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Authors: Kate Saunders

BOOK: Bachelor Boys
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Phoebe, helpless with giggles, vanished into Fritz's bedroom. The giggles ended suddenly, on a gasp of horror.
“It's not awfully tidy at the moment,” Fritz explained, smiling at Honor in a friendly way. “Look, I really am very sorry about this.” He made a minute adjustment to the cushion. “The fact is, we totally ran out of clean clothes. Don't you hate it when that happens?”
Honor, obviously embarrassed, fixed her angry gaze on the floor.
I looked at Fritz. How could Honor not look at Fritz? His body, as befitted someone who spent several hours every day running on the Heath, was taut and muscular. He had a gorgeous washboard stomach and (it had just been possible to see, before the descent of the cushion) a huge cock. He was incredible, and of course I fancied him. But it meant nothing, I told myself—mere chemistry because Fritz was pumping out pheromones right under my nose. Pull yourself together.
“Fritz, really!” Phoebe said, stepping back into the room with a black toweling robe over one arm. “I've never seen such a mess. You can't expect Mrs. Wong to clean down here unless you tidy it first.” She threw the robe across Fritz.
“That's mine!” complained Ben.
“It was the only thing I could find.”
Fritz leaped up from the sofa and extinguished his splendid body under the robe. He rummaged through the washing basket, impatiently throwing aside unwanted socks and shirts.
“Don't just chuck it all on the floor!” Ben protested.
“I'm in a tearing hurry, dear boy. Madeleine expected me an hour ago.”
“Well, you should do the washing when it's your fucking turn, shouldn't you? You're the one who let it all pile up.”
“Boys!” Phoebe protested. “For goodness' sake, stop squabbling. What will Honor think?”
One glance was enough to show me what Honor thought. Her pale mouth was tight with disapproval.
“Phoebe,” I said, “we really ought to go. I don't want to keep Matthew waiting.”
Phoebe had not registered Honor's sudden and drastic freezing over. She touched Ben's arm. “Can't you change your mind about dinner?”
“I'm not eating dinner at the moment,” Ben said solemnly. “I'm detoxing.”
Phoebe was mildly alarmed. Ben's delicate stomach was an historic cause of worry. “It's never healthy to miss dinner, darling.”
“Vinnie says I need to clear my system,” he said. “I have to eat raw vegetables for ten days, and I've still got six days to go.”
Ben was a hypochondriac. While Fritz went on his daily runs to Highgate and back, Ben fought a succession of mysterious illnesses. I suspected that Mrs. Appleton had won him through their shared obsession with his health. We all knew there was never the slightest thing wrong with him. Fritz, who had trained as a doctor, treated his brother's ailments with cheerful contempt.
By this point I already knew all was lost, and had started laughing. I decided I had better step in before it got any worse.
“Come on, Phoebe. We should get going.”
Fritz threw an arm around his mother's fragile shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Don't stay out too late, all right? If you get exhausted, I'll never speak to you again.”
“I'll be careful.” Phoebe's pride in him was so transparent that for a moment it burned away the bad impression of loucheness and disorder. Sometimes, Fritz was uncannily like Jimmy.
“Cassie, please make sure she has something to eat,” Fritz said. “You know how silly she can be.”
“You can't expect me to have supper if you don't,” Ben said, dropping a kiss on the other side of Phoebe's head. “Do you think she should have a glass of wine? It won't clash with the drugs, will it?”
Fritz said, “Not at all. I think she should drink as much as possible.”
“Red wine,” Ben said, with a knowledgeable air. “It's full of antioxidants. And you should also try to have some fresh spinach, for the iron.”
“Don't listen to him,” Fritz told Phoebe. “Have anything you fancy—but bear in mind that I shall be returning at eleven. And if I don't find you here, I shall march up to the restaurant and drag you out by your hair.”
Phoebe kissed them both and promised to treat herself “like a piece of crystal.”
“Lalique,” Ben said. “Only more precious.”
We left the boys robing themselves in fresh jeans and shirts, for their reprehensible nights out with their married women. I couldn't help being annoyed at the way they had ruined Honor's fleeting good impression—but neither could I help being softened by their love for Phoebe.
Honor was quiet during the walk to the restaurant. Up to a point, I sympathized. She had been through quite an emotional shock, especially when you considered that she had spent the past few months shut up in a library with a lot of Victorian socialists. She had glimpsed the man of her dreams, only to watch him crumbling into exactly the kind of spoiled, scruffy wastrel she loathed. She was far too polite to hint at any of this in front of Phoebe.
Fortunately, Phoebe was still convinced that the encounter had been a triumph. She was at her happiest, thrilled to be alive and energetic and out on a sweet spring evening. She seemed to know everyone in Hampstead, and we exchanged greetings with half the neighborhood before we reached Flask Walk.
