Read Chasing Men for Free Online Page A
Authors: Edwina Currie
can’t have two prima donnas in a family. One has to take a back seat, support the other. I’m a bit shy, really. Right now there are moments when I’m bloody terrified.’ Hetty drained her glass – anything not to meet her mother’s candid gaze. The alcohol was making her maudlin. ‘I’ve none of the social skills I’m going to need. I’m trained and experienced as a wife. There are no etiquette books written for women like me.’
‘So I’m right. He helped make you what you are. Correct?’
‘Correct.’ Hetty’s voice was low. ‘Don’t push, Mother. You could say my confidence is a bit low at present. For all my bravado, I’m not sure how I’ll manage on my own.’
The plates were cleared, menus re-presented. The two women dallied over the choice of dessert as Hetty struggled to understand her own emotions. A woman’s role: that was how she had seen it, and had taken an inordinate pride in her fulfilment of it.
‘It wasn’t that easy, keeping a big house running, and being a stay-at-home wife,’ she continued. ‘I did the lot, as was expected of me: I was a school governor, I stage-managed the village pantomime, I helped out whenever anyone asked. A vanishing breed, they called me.’
‘And now you can see why.’
‘Too darned right.’ The Death by Chocolate arrived, a darkly gooey contrast to her mother’s sorbet. ‘I entertained Stephen’s business colleagues and their tedious wives – whole weekends of it. Endlessly cooking and weeding and clearing up and laundry, even though we had help in the house. No wonder the kids are so helpless. They think toothpaste grows in the tube and loo rolls reproduce by magic. I don’t think either of them can boil an egg.’
‘Don’t put yourself down too much, Hetty. Your stamina always used to amaze me. Though I did wonder. You’re not stupid, dear, and never have been.’
Hetty pouted. ‘Many women, frantically juggling home, family, garden, and a career on top, would have been quite jealous. Many children suffered far worse. I made my bed and was content to lie on it.’
‘A bed – or a doormat?’ An elegant eyebrow was raised. Hetty nodded sadly.
‘Overdid it. And had no fall-back. What happens when the kids have gone? When the husband gets restless? Sometimes I did feel a little under-appreciated, but then I’d tell myself that that was women’s lot through the ages too.’
‘Not any more.’
‘No. But what is my lot? The world is full of couples, or people wanting to be couples. I’m single. I really don’t want either the loneliness, or the indignity of trying to start again.’ The luscious dessert was nearly finished. With an effort, Hetty refrained from eating the crumbs.
‘But there are loads of people like you!’ her mother cried. ‘Single women, and men! Didn’t I read somewhere that we have the highest divorce rate in Europe?’
‘Probably in your Saga magazine,’ Hetty responded grimly. ‘And it’d be higher if more people got married in the first place. That’s no help. Sad divorced men aren’t my cup of tea. Remarriage seems to me, right now, a thoroughly bad idea.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting that,’ her mother retorted.
‘But do you see? Most single girls are doing just that – looking for a bloke, desperately seeking a husband, home, mortgage, children, the lot. What about those of us who are not into that game? Not least because we’re beyond it. Beyond having more kids, I mean, and probably too old to get another twenty-five-year mortgage. But not past having ambitions and hopes. Not too old to want to have fun .’ She paused, breathless, and startled at her own temerity.
‘The men have it easier. They can’t manage by themselves at all, poor dears.’ Peggy chuckled deeply, as if at some long-forgotten memory not to be shared. ‘You’re right, darling. A man of fifty can start again – might be quite a catch, if he’s kept himself in trim. New family – why not? Proves something
‘So I’m right. He helped make you what you are. Correct?’
‘Correct.’ Hetty’s voice was low. ‘Don’t push, Mother. You could say my confidence is a bit low at present. For all my bravado, I’m not sure how I’ll manage on my own.’
The plates were cleared, menus re-presented. The two women dallied over the choice of dessert as Hetty struggled to understand her own emotions. A woman’s role: that was how she had seen it, and had taken an inordinate pride in her fulfilment of it.
‘It wasn’t that easy, keeping a big house running, and being a stay-at-home wife,’ she continued. ‘I did the lot, as was expected of me: I was a school governor, I stage-managed the village pantomime, I helped out whenever anyone asked. A vanishing breed, they called me.’
‘And now you can see why.’
‘Too darned right.’ The Death by Chocolate arrived, a darkly gooey contrast to her mother’s sorbet. ‘I entertained Stephen’s business colleagues and their tedious wives – whole weekends of it. Endlessly cooking and weeding and clearing up and laundry, even though we had help in the house. No wonder the kids are so helpless. They think toothpaste grows in the tube and loo rolls reproduce by magic. I don’t think either of them can boil an egg.’
‘Don’t put yourself down too much, Hetty. Your stamina always used to amaze me. Though I did wonder. You’re not stupid, dear, and never have been.’
Hetty pouted. ‘Many women, frantically juggling home, family, garden, and a career on top, would have been quite jealous. Many children suffered far worse. I made my bed and was content to lie on it.’
‘A bed – or a doormat?’ An elegant eyebrow was raised. Hetty nodded sadly.
‘Overdid it. And had no fall-back. What happens when the kids have gone? When the husband gets restless? Sometimes I did feel a little under-appreciated, but then I’d tell myself that that was women’s lot through the ages too.’
‘Not any more.’
‘No. But what is my lot? The world is full of couples, or people wanting to be couples. I’m single. I really don’t want either the loneliness, or the indignity of trying to start again.’ The luscious dessert was nearly finished. With an effort, Hetty refrained from eating the crumbs.
‘But there are loads of people like you!’ her mother cried. ‘Single women, and men! Didn’t I read somewhere that we have the highest divorce rate in Europe?’
‘Probably in your Saga magazine,’ Hetty responded grimly. ‘And it’d be higher if more people got married in the first place. That’s no help. Sad divorced men aren’t my cup of tea. Remarriage seems to me, right now, a thoroughly bad idea.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting that,’ her mother retorted.
‘But do you see? Most single girls are doing just that – looking for a bloke, desperately seeking a husband, home, mortgage, children, the lot. What about those of us who are not into that game? Not least because we’re beyond it. Beyond having more kids, I mean, and probably too old to get another twenty-five-year mortgage. But not past having ambitions and hopes. Not too old to want to have fun .’ She paused, breathless, and startled at her own temerity.
‘The men have it easier. They can’t manage by themselves at all, poor dears.’ Peggy chuckled deeply, as if at some long-forgotten memory not to be shared. ‘You’re right, darling. A man of fifty can start again – might be quite a catch, if he’s kept himself in trim. New family – why not? Proves something