The Coming of Age. October Part 2.

10th October. The next morning at exactly 11 a.m. the phone rings. It is The Actuary. Would I like to go out for the day on Sunday?

‘How kind,’ I say, all quivery.

‘Where would you like to go?’

Well I don’t know. What does he expect me to say? Venice, I’ve always wanted to go to Venice. The Isle of Man, Braintree?

‘I am going out in the evening,’ I say. ‘I am having supper with some girl friends.’

‘I will think of something. I’ll pick you up on Sunday at 10.30.’

14th October. I wake up in turmoil. What shall I wear? Where are we going? Should I wear jeans and hiking boots or something more elegant? The sun is shining so I decide on trousers, a jacket and a scarf, which I plan to tie in a dashing way. I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t look too bad.

The hair is a bit wild though so I decide to give it a blast of hair spray. I press the nozzle and a blob of something hits me in the eye. Certainly not hairspray. I put my glasses on to try and read the label. It would help if they used a larger typeface. It would be better too if there was some obvious indication of where the invisible pinhole was. The times I have got the direction wrong and sprayed the mirror, my ear and on one embarrassing occasion, the sort of smart woman that I am not, standing next to me in the ladies’ washroom in the Savoy Hotel.

I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror through my glasses. All of a sudden my face is bristling with moles, hairs, age spots, crevices. It is like a map of Outer London with the historic sites and tourist attractions marked on it.

This is terrible. I shall have to stay at home. I can’t go out looking like this. Then I remember that The Actuary had seen me before – though he was not wearing glasses – and didn’t seem to the find the sight too appalling. It is too late to cancel now.

‘Besides, I am not a teenager. It is my personality that he is interested in.’ I speak to myself severely.

He rings the doorbell. I open the door and he is taking off a pair of spectacles.

‘Oh, I didn’t know you wore glasses.’

‘Oh, I only need them for long distance. My close sight is very good.’

It is too late to put on a veil. There is something to be said for the burka after all, I think to myself. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because he’s not my type. I am quite clear what I want. If there is to be a man in my life I want someone who is rich, likes dancing and is passionately interested in gardening. I already know that The Actuary is none of these.

The Actuary’s car is rather eccentric: old, sporty and too close to the ground. I am surprised, having expected to be driven around in style in a BMW at the very least. I try but signally fail to get in elegantly and crack my head and do something odd to my wonky hip. I worry about how I am going to get out again. I shall need a hoist, or four large ski instructors.

We set off. It is a beautiful day. The car is noisy so there isn’t much conversation. It also shakes a bit. I hope we are only going to the next village where there is a nice stately home. He tells me we are going to an Abbey about 50 miles away. My hands tighten. We reach the motorway. He builds up speed and the car begins to vibrate. The doors rattle. The windows rattle. The seats vibrate so much that I am surprised he hasn’t gone blind. Perhaps I shall go blind?

He is waggling the steering wheel with a beaming smile on his face. We overtake a horsebox and someone behind hoots in what seems a desperate manner. Perhaps he is going blind?

When we arrive at the Abbey, I am limp with terror. Since I don’t know him very well I can hardly say anything. Besides, I don’t want to offend him. I need help getting out of the car.

The Abbey is everything the brochures said it was. We have a lovely day. I haven’t met a man like him before. He has very attractive earlobes. He didn’t talk about himself but in between my compulsive rambling about the beauties of the Abbey and the scenery thereabouts, he asked me about my life. I thought all men talked about themselves all the time, or if not, their football team or their car.

I realised that I didn’t have much experience of men except for Martin and Alex, who is not at all like that except for the football, but he doesn’t count because he is my son.

We arrive back at my house and as I am about to heave myself out of his car, I lean forward to give him a polite kiss on the cheek but he turns his head at the precise moment and the kiss lands smack on his mouth. I am mortified. I don’t even know if I like him. What will he think?

‘I liked that. Why don’t you do it again?’

Well, I am always polite – so I obliged. He has a nice warm mouth.

In the evening I walk round to Julia’s where the dining group are meeting. It is on a Sunday this month because Julia’s bridge group had a tournament yesterday.

‘I’ve been out all day,’ I announce smugly, ‘with a man.’

There are gratifying shrieks all round.

‘A Man! Who who?’

‘He’s quite old’ I say defensively.

‘Who is it?’ asks Val.

‘The Actuary’.

‘Oh,’ says Poppy, ‘Him.’

What a relief. She is not remotely interested in him or he her.

Julia knows of him too although she hasn’t actually met him.

15th October. At 11 am the next day the phone rings. I know it is The Actuary. I pick up the phone and say ‘Hello’ brightly.

‘It’s me.’

‘Oh,’ I say, and think of his nice warm mouth.

Then the following words come out of my mouth from some crazed woman who has decided to invade my body.

‘I don’t know whether to ask you to back off or to come and ravish me’ this person, who is not me, says.

There is a long silence on the other end of the line. ‘I think I had better come and talk to you,’ he says in kindly tones. The crazed woman disappears.

‘Do come for supper,’ I say politely.

So this is arranged.

Yesterday I thought he was old and a tad boring. I wish I knew what has happened. He must think I am mad. Fast. Loose. Fast and loose. He is probably coming to tell me in, those kindly tones, that I will get a bad reputation if I go round saying things like that. What if he finds me totally unfanciable and feels he must tell me to my face in a kindly way? What if he likes me and takes me at my word? What if I have to take my clothes off? I haven’t taken my clothes off in front of a strange man ever. What about my waist, non-existent, and bottom, too existent?