Don't You Want Me? (15 page)

Cressida, who’s been looking both puzzled and not a million miles from appalled, beams. ‘And you.’

We sip our white wine in silence for a moment. Honey is roaming about the room, gnawing on crostini and climbing on to random laps before returning to her Duplo stacks.

‘And your Frank,’ says Rupert, turning to me, ‘is a really top bloke. Nice chap. Like him tremendously. Are you and he …’

‘No.’ Does everyone I meet have to ask me this?

‘Well, you could do worse. He’s absolutely sweet with my god-daughter. She’s absolutely sweet with him, too.’

‘Yes, they get on very well.’

‘And he’s really nice to be around. You know, easy.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Easy? Yes, you could say that.’

‘Well, I like him,’ says Rupert. ‘I like him a lot more than that horrible Dom. Now there’s the opposite of a top bloke. Sneaky. Manipulative, if you ask me. Don’t like the cut of his jib one jot.’

‘Jib one jot? You sound like Edward Lear. I know you didn’t like him, Rupe – you’ve told me a million times. Never mind. Don’t lose too much sleep over it.’

Cressida, whose attention has been elsewhere, touches Rupert’s sleeve.

‘How do you know him?’ Cressida eventually asks Rupert. ‘Stella’s father, I mean?’

I’m about to answer this when, to my astonishment, Rupert very carefully places his foot, which is shod in a seen-better-days brogue, right on top of mine (which is shod in nothing, at this point – my shoes are in the hall), and pushes down, hard. He does this very quickly, rather as one might stamp on an ant, but in such a smooth, gliding sort of motion that Cressida appears not to notice.

‘I’m an old friend of Stella’s – we met at university. So I know her father from way back.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s right – you’ve told me before. Where did you go?’ asks Cressida breathlessly.

‘Cambridge,’ Rupert says, pretending it’s irrelevant.

‘Goodness!’ says his date. ‘You must be awfully clever.’

‘Oh, you know,’ Rupert and his Third in Geography shrug modestly.

‘We need some more wine,’ I announce. ‘Rupe, come and help me with the ice, will you?’

‘I’d rather not,’ Rupert says, much to Cressida’s pleasure. ‘I love it where I am.’

‘I need you to. Now.’

Rupert rolls his eyes theatrically at Cressida, who giggles.

‘Don’t go away now,’ he husks.

Bloody hell. Love’s young dream.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I say to Rupert the second we’re in the kitchen, ‘don’t tell me, Rupe, that you haven’t told her.’

‘Haven’t told her what?’ Rupert asks innocently. ‘Lovely kitchen you’ve got here.’

‘Haven’t you told Cressida we used to be married?’

Rupert puffs his cheeks out.

‘I don’t think she’d like it.’

‘She doesn’t have an enormous amount of choice, Rupe – I mean, it happened. It’s not particularly significant …’

‘Thanks.’

‘You know what I mean. It’s not particularly significant, but you’re going to have a problem trying to keep it from her with my dad here, not to mention Frank. Anyway, I think it’s rather insulting. To me, I mean.’

‘What I really adore about her is that she’s so old-fashioned. Rather sweet, you know. Unspoiled. Probably believes in the Tooth Fairy.’

‘Well, I must say, she makes a nice change from all those girls you used to hang around Westbourne Grove with – the Taras with the trust funds and the coke habits.’

‘Don’t remind me. But that’s exactly my point. She’s not
urban
in that way. She wouldn’t know what E & O or Soho House was. She’s probably never taken drugs in her life. She’s just really, really sweet, like a puppy. Do you know, she still rides?’

‘Don’t tell Frank that, or he’ll start laughing.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a northern thing. He gets hysterical whenever he sees a Dial-a-Ride bus.’

‘How odd. Anyway, Stells, do you see? I didn’t think I’d get married again …’

‘Steady on! You’ve known her two minutes.’

‘I know, I know. But I really like her, and I think she’s just the right sort of woman for me. We could still live on the island and I can just sort of
see
her there, Stells, baking bread and so on. Shining light of the WI, that kind of thing.’

‘And you’re trying to keep your terrible past from her in case it puts her off? There’s nothing so awful about having been married for two seconds over ten years ago, you know.’

‘I’ll tell her eventually, Stella. But I’d rather not tell her now. Do you mind?’

‘Not really,’ I shrug. ‘But in that case we’d better go back through before someone says something they shouldn’t and this evening turns into …’

‘A French farce.’

