Chasing Men by Edwina Currie Read Free Book Online Page A

often do you do this?’
    They were in a narrow stone-flagged lobby. A circular marble staircase curled behind and above. Opera music – Tosca ? – floated down, with the sound of tinkling glasses and a murmur of well-bred voices. ‘Is this new? I don’t recall Stephen ever mentioning it.’
    ‘Darling!’ Clarissa feigned surprise. The charm bracelet jingled. ‘Christopher’s is the place. It was in Harper’s and Queen .’
    ‘It used to be the National Liberal Club,’ said the receptionist. She was a thin, angular girl with a fashionably wild haircut. She jerked her head skywards. ‘Lots of intrigues. Government disasters and that. Years ago, of course.’
    ‘And men only, I’ll bet,’ Clarissa added. ‘Wasn’t it a brothel once, too? Lucky devils.’
    The airy upstairs room was sparsely furnished: minimalist was in, Hetty noticed. A polished plank floor, pale drapes, colour-washed stone walls, simple ironwork tables with white linen. The flowery fabrics and Laura Ashley style left behind in Dorset suddenly seemed impossibly twee. She tugged down the new jacket and wished the trousers did not chafe so. Perhaps size sixteen would have been wiser.
    They were seated by the oriole window. Hetty could see the colonnaded Lyceum Theatre opposite, the activity at its stage door – it must be a matinee day – and caught the bustle of taxis and a fruit-stall in the street below. She wriggled her shoulders. ‘Thanks, Clarissa. You’re a pal. I love my new suit.’
    The menus arrived. Hetty was about to order lamb in red wine with roast potatoes, then checked herself. Her mother had set an example. ‘The seafood,’ she said, ‘and a salad.’
    ‘And to drink, madam?’ Like the receptionist, the waiter was young and skinny with a gelled hairdo that had taken much art to appear as if he had just got out of bed.
    ‘It’s on me, remember. Let’s celebrate.’ Clarissa smiled sweetly at the youth. ‘Two glasses of champagne, please.’
    ‘What are we celebrating?’
    ‘Oh, I dunno. Your divorce? Did you screw him for a lot of money? Will you get the house?’
    ‘Lord, no. I got enough to buy the flat, and to tide me over. Stephen still has a hefty mortgage, and we have to think of Peter – it’s his home too. Anyway, I didn’t want it.’
    ‘But it’s worth a packet! You mean, you walked away?’
    Hetty shrugged.
    ‘You’re crazy. You should have nailed his ears to the wall. I would have.’
    The seafood was beautifully served in a shallow soup dish with a knife, fork and spoon. A fleshy prawn, a black mussel shell, chunks of translucent monkfish poked like miniature atolls from a lagoon of garlicky sauce. Hetty glanced at other diners and saw it was permitted – encouraged – to eat the sauce with the spoon. And, if she wished, to wipe up thedregs with a piece of walnut bread.
    She took two swallows of champagne. ‘I am, however, beginning to feel I have something to celebrate. Getting over the hurdle of the divorce is one. My mother believes I was put upon for too long.’
    Clarissa was twiddling with a green salad. Her mouth full of frisé lettuce – not the easiest vegetable to eat daintily. Only a nod was forthcoming.
    ‘And now I find myself living on my own. It does feel weird. My daughter says I’ll go bonkers and end up in a psychiatric hospital.’ Hetty paused long enough to prise open a mussel. ‘This is truly delicious, Clarissa – thanks a million.’
    ‘Terribly fattening,’ Clarissa said. ‘All that cream in the sauce. Murder for the hips.’
    ‘Don’t be depressing. I’ve enough on my plate without that.’
    ‘She’s got a point, though, your Sally.’ Clarissa pushed away the remaining rocket. ‘You mustn’t stay at home and mope. If you like, we could do this once a fortnight or so. Have lunch, then go to a movie or a show. Go shopping – Ikea, say, for anything you needed for your flat, or further afield, like Lakeside in Essex. Even take the Eurostar to Paris –