praise, either.' Rosa glanced up. ' is
it? D'you fancy him?"

"A priest? Heavens. I hadn't ever seen him as a possible."

"Why not? He's a man. Got all the right equipment, as far as I know."

"Because I've naturally assumed he's celibate. In the Church they're
either married to worthy types with an appropriate number of children,
or they're out of it, aren't they? None of the Churches approves of
hanky-panky without a sacrament. As Roger himself would say."

"My impression is that he's maybe not that keen on sex,' Rosa mused. '
works like the clappers, and doesn't relax much. In love with his job?

Some people have other priorities. Some - and maybe Roger's one - shy
away from

252 Edwina Currie

relationships of any kind. They're happier with books, or whatever."

"Relationships can be a pain,' Hetty observed drily, ' starting from
scratch.' Something in her was dreading the forthcoming supper with
James. Twice she had resisted the urge to call it off.

"So maybe you're the girl for our Roger, hey?"

The? You're joking. Life as the wife of a rural dean? No way. Friend
would be as much as I could aspire to,' Hetty answered briskly. ', I've
got myself a hot date.' She told Rosa briefly about James, playing down
his weekend activities.

"Good girl,' Rosa enthused, and squeezed her arm. ' as I was about to
drag you into a dating agency. Go for it. And once you're off your mark,
if he's no earth-mover you can keep an eye open for something better."

"Ye-e-s.' Hetty sounded uncertain. The mixed metaphors were confusing.

"Chatting up blokes. Me, in my fifties." Rosa chortled. ' said the sex
manuals are written only for twentysomethings. We are where it's at,
darling.' She halted. Talking of sex manuals, I could lend you a couple
of crackers. Fully illustrated.

Might help."

"Rosa, you're a doll. Let's hope James won't need them. I'll keep you
posted."

"Good evening."

So formal. Hetty shook hands.

James bent down and kissed her jerkily on the cheek. ' you could come.'
He seemed shy, even more so than at Larry's party. Hetty examined him
under her lashes. From the grey suit and slightly creased shirt, he had
come straight from the office and had not had time to change, or had not
Chasing Men 253

thought to. He was carrying a leather briefcase, which he deposited in
the cloakroom. She had dashed home from the studio and donned the Star
Style trouser suit; a few more pounds off since the date of recording
meant that it fitted well and flattered her.

They stood awkwardly, unused to each other's presence, until the waiter,
lanky, narrow-hipped and superior, unbent long enough to show them to
their table.

Minimalist decor, again. Bleached linen, steel, glass, blond wood. No
adornments on the walls, the windows frosted so that they could not see
out. On the table, a bowl of salted green pistachios in their shells. No
water, no breadsticks. Nothing to fiddle with.

"I trust you like Japanese food?' James said.

I've never tried it, in truth. I've never been to Japan. I've never been
here,' Hetty had to confess.

This is part-owned by Robert De Niro,' James confided, as if that were a
major recommendation. ''s Japanesemexican.' '.' Hetty was puzzled, and
decided to show it. ' does that mean?"

"Raw fish with chillies. Extraordinary."

Hetty was quelled. Neither appealed, much. Japanesemexican must be
popular, '; the place was filling up with young diners, mostly dressed
minimalist-style, the girls in floaty fabrics, the boys in open-necked
shirts and pale slacks. By contrast she and James looked overdressed -
and old.

His conversation was as stilted and as formal as his greeting. Hetty,
however, had learned a great deal at the studio and had become adept at
setting the nervous at their ease. She drew him out on his job, on his
journey to work, on what

254 Edwina Currie he enjoyed on television, though it was an effort to
remember what he said and not to repeat the same question. But he looked
all right, she reflected; she was not ashamed to be seen with him, and
he was gazing at her quite raptly as he spoke.

But what exactly was she doing here? Hetty stopped herself asking
straight out whether he was, indeed, married. He did not mention it.

That was confirmation enough: a free man, a divorce, say, would have
promptly bemoaned his availability, and might have spent half the
evening complaining about his ex to boot. If she were searching for
another partner, a replacement for Stephen, then James's status
mattered. Danger lurked: James would not have sought her company, she a
single woman, unless some fragility or chill had seeped into his home.

On the other hand, a bit of/un could do no harm. A torrid affair was
unlikely, on current estimations, but that was fine too. If she was
going to break her duck soon, she couldn't be too choosy.

What if they were observed by somebody who knew one or the other of
them? ' suppose we ought to say,' she whispered, ' we're seen, that
we're business acquaintances, celebrating the completion of a successful
deal."

James nodded. He seemed taken aback. Maybe the subterfuge was beyond
him.

After an inordinate delay the waiter drifted back with two glossy menus.

Hetty asked for a glass of water. She had skipped lunch and was hungry.

Another ten minutes elapsed. With a start, Hetty realised they had been
sitting there nearly half an hour but no one had yet taken their orders.

The service is a bit slow,' she commented.

«'We were in luck getting a table,' was the answer. ' is the hottest
spot in town."

Chasing Men 255

"Not in the kitchen department,' Hetty said under her breath. The salted
nuts were making her thirsty and her stomach was growling. The water had
not materialised. ', what do you like doing, when you're not working?"
she asked, then wished she hadn't. A simple enough question, it could
too readily invite unwelcome confidences.

"Oh, you don't want to know,' James murmured, and blushed.

"I do, indeed,' Hetty fibbed playfully.

"I go round the country,' he began. Then, ', you'll laugh."

This sounded intriguing. ' won't. Cross my heart."

T go trainspotting."

She burst out laughing but at his hurt expression covered her mouth.

"What - with a little notebook?' She wanted to add, ' an anorak?' but
stopped herself just in time.

"Of course. A portable computer, actually. Quite modern these days."

James wriggled his large bottom on the hard minimalist chair. The
railways of Britain are our lifeblood, our arteries - the industrial
revolution, social history, all that. When you see a big DMU churning
out thousands of horsepower, with hundreds of holiday makers or
commuters depending on it, it's fantastic. And steam engines - d'you
know the great ones from the thirties still hold the long distance
records?' He burbled on, oblivious.

"I'm planning a trip on the French TGV,' Hetty interposed mischievously,
when he paused for breath.

"Oh, them,' James said scornfully. They're quite impressive, but we
invented the locomotive, not the French. They can't take that away." At
last the waiter returned. Hetty asked politely what he recommended.

256 Edwina Currie

"Black cod cured in miso, speciality of the house,' he purred. ' you
could have the omakase."

"What's that?"

Tot luck to you,' was the reply. ' decides what you eat. That's a fixed
price.' He pointed. Hetty saw '£60 per head' on the menu, folded it and
put it down.

Til have what you suggested,' she said weakly. The cod."

But when the purple slabs of raw fish came, swimming in an excess of
fiery sauce, Hetty could only toy with it. Her guts wrenched at each
overseasoned sliver; the Pinot Noir selected by James was ruined by the
battleground of flavours on her tongue. She struggled for a while, then
pushed her plate away.

.'Do you think we could get some bread and a salad, maybe?' she asked.

"What? Oh, yes. You should come with me, Hetty. There's a big
bank-holiday event coming up at Whitby. The sight of twelve or twenty of
those magnificent workhorses in steam! It'll stay with you for ever ..

A black-suited male receptionist eventually responded to his beckoning
finger.

"Everything all right?"

"No,' Hetty muttered. ' think our waiter's forgotten the bread."

"We don't have bread here, madam. This is a Japanese restaurant."

"Oh. Then something hot and filling - a plate of noodles, perhaps?"

"No noodles."

"But if it's a Japanese restaurant '

"No noodles. Our chef from the royal house in Kyoto won't serve them. I
could bring you some rice."

Chasing Men 257

"Yes, please. And water. From the tap. In a jug."

But he had swept away. The bowl of rice, when it eventually arrived, was
sticky, hot, blessedly unsalted - and tiny. Hetty hungrily polished off
the contents and called the man back. ', please. Just the same."

"You're supposed to eat it with a main course,' James said
knowledgeably. He was steadily demolishing plate after plate of
unidentifiable mauve and green flesh: Hetty could not tell if it was
fish, fowl, vegetable or what. He held out a slice in his chopsticks
towards her, the black sauce dripping onto the spotless tablecloth.

"Fresh tuna. Do try.' She shook her head with a sickly grin. ' Japanese
food I've ever tasted,' he commented. Her distress seemed to pass him by
completely.

At last the meal was over. Coffee in diminutive cups, acrid and strong,
was poured. Hetty's head was swimming with the wine and the edgy
chemistry of salt, chilli, fish oils and caffeine on an empty stomach.

James smiled and patted her hand.

"Hope you enjoyed that, Hetty. You're super company. You really listen
to a chap. Terrific."

"Doesn't take much to please him.' The voice inside her head sniffed.

"Maybe he's more thrilling on a windswept platform. What a bore."

James paid the bill, rose, retrieved his briefcase, then followed her
downstairs to the street. The night air hit her like a slap in the face
and she staggered. He reached for her arm. ' a bit too much to drink,
old girl? Come on, I'll put you in a taxi.' He darted about hopefully
until a black cab stopped for him, then hesitated. Hetty must have
appeared doleful: at the last instant, he clambered in himself. ''t let
you go off like this. You don't look too well. I'll see you home."

258 Edwina Currie At the door of her flat he made no move. She pecked
him on the cheek and squeezed his hand. ' very - unusual dinner, James,'
she said wanly.

"Thanks for taking me."

He dimpled. ' pleasure. You're lovely. Let's do it again."

A wild notion occurred to her. Romantic progress, given James's culinary
preferences, would be slow and agonising, if left to him. But he was a
decent enough chap. He would pass for what she still had in mind. She
was not about to give up. ' you don't expect too much, James,' she said,
''d be welcome to eat here. Pot luck, it'd have to be, whatever the chef
decides. Is that okay?"

"Oh, rather,' he gurgled, and planted a salty kiss on her mouth. Til
phone you."

She climbed out and waved as the cab reversed and returned in the
direction it had come.

"Oh, Lord,' she said. ' I hope you're worth it.' Then she tiptoed round
the back of The Swallows behind the bushes, stuck two fingers down her
throat, and was thoroughly and satisfyingly sick.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Breaking a Duck The book club were in a tetchy mood. Hetty could not
figure it out, until she realised that, despite their protestations, the
members had not enjoyed the latest author, crime writer Ruth Rendell.
Their disappointment was almost tangible.

"Something about her characters,' Moira mused, with pursed lips. They
had been concentrating on Keys to the Street and The Crocodile Bird.

"You can't complain about the sex this time.' Phyllis pouted. There
isn't any. Buckets of psychological mayhem, but the action stops at the
bedroom door."

Thin, wan Moira crumbled a rock cake and lifted fragments into her
mouth. In the time it took her, Hetty noted, her stout friend had
demolished two large scones with jam and cream, and two cups of tea. The
ascetic Moira's cup was hardly touched.

260 Edwina Currie Jenny, the oldest member and osteoporosis sufferer,
raised her head with an effort. The problem is, none of the characters
is warm or kind, with the exception of the child in The Crocodile Bird
and the girl Mary in the Regent's Park novel. And they're for the chop
the whole way through.

The stories are gripping - but you feel it's a world turned upside down.

Clever stuff but cruel, heartless."

"Should suit us, then,' the Professor murmured. He spoke to Hetty out of
the corner of his mouth. The world we live in here. It's topsy-turvy,
don't you think? The sharpest are the most bowed down, like Jenny. Or
tied to a bloody wheelchair, like me. Those with the most fluency have
the least to say.' He glanced in the direction of Millie Curds,
Clarissa's aunt, who was chattering on with total conviction, even
though it was clear to everyone else in the room that she had not read
the texts.

Hetty had missed a couple of sessions through pressure at the studios.

She nibbled a biscuit. It was a pleasure to be with the club again, to
hear the shrewdness from the depths of those ample cardigans. Human
beings, indeed. Plenty to be found here.

"How did you get on with Beryl Bainbridge?' she asked. The Professor
chuckled.

They adored An Awfully Big Adventure. It's set in the repertory theatre
in Liverpool where the author was a stage manager, so we swapped tales
of amateur and school dramatics. Master Georgie, I fear, was a bit
beyond them. Mostly, they debated Miss. Bainbridge's views on accents.

That was within everyone's capacity."

"She criticised the Scouse twang, didn't she?' Hetty racked her brains.

"Said you have to drop it if you want to get on. Took elocution lessons
when she was young."

Chasing Men 261

"Everyone did, then. Good vowels were the hallmark of a lady. Or a
gentleman."

"But if you needed lessons, then presumably you weren't a real lady."

"Absolutely. But the delightful Miss. Bainbridge was the product of a
home that fell tragically below its pretensions. People were far more
conscious of class than now."

Hetty recalled Larry and Davinia's street. Today it's the BMW
convertible that says you're smart. Or the Audi XT Special with its
year-long waiting list. Or liking Japanese food with a Mexican slant.

Not your accent."

"If my television and radio are any guide, a regional accent is de
rigueur these days." "That's quite true,' Hetty told him. ' we're
deciding on guests for Tell Me All, it helps if they're Geordies or
Welsh. Provided they can make themselves understood."

"I don't know what the world's coming to,' the Professor continued,
teasing. ' can't even hear a cut-glass accent on Radio Three these days.
As for Classic FM ... "

"Snob,' grinned Hetty, and poured him another cup of tea.

The session was drawing to a close. A flurry of argument developed over
the next two authors. As the choice fell on Michael Dobbs and Jilly
Cooper, the Professor protested. ' come to this meeting for intellectual
stimulation, not to be fed commercial pap,' he grumbled, but nobody was
listening. ' next?"

Hetty pushed his wheelchair back along the corridor. ''re too hard on
them. Not everybody has an IQ of a hundred and fifty,' she chided. "I
haven't, for a start. I love Jilly Cooper. And we can watch To Play the
King on video."

"Allow me to confess I've never read either. No doubt

262 Edwina Currie they're fine enough, and popular. I'm no literature
buff, but we should always aim higher, Hetty. Trying to grasp what is
unfamiliar and difficult never killed anyone.' He wagged his finger. The
trouble today is that people have become mentally idle. They won't
strive. The end result is what's called dumbing-down.' He was riding a
favourite hobbyhorse. ''s supposed to conform to an easy norm. But
diversity, my dear, is the spice of life."

Hetty agreed fervently with that, and described to him in the lift her
unhappiness with the makeover mentality of Star Style. ', but, Hetty,"
he cajoled, ' impression you make visually does matter."

"Not that much,' she objected.

"It does to an artist. You forget who you are talking to,' he said. They
had reached his room. On previous occasions she had deposited him,
ensured he was safe and then left. But now, ' glass of wine, dear girl?'
he asked, as he unlocked the door.

Hetty did not hesitate. He indicated the cupboard, where bottles were
laid in rows on a rack. There's a Pauiilac, top right. Don't shake it."

She found the corkscrew, wiped glasses and poured. Then, cradling a full
glass, she gazed about, and was overwhelmed at what she saw.

The room was a generous size, the metal hospital-style bed with its
sling hoist dominating the centre, but with space around it for the
wheelchair. A bay window overlooking the garden filled it with soft
light; dust motes danced in the air. Low shelves crammed with books and
art magazines lined two sides. In corners on stands, and on the
bookshelves, were small sculptures, some of which looked unfinished: one
was recognisable as the Professor's own head. But the glory was the
pictures. Several substantial oils Chasing Men 263

in ornate frames, mostly modern, faced the light. Pastels and acrylics,
charcoal drawings and a few water-colours jostled for position. Another
wall was crammed with dozens of coloured prints, some pinned with
thumbtacks, others in simple glass frames. Not a spare inch showed. In
many, the subject was female, and nude.

He followed her eyes. ' -1 met him several times. That small one was a
gift but, then, he was so prolific. The Degas is a favourite, and the
Modigliani. His work was banned because he dared to show pubic hair, but
his women are so elegant and alive. The Seurat is charming, isn't it?
But they pale into insignificance beside the master.' He pointed.

"Renoir. See? The blonde bather. That's his wife, with those adorable
breasts - you just know he had kissed those nipples, and what pearly
skin! He painted women as they should be painted. Curved, fleshy, like
ripe peaches. So good you can taste them. So full of love, every brush
stroke. You can tell he adored women."

Hetty was dumbstruck. A row of prints showed women lying on sofas or
posed in landscapes. ' - the Rokeby Venus. Titian - the Venus of Urbino.
Isn't she gorgeous? He was still painting perfect women when he was over
eighty. Giorgione - the way they posed the left hand makes us snigger
today ... looks as if she is playing with herself, doesn't she? But what
an exquisite face. The Venetians worshipped beauty. Rubens - Venus and
Area -- extraordinarily erotic. Most of his nudes are too fat for modern
taste, but over there is Helena Fourment his wife, naked beneath her fur
coat - so tactile. Can't you just feel the contact of her skin and her
fur? Such generosity of heart, Rubens. That one's Ingres. And here's
Manet's Olympia that caused a scandal, because she's so real, her
expression

264 Edwina Currie so challenging. He never again chose the female nude
for a major work.

Maybe he felt he didn't need to ... "

Hetty listened avidly, desperate to remember. The Professor talked
enthusiastically, then touched her arm: ' gaze and turn away, and know
not where/Dazzled and drunk with Beauty, till the heart/Reels with its
fulness.' He smiled. ' to Byron, Childe Harold.' She nodded, and bit her
lip, her glass untouched.

He swivelled his chair and directed her attention to another series of
prints. ''s Three Graces -- he painted a naked Venus in the Vatican, in
Cardinal Bibiena's bathroom. Must have been some talking-point. That
one's the Allegory of Passion, Bronzino. Very sexy - see how the nipple
is tweaked?' Hetty touched the print with her fingertip. The leer of
abandon on the figure's face made her recoil.

He whirled round. ' know the secret of the Mona Lisa, don't you?"

She shook her head, fascinated.

"Leonardo revealed it to Correggio. He said to look at women in
twilight: he'd studied scientifically the passage of light around a
sphere. That's why Leonardo's depictions of breasts and thighs are so
sensuous, as in his Leda, even though he was not himself sexually
attracted to women. The painting's lost, but the drawings are still
extant."

Hetty moved towards the modern works, many of which were sketches or
pastels. The Professor spoke of his personal acquaintance with many of
the artists and their circles. He launched into anecdotes of sessions
with this or that celebrity, dinners and alcoholic evenings spent on
Tuscan and Provengal hillsides, lectures given, students shared. The
names were known to her through press reviews of important exhibitions,
though she would have been at a loss to discuss their output.

Chasing Men 265

She tried to calculate. He could not be more than eighty, and thus born
after the end of the First World War, so his claims made him either
exceptionally precocious or a bit of a tale-spinner. Or maybe, as an old
man, what he had read or heard and what he had done himself, had begun
to merge in his brain as reminiscence. Hetty decided at once not to
correct or question him.

"I've got hundreds, but mostly in storage. Like children, you never want
them to leave home. I had more at my studio, but that's gone. Some of
the paintings dotted around the corridors here belong to me. At least I
can have the pleasure of seeing them on my daily jaunts, and so can
others. My little battle against mediocrity."

One of the small statues caught her eye. It was a bronze about a foot
high of a child dancer, her toe extended, her head bent as if checking
the twist of her shoe ribbons. The style was graceful and unmannered.

Cautiously, she ventured: ''s wonderful. Is it by Degas?" The Professor
smiled. ' officially."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, Hetty, the insurance would be astronomical. Officially, most of
what you see are reproductions, or copies, some of which I made myself.

The bronzes are castings, of course, and there may be dozens identical.

But you may take it that if the master himself made a casting, he would
sign it." "It's extraordinary,' she said, as if to confirm that she
grasped the issue, ' a copy, however beautiful in its own right, has so
little value."

"Ah, but put a copy and an original together, and you can tell. Not
least, because the original usually has an unfinished air."

She must have looked puzzled, for he added, ' we

266 Edwina Currie create a work of art from scratch, we experiment, we
cross out, we redo, we paint over. The copy lacks all these
imperfections. Real life, like art, is full of errors. But that's what
makes it unique."

"So the copy's a makeover,' Hetty murmured.

He chuckled softly, but did not reply.

"What will you do,' she asked, ' the time comes? Leave them to a
museum?"

"Probably. I daren't let on to the management, but one or two here are
quite valuable. If anyone was aware of it, they'd be in a bank vault.

And that would be a tragedy."

Hetty drank quietly, letting the beauty of the images and the owner's
delight in them flow over her. Stephen's taste ran to Russell Flint and
Monet's waterlilies, and no further. Prints were purchased for their
potential value, and to match a colour scheme; her ex-husband and his
friends would have found the Professor's passion embarrassing.

He had not referred to one part of the collection and she came round
rather pointedly to look. Like many of the other paintings the subject
was a female nude: some full-length, on a scarlet sofa, others only of
the back or buttocks. Many were sketches, others varnished and framed.

On closer examination they seemed to be of the same person, a lithe,
buxom girl with blue eyes and luxurious dark hair.

"Who did those, Professor?"

He drank his wine with a mysterious air. Try and guess."

Hetty peered closer, moving across the pictures to let the light fall on
them. The canvases had no signature. '. But they are terrific. Even I
can see that."

"You like them?' He seemed pleased.

She bent down and looked more intently. ',' she said finally. ' the
Renoirs, there's a real appreciation of the Chasing Men 267

female form. Hope that doesn't sound too pretentious. I'm totally out of
my depth. But, yes, I like them very much."

The Professor laughed. ' knew I could trust you in my den here,' he said
indulgently, as if it had been a matter of argument. Perhaps it was: his
reputation around the home was as a prickly curmudgeon. Hetty had heard
that staff were not amused by his manner; the dust suggested that the
cleaners found the images disturbing. He put his glass on the bedside
table and cavorted jerkily in the wheelchair. His face was flushed.

"But who did them?"

"I did. They're mine."

"Oh! I didn't like to ask if anything was yours, but I'm delighted.

They're fabulous.' She straightened up. ''s the model? Anyone in
particular?' Yet, even as she enquired, she knew the answer.

"My wife.' His face became grave. ' muse. After she died, I stopped
painting."

Somewhere downstairs a radio was playing, with snatches of indiscernible
music. The hiss of the lift mechanism came from along the corridor.

Hetty refilled their glasses, then sat on the edge of the bed, kicked
off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her.

"You must have loved her very much."

"I did. She had an ethereal beauty, but earthy with it. When I first met
her she was sleeping with Augustus John. He went through his models like
a knife through butter. A paintbrush in one hand and his prick in the
other. But he never cared about them as people. The moment I set eyes on
her I adored her."

Hetty felt her throat constrict. ' were so fortunate, to have such
love."

268 Edwina Currie He grunted but did not answer. He seemed lost in
another world, his eyes on the creamy-fleshed girl on the claret sofa.
Then he swung round.

"You, Hetty. You remind me of her. I've told you. The way you hold your
head. The way you pause before you say anything. The way '

"Stop,' Hetty said, as calmly as she could. That's your imagination
playing tricks. I'm not her. But I'm proud that you make the
comparison.' She drained her wine and stood up, found her shoes. This is
a treasure trove,' she added. ' feel privileged. Can I come again?"

He reached out his hand to her, slowly. '. Of course. Darling Hetty.

Come again."

Just as she was about to put the basted lamb in the oven, a hand tapped
at the door.

That can't be him already, can it?' She brushed her hair out of her
eyes. The clock said another half-hour yet. She still had time to put on
her makeup. In any case, this wasn't the street bell but her own.

It was Doris. In her arms was Thomas, with a lecherous glint in his eye.

The old lady peered in, her curiosity palpable. ' smelt something
delicious coming from your kitchen. It's right above mine. And I
thought, Why don't I see what's going on?"

"I'm cooking, Doris. Can't stop right now."

Doris was not to be deterred. She stuck her nose around the door and
half insinuated her stout body and Thomas after it. A shower of ginger
hairs rubbed off on the lintel. Hetty flapped a tea-towel. ', Doris,"
she said firmly. Tomorrow."

"Ooh, you gotta fella coming,' Doris judged expertly. ' guy, is it?
Special date?"

Chasing Men 269

Hetty was unsure whether James would count as a special anything, but
she was determined not to spoil the roast for a ha'porth of idle
chatter. ', it is a chap. And, yes, I do want to feed him properly.

Especially after the last meal we had together.' The sentence was
uttered with deep sincerity.

Doris's eyes narrowed. ''you want something to slip into his drink? To
help out?' she offered. ' a roaring success of the evening."

Hetty pushed the door so that it bore down on her nosy neighbour. ',"
she commanded. ' anything comes of it, you'll be the first to know."

"You wearing something nice from the shop?' Doris persisted.

Hetty was, indeed, dressed in new black lacy underwear under the simple
skirt and black scoop-necked sweater. ', please."

Doris leered as the door closed. ''ll be listening ...' was her parting
shot.

Half an hour later, with the meat safely in the oven, the salad
prepared, the Beaujolais opened and the white Burgundy (if he preferred
it) chilling in the fridge, with her hair and lipstick set, Hetty's
heart thumped as the doorbell announced a visitor. Quickly she dabbed
perfume behind her ears, pressed the intercom button and opened the
door.

"James!' she cried, as if he were an unexpected delivery.

He thrust a bouquet into her hands - bought, she noted, from the
ready-made bucket at the florists' by the tube station. ', Hetty."

The awkwardness was still present. More so, as if each knew that the
dessert tonight might be more than the fresh pineapple with kirsch
waiting on the sideboard.

Corks were pulled, wine poured. The table in the living

270 Edwina Currie room was prettily laid: a blue cover underneath,
covered by a broderie anglaise cloth inherited from an aunt, so that the
petal shapes showed through. Napkins folded in a wing shape. Two wooden
candlesticks bought at a sale of work at St. Veronica's, carved napkin
rings to match. The second-best dinner service from Dorset. Yet, brave
as the show might be, the table set for two had a melancholy feel.

That's because you've not done this before,' whispered the candlesticks.

"When your mother or Sally or Doris comes, you don't take this amount of
trouble. We're new. We've never sat in on your tete-a-tetes. Not even
with those who love you."

"You're trying to impress him, that's what,' the soup tureen slurped, as
she set it down. ' him? Does he matter more than anyone else you've ever
had in this flat?"

"What are you up to, Hetty?' the curtains hissed as she drew them across
the fading dusk. ' do you want from him? Are you being quite fair?" "I
want,' Hetty told the bread silently as she sliced it Davinia-fashion
and put it in a basket, ' I can't get from those others. Not love.

Friendship and company, maybe. But what's missing is - well, you know."

"We know,' chorused the cutlery, and winked roguishly as she lit scented
candles. And it seemed to her that the table rocked once in sympathy,
and wished her luck.

T hope you like carrot and lemon soup,' Hetty said brightly, as she
ladled it into the bowls and offered the bread. If carrots featured at
classy Davinia's, maybe they'd do the trick for her.

James had brought with him a hearty appetite and not much conversation.

The soup, bread, and butterfly lamb with rosemary disappeared in
substantial quantities followed Chasing Men 271

by seconds, and another bottle was half emptied, before he appeared to
relax. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair.

"Brought you these,' he said, and fished in his inside pocket. He handed
her a pile of leaflets. ''m not just into trains, Hetty, I'm a supporter
of the Tramway Museum at Crich. It's in Derbyshire. I don't suppose
you've ever been there?"

She agreed that she had not. He leaned across the table, his pink jowls
wistful.

"Would you like to come? Maybe mid-week. Or if you've got some holiday
due."

"But, James,' she said quietly, ' about your family? Don't they expect
you to be with them?"

His eyes dropped. He fiddled with the leaflets. ', well,' he muttered,
''re not keen."

"Ah.' Hetty cleared plates and rinsed them moodily under the tap. Did
this mean the evening was about to come to a full stop? She returned to
the living room and carried the platter of pineapple to the table.

His eyes lit up. Til say this, you're a fine cook, Hetty.' His voice
betrayed surprise.

"Why shouldn't I be? I had enough practice. The secret's to keep it
simple. If you want fancy fare, there are so many restaurants here in
London."

"Mmm, that's true. I'd love to take you back to that Japanese place, and
introduce you to their special sushi. Sorry you were a bit peaky that
night."

Hetty allowed her gaze to stray over James, to evaluate him more
objectively. Not tall. Not fat either, though he could lose a few
pounds, and exercise might tighten that saggy chin. He still had most of
his hair, although the shade was more bleached and sandy than in a
younger man. A

272 Edwina Currie speckle of dandruff littered his shoulders. Those were
his own teeth. A non-smoker. For a man in his mid-fifties, he was quite
passable.

A renewed determination surfaced in her. She had to N make progress.

Chasing men, if she were to indulge herself, required a raft of new
skills and resurrected old ones. James, it was now obvious, had every
reason to treat her with discretion. If this tryst dissolved into a
God-awful disaster, he would not dine out on the story.

"I seem to recall,' she said archly as she poured coffee, ' you enjoy a
glass of brandy to finish off your meal.' She motioned him to an
armchair.

"Rather!' he said boyishly. Then, ', shouldn't I help you clear away
first?"

She flapped a napkin. ', no. Leave it. I'll do it later.' Tomorrow
morning, if all went well. The Courvoisier had been a gift from Sally,
duty-free, to help her mother stock up. Hetty poured a generous measure
then offered, as if expecting a refusal, ' or water? I don't think you
take them, do you?"

He shook his head, swirled the brandy round in its balloon and took a
long swallow. They must have put away a lot of liquor, Hetty realised.

It heightened her awareness of James, of his legs now stretched out
lazily, of the quiet room, the littered table, the guttering candles and
bits of pineapple skin, which resembled question marks; yet her brain
was clear and sharp.

James had started to talk politics, then switched to what was evidently
a recurrent grievance about office intrigues and why he had not yet
achieved the promotion he deserved. It came to Hetty that his wife was
not a great deal of support in his career: the lady did not feature at
all in this saga. Not Chasing Men 273

the kind of wife she herself had been, it was plain - no country
weekends entertaining clients or board directors, no intimate dinner
parties at home. Not as she, Hetty, had done as a matter of course. No
wonder Rosa, Sally, Doris, the BJs found that scenario risible. She must
have been mad. It had given her, none the less, a talent for listening
as if engrossed, and of enabling nervous or tired men to unwind in her
presence.

James was burbling on, almost oblivious. He was beginning to relax
rather too much. Hetty slipped round the back of his armchair and knelt
down, her face close to his. ' poor man,' she said soothingly, in what
she hoped was a seductive murmur. ''s dreadful when your talents are not
valued."

"Oh, I wouldn't put it quite like that. I do fairly well. But a man my
age should have a partnership on the horizon. It's not my fault if it
isn't.' He seemed about to become maudlin, and glanced longingly at his
empty glass.

Hetty took it from his hand. There are other compensations, James,' she
cooed softly, and kissed him.

He tasted of kirsch and brandy, of lamb and garlic and sweet fruit, as
if everything he had eaten had lingered on some part of his mouth. But I
put it all there, she reflected, and I must taste much the same. She
kissed him again.

He appeared startled, as if he had expected to go on rambling,
increasingly in his cups, for hours. ' say, old girl, that's rather
nice,' he said, as if coming up for air.

Hetty was tempted to haul him to his feet by his tie and drag him to the
bedroom. She moved to face him and kissed him more, putting real energy
into it so that he couldn't be misled. At last he rose, lifted her up
and put his arms tightly round her in a bear-hug. ' meal, lovely lady,'
he

274 Edwina Currie muttered into her hair. ', Hetty, you smell good."

"Wonderful to have you here, James,' she whispered, her throat
constricting. What should she do now? She ran her hands up and down the
small of his back and pressed him to her. He was slouching a little.

Weary? Drunk? It was time to find out.

She pushed him away and flirtatiously began to undo his shirt buttons,
slipping her fingers inside. ' was sitting there, wondering whether you
have hair all over your chest, James,' she said lightly. ' big,
masculine man like you."

He giggled and hiccuped. ', yes. Hair everywhere. D'you want to see?"

He tugged at his tie as she undid the rest of his shirt buttons and
pulled the shirt-tails out of his trousers. Undressed his upper body was
not unattractive. A mite sweaty from the warmth of the room. Hetty found
herself breathing harder, her head starting to pound. She pressed her
palms over his pectorals; they were fleshy, not excessively so, but not
muscular. He wriggled. '! I'm ticklish ... "

"You are? Where? Maybe you'd better show me ... "

Hetty took his hand and led him, trailing the shirt and tie, into the
bedroom. The bedside light was on, but she had set aromatic candles in
saucers and quickly lit them. The effect was all one could wish -
romantic, glamorous and an open invitation.

"We are a tad overdressed, James,' she said.

"We are, we are. Aren't you a clever woman? I can't get over it, Hetty.

So nice, and such a good cook. And now ...' He giggled again and went as
if to hug himself.

Hetty lifted her sweater over her head. James gaped: the black bra might
be only Marks and Spencer's, but it pushed up her cleavage quite
powerfully. Maybe James's sex life was Chasing Men 275

as limited as her own. She prayed he wasn't impotent, but even that she
could cope with. As long as he didn't laugh at her. The tinge of
melancholy returned, but she shoved it resolutely away and undid her
skirt, letting it drop to the floor.

