Authors: Kate Saunders

Bachelor Boys (5 page)

BOOK: Bachelor Boys

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“Well, I suppose it might work,” Betsy said. “As long as nobody tells them to âbe themselves.'”

On Friday evening I made my preparations as if I were about to be parachuted into occupied France. Matthew was to come to my flat in Chalk Farm after dinner. This meant changing the sheets, placing white wine in the fridge and putting the croissants I had bought at Fortnum's in the bread bin. I still felt it was vital to make the maximum effort. Matthew, though he never criticized or complained directly, had standards. I had heard indignant speeches about women who were “slipshod.” A hint was enough. I was not going to allow any kind of slipshoddery to spoil my chance of married bliss. I fully intended to run our entire marriage along these perfectionist lines. The harder I worked for Matthew, the more I loved him. To do him justice, I don't think Matthew realized how hard I slaved. I think he assumed I was just like that naturally.

I plucked my eyebrows. I washed and dried my hair, and put on my short dress of softly draped dark blue velvet. I then drove to Tufnell Park, in my freshly vacuumed Fiat, hoping Honor had made a similar effort. I was a little disappointed when she emerged from her front door wearing a denim skirt and apparently carrying a fishing bag.

But why would she make an effort? As far as Honor was concerned, she was going out for a quiet dinner with friends. She was simply being herself. Why did people always tell you to Be Yourself? It was starting to seem like very bad advice.

“You look nice,” Honor said, fumbling in her bag for an evil-smelling cough sweet. “Having someone to notice must make all the difference. Like one?” She held out the sweets.

“No thanks.”

“I seem to have had this cold for months. I think it's a reaction to the
central heating in the library. I told the chief librarian he ought to test the place for Sick Building Syndrome.”

Oh dear, was she going to be stuck in this drippy mood for the whole evening? By the time we got to the restaurant it would be too late. She had to lighten up before she met the boys.

“I like your hair,” I said. “I'm glad you're letting it grow.” (I didn't and I wasn't, but it was a good opportunity to drop a hint about the crew cut). “It suits you.”

“Does it? I haven't had time to go to the hairdresser's. I've already had to snip away at the fringe myself.”

“I know a fantastic hairdresser,” I said. “He'd make you look stunning.”

At last she smiled, and her well-hidden charm poured through the crack in the clouds. “I knew it. You think I've let myself goâand you're absolutely right. I'll obviously make an effort if there's the remotest chance of meeting someone. I need hardly tell you that my love life is the Gobi Desert.”

“You don't know when you'll meet someone,” I said. “Cupid could strike at any hour.”

This cheered her up. The mildness of the spring evening, and the grace of the old houses in the last of the thin sunlight, further mellowed her. We reached Phoebe's, and I allowed my spirits to rise. The house, as always, looked charming.

Phoebe opened the front door. The impression could not have been lovelier. I can see her now. She wore a white silk shirt, with a collar that covered the new lines and puckers in her throat. She was very thin, but her face was full of vitality. There was music in the houseâcascades of notes rising and falling like flocks of birds. The scents of woodsmoke and cedar embraced us.

“Honor, I'm so glad you could come. It's been too long.” Phoebe kissed Honor. I shot her a small eye-signal not to overdo the warmth. She ignored it. “Come into the drawing room. We've just opened a heavenly bottle of Pouilly.”

I understood her air of satisfaction when we went into the drawing room. It couldn't have been more perfect. The music danced and curvetted around us. In the corner beside the window, Ben was playing the Victorian harp that had once belonged to Phoebe's grandmother.

Honor wasâno other word will doâgobsmacked. Even I was nearly smitten. Ben's dark eyes were serious in his pale, poetic face. His long fingers coaxed waterfalls of music from the harp strings. A pale shaft of dying sunlight fell across his raven hair. He was Honor's dream made flesh.

