(7) Husbands and Boy Toys
Boy toys was probably a demeaning term in these PC times, but there was always a place for a man who knew instinctively where to put his head on a woman’s anatomy, particularly when a limb yawn was urgently required. She would never call Andrew a boy toy, not even to Lara, who always said she found laughing at sexist jibes very slimming. Easy for her, thin as a wafer. No, Andrew was an equal, a pal, an amorous weapon with first strike capability. Besides calling him that made her seem matronly, and with her hips and shoulders that was all she needed.
She passed over the Humber, Toronto’s own smell-fest river, guaranteed to enliven any trip home at any hour of the day or night. She noted the Cineplex and the Ikea as they flashed by. Hadn’t been to see a movie in ages and hadn’t ever shopped at Ikea. That put her in a certain category, didn’t it? Now Sherway Gardens, she’d been known to drop a few dollars there from time to time. Freed from the panic of Anna dying, or just dribbling for the next decade, she luxuriated in her random thoughts and fancies.
Anna had emerged earlier that afternoon from wherever she had been hiding. Words formed on her lips, in more or less appropriate order, emotions expressed themselves in smiles and sobs, and Alex’s relief was obvious. My darling he said, uncharacteristically, kissing her hand and then her cheek. Gallant enough to make Vee weepy. They’d find out soon enough just what functions had been deleted from her repertoire. For now it was just great to see her awake and aimed in the right direction. Even Eleanor, locked in her happy routine, was excited about visiting the hospital, that place of germs and death she’d feared forever.
So Dennis, once again, would land on his feet tomorrow morning, breezing into town with all the assurance of a visiting potentate. You had to love it, his life as a good luck charm. She once asked, many moons before she even started counting them, how he walked between the raindrops. He’d laughed and said he always felt like they were aimed at his eyes. Yes, it was always fun to have him home. His husky tones of reassurance, his tales of the rich, bored and debauched. The enormous estates with armies of support staff, the children with their own chauffeurs, the junkie princesses, the fanatical art collectors, the Balkan gangsters turned good guys, one of whom bought girls out of sexual slavery and set them up as small time business owners.
Such a cliché, but he’d seen the light after being struck by lightning. Dennis had met him at a dinner party in Turin, where he was convincing his neighbours at table of his elegant business plan. As far as Dennis could make out from a discreet distance it seemed to involve a protection racket: the snack food shops, in various European capitals, kabobs, chips, falafels and the like, were prey to local spivs, who needed reminders from time to time, and his network of enforcers required pay checks, so he made sure it was fair and affordable. His religion was kindness, Dennis heard without straining, and he’d been converted by hearing the Dalai Lama speak in a stadium. Vee recalled, as she was steeping out of her car, Dennis’s description; - a short, stocky, bald, beady-eyed hoodlum in a bespoke suit.
She marched in hungry and poised to be practical about it, but throwing her coat on the couch, she poured herself a drink and headed off to prepare a bath, stuffing day old potato chips in her mouth as she did so. Removing her garments at an alarming pace, she poked about the kitchen in bra and panties, finding asiago cheese and rice crackers, and completely against her rules, picked up her cell and placed it carefully by the bath before easing herself into the perfumey bubbles.
Some moments into her soak, maybe twenty of those minutes that folk kept talking about, her cell did tinkle and behold it was not boy toy Andrew. She put that thought right out of her mind and purred an hello which brought forth a relieved response. Dennis was hoping she hadn’t gone to bed. She was slouchy in that general direction. Did I just say slouchy? I meant slouching of course. And what about you, Mr. Slouch, aren’t you a day late or worse?
