Prudence Page 2

  Pendle lent across and opened the door for me.

  ‘I don’t usually go to men’s flats the first night I meet them,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he said calmly. ‘I hope you don’t usually go to parties like Marcia’s.’

  ‘Oh well,’ I said, as he locked the car, ‘just a quick drink and then home.’

  ‘What floor?’ I said, collapsing into the lift.

  ‘Thirteen. Are you superstitious?’

  ‘No, just super.’ As I haphazardly pressed a button, Pendle took me in his arms. That first kiss felt so faint-makingly right that it was only when he stopped for breath that I realized the lift had stopped too. Aware that I wouldn’t be looking my best with smeared lipstick under overhead light, I scrabbled at the lift gates, then felt very silly when I realized we were still on the ground floor.

  Pendle laughed. ‘You pressed the wrong button.’

  When we finally reached his flat I headed straight for the bathroom for a re-spray. My face was very mussed and flushed. If only I looked as nice after parties as I do at the beginning. To my dismay I then realized I’d left my muck bucket at Marcia’s and brought someone else’s bag instead. Inside I found a notecase with three fivers, a driving licence, several credit cards, and a photograph of a labrador and a tweedy woman with her legs apart. There was even a diary with the pencil still in the back — and we were now in September. Obviously a well-ordered person. Alas the only make-up she had was an awful cherry lipstick, which was hardly sufficient for the repair job I needed. I peered into Pendle’s medicine cupboard hoping for some make-up left by a former or current mistress, but only found expensive aftershave, talcum powder and, what was more interesting, two half-full bottles of tranquillizers and sleeping pills. Perhaps he was much more strung up than he seemed, behind the cool façade.

  ‘Oh well,’ I thought, taking the shine off with a bit of talcum powder, and slapping his aftershave on to my pulse spots, ‘I’ll just have to rely on personality.’

  He was standing in the hall. For a minute he stood there staring at me, as though he was memorizing every feature.

  ‘It’s incredible.’

  ‘Will I do?’ I said, swinging on the door handle.

  ‘A thousand ships,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well perhaps 950 ships. A purist would grumble about the freckles, and say your eyes were too far apart.’

  I looked bemused.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trained to be infuriatingly enigmatic. It’s a game I used to play with my brother Jack. You know, Helen was the face that launched a thousand ships; we used to grade women from 1,000 ships downwards.’

  ‘What’s Marcia?’ I said.

  ‘She only rates a rather dirty tug boat and a couple of sampans.’

  I giggled.

  ‘She won’t be pleased. I’ve walked off with someone else’s bag.’

  ‘It seems sad that someone of your tender age should join the criminal classes so early,’ said Pendle.

  ‘Will you defend me?’

  ‘M’Lord, the defendant was not in full possession of her senses when the crime occurred.’

  ‘You can say that again. Had I better take it back?’

  ‘Christ no, not tonight. Ring up and say you’ve got it. The telephone’s over there.’

  Just as I was dialling, Pendle picked up my hair and kissed me on the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

  ‘Nice hair,’ he said. ‘Is it natural?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m far too young to dye.’

  I actually made him laugh. Oh, the wages of scintillation! Then I had to dial the number again.

  Marcia was cross. ‘We’ve been looking for it everywhere, and Mummy and I wanted to do the washing up. Where are you?’

  ‘Back home. I’ll bring it over first thing in the morning.’

  I wandered into the drawing-room which was beautiful, harmonizing greys and rusts, with several abstract paintings with signatures even I’d heard of, thousands of books, and the sort of vastly elaborate hi-fi system you need a licence to drive. He opened a cupboard full of drink. That ought to have been another warning. If Jane and I have a bottle in our flat, we drink it. If there’s more than one we give a party.

  ‘What d’you want to drink?’ he said.

  ‘A gimlet please,’ I said, thinking that would fox him. But he reached straight for the Vodka.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t any fresh limes,’ he said. ‘Will lime juice do? I’ll get some ice. Put a record on.’

  They were all classical, but I by-passed the Bach and the Bruckner and put on Ravel’s Bolero. That beat drives me insane.

