The Penultimate Chance Saloon (18 page)

‘Compartmentalised?'

‘That was the very word I was prompting you to utter.'

‘Right.' Bill found it odd. With all his other sexual encounters, the last thing he'd wanted was to introduce the woman to any of his friends. Now Leigh had denied him that option, he wanted more and more to parade her as his, to get her to meet some of his friends. Sal, if nobody else.

‘But do you think, in time, our relationship will develop so that we do want to be a bit more generally sociable?'

‘Who knows, Bill? Like I say, “if it ain't broke ...'”

...and, by way of contrast,

a member of the Australian Parliament,

exposed by the tabloid press for maintaining

seven mistresses, has just been appointed

Minister for Employment.

‘So I gather you have a new girlfriend.'

‘What? How do you ...? Sal?'

Carolyn nodded. Bill wasn't sure how he felt about her knowing. But he should have anticipated it. Forget the imaginary ‘billstrattonssexualencounters.com' website – that wasn't needed as long as Sal was around. And Sal and Carolyn were regularly in touch about BWOC business, so ...

‘Nice, is she?'

‘Yes. Yes, very nice.'

‘Good. Anything like Andrea?'

‘No. No, I don't think so.' This was the first time he'd thought about the question. Leigh certainly didn't maunder on about the NHS, and she wasn't vegetarian. But whether she'd consider going on holiday to a nice hotel in a nice resort as being in ‘a tourist trap' ... he didn't know. In fact, it struck him, he didn't really know a great deal about Leigh.

Nor, when he came to make the comparison, did he remember a great deal about Andrea. It was amazing how a body of information built up over more than three decades had eroded away to leave only the vaguest vestiges of memory.

‘Because, in my experience,' Carolyn went on, ‘after a divorce – however messy – a lot of men go back to the same type of women.'

‘Like dogs returning to their vomit?'

‘You always did have a way with words, Bill.'

‘Hmm. Well, I'm pretty confident that Leigh has absolutely nothing in common with Andrea – except for the number of legs.'

‘And breasts, presumably?'

Since shed brought the subject up, he couldn't help admiring the comforting curves of Carolyn's bosom. Her nipples looked hard and prominent ... what was that expression he'd heard from some raucous male friend ...? Her headlights were on, yes.

Again he came back to the eternal question – why do men think about sex all the time? Surely by the age of sixty that knee-jerk reaction should have trickled away to nothingness. But it hadn't. He found himself idly wondering what Carolyn would look like naked.

‘So, will I be meeting her? Leigh, was it?'

‘That's her name, yes.'

‘But you won't be bringing her into the office?'

‘Doesn't feature in my current plans, no. Just a very casual relationship at this point. We enjoy each other's company –'

‘Company?' The brazen look in her eye managed to encompass all the innuendoes that could be contained in that innocent word.

‘Yes.'

‘Well, I'm glad you've got someone,' she said, totally matter-of-fact. ‘Means I don't have to worry about you mooching around alone round your flat in Pimlico.'

‘Did you worry about that?'

But Carolyn wasn't the sort to bite at such blatant emotional fishing. ‘Worry? God, no. Incidentally, Jason wants to set up some more links on the website. It'll cost a bit.'

‘Sounds all right.'

‘Yeah. As his Mum, I feel slightly guilty asking, because I know how much he needs the money. Setting up as a stand-up comic and writer wasn't the greatest career move he ever made. But I don't think he's having us on. The website does need to keep being developed and –'

‘Carolyn, you know I trust you implicitly. And I trust Jason too. I'll agree to anything you want me to do.'

She was a woman who could never resist a double entendre. ‘Really, Bill? When was the last time I had an offer like that?'

* * *

‘Had a call from one of the ex-wives today.'

‘Oh yes? Which one?'

‘Doesn't matter. She'd got a bloody nerve, though.'

‘Asking for money, was she?'

‘No, not this time. It was something else.'