Tasty,' teased the mirror.

"Ooh!' was James's contribution, as his eyes rounded. He grabbed her,
and clutched her to him once more. This time the contact of skin on skin
made her tingle. Something twitched, down on her thigh. Then he stepped
back, crestfallen. ' haven't brought ... any protection, Hetty. 1
thought this was just for dinner."

She was prompted to call him a stupid idiot to his face, but instead
smiled sweetly. ' problem. Trousers off." He did as he was told,
struggling through the comical dance of a man engaged in the impossible
task of removing his kit with dignity. He stood upright, this time in
striped boxer shorts and navy socks, hands loose by his sides.

"And the rest."

James appeared to stumble, so Hetty came close, hooked her thumbs inside
the elastic of his shorts and kissed his chest as she pulled them down.

It was surprisingly easy to do, and as she bent to wriggle them off over
his knees and feet, Hetty saw why.

He was indeed hairy - in fact, he was luxuriantly hirsute from the navel
down, over a podgy belly. His erection was not in doubt: the man was not
impotent. Doris's remedies would not be needed. On the other hand ... It
was tiny. Hesitantly, Hetty touched it, and measured it quickly in her
hand. It was about the same length as her little finger, and not much
thicker. It was nearly lost in the hairy bush; had she not been looking
for it, she might have missed it entirely.

276 Edwina Currie

"Oh, do that again,' James groaned, as she stroked his diminutive penis.

It wasn't purple and engorged with blood, but pale in the candlelight,
though stolidly and proudly erect, like a skinny drummer boy at the end
of a line of soldiers.

"Come on, then,' Hetty said, and led him to the bed. In a few seconds,
with her assistance, her bra and pants had been fumblingly removed. She
guided his hand to her own bush, and waited as he rubbed her eagerly.

"Like that?' he asked, more confidently, and she cooed for answer. He
was hefty, on top of her, and breathing more lamb and garlic. The
activity loosened a bubble of wind and he belched. '! Sorry. You fed me
too well."

For fear of losing it, she kept it in her hand; to lubricate, she licked
her palm and wetted it, and he groaned in excitement. Then she
commanded, ', James, in you come,' and he obliged willingly.

She could feel nothing, not there. However, she could feel his heavy
body wallowing on her, his hot breath on her neck. His eyes were closed
and he was grunting, a beatific expression on his flushed cheeks. '!

Oh! Oh!' she uttered theatrically, and ', Hetty!' he wailed eventually,
and slumped down on her, his arms flailing over his head. He grabbed her
face and kissed it wetly. ', that was terrific!"

"Ye-e-es,' she answered, and wondered whether she should pant in time
with his heaving torso. Their bodies were sticking together. Somewhere
down there came the faint sensation of a gentle plop, but possibly she
had imagined it.

As gently and politely as possible, she shoved him off and cradled
herself on his shoulder. He put his hand on his chest. '! Heart's
pumping. Wow! Haven't had proper fun like that in ages."

Chasing Men 277

Hetty felt suddenly alarmed. She had invited this man into her bed on
two assumptions. First, that he was as well equipped as the next chap,
second, that his personal life was reasonably sound and that he was
merely looking for a bit on the side. Now, she saw, neither was correct.

He was not getting his oats at home, and he was woefully under endowed.

And, what was worse, he clearly didn't know it.

"Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, old girl,' he said happily and
hugged her. His eyes were closed, as if he were in heaven.

Hetty did not have the heart to disabuse him. ',' she murmured.

They pulled up the duvet and dozed for a few moments, till Hetty roused
herself and picked up the clock on the bedside table. ' think you ought
to make a move, James."

"Mmm - can't I stay?' His eyes were still shut tight.

She lifted the duvet and gazed calmly at him. She had not been mistaken:
detumescent, it had vanished entirely into his pubic hair. Nor did it
show the least flicker of life. ' if you want some more,' she said,
quietly, half praying that he couldn't hear.

"No, once a night's enough for me,' he mumbled, and that decided it.

Hetty rose and reached for the candlewick dressing-gown on the back of
the door. ''s been super, James, but I have an early call in the
morning. And I'm not used to sleeping the whole night with someone. Not
sure I'm ready for it yet."

He was snoring.

She prodded him, and he rolled over. She continued muttering as she
helped him into his shorts and socks. Then he slumped once more, and she
gave up.

278 Edwina Currie Hetty, naked under the dressing-gown, addressed the
slumbering form of her new lover. ', James, I am ready, but for
something better than this. So you can stay the night and I'll sleep on
the sofa - it won't be the first time. But that's it."

"Lovely,' he mumbled, as she blew out the candles and turned out the
bedside light.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Down the Plughole C /'~*\ h, poor you!' Rosa squeezed her hand. They
were in \^r a corner of the canteen, backs to the rest of the crew, with
cups of black coffee before them.

"Yes, I did feel rather sorry for myself,' Hetty agreed. ' was this
big.' She held up her little finger and crooked it, then raised it erect
and slowly let it droop.

"Couldn't he get it up?' Rosa asked, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, that wasn't it,' Hetty answered, in a stage whisper. Dave the
cameraman was staring pointedly in their direction. ' you couldn't tell
if it was up or down."

The two women broke out in a fit of giggles, clutching at each other and
waggling fingers.

Hetty wiped her eyes. ' in the morning when he woke up, he complained
that it was sore. Can you imagine? And he didn't wash up."

"You know what they say. If you don't use it, you lose it. Maybe he's
the proof."

280 Edwina Currie

Hetty collapsed in another paroxysm. ' least it didn't drop off in my
hand. But it looked so fragile ... "

It was several minutes before either could regain some composure. The
male crew were now openly eavesdropping. Rosa put her head on one side.

"I must say, Hetty, you've really altered. No more prim middle-aged
matron for you, eh? What happened to that timid little biddy I offered a
job to all those months ago?"

"Down a plughole, along with my other illusions, fears and frustrations,
I guess,' Hetty answered, marginally more quietly. ''you know, I'll be
fifty-one next week? And it doesn't bother me in the least."

"No reason why it should. Going to celebrate?"

"No way. We didn't mark my fiftieth, the big five-oh. From here onwards,
I'm going to count backwards."

"I started doing that years ago."

"It's not that I'm paranoid about getting older. Not any more. I don't
intend to roll over and become a second-class citizen. Not because I've
reached a mature age, or because I'm single. There are advantages in
both."

"Quite the philosopher,' Rosa commented drily.

"But so few see it this way, do they? Yet you and I, Rosa, are in the
second most rapidly growing group in modem society."

"Singles. Fiftysomethings."

"Right. And we're not all - what did Sally say? - SAD, single and
desperate. If I were desperate, I'd have stuck with James,
trainspotting, miniprick and all. But I'd rather munch a dill pickle any
day.' They started laughing again, heads close, Rosa's frizzy black hair
and Hetty's streaked brown intermingled like two mop-haired dolls.

"My dope of a brother and his partner will probably think Chasing Men
281

I'm certifiable,' Hetty continued. ' haven't dared tell them yet that
James and I are not an item. Larry put me under so much pressure, but he
has no right. They set themselves up as the perfect couple, but they're
far from it. They planned to bring me in from the cold, as they see it.

But I'm not. cold or not cold enough to see the Railway King in steam
again. So why do I still feel guilty?"

"Were you sweet to James? Polite to him on the phone?"

"Yes. But it's taking him a while to get the message. He feels it was an
evening of sheer magic. That's what he said."

"Dear lamb! Then you've nothing to feel upset about. Tell him your
conscience is nagging because he's married - make it clear that the
alternative is not that he should leave his wife for you. Say you've
decided to concentrate on your career. Whatever. Suggest to Larry that
they try to find the poor baby somebody else."

"I was half expecting my brother to call me for a progress report.

Trouble is, if I tell him the truth he'll be baring off fixing up
someone else for me."

"You could try running a string of men, though it can get complicated,"
Rosa said dreamily. ' for nights out, one to play bridge with, one for
romance. Then you can give up searching for the ideal bloke: you exploit
the talents of whoever you meet. Doesn't apply to me, natch - there's
only one activity for which men are indispensable.' And she mimed a
bouncing movement, arms stretched ahead, as if riding a horse.

From behind came a shouted ribald comment, but the women ignored it.

"My friendships are beginning to develop in that direction, now I think
about it,' Hetty responded. ' mother and my daughter provide one kind of
loving company, and

282 Edwina Currie my neighbours Doris and the lads upstairs another. I'm
fond of Father Roger, too, though not sexually - at least, I don't
believe he'd respond. I'd like more time to catch up with Christian's
current play, but it can be awkward when we're not finished here till
seven. Not that I'm complaining,' she added hastily.

"We should have a new contract for you shortly,' Rosa confirmed.

Tour-fifty pounds a week while we're recording. Not brilliant, but not
destitution, either." "I appreciate that. It all helps,' Hetty said.

Rosa stood to go, shaking herself like a young animal. ' said the second
fast-growing group. Where d'you get that info?"

"Kate, the researcher. She's a mine of useless information. You know she
fancies you, don't you?"

"I do. You don't need to remind me, Hetty. So what's the other?"

"Old people. Especially centenarians. Everyone's living a lot longer."

"Yes. Well, I'm glad to wait. A few more years of frisky engagement with
the opposite sex, before arthritis and Alzheimer's set in, will do me
fine."

Mention of Larry and Davinia reminded Hetty that, though she had sent a
courteous note after the dinner party, some follow-up might be
appropriate. As she turned over the Fulham evening and its aftermath in
her mind, she realised she had heard no more about Nicholas.

She wandered out into the corridor and found Kate. ' are the ratings?"

"Not bad. We're getting a regular million. As good as Trisha, anyway."

Chasing Men 283

"That's what we want. Rosa's so professional." Kate sighed. ' is. She
creates a pleasant atmosphere. Even though she keeps our noses to the
grindstone."

"I wondered,' Hetty fidgeted, ' we got any feedback from programme six.
With Nicholas, the chap who intended to throw up his City job to become
a writer."

There was something ...' Kate wrinkled her nose to remember. ' bit in
one of the book sections in last weekend's newspapers, that he's been in
talks with a literary agent. Rather what you'd expect."

"Fine,' Hetty answered. Thank you.' She turned to leave.

"Why, you interested?"

"No, but I know someone who is. Though if he's going to be penniless, I
suspect her ardour might cool quite quickly."

"Sad, that, women who want a man only for his money."

Tn the case in question it might be a darned good thing."

Hetty pinned the gilt badge on her lapel, swung this way and that before
the mirror and ordered it to be complimentary. Then she picked up her
gold membership card and headed for a weigh-in at the summers' class.

It had to be confessed that a different woman walked across the common
in the summer evening compared to the winter. Both Sally and Rosa had
commented. Odd, Hetty reflected, how a woman's self-confidence could
blossom again - not easily, it had been a struggle, but so robustly, as
if well rooted. Paradoxically James had had a lot to do with it; so, in
his way, had Al the saxophone player. The fact that men - any men - were
attracted to her was a huge morale booster. And the outward signs, the
loss of twenty pounds in weight and the newer, trimmer figure, were
crucial. ' see,' she told the trees, ' mirror was wiser than me.

284 Edwina Currie Appearance counts. It shouldn't: in a world in which
we approached everyone as individuals, with their own special quirks and
foibles, it wouldn't matter a toss."

"Look your best, feel your best,' the trees whispered back.

"And the Professor, too,' she mused. ' fabulous paintings, his obsession
with how a woman looks. He never once said anything about their
personalities. I wonder what sort of girl his wife was? Funny, or
serious? Kind, or hardbitten? Did she take off her clothes for anyone
else? Oh, yes, Augustus John, he said. Naive, maybe? Had a huge effect
on him, that's for sure.' She strolled along, swinging her arms.

"What are you chuntering about?' came a voice behind her. ' down,
Hetty."

It was Annabel. Hetty waited till she caught up. The tall, tubby girl
was much the same size as on their first visit to the slimming club -
five feet ten, or thereabouts, and closer to fifteen stone than twelve,
though her substantial frame could comfortably carry the extra weight.

If she didn't mind her size - had she enjoyed being big - Annabel would
be quite sexy, like Sophie Dahl, or one of the Professor's beloved
Rubenses.

"I was feeling pleased with life,' Hetty said, with a smile. ''s
certainly perked up for me recently. How're you?"

"Huh. Frantic. I put on three pounds last week. Three pounds! And I
haven't the faintest idea how. This week I've tried to sweat it off -
had a long hot bath tonight before coming out. I'm sweating like a pig."

"What's the weakness? Booze? Biscuits? Mayonnaise?"

"Don't be so smug, Hetty. It's okay for you and your gold pin, you've
reached target. You must have tremendous self discipline."

Chasing Men 285

"Not a scrap. But it depressed me. I felt I was turning into an old cow.

Either I kept putting it on, or I stopped and got it off. It was as
simple as that."

Annabel trudged beside her in silence.

"I haven't seen you and the girls for a bit,' Hetty said. ''s the love
life? How's Richard?"

"Him!' Annabel hooted derisively. ' went off and found himself someone
else. A feisty black lady, works in TV - Flo was furious. But he'll be
back."

Hetty's eyes danced. ' you? Anyone nice?"

Annabel shook her head. ' hope I've got Richard out of my system.

That's a step forward, anyhow.' She brightened. ' are you doing after
class, Hetty? Wanna come round for a drink?"

Hetty had learned to accept what came in her direction: it made for an
agreeable if unpredictable diary. ''d be great. Shall I bring a bottle?"

"Nah, we got a flat full of alcohol. We laid it in for a party last
weekend that didn't happen. If you help us get rid of it, Het, that'll
be fewer calories for me, won't it?"

The slimming club was rather less crowded than before. Registrations
were at a maximum, Hetty knew, during January, when she herself had
joined: fights and broken romances at Christmas brought on New Year
resolutions that led to the queues and anguished faces she had become
familiar with months ago. The intrepid were still attending doggedly,
but others would never return.

The same two men were there, but the beer bellies had shrunk. The
instructor was as skinny as ever, still unbelievable as the barrel in
the flowered tent of her photo. The Asian lady in a yellow said was
seated on the front row, no

286 Edwina Currie longer quite as squat, with another fatter woman,
similarly attired, beside her. Possibly a sister: maybe the one had
convinced the other to come for mutual support.

On tiptoe in the queue, Hetty searched for the former owner of the chip
shop. It took several minutes before she identified her: still very
wide, but now stout rather than grossly obese, reading a recipe book,
spectacles perched on the end of her stubby nose.

"Hello. How did you do this week?' The standard greeting.

The chip-shop woman screwed up her eyes. ', isn't it? I lost another two
pounds. That's ninety-six to date. Next week it'll be seven stone."

"Well done, you!' Another standard.

The woman sighed. T'm walking now. I promised myself that at twelve
stone I'd buy a dog, but the pet shop said I should be more active
first. Otherwise the dog'd suffer."

"And your target?"

"Bout another fifty pounds. I'll do it, with God's help."

Hetty patted the woman on the shoulder and went to be weighed. She
marvelled at the endurance needed to persist so long, and in the face of
such adversity. It had struck her forcibly on her first visit how slight
her own problems were by comparison. Now she felt almost ashamed to be
present, and said so to Margaret the instructor.

"My dear! No, you must keep coming. For your own sake. And also to
encourage the others. To show it can be done.' The instructor gave a
tough little smile.

Annabel was slumped in a chair. ', Hetty, I don't understand it. The
harder I try, the more I put it on!' she wailed.

Hetty suspected that the girl dieted more in the breach than the
observance, maybe one or two days a week, and made up for it the
remainder. Perhaps this was part of an Chasing Men 287

unconscious system of self-flagellation: setting herself up to fail. But
it was not for Hetty to preach. Instead she took Annabel's arm and
pulled her to her feet. ' on, I'm thirsty. I'd like to take advantage of
your offer.' ', right. Let's drown our sorrows, shall we?' I don't have
any sorrows to drown, came to Hetty with a touch of satisfaction. ' the
hell?' she answered. ' not?' And they left the community hall
arm-in-arm.

At their gate, the initial sign of disturbance was Thomas with his hair
on end, back arched, standing square on the doorstep. As Hetty bent to
scratch his ears, he hissed. '! What's upset you, then?' she asked.

Those damn girls, that's what."

It was Doris, with a grim frown and a turban tied roughly round her
hair, her hands busy wringing out a sodden dishcloth. She shook the
cloth in the bushes, dirty droplets flying. Thomas fled for cover.

Doris glared at Annabel. ', miss. Wait till you see what your friends
have been up to."

Behind her in the hall stood Mrs. Mcdonald with a bucket and a mop. The
two children could be seen inside their flat, huddling close to their
father. All four had wet slippers.

"Oh dear,' said Annabel softly, the colour draining from her face. ' and
Shelagh. They're watching videos of Friends. They mightn't have
noticed."

"Noticed what?' Hetty asked sharply, as they picked their way over the
hall carpet. In places it squelched.

"We knocked upstairs but there was no answer,' Doris called after them
angrily. ''s been coming through the ceiling for an hour. I was on the
point of calling the fire brigade. Have you got your key?"

288 Edwina Currie Annabel fished in her pocket then, with Hetty in tow,
climbed the stairs to flat four, opposite Hetty's own flat. From within
the BJs' residence came the sound of the television turned up loud, and
uproarious laughter.

They've probably started on the vodka,' Annabel explained as she put the
key in the lock. Tonight's a girls' night in. Flo has decided she wants
plaits with beads in her hair. It takes ages. Anyway, they wouldn't hear
anyone at the door. If they did they probably wouldn't bother to answer
- Doris is so darned nosy."

"She's probably angling for customers,' Hetty answered, but was met with
a puzzled glance and a shrug from the girl.

Hetty and Annabel entered the hallway of flat four. Above the noise of
the video from behind the closed living-room door, Hetty craned to
listen. The faint tinkle of running water took her to the bathroom. A
wall of steam enveloped her and billowed down the landing. Inside, the
bath was full, steaming and overflowing. One tap was turned slightly on.

Though barely a trickle, the water had obviously been enough to flood
the bath and to seep through to the Mcdonalds' flat below. Hetty reached
across and turned off the hot tap. The scalding metal stung her palm.

Beneath her breath she swore. With the back brush she hooked up the plug
chain.

"You had a bath before you went for the weigh-in, yes?' Hetty said
grimly, blowing on her tingling fingers. ' naturally you forgot to pull
the plug."

A white-faced Annabel hovered, wringing her hands. ' was in a hurry. I
often forget to let the water out - Shelagh gets hopping mad at me."

"Costs a fortune. Waste of electricity.' Hetty tried to sound severe,
but the girl's distress was almost palpable.

Chasing Men 289

They won't sue, will they? Don't say it was me, Hetty. Say it was an
accident."

Hetty grunted. The murky water made a noisy glugging as it disappeared,
leaving a grey rime around the bath. ' won't say a word if you clean up
here. You're a dope, Annabel, but there's no doubt it was unintentional,
as you say. When you've finished, go and apologise to the Mcdonalds and
Doris."

The bathroom itself was not particularly wet; the water must have found
its way quickly through the planking to the floor below. Hetty left
Annabel flopped heavily on her knees scrubbing at the tidemark, went
downstairs to reassure the anxious neighbours, then returned. At what
appeared to be a suitable break in the video programme, she tapped
firmly on the living-room door and pushed it open. Inside, the curtains
were drawn; the dark room was lit by a single pink-shaded lamp and the
flickering screen. Flo and Shelagh were slouched on the sofa, bejeaned
legs draped over the arms, their backs to the door.

Flo glanced behind, failed to register that the new entrant was not
Annabel, and pushed over a bowl of peanuts. ', Annie. How did you get
on?"

"Annabel put on weight. Again,' Hetty said loudly. Two heads, one
red-haired, the other dark, popped up simultaneously. Half of Flo's hair
had been put into neat narrow braids with blue beads, the rest stood out
in a mass of frizz as if struck by lightning.

"Oh, hello, Het. Nice to see you. Want some vodka?"

Hetty marched over to the video machine and pressed the pause button.

Standing crossly, arms folded, in front of the set, she outlined to the
two astonished flatmates the disaster that Annabel's carelessness had
caused. But it was

290 Edwina Currie apparent after a few moments that the girls were more
than a little drunk, and unable to focus their minds effectively enough
to take action.

"You want us to do anything, Het?' Shelagh drawled. Her green eyes were
heavy-lidded. She had begun to plait another of Flo's braids. ' mean, we
will if you insist, but I'm not sure my legs'll do what I tell '." Hetty
sighed. ', it's under control. Annabel is responsible, so I'd leave it
to her."

"Right, thanks.' Flo picked up the peanuts bowl again. In doing so she
pulled the plait tight. '! That hurt. Say, Hetty, you wouldn't like to
give a hand with my hair? It takes hours, but the more the merrier, and
quicker."

Hetty relaxed. ' don't mind. Show me what to do. Annabel did offer me a
drink."

"Help yourself.' Two vodka bottles and several cartons of juice sat on a
side table with a metal cooler full of ice. Hetty found a tall glass and
mixed a vodka and grapefruit juice. It was refreshing after the tension.

She downed half quite quickly.

By the time Annabel returned from her meet culpas downstairs, Hetty had
learned the rudiments of braiding and, being both dextrous and more
sober than Shelagh, had made rapid progress. ' gather Richard has found
himself another love?' she asked guilelessly, as the four of them
settled on the sofa and a couple of floor cushions. Flo lay
spreadeagled, her head accessible to all three, drinking with the aid of
a bent straw.

"Aagh! Richard!' the girls chorused, and Flo made vomiting gestures.

Despite her disapproval of their disorganised, shiftless life, Hetty
could not help smiling. ' about the other Chasing Men 291

fellows you brought along to my party? Ted? Stuart? They seemed pleasant
enough."

More miming.

"Henry?' Hetty was grinning broadly. ' he manage to meet his father in
time?"

"He got into frightful trouble with his old man,' Annabel confided. '
you hadn't found him, he'd probably still be out cold on the stairs."

The bowl of peanuts was in her lap and she stuffed a handful into her
mouth. ', Hetty, tell me to stop eating."

"I think you're fine as you are,' Hetty answered firmly. ' of men would
love a lass your shape.' The image of James, prone and content after a
single penetration, floated into her mind. ' mature men. You're probably
fishing in the wrong pond."

"D'you really think so?"

Hetty poured herself another drink. ' can see it now. You should come on
our programme Tell Me AH. The three of you."

She had their full attention, or as much of it as their condition
allowed.

"What'd we have to say?"

"Well, you'd set out your circumstances. In your own words. Three
gorgeous young women, yet the lads you meet are only interested in
casual relationships. Where might you find real men, who want to settle
down?"

The BJs began to twitter excitedly.

"But first,' Hetty continued, ''d have to be clear what you wanted out
of it. There'd be lots of phone calls afterwards. And the tabloids might
get excited, too. You do dream of settling down, don't you?"

"Yes! Yes!' the three girls chanted together.

292 Edwina Currie Annabel turned wistful eyes on her. ''s it like being
married?

Having your own home? Your own place, you can turn into a palace, with a
smashing geezer rushing back to you every night? Is it absolutely
wonderful, like the spreads in Hello/?"

"Of course,' Hetty said automatically, then stopped. ' depends,' she
continued more cautiously. ' mean, you have to consider, do you want
children?" "Yes,' said Annabel, dubiously.

"Eight,' said Shelagh loudly. Td love a big family. My grandmother had
eleven, my mother has only me and my brother. Provided I can have
nannies too."

"He'll have to be wealthy,' Hetty pointed out, with a smile.

"Oh, I'll marry for love. Daddy'll make a big settlement, just to get me
off his hands,' Shelagh asserted solemnly.

"What about you, Flo?' Hetty asked.

Td have Richard, provided I didn't have to share him.' Flo's hair was
beginning to come to order; the plaits swung slickly as she shook her
head experimentally. ' sure about the sprogs, though."

Hetty saw suddenly that Flo might be a younger version of Rosa. ' don't
feel you'd like kids, Flo?' she asked.

The girl scratched her nose. ' I come from, so many girls have babies
young, then they're stuck staying in, stretch-marks ruining their
figures, when they should be in their prime. The blokes don't turn a
hair - "Not mine," they say. Not much future in that. I'd like them
eventually, I suppose.' She did not sound convinced.

"Did you enjoy your kids, Hetty?' asked Shelagh.

Hetty refreshed her glass a third time before answering. ' birth, no,
awful experience. Thank God the memory fades or we'd never have a
second. Little babies, yes, when Chasing Men 293

they're well behaved. Mine weren't bad. But after that it gets harder."

"Whaddya mean?" Hetty thought about the distance that had grown between
herself and her son, and of Sally's years of sullenness, only recently
eroded. Tm not sure I can say anything very profound. Each family's
different. But children can be disappointing."

"I think babies are lovely! I can't wait!' Shelagh's eyes were shining,
though as much with alcohol, Hetty guessed, as with anticipation.

"Then I'd say, pick a man who loves kids too, and who'd make a fine
father,' she suggested. ' Richard, though you never can tell. But
everyone starts off with high hopes for their offspring. Not least, that
they'll love their parents and be grateful. It doesn't work out like
that."

"I'm grateful to my parents,' Shelagh burbled. ' keep me in the luxury
to which I'm accustomed!' Annabel giggled and nodded in agreement.

"Do you tell them,' Hetty asked quietly, ' you love them?"

Annabel shrugged. They'd suspect I was after something."

"You should. Surprise them. The sweetest remark my daughter ever made to
me was not long ago, when she said that at last she saw me as a human
being. I was so touched.' Hetty was surprised at herself: it was not an
admission she had expected to make.

"Would you have wanted to stay single, though, Het?' Flo was curious.

"No. But you learn, after a while, that the fairy-tale's a farce.' Hetty
was startled by her own sharp tone. '-tale marriages, I mean.

Marriage is the most complicated

294 Edwina Currie relationship of all. And you alter, over time. The two
people who walked up the aisle in white tulle and a top hat aren't the
same pair ten years after, with screaming kids and fights over money.
Twenty years on, they've altered again. Maybe, after another while, you
come together once more, but 1 can't comment on that."

"Ugh! I can't imagine what it'd be like to be fifty.' Annabel shuddered.

"When you're fifty,' Hetty said severely, ' may find yourself sitting
with a bunch of twentysomethings hoping they won't make the same mess of
their lives you have."

"You haven't made a mess, have you, Het?' Annabel was contrite, and
anxious. ' look happy. You have friends. You're never in - you're out
almost as much as us."

A similar litany from Sally had struck a chord with Hetty a short time
before. ' don't know how to measure success,' she said quietly. ''s
enough to feel serene, I suppose. Though when you get to my age, health
matters too. And the state of your bank balance. It may seem unromantic,
but there you are. There aren't any rule books. You have to make it up
as you go along."

Blank looks came from each of the BJs.

"I still dream of the ideal,' said Shelagh. ', children loads of ' - and
a handsome fellow who adores me. But not yet!" "I do believe in new
experiences, now,' Hetty continued. She could feel the drink talking,
her speech beginning to slur. ''d try anything once.

1 used to be so conventional. P'raps I just bored my husband into
someone else's arms. Should've been much less hidebound, more
adventurous."

"How about a little adventurous entertainment, then?' Flo had sat up,
the hair braiding finished. With the rosy light on Chasing Men 295

her bronze skin, she resembled a young Cleopatra.

"Depends what you have in mind. Have you got a brace of gorgeous guys in
a cupboard?' Hetty could feel herself becoming roguish.

"Chance'd be a fine thing. But how about a fizzier way of finishing that
vodka? Somebody was boasting about it at lunchtime today. Wanna try?"

Flo disappeared into the kitchen. She returned, a grin on her face,
braids slapping against her neck. In her hand were four teaspoons and a
giant-size box of Kleenex. '."

She poured a few drops of vodka on to the teaspoon, bent over, pinched
one nostril closed with a finger and lifted the teaspoon to her nose.

Then with a snort she inhaled deeply, making a noise like the last dregs
of a milkshake being sucked up a straw.

"Yeachf she squealed, choked and spluttered, and grabbed a handful of
tissues. Her eyes rolled right up into their sockets. She staggered and
fell on to the sofa. '! Gawd! That's fantastic!"

As she gasped and rocked, Annabel grabbed a teaspoon and filled it. '
too much,' warned Hetty, entranced. But Annabel, never one for half
measures, lifted the spoon to her nose, closed her left nostril and
snorted vigorously through the other.

"Aagh!' she yelped, and danced about the room, sneezing furiously. Then,
standing stock still, eyes bulging, ', my God! Oh, that's amazing!" "You
must get a hell of a rush,' Hetty murmured. ' into the bloodstream."

"I guess so.' Shelagh was at her side by the table, as Flo moaned and
sneezed while Annabel cavorted helplessly. The remaining teaspoons sat
invitingly. Shelagh nudged Hetty in

296 Edwina Currie the ribs. ' on. I will if you will. Once can't do any
harm, can it?

It's not cocaine, or anything."

"Pure stuff, they say, vodka,' Hetty cogitated woozily. ' a little.

Try anything once. No rule books. Be more adventurous ... "

Then she and the red-headed girl held their teaspoons in shaky hands and
poured each other a few drops each.

"Now/' Shelagh called, and Hetty did as she had been shown.

The blast of pain in her nostril knocked her sideways, as if someone had
stuck a red-hot poker into the membrane. Her head reeled, and she felt
herself sway. Then the rush came, a savage scorching blast, akin to
swallowing raw alcohol on a sore throat. Her eyes squeezed shut, she
reached too late for the tissues and sneezed a gobbet of vodka into thin
air. The pulses in her temples throbbed like crazy. Yet she found
herself laughing hysterically, as if some great truth had just been
revealed to her.

"Oh!' She coughed, and tried to stop the room swirling.

It seemed to her that Flo, braids trailing, had slid off the sofa, a
silly smile on her face. Annabel, predictably, had already collapsed.

Shelagh was clutching her, and crying hoarsely, Try anything! Ooh,
Hetty! Is this better than being married, or isn't it?"

But as her knees buckled under her and she sat down hard on the floor,
Hetty did not feel able to respond intelligibly. ', thash wha counts.
Frensh ...' she began, but did not finish.

And then, with a happy gurgle, she passed out.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Interlude

(T et's take our orange juice out on to the terrace, shall J--i we?"

Father Roger steered Hetty round the concrete pillars of the National
Theatre's upper floor. They were twenty minutes early for Candide. Below
them lay the panorama of the Thames, with the gold-tipped turrets of
Victoria Tower, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament glittering to their
left, St. Paul's bulbous dome to their right and overhead the London
Eye, like a spider's web in the evening sun. On the far bank stood the
white wedding-cake edifice of the Savoy and, dwarfed into
insignificance, Cleopatra's Needle like a stick of sugar. From a boat by
Waterloo Bridge came snatches of dance music and singing. Directly
opposite was the back end of the new Charing Cross station, its garish
neon :(. reflected in the sluggish river.

They stood for a moment and breathed in the warm air. It

298 Edwina Currie was the second occasion they had been to the theatre
together. Hetty had bought the first tickets, for The Merchant of
Venice; tonight was Father Roger's reciprocal treat. Both plays had
ethical themes available for lively dissection over the interval drinks.

It had not been initially in her plan to find out more about him:
attending the play was for mutual pleasure, pure and simple. In
particular, pure. It felt safe, being with a priest, after the
machinations of Larry and James and the multiple bared breasts of the
Professor's den. On the other hand, Hetty reflected, a man like this
might have not only ethical depths but vulnerable shallows. A shiver of
mischief led her to explore.

"Balm for the spirit, a lovely evening like this,' Roger continued,
leaning his elbows on the parapet. The wind ruffled his blue shirt.

"D'you realise I gave up my turn to hear confession tonight, Hetty?

Can't say I'm sorry."

"Won't they be cross with you?"

"No. Do ' good to ponder their sins a while longer. Then they might
behave." They don't deserve you,' she said stoutly. ''t they supposed to
repent, then sin no more? You must find it irritating when they treat
you as a sort of therapist."

"Some of them could use therapy.' His voice was low. ' isn't a priest
they need, it's a consultant psychiatrist. Or a lawyer. Or a few good
friends.' Hetty must have pulled a face, for he smiled at her again.

"Having traumas with friends, are we, Hetty?"

"Not exactly. But I do wonder how far one should go.' She blushed, then
after mild prevarication told him the story of the BJs, the overflowing
bath and the snorted vodka.

Father Roger gasped, then his eyes crinkled, and soon he Chasing Men 299

was laughing uproariously at Hetty's depiction of the sordid scene. '
blacked out?"

"Yes, but not for long. I don't suppose there was that much alcohol up
my nose - not as much as knocking back a full tot, Russian-style. The
best one could say about it is that it's legal. It was like being belted
in the face. And the hangover next day was not a sensation I'd repeat,
either, even at the risk of losing my neighbours' goodwill."

Below, the trees on the embankment swelled and fluttered in the breeze,
their branches strung with coloured lights. Hetty's inquisitiveness
nagged. ' was expecting you in black and a dog-collar, like last time.

Aren't there any rules?"

"None whatsoever, except that a full rig is expected on high days and
holy days. One reason why I don't want to be a bishop. I doubt that
purple would suit me."