‘Exactly’

‘You’re an angel. Thanks, Stells, I owe you one.’

The parcel from my father, which I am urged to open in public, contains, as suspected, a costume masquerading as a dress. This time, Papa has seen fit to buy me a Native American outfit consisting of a fringed suede dress, matching boots, a little feather-holder to wear around the forehead and a useful container for keeping my arrows in. Despite his cries of regret, I don’t try it on there and then, or indeed wear it out with Frank.

Honey goes to bed at seven thirty and falls fast asleep, compounding Papa’s disappointment. T hope she wakes up later,’ he moans, ‘or I shall be very bored.’

Cressida and Rupert slope off to their restaurant at ten to eight, and Frank and I go half an hour or so later, leaving my father comfortably ensconced with claret, cigar and cable television.

‘Amuse yourselves, my children,’ he says, seeing us out. ‘Come back late.’

I pull on my coat and force Frank to wear his (he usually does that absurd macho northern coatless thing, even – especially – when it’s freezing). And Frank and I step out into the night.

We start off somewhere in the East End of London. Frank orders lychee martinis, which are new to me and delicious in the extreme.

‘So,’ says Frank, once we’re settled in. ‘Nice bloke, but doesn’t seem your type.’

‘Who, Rupert? He’s not, but he was then, because he was so un-French – it was
years
ago, Frank. We used to have such a laugh. It was like being married to one’s brother.’

‘Did one have sex?’ Frank is wearing a suit, amazingly, with a black shirt and a black tie, which ought to look ludicrously, Guy Ritchie-ishly wannabe bad boy but works, somehow, on him: he looks naughty but nice, like an Eighties cream cake. More naughty than nice, actually – almost surly, until he smiles.

‘One did, actually,’ I tell him sternly. ‘Giggly, stupid sex. You know – the way you do when you’re really at ease with somebody. Falling about laughing and giving our genitals excruciating names.’

‘Yeah,’ says Frank, with a very small sigh. ‘I do. I love that. Haven’t had that for years.’

Aha! This would suggest a relationship that was longer than a one-night stand. It must, in fact, be a reference to the mother of Frank’s child. He must remember her, surely, sometimes? Or does he really never spare her a thought at all?

‘Do you ever think you’re actually oversexed? I mean, I’ve been through periods of, you know, in the past, but I can’t believe the number of people
you
go through. It can’t be good for you.’

‘Why not?’

‘It must be exhausting, for a start.’

‘I manage,’ says Frank. ‘ ’Nother martini? You shouldn’t gulp them down like that, you’ll be ill.’

‘Yes, please. Utterly delicious, aren’t they? And don’t worry about me. I could drink you under the table, I think you’ll find.
Actually
.’

Frank raises one eyebrow and grins, then gets the waiter.

‘I suppose perhaps you’re on a sort of quest,’ I continue.

‘Yes, possibly.’

‘What for, though, is the question? The ideal wife?’

‘A dirty ride,’ Frank smiles, raising his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Actually, the
ideal
dirty ride,’ Frank elaborates.

‘How do you define a dirty ride? I mean, what does it actually
mean
? I’ve always wanted to know – me and the entire female population.’

‘I can’t really explain it,’ Frank says unhelpfully. ‘Some people are dirty rides, and some people aren’t.’

‘In what way? Try and be specific, Frankie.’

‘See,’ says Frank, lighting a fag, ‘the thing about dirty rides is they don’t just turn it on.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, the dirty ride just
is
a dirty ride. She’s not
trying
to be dirty, because she already is. Being normally ladylike and then turning it on isn’t actually being a dirty ride. It’s
pretending
to be a dirty ride.’

‘Oh.’ Our second martinis arrive. ‘But how do you
define dirty? You mean those women who always look like they’ve just done it and are leaking into their pants? That look?’

‘Sometimes. Not always. Not by any means.’

‘Who, then? Pamela Anderson?’

‘Yeah. Have you seen the video?’

‘No.’

‘She’s a dirty ride. But it isn’t to do with the way she looks – it’s to do with her, um, enthusiasm. I mean, you could have a trick pelvis and still not be a dirty ride. It’s all in the delivery.’

‘So if you fellate someone with the most tremendous gusto, you’re a dirty ride?’

‘You can be.’

‘You’re not being at all clear,’ I sigh.

‘Sorry,’ he shrugs, smiling curiously. ‘It’s not that important.’