We stood, the three of us, listening to the music. The last chord bled away into silence. Ben's hand hovered above the strings. He bowed his head.

“Thank you, darling.” Phoebe leaned forward to kiss him. “That was wonderful.”

Ben looked up. He blinked at us, and smiled as if waking from a trance. “Hi, Cassie.” He tilted the harp upright and came over to kiss my cheek. I hugged him. Benâmy oldest friend, companion of my Cotton House daysâwas the brother I loved best. I had never fancied him, which might have been why.

“I don't think you've met Honor Chappell,” I said. “We're taking her out celebrating, because she's just finished a book.”

“Have you? Well done.” Ben smiled and shook her hand charmingly. He was always charming, but I was sure he liked Honor. “Is it a novel?”

Poor Honor gaped when their flesh touched, and struggled to speak normally. “No, it's history. It's about the birth of British socialism.”

“Honor teaches at UCL,” I said.

“That sounds fascinating,” Ben said, smiling down into Honor's face. “A history is far better than a novel. Everyone's writing novels these days, aren't they? Even footballers and people. But I'd like to see David Beckham writing a history of socialism.”

Ben was rather given to rambling. I decided to divert him, before he rambled off on a discourse about suitable books for footballers. “Your playing was terrific, by the way.”

“Oh, yes,” Honor blurted out, too loudly. “Yes, it wasâyou have such aâ”

Phoebe came to the rescue. “He might be doing a recital at Kenwood House this June, in the Orangery. But it won't be the harpâhe really plays the piano.”

We sat down around the fireplace, and Ben poured us all glasses of wine. He perched on the fender, and he and Honor talked about Beethoven's late sonatas. Honor was nervous and deferential. They agreed
that the late sonatas were “difficult,” and that Beethoven's rhythms “anticipated syncopation.”

“I'm sure Ben is the ideal person to play them,” Phoebe said, passing round olives. “He's late for everything.”

Ben inched a little closer to Honor. He was gazing at her intently. “I heard Alfred Brendel playing them on Wednesday.”

“Brendel,” murmured Honor, as if saying “Amen.” “That must have been an experience.”

“Stupendous. An absolute revelation.”

“I tried to get a ticket, but it was sold out. He always is.”

“Do you go to a lot of concerts?” Ben asked.

“Oh, yes, as many as I can. But I hate going on my own.”

“Awful, isn't it?” Ben agreed. He smiled. “Tell you what, if you ever find yourself with a spare ticket, do feel free to give me a call.”

“Really?” Honor breathed. “What kind of concert do you prefer?” Her wan library complexion had the faintest haze of pink, and her large gray eyes were radiant.

“I should think I'd love whatever you chose,” Ben said. “We seem to have so many tastes in common.”

I was indignant. Ben had sniffed out Honor as a source of free concert tickets. He craved any kind of live music, and relied on five or six besotted females to pay for the seatsâthere was one woman he kept specially for the Proms, for instance. In return, the ticket buyers would get his company and (sometimes) the honor of buying him dinner. They waited for a little spark of romance, and they waited in vain. Ben talked feelingly to them about his bowel complaints, and said it was great to go out with a woman just as “mates.” Jimmy used to call these unfortunates the Foolish Virgins. I wasn't going to let poor Honor join their ranks.

“Perhaps you should choose the music, Ben,” I suggested suavely. “You could buy the tickets and give one to Honor. I'm sure she trusts your taste.”

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Honor faltered. She glanced at me rather reproachfullyâI suspect she wouldn't have minded being one of the Foolish Virgins.

Ben stood up abruptly, with an air of wounded dignity. He knew he had been rumbled. “Lovely to meet you, Honor. I'd better be off now. I only came up to get the washing.”

“Darling, why don't you come out to dinner with us?” Phoebe asked. She was smiling. She thought everything was going famously. “I'm sure the restaurant wouldn't mind.”

“Thanks, but I said I'd go round to Vinnie's.”