Hetty gazed over the river, then: ' don't understand, Roger,' she said
quietly. ' decent man like you. It can be miserable, being at everyone's
beck and call, even if you are fortified by faith. Don't you wish
sometimes you could lock the church door and go home to your own family?
There aren't any taboos about that, are there? You're not Catholic."

"I am catholic, but not Roman Catholic,' he corrected her. ' prefer to
concentrate on my job. And when I'm not on duty, I have friends, like
you, who are kind to me.' He twinkled at her. Don't be nosy, his eyes
said.

She ploughed on. ' you never had - anybody special?" "Not recently.' He
paused, but Hetty did not back off. Then, with a sigh, ', there was
someone, when I was young. But she tried to take more of me than I could
give. She wanted me to commit myself body and soul. And I found I could
not do that."

300 Edwina Currie

"Did you understand why not? Wasn't she the right person for you?"

"At the time I believed she was. But it was the whole idea of putting
another person first. Perhaps, of letting someone get so close. The body
did not object, but the soul rebelled. It felt very strange. And it's
never happened again."

"D'you mean,' Hetty persisted, ' you've never allowed it to happen
again? Never let yourself go? Suppose one of the choir fell in love with
you?"

"That's easy to deal with. I'd be gentle and aloof, as clergy should be.

We are aware of the dangers, especially if someone's unhappy."

That's not enough.' She pursed her lips. The turn of the conversation
was intensely personal, but he was calm, as if he had been expecting an
interrogation from her, sooner or later. ' mean, it's not normal to shy
away from human contact like that. Most people are aching for a genuine
loving relationship. They'd regard it as a gift from God. Only after
they get hurt, as I did, might they be more cautious."

Tools rush in?' Roger raised an eyebrow, as if to fend her off.

"Nonsense. It isn't foolish to want to love and be loved. It's foolish
not to.' She stared him out, aware that her demeanour was quite fierce.

His shoulders sagged. ' love my congregation. I love my job, my calling.
Doing the TV programme is a bit of leaven amongst the dross: if that
went, I should miss it. And when the day is over, I love my solitude. My
refuge is in books, or music, or philosophy: the sweet, serene territory
of the well cultivated mind. I fret only that I will never have enough
years to sample everything God's world has to show. I will die with
libraries unread, languages unlearned. My ideal Chasing Men 301

heaven would be an eternity at the feet of the great thinkers. Does that
make sense?' ',' Hetty muttered. ', it doesn't. Not to me. Ideas can't
compare with the richness of human company. I like to be alone, too, but
if true love walked in, I don't think I'd push it aside in favour of a
shelf full of printed paper."

"Well, now, Hetty, there we differ. It's probably a serious character
defect, but I don't waste hours groaning over it."

A loudspeaker announced that the play would commence in five minutes.

Roger had made no attempt to change the subject. Hetty took her courage
in both hands. ' you prefer to keep your human beings at arm's length?"

He nodded, his face a little sad.

"Don't you miss ...' she wanted to say ' sex', but it seemed utterly
inappropriate with a priest, even one in an open-neck shirt'..

. the personal contact?"

"The sex, you mean?' He was ahead of her. ' can answer that. You live
singly, Hetty. And you were married. Don't you miss it?"

Into Hetty's mind came the image of the recumbent James, desexed and
replete, snoring contentedly. There are worse things than no sex,
Roger,' she said, with feeling. ' hopeless sex. Some people are dire in
bed and don't know it. It'd be a cruelty to tell them, and masochism to
persist. Especially if they've little else to offer.' Then, more slowly,
'. I really must make an effort. Go to an agency, perhaps."

She had wandered. What a skilful operator Roger was, to deflect her so
deftly from his world to hers. Hetty admitted defeat with a rueful grin
and squeezed his arm.

The bells were ringing for the performance. ' like

302 Edwina Currie a confession you may have to make on a future
occasion, dear lady."

Father Roger chuckled as he ushered her inside.

Hetty had seen the Soul Mates agency advertised in the Evening Standard.

One of its offices was in the centre of Putney; that appealed, as
potential dates would not live unrealistically far away. It might also
be marginally easier to check their credentials. She rang for an
appointment and, rather nervously, went in one evening after work.

The woman seated opposite Hetty was smartly dressed, in a red wool
jacket and skirt and black court shoes with a great deal of costume
jewellery, and about her own age.

Tm so glad, Mrs. Clarkson,' she said, in a accent that tried to be home
counties but had clearly started east of Bow bells, ' you have come to
us. We are the finest in the business, and the most discreet."

"I'm pleased to hear it,' said Hetty, nonplussed.

The agency office was above a shop. Though the rental might be moderate,
some effort had been made with the decor: cream stucco walls,
coffee-coloured paintwork, soft overhead lighting and a twirling ceiling
fan produced a cool, elegant air. The leaves of the fig tree in the
corner were glossy and dust-free, its brass pot brilliant in its lustre;
the door-handles gleamed as if they were polished after every client.

Behind the desk, the wall was hung with photographs of weddings with
couples of every vintage from youngsters to elderly, and many framed
letters, presumably testimonials and thanks. Two framed certificates
announced membership and licences, though of what Hetty was unsure. The
wastepaper basket by the counsellor's feet was filled to overflowing.

They must get a lot of weird mail.

"You have to approach these matters with the right mental Chasing Men
303

vigour,' the woman continued. Tell yourself that you will find someone,
and you will. Start off believing you won't, and it's a self-fulfilling
prophecy."

"Of course.' Hetty sat up and squared her shoulders.

"Believe, Mrs. Clarkson. Believe in yourself, and in our expertise.

Though it may take a little while. We have far more women on our books
than men, inevitably. All agencies have. And, I'm afraid, it's less easy
to match ladies of shall we say? - your age."

"Why?' Hetty wanted to ask crossly, but held her tongue.

'... as long as you realise it might not happen in the first few weeks,
or even the first few months. But if you're patient, we're sure to find
you somebody."

That's why I'm here. I've tried meeting men on my own, but ...' Hetty
saw the glaze begin over the counsellor's eyes and quickly changed tack.

"But that's in the past. I'm determined, this time."

"Excellent.' The woman's manner became more confiding. ' need to
understand about our male clients. Very often, they have ...
difficulties. I don't mean sexual hang-ups, necessarily - we try to weed
those out at interview. Here at Soul Mates we are very thorough. But
although they are dedicated to finding a partner, a person like yourself
may find that some have commitment limitations.' The last words were
pronounced with great care, as if frequently repeated.

"I see,' said Hetty slowly, though she did not quite. ' the
implications?"

Those may show up only after a relationship has developed. You may fall
in love, and he may not - cannot, perhaps. So be wise. Keep it light to
begin with - don't get too intense. If you run into a sticky patch, men
are tempted to give up quickly. On the whole, women don't."

304 Edwina Currie Hetty blinked. ' advice. I'm not a quitter: I have
every faith in you."

But the counsellor had not finished. Perhaps this was a prepared text.

This is a wonderful sweetie shop for some men, Mrs. Clarkson. Males like
to try the varieties. Often that's all they do, for years. They are
sincere in their desire for a long-term partner - don't get me wrong,
they've paid the fee, after all. It's just that they aren't terribly
good at coping with the tricky bits. But, meanwhile, we are here for you
also to choose. We have many successes.' She waved a beringed hand at
the photographs.

"Very encouraging.' Hetty fought down any doubts.

"This gent,' the woman pointed at a picture of a thickset man with a
moustache, his arms entwined around a simpering middle-aged blonde, '
convinced he would never fall for anyone, and now look at him."

Hetty did as she was invited. The thick moustache was not to her taste,
but otherwise she felt a sudden envy. Might she be up there in a silver
frame, one day? Was that what she really wanted?

"Now, any more questions? No? Then take this pack and fill in the
details. Meanwhile I will trawl through our recent files for some
suggestions. I'm sure you'll find somebody you like amongst them.

Believe, Mrs. Clarkson. Believe."

On the table of the Cafe Pinocchio was a pile of Sunday supplements,
baguettes, croissants, butter, jam, coffee-cups and the Soul Mates
brochure. Markus and Christian took the leaflets, turned them over and
began to read. Within seconds they were both rocking with laughter,
nudging each other with their elbows.

"I need your help, please,' said Hetty, with as much dignity Chasing Men
305

as she could muster, but she could not stop breaking out into a wide
grin. Tm deadly serious."

Sunday brunch at the cafe had become a regular feature during the
summer: a time that was convenient for Christian, often on stage for
eight performances a week and, as Markus put it, ' for getting both of
us out of bed and into the fresh air'. Sometimes they would be joined by
Doris or a BJ, if any were sufficiently compos mentis by noon, or by the
men's other acquaintances, who were usually gay. Markus, however, had
explained in a quiet aside to Hetty that he preferred to have her as the
lynchpin of the table and the other residents; she gained the impression
that he was not keen to have competition for Christian's favours from
other, younger men.

"All I ask of you,' she continued, snatching back the papers and trying
to restore some authority, ' total honesty. You know how I appear to
other people. If Ilie or exaggerate, the assessment will be up the
creek."

Christian bit into a pain all chocolate. The Adam's apple bobbed up and
down. Hetty found it painfully attractive, perhaps because only men had
one: it recalled their other appendage, over which similarly they had no
control. What a catch he would be for any woman, Hetty judged, if he
were hetero. ''s a deal,' Christian said. ' section are we doing first -
what sort of person you are, or what your partner should be?"

The first. Question one,' Hetty clicked her biro. '"Your character. Do
you see yourself as moody, romantic, patient, friendly, considerate,
shy, cautious?" Yes, all of these. There's more - "sensitive,
conventional, tolerant, impulsive". Yes, to those too. Great - maybe I'm
just what the agency needs."

306 Edwina Currie

"Or maybe they're simply lacking in originality. Or mean to flatter you,
so you'll fill in the form and send it off with a fat fee,' Markus
chipped in. ' don't need this, Hetty. So artificial."

"Hush.' Hetty traced the categories with her finger. '"Intellectual,
adventurous, adaptable, reliable^ practical, ambitious". Not ambitious.

Not intellectual either.' She marked those spaces with a firm cross.

"But you are intelligent. Is there a space for that?' This from Markus.

"Not yet. Maybe later.' Hetty frowned. ' part. "On a first date, do you
expect (a) to be kissed, (b) to be taken home, (c) to be willing to go
all the way?" Heavens, I'm not sure I expect any of those. A good
dinner, maybe. But sex first time?"

"It can be fabulous,' Christian murmured. Markus snorted.

Hetty ticked (bas the closest approximation to her usual habits, though
she noted the ambiguity: it might mean that the man expected her to
offer a bed for the night, rather than his place. ' the section on
attitudes. How do I answer these? "Do you prefer someone who will take
the initiative in social situations?" I like a man to hold open the
door, but I'm perfectly willing to pay my share. And book the tickets."

"I'm enjoying this - it's a form of Chinese torture,' Markus said. '
on."

'"Question eleven. Would your friends call you a perfectionist?"'

"No!' chorused her friends.

"And all the better for it,' Christian added affectionately.

Hetty persisted for several more minutes then laid Chasing Men 307

down her pen. ', do they have agencies like this for gays?"

"Sure, but most contacts come through gay bars, or through ads in gay
magazines. Lots of people these days advertise in the straight press.

Have you tried there?"

"Comprehensively,' Hetty answered, and told them of her earlier attempts
at calling advertisers. ' gave that up as a source of possible admirers.
Just too creepy, chatting away on the phone to strangers.

Though I do wonder how the starfish is getting on."

"About a quarter of the Kindred Spirits ads in the Telegraph are from
gay men."

"Or purport to be,' Christian took up the theme. ' you'll find some of
the same guys on the common as it gets dark. Cruising.' Hetty saw a look
of annoyance cross Markus's face, to which his lover seemed oblivious.

"Going to an agency is probably the safest bet,' Markus said. Treat it
as a piece of harmless fun. Most of the replies will be ghastly -
obvious no-nos right from the start, so don't be disappointed. I'd guess
no more than ten percent could be possibles, some of whom will turn out
to be no-nos too. That leaves a handful you should meet."

"I could, of course, meet the lot.' Hetty tapped her lip with the pen
thoughtfully. ''re promised at least twenty names. Now, that could be
hilarious."

"How many evenings d'you have to waste?' Markus reasoned. ' if they're
bores or - well, what would rule them out?"

"Too fat. Too arrogant. Men who could talk only about themselves. Men
who go on and on about money. Or trainspotting. Or how awful their exes
are. Or, I suppose, how amazing the ex was, if that happens. Or if they
boast

308 Edwina Currie about their conquests - I wouldn't believe them.
Anyone gross: bad manners, foul-mouthed, that sort of thing."

"Quite a list. You have a precise idea of what you hate, which helps."

Markus grinned.

"How about their personal habits? They could be smelly or disgusting. Or
diseased,' Christian teased, as Hetty waved her hands in mock horror.

"Wait - have you tried the Internet? At least then you don't have to
breathe the same air."

Hetty described Rosa's games with the chat room and shook her head. '
for me."

"You'll put her off - stop it,' Markus chided. ' Net can be a disaster
too. You never know who you could be dealing with. Murderers, child
rapists, the lot. Everyone uses false names. Most are fantasists and
liars and, anyway, if they're in Columbus, Ohio, what use is that?

But woe betide you if a dodgy one takes a fancy to you. Wrecking your
computer with a virus is the least form of attack."

They were seated at a table on the pavement, taking advantage of the
weather. Later in the year, if these enjoyable interludes continued, as
Hetty hoped, they would have to move inside. She would make it her
business to arrive early enough to secure the table by the window.

Gazing at the locals as they collected their newspapers from the shop
next door and selected bagels and Gorgonzola wedges from the
delicatessen counter was an entertaining and harmless pastime.

A scruffy figure slouched past in what appeared to be several layers of
clothes, despite the still-warm sun: an overcoat down to his knees, a
knitted balaclava unravelling at the neck, two jackets, more than one
stained sweater with a grimy shirt-collar peeping over the top, and -
from the torn Chasing Men 309

bottoms - at least two pairs of trousers. He was pushing a supermarket
trolley piled high with dirty plastic bags that squeaked as it was
shoved hard against the kerb.

"Brian?' Hetty called, and the creature stopped. Christian peered over
his newspaper and raised an eyebrow.

"Who's that?' the tramp asked gruffly.

"Haven't seen you for ages. How are you?' Hetty asked. Then, on impulse,
"Would you like a coffee?"

Brian appeared confused at being addressed so normally. Other diners
were muttering at him: the odour from his clothes was unmistakable, and
there was a faint squelching as he moved. He took a step in her
direction then hesitated. ', missus,' he answered gruffly. ' could take
the price of a cup of coffee, if yer like."

Hetty found her purse and gave him a pound. ' selling the Big Issue? I
haven't seen you at the station recently."

"Nah, well, I've been ill.' He seemed embarrassed and shuffled his feet.

"I hope you'll start again. It's a good pitch."

He looked directly into her eyes, an intense, furious, depressed glare,
which made her recoil. Then he dropped his gaze and made to push his
belongings once more. ' interfering bitch,' he muttered, but to himself,
not to Hetty. Then, louder, ', well, I might. You take care of yourself,
missus. Ta for the change."

And he was gone, the trolley protesting eerily into the distance.

"You do have some odd acquaintances, Hetty,' Markus remarked drily. '
you were looking for somebody smelly and diseased, he'd fit the bill.

Were you seriously suggesting he should join us?" Hetty pondered. ''re
right. If he'd said, "Don't mind if

310 Edwina Currie I do - move up and make room," we'd have had a
problem. But I feel sorry for him."

"You'd have had a problem. There are limits, Hetty,' but Markus was half
smiling.

Hetty sat back. ''you know? In my previous life I wouldn't have given
him the time of day. Or I'd have crossed the street to avoid him. Don't
tell me to be like I was before, I prefer myself now.' She giggled. ' be
frank, in my previous life I wouldn't have been having coffee with you
two either, would I? I'd have been scared to sit at the same table, eat
from the same plates. Shows you how stupid I was."

The men did not reply, but their eyes met over her head. Markus handed
her the glossy magazine, mutely, as if to confirm that they were still
friends.

The street was getting busier. The dog-walking brigade were almost done:
they tended to be the earliest out. Families with children were starting
to emerge, with toddlers fidgeting in car-seats in double-parked
vehicles as their parents collected cakes and ready-filled baguettes for
picnics. Hetty was struck by how many of the cars, especially those with
older children sitting sullenly in the back, had fathers only: the
weekend visit of the divorced man, presumably. She was glad her marriage
had lasted long enough for that dismal ritual to be unnecessary.

"God in heaven, who's that?' she whispered, and tugged Christian's
sleeve. ', don't say a word."

A tall, rangy female stood teetering on high heels, rifling through the
newspapers on the stand a few yards away. The mass of glossy black hair
was set in a stiff, upcurled style; she wore heavy makeup, black
eyeliner and thickly mascaraed lashes. The ruby lipstick would have been
excessive Chasing Men 311

at any hour, but particularly on a Sunday morning. Her clothes were
black, cinched at the waist and made of some lacy material.

"Why do you ask?' Christian mouthed.

"One of your pals? Anyone you recognise?' Hetty hissed. The woman had
finished choosing, picked up a Mirror and went inside the shop to pay
for it. As she emerged, to see Hetty, Markus and Christian staring over
their coffee-cups, she dropped her eyes and trotted quickly away.

"No, not one of ours,' Markus said firmly. ' do know a few TVs, but not
many. They're not usually gay, Hetty."

TVs?"

"Transvestites. Cross-dressers. Mostly, they're men who claim to be
heterosexual but who like dressing up as women. They're quite often
married. And they're not the same as TXs, either - transsexuals. Those
people are usually heading for surgery."

"Oh. Right.' Hetty nodded uncertainly, then craned her neck to follow
the receding shape up the hill. ' I've seen her - him? - before.

Coming out of our flats. Let me think New Year's Eve. In a great rush,
dolled up to the nines."

"Maybe the BJs have some kinky visitors? Or Doris - now there's a lady
with a past, you can tell. Has she cast your future in the cards yet? Or
the flat upstairs that's always empty - could be them.' Markus laughed.

"Nice to have mysteries, isn't it, Hetty?"

"But who is it?' Hetty broke a bran muffin in frustration. ' on earth
could it be?"

"How did you persuade them, Hetty? They're terrific,' Rosa said.

On the set the three BJs sat demurely, eyes dancing. Their

312 Edwina Currie choice of clothes reflected their natures: Annabel as
ever in too-tight black, Shelagh in a silky suit with a short skirt, the
pale-blue colour setting off her flaming hair and milky skin, and Flo,
hair braided with silver beads, in a low-cut red sweater and leather
trousers. They were rehearsing their dilemma with the male presenter,
who was leaning forward eagerly and attempting to pat Shelagh's knee.

"Can't have that,' Rosa commented. ''ll be in camera view, a big dark
blob. Have to tell him to sit back and keep his hands to himself.' She
spoke into her head mike.

"Hello, Hetty,' came a male voice behind her. Tall, urbane, charming,
this time not in a suit but in a knitted sweater, it was Nicholas, the
would-be writer, back for a followup. ' met in Fulham, remember?" Hetty
smiled at him. The computer check had revealed that he was divorced and
in his mid-thirties: she had taken him to be older than that, possibly
because previously at the studio he had appeared careworn and troubled.
Now his manner was almost boyish. His true age might explain why he was
of interest to Davinia, but it did mean he was more than a decade her
own junior. What Markus would call a no no.

"So, what did you decide to do?' she asked him.

His gaze was on the girls, as was that of every man on the set. ' handed
in my notice. Fortunately they've been asking for voluntary redundancies
so I got a generous package. And I've had several approaches - I could
always go back. I'll give myself a year."

"Anything worthwhile from publishers? I heard you were in talks with an
agent."

"Promising. I have to write a chunk first, then we'll see.' He shrugged
self-deprecatingly, as if unwilling to tempt fate.

Chasing Men 313

Then, lightly, he asked, The girl in black - the one with the er,
generous proportions. What's her name?"

"Annabel. She's one of my neighbours. She's a lovely lass, but such an
idiot. She keeps falling in love with the most unsuitable men ...' and
Hetty outlined the girl's story. ' told her not to bother slimming - she
desperately needs a bloke who can see through all that insecurity to the
decent young woman underneath."

Recording was about to start. Hetty pulled Nicholas out of shot. As they
stood close together in the dark, sheltering behind a blackout curtain,
a little devil dug at her. ' how goes it with Davinia?' she asked
quietly.

"What do you know about me and Davinia?' Nicholas was guarded, but
civil.

"I saw you. That night. Don't worry, I haven't said a word."

"She was not pleased when I threw up my job. She asked what that meant
for her. I'm afraid it showed that I hadn't given her needs much
thought."

"You don't seem too upset." He sighed. ' started throwing out ultimatums
and 1 just couldn't respond."

"Such as take me but stay with the job?' Hetty could imagine.

"Something of the sort. I won't have much money to fling around -
certainly not enough to buy another house instead of my dingy little
flat. I already have children to support with my former wife. It gets
complicated. Not the right moment to take on further emotional upheaval.

It's sufficiently draining, believe me, trying to churn out a thousand
words a day."

"And I doubt if Davinia could assist you there,' Hetty concluded.

314 Edwina Currie In a few moments the BJs' segment was finished. They
were replaced on set by Nicholas, who proceeded in a relaxed and
humorous fashion to outline the course of events since the original
broadcast. Flo and Shelagh were swept off by male researchers and spare
crew who had arrived almost from nowhere, leaving Annabel hovering at
Hetty's side.

"Well done, you were excellent,' Hetty enthused.

"Glad it's over. I felt such a fool, wittering on about how useless I am
at pulling men."

Hetty pointed at Nicholas. ' might try him. He was asking about you.

He's a friend of my brother's, and quite decent, I reckon. Your luck
might be changing."

Annabel screwed up her eyes. ', not bad.' She nudged Hetty in the ribs.
' can give him my phone number, Het. But don't tell him about the vodka,
will you?"

It was late and almost dark before recording was finished. Hetty rode
her bike slowly up the hill, feeling tired, her brain empty. The
carrier-bag on the handlebars contained a head of celery - intended for
a slimming soup - a chunk of ready-cooked chicken, a new library book
(she had'discovered Mrs. Gaskell), and a bunch of yellow dahlias.

Her thoughts, for no obvious reason, returned to the council of war soon
after her relocation to The Swallows, at which her mother and her
daughter had outlined the various options open to her. The green bottles
on the mantelpiece had been shifted about many times since. The
dating-agency forms had been filled in and returned. A man had slept in
her bed, once, and others might do so in future. Her head was filled
with plays and novels, Impressionist and Renaissance art with a
particular slant. Her acquaintance Chasing Men 315

was no longer limited to conventional couples. And she was at ease.

It came to Hetty that, if she were ever to share her living space again,
it would not be in the all-enveloping manner she had accepted before.

She would not cook every evening, for a start; they would eat out far
more, or grab whatever was in the fridge. Salads and cold ham were far
healthier than hotpot, anyhow. A pear for afters was better than
homemade pastry, so lovingly created, so quickly scoffed. How willingly
she had slaved, how seldom it had been appreciated.

But the meals were only the start of it. Rather than take responsibility
throughout, she would share the load. For example, as household items
were used up, it would be a discipline to write them on a list in the
kitchen. Then at an agreed point - Friday evening, say - whoever was
first home would go to the supermarket. Not the same person each time.

The Japanese had a word for it, didn't they? Kanban. Just in time. Pity
that dreadful Japanese restaurant hadn't practised it.

You couldn't teach the members of your family to be helpful by doing
everything for them. Being considerate was not catching. Yet, to some
extent, her own total commitment to home-making had been stubbornly
selfish too. It had given her a task in life. It had stopped her seeking
something better.

But the clock could not be put back. The years since her wedding day
were not a television broadcast that could be edited or tidied up. The
children were grown; she had little doubt that it was too late for
Peter. He phoned her occasionally, as he did his grandmother, but he was
making his own way without her intervention. Maybe he would be the

316 Edwina Currie same, in due course, with his wife and family. If he
turned out a self-centred man, that was her fault, but he was beyond
reform. That prompted a surge of remorse that she had not made a better
job of him, then one of emptiness.

Sally, by contrast, was a bright star. Since their holiday at the health
farm they had met and talked frequently. Hetty took care that their
hours together should not be a mere unloading of troubles. She always
chose somewhere pleasant, often a new venue, to meet up. It amused her
that she now deliberately attempted to learn something new regularly,
even if only the mistakes of a hopelessly run wine bar. That was the
biggest step forward. Before, she would have resisted, and sought only
the familiar. What a dreadfully dull stick that old Hetty must have
been.

She parked her bike in the cubby-hole under the stairs and locked it.

Her body was weary, but with a satisfied streak. It came to her that she
would not easily abandon this independence, with its gentle, comforting
solitude, this opportunity to rest, to find herself, and to be content.

Despite arguing with Roger, she had understood what he meant. If the
agency did turn up trumps and produced a wonderful man, she would take
some persuading to give up her hard-won freedom.

As she came out into the hallway she was nearly knocked off her feet.

The TV - as she now knew to call him - was half running along the
corridor. The wig was the same, and the high-heeled shoes: he was
surprisingly nimble, given his footwear. He was wearing a red velvet
dress, old-fashioned in its cut, with a white lace collar and cuffs and
fishnet tights. Quite a wardrobe: almost a ladybird on legs. But Hetty
was too startled, and too conscious of the obligation not to mock, to
comment. He stopped dead, and stared at her.

Chasing Men

317

"Oh! Hello, can I help you?' Hetty stuttered.

The apparition shook its head and uttered not a sound, but scuttled
round a corner out of her sight. Next minute she heard a key in a lock,
the murmur of a voice, and a door slammed shut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Crossover C~D ut why,' Sally asked, ' she want to go to an . agency? My
mother, touting herself around? Isn't it a bit tacky?"

"Why not?' her grandmother countered. ' reasonable to me. She's fit,
pretty and solvent. She's looking rather good, in fact. Sexually
capable, not a nun. Not anti-men. But no man in the offing. An agency
might turn up trumps. I might try one myself."

"You're talking about me as if 1 wasn't here,' Hetty grumbled. The three
women were seated on a chequered blanket on the common, late one sunny
Saturday afternoon - at least, Hetty and Sally were sprawled out,
propped up on cushions taken from the sofa, Peggy had carried a folding
chair and arranged herself elegantly on it, ankles crossed. Before them
were the Soul Mates folder, an empty wine bottle, a half-eaten packet of
Ryvita and the remains of a Brie, oozing in its plastic wrapper.

Chasing Men 319

Nearby, families played mini-cricket or threw frisbees; their whoops
echoed on the breeze. A football match was under way, the players
scruffy in baggy shorts and tracksuit bottoms, yelling encouragement at
each other. Two kites sailed high overhead, their ribboned tails
fluttering wildly, controlled by thin youths with serious intent. Over
by the pond older men huddled, faces and fishing rods immobile, and
small boys pedalled furiously past on brightly painted tricycles.

"I think I might take up rollerblading,' Hetty said dreamily. ''m
beginning to feel that anything is possible, if only I try hard enough."

She stopped: both Sally and Peggy were staring at her in some alarm.

"I shouldn't,7 said her mother firmly. ' ankles. Chasing men is a much
healthier pursuit. Now what type of man are you after - what age, for
example?"

"I ticked forty-five to fifty-five,' Hetty answered. ' than that, and
they'll be a bit decrepit - sorry, Mother, but you get my drift. I'm not
keen on a chap having a heart attack on our second date. Younger, and I
should feel I was cradle-snatching."

"If you find one much younger than that, you can send him in my
direction,' said Sally.

"And I also thought that if a man that age is happy to meet someone my
age he might have some respectable qualities. A bloke in his fifties who
goes out with girls in their twenties or thirties wouldn't be my kind of
bloke anyway."

The other women nodded. ', some of them.' Sally munched a cracker. ' men
panting after totties young enough to be their daughters. Trying to
regain their lost youth. They start off in the departure lounge,
flirting with the crew."

320 Edwina Currie

"Do you flirt back?' Hetty wanted to know.. ' damn busy,' was Sally's
response. ' jaded businessmen farting all night are not the most
alluring proposition. We see them at their worst."

Peggy returned to the theme. ' what about compatibility, Hetty dear?

Did you want somebody like yourself? Or d'you think opposites attract?"

"I couldn't say,' Hetty confessed. ''m not too clever at analysing
myself, and I'm not accustomed to making such decisions. I go with the
flow a bit. I had a real headache filling out the section on
preferences. In the end I left a lot of those spaces blank. It'll give
the agency wider scope, and I'm curious to see what they come up with."

"Are you after one relationship, or several?' This from her mother.

Hetty blinked, so Peggy expanded, ' don't mean all at once, dear. Are
you searching for a single intense long term lover, or would you prefer
several chaps of varying degrees of intensity?"

"Haven't the foggiest,' Hetty answered. ''m not sure mature men are into
intensity, or that it'd be terrific if they were. Anyone older is likely
to be trailing loads of baggage. I'll have to sit through hours of
personal history and moaning about his divorce or whatever. I shall have
to make sure I don't do the same to them.' She pondered. ', maybe more
than one. Though I'm not sure I could manage more than one sleeping
partner. Even consecutively, in a typical week. That could be too tiring
altogether."

Three pairs of eyes met, and three women giggled. ', Mum, you have come
on,' said Sally. ' I'm glad to hear it."

"So have you. This time last year you'd have been shocked to the core at
the disgusting prospect of your parent stepping out with a stranger,
even though you were simultaneously Chasing Men 321

urging me to replace your father as quickly as possible. If I'd taken
you at your word, and popped up every month with a new man on my arm,
you'd have accused me of being a neurotic nymphomaniac, or desperate.

I'm neither." Peggy smiled as if pleased with her progeny, and sipped
her remaining wine. ' did you despair, Hetty, of ever finding someone
without paying all that money in fees?"

"No. And I do meet men, particularly through the programme. Now that has
been an eye-opener. They're definitely a bit batty, though. I'm not sure
I want to be Venus to an Adonis in a kilt who can't decide whether he
prefers men or women.' She told them about Gordon. They gaped in
amazement.

"And, of course, anyone nice might be spoken for. Tied up,' said Sally.

"Or lying through their teeth,' Peggy added.

There is that. I'm wary of becoming too fond of someone I meet socially,
or at work, and then discovering he's not available. Or that he regards
himself as unencumbered, provided I accept those nights when he's
obliged to see his wife. Who, of course, does not understand him. I'm
not keen on playing second fiddle to anyone."

"Your self-respect is in fine fettle, then, Mum. Another good sign."

Sally picked up the empty bottle with regret. ' should have brought
another. Still, I've got to drive. But the chaps from Soul Mates could
be lying marrieds, too."

They claim they do check. I've insisted that I will only meet men who
are free. That might give the wrong message - that I'm hoping to get
hitched again myself - but I'll risk it. At least I'll have a sporting
chance of avoiding complications. I do not wish to feature in anyone
else's divorce petition. No, thanks." 322 Edwina Currie The best of
luck, dear,' said Peggy. ' now, I'm afraid, I have to get moving. The
Colonel is taking me to Phantom of the Opera tonight. I haven't the
heart to tell him I've seen it three times - he went to such trouble to
get the tickets. When you find the guy, Hetty - or, the guys, you could
have a whole platoon - do be kind to them. Sometimes they deserve it."

Hetty did not tell them about the letter. It had come that morning,
unannounced, on crisp white vellum, the postcode incorrect, which had
delayed it a day. Its four pages were scribbled in a hand she recognised
at once.

Dear Hetty, 1 hope you don't mind my writing to you. After all those
years, I still feel we are close - or should be. We were best friends
for such a long time, weren't we? I always said, and I meant it, that I
hoped you wouldn't think so badly of me that we could never speak to
each other again. But rather than phone, I thought I'd better write.

The main reason is to remind you that Peter is about to start his final
year, and has started discussing what to do next. He's already told me
he wants to stay on for postgrad, and I've said that's fine. I'll find
the money, don't you worry about that. But I hope we'll both be able to
go to his graduation ceremony next summer, together. Have you anybody
you'd want to take?

How are you getting on? I get progress reports on you from Sally, and
she says you have settled in well, though why you should want to live in
a small poky flat in south London after the glories of Dorset beats me.

1 expect you were badly hurt and it must have seemed like a bolt-hole.

Chasing Men 323

But don't you worry about crime, and not being able to go out at night?

And not having any friends in the area? We get the latest movies round
here now there's a multiplex. And we did manage to get to the theatre.

So I can't see the attraction.

The garden is looking splendid-you'd be very proud. It's such a pity you
haven't had an opportunity to see it this summer. The climbing roses
went mad this year, and the wisteria was super. I don't have your green
fingers but a chap from the nursery comes in to tidy up once a week:
costs me a bit, makes me realise how much effort you used to put in!

Your influence is still very strong - when he makes suggestions, such as
planting lilac near the knot garden, I want to ask your opinion first. I
wouldn't want to destroy what you created here so lovingly.