They were sitting, predictably enough, in The Annexe. A televised football match meant the pub was full, collectively sighing, moaning and shouting to the rhythms of the game. Bill and Trevor had pints in front of them. Even more indulgent, each had a packet of pork scratchings. An archetypal masculine nirvana ... except that, try as he might, Bill had never managed to find football interesting. Still, the pint and the pork scratchings gave him a sufficient sense of machismo.

He waited, letting Trevor time his own narration.

‘The bitch wants me to go out with her.'

‘What? Rekindle the flames of passion?'

‘God, no. She's just got this work gig where, as she put it, “I'd look better with a man with me.” And then she did all this ... surely we've known each other long enough, and the divorce is long enough ago for us to be civil to each other ... we're grown-ups ... I'm sure in the same situation, I'd be happy to help you out ... Go on, for old times' sake ...'

‘So, for old times' sake, did you agree?'

‘Did I hell?! I know what she wants to do. She wants to impress whoever it is at this work thing with how mature she is. What a modern, sensible woman, having such a good relationship with her ex-husband that they can spend the odd evening together, with no embarrassment or recrimination. What she bloody forgets is that our entire marriage was nothing but embarrassment and recrimination. When we split up, we loathed each other. No, I'm sorry, when she asked me, I told her – stuff that for a game of soldiers.'

‘So do you still loathe each other?'

‘That, Bill, is not the point.' There was a collective howl of frustration from the pub as an open goal was missed. Trevor waited for the noise to subside before continuing. ‘It's about my self-image.'

‘I didn't know you had a self-image.'

‘Well, I do. And it's not one I want let down by being seen in the company of that bitch.'

‘Ah.'

‘That's the trouble ... as a man, you're judged by the woman you're with. On my own, I'm fine. I don't know what people think of me –'

‘They probably see you as a bitter, disappointed, impotent alcoholic.'

‘They probably do. And that's all right. I can live with that. It may not be a particularly attractive image, but at least it's mine. What they see is what they get. Whereas if I turn up to this gig with the ex-wife, what kind of image of me does that project?'

‘Well –'

‘I'll tell you. It makes me look like the kind of wimp who's so mature and broad-minded and grown-up that I can have an enjoyable evening with my ex-wife. Well, bloody hell, I don't want people to think that of me.'

‘No, I suppose I can see your point.'

‘When you're on your own, Bill, you have control over the image you present. Minute you're seen out with a woman, that's what you're judged by.'

‘Yes, but some people make that into an advantage. Why do all these older men marry trophy wives? Why does every man want to be seen with a supermodel on his arm?'

Bill tried to assess whether he had ever been guilty of such an ambition. And he decided that, amongst the many things he could have been accused of, that wasn't one.

‘Well,' said Trevor, ‘maybe it works for some of them. All I'd say is think hard before you're seen in public with a woman. 'Cause it's the woman people will judge you by.'

There was a silence. Bill assimilated what his friend had said. Yes, there was something in it. Maybe he shouldn't rush into displaying Leigh in public. Maybe she should stay under wraps for a little longer. Keep his options open.

He took a long contemplative swig of beer, and bit down hard on a pork scratching. He heard a cracking sound, and felt a strange sensation on his tongue.

This time there was a goal. The pub erupted. In the chaos of masculine ecstasy, Bill spat out the contents of his mouth.

In the palm of his hand lay the intact pork scratching, and half a yellowed tooth.

* * *

The next day he was glad he had made the decision to maintain as much secrecy as possible about Leigh, because he had a call from Ginnie. One of her co-stars, playing a precociously sexually-aware novice, had developed shingles. Though the producers had tried to organise a rewrite to transform the whole convent into a veiled order of nuns, it hadn't worked. Nor had the proposal to introduce an epidemic of Black Death to justify the spots, so shooting had been rescheduled to get other stuff in the can until the actress's face cleared up. Since the bulk of the novice's scenes were with her Mother Superior, Virginia Fairbrother also had an unexpected break.

Was ‘one of our dinners' possible? Bill said it certainly was.