‘That’s a complete lie,’ I cry. ‘It is
hugely
important, otherwise it wouldn’t be your life’s quest and I wouldn’t be so extremely interested. I can’t overemphasize my interest, Frank. So come on. Give me examples. Who’s a dirty ride? What about blue knickers a couple of weeks ago? Was she?’

‘What, that short bird? Not especially’

‘The blonde who came in while I was having a shower, then – the one before the screamer. Remember? What about her?’

‘Oh, her,’ smiles Frank. ‘Yeah. Yeah, she was.’

‘Who else?’

‘I don’t think you’ve met any of them.’

‘So can you tell in advance? Point out the dirty rides in here.’

‘Really?’

‘Really’

‘Oh, all right. Come and sit next to me then, otherwise you’ll crick your neck.’ I get up and swap my chair for the leather banquette. ‘You can’t ever be absolutely 100 per cent certain,’ Frank says, ‘hence Red Knickers. But you can guess.’

‘Blue Knickers.’

‘What?’

‘She was wearing blue knickers, not red.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You’re really revolting,’ I tell him pleasantly. ‘Anyway. OK. Where are they? Show me.’

The bar we’re in is heaving with the usual assortment of identikit young trendies, as well as older people dressed, like Frank and I, in black. In the far right corner, huddled round a circular table, is an incongruous group of fresh-faced young women who look slightly out of place, though they’ve tried hard to blend in: despite the fashionable clothes, mussed hair and lashings of make-up, they all look like they should be frolicking with ponies in some sunny glade.

‘Well, none of them, obviously. Even I can tell that,’ I say.

‘Where?’

‘The big table on the right, over there. The out-of-towners. Hen party from Hampshire or something.’

‘The one in the middle, in the pale pink,’ says Frank. There’s a head in my way, so it takes me a few seconds to see properly.

‘The blonde? You can’t be serious.’

The woman Frank has pointed out rather reminds me
of Cressida: same well-fed, milky complexion, same Sloane breasts, same benign expression. She looks like a milkmaid.

‘She looks like a milkmaid,’ I tell Frank dismissively.

‘She’s a dirty ride,’ Frank says. ‘I’m telling you.’

‘But she looks really wholesome! Oh, I don’t understand it at all. You said it was women who looked leaky that were guaranteed dirty rides.’

‘No, Stell – that’s what you said. And you were right, in a way. Some look leaky, as you put it, some don’t. Sometimes it’s the really clean ones who are really dirty. And sometimes not – see that woman over there, in the black?’ He points to an emaciated stick with smeary, smudgy make-up around her eyes. Her dress is too short for her age and she is clearly in the throes of an appalling Mutton Moment. ‘Her too.’

‘I don’t understand it,’ I repeat. Rather chilling, no, this ability to point out such intimate things about women who are complete strangers? Bang bang bang: her and her and her. Wouldn’t bother with her. Rather smooth. Rather horribly male. Compelling, though.

‘They all look like they really love sex,’ Frank explains.

‘How can you tell? I mean, no one walks around looking like they
hate
sex. Although they sometimes do in the remoter Scottish islands, I’ve noticed. But apart from there …’

‘They both look like they’d suck you off without you having to ask. And really enjoy it,’ Frank says.

‘You wouldn’t need to push their heads down, you mean.’ I start sniggering.

‘Exactly’

‘Nice expression, “suck you off”. You’re agent, Frankie.’

‘Oi speak as Oi find,’ Frank says, in an absurd accent, which makes us both laugh again.

‘Your definition of a dirty ride is straight out of a porno magazine,’ I tell him after a while. ‘Basically, it’s women who are gagging for it and practically cry with come-y gratitude if you let them touch your dick. You’re like those sad men who write porn on the Internet – “Take me,” she begged, “oh, take me, I’m dripping all over the carpet with desire for your huge, proud, bee-yoo-diful cock.” That’s what you’re like, Frankie.’

‘I don’t think I’ve explained it properly,’ he says, refusing (annoyingly) to deny my accusations. ‘It’s not as simple as that, although you’re right – there
is
an element of pure male fantasy.’

‘Well, what about me?’

Frank raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of martini. I wish he’d stop raising his eyebrows at me.

‘No, seriously, Frank. If you were here with someone else and you saw me walking past, what would you say about me?’

‘I’m getting you a coffee. They’re very strong, those martinis, and it’s only nine o’clock.’

‘What are you now, my father?’

‘Yes.’ He grabs a waitress – literally, by the skirt of her apron – and orders me an espresso, and – ha! – another martini for himself.