Matthew was waiting for us at a crisply draped table in the corner, reading the
Financial Times
folded very small. He kissed Phoebe (he treated her with a rather heavy chivalry that made me intensely proud of him) and shook hands with Honor. He delighted me by giving me a heartier kiss than usual, and muttering, “You're absolutely gorgeous!”
It was a magical dinner, entirely because of Phoebe. Everything pleased her. The setting was charming, the wine Matthew selected was nectar. She was touched that the owners of the restaurant remembered her, and almost too honored when the chef made her a special omelette that wasn't on the menu. He came out briefly and mentioned that he knew Fritz. I suspected that Fritz had told him about Phoebe's illness. He was treating her like the Queen.
Phoebe ate most of the omelette and a few leaves of salad. The candles flickering on the table obliterated the new lines on her face, and made her eyes sparkle. I nudged Matthew's foot under the table, suddenly filled with happiness because it was so easy to pretend there was no such thing as the future.
She made Matthew and Honor talk about themselves, in a far livelier
and more interesting way than usual. I don't think I had ever seen Matthew so relaxed—he was even making jokes about his clients. Phoebe had a knack for presenting people to themselves in their best light.
The four of us laughed and talked and ate. Phoebe naturally moved on to the subject of the boys, and her anecdotes about them were so funny that Honor's disgust turned to amusement. We vied to cap each other's stories, and it was only afterward that I reflected this might not have been a very good idea. Everything we said seemed to highlight the boys' least admirable qualities—their naughtiness, their fondness for partying, their brushes with the law. Phoebe assumed that their innate loveliness was obvious to everyone.
I had said I would drive home, but I was having such a good time that I drank too much. Matthew said he would drive, and frisked me for my keys. We were to drop Phoebe off first, then Honor.
As soon as we had waved Phoebe into her front door, Honor let out a long sigh.
“What an adorable woman! How did her sons turn out so awful? It's enough to put you off having children. I was so sorry for her. I didn't know where to look.” And she launched into a description of her meeting with Fritz and Ben.
I was very annoyed with the Darlings for being so oafish in front of a potential bride, but I found myself irritated by Honor's self-righteousness. I had enjoyed laughing over the old stories with Phoebe, and remembering why I was so fond of the boys next door. They might have been oafs, I thought, but they were very kind and entertaining oafs. Nobody in the world could make me laugh like the Darlings.
Honor didn't see the funny side of anything. Dull old poop, I thought. No wonder she couldn't get laid.
And how could she possibly overlook the sheer gorgeousness of Fritz's naked body? Too sozzled to feel guilty, I closed my eyes to conjure it up again. I had shown Honor a body to die for, and all she could think about was the untidiness. It was great that Matthew was making such an effort to be nice to her, but I wished he would stop agreeing with her, and adding his own criticisms of the Fritz-and-Ben lifestyle.
“God knows why they think the world owes them a living,” he said.
“And it's rather appalling that they've let their flat get into such a state. Don't they care about the house?”
One thing was abundantly clear. We had a serious problem with presentation. Fritz and Ben had to be in on this whole matchmaking plan, or it was doomed.
N
ext morning, while Matthew was out at the gym, I took the step of calling the boys—without Phoebe's knowledge—for an emergency meeting.
I got Fritz's voice on the answering machine. “Hi. You've reached the residence of Fritz and Ben Darling. Leave a message and we'll call you back.”
I left a message. “Hi, it's Cassie. Could one of you ring me? It's important. Thanks.”
There was no reply that day. Perhaps it was just as well, since I was on boyfriend duty and very busy. Matthew's weekends were as labor-intensive as his working week. We read quantities of huge newspapers, drank coffee and bought organic brie at Villandry, saw a depressing foreign film, had sex three times, and shopped at Heal's for a desk lamp. In between, I left three more messages for the Darlings.
By Monday morning, my office seemed an oasis of peace. I'd had a wonderful weekend with Matthew, I told myself—but I did notice that I was looking forward to wearing jeans and eating a pizza on the sofa. We had an editorial meeting about the next issue. I persuaded an eminent old author to write our main article, and left three more messages for Fritz and Ben. Didn't they ever return calls? I was beginning to be irked by the intractability of the entire project.
On Tuesday, I left three more messages, of escalating sharpness.
“Look, will one of you lazy bastards just ring me?”
On Wednesday, I decided I had to call Phoebe.
“I had such a marvelous time on Friday,” she said happily. “Honor's a fascinating girl, don't you think? And Matthew's such a nice man when you draw him out. I can see exactly why you love him.”
