Prudence

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.’

I couldn’t face them. I escaped into the kitchen again, and was just shaking a lettuce out of the window when Jane joined me.

‘Don’t leave them,’ I wailed.

‘Isn’t he fantastic?’ said Jane.

‘Pendle?’ I said brightening.

‘No, Rodney.’

‘What do you think of Pendle?’

‘He doesn’t exactly make one feel at home, does he?’

‘Do you think he fancies me?’

‘Hard to tell. He never takes his eyes off you, but it’s like a cat watching a mouse.’

‘Don’t you think he’s devastating?’

‘Not my type really. Let me have about me men that are fat. Yon Pendle has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous,’ she finished off, pleased with herself at the comparison.

‘Why haven’t you shelled the peas?’

‘They’re mange-touts,’ I snapped. ‘Well he may not be your type, but what about me?’

‘I preferred your other boyfriend — Charlie, even old Tom.’

‘Charlie and old Tom were slobs,’ I said, shaking the lettuce so furiously that I let go of the cloth and it went sailing out into the street. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

‘Never mind, there’s so much to eat,’ said Jane soothingly.

‘Where the hell’s Tiger got to?’ I snapped.

The doorbell rang.

Rodney picked up the answer-phone in the drawing-room. ‘It’s the grandest Tiger in the Jungle,’ he said.

‘I must go to the loo,’ said Jane, disappearing into the bathroom. I knew perfectly well she’d gone to tart up.

As I went to answer the door, there was a terrible crash. Tiger had tripped over all the twenty-five milk bottles I’d put outside in my giant tidy-up for Pendle. He swayed in the doorway with a lettuce leaf on his head. He was very handsome, but also quietly and extremely drunk. Cross-eyed, he confronted his diary.

‘Think I’ve been asked to dinner.’

‘Hello darling,’ said Jane, coming up and kissing him. Removing the lettuce leaf from his head, she took him into the drawing-room and introduced him.

‘Was it a good party?’ said Rodney, looking at him speculatively, sizing up the competition.

‘Think so,’ said Tiger. ‘My cigarette packet’s absolutely covered in telephone numbers.’

‘It’s always been my ambition to play rugger for England,’ said Jane.

‘Mine is to go to work every day reading a pink paper in the back of a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce,’ said Rodney.

‘Mine is to weigh seven stone,’ said Ariadne.

Rodney, bent on sabotage, poured Tiger the most enormous whisky. Pendle was looking at his watch.

‘We’ll eat in two seconds,’ I said and hared back to the kitchen for a last-minute panic of dishing-up. My medieval sleeves trailed in the Bearnaise sauce, which had started to curdle. Oh, why hadn’t I stuck to jeans? I was frenziedly mashing the potatoes when Rodney came in.

‘I love the way your bottom wiggles when you do that.’ I gritted my teeth.

‘Cook is obviously getting a little unnerved,’ he went on.

‘The same intelligence is required to marshal an army as to cook dinner.’

‘Well, I’m not officer material,’ I snapped.

‘I do like your flatmate,’ said Rodney. He peered into the Bearnaise sauce. ‘I didn’t know we were having scrambled eggs.’

‘Too many cooks spoil the brothel,’ said Jane. ‘I think we ought to eat, Pru darling. Pendle and Tiger are getting on like a piece of damp blotting paper on fire.’

‘Go and sit people down,’ I said, ‘and make sure Pendle doesn’t get the side plate with the rabbits running round, or the three-pronged fork.’

‘Mind out,’ said Jane, pulling Rodney out of the way, ‘or you’ll be run over by a passing capon.’

‘Who’s going to say grace?’ said Jane, as we sat down.

‘Give us this day the will to resist our daily bread,’ said Rodney. ‘I’ve put on a stone in the last three months. I used to be lithe as a panther.’

‘Let me have about me men that are fat,’ said Jane, meaningfully.

‘Have some pâté,’ I said to Ariadne.

‘No, I won’t thank you very much. It looks delicious though.’

Now we were in the awful hassle of ‘Have you got butter, toast, pâté, tomato salad, pepper? Watch out, the top’s inclined to fall off. Oh dear, you haven’t got a fork; you must have left it in the tomatoes.’

The table was much too small, and everyone was jabbing elbows into everyone else. Ariadne, having nibbled one piece of tomato from which she had shaken all the oil, was watching every bit of food that went into everyone’s mouth like a slavering dog.

‘People don’t realize how fattening cheese is,’ she said to Pendle. ‘No thank you, I won’t have any wine.’

Tiger and Rodney having established they were at school together were swapping anecdotes across me. Jane was hanging on their every word, and not taking any notice of Pendle who was sitting opposite me. I daren’t ask him about work, as I knew Jane and Rodney would start mobbing me up. Suddenly our eyes met, and he gave me that swift wicked smile, and for the first time that evening I felt like not cutting my throat. Stick with me baby, I pleaded with my eyes, I’m not enjoying it any more than you are. But the next moment he had turned back to Ariadne, who was talking about some diet book that had just been published. ‘Butter’s evidently quite all right in moderation,’ she said. She was awfully pretty; perhaps he fancied her.