This is all leading up to saying that if you ever want to come and stay
here - for a few days, or a weekend away - let me know. Or bring a
friend. You'd be most welcome. I should enjoy your company again, and
talking, like old times. Perhaps you'd let me treat you to dinner at the
White Hart, or somewhere more upmarket, if you'd like. I certainly
wouldn't expect you to cook or anything. And don't worry about Natalie -
she might not be here.

Lots of love, and do take care of yourself, Stephen Hetty read and
reread the letter, turning the pages with shaking hands.

"He's got a bloody nerve,' she whispered to herself eventually.

"Wouldn't expect me to cook, hey? I bet he would - there'd be sighs over
dinner in the restaurant

324 Edwina Currie about how I could do better. If I turned up with a leg
of lamb, he couldn't be more pleased."

That, she felt, was ungracious and bitter. But there must have been
other reasons for Stephen to write, nearly eighteen months after he had
revealed he was in love with someone else. He was using a kind of code -
'we are close' meant that he could be oblique, but she would still grasp
his . meaning. So what was going on?

He had no pressing need to write about Peter. The degree ceremony was
almost a year off. She would attend, naturally, there was no question
about it, and Stephen did not need to be told. So that was an excuse,
though ' you anybody you'd want to take?' must be Stephen-speak for
"Have you found yourself another man?' Whether she had, or not, was none
of his business.

The garden, the ' of Dorset': that smacked of emotional blackmail. Look
what you left behind. Look what you gave up, and for what? A small poky
flat in south London, in which he obviously imagined she was imprisoned
by the high crime rate. How wrong he was, how limited by his prejudices.
She was half persuaded to write back to correct him on that alone.

But why would he attempt, even subconsciously, to lean on her? What
could he gain, especially since she could simply ignore the letter? He
was after something. Possibly he himself did not quite guess what.

Neither of them had gone in for deep introspection. So his language was
friendly if clumsy, the invitation genuinely meant. If she did,
cautiously, go for a weekend, he would treat her with courtesy and not
humiliate her.

With a friend? That was how the invitation was worded. Then Hetty
grasped that a friend would cause difficulties. A Chasing Men 325

woman friend - Doris, maybe - would get in the way constantly, and
Stephen would be embarrassed. A man, such as Father Roger, would be even
more of an unwanted appendage. A boyfriend was unthinkable, and Stephen
did not mean that at all.

He wanted her to come on her own. And Natalie might not be there. Would
not be there, was the implication, if Hetty was arriving. So the
girlfriend, whom he had not married despite his earlier determination,
was not such an absolute fixture.

He wanted her to go back.

"You miserable so-and-so,' Hetty muttered, crossly but with a gulp of
pain. ''t you leave me alone?"

She reread the pages, crumpled them into a ball, and threw them into the
waste-bin, her mind jangling. But she owed him - something, though she
was unclear what. So the sheets were retrieved and smoothed out on the
table, as Hetty struggled with her emotions. ' you hadn't misbehaved I
wouldn't have left. But that doesn't mean I'm unhappy. Just as I'm
getting used to being on my own. Just as I've developed umpteen schemes
for surviving alone, away from the world of coupledom. Suddenly you
dangle before me the juicy prospect of returning? Of being a cosy couple
once again?"

A new skin had grown to cover the scars, but his honeyed words
threatened to reopen the wounds. Her former life had not been a failure,
but recently she had dwelt relatively little on it. Instead her plans
were focused on a different future.

Just as I'm about to have a bit of fun with a man from the agency, too,"
Hetty added wistfully. ' as if you're telepathic. Oh, Stephen."

326 Edwina Currie At that, she sat down, allowed herself to feel
forlorn, and to cry.

The answer to Stephen's letter took her a week to write. Numerous times
she sat down with pen and paper, then tore up the results. Eventually
she found a card in a drawer from an art exhibition showing a
dark-haired pre-Raphaelite woman with a solemn, saintly expression. On
the back she wrote, ' you for your kind letter. I'll be at Peter's
graduation and will be in touch beforehand. Thanks also for the invite;
I may take you up on it. Love, Hetty.' She debated for days with herself
whether '' was appropriate, then decided that anything else would sound
cold. It was less jocular, and warmer, than his ' of love.' It would do.

It was early evening before she was satisfied and went out to post the
envelope containing the card. She was still sunk in thought, head bowed,
as she came back up the path and reached in her pocket for the key.

The door burst open and nearly knocked her off her feet. '!' she cried,
startled, and clutched at the wall for balance.

"Oh, sod it,' came Doris's voice. ', is that you? Sorry. Come on, we've
got to get cracking.' The stocky old woman slammed the door shut behind
her and grabbed Hetty's arm, spinning her round in the direction from
which she had come. ' busy for an hour or two? Fine. A bit of moral
support would be useful."

There must be something trustworthy about her, Hetty reflected dazedly,
to have so many people demanding her supportive presence. First Clarissa
at the Swallows Home, now Doris. What was it? Trouble at the sex-shop?

Hetty wondered whether to hang back, but Doris was already hurrying out
of the gate and down the road.

Chasing Men 327

"What's going on?' Hetty asked breathlessly, as she caught up.

"Carole's been arrested."

"Carole? Who's Carole?"

"You know. You've seen her. High heels and fishnet tights. Well, she
knows you."

Was this the young girl in the shop? The description didn't fit.

Somebody who'd been on the programme, or who'd applied to appear?

The woman at the cafe?

"How does she know me?' They were trotting side by side now.

"Dunno. But she mentioned your name on the phone. You're a respectable
type, Hetty, so she must have figured you could help."

Further enquiry or denial seemed pointless, so Hetty asked, ' are we
headed?"

"Cop shop. Lavender Hill. Take us ten minutes if we walk fast."

It took all Hetty's breath to keep up with the rapidly marching Doris,
whose chin was thrust forward, elbows pumping, as if she were trying to
take the lead in a fiercely fought road race. As the older woman had
predicted, they soon came to the square grey station on the corner with
Latchmere Road.

Without pausing, Doris marched up the steps under the blue lamp and into
Reception where she banged on the counter and rang the bell for
attention.

"Service here!' she called, as Hetty hovered behind her.

Hetty had not been in this police station before. The posters on the
walls were more intimidating than the Dorset versions, with mugshots of
a dozen wanted criminals, 328 Edwina Currie grubby posters of missing
persons (some of whom looked as grim as the wanted men), pictures of
stolen vehicles and weapons involved in crimes, and slavering dogs with
warnings about rabies. A large notice gave the number of a rape
counselling service; another advertised the Samaritans.

The place smelt of tobacco, urine and floor polish. The local station
where she had once reported a strayed pet, not much more than a detached
house in a nearby village, was sleepy and charming by comparison.

"Not the kind of place you'd come to ask the time,' she said to herself.

The door at the back of the counter opened. A heavyset sergeant in
shirtsleeves entered. '. What's up?"

"You've got a friend of mine here,' Doris announced. The transvestite.

She phoned me." "Oh, that one,' the officer said, with deep meaning
injected into the words. He began leafing through a day book whose
columns were covered in scribbles. He examined Doris and Hetty with
interest. ' together?"

They nodded.

"You two are women, I take it?' The gruff voice had a hint of sarcasm.

He jerked a thumb. ' pal inside is refusing to give her name. His name.
Whatever. That's an offence."

"But that's not why you arrested her,' said Doris, with spirit. ''s the
game?"

"Importuning. Approaching men on the common."

"In broad daylight?' Hetty was unable to remain silent.

Two hours ago. Causing a bit of a stir." Til bet,' said Hetty under her
breath.

"Has anyone complained?' Doris demanded.

"Oh, aye. A woman walking past with two small children. Said it made her
sick."

Chasing Men 329

"But Carole wasn't approaching her, was she?' Doris had taken over the
role of interrogator and was clearly enjoying it.

"No-o-o,' said the sergeant thoughtfully. ' says here that she was seen
talking to several men. They rebuffed her advances and moved away."

"I'd be astonished if she was,' Doris said decisively. ' she was trying
it on to see if they fancied her. She's married."

"So what?' the officer responded. They all are, on that bloody common."

"Well, chatting up strangers is not a crime, as you well know,
Sergeant,' said Doris firmly. ' didn't do anything really stupid, though
- like exposing herself, did she?"

He checked the sheet. '."

"And nor is dressing in women's clothes a criminal activity. Even if you
do look like something the cat dragged in. It's a free country. We can
wear what we like, as long as the dangly bits are hidden."

The man's mouth was twitching. ' can see you know your law, ma'am,' he
observed. ''d better come and discuss the matter with the prisoner."

He held open the door behind the counter and ushered the two women
inside. Hetty clutched her handbag to her chest as if it were more at
risk inside the police station than on the street. Her eyes were wide,
her mouth clamped shut.

Down a corridor and through a set of swing doors they came to a row of
tattered chairs. More notices on the walls instructed visitors not to
spit or damage the furniture. A poster above a payphone advertised a
solicitors' help line. The smell of urine was stronger.

Seated cowering on the furthest chair, her back turned to the new
arrivals, was the person Doris had come to rescue.

330 Edwina Currie The dress was the black lace Hetty had seen before,
but it was torn and there were holes in the fishnet tights.

"Carole!' Doris said, in a commanding accent.

Carole half turned, to show a tear-streaked face, the jowls blackened
with mascara, the lipstick spread over the lower jaw like tomato
ketchup. The wig was askew and an earring was missing. ', Doris,' she
wailed. ', I'm such a mess ... "

Doris rummaged in her handbag and sat down by Carole's side. With a
handkerchief she tenderly wiped the stained cheeks and attempted to
remove the lipstick. ' happened, dear?' she asked gently.

Two men on the common. I was only asking them for a smoke - to see if
they'd talk to me as a woman. They decided to have a go instead. Took
offence, they said. Some lady yelled at them and they ran off. She had a
mobile phone and called the police."

That's not the story on the charge sheet.' Hetty was bewildered.

"Well, no, it wouldn't be. I'm not going to press charges, am I?"

"Why not? If they attacked you. You have rights as well."

"Be practical, Hetty,' Doris advised. ' may come out one day. But not
yet. Not while the children are small.' She put a finger under Carole's
chin. ' promised you wouldn't go out in daylight for exactly that
reason, too. What's happening?"

"She's taking over,' Carole whispered brokenly. The voice was high and
thin. ' can't help it."

Doris helped the trembling figure to her feet. The heel of one of her
shoes was broken, so walking was tricky. Hetty darted back to the
sergeant; and after some discussion and Chasing Men 331

the exchange of a river, a pair of battered trainers was retrieved from
the lost-property box. She returned with them held out in front of her,
like a prize. ',' she said. ''ll probably catch athlete's foot, but at
least we can get you - Where are we going, Doris?" "Home,' said Doris
decisively. ' we came from."

An hour later they were seated in the simple living room of flat two.

Mrs. Mcdonald was wielding a teapot, and Carole had vanished into the
bathroom. The sound of a shower could be heard for a long time.

"Would somebody mind telling me,' said Hetty at last, ''s been going
on?"

"We're very grateful to you, Mrs. Clarkson,' said Mrs. Mcdonald
formally.

The Scottish accent burred and lengthened the syllables. ' you like a
biscuit?"

"No, but 1 would like an explanation. Is that Mr. Mcdonald?"

"It is."

"And Carole is ... ?"

"Carole is my husband when he is dressed as a female,' answered Mrs.
Mcdonald calmly, as if explaining how the gas meter worked.

"I don't get it,' said Hetty weakly. ''re in on all this?"

"I am. Always have been."

"But how long ... ?"

"It was a couple of months after we were married that I saw Carole for
the first time. She wasn't as ... striking as she is now. I came into
the bedroom one evening and found her in one of my nightdresses."

"Heavens.' Hetty sat back abruptly. ''t you shocked?"

The woman sipped her tea. ' was a bit green, then. I

332 Edwina Currie wasn't sure whether to be shocked or not. I didn't
know anything about it."

"So it's been like this' - Hetty struggled - ' whole time you've been
together?"

"Oh, yes, but she was probably there ages before that. The tendency
often shows up in childhood. For Andy it wasn't till he was a teenager.

Then his mum caught him trying on her dresses and she threw him out."

"But you didn't throw him out, did you?' Doris's eyes were sharp.

"I didn't. I fell in love with Andy, see. The person. I met him at work.

He was so kind, and so considerate. Nobody's ever been so nice to me.

I'm not exactly a great looker, and I was dreadfully shy. He was good to
me."

"So when you found out about Carole ... ?' Hetty could not formulate her
question. It was clear, however, that Mrs. Mcdonald had asked it of
herself, and had answered it to her own satisfaction.

"When I first met Carole, I cried and cried. But then Andy showed me
he's still the same human being who loved me and married me. And he
carried on being the same husband. And, in a way, it doesn't bother me
as it used to: I can turn a blind eye. Anyway, by then I was pregnant,
so there was no going back."

"But how do you feel ... ?' Hetty's voice trailed away. If Stephen ...
it didn't bear thinking about. She doubted if her own reaction could
ever have been as measured, or as compassionate.

Mrs. Mcdonald's face was impassive. ''s up to him. Provided he doesn't
get himself into trouble. Or us."

"Nearly did today,' Doris commented. ' supposed to be flouncing about in
broad daylight, is he?"

Chasing Men 333

Mrs. Mcdonald shook her head.

Hetty recalled her several sightings of '' in the neighbourhood.

"At the police station,' she said slowly, ' husband told us that Carole
was taking over. What did he mean?"

"Just that,' answered the woman, ' it's been getting worse recently.

The worry is that Carole will insist on taking over and we won't be able
to stop her."

"And then?"

Then he'll want to be Carole the whole time."

There was a silence. Hetty found the solid, unemotional stance of Mrs.
Mcdonald almost unbearable. She turned gravely to Doris. ' the children
supposed to be in on the secret? Is it a secret? Or was I the only one
in the block who didn't-?"

"It's an open secret,' Doris elaborated unhelpfully. The children
haven't been told about it, not properly. But they've caught sight of
their dad once or twice. If you don't tell them otherwise, they assume
it's normal."

"For my husband, it is.' Mrs. Mcdonald did not seem flustered.

Hetty could not make up her mind whether the woman was a martyr, a saint
or a self-deluding madwoman. Sympathy, even if not entirely
whole-hearted, seemed the best response. ' those circumstances,' Hetty
ventured, ' wives would have shown the man the door, and told him never
to come near the children again."

"But why? He's a wonderful father. He's great in every way - he works
hard, brings home every penny he earns, treats us with respect. Doesn't
drink, doesn't swear. He loves us, and we love him."

"Yes. I can see that. You're very lucky, I suppose. But it

334 Edwina Currie must put the marriage under strain, surely?' Hetty was
uncertain of her own meaning, then realised she was asking about their
sex lives, their right to qualify as a couple, perhaps. Such topics were
none of her business or anyone else's.

Mrs. Mcdonald drew herself up with some dignity and gave Hetty a cool
stare. ' have an excellent marriage, Mrs. Clarkson."

Suitably quelled, Hetty munched a biscuit. The bathroom door opened and
Mr. Mcdonald emerged in dark slacks and a sweater, the clothes worn but
clean. Behind him Hetty spotted the dress, carefully hung up, its torn
hem dangling.

Thank you for your help.' The remark was agonised and evidently
sincerely meant, but it was also a dismissal. Doris and Hetty rose,
shook hands awkwardly, and left. Behind them came a low murmur of
voices: there would be no screaming match, no recriminations in that
household.

At the bottom of the stairs Hetty held on to the banister rail to steady
herself. ', what did she mean, she has an excellent marriage? How can
that be possible?"

"It takes all sorts,' Doris answered. The shop has taught me that, if
nothing else. How are we to judge? Your marriage fell apart, hers
hasn't. Mine - well, that's another story. But in this block, Hetty,
there are two happy couples, and they're one of them."

Two?"

"Yeah. The gay men upstairs, Markus and Christian - don't you think of
them as a couple? You should. But, comparing them, I'd say the Mcdonalds
are far more likely to make it till death us do part, etcetera."

"And how do you figure that?"

"Because they have no illusions, either of them. He's a Chasing Men

335

cross-dresser - he just is. She's a plain dumpy lass that no other man
would have, probably, but she's a homemaker. He gave her that chance,
that status, and she repays him with total loyalty. And, despite the
difficulties, they've promised to care for each other and for the
children."

"My God,' said Hetty, chastened.

Doris prodded her arm. ' of a challenge, hey? A model partnership, Het.
A wonderful example to us all." "Maybe,' said Hetty, her mind in
turmoil, as she trudged slowly up the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Glimpses Hetty stirred her cappuccino, licked her spoon and watched idly
as the froth collapsed. ''t have done that,' she said out loud.

"What is it?' Clarissa's voice betrayed concern. ''ve not been on form
today, Hetty."

"Doesn't matter,' Hetty answered, and pulled her shoulders back.

"Mustn't slouch." There! I told you,' said Clarissa, in triumph. She
rummaged in her voluminous shoulder-bag, found cologne-soaked tissues,
and patted her brow. You're talking to yourself the whole time, now.
This living solo has got to you. I'm sorry, but you seem to have made no
progress. In fact, darling, you're going backwards."

Hetty put her spoon down in the saucer. They were seated under the palm
trees in the Bluewater concourse, the vast shopping complex near London
that boasted it was the Chasing Men 337

largest in the country, a virtual city. Their packages were piled on
spare chairs like First World War trench sandbags, creating a barricade
that gave scant protection from swirling Muzak, the whine of four sets
of escalators, heavy-metal snatches from a CD shop two floors up and a
squalling baby in a push chair at the next table.

Til be crawling out on my knees, if we don't have a quiet half-hour,"
Hetty answered ominously. ' are we, anyway? How far is the car?"

Clarissa sipped her espresso. ' there. We've walked quite a distance."

Hetty raised her head, her brow puckered. ' complex is over a mile long,
and we're near one of the western exits. So that means one hell of a
trek back."

"All right. My mistake,' Clarissa conceded. ' to Harvey Nicks next time.
And coffee in Knightsbridge. But if you expect me to traipse round the
tube with my Harrods bags, you've got another think coming." "What I
don't get,' Hetty said, sipping the remaining froth and refusing a
tissue, ' the attraction of these places. It's packed. Entire families
have arrived for a day out. The kids hate it, the old ones are confused,
the teenagers start nicking, the young mums get exhausted and the
fathers despair that is, when they bother to come." "It's shopping,'
Clarissa said doggedly. ' you're supposed to enjoy it."

With her sore feet rested, Hetty felt more relaxed. ''s Robin?"

"So-so. As ever."

"What does that mean?"

"He's having a whale of a time as head of chambers. Dinners every night,
lectures, meetings. It'll guarantee him a

338 Edwina Currie position on every committee going plus an income for
life - he's now a confirmed member of the Gee-gees.' Hetty must have
looked blank. The Great and the Good. The list of approved spiritual and
temporal leaders, as Robin puts it, from whom the Public Appointments
Unit selects names.

The odds are, he'll spend his retirement chairing one inquiry after
other. He will like that."

"And you won't, I take it?"

"Not much. He's busy, and I'm excluded. If he dines at his club, the
snooty one that won't admit women, I'm relegated to some chintzy horror
on the mezzanine floor to wait for him. So I stay at home."

"More women should be put on those bodies,' Hetty suggested.

Clarissa bridled. ' hope not. It'd mean more women on his body, that's
for sure."

"All those fact-finding trips abroad?' Hetty smiled.

"Correct. And with the press inquisitive about perks, partners are
frowned on. Researchers, on the other hand, are essential. They travel
by the truckload."

"Your Robin, though. He's not like that,' Hetty explored carefully.

They're all like that.' Clarissa glowered.

The two women ordered second cups of coffee and abstemiously shared a
slice of strawberry cream gateau.

"I've applied to an agency,' Hetty said airily. She had been waiting for
the moment to mention it.

"Why? You fed up with your job?"

"No, silly. A dating agency. Soul Mates. Going to find me a man, they
say. I hope so - it's costing over thirty pounds a month."

That's one middling dinner in town, or a ticket in the Chasing Men 339

back stalls of a hit show,' Clarissa calculated quickly. ' worth while
shown up yet?"

Hetty shook her head. ' I'm determined. Time to abandon my starfish bed,
and fill it with basking sharks. I hope."

"Come again?' Clarissa was briefly mystified. She leaned forward, her
voice confidential. ' bet you could go back. I've heard that your
Stephen's been seen moping about at weekends, on his own again."

"Ah ...' Hetty pondered. That explained the original letter, and
another, similarly worded but shorter, which had arrived the previous
week. ''m sad to hear that. But it doesn't follow that I'm the antidote
to his afflictions, does it?"

"But it could be ideal. Now you've had your bid for freedom, and
rediscovered yourself, and taken advantage of ... what do they call it?

... having your own space for a while, you two could start afresh on a
much stronger footing.' She tapped her nose. ' could keep in touch with
the agency as an insurance policy."

The hole in that scenario is that I like my freedom. I like my friends.

I like living where I do. It isn't a compromise any more, if it ever
was."

Clarissa's face betrayed bewilderment. ' sure? Sounds a bit like bravado
to me. Surely any sane woman, given what Stephen might be offering,
would jump at the chance. That's why girls go to these agencies, for
heaven's sake. And he's a handsome man still: Robin and I saw him at a
Guildhall dinner the other week. He was alone." Hetty kept her peace.
Doris would not be impressed if she decamped to Dorset, or set up some
imitation of her former life. Father Roger might make supportive
comments, but he would also regret the loss of their gentle, platonic
evenings out. Markus and Christian would ask anxiously if she were

340 Edwina Currie sure that was what she wanted, and if so, she would
probably never see them again. Or the Mcdonalds, and certainly not
Carole, who had manifested herself rather less frequently recently. And
there was Brian, who had reappeared on his old pitch, careworn and
gaunt, but selling the Big Issue once more: she longed to take him for
another coffee and fill in the gaps. Worst, the job. That would go out
of the window. Rosa would not be pleased.

"I suspect you've described accurately what, maybe, the BJs want. But
I'm way past that stage,' Hetty said, cagily.

Clarissa prodded her arm. The BJs - are these your drinking mates?

Hardly the best people to judge, are they? Heavens, Hetty, your
lifestyle since you went to live in that hell-hole doesn't bear
examination. Talk about sowing wild oats. You, a respectable woman."

The last person who had called her that had needed rescuing from a
police station on a sex charge. Hetty decided not to tell Clarissa about
that little adventure. ''m okay. Honestly. Probably happier than you, in
fact."

"How do you work that out?' Clarissa was indignant. She began to gather
up the bags ready to leave.

"Well, you've just moaned at length about Robin. And when I've seen him,
he's not been - the perfect escort, shall we say? Fell over in my
brother's kitchen, for example. So why do you put up with it? You should
get stubborn. Insist he takes your needs into account. And do it soon."

"You're giving me advice?' Clarissa's mouth dropped open.

"Why not? There are worse things to be than a single fiftysomething,
Clarissa. In fact, I can assure you '

The top bag teetered and toppled off the pile. Clarissa jerked out a
hand to stop it and knocked over her shoulder bag. The coffee-cup
clattered to the floor. Heads turned, a Chasing Men 341

loud '' came from the woman at the next table.

Hetty went down on her haunches to pick up the broken china and retrieve
their belongings. It was then that she saw a slim volume sticking out of
Clarissa's bag.

"What's this? You becoming an intellectual all of a sudden?"

"Give that here.' Clarissa snatched the book and stuffed it quickly back
into the bag.

"Did I see Teach Yourself Sociology!' Hetty's eyes were round.

"Perhaps."

"But you - are you about to become a student or what?"

"I might.' Clarissa's cheeks were scarlet; she scrabbled about with the
carrier-bags until clusters of handles were in her fists, then said
stiffly, ' we go?"

Hetty grabbed the remaining shopping and trotted along beside her
friend, her tiredness forgotten. ', the cosy married life isn't quite as
fulfilling as all that?' she teased.

But Clarissa, marching fiercely, eyes straight ahead, would tell her no
more.

The following evening Hetty discovered she was the only person of her
acquaintance who wished to see the South Park movie. Its irreverent
send-ups of political correctness, its uproarious two fingers to
censorship had her chuckling throughout, even if Kenny died in a
particularly gruesome manner. Those politicians who wanted adults to set
good examples to children should be aware of the unconventional advice
given by the school chef to the eight-year-olds in his care, mainly on
seduction techniques. On the other hand, its real target was
intolerance, and that appealed to her.

She trudged back across the common. After a moment she

342 Edwina Currie realised that she had taken the wrong path, and was
headed away from the corner of Apiary Lane towards the north side. Lost
in reverie, she had not noticed where she was.

She halted. Overhead the wind whistled through the branches: rain had
been forecast and it was getting dark. This was not the most salubrious
sector of the common, with its shrubbery and foliage dense enough to
conceal those who did not wish to be observed. Some nights, Hetty knew,
it could become quite crowded here; Doris had warned her to avoid this
area out of daylight, unless, like those visitors who chose to frequent
it, she had pressing reasons to be there.

She was not afraid: she was not seeking drugs, or illicit sex, from the
seedy boys who were already lurking near the park bench. They were not
all gay, by any means.

She turned and began to walk steadily towards the road. The sun had
gone: here, where there were no street-lamps, it was murky and damp. A
movement on her left made her jump. Two men had emerged from the
shadows, shoulder to shoulder. One was sporting a baseball cap and white
jeans the hallmark, in these parts, of a gay prostitute. He was
pocketing what appeared to be money.

Hetty tried not to stare. It was none of her business. If it suited
these men to seek love, or whatever they called it, in public with
anonymous others, she could only pity them: she would not condemn. Most
of all, she should not interfere. But something made her twist half
round, to reassure herself they had no interest in her and that she was
safe.

The Adam's apple bobbed, the elegant profile swung rapidly away. The
golden hair caught the remaining light. Then the tall young man in the
green sweater broke into a loping run and was lost in the bushes.

Chasing Men 343

The boy with the baseball cap shrugged, tucked the notes away, found a
handkerchief and wiped his hands, then strolled back into the gloom.

Hetty was more than a little shaky as she arrived at her front gate. Was
that an illusion? Had she really seen Christian on the common, and if so
what had he been up to? Paying for services, or selling them? She had
seen the notes in the baseball boy's hand, though she could not tell
whether he was the recipient or the customer. What had got into
Christian that he should be so engaged and taking such risks?

The happy couple upstairs were, perhaps, not so happy. It showed how few
assumptions could be made about others.

As she stood on the doorstep and fumbled for her keys, Hetty felt deeply
upset. Markus and Christian had given no signs of friction, though she
recalled Christian joking about the common one Sunday at the Cafe
Pinocchio, about doing it the first time with strangers. Markus had
recoiled at the comments but his disapproval had been fleeting and
private. Perhaps the joking had developed further: into a dare? Or did
Christian find coupledom in flat six a bit stifling? His earlier
experiences, from which he had been rescued by his older lover,
suggested a self-destructive streak. Maybe he was heading that way
again?

It would help to talk it over with Doris. As she put her key in the
lock, however, Hetty heard animated voices coming from Doris's flat: not
the usual scolding of Thomas for moulting on the sofa or eating the
spare ham, but a male and female in conversation.

Hetty tiptoed into the dark garden. She would not be seen from inside.

For a moment she hesitated: she did not normally spy on anyone, let
alone her friends. But the film

344 Edwina Currie had made her feel mildly unconventional, and she meant
no harm.

Doris's kitchen was well lit, the blind up. Inside Doris was at the
table, with a thick-set man. She was devoid of pinny or curlers or
turban, her lipstick was tidily applied, the excess rouge absent. She
was nodding, head on one side, a smile on her lips. The man was about
her age, silvery at the temples and bald, in a smart navy suit with a
blue shirt and tie. At the far end of the table Thomas was curled up
like a ginger cushion, his eyes watchful slits. Between them stood two
glasses - Scotch, perhaps.

Doris would not dress up like that for the rent man. It was evidently an
expected visit, for the makeup and hair would have required effort. That
also explained why she had not been free to go to a movie. The old
lady's eyes radiated contentment, even joy. Hetty had never seen her
like that before, and suddenly could visualise Doris as a young,
sweet-faced girl, exuberant and full of spirit.

And this must be the gentleman friend, Jack, whose wife lived up north,
and who owned the sex-shop. Who owned several sex-shops, but had a
background as ... ? Hetty ransacked her memory. On the bus home after
the carol service, Doris had mentioned casually that he had been a
police officer. In that dark blue outfit he looked the part, as if he
might have been a detective. The unstated implication in that
conversation, then, was that Jack was all fait with that sleazy trade
and would conduct it honourably, so no more questions need be asked.
Yet, given Doris' roguishness, her means of earning her living, her
familiarity with the law (as demonstrated in the rescue of Carole),
Hetty began to wonder. How had they met? Had Doris once been known to
the police?

Chasing Men 345

And who, exactly, was Doris, this bustling, cheery woman who had taken
on the role of concierge and mother substitute for the block, and who
seemed^ to know everyone's affairs? Hetty stepped away from the window
and slipped back into the shadows. She had every reason to be grateful.

Doris had been the soul of kindness during those miserable first days at
The Swallows. It was thanks to her that the newcomer had neither frozen
nor starved. Hetty had heard tales of single people left to rot in their
rooms, studiously ignored by neighbours who scuttled in and out of their
own rabbit-holes as if determined to avoid contact. It was depressing
enough to find oneself alone, in circumstances not of one's own
choosing; but to have been ignored like that, denied human existence,
would have been terrible. Instead, succoured by as friendly a biddy as
Doris, she had felt almost welcome.

So who was she? Doris had also hinted that she had been married, once -
but that, she had said, was another story. Did she have children? And,
since she was obviously from a corner of the city some distance away,
why had she decided to settle in what must seem, to an East-Ender, the
wilderness south of the Thames? Even Christian and Markus reckoned that
Doris had secrets. Here was one made manifest, seated a few yards away
and cradling a drink, with Doris simpering and luminous before him.

Now was the not the moment to enquire. Hetty's urge to discuss
Christian's twilight activities on the common, and her curiosity about
Jack, would have to remain under wraps. Meanwhile she laughed ruefully.

At least Doris was entertaining a gentleman, and seemed to be on cloud
nine about it.

346 Edwina Currie More immediate matters awaited in her postbox. A large
buff envelope had arrived from Soul Mates. Hetty hung up her coat,
disciplined herself to make a cup of tea first, then sat down with the
sheaf of papers.

There were six sheets, each with a photograph, passport size, pinned to
a photocopy of the application form. Highlighted on each form in
fluorescent green was the home phone number. A covering letter invited
Hetty to call the men direct, then to keep the agency informed of her
progress.

Bill looked like a criminal. His unsmiling face was podgy, suggesting
that his description of himself as of ' build' was an error. He might
have the mildest of dispositions, but Hetty was taking no chances.

Andrew was better, quite attractive, but only thirty-five, he said, and
lived in Kent. The agency was not as efficient as it pretended, or
perhaps the various offices swapped their more promising clients as
encouragement. Martin had a London postcode and his photo showed a
pleasant enough chap, but his main hobbies were fixing up old cars and
jazz. ' there, done that,' muttered Hetty darkly, as she drank her tea.
And he had a moustache.

Matthew had no interests whatever, as far as she could judge. He had
left the section unticked and scrawled '' over it. It could mean that he
was the most amazing person, erudite, literate and eclectic in his
tastes; but an intelligent man would surely have been a bit more
selective. David was a university lecturer, swarthy and with a
pony-tail, who had never married; his eyes avoided the camera. Hetty
fantasised that he had fathered ten children by four different mothers
and did not wish to admit it. Nor did he mention what he taught: that
could mean the subject Chasing Men 347

was so dull he dared not boast about it. Engineering, maybe. Or social
science - no, that would have produced a proud reference. Forestry,
then. Or train-spotting. He was fairly dull himself, or too picky, if in
truth no woman had ever won his heart.

That left Norman. His picture passed the test with flying colours, and
though he said he was forty-five Hetty, squinting closely, suspected
that was an underestimate. Modifying his date of birth was not a
disqualification - it might show he was sensitive on the issue, as she
was, and felt much younger. He was a widower: his wife had died of
cancer two years before, and now, he wrote, ' feel ready to put my grief
behind me, and find new friendships, hopefully long-term.' That sounded
intriguing. He had been married, he had loved and lost through no fault
of his own, but was not prepared to bid goodbye to the world and wallow
in self-pity. A mature man.

The address given was in Hertfordshire. He had his own company in the
financial field and liked the theatre, concerts, sport. Hetty finished
the tea, held the paper in both hands at arm's length and asked whether
she could imagine herself sitting across a dinner table from this
person.

She could. She picked up the phone and dialled.

"I called you this evening. You were out. Somewhere nice?' Hetty
giggled. ', Sally. Went out for a drink. With a man."

"Ooh! The agency. They found you somebody."

"Not sure yet. But yes, the name did come from Soul

Mates. And it's Norman."

"Norman from the agency? Sounds like a character from a Rowan Atkinson
film. Or Alan Partridge. What's he like?"

348 Edwina Currie

"Don't sneer, dear. He's about fiftyish, fairly well-off- he had a Ralph
Lauren blazer, quite smart but casual. Not the leather-jacket type. I
think he was originally a chartered accountant, something solid, anyway.