  He came back and handed me a large drink.

  ‘How delicious,’ I said, taking a huge gulp that nearly took my throat off. He poured himself some whisky and sat down on the sofa opposite me. He lit a cigarette and stared at me through the smoke — it was very unnerving. He’s the only man I’ve met who is completely unembarrassed by silences.

  ‘I was at school with Marcia,’ I said. Silly that the old bag seemed to be our main point of communication. ‘She was always winning prizes for history.’

  ‘She still seems to be buried in the Dark Ages,’ said Pendle.

  ‘How do you know her?’

  ‘Her father’s a high court judge.’

  Oh, so he was ambitious. I started to sing that snatch of Gilbert and Sullivan about falling in love with an old attorney’s elderly ugly daughter.

  ‘Not that Marcia’s so elderly or ugly really,’ I added, quickly remembering that men aren’t supposed to like bitchy girls.

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ I rattled on. ‘Marry someone awful just to advance my career. I don’t think I could ever sleep my way to the top.’

  The rate I was going downhill, I reflected, I could easily sleep my way to the bottom. I did fancy him, but I mustn’t, not on the first night. I was far too tight anyway, and my Bermuda shorts were even tighter; they left the most unattractive creases on my body.

  He was still staring at me. I tried to cross my legs, but found they were already crossed. That Bolero was really getting going now. Tum-tutty tum, tutty, tutty, tutty tum, tutty, tum. I was itching to dance — but instead I got up and went over to look at his books. There was some philosophy, some poetry, but mostly law books.

  I turned round and, smiling, danced slowly towards him. The music made me feel as though I had long gipsy skirts on. I must have looked an idiot in those Bermudas. I stood swaying in front of him. He watched me through narrowed eyes for a moment, then caught me by the hips and pulled me on to his knees.

  Oh dear, I did adore kissing him — but suddenly everything got out of control. He was biting at my lips. His hands were everywhere, ripping off my clothes. He turned completely savage, and I was fighting to get away from him. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped and buried his face in my neck.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’ It was weird, as though he were talking to someone else. After a few seconds, he got up and took me home and he never made another pass at me.

  Chapter Two

  In fact I was shattered when Pendle rang me the next day and asked me out, and from then on took me out two or three times a week. As a boyfriend, you couldn’t fault him. He always took me to nice places, he rang when he said he would, and was never more than five minutes late. But, somehow, he never opened up with me, and beyond the fact that he dressed well, had a beautiful flat and was already making a name for himself at the Bar, I knew nothing about him.

  What I noticed most was his rigid self-control — or was it lack of appetite? He never ate much, pushing his plate aside after a few bites and lighting a cigarette; he never drank much, and always after an excellent dinner and a bottle of wine, when I was expansive, and ready for laughter and love, he would tip the waiter, exactly 10 per cent, gather up his change and take me home.

  I tried everything to win him. I leant forward in
low-cut dresses, and backward in high-neck sweaters. I put my hair in bunches, in case he was on the Lolita kick. I put my hair up, in case he liked sophisticates. I even faked flu, and wore a see-through nightie when he came to see me. Not a pass was made, not a lecherous grab.

  And yet I found this icy reserve ridiculously seductive. Every time I made him laugh I felt I’d conquered Everest. I had also seen him moved to tears by a Beethoven Quintet. The whole time I was aware of the banked fires beneath the icy reserve, of a tension just this side of menace. As the weeks passed I found myself getting more and more hooked on him.

  Jane and I discussed it interminably.

  ‘Perhaps he’s a pouf,’ said Jane.

  ‘That was no pouf who attacked me the first night.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s married and doesn’t want to compromise you.’

  ‘That’s never deterred any married man I know.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s shy.’

  ‘Shy? He’s the coolest thing this side of an iceberg.’

  ‘So — perhaps he’s serious and doesn’t want to muck it up after the first night’s fiasco.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be lovely?’ I sighed. ‘I’ll ask him to dinner and you can tell me what you think.’

