nonsense, Barbara – you’re hardly ever in,’ Isabella says, affectionately patting her arm. ‘You’re a social whirl. Have a drink,’ she adds, racing off to find one of her pitchers of cocktails.
‘I’m Stella,’ I tell Barbara.
‘No surname? Then I’m Barbara.’ She gives me a bold, frank look – right in the eyes, bang bang. ‘Come and sit by me. I don’t like standing when I don’t have my stick.’
We walk over to the sofa and sit side by side. ‘Who are these people?’ Barbara asks.
‘I don’t really know any of them. He’s a plastic surgeon.’ I point at Cooper.
‘Oh, yes, I know him – William Cooper. Raised my sister’s jowls last year; she rather fell in love with him. Do you know, I think he may have had a fling with Isabella.’
‘Really? How fascinating. When? I wonder whether she had anything done.’ Good of Isabella to pass him on, I suppose. Is that what women
do
now? Probably: we’re always hearing about how there aren’t enough men to go round.
‘Anything done? I should hope not. Ghastly business,plastic surgery. So many women of my generation had their faces ruined. Lumps, you know, suddenly appearing
years
afterwards.’
‘Eeeoo.’ I make a face. ‘Anyway, next to him is a woman called Tree who is training to be a music therapist.’ Barbara looks over and smiles so knowingly at me that I grin back. ‘And then the couple by the mantelpiece,’ I continue. ‘I don’t know what they do, but he seems very jolly.’
‘And she less so?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then dear Isabella. My god-daughter, you know.’
‘I didn’t actually. How nice. Do you have children of your own?’
‘No, my dear,’ smiles Barbara. ‘What about you?’
‘One, a little girl. Eighteen months. Her name’s Honey.’
‘What a sweet name.’
‘Isn’t it? She’s a sweet little girl.’
‘And what do you and Honey do all day?’
‘Not much, actually. Well, I do the odd bit of translating now and again, but mainly we’re at home in Primrose Hill. Her father and I are separated.’ Blissfully, Barbara spares me the platitudes – the so sorrys, how sads, oh dear what happeneds that I never have any replies to.
‘
I
live in Hampstead,’ Barbara says instead. ‘We could get together sometimes. Do you walk?’
‘Yes – unless it’s absolutely pouring, I try to take Honey to the playground once a day, and then for a trot around the park.’
‘We could walk together, if you liked. I’m rather slow, I’m afraid.’
‘I’d love that,’ I say, meaning it.
I’m pretty sure Barbara is a lesbian, which is reallyneither here nor there except for the fact that I think I must give off gay vibes myself, because lesbians absolutely always make a beeline for me. This occasionally leads me to wonder whether I am, in fact, batting for the wrong team: if every single lesbian I’ve ever met has looked at me in the manner of like recognizing like,
perhaps they know something I don’t
. On the other hand, Barbara is a very old lesbian, and if I were to start exploring the notion of sexual fluidity, I’d rather do it with someone my own age. More to the point, I can’t imagine what sex would be like without a flesh-and-blood penis being involved. Slurpy, I suppose, like glutting on oysters. I groan quietly to myself: try as I might, I really can’t fancy the idea of hot lezzo action much at all. But surely it must have something to recommend it if so many people practise it? Very confusing. Perhaps the slurping is optional. And people’s breasts
are
interesting, I remember from the showers at school: some girls had that thing where the combination of two nipples and one tummy-button made a perfect sort of face – huge, rather boggly eyes (the nipples), small nose (the TB), furry triangular mouth (the pubis) – which used to fascinate me. But the fact remains: fascination or not, I didn’t yearn to get close to the faces, or to grope them.
Tree comes over to speak to Barbara,
‘I’m Stella,’ I tell Barbara.
‘No surname? Then I’m Barbara.’ She gives me a bold, frank look – right in the eyes, bang bang. ‘Come and sit by me. I don’t like standing when I don’t have my stick.’
We walk over to the sofa and sit side by side. ‘Who are these people?’ Barbara asks.
‘I don’t really know any of them. He’s a plastic surgeon.’ I point at Cooper.
‘Oh, yes, I know him – William Cooper. Raised my sister’s jowls last year; she rather fell in love with him. Do you know, I think he may have had a fling with Isabella.’
‘Really? How fascinating. When? I wonder whether she had anything done.’ Good of Isabella to pass him on, I suppose. Is that what women
do
now? Probably: we’re always hearing about how there aren’t enough men to go round.
‘Anything done? I should hope not. Ghastly business,plastic surgery. So many women of my generation had their faces ruined. Lumps, you know, suddenly appearing
years
afterwards.’
‘Eeeoo.’ I make a face. ‘Anyway, next to him is a woman called Tree who is training to be a music therapist.’ Barbara looks over and smiles so knowingly at me that I grin back. ‘And then the couple by the mantelpiece,’ I continue. ‘I don’t know what they do, but he seems very jolly.’
‘And she less so?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then dear Isabella. My god-daughter, you know.’
‘I didn’t actually. How nice. Do you have children of your own?’
‘No, my dear,’ smiles Barbara. ‘What about you?’
‘One, a little girl. Eighteen months. Her name’s Honey.’
‘What a sweet name.’
‘Isn’t it? She’s a sweet little girl.’
‘And what do you and Honey do all day?’
‘Not much, actually. Well, I do the odd bit of translating now and again, but mainly we’re at home in Primrose Hill. Her father and I are separated.’ Blissfully, Barbara spares me the platitudes – the so sorrys, how sads, oh dear what happeneds that I never have any replies to.
‘
I
live in Hampstead,’ Barbara says instead. ‘We could get together sometimes. Do you walk?’
‘Yes – unless it’s absolutely pouring, I try to take Honey to the playground once a day, and then for a trot around the park.’
‘We could walk together, if you liked. I’m rather slow, I’m afraid.’
‘I’d love that,’ I say, meaning it.
I’m pretty sure Barbara is a lesbian, which is reallyneither here nor there except for the fact that I think I must give off gay vibes myself, because lesbians absolutely always make a beeline for me. This occasionally leads me to wonder whether I am, in fact, batting for the wrong team: if every single lesbian I’ve ever met has looked at me in the manner of like recognizing like,
perhaps they know something I don’t
. On the other hand, Barbara is a very old lesbian, and if I were to start exploring the notion of sexual fluidity, I’d rather do it with someone my own age. More to the point, I can’t imagine what sex would be like without a flesh-and-blood penis being involved. Slurpy, I suppose, like glutting on oysters. I groan quietly to myself: try as I might, I really can’t fancy the idea of hot lezzo action much at all. But surely it must have something to recommend it if so many people practise it? Very confusing. Perhaps the slurping is optional. And people’s breasts
are
interesting, I remember from the showers at school: some girls had that thing where the combination of two nipples and one tummy-button made a perfect sort of face – huge, rather boggly eyes (the nipples), small nose (the TB), furry triangular mouth (the pubis) – which used to fascinate me. But the fact remains: fascination or not, I didn’t yearn to get close to the faces, or to grope them.
Tree comes over to speak to Barbara,
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