“Vinnie” was Mrs. Appleton. She was a good flautist, and liked to play duets with Ben when her husband was away. I didn't like to think of someone with that much lipstick smearing it all over a flute, like greasy raspberry jam. In my marrow I was convinced that poetic, soulful Ben was sleeping with that painted old baggage. If Phoebe ever suspected such a thing, she would be devastated. I was annoyed with Ben, and frankly disappointed that my first attempt at matchmaking had failed.

Ben sloped off to the utility room at the back of the house, behind the kitchen. Honor's face had a kind of dazed, radioactive glow. “This is such a beautiful room.”

Phoebe beamed. “How nice of you. Yes, I love this room. It catches the evening light, and on summer days the window at the back is full of birdsong.”

“How long have you lived in this house? Did you have to do a lot to it when you bought it?”

“We moved in when I was pregnant with Fritz,” Phoebe said. “We could only afford it because it was in a bit of a state. It took every penny we had in the world, but we just fell in love with it. We think it was built in â¦” and she launched into the history of the house. Honor listened intently.

Ben was heard emerging from the utility room.

Phoebe leaped upâone of those flashes of her old, quicksilver energy. “Honor, do let me show you round the house. We'll start in the basementâBen, would you mind?”

“Yes, I'd love to see it,” Honor said.

Ben, weighed down by a plastic laundry basket, halted at the door to the basement. “It's not terribly clean, I'm afraid,” he said.

This was a dreadful, dreadful idea. Horrified, I tried to catch Phoebe's eye. She did not look at me. I suspected she was ignoring me on purpose. She simply didn't believe anyone could get a bad impression of her beloved boys.

Ben led the way down the narrow flight of stairs. I stuck closely behind
him, possibly with a mad idea of throwing myself in front of Honor before she saw anything too degraded. I kept trying to shoot Phoebe warning glances over my shoulder.

Ben turned round and caught one of these. “What's the matter, Cass?” he asked innocently. “Why're you making faces at me? Oopsâ” A pair of blue underpants slid off the top of the basket and flopped to the floor. “Get my knickers, would you? Thanks.”

“I haven't been down here for ages,” Phoebe told Honor.

“You should have given us a bit of notice,” Ben said.

“Oh, darling, Honor won't expect it to be immaculate.”

Ben opened the door at the bottom of the stairs.

A disgruntled voice said, “Where the fuck have you been? I need my clothes!”

“Oh, how nice,” Phoebe said. “Fritz is here.” Absolutely pushing me aside (she still had moments of surprising toughness, for all her frailty), she showed Honor into the basement flat.

I hadn't seen the place for years, and I couldn't help gasping. Neither could Honor. Once, this had been a perfectly respectable kitchen-cum-sitting-room, with a glass door leading to the pretty, overgrown garden. It was now the headquarters of the Untidy Society. The floor, the sofa and the table were strewn with sheet upon sheet of music, which Ben had marked with his complicated system of arrows and scribbles. On top of the music lay Fritz's weights, hundreds of dirty mugs (the only visible crockery), and parts of a bicycle. The overflowing bin was surrounded by squashed lager cans and crumpled takeaway cartons.

And on the sofa, among the festoons of sheet music, Fritz reclined stark naked.

“Good God,” he said. He whipped a cushion over his privates and burst out laughing. “My darling Grimbleâforgive me if I don't get up. Mum, have you gone mad?”

“I'll fetch you a dressing gown,” Phoebe said, shaking with laughter. “Honor, I'm so sorryâI should have warned them. Fritz, this is Cassie's friend Honor Chappell.”

“How do you do, Honor,” Fritz said. “I'm so sorry about this. I expect I know you, don't I?”

“I was Cassie's flatmate at Oxford,” Honor said stiffly.

“Oh God, yes, of course. Sorry. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Mum, for pity's sake, find something to cover my blushes.”

BOOK: Bachelor Boys

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