  Dinner was a catastrophe. Usually I love cooking, but the evening Pendle came round I tried too hard. I asked Rodney, my boss, who’s a bit finger-snapping and aggressively trendy, but a giggle when he gets tanked up, and another smashing zany girl copywriter from the agency called Dahlia, who can be guaranteed to make any party go. Jane had asked a man she fancied in her office, who was very witty as well as being a Liberal MP. All week I had fantasies of Jane and I sitting round looking radiant by candlelight, and contributing the odd remark as the conversational ball bounced scintillatingly along.

  Usually when people came to dinner, we ate lounging on cushions in front of the fire, and Jane made jokes about having to lay the floor, but that night I polished up the gateleg table, and laid it with candles and flowers. When Jane arrived home I was rolling out pastry with a milk bottle.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘All right, except I’ve made too much.’

  ‘Never mind. Henry can’t come, so I’ve asked this fantastic guy I met at a party last night. He’s called Tiger Millfield. Isn’t that great? And he plays rugger for England, so I’m sure he’ll eat for at least fifteen.’

  ‘Oh dear, I hope he and Pendle get on.’

  ‘What’s in here?’ said Jane, tripping over a casserole on the floor. There was so little room in our kitchen.

  ‘The filet for the boeuf en croute, mopping up a vat of Nuits St Georges,’ I said airily. ‘Now everyone can say I marinaded beneath me.’

  Jane groaned. ‘You have got him bad. Candles, flowers, gin, whisky. Jolly good thing it’s the beginning of the month. What else are we having?’

  ‘Pâté and tomato salad to start with, then the beef, and peaches soaked in white wine to finish up with.’

  Jane’s mouth watered. ‘What about the finger bowls and the waterlily napkins?’ she said. ‘I’m surprised you aren’t dressing Rodney up as a butler.’

  I ignored her and went into the drawing-room to give the gate leg table a last polish with my skirt.

  ‘Do you think I ought to put Pendle or Rodney on my right?’ I shouted. ‘Rodney’s been married. Does that take precedence over a bachelor?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I’d better go and change into something suitably gracious.’

  ‘There’s still masses to do,’ I wailed.

  ‘Well I’d better not distract you then.’

  Somehow at five to eight I was ready. I’d even bought a new dress for the occasion, long and medieval looking, in rust-coloured velvet, with an embroidered panel at the front, and long trumpet sleeves. I kept having another fantasy about Pendle staying long after everyone else, drawing me into his arms and saying, ‘Really, there’s no end to your achievements.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Jane, admiring the dress. ‘The Lady of Shallot! Appropriate too, after all those onions you’ve been chopping. You’d better take the price off.’

  Jane was wearing very tight jeans, no bra, and a blue T-shirt, which matched her blue eyes, and made her nipples stand out like acorns. She looked far better than me. My beastly face kept flushing up and clashing with the rust.

  Bang on the dot of eight, the doorbell rang. Jane picked up the answer-phone.

  ‘It’s Pendle,’ she said, ‘raring to get at you.’

  With shaking hands, I put a new Purcell record on the gramophone.

  Jane giggled. ‘Are we all going to dance the Gavotte?’

  Initially I could see Jane was impressed by Pendle. He was wearing a grey pinstriped suit which fitted his long greyhound figure to perfection, and his cold seagull’s eyes looked at her without any of the enthusiasm she was accustomed to from men. Here was a challenge. I made a lot of fuss pouring his whisky, running back and forth for water and ice. Usually Jane and I talked ninety to the dozen, but his presence seemed immediately to shut us up.

  ‘Do you think you’ll win the Westbury case?’ I said, after a long pause. I had been following it in The Times.

  ‘We might,’ said Pendle, ‘if Lady Westbury can be persuaded to go into the box.’

  ‘Sounds like a horse,’ said Jane.

  ‘Why?’ said Pendle.

  ‘Well some horses are difficult to get into horse boxes, or loose boxes,’ she added, brightening. ‘Do you ride?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pendle.

  ‘Well you must know it’s called a box. Oh, forget it. Pru says you’ve got a gorgeous flat in Westminster.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must be fun. Lots of MPs smuggling in their mistresses. Did you ever meet John Stonehouse?’

  ‘No,’ said Pendle.