Dennis apologised for his tardiness. He’d misread his ticket, yet again, and wound up at the airport on the wrong night. Most distressing. And a lousy sleep in an airport hotel, between sheets that should have been shipped to the third world. Such a bad sleep, in fact, he had to stay another night just to recover, but now he had all his ducks in a row and was right around the corner. Vee thought to bitch, or at least whine, but, in a sudden access of glee, plumped for Great we can order in I’m starving. Dennis said he’d been fantasizing about haddock and chips for days, but knowing it was too late for that tonight, was willing to settle for sushi. Great again, she was in the mood to nibble delicacies. In fact, if he was just about to arrive why didn’t he phone in right away? All the take out menus were in that cupboard by the fridge. She herself was bath bound you see. Dennis obliged and about forty five seconds later the front door opened, bags were dropped and orders placed.
Thirty minutes later they were nudging at multicoloured mounds, delicacies to be dipped in green and black and then placed on waiting tongues which had to stay their wagging for the pre-digestion chew. And if there was one thing they executed with conspiratorial glee it was the art of the wagging tongue. Chatter, particularly of the scurrilous and uncharitable sort, was their favourite pastime. Of course Dennis was concerned about his mother and would drive in tomorrow first thing to see her, but hearing all the family gossip was the ideal preparation, especially now that the worst had passed. Vee wanted to accuse him of waiting till the first act was over before taking his seat, but realised the metaphor could easily be used against her. And using Lara’s memorial was just too tacky.
Hetty’s gamble had worked, or so he had heard. Mervyn had been successfully reeled in by Polly from Gloucestershire. Girl must be something, she’d kept him out of London for the entire weekend, and walked the dogs when he’d suffered a surprise bout of indigestion after dinner. All this while Hetty’s Catholic horror was visiting in Poland? Due back next week apparently. Not that he had any bones about her. Lovely girl, bags of fun. But Hetty did have her mind set. Surely mixed marriages weren’t the trial they used to be. Tell that to Diana was Vee’s rejoinder.
Dennis asked after Andrew and was informed that his latest adventure was distinctly low rent. And on hearing the details he had to agree. Dead beat teenagers scuffling in alleyways, who cared? That lot needed thinned out from time to time anyway. Most of them would never hold down a job, never mind contribute to society. Dennis looked up from his spicy tuna. Am I to be chided for my heartless Malthusian griping? Vee nodded solemnly. Well at least the subject matter counted him out. Let the police sweep up the trash, that’s what they’re paid for. It looked like they already were, but it was going under a carpet somewhere.
Dennis had been dreaming of a soak in the hot tub for a while now, so, kissing his wife goodnight, he took himself in that direction while Vee headed upstairs with a new Inspector Lynley novel. On settling in, however, she realised it was one she’d read before, and put it down huffily before picking up Margaret Trudeau’s autobiography, which depressed her for some reason and was quickly returned to its place, if you could dignify the heap on the carpet thusly. Turning over for a comfortable cruise into the dark, she’d held those predictable, spoiled rich girl thoughts at bay. Dennis was Dennis, bless his soul, and Andrew was Andrew. Having them swap roles at her whim seemed capricious at best. It was not the Vee she wanted to be. Of course, that was the crux of her crisis, albeit one with a distinctly soft core; which Vee did she want to be?
There were several on currently on view, and each one had her own dedicated podcast. The social butterfly, the family caretaker/nurse, the social anthropologist, the what-will-I-be-when-I-grow-up airhead, and, for truly complete disclosure, the one no-one knew, the clean freak homebody. But what about the hot babe party girl? Okay, her too.
She’d postponed decision making for years, telling herself it didn’t matter, that it would never matter. Even in the midst of her current crisis, too young to be midlife really, it didn’t seem to matter. Why be anything in particular? What was the big deal, actually, about slotting yourself into a category? So you could be properly identified and labelled? Maybe with this natural disinclination to be pinned down, she was really the social butterfly above all else. She settled for this as her next to last thought before sleep. Falling into warm darkness she missed the last one completely.
Dennis moved into the bedroom quietly, not wishing to disturb. He needn’t have bothered. The room was dark and quiet, Vee a small bundle under blankets, lightly snoring. Ah, he chimed to himself, silently, recognising the domestic tranquillity, home at last.