The restaurant this time had the trendily ambiguous name of Cruising. The theme, obviously enough, was Thirties cruise ship, even to the point of having false portholes set into the walls. It was a huge space with lots of sweeping staircases and mahogany railings. There was a large dance floor and a live band playing such classics as ‘Nice Work If You Can Get It', ‘Basin Street Blues' and ‘Cocktails For Two'.

Inevitably, the place was a concept restaurant' which encouraged clients to ‘dress up and make an evening of it.' People who wanted to sit at the Captain's Table had to wear full evening dress. Converting the premises had cost millions and, since its opening two weeks before, the restaurant had been wildly popular. Bookings for names that weren't on special lists could be months away.

But the wrinkle on Ginnie's fine nose suggested she didn't think the good times would last.

‘Trouble is, a place like this costs so much just to keep running. And to generate any atmosphere, it has to be full. Once the bookings start to drop off, the whole enterprise will go bottom up very quickly.'

‘Like the Titanic ...'

‘Which it rather spookily resembles. Yes, Bill.'

The name of Virginia Fairbrother had instantly secured their table. And the cocktails really were good. She looked wonderful again, this time in a minimal black halter-necked dress that showed acres of her smoothly tanned skin. God, this is nice, thought Bill. Sitting at a restaurant table opposite a beautiful woman. I could happily spend my life doing that. Then the thought occurred to him that he actually
did
spend a lot of his life doing that.

Still, seeing Ginnie was doing him a power of good. He had had one of his rare down moments after leaving The Annexe. Trevor's gloom hadn't infected him – he was inured to that – but the broken tooth had. The accident seemed symbolic, a reminder that his body would not last for ever, a little dental
memento mori.
He could still feel the unexpectedly rough edge against his tongue, but it didn't worry him now. Not when he'd got Ginnie to look at.

The hazel eyes shrewdly took him in over the frosted rim of her cocktail glass. ‘So ... are you still working your wicked way through the desperate and grateful older women of Britain?'

He had known the question would come up. The vehemence of her denunciation at their last meeting had shocked him. And what she'd said then had made him change his behaviour. He had wanted to save up telling her that, like an unexpected present hidden away in a pocket, but he wasn't going to get a better cue than the one she had just given him.

‘Actually, Ginnie,' he said, serious for once, ‘I did think a lot about what you said to me –'

‘I'm honoured.'

‘No, you were right. I was just using women. All those anonymous pick-ups in anonymous hotels ... there was something slightly sordid about it.'

‘I'm glad you recognise that.'

‘The phrase of yours I couldn't get out of my mind was “passionless promiscuity”.'

‘Honoured to have made an impression.'

‘So, anyway, I have, sort of ... well, it sounds like something out of a social worker's report, but I have “changed my behaviour”.' ‘Goodness, the effect a woman's words can have.'

‘Not any woman's words, Ginnie.'

His eyes met hers. There was a moment of stillness between them.

‘So., .all these desperate and grateful older women are still desperate, but have no cause to be grateful?'

‘Well, you could put it like that.'

‘Haven't you been tempted, though?'

‘Yes. Yes, I have.' He recounted the non-encounter in Nottingham. ‘And I didn't do anything,' he concluded with some smugness.

‘Good. Well done. So having rediscovered your libido, you've now put it firmly under wraps again, have you?'

‘Well ...' Bill couldn't really see anything to be gained by telling Ginnie about Leigh. It would only confuse the issue. And it might very probably break the current atmosphere of complicity at their table. The longer he spent with Ginnie, the more he enjoyed the experience. He felt glad he hadn't gone down the road of making Leigh a more public part of his life.

‘I've decided,' he said piously, ‘to do what you suggested.'

‘Which bit of what I suggested?'

‘The bit about waiting till I feel something for someone before I go to bed with them.'

Ginnie cocked a sardonic eye at him. 'Really? Well, I must pat myself on the back, I think. I'd never before seen myself as a sentimental educationalist, but I seem to have succeeded at my first attempt. I've made you give up your wicked ways. I've made you realize what an arid experience sex can be, when it doesn't come with
lurve
attached.'