  ‘Don’t they invite you to orgies?’

  Pendle in fact didn’t respond at all and made no attempt to chat her up. The pauses in the conversation became longer and longer. It was with passionate relief that we heard the doodle bug tick tick of a taxi arriving, and an explosion of voices and car doors slamming in the street below. It must be Rodney.

  ‘He’s bringing Dahlia,’ I said. ‘She’s lovely.’

  Rodney arrived with two litres of Pedrotti and no Dahlia. She had evidently got flu. Instead he had brought a beautiful but unbelievably dreary girl from the Publicity Department called Ariadne who lived on weed salads and yoghurt and was permanently talking about diets.

  Rodney, a confirmed lecher, had suffered a great shock when his wife had suddenly left him, and had consequently, by way of compensation, taken up even more dedicated lechery and the wearing of self-consciously trendy clothes. Tonight he was resplendent in a dark green velvet cat suit tucked into black boots, and slashed to the waist to show a blond suntanned chest. (He had just been filming in Ibiza.) The suit was a little too tight for him. I wished he’d worn something slightly less outrageous. Pendle was looking at him with distaste, Jane in wonder.

  I was in such a state I forgot Ariadne’s name when I tried to introduce her. She needed livening up with a good strong drink, but she insisted on just having water. Had I any idea how many calories there were in alcohol?

  ‘Oh come on, live a little,’ said Rodney.

  ‘I’ve lost three inches off my hips since I gave up booze.’

  ‘Oh Bottom thou art translated,’ said Rodney.

  Jane shrieked with laughter. Rodney sensed an ally.

  ‘What’s this crap you’ve put on the record player?’ he said turning to me.

  ‘Purcell,’ I said, blushing.

  ‘Well it won’t wash,’ he said, winking at Jane. ‘For God’s sake take it off and put on something less rarefied. Who else is coming?’ he said, counting the places.

  ‘Tiger Millfield,’ said Jane.

  ‘The international?’ said Rodney. ‘I was at school with him. We sat next to each other in chapel for three years.’

  ‘What was he
like?’ said Jane.

  ‘Never spoke to each other.’

  Jane and I laughed. Pendle’s face didn’t flicker.

  Rodney took a belt at his whisky and made a face.

  ‘You’ve put tonic in, darling, instead of soda. You must be in a state.

  ‘You’ve had a terrible effect on her,’ he added, grinning at Pendle. ‘She’s supposed to flip through the Nationals every morning to see if any of our clients get a mention. All she does is pore over the law reports. Says they’re even better than Crossroads.’

  ‘Oh, shut up Rodney,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve worked together for two years,’ Rodney went on, ‘so if you want any gen on her, I’ll give it to you — at a price. Perhaps in return you could give me some advice about my divorce.’

  ‘I don’t do much divorce work,’ said Pendle, coldly. ‘I’d consult a solicitor if I were you.’

  The rudeness was quite blatant. Pendle obviously thought Rodney too silly for words. He got up and looked at the books — far too many of them cheap novels.

  Rodney shrugged and winked at Jane, who winked back.

  ‘Pru never said you were this pretty,’ he said, sitting down beside her and admiring her tits. ‘Have you ever done any modelling? I think you’d have a great future.’

  ‘I haven’t had a bad past,’ said Jane.

  ‘I swear by a glass of hot lemon juice first thing in the morning,’ said Ariadne.

  ‘I swear automatically first thing in the morning,’ said Rodney. ‘I don’t need lemon juice.’

  I escaped to the kitchen. Suddenly there seemed a hell of a lot to do. Making the Bearnaise sauce, unwrapping the butter, uncorking bottles of wine, putting on the potatoes and the mange-touts. Two strong drinks didn’t seem to have done anything but make me clumsy. I felt myself getting redder and redder in the face. Oh, why had I been so ambitious? The beef would be ruined if Tiger Millfield didn’t arrive soon.

  When I got back Jane and Rodney were nose to nose admiring each other’s cleavages. Pendle was looking grey with boredom. Ariadne was saying, ‘I tried the meat and citrus fruit diet, but it made my breath smell.’