Chasing Men by Edwina Currie Page B

boys chortled in unison. One started blowing lurid pink bubbles. ‘We’re let off early.’
    ‘What’s a Baker day?’ Hetty saw that Bob instantly regretted asking, but the boys were happy to enlighten him.
    ‘For training our teachers. To give ’em some ejjicashun. So they can teach us be’er.’
    ‘Is it effective?’ Hetty asked under her breath, then gazed askance at the restless imps. ‘Not a chance.’
    ‘Everyone ready?’ Bob demanded. ‘Eyes on Johnnie. Big smiles, come on .’
    He danced on the spot, clapping his hands over his head, the clipboard papers flapping about. One leaf detached itself and floated to the floor and he scrabbled to catch it, cursing. The audience stirred, shuffled and clapped in a desultory fashion.
    ‘No, no. That won’t do. You’re watching the best programme on telly! You’re going to be on telly yourselves!’
    That did it, though it took two more attempts before Bob was satisfied. The required noise level was achieved eventually by playing the first tape over in synch, so that it sounded as if double the numbers were present. Thus encouraged, the boys and the drunks whooped and hollered, though he would not permit them to stamp their boots. ‘The set’ll collapse,’ he explained ominously. The boys glanced down anxiously.
    ‘Okay. On your feet. To your left – one, two, three, go!!’
    The entire crowd rose, collected itself and its belongings and shuffled ten paces to the left, then with much grumbling (and a few guffaws from the boys) settled itself once more in front of a different part of the backdrop.
    Bob pointed at Johnnie. ‘Again! Big smiles! And let’s hear you!!’
    The drinkers indulged themselves, this time, in hearty cheering. Bob’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s more like it. Once more!’
    Hetty found herself observing the guest sitting pensively on set, miked-up and ready. He was a banker in his forties, with a tanned, handsome face and a trim haircut silvering above his ears. He had told Kate, who had handled the contact, that he was agonising whether to give up the financial world in order to follow his dream, to be a writer. Nicholas was his name. Father Roger thought he was a bit of a poseur.
    Hetty had taken his part. ‘A man like that,’ she had argued, ‘would have to be very brave to abandon everything and reach out for the unknown. It’s admirable.’
    Such a decision, for a man, had parallels with her own in divorcing Stephen andquitting the cosy world of marriage and coupledom. Maybe Nicholas, too, felt he had little choice, if restlessness had come to the fore. But the future would still be a shock. His security would vanish, all previous points of reference be destroyed. He would need every scrap of self-confidence to survive.
    In herself, the ache for security was vividly present, reawakened each Sunday evening as she sat down to sort out her bills. At the council of war Sally had painted a gloomy scenario: a reflection of her own fears, perhaps, or of her unsatisfactory experience so far. Clarissa, also, had common sense on her side. Marriage was a meal ticket. It had been wonderful not to worry about money, to spend whatever was necessary, not to puzzle why her bank account emptied so fast. Stephen was not the only one spoiled under the old regime. She had been too, and she missed it.
    A man like Nicholas might be totally sympathetic. Hetty began to examine their guest with greater interest. He did not seem like a poseur – Father Roger could be too worldly wise altogether. Did Nicholas have a wife or partner? Was he in any way available? His personal details were on the computer; she could bring them up without revealing her reasons to anyone. That would also give his home phone number.
    She watched Rosa dashing about: the lady exuded joie de vivre , though there was no suggestion she was in love with this Richard. A great sex life, it was no more than that. Nothing would come of it, but although she felt superior, Hetty could not