The Penultimate Chance Saloon by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online

lazy, and couldn’t be trusted any further than you could see them.
    Though he might have argued gender politics in more sophisticated company, Bill found Carolyn’s attitude obscurely comforting. When a woman started from such a low base of expectation, there was much less chance of a man disappointing her. And men go through life in doom-laden fear of disappointing women.
    â€˜I like to think Andrea and I have achieved a civilised divorce.’
    Carolyn blew out a derisive stream of smoke. ‘No such thing. You’ll both be seething vats of nit-picking resentments for the rest of your lives.’
    â€˜You may be right. But that’s certainly not the way either of us is feeling at the moment.’
    â€˜How do you know what Andrea’s feeling?’
    â€˜She’s married to Dewi, who is apparently the great love of her life. She’s able to be a Mother Hen to his children, which is apparently one of her lifetime ambitions. She has all the relationships she’s ever wanted. I would imagine she’s very happy.’
    â€˜And how about you?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Have you got all the relationships you ever wanted?’
    â€˜I still don’t understand.’
    â€˜I’m asking whether you’ve started on the geriatric dating trawl yet.’
    â€˜I think it’s still a bit early after the break-up.’
    â€˜I thought you said that you were feeling fine.’
    â€˜Yes. But I want to get my breath. I don’t want to rush into another long-term commitment.’
    â€˜I asked about dating, not long-term commitments. And I must say you’re unusual even to mention the idea. Most men I’ve met wouldn’t recognise a long-term commitment if it came up and slapped them in the face.’ Carolyn’s knee-jerk reaction had kicked in. The male gender could not be mentioned without a reference to its perfidy.
    â€˜I’m in no hurry.’
    â€˜Well, you should be. I know how old you are from the biog on the books. How long do you reckon you’ve got left?’
    â€˜I hadn’t really thought about it.’
    â€˜Then you should have done. And don’t just think about life expectancy, think in terms of active life. You should be cramming in as much activity as you can before everything drops off.’
    â€˜Is that what you’re doing, Carolyn?’
    Here was an opportunity to find out a little detail about her domestic circumstances, but the question was deflected by a brusque ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’
    â€˜I think your prognosis is a bit gloomy. You make it sound as if I’m in the Last Chance Saloon.’
    â€˜Damn nearly.’
    Bill took a swallow of the wickedly sweet tea before redirecting the conversation. ‘So ... any good new ones?’
    This was another part of their regular routine. To maintain the illusion that Bill had something useful to contribute to the running of BWOC, Carolyn would read out to him the pick of the latest by way of contrast stories. He loved the way she did this, totally flat, without a flicker of intonation, always reminding him of a woman in a joke shop who’d once sold him ‘one Comedy Nose, rubbery; one Tomahawk Through Head; one Dirty Dog Poo’, without cracking a smile.
    But he knew Carolyn’s choice of delivery was deliberate. She didn’t lack a sense of humour; her selection of the funniest items was unerring. She was just aware of the power of the deadpan.
    â€˜...and, “by way of contrast,”’ she concluded, reading from the screen in front of her, ‘“a man in Lytham St Anne’s has perfected a method of speaking to gerbils, though he cannot yet understand what they’re saying back to him.”’
    â€˜Good,’ said Bill. ‘There seems to be no end to the supply.’
    â€˜The world’s never going to run out of triviality – or people who prefer to hide behind it