“I need to speak to one of your sons,” I said.
“Which one?”
“Either. I've left about a million messages.”
Phoebe chuckled. “Aren't they dreadful? I'll put a note through the door. What shall I say it's about?”
“Oh, nothing—I mean, I can't really explain.” I couldn't bring myself to tell Phoebe that I was about to break my promise and admit them into their mother's plan. “Beg them to ring me. Give them my work number if you have to.”
On Wednesday, I met Annabel for supper. We went to our usual cheerful Italian place in Camden Town, to eat serious portions of spaghetti carbonara and drink a bottle of red wine. We never brought our boyfriends here. We wanted to wear comfortable clothes and no lipstick.
Annabel looked beautiful in her tight black jersey and prim gray skirt, and the waiters were all over her (waiters and policemen always love Annabel). She was in no mood to appreciate it, however. Her latest crush—a senior colleague at the bank—had done what they all seemed to do, and waltzed off with some bimbo from a catering firm.
“It's only one date,” I said, trying to be encouraging. “He'll get tired of her as soon as he realizes how thick she is.”
Annabel shook her glossy blonde head disconsolately. “She's not thick. She has a degree in Russian. I know what will happen. I've seen it a hundred times. He'll fall in love with her, and they'll have a lovely posh wedding and three children. It's not fair. Why did I waste my time taking exams? I should have done directors' lunches.”
“Come on, woman. Pull yourself together. You're successful and brilliant. You're the head of arbitrage, for heaven's sake.”
She was mildly reproachful. “You don't have the slightest idea what I do.”
I pretended I hadn't heard, in case she started explaining. “There are loads of men out there who actively like a successful woman,” I said, knowing this wasn't true.
“I really thought Miles was one of them. I wish I'd known not to be
clever in front of him. Perhaps I'll be more helpless next time I'm alone with him.”
“Spare a kipper, guv!”
Annabel relaxed into a laugh. “You can afford to be politically correct, because you've got Matthew. Where is he tonight, by the way?”
“Dinner with clients—the poor man has been working far too hard lately. I think there's some sort of important job, which has implications for his partnership. It means I'm seeing a lot less of him.”
Annabel said, “Poor you.”
“Don't be too sorry for me. You know how his ruthless ambition turns me on.” Under the table, my mobile phone bleeped in my handbag. “Sorry,” I said. We usually switched our phones off when we met, but I was still chasing those boys.
It was Phoebe. “I've got Fritz,” she said. “I'm actually holding his arm so he can't get away. Talk to Cassie, darling.”
Fritz took the phone. “Okay, Grimble, here I am.”
“At last—do you know how many messages I've left?”
“Yes, and I'm sorry. But I've been going through a spot of emotional turbulence.”
I longed to know if this had anything to do with Madeleine, but could hardly bring her up when Phoebe and Annabel were listening at either end. “I really don't want to nag,” I said, “but it is actually rather important.”
“What is? Why can't you just tell me now?”
Once again, I had to be careful. “I can't do it over the phone. I thought you and Ben could come over for dinner.”
“Dinner? Is that all? You're overloading my answering service for the sake of one of your hideous dinner parties?” Fritz was allowed to say my dinner parties were hideous. The three he had attended (in Oxford, New York and London) had been, despite my best efforts, tense combinations of boredom and bad food. The art of entertaining has to be learned, like everything else, and I had never studied it properly.
“It's not a dinner party,” I assured him. “But I need to talk to you. It's urgent. And if you kiss me off, I'll tell Phoebe.”
“Three-line whip, eh? Okay—but it'll have to be next week. Can't do the weekend.”
“Whatever. Name a day.”
“Tuesday.”
“Tuesday it is,” I said briskly. “My place, eight o‘clock—and that means real eight o'clock, Fritz. Not ten.”
“All right, all right. Eight sharp.”
“I'll provide food and wine. You bring your brother.”
“Yes, O Queen. Can I go now?”
“Thanks, Fritz. You won't regret this.” It was done. The opening moves could now be planned.
 
They were late for dinner. I knew they would be. I had made careful preparations for their inevitable lateness. I went to Fortnum's at lunchtime and bought an immense jar of French cassoulet, which could be left in a warm oven for hours. I poured myself a glass of red wine. I settled into
EastEnders.
Fritz and Ben would not find me weeping with rage because the dinner had burned to pumice stone. I was planning to be extremely calm and businesslike.
By the time the bell rang at nine o'clock, I was seething—but it was impossible to stay angry with them for long. I burst out laughing as soon as I opened the door. Fritz was holding a large box of apple doughnuts and a bottle of wine. Ben was carrying a wooden chair they had found in a nearby skip. The chair was excellent—just what I needed—and both Darlings knew my ancient weakness for doughnuts. I kissed them both, then poured us all large glasses of wine. It was difficult to be businesslike. Having Fritz and Ben round was always such a lot of fun—and for some reason, the three of us hadn't met up like this for ages.