Tiger’s elbow kept falling off the table, and we all had to wait while he ploughed through a second helping.

‘D’you mind if we look at the box during the News at Ten break?’ asked Rodney, who had several crumbs in his hairy chest. ‘I want to see the Virago Tyre commercial. I keep missing it. Have you seen it?’ he added to Pendle.

‘I don’t watch television,’ said Pendle.

Rodney flipped his lid. ‘That’s what I’ve got against lawyers,’ he howled. ‘Your attitude is positively antedeluvian. How can anyone not watch television in this day and age?’

Oh God, he was about to launch into his anti-legal profession tirade. I leapt to my feet.

‘Could you pass your plate up, darling?’

But Rodney was not to be halted, and when I staggered in with the beef en croute five minutes later he was still at it.

‘My own divorce would have been perfectly amicable; my wife and I might even be struggling on together today if it hadn’t been for lawyers putting their oar in. Everyone should conduct their own defence.’

‘Oh rubbish,’ I said. ‘If Eve had had a decent counsel, we’d probably all still be living in paradise.’

I thought that was quite a bright remark, but no one took any notice. They didn’t like Pendle. They were waiting for Rodney to carve him up.

‘Lawyers are a lot of incompetent hacks,’ said Rodney, ‘blinding people with their own mumbo jumbo. All you care about is reputation. You don’t give a bugger about the issues of the case; you just want to beat other lawyers.’

‘That’s right,’ said Jane.

‘I think PLJ’s a rip-off,’ said Ariadne hopefully. ‘No pastry thank you, Pru.’

Pendle sat very still, looking at Rodney, the expression on his face too complex for me to read its meaning. In spite of twelve hours marinading, the boeuf en croute had overcooked to the consistency of horse meat. Only Tiger seemed to have no trouble with it.

‘The people who control our courts,’ went on Rodney, splashing wine into everyone’s glasses, ‘are a lot of geriatrics in fancy dress. The whole system, in fact, is designed to isolate them from the pressures of modern life. Who, pray, are the Rolling Stones? Christ you’re cushioned against reality.’

‘We deal with murders, rape, divorce every day,’ said Pendle mildly. ‘I’d hardly call that…’

‘Exactly my point,’ interrupted Rodney. ‘You can only deal with the horror of life by turning it into a play with a stage and a cast in period costume.’

‘We haven’t got any napkins,’ said Jane, leaping to her feet.

Rodney was warming up now. ‘Why do legal costs increase as the price of a house increases, although exactly the same amount of paperwork is involved? Why can’t you go to four different lawyers and get estimates for their services? And it’s all geared to the rich, isn’t it? Pay a fine or go to prison, so the rich pay up, and the poor have to go to jug.’

‘Napkins anyone?’ said Jane, coming in with a roll of loo paper and proceeding to break bits off for everyone. I put my head in my hands.

‘It’s time for drastic reform,’ said Rodney, tipping back his chair. ‘The crime rate’s going up and up, the divorce rate’s rocketing and parasites like you are cleaning up.’

Pendle was playing with his knife. Pale, ascetic, watchful, beside Rodney and Tiger he looked like a Jesuit priest among a lot of debauched jolly cardinals.

‘The reason why crime is going up,’ said Pendle softly, ‘is because people have never before been so well informed about what they’re missing. And we’ve got your profession to thank for that. Every time we turn on a television set, or walk down a street, or go in the tube, we’re bombarded by advertisements, tempting us with the promise of a better life. As a result everyone thinks they’ve got a right to a modern kitchen, a new car, a beautiful girl in a cornfield, a happy family life, children in permanently white jeans, a bouncing bright-eyed dog. No wonder marriages break up when people are constantly bombarded by an idealized picture of marital bliss.’

‘Oh don’t give me that old crap,’ spluttered Rodney. ‘Advertising provides a service; we tell the public what’s on the market.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Pendle. ‘You create discontent, envy and avarice. You encourage a constant desire for novelty. Change the packaging, sell the product as new.’

‘Everything is backed up by market research and statistics,’ said Rodney pompously.

‘Advertising people use statistics like a drunk uses a lamp post,’ snapped Pendle. ‘For support rather than illumination. What sort of world d’you think you’ve created when there’s no child whose unhappiness can’t be dispelled by a sunshine breakfast, no romantic setback that can’t be cured by using a new kind of toothpaste, no marital dust-up that can’t be ended with a box of chocolates?’

He was playing with words now.

‘Bravo,’ I said.

‘Advertising’s fun; no one takes it seriously,’ protested Jane.