Not tall, but slim. Stylish in an understated way. He wore a pink shirt
and a cravat - that was how I was to recognise him."

"Isn't that a bit poncy? And what did you wear?"

That suit from Star Style. I'm beginning to feel quite at home in it."

"It's nice. So where did you go with Norman from the agency?"

"We met in the bar at his club. Somewhere in Pall Mall. I hadn't been
before, but it's swish and the waiter treated him as a regular."

"Hmm. Don't take anything for granted. What did you chat about?"

Hetty pondered. ', home, children, the usual subjects,' she said
vaguely. ' let him do most of the talking. He was excellent at that."

"So he's a charmer. But is he genuine?"

"I think so. How can I tell? But so far, I can't fault him."

Now it was Sally's turn to think hard before speaking. ' it helps, I'll
come with you next time,' she offered. ' him the once-over. But don't
reveal your home address until you've checked him out thoroughly.

If you like, I can run his details through our computer, see if he's
travelled with us, who paid his fare, that sort of thing."

"Well, first let's find out if it goes anywhere. I'll show you the sheet
next time you come round. Anyway-' Hetty giggled again and hiccuped,
once.

"What, Mum? Wow, you have been drinking."

"Slight. He bought champagne. It was lovely."

Chasing Men 349

"Blimey. My mother, gadding about in her old age.' ' it. You're jealous.
I was going to say, he's keen to see me again. He's asked me out. And
that's a recommendation in itself."

What Hetty could not tell her daughter, for she could still not quite
believe it, was that Norman scored remarkably highly on her checklist of
manly attributes. And then some.

He was trim, neat and ... sexy. He had pale blue eyes that twinkled
merrily and sandy hair cut short: it was obvious he had been freshly
barbered. Clean-shaven skin sat without slackness on high cheekbones and
a firm jaw with a small cleft in the chin. He kept himself fit, he told
her; she could detect not an ounce of spare fat on him, though the
wrists under the pink shirt-cuffs and discreet gold cufflinks were wiry
and strong. The aftershave was unobtrusive but fragrant. He was rather
older than he was admitting on the form - closer to mid-fifties. Not a
subject to be broached yet, Hetty reckoned, especially as she had
knocked another year off her own age. At this rate she'd be forty before
the decade was out: she was in no position to moralise.

The standard opening gambit, Hetty asking him to say more about himself
than was on the form, had produced a modest smile and a shrug from
Norman. He skated over his occupation as esoteric and of slight interest
to a pretty woman at the first meeting. He did give her a card, as clean
and tidy as its donor, with a business address in Tring. The lack of
flourish or bombast impressed Hetty even more. She tried to assess him
as if he were a guest on Tell Me AH, and concluded that Norman from the
agency came across as so manifestly normal, so much at ease that nobody
would put him on the show, ever. Yet if he were in

350 Edwina Currie a witness-box, whatever story he told would be
instantly credible.

His face was open and alert, and he seemed delighted to be in the same
room as her, in the buttoned leather armchairs, with a bowl of salted
nuts before them, the waiter wiping glasses at the far end of the bar
and the champagne bottle slowly emptying.

"I ought to ask you for dinner,' he said at last. His voice was light,
the accent north London.

"Perhaps not this evening,' Hetty had demurred. ' are a little late."

They had met at seven; it was nearly nine. The two hours had passed
swiftly, not a moment had dragged. Both expressed astonishment at the
time.

"We must have been enjoying each other's company, Hetty. This is an
enormous pleasure for me, to meet a remarkable, intelligent lady like
you,' Norman said, and waved the waiter away. ' what's left. No, 1
insist.' He poured the remains of the bubbly then turned the bottle
upside down in its bucket with a tiny sigh of regret.

Hetty felt dazed. The Star Style outfit had worked its magic once more.

She had steeled herself to expect an encounter more on the lines of that
ghastly dinner with James. She should have been silently marking the
negative bits, to mull over later when deciding whether to see him
again, or to wait for the next envelope. Instead Norman kept coming up
smelling of roses - not quite as irresistible as Stephen in his prime,
maybe, but much more so than Stephen today. Or James, or Al.

This had started to feel like a lurch in the right direction. Maybe,
under the table, she should pinch herself to wake up.

"It makes you wonder,' she ventured, ' on earth Chasing Men 351

people like us have to meet via, er, our mutual acquaintance. We're both
sociable, warm, solvent, sound in body and mind. Pity we have to resort
to - you know. It is so clinical."

"It's the tragedy of the modern world, Hetty,' he said, and gazed into
her eyes. ', we are, the middle classes. We get so engrossed in our
professional activities that we realise all of a sudden that our social
life is nonexistent. Plus, we're British: brought up to be reticent, to
put up with it. The opportunities to meet like-minded people are limited
- our generation doesn't go out clubbing, like the youngsters. To meet
someone like you by chance would be a miracle. So the agencies find us
highly profitable. But I don't begrudge them."

"Agencies? Have you been to any others?"

He looked pained. ', but I did get some brochures. Tonight is the first
lime I've tried this, Hetty. I'm as nervous as you are."

Til drink to that,' said Hetty, and they did so.

"Don't be dazzled,' said the champagne glass. ''s only a chap. Either
he's utterly ordinary and will bore you to tears, or there's something
not right."

"How do you figure that?' Hetty let the effervescence tickle her nose.

"Else why would he have to go to an agency?"

"Same reason I did. Got fed up waiting. Decided to seize the day."

"That's the alcohol talking. Take care."

Hetty lifted her head from the glass, to find the new man gazing at her,
calm and dignified. ' and I, Norman, we seem to understand each other,'
she murmured.

"I believe we do, Hetty,' he said, quietly. Had he touched her

352

Edwina Currie hand at that minute or made any other move towards her,
she would have shrunk away. He didn't, but seemed to want to. That was
sufficient. ' maybe we could arrange to have dinner on a future date?"

"Oh! Yes,' she said, trying not to appear too eager. I've brought my
diary."

"And I mine. As long, Hetty, as it's soon."

And he had seen her into a taxi, and handed the cabby a twenty-pound
note, as if such excellent manners came naturally to him. As he tapped
goodbye on the window, Hetty settled back in her seat, crossed her legs
and placed her hand over her beating heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

Meat-eater But it was lunch, not dinner, that came next. To Hetty's
relief there was no suggestion that Norman hankered after Japanese raw
fish laced with chillies. Instead he booked a table at PJ's in Covent
Garden. As Hetty approached the yellow-painted frontage with its
scrawled blackboard, she realised it was only a step away from
Christopher's, the restaurant where Clarissa had started her rescue
efforts all those months ago. This was beginning to feel like a familiar
stamping ground.

Inside were dark wood, faded mirrors, bar stools and a amiable American
manager in a turquoise shirt and wire rimmed spectacles, who greeted
Norman like an old friend.

"Bill, I'd like you to meet Hetty,' Norman said, with elaborate courtesy
as their coats were taken. ' table, please."

They found themselves in a dimly lit alcove, with only two other tables
nearby. Norman was smartly dressed in a

354 Edwina Currie City suit and explained that he had two appointments
in town that day, but told her no more. The restaurant was filling up
with a variety of diners: male and female, both casually attired and
smart. Hetty tried unsuccessfully to categorise them.

As if reading her mind, Norman said, ''re near the atreland. A lot of
these people, especially in the evenings, are involved with the
performing arts or are on the fringes of show-business. See behind you."

She twisted about and found that the wall at their table was festooned
at waist height with small brass plaques. She recognised the names of
Christopher Biggins the actor, and Will Carling the rugby player.

"Goodness,' she whispered, ''you think he brought Princess Diana here?"
Norman smiled a curious lop-sided smile, as if he knew more than he
would tell. ' doubt it. She preferred San Lorenzo, the Caprice, places
like that."

Hetty did not quite understand the implications, other than that the
other locations were possibly more expensive, or more exclusive, but as
the menus arrived, she saw that Norman had given her an entree into
another conversational track. ' said on your form, Norman, that you
liked theatre. Is that a major interest of yours?"

"It is. I've become acquainted with management and certain producers who
dine here regularly, so sometimes I get tickets to first nights and
previews. Mamma Mia for one, Spend Spend Spend, that sort of show -
brilliant. We're extremely fortunate to have so much live theatre of
such high quality in London, don't you think?" "I do,' said Hetty
firmly, and mentioned Christian and Markus, though it was apparent that
their work - more elevated, perhaps, than the musicals Norman had
touched on Chasing Men 355

was known to him only by reputation. It occurred to her that she could
name-drop with aplomb these days; moreover, thanks to Father Roger,
several hit plays at the National were at her fingertips as topics of
discourse, complete with comments on their ethical dilemmas. She no
longer felt quite so shy or ignorant in the company of sophisticated
strangers like Norman.

"What else do you enjoy doing - when you're not with me, say?' she
asked, a mite coyly. ', sport? You also ticked those boxes."

He looked faintly puzzled, as if unsure what he had written. That's
right,' he said vaguely. ' depends. If I'm offered tickets for the Proms
or Glyndebourne I always go. But I confess that eighty or a hundred
pounds a seat at the Royal Opera House does not strike me as good
value."

"No, I can see that,' Hetty sympathised. So he was not about to take her
to see Roberto Alagna and his wife in concert. What a pity.

The cuisine at PJ's turned out much more to her taste than the fiery
tuna of James's preferred eatery, and kinder to her waistline than the
creamy excesses of Clarissa's. She tucked in happily to icy gazpacho,
and followed it with seared sea-bass on a bed of spinach: simple, tasty
and blessedly recognisable. Norman opted for calf s liver, grilled pink
and rare. Hetty peeked over her wine-glass as he speared each thin
strip, browned on the outside, squishily soft inside, then delicately
wiped up the bloody jus with bread. There was something so controlled
about him. So carnivorous. It fascinated her.

"What about movies? Do you enjoy them too?' she continued.

"I do. My tastes are quite broad, but I never miss a new

356 Edwina Currie science-fiction or horror film if I can help it.
Wherever possible I read the book first, then I can compare."

"I loved Star Wars,' Hetty confessed.

"Which one?' he enquired, his mouth widening in that smile again. It
seemed to Hetty, fleetingly, that he was testing her. She was unsure
whether he expected her to be impressed or amused. Since the various
episodes in the genre tended to get mixed up in her memory, her replies
were haphazard. They chatted on about the Lucas films for several
minutes until at last Norman said, with a laugh, ', no, Hetty. The child
becomes Darth Vader, not Luke Skywalker,' at which point it seemed
wisest to move on.

"But the special effects were amazing,' she concluded defensively, and
suspected she had made a minor fool of herself.

His eyes betrayed nothing as he picked up the menu to select a dessert.

"You are exceedingly good company, Hetty,' he said, as if to console
her.

"So are you, Norman,' Hetty answered warmly, and she meant it. There was
no need to compare this elegant, charming man with his beautiful manners
and open face with her mental ideal. He was remarkably close to any
model she might have chosen. His physical presence in that well-cut
suit, the discreet cufflinks, the pearly-buttoned shirt, began to stir
her imagination. What might he look like without them?

Plucking up her courage, she lowered her eyelashes, once, then gazed at
him full in the face. ' time, Norman, it's on me."

One evening soon afterwards Hetty was washing up and pottering round the
flat. A few anemones in a vase gave a Chasing Men 357

cheerful air. The knock on the door made her jump.

"Hello, Doris. And Thomas.' Hetty eyed the cat with caution. How did he
manage to moult the whole time? Doris's apron was covered in his hairs.

"Want to come in?"

"Don't mind if I do,' Doris said. ''re looking cheerful. How's the love
life?"

"It's okay,' Hetty said crisply. ' no questions, Doris, and you'll be
told no lies."

Doris had come officially with information that the water was to be cut
off the following day for repairs, but in essence for gossip and tea. As
Hetty broke open a packet of biscuits, she wondered if Doris might be in
the mood for confidences.

"A couple of weeks ago,' Hetty ventured, ''t 1 see you in your kitchen
with a gentleman friend? Was that your Jack?"

Doris dimpled. ' was. Nice, isn't he? Still got his handsome looks."

"Not moving in, yet?' Hetty let her voice sound teasing.

"No. Not '. He lives in digs in the East End - well, I call ' digs, but
he owns the whole terrace. One of his tenants sees to him."

"He's done well for a former police officer, hasn't he?' Hetty did not
trouble to conceal her curiosity.

Doris's face darkened. ' might say that."

Hetty sat back. ', I'm being nosy. No reason why a former policeman
shouldn't own a row of houses. You've known him ages, haven't you?"

"Must be forty years.' The normally garrulous Doris had acquired a wary
expression. Hetty decided to plough on. Her neighbour could always tell
her to take a running jump, but had not done so yet.

"Do you have children, Doris?"

358 Edwina Currie

"I did. One, a daughter. When I was about nineteen."

"Where is she now?"

"She ... she died."

"Ah.' Hetty found herself examining the old woman closely. Had it been
Jack's child? Or the invisible Mr. Archibald's? The implication of those
lowered eyes was of some tragedy. But, then, losing a child was always a
tragedy Hetty's heart softened. Was this why Doris didn't live where her
accent revealed she had grown up - where Jack lived?

Suddenly Doris spoke rapidly in such a low tone so that Hetty could
barely hear. ' was good to me, was Jack. He was the police officer
involved. Kept in touch. He's been a decent sort.' She stopped as
abruptly as she had begun, then gathered the cat in her arms and rose to
go. '. It's all in the past, thank God."

At the door, Doris's manner resumed its casual friendliness. ''re
blooming, Hetty. That new figure of yours is very glamorous. Make the
most if it."

"What? Go swimming down the municipal baths, you mean?' Hetty laughed,
their amity restored, yet conscious of how little she knew about her
widowed neighbour.

"Nah,' said Doris. ' I bet it's even better in the buff. Not seen you in
the shop recently. Anything I could fetch you? Maybe you'd better get a
move on, before the podge comes back. No offence, but it does.' She
patted her own solid midriff.

"That might be excellent advice, Doris,' Hetty answered, and avoided the
dig in the ribs that the old woman was attempting to make. Thomas hissed
as if in disapproval. ' if you hear strange noises from this flat one
evening soon, please take no notice." With Doris gone, Hetty stood sunk
in thought. Dates Chasing Men 359

with Norman were chaste, but had reached the stage where his lips at
farewell brushed her mouth rather than her cheek, and lingered. Those
tendony wrists had begun to appear in her mind's eye, resting on a
table. Her table. And the cufflinks, removed, beside them.

Time for the carrot soup and rosemary lamb routine once more.

"No, not carrot soup,' Hetty said to herself. ' can't stand the stuff.

I'll make a pate. Norman is a serious meat-eater. Now where did 1 put my
recipe book?"

And this time there was no mistake.

The doorbell rang downstairs as Hetty put the finishing touches to the
cornflower blue cloth, the gleaming cutlery, the china, the linen
napkins folded like angels' wings, wooden candlesticks and a pot of
freesias. She opened the oven door, once, to let the aroma of dinner
enter the room as tantalisingly as possible; checked her appearance in
the mirror (the same low-cut sweater that had thrilled James and the
loose, long skirt), then called down the intercom and pressed the
buzzer.

Norman stood in the hallway, dressed in the Ralph Lauren jacket, cravat
and slacks he had worn on their first date at his club. A whiff of
pleasant aftershave entered the room before he did, with a smile on his
smooth-shaven face and a very large bunch of scarlet roses, barely
opened from bud, held before him.

"Good Lord,' Hetty said, taken aback. She had the sense that control of
the evening had promptly passed to her male guest. As she brushed a
strand of hair out of her eye, oniony garlic came from her fingers:
hastily, she hid her hands behind her. Norman was taller than herself
and had to bend

360 Edwina Currie to give her a kiss. It was full on the lips, though
moderate and brief.

It made her own lips tingle mightily, even as she moved aside and let
him in.

"Mmm, smells super,' he said appreciatively. '? Herbs? Do I detect
garlic? Perhaps I should have brought a Cotes du Rhone.' He held out a
bottle, which Hetty had accepted before realising it was black label
champagne.

"Yes, lamb,' Hetty said uncertainly. Arms full of the rustling roses,
she led the way into the living room and with an elbow indicated glasses
and an ice bucket. A bag of ice from the off-licence was in the bottom
of the freezer, she told him. Norman filled the bucket and expertly, as
if to the manner born, sat the wine bottle at a modish angle.

The freesias seemed limp and pathetic beside Norman's magnificent
blooms. Hetty fetched her biggest vase and began to trim the stems on
the draining-board, chattering lightly through the open kitchen door. He
kept appearing and disappearing; she caught glimpses of him walking
about, taking books from her shelves, turning over her bits of china and
the glass perfume phials, examining the photos and pictures on the
walls.

"I'm sorry, I don't have much.' She came back into the room with the
filled vase and gestured apologetically. ''s an Ingres poster, and that
print, of course, is Titian. But you'd know that. If I had the
wherewithal I'd buy modern paintings. I have a friend who is an art
professor and he could advise me. But my savings went into buying this
flat, so ...' She let her voice trail off.

Norman shrugged. ''m not after you for your money, you know,' he said
coolly. ' have enough of my own. When my wife died it came to me."

The roses stood proudly upright on thick stems like Chasing Men 361

crimson-coated guardsmen. Hetty placed the vase on a low table with some
difficulty, for it was now heavy. Norman leaped forward to help. As he
did so, water splashed on his jacket. ',' he said, and dabbed with a
handkerchief. Then, ', well, no damage done."

Hetty wondered nervously whether to offer to pay for dry-cleaning, then
decided against. Anyone able to buy such a spruce garment did not need
her hard-earned sous. Whether his wealth had come from his late wife's
estate or not, he certainly looked exactly as one would expect a
comfortably off widower to look.

His children, he had told her previously, were grownup, a boy and a
girl, both working overseas. He had no other ties. Although it had taken
a while to get over his bereavement, he felt some obligation to himself
to seek new friendships. Whenever he uttered the words '' or
'friendship', he held Hetty's gaze and smiled in a distinctive slow,
lop-sided way that kept his teeth hidden. It gave the impression of
strength, dignity and self-reliance. It crossed Hetty's mind that the
smile had been thoroughly practised in a mirror; but, then, who was she
to carp, since that was exactly what she had done herself, ten minutes
before his arrival?

The pate was eaten neatly with many exclamations of praise. Norman's
small teeth left uneven semicircles on the spread toast, but they did
appear to be his own. Hetty mentally consigned carrot soup for ever to
the dustbin. The champagne, chilled and sparkling, set off the crystal
glasses liberated from Dorset. Not for the first time, Hetty allowed
herself to drink more than Clarissa might have approved of, and felt
herself mellowing, willing to listen to Norman's anecdotes without
interruption and to laugh without pretence.

362 Edwina Currie Would he be another James? Comparisons were dangerous,
of course. But Norman was altogether a tidier, more orderly person and a
cleaner eater.

Norman's talk avoided politics, and he did not whinge about colleagues
at work. Indeed, Norman barely referred to his work, though he admitted
that one advantage of Tring was the ability to get away for the weekend
ahead of the traffic. Better than James, so far, on every count. But in
bed?

"Where do you like to go - what would be your ideal weekend?' she asked,
as he tucked into his meat. He had cut off every scrap of visible fat
and took only a trace of gravy, bare dabs of mint sauce and redcurrant
jelly, the two smallest potatoes. Hetty envied him his self-discipline.

"It would have to be with a special friend,' he said gravely, and
smiled. ' do like country-house hotels, don't you? With a pool, for
preference, and wooded grounds to stroll in. A roaring fire for dark,
cold days." "And a four-poster bed?' Hetty asked, in a rush, then
giggled. Damn the champagne.

"And a four-poster bed,' Norman drawled. ' course."

Hetty swallowed hard. Her heart was beginning to pound, though whether
with the alcohol, the warmth of the room or that curiously enigmatic
smile of Norman's, she could not tell. She felt herself wilt under his
direct examination. Tm afraid I don't have one here,' she continued
weakly. ' I had, but there's no room ... "

The air between them sang. Hetty stopped breathing. Norman folded his
napkin and pressed it to his mouth. His plate was almost empty. Then he
put the knife and fork parallel on the dish.

"So what do you have in there, Hetty?' he asked softly, his eyelashes
flickering towards the closed bedroom door.

Chasing Men 363

"Pudding?' she asked desperately, rising in her chair. ', maybe, but for
the moment I'm full. That was a delightful meal, Hetty. Perhaps we could
eat our dessert ... afterwards?"

Hetty wanted to squeal with delight, but it was all she could do to stay
on her feet. Her arms, fussing independently, started reaching for used
bowls and stacking the plates. Norman rose and came round to her side of
the table, took her hands firmly away from the dishes and brought them
up to his mouth. He kissed her fingers one by one, wrinkling his nose in
pleasure at the cooking smells. '! Wonderful. I do enjoy real food,
traditional-style, properly served. You are the woman of most men's
dreams, Hetty. Who would have thought it?" "Cooked with love, that's the
difference,' Hetty murmured. If she were going to flirt, now was the
time. If he wanted to discover whether her intentions were
dishonourable, she would send the most accurate message possible. If he
wanted bed, this was it.

"Ah, love. Yes, I see that. But you mustn't love me, Hetty. It's too
soon."

The rebuke was so considerate, so gentlemanly. Hetty felt her knees
buckle. She held his hands tightly and raised her head to look into his
eyes. Then simply make the most of being with me, Norman. As with the
food, I'm here just for you."

He took her in his arms, then, and kissed her long and romantically on
the lips, the tastes of mint sauce and red currants mingling as the
kisses became stronger. Hetty slid her hands under his jacket. His back
was strong and wiry; even as he put his hands up to her face and buried
his fingers in her hair, she could feel his tendons move under the

364 Edv/ina Currie taut skin. The sensation excited her more than she
could have anticipated. Not a portly James, this one: when Norman
claimed to like sport and to keep himself in trim, he was telling no
more than the truth.

"I think,' Norman said gravely, ' I should remove this jacket and hang
it on the chair. It has been a nuisance all night and still seems to be
getting in the way."

Hetty stood back and took in the stripe of the shirt, the silky sheen of
the cravat. Above the collar he was freshly shaved, the skin smooth as a
girl's. No wayward bristle marred his nostrils or ears, no warts, no
moles. No distinguishing features. On impulse she touched his hair,
stroked it: her palm came away clean, no trace of oil. ', you're
terrific - do you know that?' she told him, half disbelieving it
herself.

"I feel we should continue this conversation elsewhere, don't you?' he
murmured to her, and led her towards the closed door.

Thank heavens, Hetty said to herself as they entered, that she had not
only changed the sheets, but wiped down every surface. This man was so
fastidious he would notice the least speck of dust. Here the freesias
came into their own: the air smelt sweet and womanly, as the women's
magazines said it should. She left the main light off and switched on
the bedside lamp. The rosy glow made the bedroom cosily attractive.

Norman began to undo his shirt buttons. Hetty took it as a signal that
she should start to undress herself, and wondered if it would hold
matters up too much if she offered him a hanger for his trousers. But he
glanced about, then draped them without ceremony or comment on the back
of a chair. The action was so natural yet so sensible, that Hetty
Chasing Men 365

fell a thrill of anticipation: if Norman could so easily solve a tricky
problem - James had struggled out his trousers and looked such an idiot
- then her confidence was increasing by the minute that he could deal
with anything.

In a moment he stood unclothed before her, tall and rangy, with a
splendid, solid penis, partly erect already. It was not huge, but the
skin was dark and it was definitely not tiny. Hetty covered her mouth
with her hands and smiled to herself at the welcome sight. His upper
body was almost hairless, his legs - the thighs and calves muscular -
more so, and faintly freckled, as his sandy colouring had suggested. His
shoulders and chest were well defined: the glow from the lamp made him
almost statuesque. Not quite Michelangelo's David, but not far off.

"You are,' Hetty gulped, ' fine figure of a man, Norman."

She was standing in front of him in her bra and pants, not daring to
hold him, nor to go any further.

"And you are so special, dearest Hetty,' he said, and took her in his
arms, kissing her and undoing her bra hooks at the same time, as nimbly
and neatly as he had done everything else that evening.

And his performance, Hetty had to admit breathlessly to herself, was
everything that could be desired. He pulled back the duvet to give a
large, clear area on the bed, and pushed her down on it, giving himself
plenty of space to kneel over her. He kissed her quite thoroughly on the
mouth - '' was not the right description, for there was a soft edge to
his manner, and soft lips, which added considerably to his appeal.

Then he kissed her nipples, and sucked them, at first so gently that he
had no effect, then more strongly, so that she arched her back a little,
and caressed his head. And

366 Edwina Currie

"Adorable,' he whispered, ' are so pretty,' as he traced his knuckle
over her abdomen, as if to get the measure of the firmness of her flesh.

In her navel he made a circle, letting her feel the sharpness of his
nail, and that made her squirm and giggle, her haunches moving under
him, though as yet there was hardly any contact down there, as he
carried himself over her like a canopy, blocking out the ceiling.

"May I kiss you?' he asked.

"Of course,' she whispered.

"Only some women don't like it,' he added, as if to himself. Then she
realised where he meant to kiss her, and bent her knees up slightly, and
spread herself open - not too widely - and at first he simply put his
knuckle there, and kneaded the opening, high up, till she pushed his
hand quickly the necessary half-inch downwards, till the pressure made
her whimper; and then he bent his head, lifted her feet up over his
shoulders and crouched down, buried his face in her crotch, and began to
nibble.

"Oooh! Norman, oh, Norman,' she wailed, and could not help herself ...
"Do you like that?' He raised his head briefly, his fingers now busy.

"Oooh! Norman,' was all she could say, feeling herself becoming heated
and moist.

"Wait, don't be so impatient,' he laughed, ' want to make sure you get
there."

And she could feel that fingernail again but this time it was deeper,
circling inside her as if to enlarge the opening, while his other hand
took hers, and led her to take hold of his penis and squeeze it, four,
five times, till it was magnificently upright ... But hard was the word
as it slid inside her, with no more Chasing Men 367

ado, until she could sense him deeply engaged in her own pulsing
tissues; and hard was how he started to push into her, thump, thump, the
bed and her body moving in rhythm with him.

"Ooooh!' yelped Hetty, but tonight she was not pretending. '!

Fantastic!"

"Aaah ...' came from Norman's face, buried in a pillow beside her ear.

Thump. Thump. She could almost hear the sperm begging to be released.

"Now, Norman, oh, Norman,' Hetty begged, and he shifted weight, gave a
groan and made one more thrust, and held it, his shoulders arched above
her, his face damp, close to her own.

"Aaaah ... "

And he came to climax, not too fast, not too slow, not too aggressively,
as if still considerate of her emotions, on this important first
occasion ... The plop when it came was audible, and reflected the
considerable size of the organ responsible. Hetty breathed rapidly,
wondering whether to tell Norman that, whatever his dreams, he was as
close to hers as any chap could be. He rolled over and even tidily
adjusted his damp appendages so they should not drip on her bedding. His
understated skills, the thoughtfulness they demonstrated, left her in
awe. What a truly amazing man.

They lay quietly, their chests rising in gasps, laughing contentedly
together. Hetty reached for the duvet and tugged it over their damp
bodies. Norman's arm was round her shoulders; he kissed her once more on
the mouth before lying back. ' bad for an old one, eh, Hetty?' he said
roguishly. Those youngsters think they know it all, but they don't.

We can still enjoy ourselves. Can't we?"

368 Edwina Currie

"We can,' Hetty agreed happily. Then she raised her head, her tousled
hair collapsing over her forehead. Though on your agency application,
Norman, you said you were forty five. That's still young."

"And your form, if I recall, said the same.' On his forehead, beads of
sweat shone dimly in the light.

With a jolt Hetty recalled that he was correct. She giggled. ', well, so
what? You're as young as you feel."

He was smiling indulgently, as if both had uncovered a secret; as,
indeed, they had. A shared secret, but not a dangerous one. ' right now,
dear Hetty, I feel about twenty-one. You are a great lady. Thank you:
thank you so much."

This seemed a remarkably elegant speech for a man who had just made love
to her, Hetty reflected. Almost as if he had said it before - as if he
had braced himself to remember, in a rather stilted way, to say thank
you. Yum, yum, would have been more like it, she reckoned. But he did
not seem a man who would indulge in baby-talk. James, on the other hand
... She stopped herself quickly. Norman was not to know that she was in
the habit of bringing strange men to her bed. He, on the other hand, had
been without a wife for two years; his remarks had implied, though not
explicitly, that he had been celibate even before his wife's death, as
her illness had progressed beyond intimacy. Her soul filled with pity
and affection towards him.

In a while, when he was rested, she would reach down and see if that
splendid member could be encouraged to perform once more. Afterwards,
she might enquire if he would like to relax over a slice of apple cake,
with cream, in bed. They could spoon morsels into each other's mouths.

Chasing Men

369

some were spilled, it wouldn't matter: a blob of cream on Norman's torso
could easily be dealt with ... naughty, but nice. Then it might be lime
to brush their teeth - a new, spare toothbrush sat in its wrapper in the
bathroom - and maybe slip off to sleep together.

"Oh, Norman,' Hetty said, with feeling, Tm so glad I joined that agency.

You're exactly what I was hoping for - couldn't be better, not even in
my wildest imaginings."

He hugged her to him. ' you, Hetty, and you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

Corny as Kansas The recording for the day was coming to a satisfactory
end. None of the guests had come to blows, the audience had been of a
respectable size, wide awake and relatively enthusiastic, and the
subject - breast implants just within the boundaries of family viewing.
Rosa had drawn the line at implants in other parts of the anatomy,
despite one male guest offering to demonstrate his for free. Tell Me All
was recommissioned for a third series; for its crew, the show had
settled into a steady routine.

Thank heavens that's done. Another useful contribution to parish funds.

And since they have decided to thrust a young curate on me, we'll need
every penny.' Father Roger ran a finger round inside his clerical
collar: the studio was hot.

"When's he coming?' Hetty asked, recalling his disapproval.

"Next month. Not appointed yet. He could be a she - lots

Chasing Men 371

of women ordinands are job-seeking at present. I can't imagine anything
worse."

"Don't be such a rotten old misogynist. She could be gorgeous. You might
fall in love, Roger."

"Not if I can help it.' The priest shook his head. Talking of which,
Hetty, dear girl, tell me what's going on. You are positively glowing."

"Am I?' Hetty tried to appear nonchalant.

"Yes. Whenever you think no one's watching, your face settles into a
faraway little smile. That has not always been the case in our
acquaintance. There have been moments when you have appeared very down.

No longer.' He waited.

"Life has certainly taken on a rosier tinge,' Hetty admitted carefully.

She pretended to riffle through the production sheets on her clipboard
to avoid his gaze.

"Aha! At last. You're the one in love."

"Don't tease. Anyway, what if I am?"

"You've met someone."

"Maybe."

"Name?"

"His name, if it bothers you so much, is Norman. He is a widower, he has
his own business, he's charming and respectable. Anything else?"

Father Roger picked up Hetty's hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it
dramatically. ' eyes say everything, my dear. I'm so pleased for you.
And will you be booking nuptials? I can recommend St. Veronica's Hetty
pulled her hand away. '! Anyway, you couldn't marry people like us in
church - I'm divorced." Father Roger pressed a finger to the side of his
nose. ' can be arranged. But only for those entwinings of which I
approve. The necessaries are dispatched at the register office, 372
Edwina Currie then you stroll through the park, trailing rose petals
from your bouquet as you go, straight to the altar where 1 indulge you
both with the lushest of blessings.' He warmed to his theme. '
second-time-rounders say they adore walking up the aisle together: it
feels as if they are entering matrimony hand-in-hand, instead of the
unequal partnership implicit in the traditional service ... "

"I do not need the spiel, Roger.' Hetty tried to retain her dignity. '
met Norman only a few weeks ago. He is - nice, and we are enjoying each
other's company. Talk of marriage is seriously premature."

"But not impossible?' Roger winked.

"I don't know,' said Hetty, more sombrely. ' bitten, twice shy, perhaps.
Or maybe the established way - couple doni - isn't for me any more. I do
like my current arrangements, that's not pretence."

"But this Norman might do the trick. You have hope written all over your
face, dear girl. That's splendid. And do I take it that this is a full,
mature relationship?"

"Roger!' Hetty giggled.

The days when a girl was a virgin for her wedding night vanished years
ago. Doesn't apply to you, anyhow. But you do need to winkle out any
strange habits he may have, Hetty. Not much use discovering them later.

Suppose you find he likes to chain his women to the bed?"

Hetty gave the priest a playful dig. ' think I might get quite excited,
Roger. Some of us positively like sex. Now, push off and let me be. If
there are any significant developments - if, I say - you'll be the first
to know. Will that do?"

Did it show that much? Roger was the shrewdest person on the set and
accustomed to extracting revelations from the Chasing Men 373

merest shred of body language. He could be trusted to be discreet. Hetty
had always felt that, if she had a problem, he would be easy to turn to,
and committed by his calling and vows to secrecy. Rosa was another
matter. Had Hetty dropped any hints, the information would have been
broadcast in no time, probably by the producer announcing it gaily at
the next staff meeting.