“Sorry we're late,” Fritz said. “It's entirely my fault.”
He was wearing very tattered, faded jeans and an ancient leather jacket. Ben was wearing a builder's donkey jacket, and his hair was hidden under a woolly hat like a condom. Neither had shaved for several days. This sort of thing could not be allowed to continue. They looked rather gorgeous in this state, but that wasn't the point. Although decent women might look at them, they wouldn't be thinking of marriage.
“We can eat whenever,” I said. “It's cassoulet.”
Ben held out a plastic bag full of bean sprouts. “I'll only be eating this, if you don't mind.”
I said fine, as long as he didn't suddenly change his mind later and eat all the doughnuts. I knew Ben.
Fritz was looking round my sitting room with alert interest. “This is very smart. I like all the cushions and lamps. I suppose you did it for the Moose. Where is he, by the way?”
“This is just the three of us. I can't talk about this with anyone else.”
“Talk about what?” Fritz flung himself across my sofa. “Let's have it, Grimble. You're being mighty mysterious.”
“I'd rather not have wine,” Ben said seriously. “Do you have any mineral water?”
Fritz and I ignored him.
“Thanks for coming,” I said. “I know you're only here because Phoebe begged.”
They both laughed.
“She said that if we didn't come she wouldn't have the car mended,” Ben said.
“All right.” It could not be put off any longer. “Let's sit down.” I sat in the armchair. Ben, after a fight with Fritz's feet, took the other end of the sofa. “Phoebe doesn't know I'm telling you this,” I said. “But basically, she's asked me to find wives for you.”
And I outlined the idea. After a stunned moment or two, they caught each other's eye and burst into roars of laughter.
“You'll have to clean up your act,” Ben said, punching Fritz.
“Me?” yelled Fritz. “What about you? You'll have to wash your prepuce.”
He said the last word in such a silly voice that I started laughing too. “Seriously,” I said. “If we're going to do this thing properly, we ought to talk a bit about where we go next.” I stood up. “We can do it over dinner.”
“Hold it,” Fritz said. He was no longer laughing. He swung himself into an upright position, and his black eyes snapped at me belligerently. “This has stopped being amusing. It's getting surreal.”
“Yeah,” said Ben. “Totally surreal. I feel Salvador Dali's about to walk in with an enormous fish.”
Fritz and I shot him impatient looks. His rambling tendency was getting in the way of the argument, as it had often done in the past.
“Let me get this straight, dear Grimble,” Fritz said. “You've actually promised our mother you'll find wives for us?”
“I obviously didn't promise. I just wanted to help.”
“You just wanted to muck about with our sex lives.”
“I did not!”
“Women always try to change you,” Ben said, off on one of his diversions. “And when they find they can't, you have to go through the unutterable hurt of knowing they don't like you as you are. Every woman I've ever loved has hurt me.”
“Look, you're both single,” I said. “All I'm asking you to do is spend some time with a few of my friends.”
“I've seen all your friends,” Fritz said, “and I don't fancy any of them. They all seem to wear thick glasses and cut their hair with hedge-trimmers.”
“You know that's not fair!” I cried, as if Fritz and I were six years old again and having one of our fights over the swing.
“He means that Honor chick from the other night,” Ben said helpfully. “As a matter of fact, I rather liked her. But that doesn't mean I want to marry her.”
“Thank you,” Fritz said. “We'll find our own wives.”
“When you've finished mucking about with other people's,” I said.
Ben was injured. “What's that supposed to mean? If you're talking about Vinnie, you've got it wrong. It's nothing more than a close friendship, okay?”
Fritz scowled. “Why are our private lives suddenly your business?”
“There's nothing particularly private about your private life, Fritz. The whole of north London seems to know about you and Madeleine.”
“So what if they do? Her husband hasn't found out yet.”
“You're a bloody disgrace,” I snapped. “You think you can just carry on forever, doing whatever the hell you like—behaving as if you were still at college, as if responsibility was something for suckers—”
“And you've decided it's time to turn me into a clone of Mister Dullard, the lawyer who books you for sex three weeks in advance.”
At this point, I'm afraid I lost it. The crack about Matthew was the last straw. I hadn't felt such volcanic fury with Fritz since I was ten.
“This is for Phoebe!” I yelled at him. “Someone has to help her, when
you won't lift a finger! Don't you get it? Your dying mother is worrying about who will take care of you when she's gone! For once in your life, can't you do something to make her happy?”

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