‘Oh yes they do,’ said Pendle. ‘Thousands of people write in for an amazing offer of a £2 so-called steak knife that’s worth 99p. Dress anyone up in a white coat and the public think he’s an unimpeachable authority. I came across an advertisement the other day which claimed its product was used by 90 per cent of actors who play doctors on television.’

‘Sounds like the sort of line I write,’ I said in a desperate attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

‘At least advertising keeps people in work — actors, writers, designers,’ stuttered Rodney.

‘Advertising stultifies creativity,’ said Pendle crushingly. ‘That’s why hardly any decent poetry or painting or music’s being produced in this country at the moment. All the creative talent is being frittered away in advertising.’

There was a silence. Tiger Millfield let out a huge belch, but no one giggled. Somehow when Rodney had attacked Pendle it had just been bluster, but with Pendle one felt it was the real thing. It was too late to do any rescue work. I really ought to catch the eye of the highest lady of rank, and whisk her out of the room, leaving the combatants to their port, but we hadn’t had pudding yet.

‘I’m sure some of the advertising for slimming products is very suspect,’ said Ariadne.

‘Isn’t it time for your commercial, Rodney?’ said Jane.

‘Well if that concludes the case for the prosecution,’ said Rodney, getting to his feet and switching on the box, ‘I think we might indulge in a little animated corruption.’

I cleared away. It was sad that people could leave more on their plates than you appeared to have given them in the first place. I didn’t bother with the pudding, and by the time I got back with the coffee, the commercial break was over, and Jane and Rodney were stuck into some political scandal on the news. Tiger Millfield was listening owlishly to Ariadne yapping on about wheat germ. Pendle was looking at his watch.

‘Where’s your glass?’ I said.

‘I must go.’

‘But it’s early. Now beastly dinner’s over we can relax.’

‘I’ve got to drive down to Winchester early tomorrow morning. The brief only arrived this evening. I haven’t studied it yet.’

He nodded a curt goodbye to everyone else, and I followed him out into the hall.

‘Will you be down in Winchester long?’ I said, suddenly overwhelmed by desolation.

‘A couple of days. Thank you for having me.’

‘You certainly floored Rodney,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you felt so strongly about advertising.’

His eyes gleamed wickedly.

‘I don’t. If I’d wanted to I could have argued the case for advertising just as well.’

‘B-but you were so convincing,’ I said.

‘That’s my job.’

And he was gone, without even saying he’d ring me.

Back in the drawing-room Tiger Millfield was trying to ring for a taxi on the answer-phone. In the end he decided to go and flag one down in the street, taking Ariadne with him, thank goodness.

‘You get so tired on a diet,’ she said. ‘Are you coming, Rodney?’

‘I’ll stay on a bit,’ said Rodney. ‘Mustn’t break up the party all at once.’

I left Rodney and Jane, and went into the kitchen. I felt near to tears, physically and mentally exhausted. The hostess with the leastest, Mrs Utterly Beaten. A pile of pots, pans, glasses, plates and uneaten food greeted me. I couldn’t face it. I went back into the drawing-room. Rodney was sitting in an armchair, rolling a joint, telling Jane about the pot he grew in his back garden. Jane was leaning against his knees. They stopped talking when they saw me.

‘Lovely dins, darling,’ said Rodney.

‘I’m sorry about the beef,’ I said, flopping into an armchair.

‘You were had by the butcher,’ said Jane.

‘I never know if meat’s tender just by looking at it,’ I said. ‘It all looks the same, like Chinamen.’

‘Rodney’s going to put me on a poster,’ said Jane. ‘You’re going to see me hoarding down from every stare.’

There was a long pause. Then they both said simultaneously,

‘Darling, he’s not for you.’

‘Why not?’ I said, blushing.

‘Because he’s a bastard,’ said Rodney.

‘It’s only because he worsted you in an argument,’ I said. ‘He didn’t really mean what he said about advertising, he admitted it outside in the hall. He could’ve just as easily argued for advertising.’

‘That’s what’s wrong with him,’ said Jane, ‘he’s inhuman.’

‘Beneath that cold chilly legal exterior,’ said Rodney, ‘is an even chillier legal heart.’ He handed Jane the joint; she inhaled deeply.

‘I don’t know why he didn’t go and sit in the fridge,’ she said with a giggle. ‘Might have warmed him up a bit.’

She offered it to me, but I shook my head. I felt too miserable.

‘Come on, cheer up,’ said Rodney. ‘There are plenty more cold fish in the sea.’

‘But I don’t want to go out with a fish. Why does he keep asking me out?’ I said with a sob.

‘I don’t know,’ said Rodney. ‘He’s obviously far more interested in his own briefs than getting into yours.’

‘If he really cared for you,’ said Jane, ‘he’d have made an effort to be polite instead of freezing us out.’

‘Whatever he feels for you,’ said Rodney, much more gently, ‘it isn’t the normal healthy lust a man feels for a beautiful normal girl. He’s playing games with you, Pru, and I don’t reckon he’s up to any good.’