In fact she ached to tell everyone. It was as much as she could do to
maintain a calm exterior, to go about her daily activities as if nothing
new had occurred. Concentrating on other people's conversation had
become difficult. It was easier to withdraw a bit, to spend more time by
herself, not least to indulge in repeated bouts of daydreaming.

Was it entirely a fantasy? Was she simply a lonely woman, desperate for
undivided attention, with the unsatisfactory episodes of Al and James
behind her, creating out of thin air the relationship that would make
her life complete? She forced herself to reflect, yet could come up with
no negatives. He was, so far, everything he had declared'himself to be:
with the one exception that his age was higher than he had claimed on
the form. That peccadillo she regarded with affection. Every other
detail was spot on. Indeed, he was far better than she could have
conjured up by herself.

It was early days yet: her common sense had not left her entirely. Time
enough, if and when he made a declaration of love, to match it with one
as heartfelt of her own.

Meanwhile, the refrains that ran through her brain seemed to be taking
over.

Tm as corny as Kansas in August ... " It was a Friday afternoon. Hetty
was clearing out kitchen cupboards, J-cloth in hand, humming as tins and
half-empty packets gathered

374 Edwina Currie behind her in untidy ziggurats. ' as a flag on the
fourth of July ..

The bell rang. Hetty got up off her knees and went to the door.

"Oh, God, Hetty, have you any milk?"

"Hello, Annabel. Milk? I think so. You make it sound like a matter of
life and death."

"It is. My parents are about to descend and the first thing they'll want
is a cup of tea."

Hetty motioned the young woman inside and headed for the fridge. ''re
welcome, but what's wrong with the minimarket at the garage?"

"No time! They'll be arriving any second. If they ring the bell and I'm
not there, they'll go spare. Thanks, Hetty, you're a pal."

Annabel was dressed, as unflatteringly as ever, in a black cropped
T-shirt that showed her midriff, and leggings that cut into her calves.

The diet had either been abandoned or had not sufficed, though Hetty had
seen her still trudging across the common. But agonies about her size no
longer seemed to trouble the girl. Perhaps Annabel had become resigned
to a larger than average fate.

At Hetty's door Annabel hesitated. ', would you like to come in?

They're not too bad. And I never know what to say to them."

"You sure that's okay?"

"Course. Why not? Leave it about twenty minutes or so. Then we'll have
gone through whether I'm eating my greens or sleeping properly and
changing my sheets. I've never grown up as far as my mother is
concerned. My dad says nothing but just sits there."

Hetty chuckled. ''ll always be a child to your parents."

Chasing Men 375

Annabel shifted the carton of milk from one hand to the other. ' it true
the other way round? I s'pose it is. They'll always be parents to me.
Old and sexless and interfering. Not real people, if you see what I
mean. But I do love them. Or 1 try."

Hetty recalled Sally's initial wariness of her mother's altered state,
and how her son Peter had slid away from the family circle and never
enquired about her welfare, as if it could be taken for granted.

"Families were ever thus,' she said. Til come."

It would be a useful distraction. Not merely from the chores, which were
not pressing, though they seemed to answer a resurgent nest-building
instinct; but from those jumbled crazy noises inside her head, the
floating pictures of smooth shaven cheeks and a slight, closed smile,
and of twinkling male eyes that seemed to be laughing both at and with
her at the same moment.

With Roger she had dissembled, but could not deny that something
significant was under way. She had tried to conceal her own
bewilderment; it was important to appear cool about the whole thing. But
as she had uttered his name, her voice had trembled. She could not
conceal how precious that name was becoming to her.

Norman. Norman with his Turnbull and Asser shirt, that neat pinstripe.

Norman with his cravat, or tie, of silk in a Paisley swirl. Norman
eating, the irregular pattern made by his teeth in a piece of toast, to
be memorised and marvelled over. Norman's hands, the narrow wrists with
the veins outstanding, taut and elegant. Norman with his shirt off, the
light from the bedside lamp slanting across his freckled shoulders.

Norman -

Norman ... 376 Edwina Currie In her mind, crowding out everything else,
an invasion was taking place.

Norman walking down a street beside her, talking, glancing at her and
nodding when she made some comment as if it were the most intelligent
remark in the whole universe ... his sloping handwriting on a card,
thanking her for another dinner ' a wonderful few hours', as if manners
must not be forgotten amid the joy and passion ... the cadence of his
voice, the thrill of his fingers ... Norman's presence when she awoke in
darkness, not wanting to return to sleep for fear of losing each detail
of him at her side, breathing slowly, his warmth filling the bed ... the
indentation of his head on the pillow, the lingering aftershave in the
bathroom ... the single curly hair in the corner of the shower, picked
up and treasured and hidden away ... "If this is love, then it's
amazing,1 Hetty sang to herself blithely as she quickly bundled rice,
flour and tinned tomatoes back on to their respective shelves. A packet
of Jaffa cakes just within their sell-by date would do for Annabel's. '
spring. Better? What was it like before? Can I remember?"

Not the same. With Stephen it had been a delicious whirl, naturally, but
against an entirely different backdrop. Hetty had then seen herself as,
and had been, a woman of her time. In her twenties she had hoped to meet
a marvelous chap, fall headlong, marry, have babies, run a home and live
happily every after. All but the last bit had happened, more or less
successfully. Her preoccupations, in those days, had been the ponderous
questions - is this a reliable person? Will he make a good father? Will
he be sensible with money? Do we have enough in common to carry us
through an entire lifetime? She had forced herself to be objective,
however cynical it might have felt. To her mother she had Chasing Men
377

put a solemn assessment the day of the engagement: that Stephen, tall,
handsome, and such fun to be with, was also a worthy man whose values
were much the same as her own, who would be, all things considered, an
ideal husband.

With Norman - or, indeed, with any new male friend other criteria
applied, far more superficial. She was not seeking a father to her
children: if a new date hated children, that would be a black mark
(since it implied a selfish or immature nature), but in a theatre escort
it didn't matter. She was not yearning for a home or an income; these
she could provide alone. Nor, more subtly, was she in search of an
identity. In the difficult months since leaving Dorset, she had
established one for herself, more emphatically than ever during her
marriage. Indeed, if a man, whoever he was, asked her to abandon her
single status, her flat, her independence, to rely upon him for
everything as before, as a wife or a virtual wife, her reaction would
have been unclear.

But Roger had put his finger on it. Suppose the name in the frame were
Norman's?

Except that no such possibility had escaped Norman's lips. He was the
soul of discretion, of controlled, manly dignity, as if he sensed that
she should not be pushed too far, too fast. Moreover he was witty,
charming and considerate: his every word, every movement were to be
cherished. And he was excellent in bed, though she did not intend to
pander to Roger or anyone else with the delicious evidence.

"I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love with a wonderful guy ...' she
hummed, as she washed and dried her hands and rubbed Nivea into the
skin. Chapped fingers and cracked cuticles were not the stuff of
middle-aged romance.

Then, Jaffa Cakes in hand, she crossed the landing.

378 Edwina Currie The atmosphere in flat four, as Annabel had foretold,
was stilted, baffled even, but not hostile.

The parents, as Hetty could not help labelling them, were seated in the
two armchairs. Spread out, rather, for both were overweight: Annabel's
struggles evidently stemmed from her genes. On the coffee table were a
lidless pot of tea, three mugs, an open box of sugar cubes, a single
spoon and Hetty's milk, still in its carton. Both parents were shorter
than their daughter, the father in a navy suit, the mother in grey
tweed. From previous mentions Hetty had gleaned that they were in trade
somewhere on the Essex coast. Annabel had once spoken with blunt
loathing of Billericay.

Annabel sat on the sofa, right in the middle, as if the space each side
conferred some protection. Her hands were pressed nervously together
between the fat, black-legginged thighs. As Hetty knocked and pushed
open the unlatched door, she jumped up with every sign of relief.

"Hetty, my neighbour,' she said. Hands were shaken.

"Good Lord!' Annabel's father said. ''re quite old!"

Hetty's mouth dropped open. She shut it quickly. '?"

"Harry!' Mrs. Leighton was flustered. She prodded her husband. ''s not
old. She's - she's the same age as us. Aren't you?"

"I've no idea,' Hetty murmured, trying not to laugh. Annabel's face was
aghast.

"I meant,' Mr. Leighton hissed to his wife, ' guessed Annabel's friend
would be - you know, about thirty. This one isn't."

That is undeniable,' Hetty answered, as she handed over the biscuits.

She perched on the arm of the sofa. ' why should you have thought
otherwise?"

Chasing Men 379

"But how can you be friends'!' It was Mrs. Leighton's turn. The curl of
disapproval in her voice made Hetty wince. ' surely can't like their
music. Or their clothes. Or approve of what they get up to. Do you even
understand what they sayt

"I get it,' Mr. Leighton hissed behind his hand. ''s an ageing hippie.'
He pulled back his shoulders and challenged Hetty, but his manner was
not cold. Indeed, he was examining her with much more interest. That's
right, isn't it? Flower-power and such. Beads and caftans. It's coming
back. Is that why you're here?"

"No, no.' Hetty waved a hand politely. This couple conceivably intended
no offence, so she would take none. Tea, I think you said, Annabel?

Please. A mug is fine."

"I gave her china cups and saucers when she moved in, but where they are
now?' Mrs. Leighton complained.

Things get broken,' Hetty said soothingly, aware that one surviving cup
was in the bathroom cupboard as storage for condoms. The saucers served
mainly as ashtrays.

"Flower-power,' Mr. Leighton insisted. His eyes were shining. ' love.

Beatles and stuff. Was that in your youth?" "Just about,' Hetty smiled,
' I was never a hippie. I didn't believe in it. Conventional, me, then.
Not any more, that's true."

"But you can't possibly like living here?' Mrs. Leighton pushed away her
tea with a grimace.

"Yes,' Hetty said firmly. ' have everything I want. Including the
friendship of your daughter and her flatmates, who are splendid young
women."

"Well, I suppose if you've no one else ...' Mrs. Leighton commented,
dubious.

"Oh, but I have.' The refrain of the song cut through her

380 Edwina Currie \

I I brain. "I have my own family, and a job I'm lucky to have and a
wonderful guy. Life's great. Believe me."

Mrs. Leighton sniffed. Mr. Leighton was watching her with renewed
intensity.

"And one great advantage, I should add,' Hetty continued, ' that I've
got to know these young people, and it's made me young again. Given me a
fresh outlook. Brought me closer to my own daughter, too. It's too easy
to regard the next generation as useless simply because they dance to
different music, say, or wear outlandish clothes."

"It's not as if she hasn't the money,' Mrs. Leighton grumbled. ' give
her an allowance on top of what she earns. She could dress beautifully
if she wanted."

Hetty patted Annabel's shoulder. ' is beautiful. You should be proud of
her."

This produced astonished silence from both parents, and an audible sigh
from Annabel, who pulled Hetty close and whispered in her ear, ''s what
Nick says. Nicholas - the writer."

Annabel was blushing furiously, her face turned away from her parents.

"You remember, Het. From your programme. Don't let on." The conversation
continued, endlessly repeating the pattern. One parent or the other
would make a disparaging remark, to be countered by a sincere compliment
from Hetty. Meanwhile Mr. Leighton was smiling at her a mite too
obviously, that cheesy smile she had seen on studio guests who had
something to sell: themselves. It came to Hetty that he had her address.
She wondered what he might do with it.

Eventually she tired of the game, rose to leave and shook hands
formally. Annabel followed her to the landing.

Chasing Men 381

Thanks, Het, you're a darling. They won't go on calling this a den of
sin and prostitution now they've met you."

"Glad to help,' Hetty replied. She decided not to mention the father's
odd behaviour, nor to be inquisitive about Nicholas. ' don't get it -
why shouldn't an older person make genuine friends across the
generations? Up as well as down, come to that. Is there a law against
it?"

"It just isn't done. My parents do their socialising with people exactly
like themselves. Same age, same class. Anybody else, they're suspicious
of and avoid like the plague."

"Daft, I call it,' said Hetty robustly. There's a big gap between
feeling comfortable with people your own status and generation and being
terrified of anyone else. But I can see your dilemma. Don't take too
much notice of them, Annabel. You're doing fine. And I bet Nicholas -
Nick says so too.' And with that she gave the girl a supportive hug, and
returned to her own flat.

Her routine interrupted by the tea party, Hetty felt restless. Norman
was away at a conference till Monday so was unavailable. Sally was
rostered to the New York flights and would be sleeping between shifts
near 43rd Street, with or without Erik, to whom she had not referred for
ages. Her mother was at a Rotary Charter night with the Colonel, another
opportunity to dress up. Rosa and the crew would have dispersed for the
weekend. Hetty had made no plans other than finishing off the cupboards
and watching some television. It was a bit late to arrange anything more
substantial.

After some thought she decided to walk down to Swallow House, the old
people's home. She had taken to dropping in

382 Edwina Currie to see the Professor, or sometimes Phyllis or Moira if
he were not free, and would leave goodwill messages for Clarissa's aunt.

But the assistant matron informed her that the residents she wanted were
away on an outing and were not expected back for another hour yet.

The Professor too?' Hetty was surprised. He was usually contemptuous of
such events.

They've gone to a stately home near Aylesbury. Waddesdon Manor, it's
called. He was quite keen - it belonged to the Rothschilds and has
tapestries and paintings and such. So he got himself carried on board
the coach. We do take the disabled ones as well, if they want to come."

She shrugged. ' probably make them late. The others'll have to sit in
the tearoom while he's badgering the curator." "Good for him,' said
Hetty. ' won't wait.' She scribbled a note for his pigeonhole, and one
for Millie, Clarissa's aunt, fastened her coat and went outside once
more.

The restlessness continued. She was in the fresh autumn air, and did not
need to return home. Alone this evening in the flat, she sensed she
might become a little gloomy, and miss Norman more than was wise. Then
it came to her. ' fancy a movie. Something silly.' She returned to the
lodge of the home, borrowed an evening paper, checked the listings and
made a choice.

Soon she was on the dirty, clacking tube, then pushing through West End
crowds towards the Leicester Square Odeon and the latest special effects
sci-fi blockbuster. It was the sort Norman liked, so she could pretend
he was with her, at least.

The square was alive and buzzing. Her spirits lifted. Along Cranbourne
Street the restaurants and cafes were Chasing Men 383

noisy and full, their tables spilling out into the street. The pizza
stand on the corner was half hidden by a gaggle of tourists trying to
eat the slippery triangles, mobile in their paper napkins. The smell of
the food wafted through the air, tangy and tempting, and made her feel
hungry. The carillon at the Swiss Centre was clanging off-key as the
hour struck, observed by a flock of tiny Japanese women who twittered
like exotic finches. A row of portrait artists and caricaturists touted
for customers. Hetty paused to watch as a plain girl was transformed
into a pin-up, to the obvious delight of her boyfriend. The background
music of pan-pipes, played by a blanketed group of Peruvian musicians,
their black hats pulled well down over their ears, added a haunting,
international air. They could all have been anywhere, in a dozen cities
in the world: Bogota or Budapest or Bangkok. But this was London, on a
Friday night in September. The garish flashing lights above their heads
announcing the latest entertainments were like magnets attracting young
and old.

Pity Norman wasn't here. He would be impressed, when she told him about
it next week, that she had chosen his kind of film. Hetty realised with
a jolt that her tastes were changing quite substantially, becoming much
more adventurous. That made her feel even more intrepid, and cheered
that she was using her free time well.

She was early, so could wait in the queue, purse in hand; if this house
was full, she would buy a ticket for the next and eat a pizza or a bowl
of spaghetti in the meantime.

The queue was about six deep. Immediately in front of her were two
towering youths in overlarge black jackets. Hetty, cursing her lack of
height, craned at the window. The set of a man's shoulders further up
struck her as familiar. Who was that? A tallish man, his coat collar
partly turned

384 Edwina Currie up, obscuring his colouring. A woman hung on his right
arm; they were talking animatedly. The man held up his other hand to
point at the booth and pulled off a leather glove. A gold wedding band
glinted on the third finger.

How splendid that was, to see a man out with his wife. A married couple,
who did not have to debate who to go with, who did not have to pick up
the phone book or. trawl hopefully through messages from friends. A pang
touched her. Though she and Stephen had never been to this particular
cinema themselves, they had occasionally gone to a film. Infrequently,
when there was nothing on TV, or when no one was coming for dinner, when
the children were away. Just to relax. The two of them. It was Stephen
who decided what they saw: westerns, or heist movies, mostly
straightforward Hollywood. He disdained her then preference for what he
dubbed ''s films'. He would be astonished if he could see her here on
her own.

The man ahead turned slightly, as if to check how many others were
waiting behind. The pair were at the window now. The neon lights round
the booths caught the edge of his nose, flickered on the whites of his
eyes and made them greenish.

Hetty gave a stifled little cry and ducked down behind the two youths.

She had recognised the loving husband, the man with the wedding ring.

And she desperately did not want him to recognise her, or to know that
she had seen him.

For it was a face she knew too well, and had not expected to see within
a hundred miles. And not with such a companion as the woman on his arm.

It was Norman.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

Incantation Rosa, Sally, Doris and Hetty filled their glasses with
Oddbins Califomian Syrah and raised them in unison.

To men!' Rosa ground out. ' they rot in hell."

"To men!' The quartet downed their glasses in a gulp.

"Bastards,' growled Sally. ' can't believe he did that to you, Mum.

What a cunt."

There's another bottle. Don't stint yourselves, girls.' Hetty pointed
limply towards the kitchen. ' some sandwiches. Smoked salmon. You are so
sweet to come."

The curtains were drawn, the main lights dimmed. A fat wax candle
emitted a perfumed flame; on top of the television set, thin smoke
snaked from three joss-sticks in a brass pot, brought by Rosa. Sally,
Rosa and Hetty were dressed in midnight shades, though there had been no
collaboration beforehand. Doris wore a vividly coloured silk housecoat
and a purple turban. The effect, which had not gone unnoticed, was of a
coven of witches in session.

386 Edwina Currie

"You sounded so miserable on the phone,' Sally commiserated.

"And you were mooning about on the set, and no one could get any sense
out of you,' Rosa added.

"And I saw you coming in. Crushed, you were.' Doris rose in a flurry of
vibrant silk, fetched the sandwiches, nibbles, plates and napkins and
set them down on the small tables. '-mortem time. First - you certain it
was him?"

Hetty snuffled. ' was him. I've never met the lady, but they were
obviously close. If they weren't a happily married couple, they were
giving a realistic imitation of one."

"Bastard,' said Sally again, with feeling. The others raised their
glasses in agreement.

"They aren't a happily married couple, or he wouldn't have been seeing
you,' Rosa pointed out. ' wouldn't have been anywhere near the agency.

Heavens, he could be seeing a new squeeze every week.' She caught
Hetty's stricken face. ', Het."

"It's the wife you have to feel sorry for, too,' Doris said. ''s
philandering around, deceiving decent women, while she's in blithe
ignorance."

"Maybe she knows?' Sally wondered.

"Wives never know,' Hetty said sadly. ' least, I didn't, when your
father was - out and about. Never had a clue. The curse of the credulous
married."

"Cursing's too good for him,' Rosa asserted. ''d serve him right if he
got a dose of his own medicine.' She raised her voice and glass. ' he be
cuckolded by his wife with the village idiot. No, with the entire rugby
club. In public. May his thingy drop off. May it sprout evil-smelling
protuberances '

"It is an evil-smelling protuberance,' said Hetty, laughing Chasing Men
387

despite herself. ' it, Rosa. I don't wish him any harm. I just wish our
paths had never crossed." "Have you confronted him?' Doris asked. "I
mean, you could be mistaken.

It might have been his sister, p'raps."

"He was wearing a wedding ring,' Hetty reminded her. ' haven't seen that
before. Plus he had his arm round her waist. And, no, I haven't had the
chance to speak to him yet. He's supposed to be calling me. I'm not sure
what I'll say."

"You could ring him. Seize the high ground. Play hell."

"I could have phoned his office, but what's the point? Home must be in
Tring, or nearby. It wouldn't be difficult to find his private number, I
suppose, but what if his wife answered? Oh dear.' Hetty picked up a
sandwich and took melancholy bites.

It isn't your fault,' Rosa said, kindly. ''re smashing, Het. You're the
tops.' She raised her glass in salute.

"You're the tops - you're the Coliseum,' Sally began to sing.

Doris and Rosa took up the refrain, three female voices in crackling
discord like cats on a moonlit rooftop, till suddenly Rosa cried, '
remember the naughty version - rhymes with Dr. Seuss, I think. Wait ...
wait - "You're the tops - you're the breasts of Venus, you're King
Kong's penis, you're self-abuse!"'

Hetty squealed with laughter. ', where did you hear that?"

"Oh, a chap I used to sleep with. Worked in musicals. Told us the great
maestro had such a dirty mind,' Rosa explained airily.

"King Kong's penis I'm not after,' Hetty added. Then, with a hiccup,
"Heavens, did I really say that?"

'"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. Men were deceivers

388 Edwina Currie ever".' Rosa's cheeks were flushed. She had been to
the pub and had started drinking earlier than the others.

They're not all the same. I don't believe it - I won't believe it,' said
Hetty. ' must be loads of honourable, respectable, sexy men out there.
Nearly half of marriages end in failure, so that's millions of free
blokes, isn't it? They can't all be bastards."

Then think differently.' Doris's turban was tilted to a rakish angle.

The earrings were silver and amber and flashed in the candles' flicker.

She had brought a bottle of Scotch, ' later'. They see themselves as the
hunters. We women, we're the quarry. We're expected to run, of course,
and not let ourselves get caught too easily. But they get a taste for
the chase, and can't stop."

"Americans write books on those themes. Men Are From Mars, Women Are
From Venus, can you credit it? Very non PC, but they sell by the
bucketload.' Rosa twirled a cheese stick. Then like it the other way
round as well. They adore being chased. Getting caught is another
matter."

"In my generation, it's the females who do the chasing,' Sally joined
in. ' are expected to be forward - the blokes have to pretend to be shy.
It can be a pain - you can never tell if they're interested, or not."

"Look at their trousers,' suggested Rosa wickedly.

"Staying caught is today's problem,' said Doris. ' wants to stick with
it any more, see. Come the rows, and they're off, squealing that it's
not working. In the old days they tried harder, I reckon."

Those women had no choice,' Rosa reminded her. ' child-care, no money.

Nowhere to go if the husband was violent - no refuges. The police
wouldn't interfere in domestic disputes. I mean, where would you go
then, if your Chasing Men 389

husband started ' you about? I've made programmes about that."

Doris seemed about to say more, then coughed and glanced away. The
second bottle was empty, the plates denuded but for a few crumbs. The
air was fuggy and sweetly scented. Rosa pulled out a tobacco tin and,
with a glance at her hostess, rolled a joint which she offered around.

Sally and Doris accepted; Hetty refused politely.

"You could say we four are the representatives of the new order,' Hetty
mused. ' women, single. Earning our own living, living alone. Two never
married, one widowed, one divorced. Reasonably content, most of the
while, aren't we? We like men. Preferably men who are capable in bed,
and lively talkers, and genuine. We're not hostile to them, in any way:
I don't regard myself as some militant anti-male feminist. We live in
hope. But where are they?"

As if in response, the phone rang. The four women sat transfixed. Sally
nudged her mother. ' on, answer it."

It rang four times before Hetty, clutching her wineglass, picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Hetty. How are you this evening? I missed you this weekend."

Hetty pushed the speakerphone button and Norman's voice floated out into
the room.

"Oh, hi, Norman. Did the conference go well?"

"I loathe those events. Too much to drink, terrible company, and the
speakers are overrated or tell dirty jokes. I'd much rather have been
with you, Hetty."

"Ye-e-es. Well, I kept myself busy. 1 went to a movie in town."

"Really? I'm delighted. What did you see?"

"I went to see The Mummy, Norman. And so did you."

390 Edwina Currie

"Er ... what do you mean? I was in Manchester."

"I think not. You were a short step ahead of me in the queue, Norman.

And you had your wife with you. I saw you both."

Behind her the women began to cat-call angrily.

He began to bluster, his voice rising and sharp. ''s that you've got
with you, Hetty?" "Friends,' she said. ' friends than you've proved to
be, Norman.

Why did you do it?" "Because he's a bastard,' said Rosa, loudly enough
for her voice to carry.

"Bastard/' they shouted.

The line went dead.

Hetty stood dolefully, her eyes filling with tears, until Sally came and
helped her back to her seat. Doris uncapped the whisky and poured
measures for those whose glasses were empty. Rosa set about rolling a
second joint. ' it, most men our age are closer to the grave than to the
altar.' Rosa the pundit blew a wobbly smoke ring. ' can't blame them for
wanting to play the field."

"But I do.' Hetty was stubborn. ' should their behaviour deteriorate
like that?' She pointed to the mute phone ' is no excuse. Am 1 truly to
be driven to the conclusion that, leaving aside those guys who are gay
or too decrepit to consider or already hitched, nobody worthwhile is
left? I don't believe it. I won't."

"It makes chasing men a hiding to nothing,' Sally continued gloomily.

She tqked on the joint and handed it to Doris. ' will you do, Mum?"

"Play hell with the agency,' said Hetty savagely. ' for some more names
- and this time, do some checking of my own before 1 jump in deep.

It's been a salutary lesson."

Chasing Men 391

The phone rang again, shrilly. Four faces turned to it in surprise. Was
it Norman, ringing back to cajole, or to apologise? Hetty hesitated as
if loath to suffer another confrontation, then shrugged and picked it
up.

"Hello? Is that Hetty Clarkson?"

"Yes ... "

"Splendid. Then I've got the right number. I had to try you through
directory enquiries.' The voice was gravelly and sounded boisterous but
nervous, as if its owner was used to giving orders but found himself in
unfamiliar circumstances. Hetty turned her back on her guests and tried
to concentrate.

"Who is this, please?"

"Ah. Yes. Do you remember, we met?"

Hetty removed the phone from her ear and gazed at it, as if it might
carry an image of the caller. ' met? I'm sorry, I'm being stupid
tonight. Where was that?"

There was a roguish giggle. ' the corridor. In flat four. You came to
tea. This is Harry Leighton."

Hetty did not reply, "Hetty? Harry Leighton. Annabel's father."

"Yes, I'm with you now. How can I help you, Mr. Leighton? As far as I
know, Annabel's fine."

"Ah, it wasn't Annabel I wanted to talk about, Hetty. It was you. I was
very impressed with you when we met. Very impressed ... "

Hetty waited, a frown creasing her brows, her lips pursed.

'... and I was wondering - would you like to meet for a drink sometime?
Next week, perhaps? Of course, you wouldn't have to mention it to
Annabel, so how about it?"

Hetty forced herself to speak. Thank you. That's very kind. But ... "

392 Edwina Currie

"You're such an attractive woman. I haven't been able to stop thinking
about you. Only a drink, hell?" "No,' Hetty said briskly. And she put
the phone down quickly.

"Someone else you want cursed?' asked Doris, eyes bright.

Hetty shook her head. ' bastard. At the moment, they outnumber the good
guys.' She picked up the whisky glass. ' toast, girls. To us.

And sod the bastards."

To us!"

The discussion rolled on, with Hetty revealing the identity of the
second caller and swearing her companions to secrecy. Minicabs were
summoned for Rosa and Sally: as they waited for their arrival they
reassured her that the strange invitation had a positive tinge.

"How long did you spend with Annabel's family?' Rosa asked.

"About half an hour. No more."

"You made a big impact, that's clear. You must have looked nice."

Hetty laughed. Her head was woozy, but with Rosa, Sally and Doris she
felt utterly secure. Td been cleaning out cupboards. No makeup. I was a
fright."

"No, you can't have been. You're fit and well, you look ten years
younger than you used to.' Sally's speech was slurred.

"Father Roger said I glowed. That's because I was in love. Or thought I
was.' Hetty was rueful.

"You should celebrate your lucky escape,' Doris advised briskly. ' could
have got badly stung. Suppose he'd started borrowing money from you? Or
whatever. Fate worse than death.' She hauled her squat body from the
depths of the armchair. '. Your freedom. There are Chasing Men 393

worse things than a bad marriage, believe me.' Her face was suddenly
sad, as it had been earlier in the evening, but she said no more.

"How'm 1 to celebrate, Doris? Or advertise my availability? Should 1 put
a poster in the window - "Men Wanted"?"

"Dorothy Parker used to keep a "Gentlemen" sign she'd lifted from a
public loo,' Rosa said. ' she was feeling horny, she'd hang it on the
outside of her door."

"Have a party,' said Sally decisively. ', that's it. It's almost a year
since you moved in here. You've lots of pals now, Mum. People you'd
never have met before. Far more interesting than Dad's lot. You had a
house-warming and I was a bit snide about it. I'm sorry now. Time for
another."

"Hmm. I might do that. Would you all come?"

"Yes!' they chorused, as the doorbell shrilled for the taxis.

And so it was settled.

Girl-power was fine as far as it went, but Hetty's mood, albeit defiant,
did not lift in the next few days. So much had been planned around
Norman and his habits that her diary was immediately a collection of
blank spaces. She had not been to the theatre with Markus and Christian
for months and had no idea what they might be up to. Companionable
invitations from the crew to join them in the pub had been declined till
they were no longer made. Father Roger she saw on the set and nowhere
else, despite his appeals to attend the many special services he dreamed
up to attract worshippers. Her bike-riding was entirely solitary and
involved no socialising. She had no further need to attend the slimming
class. Even the continued presence of Brian, the Big Issue seller, at
the tube station, had had no impact; instead of buying him coffee, she
had hurried past and barely acknowledged him.

394 Edwina Currie

"I was sliding back into being a wife,' she told the mirror in her
bedroom, as she towelled her hair dry one morning. ' to type. I am so
furious with myself."

"Amazing how fast it can occur,' the mirror sympathised.

"Becoming narrow and self-satisfied again,' commented the mousse
dispenser.

"Once more the living shadow of a male, no longer yourself,' hummed the
hairdryer.

"And yet ...' Hetty paused, dryer in hand. ' was great while it lasted.
Haven't felt as light-hearted in years."

"You're not absolutely devastated, are you?' The mirror had a mocking
tone.

"I was, when I saw the two of them together.' Hetty took several breaths
and let the air out of her nose in a slow snort. ' a complete dope for
being taken in so easily. That can only have been because I wanted to be
taken in."

'"You used to be so wise ... "' the hairbrush was singing gently.

"I did not have stars in my eyes. Stop giving me that old Broadway
hooey,' Hetty chided. ' I did start off after the divorce with a pile of
resolutions I've forgotten. Like valuing people for what they are, not
as sex objects. Like not wishing to be regarded myself as a sex object.
That didn't last, did it? Like not treating the world as a collection of
men on the one hand and women on the other, but as individuals ... "

"Like not chasing men, because it was undignified.' The mirror again. It
appeared to be the leader of this talkative troupe.

"Stand up straight, Hetty,' urged the wardrobe, as it handed over her
woollen skirt and a new sweater, a gift from Sally. ' the outside world
with confidence."

"At least they're chasing me now.' Hetty flicked back her Chasing Men
395

hair and applied some lipstick. ' improvement on being unchaseable.

There, how's that?"

Tasty,' complimented the mirror, and shivered in emphasis. ' tasty.

You'll do."

The Professor, she was informed, had not been well in the couple of
weeks since her last visit. Unusually, he was not in his wheelchair in
the lounge, or in the quiet corner that passed for a library. Given his
determination to live in as civilised a manner as possible, it was early
for him to have retired to bed. Hetty began to be alarmed.

"I think you'll find him changed, Mrs. Clarkson,' said the assistant
matron, when she enquired. ' is over eighty, you know, though he won't
admit it. Getting frail. We think he's had another stroke. Affected his
speech, mostly."

"Shouldn't he be in hospital?"

"He was for a couple of days, but wanted to come out. Stroke patients
get distressed in unfamiliar surroundings, especially an open ward. And
there's not much can be done for them. They'll have more little
episodes, each one more disabling, till when the end comes, it's a
blessing ... Anyway, he's made it clear he'd rather not be moved.

Doesn't want to be parted from his precious pictures."

"Can I go up and see him?"

"Of course. I'm sure he'd like that. He's had his tea served. Don't tire
him, will you?"

Hetty felt anxious as she went up in the lift. She had brought the
catalogue of the exhibition of Rembrandt self portraits at the National
Gallery and had intended to enthuse and seek his opinion. Instead she
feared he might be morose or depressed. Her heart sank as the floor
number appeared and the lift doors swished open. She found his

396 Edwina Currie room, tapped on the door and cautiously let herself
in.

"Herro, Hetty,' he said. Hello.

He was in bed, dozing, his upper body propped up on pillows. The scrawny
neck emerged from pyjamas of magenta silk, louche and incongruous, a
tuft of white fuzz at the neck. His long silvery hair was sticking up
and needed brushing. Whoever had shaved him that morning had done it
perfunctorily, and left bristles under his nose.

In his left hand rested the remote control for the mini console; Glenn
Gould was playing the Goldberg Variations. With a struggle he pressed
the button to reduce the volume, though Hetty indicated no objection.

His right hand trembled, lifted an inch but no more. The fingers that
had painted with such verve were white and useless.

"Carn hear you,' he said, and attempted to smile. Can't hear you, with
that music on. He was choosing his words with economy.

The room was not quite in darkness: a light over the bed made a halo
round his head. More than ever it resembled an Aladdin's cave of vivid
imagery. On each wall the prints and paintings made a jumbled and
magical display, crowding each other out - were there more, perhaps,
than before? Maybe he had had a few more hung, or she had not taken them
in on previous visits. A still-life appeared to float in suspended
animation, the landscapes were windows to a distant, beckoning horizon.

The little bronze dancer on her pedestal seemed about to pirouette. Most
striking, the many nudes were so real she could almost hear them
breathing: it was as if the women were in the room, eyes lowered
modestly or wide in challenge, flesh gleaming and ghostly, in reverent
attendance, with Hetty, at the bedside of the man who had adored them.

Chasing Men 397

On the bed-top table sat the tray with the remains of tea. Hetty removed
it, put it on the floor outside the room for collection and returned to
sit with him, leaving her coat on a chair.

She opened the catalogue on the bed where the Professor could examine
it. ' thought you'd like this. You've made me examine art with such
curiosity. The exhibition was amazing. Rembrandt started off a cocky
youth, posturing and eager, and ended up, quite plainly, dreadfully
battered and much wiser. The paintings of himself as an old man are
almost unbearable. Wonderful stuff.' She turned the pages.

"Ay am ... mee.' Same as me.

"Same as us all.' Hetty was quiet. ', do we get wiser as we get older?
Or do we only learn the lessons when it's too late? When we've gone past
the point where we could apply them?"

His eyes slid towards her. ', Hetty? You sad ... "

She slumped in her chair. ' bit. I thought my boat had come in. Then 1
found it ahead of me in a queue. And I knew it had been holed.' She told
him the story of Norman from the agency, dwelling on her emotions before
and after, particularly her euphoria followed by her sense of having
been played for a fool.

"He has taste. Pretty woman like you."

"Oh, stuff, Professor. I hoped he might see me as an intelligent person
he wanted to spend time with. Not just as a physical being, a
plaything."

"You are intelligent. And kind.' Beads of sweat broke out on the
Professor's brow with the titanic battle to talk. Hetty fetched a
flannel, dampened it under the tap and patted his thin face. She found a
hairbrush and brushed the silvery strands of hair that he had worn
Bohemian-style, in defiance

398 Edwina Currie of the short-back-and-sides tradition of his time. His
eyes went to the water jug. She poured a glass, helping him to hold it
and sip.

"Thank you. Hate being ill,' he mumbled at last. ''t do anything."

Then he tried again, as if he had decided to devote his remaining
strength to this dialogue. ' are a physical being. You're beautiful,
Hetty. That matters too."

The faces on the walls seemed to sigh and nod in agreement. Hetty
glanced over her shoulder as if half expecting them to join in. She
placed a hand on his, on the dead hand with the relentless tremor.

"You've said that before,' she answered. ' wish I'd known you earlier.

At your fiery best. Maybe I could have posed for you. I think it must
have been tremendous fun, being painted by you."

He chuckled at the notion, gagged, spluttered. The spasm lasted a minute
while his face contorted and Hetty held him. Then he lay quietly, his
chest heaving, and chuckled to himself again. The CD changed, more
robust music filled the room: Ravel's Bolero. The Professor's gaze
strayed to the paintings opposite the bed, those he had made himself,
particularly those of the lovely woman who had been his wife.

"Exquisite,' he murmured. He raised himself a little. ' I miss most,
Hetty, is women. Seeing women, as they should be.' He stopped, as if
unable or unwilling to elaborate, jaw thrust forward in the pugnacious
manner he adopted when arguing the toss with the ladies of the book
club.

The music was getting louder, insistent in its pacing and rhythm.

Without understanding why she did so, Hetty left the bedside and began
to move round the room in time to it, her body swaying, much as she had
seen skaters do on the ice, in imitation of the little bronze dancer.

The old man raised his left hand and haltingly adjusted the overhead
lamp Chasing Men 399

so that it fell on her like a spotlight. He tilted his head, a smile on
his lips, his index finger conducting her as if she were an entire
orchestra.

"Beautiful ...' he croaked hoarsely. ''t stop ... "

The curtains had been drawn, probably when the tea was delivered. They
would not be disturbed. If a tray was placed outside in the corridor, as
in a hotel, staff understood that the occupant wished to rest. Even when
they knew that the resident could do nothing whatever for himself.

Still, it made sense to lock the door.

His brow darkened in the dim light. Hetty twirled in slow motion as if
in a dream, her arms like fronds above her head, letting him control
her, judging from those hooded, limpid eyes, what he wanted her to do:
whatever she could give him, a last gift, she would lay freely before
him.

They were alone, with the music coming to a steady crescendo, in the
warm room, surrounded by striking images of feminine grace. The
pictures' subjects seemed to form a chorus: it was almost as if they
were murmuring descants to the music. The Professor beat time awkwardly,
directed her, his head up, mouth half open. He increased the volume
slightly, not so loud as to bring complaints, but sufficient to make his
intentions absolutely clear.

And Hetty danced for him, for the gaunt figure in the bed, for the dying
spirit, in homage to the undimmed adoration this man felt for all women,
but especially those before him, in the portraits on the wall from his
earlier years, and for the living woman who was now slipping out of her
clothes, and letting them lie where they fell.

The skirt came first, then the sweater and the unbuttoned blouse; she
kicked them out of the way. The undergarments followed swiftly, as if
they were a constraint. There was

400 Edwina Currie nothing unduly sexual about the small heap of white
lace on the edge of the rug. The male artist needed to observe, without
adornments: the female model needed to be admired, uncovered, unashamed
... The light fell on her body, on her hips and her thighs, on her belly
and her shoulders and breasts, as Hetty danced for him. Round and round,
arms in the air, eyes closed, on tiptoe, running her fingers down her
flanks, letting the surging harmonies take over: like a lone priestess
dancing in the depths of the oracle before her god, a soul in ecstasy,
acquiring new truths and ancient knowledge, offering herself in
supplication and thanks ... "Oh, Hetty ... "

... dancing, dancing, a woman for a man who could see, and could ask for
no more ... Then it was over. The music came to its sudden full stop.
The Professor pressed a button and the silence lingered. She stood
calmly, her fingers entwined in her hair, then let her arms fall, and
picked up her clothes to put them on.

The Professor was clapping, slowly, one hand coming down on the palm of
the other, his uplifted face wreathed in joy.

"And now I have to go,' said Hetty, in as matter-of-fact a voice as she
could muster. She fastened her skirt, swung it round, slipped her feet
back into her shoes. For a moment she fumbled with her coat, then
recovered her composure. ' take care. I'll call and see you again soon,
maybe at the book club.' She kissed the desiccated cheek and brushed the
withered hand.

As she unlocked the door and glanced back, the Professor was still
applauding.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

Revelations Hetty sipped the infusion of raspberry tea and gave a
grateful if wan smile to Markus, its originator. Weary after the day's
recording, she had decided against a movie; it might be a while before
she joined a cinema queue again. A mild headache, beans on toast and a
slothful night in front of the television had been her agenda, until a
knock had brought the craggy features of her upstairs neighbour into
view.

"Haven't seen you for ages,' Markus had said, reproachfully. ' on
Sundays at the cafe, not at the theatre, not in and out of our living
room like earlier this year. Then by chance I spot you putting out the
rubbish and you're bent over with misery. Here am I, trying to read a
bad script and bored to tears. Come and cry on my shoulder."

Soon she was settled on the tan leather sofa, her feet on the silk
carpet, fingers fiddling with the fig tree in its minimalist pot. A
Japanese print had been hung in an alcove

402 Edwina Currie with a squat jade Buddha, the whole tastefully
illuminated by an exactly placed spotlight. The decor with its
understated elegance could not fail to calm Hetty's jangled nerves.

"So, what's the matter?' Markus poured tea and pushed a cookie jar
towards her.

"I'm sorry. I've been busy. Bit preoccupied, I'm afraid."

"Work?"

She shook her head.

"Family?"

"No, nothing like that. All well."

"Aha. Love?"

Hetty snorted. ' did you guess? Or at least I thought I'd found it at
last. Instead I was subject to the oldest cliche in the world."

Once she started talking, to Markiis's sympathetic nods, it came out:
not in a rush, but composed, self-critical and rueful. She recounted the
tale of Norman from the agency and the queue for The Mummy. Then, for
good measure, she added James the trainspotter, Al the jazz player, and
Stephen the ex. She kept to herself the call from Annabel's father; its
brevity and lack of outcome meant it didn't count. And then she
described, briefly, her distress at the Professor's illness and its
appalling effect on him. The dance had been buried in the innermost
recesses of her heart, and would never be alluded to. ', I'm off men,'
she concluded.

Markus sipped the fragrant tea. ''m not surprised, after a string of
misadventures like that. But temporarily, please. They can't all be
bad."

That's what I say. The Professor isn't. But one gets discouraged. And I
ask myself, Why do I feel such an idiot? Because I was letting myself
down, that's why. For the first time ever, I know who I am. Made real
progress in the last Chasing Men 403

year. If some chap seriously tried to persuade me to get hitched again,
I'd hesitate. I hope."

Markus waited, but Hetty did not elaborate. ' said that your ex has been
dropping heavy hints?' he asked.

"Mmm. I've had four letters. A card for my birthday - he didn't forget.

A dreadfully sloppy card for the date of our anniversary, which I'd
tried to forget. He hasn't actually come out with it, but I could go
back. What I haven't figured out is whether he believes he's being kind
to a poor lost soul, or whether the lost soul is him."

"Maybe both. Have you spoken to each other?" "No. I wouldn't want to,'
said Hetty sadly. ' quite enough on my plate without further
complications. He'd make me feel small again, and insecure, like I did
before, and guilty for not rushing to his side, if he needed me. Too
much muddle altogether."

Markus checked the pot and poured in hot water. ' didn't run away from
that life willingly, Hetty."

"True. I was suited to it then, but now? For example, I adore working
these days, and can't imagine how I'd spend my time otherwise.' The
image of Clarissa laden with shopping surfaced and she shuddered. The
pressures in the village on wives not to take outside work were
enormous, but I couldn't see how unfair it was. If I'd got a job, become
a commuter like my husband, the gossips would have had a field day. I'd
have been accused of neglecting my home and setting a bad example. Then
when my marriage broke up it would, naturally, have been regarded as my
fault. Not his."

"Sounds like double standards to me,' Markus grunted.

"By the bucketload. Oh, if I had got a job, of course something would
have gone to the wall. The garden, probably. I must have been mad: I was
devoted to that sodding garden, 404 Edwina Currie and now I don't have
one I couldn't care less.' She giggled and held up the cup. ''s to
gardeners. May they never learn how futile their passion is."

"You don't mean that. You enjoy the common,' Markus rebuked her gently.

"I don't have to mow it, or weed it. That helps."

Markus laughed. ' Hetty. Almost cynical. But many people would have
envied you. Isn't it supposed to be most women's dream - a big house, a
half-acre garden, two cars, children? And if you could have that back
again, wouldn't you be tempted?" Hetty sighed. ' with the accompanying
social straitjacket. The squeals of censure if you don't do what the old
biddies say you should.

The bleak looks if you miss church or refuse the rota for
meals-on-wheels. The whispers at the post office. You should be
thankful, Markus, that you and Christian never have to put up with any
of that."

"I was expected to serve on the committee of Gay Pride, and drew the
line,' said Markus tartly. ' much bickering and in-fighting. If it's old
biddies you despise, Hetty, the gay community has more than its share.
It was their way of trying to make me come out publicly, and I was not
about to satisfy them."

Hetty's voice lifted in frustration. "Why does everyone want us to
conform? Why can't they leave us be? If we're different, we're not doing
any harm."

"Quite." "I hadn't thought of it before,' Hetty said. ' gay or straight,
a couple is a couple. If you're still devoted, and still have lots in
common, it's fabulous. If one partner's hankering after something
illicit, there's a problem."

Markus's face darkened. ' couples have children.

Chasing Men 405

That can keep some marriages alive, can't it? The children are what they
have in common. Many gay men find it hard to form long-term
relationships. They flit from conquest to conquest, and only feel the
buzz in the opening stages. It's a man thing, I suppose."

Hetty was startled. ' you and Christian?' Into her mind came the fleeing
figure on the common. She spoke more slowly, ''re the most durable
pairing I know at the moment. With the possible exception of the
Mcdonalds.' She gazed up anxiously from her tea. There's nothing wrong,
is there, Markus?"

The older man shifted in his tubular steel chair. The furniture of their
apartment had probably been chosen more for style than for comfort;
behind Hetty's knees a numbness was spreading. She shifted also, as if
in sympathy.

"I am getting older,' Markus said quietly. ' keep myself in shape. But
Christian - when we met, he was very young, very troubled. Today he's
the talk of the arts magazines, his name pops up everywhere. If he
strayed, it wouldn't be surprising

"But you'd be devastated."

"Absolutely. Perhaps it matters more just because we don't have
children. Or a dog, or even a budgie. We have only each other."

A silence fell, brooding and sombre. Then Hetty stirred. ' about the
other way round? My husband didn't set out to fall for somebody else. It
started off as a fling, I'm pretty sure. Might it happen to you? Could
you imagine yourself straying?"

Markus treated the question solemnly. ' under present circumstances.

But suppose Christian became a fat old man with a paunch and unpleasant
personal habits. Would I try

406 Edwina Currie to find a younger version, maybe? I don't know the
answer to that. Some gay men are repeatedly attracted to lovers of the
same age and appearance. Except that the age gap widens till it's quite
grotesque."

"Not just gays. Straight men often fall for retreads. My Stephen, for
one."

"A man thing, like I said."

"In which case, I'm awfully glad I'm a woman. I can't stari having a
second family. That at least, Markus, is a great relief." Instinct had
warned Hetty not to raise, however obliquely, the mystery of Christian's
outings on the common. One glance between the two at the cafe months
before had shown that the young actor regarded such activities with a
levity not shared by his partner. Maybe Christian was restless, or
frustrated, or simply flighty; or maybe a joke had twisted itself into a
dare, then had slid into a habit. Maybe, as Markus had hinted, Christian
preferred casual relations, and the older man turned a blind eye,
desperate to keep him. She cared too much about both to wish to cause
them any grief.

Meanwhile her gloomy feelings persisted, though she threw herself into
the research for Tell Me All and drummed up enough new guests for half
the next series. Soul Mates, the agency, sent fresh sheets of names but
Hetty could not bring herself to give them more than a perfunctory
shuffle. Some brightness had been extinguished in her, and made her
melancholy.

Doris rode to her rescue over a warming tot of Scotch in her kitchen one
evening. The turban was pink cotton, the pinny fixedly in place, the
tarot cards unboxed. The effect was oddly incongruous, as of a wizard
caught doing his Chasing Men 407

chores. Tell Doris, dear,' the old woman urged. In her hands the
overlarge cards slithered and flicked over, as if by their own volition.

"I can't shake off this sense of failure. All the men I've dallied with
so far have been a disaster. What do I do next?"

Try a younger bloke?' Doris suggested. She turned over a card: a knight
in armour appeared, as if by a miracle.

"God forbid,' Hetty muttered. Then, ' says that's quite normal amongst
gays. That tastes don't change even if one gets older. And we can think
of loads of straight men like that. Rod Stewart, for example.

Or Donald Trump, that millionaire." "When they're asked why they do it,
they answer, "Because I can,"' said Doris grimly. They're saying, if
they can still pull the dolly-birds, why shouldn't they?' The next card
was of a buxom maid with a wayward eye.

"But I can drum up loads of reasons why not.' Hetty was definite. '
wants a pretty bimbo with no brain?"

They do.' Doris was equally definite. ' ' the last thing that matters to
them in a partner is a brain. A girl with something between the ears'd
see through them in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Even the bimbos do,
eventually. Then they start again."

"It does clarify one's values.' Hetty accepted a second small Scotch.

She had no intention of getting drunk but the liquor helped her delve
into subjects that would once have left her tongue-tied. ' was
speculating how he might react if Christian got old and fat. I don't
know - does personality get more important, as we get older?"

Doris did not reply, but pushed the next card towards Hetty. It showed a
still-life, a basket of fruit. Neither commented. Hetty continued, ' me,
if a bloke popped up

408 Edwina Currie tomorrow who was unattractive but nice, I can imagine
a chummy platonic friendship, but not sex. Bed still means that spark
has to be there."

The memory of Norman suddenly seized her and she almost started to cry.

"Sorry, Doris, but Norman was excellent in that department. I do miss
him. It."

"Buy new batteries for that gadget 1 gave you,' Doris advised stoutly,
as she gathered up the cards. ''ll keep you going. Something better will
come along." Hetty smiled through her misery. ' are a pal, Doris. And
quite right.

I shan't give in. I'm not about to hang up my boots and spurs yet."

Doris sat up. ' and spurs? Oooh! You didn't say you were into S and M.
Got some terrific new stuff in the shop. You must come ... "

Clarissa was in a rush and had only a moment to talk on the phone.

"Another party? We missed the last one. I'll check with Robin but the
date sounds okay. Is it bring a bottle?"

"Bring whatever you like. I was wondering if your aunt would like an
invitation."

"Millie? Good Lord, one doesn't think of the aged as suitable invitees.

It's up to you. I dashed in there yesterday - the whole caboodle's as
ghastly as ever, but she's on good form. Your friend the Professor is no
more, of course."

"The Professor?' Hetty went cold.

"Died. Buried yesterday morning, in fact - he was Jewish, or his family
were, and they can't hang about, have to do it within twenty-four hours.

He'd had a stroke."

"Yes, I knew about the stroke.' Hetty's voice dropped till Clarissa told
her to speak up. ' saw him about a week ago. He was a bit poorly, I had
meant to pop in again."

Chasing Men 409

"No need now,' said Clarissa airily. ' rumour has it he's left you
something in his will. His family mentioned it to the matron. He'd taken
quite a shine to you, Hetty.' ' loved him,' said Hetty softly. ' never
told him, but I'm sure he was aware."

"Loved him? Surely not. He was old, Hetty."

"He was wise, and kind, and funny, and ...' She wanted to add sexy, but
stopped.

"Ugh!' said Clarissa. ' can't bear it. Those scrawny bodies. The mad
eyes. I've told Robin, the moment I start to disintegrate, he's to take
his shotgun and bump me off."

"I was going to invite him,' Hetty continued wistfully, ' the party.

It's a kind of celebration of my freedom, and he was part of that. We'd
have got him here somehow, even if I'd had to push the wheelchair
myself."

"You're a basket-case. Let me know about the will, won't you? I'm dying
of curiosity,' said Clarissa. "Bye.' The handset clicked.

Slowly Hetty put the phone down. Where had she been yesterday? At the
studio, but it would not have been impossible to take the morning off
for the funeral, had anybody bothered to tell her. She felt an agonising
choke of remorse. If she had been a daily visitor or had checked more
regularly on his welfare, staff would have informed her in time. It had
not happened, and was probably nobody's fault. As she was not family,
and had never met them, the relatives had not thought to include her.

Since she had felt faintly embarrassed in retrospect about the dance in
the dark, and worried that he might ask for a repeat performance, she
had put off calling. And now it was too late.

The Professor was gone. Even at this minute, his room was probably being
cleared and disinfected, his clothes

410 Edwina Currie packed in suitcases and bags, the pictures stacked
higgledypiggledy, with little consideration for their intrinsic or
artistic value or what they had meant to the dead man. The flamboyant
silk pyjamas would be destined for an Oxfam shop along with the
bottle-green velvet jacket.

The little dancer would be pawed over at auction. His wife would have
lost her significance and be yet another fleshy nude in an obscure
gallery, if that. Maybe the paintings would languish in an archive or
basement somewhere: most would never again see the light of day. Hetty
wondered if the home would keep quiet about the many works belonging to
him on the walls, or whether the beneficiaries would allow them to
remain. At least at Swallow House they had been displayed and gave
pleasure, as the Professor had insisted they should.

T loved him, and I grieve for him,' Hetty whispered. ', poor man." She
abandoned the minor tasks she had been doing and cast around for a way
to honour his memory, but none came easily. Then she decided to take a
long walk across the common towards St. Veronica's. If Father Roger were
available and free she might explain, a little, about her extraordinary
friend. If not, then she would say a prayer for the Professor and maybe
light a candle, then return on the bus. The ritual would have meaning
and would soothe her battered spirit, if nothing else.

It was a Thursday evening; the service was a Sung Eucharist. Here, too,
to her disappointment, her low mood obstinately lingered. The ceremony
seemed meaningless, the liturgy irrelevant. Her flagging interest was
aroused, however, by the new arrival: the curate. A female, as Roger had
feared, thin and ungainly with a nervous manner and buck teeth, who had
previously been a teacher in a northern town.

Chasing Men 411

"Call me Alice,' she said, with a toothy grin, as Hetty introduced
herself. Alisss.

"I hope you'll be very happy here. What did you teach?' Hetty enquired
politely.

Alice rolled her eyes. She wore a dove-grey, full-length garment and a
dog-collar. Her hair was brown, drawn back from the plain face.

"Classics.' Classsicks.

"Really? Roger will be pleased. He buries himself in the great
philosophers." "Ooh, yes, he told me. We've been arguing already. I'm
into Marcus Aurelius myself."

This left Hetty at a distinct loss. It came to her that she was
marginally jealous. Should Roger ever decide that humankind merited as
much attention as a shelf of books, the lady curate would be in pole
position, with Marcus whoever in tow. The woman had an eagerness about
her that Roger would find either an irritation - or endearing. Hetty
tried to speak to him, but he was busy with parishioners wanting banns
called. He kept glancing over his shoulder with a frown at his new
assistant, who scurried about like a little grey mouse and seemed to be
everywhere.

Hetty was half-way out of the door before she remembered the origin of
her errand. She went back inside, purchased the biggest candle in the
box, and lit it in front of a side altar. Then she knelt for a moment,
and prayed that the Professor, somewhere, had been reunited with his
love.

Sunk in reflection, Hetty descended from the bus on her way back from
the church. It was dark and had been raining; the street-lights cast
pools of harsh yellow on the wet pavements. The whole episode had served
to intensify her sense of pain and loss.

412 Edwina Currie With head bowed and damp tissue in hand, she looked
about for Brian to buy a Big Issue, but he was missing. His absence felt
like a further blow, some other partial responsibility she had wilfully
ignored.

Chiding herself as she came to The Swallows, she pulled off her gloves
and started to unlock the street door.

A noise came behind her, a loping pace up the path. Wary that some
unauthorised person might try to push inside, she swiftly removed the
key and let the door close.

"Oh, don't do that, Hetty. I've forgotten my keys."

It was Christian, in his black tracksuit, a rollneck sweater hiding the
Adam's apple. His head was up, the blond hair unruly, a flush high on
the cheekbones. A fleck of spittle marked the side of his mouth. He
appeared agitated; his eyes would not meet hers.

Hetty's hand began to shake. Jerkily she held up the key to the lock a
second time and began to turn it. Then she removed it once more, with
the door still shut.

"Where have you been, Christian?' she asked him coolly.

"What? Out for a run, that's all. None of your business, Hetty."

The rudeness of the reply confirmed her suspicions. She was blocking the
entrance, her hands held out as if the locked door were not enough to
bar the way. In the corner of her eye through the lighted window she
could see Doris moving about in her kitchen. The old woman waved
briefly. Hetty responded with a weak smile, then focused her entire
attention on Christian.

"It is my business, because I make it so. I'll let you in if you'll come
to my flat for a minute. I want a word with you."

She was not entirely sure why she did it, any more than she could have
explained her secret dance for the Chasing Men 413

Professor, except that it was exactly the right action for the moment.

She waited, fiddling with the antique perfume phials on the mantelpiece,
switching on the side-light then switching it off again. As Christian,
who seemed to be panting slightly and fidgeting, edged into her room and
circled her, she put down her bag and gloves and turned to face him.

"I know what you've been up to, Christian. You've been on the common,
and you've been with some other man. For money."

The fidgeting stopped. '. You shouldn't make accusations like that."

"It isn't rubbish. I've seen you heading over the road more than once.

And I saw you in action, by the bushes. I wasn't spying, but you were
with a boy in a baseball cap and white jeans. Money changed hands. Don't
deny it, Christian. What were you up to?"

"You seem to know already, Miss. Public Morals,' Christian sneered, with
a guttural edge she had never heard before. He wiped the back of his
hand across his mouth.

"Christian. For heaven's sake. Why do you want to mess about like that?"

"It's not messing about. It's sex. Rough trade. Terrific.' The sneering
tone was still present, but was wavering. Christian's eyes were
unnaturally wide and darting about as if searching for escape. Their
colour, dark and unfathomable, was the same murky blue-green as the
antique glass on the mantelpiece behind him.

"But Markus adores you. Doesn't that count for anydiing? What happened
to loyalty? You shouldn't hurt him, Christian, you can't. You're part of
a couple, not just a single man. You can't ignore that bond. If he knew
what you've

414 Edwina Currie been up to he'd be destroyed: you must realise that.
If you're having any difficulties in - in that direction, sex, I mean,
you should sit down together and talk about it."

"Oh, yeah? Like you did with your husband, I suppose, Hetty."

She saw red. The air screamed at her, and burst in vivid starry showers
about her head. Fury welled up inside, and bitter righteousness, and an
overweening need to punish, and to underline the grossness of what had
taken place. She did what she should have done years ago, with the man
she had married, who had betrayed her as thoroughly as this boy was
betraying his lover ... His casual cruelty was about to shatter what was
most precious and elusive in human life, the love of another person ...
Hetty raised her hand and with every ounce of force she could muster,
slapped him hard across the cheek.

"Oh!' He held his face as if she had taken a knife to it, and staggered
back. Behind him one of the glass bottles fell, and smashed to tiny
pieces in the hearth.

Now it was Hetty's turn to breathe heavily. ' fool,' she hissed. '
unremitting miserable bastard, Christian. You have the love of someone
who's worth ten of you. Wants to spend his life alongside you. If you
lose him, you'll never get anyone as fine, or as suited. For God's sake,
stop it. Or you'll regret it for ever."

Suddenly the anger drained from her as quickly as it had come, and she
pointed to the hallway. ' on, get out. And mind what I say."

He stumbled away, still holding his cheek, his eyes fearful and clouded.

Hetty slammed the door after him, shook her stinging fingers and
collapsed into the nearest armchair, still in her Chasing Men

415

coal. The dull twinkle of the broken glass merged with her own tears,
until the room swam with her misery.

Christian did not hear the words she addressed to his vanished form as
he trudged haltingly up the stairs. Even as she heard him hesitate then
tap on his own door and enter, she had admitted to herself what had been
true all along.

"You're right, Christian. I should have seen the holes in my marriage
years ago. And instead of pretending everything was rosy, tried to put
matters straight. But I didn't. Bloody complacent: it'd sort itself out
without any intervention on my part. How could my adored husband want
someone else? Why should anything ever change?"

She raised her still throbbing hand in the air, swept it proprietorially
around the tiny flat, at the prints on the walls, the shabby furniture
and the ill-fitting curtains, the pathetic china and shards of glass,
the cheap television set: mute witnesses to her fate.

"And look where that got me."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

Hetty's Party Hetty was soon in agonies over her party and wishing she
had never decided to hold it. Since nearly everyone greeted her
invitations with enthusiasm, she began to worry as to how the numbers -
possibly as many as forty - would fit inside the flat.

Partners were to be included. Sally answered promptly that she would be
alone. Doris promised to ask Jack. Her mother would be on the arm of the
Colonel, and if not him, then of someone else. The couples - Larry and
Davinia, Clarissa and Robin, the Mcdonalds - had accepted, the former
still as if doing her a favour. The men in number six had not responded,
and she had not seen them since her furious confrontation with
Christian, but neither had she noticed any more nocturnal wanderings.

The BJs would attend, with current boyfriends; Father Roger asked,
gruffly, if the new curate might come; Rosa, Kate, Bob and the entire
television crew would be there, along with assorted other halves, adding
another dozen.

Chasing Men 417

After some discussion, Swallow House had agreed to bring Moira, Phyllis
and Millie to the party for the first hour, as representatives of the
book club. The assistant matron would drive the minibus and take them
home. ' hour's enough,' was the advice. ' please don't give them too
much to drink: they're enough of a handful as it is." "No problem,
Hetty,' said Annabel, when the danger of crushing was confided. ' can
use our place as well. D'you need anyone to sleep over? Our sofa's a
Put-U-up ... "

Party day came: Rosa had scheduled it as a non-shooting date. In the
morning Hetty fitted in the hairdresser and a manicure, then fretted
about each stray hair as she furiously cooked, dusted and tidied. The
Star Style suit was waiting on its hanger with a fuchsia blouse. The
flat was soon pristine, with new cushions on the sofa, spring flowers in
every vase, glasses from Oddbins ranged alongside crates of wine, sale
or return. The Lladro statue had a green ribbon, to match the surviving
perfume phials. A CD player had been borrowed from the BJs with suitable
music.

In the late afternoon Sally and Doris arrived and busied themselves with
the food. Rather than peanuts and dim sum, Hetty had decided to draw on
experience; hot boeuf bourguignon, wild rice, baked potatoes, coronation
chicken, salads, an assortment of ripe cheeses and fresh breads would be
the fare. The meaty smells would emanate from the kitchen and tantalise
her guests, as in the seduction scenes she had twice set up. Not that
she was planning an orgy, but what had entranced both a rum cove like
James and a sophisticate like Norman should satisfy the entire social
spectrum. Neither man was on the list, though she had left a vague
message on Al's answerphone.

"Almost done, Het.' Doris wiped her hands on a tea-towel.

418 Edwina Currie The turban concealed a forest of rollers and pincurls.
''re short of plates, so I'll bring up some of mine."

Around six came an interlude. Hetty and Sally sipped sherry and watched
the news.

"No Erik?' Hetty decided to be direct.

"Finished,' Sally said.

"Oh?"

"It was going nowhere, Mum. I clung to it simply because I was afraid of
not having a man - you know, when people ask, you like to say that
you've got a boyfriend? But I've seen you on your own and you're fine.

And now, so am I."

Thanks. But it's not the ideal state."

"Maybe nothing is."

Hetty laughed ruefully. ' you're in a couple you're fighting, or lying,
or taking each other for granted. But when you're single, you have no
one to be possessive about, no one to care exclusively about you. And a
reduced role in society, less respect, more - pity. And self-pity. Then
you daydream of coupledom once more."

"Do you?' Sally was curious.

"Not in my head. But my actions belie my words - why else would I go to
an agency? I count my blessings, but work and friends are not quite
enough."

"If some decent chap turned up tonight and asked you to share his life,
would you be thrilled?' Sally asked slowly.

Td be amazed.' Hetty laughed again. ' one's in the offing. The liaisons
I've had so far have been highly unsatisfactory. Sharing with a wife is
not my idea of fun."

Her daughter collected the glasses and washed them without further
comment; but when her mother went into the bedroom to change, Sally
tiptoed to the phone.

Chasing Men 419

"Hetty! Mwah, mwah!"

Davinia was getting plumper, but Larry seemed delighted. As they removed
their coats and peered nosily around, he pinched Davinia's rump
playfully. ''s becoming domesticated at last,' he boasted. ''re trying
for another baby. We have two boys - I'd like a girl."

"I'm having hormone treatment,' Davinia whispered. That's why I'm fat.

Had trouble producing enough eggs."

"Great,' Hetty enthused. ''s so lovely to see you so settled.' It
occurred to her that Davinia, too, might have lied about her age. If she
were forty rather than in her mid-thirties, the fertility treatment
could be explained. On the other hand, in their circle it did not do to
get pregnant easily: a tale of woe and torment was desirable.

Clarissa and Robin came next. He was portlier and more full of himself
than ever, and was propelled by a harassed Clarissa, dressed in a satin
suit and a cream fur jacket. ' Millie says she's coming! Heavens, Hetty,
what possessed you? Now I'll have to talk to her." "No, you won't,' said
Hetty firmly. ' you'd like to, of course."

Clarissa screwed up her eyes. ' shall I hang this jacket, Hetty?

Robin insists I wear it - he's been defending mink farmers in court. It
is mink. I don't want it nicked."

"Hmm. On the bed? Or maybe under the bed would be best. I doubt if
anybody here would be drawn to it, but it is beautiful."

Clarissa hugged the jacket to her bosom, and went to find a drink.

The Mcdonalds appeared with Doris, as if by prior arrangement. The
couple slipped into the room and stood, backs to the wall, with glasses
of wine, and murmured to

420 Edwina Currie each other, tapping their fingers to the Madonna beat.
Whenever Hetty checked they said cordially that they were content.
Evidently they needed no more than to be left undisturbed.

And behind Doris, with a bashful grin, came Jack. He shook hands
formally with Hetty. Cradled in the crook of his arm was a litre bottle
of whisky, its neck label marked ' Export Only'. Fallen off the back of
a lorry, his hostess concluded, but she accepted it without remark.

The living room was becoming cramped; the decibel level had risen to the
point where the music could no longer be heard. Not even Bruce
Springsteen could compete. The front doorbell rang every few minutes and
another face, wreathed in smiles, showed itself, more hugs were
exchanged, another bottle was pressed on her until the gifts were ranged
on the bookcase slightly out of line like tipsy sentinels, along with
caskets of chocolates and an Italian sponge cake from Davinia. The air
was redolent of scent and aftershave, the aromas of food, wine,
cigarettes and Robin's cheroots. Her mother swanned in with the Colonel,
waxed moustaches a bristle, and spoke gaily of their latest Saga
holiday. When the Tell Me All crew and researchers, who had met
beforehand, strolled in arm-in-arm and merry, the party began to take
off.

"Good Lord, Hetty, I had no idea you knew so many people.' Larry was at
her side, his eyes darting and inquisitive. The throng was starting to
spill out into the corridor.

"Not everyone's come yet. The girls from across the hall are missing,
and the old ladies from the home. Father Roger, and Rosa. That'll be
about it, though. Fortunately."

"It feels like half the neighbourhood is here."

"Why not? Why shouldn't I know a lot of people? You sound astonished,
Larry."

Chasing Men 421

"I am, sis. Gob-smacked. We were expecting to help make up the numbers.

You don't think of your divorced, middle aged sister as the heart and
soul of the party." "Maybe you should,' said Hetty, but she tried to
keep the tartness out of her voice. Then, relenting, she pressed her
brother's hand. Tm so glad you both came."

Larry seemed genuinely confused. ' we should get together a bit more,
huh?"

Hetty could not answer, but a lump came to her throat. She moved away,
and found Clarissa at her elbow.

"Het, 1 have to tell someone. But you'll keep it to yourself, won't
you?"

Clarissa seemed excited and edgy. Hetty wondered with a sinking heart
whether it was a new lover or a new shopping centre her schoolmate was
about to extol.

Tm going to take a leaf out of your book."

"You are?' A lover, then. Poor Robin: he would not manage well without
Clarissa.

"Yes. I was convinced you were going to fall flat on your face, and you
haven't. Sodding marvelous, I call it. So I told myself, "Old girl,
maximise your resources.'"

"You're talking in riddles, Clarissa."

"Listen. I'm going to do something I should have done years ago. Get an
education,' said Clarissa, chin up. ' saw that textbook? I'm going to be
a BA with honours. Or, at least, in about four years' time,' she added
hastily.

"You are going to university?"

"Yes,' Clarissa answered huffily. ''t be so shocked, Hetty. Some of us
have a brain, you know."

Hetty squeezed her arm wordlessly, unsure how to reply. She was by the
door when the bell rang again. It opened to reveal Christian on the
threshold, with Markus behind.

422 Edwina Currie Christian's height filled the door frame. He stood
awkwardly, his expression taut and serious, lips pressed into a line,
but as he bent his head and entered the packed room, he held both her
hands tightly for a long while. Then he kissed her on both cheeks. ',
Hetty,' was all he could say. Markus pushed him further into the room
with jocular force and handed over two bottles of champagne trailing
gold ribbons, and uttered more accolades of affection than Hetty could
take in.

A commotion arose from the street below. Hetty craned from the window
then ran downstairs, calling Markus to accompany her. The Swallow House
minibus was at the kerb, parked askew. On the sidewalk clustered the
three elderly residents accompanied by a stocky woman in a nurse's
uniform, who toted a carrier-bag packed with necessaries for the outing.

They were remonstrating with a tramp.

"You've got the wrong house!' If stout Phyllis had had an umbrella she
would doubtless have set about hitting the man over the head.

"Go away!' shrieked Moira in support. ' us alone! We haven't any money."

Hetty noticed that Millie had her head down and her hands buried in the
depths of her coat pockets. The wealthy old lady liked to show off her
riches on fingers and wrists. ', maybe you could help the ladies
inside.' Hetty was crisp.

As he did so and trundled them up the path, the assistant matron in tow,
carrier-bag close to her chest, Hetty turned fiercely to the tramp. He
was dressed in a relatively clean tweed coat and had shaved that day,
but had a wary set to his shoulders. ', were you begging from my
guests?" "I only asked them if they had any change,' he whined.

Chasing Men 423

"You've scared them witless. And what is this? I thought you'd stopped
begging."

"Old habits die hard.' He cringed under her disapproval. ' having a
party?"

The racket from the lighted flat was unmissable; denial would have been
pointless. Hetty sniffed, but the only odour she could detect on him was
soap.

"I been to the refuge. The deli owner said you was having a gang in. Had
a bath, new clothes. See.' He unfastened the tweed coat. Underneath was
an ancient tuxedo jacket with a white dress shirt, but no tie. Teamed
with baggy black jeans, the effect was comic but gallant. His eyes
betrayed a yearning Hetty had not witnessed before.

"Goodness, Brian,' she giggled, ''re a sight for sore eyes.' She
hesitated still. Then, ' must be insane, but if you want to come up for
a quick - ah, orange juice, you're welcome. First, you'll apologise to
the ladies. And the moment you misbehave, I'll have you thrown out of
the window. Savvy?"

Back up the path they went, with Brian following in a rapid shuffle like
a grateful dog. At the entrance he plucked at her sleeve. ' it yer
birthday? I haven't brought nuffin."

"Your presence is enough, Brian,' she answered gently, and wondered what
other surprises might be in store.

The buffet meal was dished up to cries of approval and further
reflections from Larry as to her incredible progress. Hetty drank two
glasses of wine and chewed a bread chunk with a slick of Brie, but was
too keyed up to be hungry. The elderly ladies, whom Hetty increasingly
thought of as ' old BJs', were ensconced side by side on the sofa with
trays on their laps, served by an attentive Doris and a reluctant

424 Edwina Currie Clarissa. The assistant matron stood, feet planted
apart, plate in one hand, fork in the other, and chatted to Christian,
who still looked rather pale. Markus had discovered that he had filmed
with Bob, Gerry and Phil from the crew; they were embroiled in
reminiscence. Brian had apologised as instructed and been brushed away;
his dress shirt brilliant and incongruous in the light, orange juice in
hand, he was squinting up at Robin, who seemed unfazed by this
unconventional audience. Hetty recalled the hint Brian had dropped,
once, that he had been a businessman, a millionaire. It was not
impossible.

Hetty stood on tiptoe and checked around for her own family. As she
watched, her mother moved seamlessly from one side of the room to the
other, over to Larry and Davinia, with the Colonel, glasses in hand,
behind. Soon the two couples were conversing animatedly, especially the
women. Hetty felt a sudden pang. The links between the various branches
of her family might well become stronger as a result of the party
tonight. But it would feel strange, after such coolness, to develop
close relations with such as her brother once more. Maybe more
parenthood would mellow them; this new baby might wreak not havoc but
improvement.

Sally was no longer alone, either. She was leaning against the door jamb
in conversation with Kate, the bespectacled researcher. She caught her
mother's eye and gave a merry wave, but carried on talking. Hetty was
puzzled. Though Kate was highly intelligent, after a few drinks the main
focus of her thinking would swing to sex. Kate would not waste time
pursuing a liaison with no future. Yet Sally seemed fascinated. Both
young women were slim, dressed in linen trouser suits with a mannish
cut; both had a direct way of Chasing Men 425

looking - in your face -- that was a challenge. As Hetty watched, Kate
put a hand on Sally's shoulder. Her daughter did not flinch, but smiled
warmly.

Another latecomer arrived. Rosa slid up to her from behind and almost
crushed Hetty's ribs with a bear-hug; the man accompanying her was
Richard, as pleased with himself as were most of the other men present.

"We've been together nearly a year,' said Rosa with pride. ''s a
lifetime for me."

"Thanks to you, Hetty.' Richard's smile was almost sincere. Hetty
gestured hazily at the rapidly emptying dishes and flitted away.

Into the melee came Father Roger, alone, still in his cassock and
dog-collar, with many regrets for his lateness: confession that evening
had taken hours and been gruelling. That pesky choir,' he muttered as he
swung off his cape. ' it again. Why can't they keep their sticky paws on
the hymn sheets and off each other? And why, in heaven's name, do they
come and tell me?"

"Because you're their priest,' Hetty chuckled.

"Not for much longer,' he said darkly.

"Oh? What's up?"

"You'll see. I've had it, with so many crass idiots seeking the road to
enlightenment and the true path through Bible readings and Sunday
worship. They don't repent, Hetty. They want absolution, but they don't
repent."

She was nonplussed. ''you mean you're going to leave the Church?"

That is in God's hands,' he answered, deepening the mystery.

Her attention was distracted by the arrival, almost as the food was
finished, of the girls from number four. All three

426 Edwina Currie were already equipped with a full glass. As they poked
their bright heads round the door, Hetty realised why they might have
chosen to delay their appearance. For each was on the arm of a man.

Flo bounced in, braids flying. ' believe you've met Jonathan,' she said
coyly.

"Hello,' said the languid presenter graciously, as if he were greeting
Hetty for the first time. He held out limp fingers to be shaken. ', yes,
now I remember you - from the studio. Thanks so much for the invite."

"You two been an item long?' Hetty was mischievous.

"Let me see, about a month.' The presenter turned limpid eyes on Flo. Tm
besotted."

And Annabel sidled in with Nicholas, who promptly swept Hetty off her
feet and planted a hefty kiss on her mouth. ''ve got a contract! I'm to
write two novels, and they're going to pay me. The advance came
yesterday. I can't believe it - and just because I was on your
programme, Hetty. And I've got Annabel, the most darling girl in the
universe. Pinch me - it's not real!"

Annabel stood bashfully at his side, still attired in black, but in an
ankle-length dress with a breathtakingly low neck that showed off her
remarkable cleavage to advantage.

"Champagne's inside,' Hetty told them. ', Nicholas so is my
sister-in-law, Davinia. She's trying to get pregnant, she says."

"So are we,' said Nicholas happily, and clasped Annabel's hand. Thanks
for the warning. But that's in the past.' The pair headed for the
kitchen.

Shelagh was with an older man Hetty did not recognise, but whose
carrotty hair and freckled skin gave away his identity even before she
introduced him. ' father, Jim Chasing Men 427

O'Brennan,' said Shelagh. The famous sausage manufacturer/ as if
answering an unspoken query.

"Pleased to meet you,' said Hetty. ' you like a drink?' She was carrying
a bottle of Chardonnay still relatively chilled, and topped up their
glasses.

Tm glad we could make it,' said Mr. O'Brennan. ' see, Shelagh's coming
home next week. For good."

The girl nodded, her wild hair falling over her shoulders. Tm going to
get involved with the family firm,' she said. ' director of a
subsidiary, to start with. Director, note -1 shall be on the main
board."

"Do you know a lot about personnel?' Hetty could not help asking.

"No, but I'll learn.' The voice bubbled with confidence.

"And what happened,' Hetty asked slyly, ' those notions of a big family
- eight kids you wanted, wasn't it?"

Shelagh shrugged. ' of grand fellows on that side of the Irish Sea,' she
replied airily. ' they're fnuch keener on getting married than over
here." "Ireland's changing, Mrs. Clarkson,' said Mr. O'Brennan
expansively. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the hubbub. '
people are coming back. After centuries of emigration. Place is booming.
Can't get the staff. Any time you want a job, you contact me.' And he
pressed a card into Hetty's hand.

Dazed and hot, Hetty slipped into the corridor for a breath of air. She
was pursued by the assistant matron carrying a package wrapped in brown
paper and string, who had evidently been waiting for this opportunity.

"I am sorry we didn't let you know about Professor Bernstein's funeral,
Mrs. Clarkson,' the woman said formally. ' was such a rush, religious
reasons and so on. And in north London. Wasn't

428 Edwina Currie till afterwards the ladies said you might have liked
to attend. I can only say it didn't occur to us.' Her chin jutted, as if
expecting criticism.

"No, that's all right,' said Hetty sadly. ' was very fond of him." "Yes,
you do get attached,' said the woman, in a common sense tone. ' go to
funerals every week, and you tell yourself you shouldn't get
sentimental, but you can't avoid it sometimes. Though the Professor
wasn't a favourite with the staff." Hetty smiled despite herself. ' was
that?"

"He kept making sexual remarks. About their buttocks and so on. They
didn't like it." "Yes, I can imagine,' Hetty said. ' he wasn't really a
dirty old man.

He just worshipped beauty. They should have taken it as a compliment."

The woman looked at her askance, and sniffed. ' that as it may. The
executors have got one hell of a job on, what with those dozens of
paintings. But he's left some small bequests and, wherever possible,
I've been told to hand them over. So here's yours."

She plonked the package in Hetty's arms. It was solid and cold, and
quite heavy. Fearful of dropping it, Hetty gingerly unwrapped a corner,
till the object was exposed.

It was the little bronze dancer.

"It's got a plinth too - d'you want that?"

Hetty, her throat constricted, nodded silently.

"You can collect that from the lodge. And I'm supposed to tell you to
get it insured, though I don't expect it's worth much,' said the woman.

They'll be writing to you."

Hetty pulled away a scrap of paper at the base of the statuette and
traced her fingernail over the scrawled signature Chasing Men 429

etched into the metal. Degas, it read. ' shan't be selling it,' she
managed at last. ''ll be a memento - of a wonderful man."

Her task complete, the assistant matron set about collecting her
charges. Hetty hid the statue behind the sofa, where Millie was fast
asleep, head back, mouth open. Moira and Phyllis demanded to use the
bathroom before venturing a step into the cold night. After many
protestations about headaches and stiff limbs, the three donned their
outer garments, wrapped scarves round their necks and, with the help of
Markus and Clarissa, creakily made their way downstairs.

"Splendid party,' said Phyllis, with the suspicion of a burp, as they
regrouped on the pavement. ''t enjoyed myself so much in years." "Love
you, Hetty,' said Moira sleepily, and put up her lips to be kissed.

"I'm going to change my will -' Millie began to say, but Hetty
interrupted.

"No, you are not. You are going to read the set book in time for the
club's next session." "I am?' asked Millie in astonishment, as the
assistant matron, Clarissa and Hetty eased her into her seat. The door
was slammed shut, and the vehicle drove off into the night.

"Nine thirty. Time to clear away the tables and try a little dancing,
Hetty?' Markus said, as they went back up the stairs.

"Provided I don't pass out this time."

"Oh, you'll be safe in our hands. Anyway, there are a few words to be
said first."

"No speeches. No.' Hetty stopped dead.

430 Edwina Currie Thank-yous, a few minutes, that's all."

At the top of the second flight they halted. Before them at eye-level,
teetering carefully up each step on high heels, was a pair of fishnet
tights covering muscular calves. Above floated a gauzy concoction in
midnight blue lace, nipped in at the waist. A powerful waft of freshly
applied perfume lingered. The hair was shoulder-length, the tilt of the
shoulders unmistakable ... "Carole?' Hetty lifted her voice.

The figure stopped. Then half turned, keeping its face averted. ' - do
you mind?"

"Let me see you properly. Is your lipstick tidy?' Hetty commanded. The
apparition came full face, the mouth trembling. Hetty came close and
pretended to check. ', that's excellent. Go on in. Have a drink."

She caught Markus's eye. ''ll be safe in our hands too,' she hissed.

"Be nice to him. Her. Whatever."

"And to your tuxedo Johnny, and to everyone else? You do have odd
friends, Hetty.' But Markus's manner was one of amused tolerance.

"When I bought this flat I was told I'd have odd neighbours. That
includes you,' she teased. He grinned at her, and carried on upstairs,
mimicking Carole's ungainly gait as he did so.

The plates and glasses were cleared; despite Hetty's protestations,
Doris, Sally and Kate set to and made short shrift of the disorder.

Tables and chairs were pushed back. Markus took ostentatious charge of
the CD control: Abba filled the room. At a suitable point he switched it
off, called for silence and took centre stage.

"I trust everyone has a full glass?"

Chasing Men 431

"Yes.' No." greeted him, and bottles were passed round.

"Now we've had a marvelous evening, and it's not over yet. We have a
tremendous thank-you to say to our hostess. So raise your glasses, and
here's our toast: to Hetty!"

To Hetty!' came the cry.

"And we want to give you - this!!"

Christian came forward, gawky and handsome, his blond hair falling over
his brow, cradling an enormous bouquet. It must have been hidden in
their flat. The lilies gave off their scent, the roses were just
opening, fronds of eucalyptus and fern waved gracefully, the crinkly
Cellophane was contained in a huge purple bow. The concoction was almost
as big as Hetty herself. He presented it with an embrace, and a half
smile, and a whispered message of his own, that only Hetty could hear.

Behind the vast sheaf Hetty suddenly felt small and insignificant. This
was not for her, surely. She did not deserve it. All she had done was
invite a few friends round for a drink. Her main anxiety was that they
shouldn't run out of alcohol, and that the food was attractive enough,
smart enough, for this extraordinarily disparate bunch. But the emptied
dishes told their own tale, as did the flushed happy faces ranged in a
semicircle around the worn carpet.

Markus clapped his hands. ' we continue, one or two other matters.

I have an announcement."

Groans and cat-calls. Hetty had been right: nobody liked speeches.

"I have never said this before.' Markus raised his voice. ' I'm proud to
do so now. I am gay. There! I've come out with it at last.' There was a
ripple of sardonic applause, though Hetty saw out of the corner of her
eye that Larry and

432 Edwina Currie Davinia were shrinking back. ' only that, but I have
found my life's companion. Christian here."

He beckoned: Christian moved, stumbling, into the circle.

"And we are going to be married.' There was a moment's stunned silence.

"Unfortunately, we can't do it in this country - yet. So it'll have to
be in Amsterdam. And, Hetty, we'd like you to come. Will you?"

"Oh, yes ...' she said, and felt herself smiling broadly.

"Ill marry you."

Father Roger stepped into the middle. ', at least, I'll give you a
blessing. Can't do it in St. Veronica's but I'm sure we could find
somewhere suitable."

Behind him hovered Alice, the curate, who had slipped in without Hetty
noticing. Like Roger she was wearing her clerical collar, with an
ill-fitting black jacket and skirt. Bony wrists poked out of the
sleeves, the thin fingers were clasped together.

"Because it's time for me to take my fate in my hands, too,' Roger said,
slowly. The room went quiet again: those present were hanging on every
syllable. ' believed I could manage with God alone, with no human being
getting in the way. I was above that. Then dear Alice came along and
altered my perspectives. We have prayed together. She has changed
everything ... "

Alice's expression was shining and ecstatic; she came forward, as shyly
as Christian had done, and stood by Roger, her hands twitching. The
church mouse had proved a doughty and speedy operator, Hetty reflected
ruefully. The priest's shoulders sagged, as if abandoning a terrible
burden. Then he beamed at Hetty, and at Doris and Markus.

"Well, 1 still think the Golden Tulip Hotel in Amsterdam Chasing Men 433

is the place to do it,' said Markus calmly, pressing the control button.

As the Abba songs resumed, the engaged couple and the clericals slid
away, and were soon comparing diaries.

"Bloody hell!' It was Rosa, at Hetty's side. ' flowers, Het. But Roger's
taking a big step, if he means to preside at a gay wedding."

"What'll happen?' Hetty buried her face in the blooms. The forlorn
reminder of Norman's flowers flooded back and was quickly banished.

Nobody in the room tonight was likely to announce that he was marrying
her.

"St. Veronica's is High Anglican. If he and whassername - Alice - start
publicly undermining the church's teaching, the parishioners won't take
it. He might have to leave. Who knows? That was a brave act. He must
know the risks he's running."

"He seems to have decided he's leaving, anyway. He could earn a living
in so many other ways: as a teacher or college lecturer, perhaps. Or as
a media guru. Could he still be on the programme?"

"Oh, yes, he's the best there is. In fact, we could drum up an idea for
a series revolving around him. Father Roger's view of modern mores."

Rosa was looking pensive.

"Like Sister Wendy's view on old master paintings?"

"Yeah, but altogether less dotty ... Fancy being assistant producer?"

Hetty carried the bouquet into the kitchen. Every vase was full, so she
deposited the blooms in the sink next to the dirty glasses. A quick
count showed that around thirty guests remained, though Shelagh and her
father had slipped away and those crew members on early duty had also
made their farewells.

434 Edwina Currie

"A change would do you good,' Sheryl Crow trilled, in a tune Hetty had
not heard before.

As the music swelled, couples formed and danced. Annabel with Nicholas,
locked in a close embrace; Rosa and Richard, writhing at each other with
unabashed sensuality; Flo and Jonathan, smoochily; then Markus with her
mother, the Colonel with Mrs. Mcdonald - and Sally, unabashed, with
Kate.

Even Brian was twirling solo, orange juice doggedly in hand, swivelling
his hips in a passable imitation of hip-hop.

Hetty paused at the entrance to the kitchen and watched, wistfully.

"You okay, Hetty?' Doris was stacking dishes.

"Mmm. None of this would have occurred in my previous incarnation. I've
gained so much from my odd neighbours, and my friends ...' She let her
voice trail off.

"Your odd neighbours?"

"Yes ... When I bought this flat, the agent was a bit offhand. Said you
were all odd. He may've been correct, but I'm comfortable here.' She
pointed. The BJs. I wouldn't have given them the time of day: young
sillies, forever partying, irresponsible and drunk. But they're great
kids. The Mcdonalds, the lads upstairs. Won't that wedding be terrific?

And my daughter, and Brian, our resident down-and-out, here, in my flat
and smelling of shaving-soap. I'd have run a mile if anyone'd suggested
- well. Even you, in that creepy sex-shop. Yet you're all so darned
normal."

"You don't know the half of it,' said Doris quietly. ' don't go in for
public confessions. There was a time I didn't need to. My picture was on
every front page."

Hetty did not entirely register what Doris was saying, but half turned
in sheer politeness. ' was that?"

Chasing Men 435

"Because I killed someone. That's how 1 met Jack.' Eyes wide, Hetty gave
Doris her entire attention. '?' ' husband. Oh, yes, I'm a widow.

That much is true. I was nineteen, with a baby, and he was a brute. No
self defence in those days, was there? Women were supposed to take what
punishment came to them. I was nearly hanged. I'll tell you the details
some day, if you're interested. Long time ago, now."

Hetty struggled with fragments of memory. ' had a child who died?"

"Yeah.' Doris's voice was soft. ' I saw what I'd done, I didn't want to
live. I smothered the baby and cut my wrists. But we was found.' She
held up her arms, fists curled inwards and Hetty saw the faint scars.

"Like I say, a long time ago."

The conversation was finished. Hetty swallowed hard. Doris patted her on
the shoulder, and moved back into the main room.

"Mum, do you have a minute?"

It was Sally, with Kate hanging about nearby. It was nearly ten o'clock.

"Sure. You've been getting very pally with Kate,' Hetty murmured,
preparing herself.

"Would you disapprove, Mum?"

Hetty pondered. ' you were happy ... God, I dunno. Another facet I
barely knew existed before. Take it gently, I suppose."

"Right. We will. But that wasn't actually what I wanted you for.' Sally
was jumpy.

Hetty peered past her, and understood at once.

"Hello, Hetty."

436 Edwina Currie It was Stephen.

He was as tall as anyone in the lounge, dressed in an open-necked shirt
and brown slacks and the beige sweater she had bought him for Christmas
three years before. Now he appeared haggard, with heavy circles under
the eyes. He stood awkwardly, ignored by everyone present; those who
might have recognised him, such as the family, were occupied elsewhere.

"God in heaven.' Hetty clutched at the door-handle for support.

"Sally phoned and said you were having a few people round, and that
possibly you wouldn't immediately throw me out if I showed up too,"
Stephen mumbled, glancing at his daughter for aid. Sally nodded, then
let herself be dragged away by Kate.

"Er - yes.' Hetty tried to pull herself together. ' - would you like
some wine? There's a clean glass ... "

"Not at the moment.' Stephen's voice was rougher than she recalled, but
it had been a while since they had spoken. His presence filled the tiny
kitchen.

"Hetty, I've come with one purpose. I've been hanging around outside for
hours, trying to summon up the courage. I saw you out there with the old
ladies, but I couldn't do it. Look, I see now that I've been a complete
and crass fool. And I'm here to ask - will you forgive me?"

Hetty felt her mouth drop open, and tried to shut it again. She could
barely breathe.

"Come back, Hetty. Come back to Dorset. The house is empty without you.

Nobody else could possibly fill your shoes. I'm living on takeaways. The
garden's a wilderness. I'm lost - I miss you terribly. Please ... ?"

Hetty lifted her head and gazed over his shoulder at her Chasing Men 437

gyrating companions, barely a few feet away: at Doris, now entwined with
Jack, who caught her eye and winked, at lip sticked Carole and Mrs.
Mcdonald, holding hands, as were Roger and Alice, clumsily, as if
neither was accustomed to physical contact. Her mother was glancing
towards the kitchen with raised eyebrows; she had been alerted by Sally
Davinia was staring openly, as was Clarissa, although Robin was
engrossed in persuading Larry and Brian to try his cheroots. The room
was full, and clamorous; and every single person had come because she,
Hetty, had organised it, had asked them.

And Stephen knew nothing of her journey in the last year, was utterly
untouched by her misfortunes and successes. He had not ridden the bike
with her through the fresh grass of spring, nor shared the struggle to
get into shape, or survived the visit to the dating agency and its
dismal outcome. He did not know about the pink plastic dildo in the box
under her bed, or her skill in the seduction of strangers, or her
diversity of friends. Unlike Larry, he probably hadn't noticed or drawn
any conclusions from the lively group in her lounge; hell-bent on his
own personal mission, he had started from the same position hq had
occupied when she left, and was totally ignorant of the milestones since
along her path.

"A change would do you good ... "

The change had already occurred. What Stephen referred to - keeping
house, catering, gardening, ministering to the comforts of one man in
cosy, slippered matrimony - were parts of an old life that had vanished
round a distant bend in the road. That she had never expected to find
again, and that she had contrived not to miss.

And yet, and yet ... 438 Edwina Currie She could dance with any man in
the room, and yet was not dancing, not tonight. For every man there,
with the sole exception of Brian, was spoken for, the chosen partner of
another present. There was nobody just for her. Her attempts to fill the
gap had been fruitless; no Norman, no James. There was no guarantee that
next week, next season, would bring an improvement. Even Al had proved
as unreliable as ever, and she could not recall why on earth she had
left a message for him. Perhaps because it would have been fabulous to
have one man ... Stephen was gabbling. He could not follow her trains of
thought. ' back. I can get you out of all this - it'll be terrific,
you'll see."

He did not understand. Any of it. She reached out a hand to steady
herself and was met by the glasses on the draining board and the nodding
lilies and roses, the gifts of those who cared about her.

Hetty bent her head and answered, ', Stephen ... I can't go back. It's
not as simple as that ... "

She made to push past him but then, as his shoulders sagged and his face
crumpled, she relented, and handed him a tea towel.

"What am I supposed to do with this?' he asked, in astonishment.

Hetty merely smiled, and left the kitchen to rejoin her friends.

An extract from Edwina Currie's latest book, this honourable house,
published in June 2001 in hardback by Little, Brown and Company, price
14 pounds 99 pence

"Twish,' said Frank Bridges venomously, ' somebody JL would sort out the
bloody cow once and for all."

He picked up the chunky pint glass and downed the remains of his beer in
a gulp. There were clucks of sympathy around him. To many of the
thick-set, grizzled men seated at his table and nearby, Frank was the
local hero. His successes were theirs, his worries grafted seamlessly on
to their own. If Frank was upset, so were they.

The Right Honourable Frank Bridges, fifty years old, overweight,
red-faced, crumple-suited and aggressive, should not have been upset.

Indeed, he had considerable reason to be hugely pleased with his own
situation, and with life in general. Newly elevated to the seat in the
Cabinet he could once only have dreamed of, he was trusted by the
public, envied by colleagues, and regarded with ragged affection by his
constituents, who included the scruffy occupants of the Admiral Benbow,
a run-down pub in a Bootle side- street near the now derelict docks.

Vie, Scouser, Bill the Fixer, Mad Max and others had truanted with him
from the inner-city school where expectations were destroyed with the
cane and sarcasm. As boys, they had scattered down alleys behind his
stocky form, their pockets stuffed with illicit loot. But Frank had kept
running, beyond the despair and hopelessness. None of the others had
followed where he led. He had not gone to the dogs like them but had
made something of himself. He had risen to the top, or close to it. Of
Frank Bridges they were inordinately proud.

For Frank was a salt-of-the-earth type, the press generally agreed. A
police sergeant had once challenged him to make a man of himself.
Shamed, he had applied, with the sergeant's gruff help, to join
Liverpool police cadets; to his surprise and the ribbing of his mates he
had been accepted. He had worked his way up through the byzantine
networks of the force to national prominence, particularly during the
bitter dock strike of 1982. In that prolonged struggle, he had contrived
to become a solidly admired figure. While speaking in the same strong
Merseyside accent as the militant strikers and displaying an
understated, dignified disdain for the government of Margaret Thatcher,
he had contrived to prevent conflict and bloodshed even as the nation's
trade was brought to a standstill. His erstwhile comrade Arthur Scargill
had asked him how he had managed such a feat. Frank had begun to confess
that he did not know, that chance had played its part. Then he had
thought better of it and suggested vaguely that working with the system
was better than trying to destroy it, that politics might achieve more
than the picket line. Scargill's derision convinced him. Soon afterwards
Frank offered himself as a parliamentary candidate. He had represented
the Dockside division of the seaport ever since.

"It's a bummer, it is,' came a voice, as more pints were splashed down
on the sticky table top. The air hung thick and acrid with smoke. ' and
vinegar okay?"

Frank nodded glumly and ripped open the packet of crisps, eating them
two or three at a time. He brushed crumbs from his midriff, tugged
impatiently at his tie and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt.

He was sweating, a damp line visible on the inside of his collar.

"Mustn't eat too many of these,' he mumbled, indicating the crisps. He
waved away a cigarette. ' gross on the telly. Gotta keep a new young
wife happy. An' that's another story." "She's a peach, your new lady,'
said Scouser respectfully. His accent was so strong that even Frank
sometimes asked him to repeat himself.

"Hazel, innit? You're a lucky dog, you.' An elbow was dug into Frank's
ribs.

"I know, I know.' Frank sighed. ' I could murder Gail. Really murder
her. And that slob Melvyn. Spin doctor. The sanitation squad, he's
called. I'd like to sanitise him. Did you hear what happened? 1 could
slaughter them both. Maybe I should arrange with some of me old mates to
tie the pair of ' together with a lump of concrete and chuck ' in the
Mersey one dark and stormy night. They deserve it."

"You should've told Melvyn where to go,' said Vie. He wiped a roughened
fist across his mouth and flexed his biceps. Vie had tried his hand at
boxing in his youth; his convictions were all for GBH. Not a man to
argue with.

"Nah, couldn't do that.' Frank brooded. His listeners settled happily in
anticipation. They were not to be disappointed.

There we were,' Frank started, ' packed and ready to go on holiday, in
the VIP lounge at Heathrow. The luggage was checked in. Gail was
excited, kept prancing around and ordering more coffee just for the sake
of it. God, does she love being important! I thought to myself even
then, If you'd taken more interest on the way - not moaned so much about
"Where are you going, Frank, you off out again, Frank, another meeting
is it, Frank?" - then I wouldn't have minded. But she never used to lift
a finger. Now she's Lady Muck and adores every minute."

He took a prolonged swallow of his beer. His audience sat quietly. Once
Frank was embarked on a tale, he needed no prompting.

"So the phone goes. The mobile. I'd forgotten to switch it off - you
know how keen the Boss is that we keep in touch. "Oh Frank," she says,"
he mimicked a woman's high-pitched Edwina Currie voice, "oh, Frank, not
again. Surely not. We're going on holiday. To the Seychelles.'" He
raised his voice to show that Gail was determined everyone in earshot
should hear. '"First class. Couldn't you have left it at home for once?"
Only what she didn't know was that it was that bastard Melvyn. An' he's
on the line to say the News of the World's gotta story on me and Hazel.
Pictures of her coming out of my flat in Westminster. And what do I want
to do?"

"How did they get them pictures? Was it a set-up?' Vie asked.

"Nah. Not really. She comes to my place regularly in her car, see, and
parks it on a meter. So I go out in the morning when my driver comes,
and I feed the meter. And there's a journalist hanging about, and
instead of pushing off when I leave, he's curious. He knows Gail's in
Cheshire. So why'm I feeding a meter? Who's there? And when Hazel shows
and jumps in her car, his nose tells him he's gotta scoop. After that he
hovers with a photographer till it happens again, and out they pop and
confront her. Bob's your uncle."

Heads were shaken at the brazen callousness of the gutter press. ' don't
care,' said Mad Max, and cracked his knuckles.

"Bastards,' added Vie, with menace.

"So then we have Mr. Melvyn O'Connor, spin doctor number two - number
one, Mr. Alistair Mcdonald being on duty elsewhere - Mr. Melvyn
O'Connor, who's never done a proper day's grafting ever, calling me to
say the Boss is asking which way 111 jump. Who's going to be on the
guest list in future? Is it the wife, or the girlfriend? He'll back my
decision either way and doesn't want to push me, but they need an answer
so they can put out a statement. Would I mind deciding? Honest, right in
the middle of the VLP departure lounge, with me cursing like a trooper
and Gail telling me to mind my language. God."