Chasing Men by Edwina Currie Page A

gone. Doris was washing up, humming to herself and swaying her hips. The others seem to have settled to some solid drinking and slow dancing. The Colonel and her mother were in the centre of one knot. Christian was still engaged in earnest conversation, trying to explain a point with much exaggerated waving of his elongated white hands. The two young men who were arguing with him had still not been introduced to Hetty, nor did they seem to feel any need to meet their hostess. Perhaps they were uncertain who was responsible for the event; it didn’t seem to matter to them. Rosa tapped Richard on the shoulder and was soon sashaying smoochily with him coiled about her, while Annabel, her back to the gathering, steadily demolished the remaining food.
    Markus returned. ‘It’s a super party. Would you like to dance, Hetty?’
    ‘Lord, I don’t – I can’t remember how …’
    He laughed indulgently. ‘Come on. You’ll be safe with me.’
    They moved to the edge of the dancing group and he took her in his arms the old-fashioned way, one hand on her waist, the other holding hers high in the air. He moved withgrace, lithe and fit. Hetty was taken aback and had to concentrate. ‘You’re very good,’ she puffed. ‘Sorry. I haven’t danced with a man in years – only my ex.’
    ‘I started my career as a dancer,’ Markus said. ‘I still go to classes, once or twice a week. With a young lover, I have to.’
    ‘You don’t have anything to worry about, surely,’ Hetty murmured, her tone wistful. ‘Christian adores you. He said so.’ Her head was full of wine and warmth. What a pity this lovely man was in love with somebody else: it was like dancing with a girlfriend’s husband, a source of mingled delight and regret.
    ‘But I do have to worry. There’s a twenty-year age gap, for a start. When I met him he was a mess – that bit’s true. What he didn’t say was that I had to teach him everything. I was a sophisticated, experienced homosexual; he knew nothing about himself or his sexuality. He had been in a clinic, had been self-mutilating. But now look at him. He’s a success, confident and utterly beautiful. I don’t think I can hold on to him much longer.’
    The pace had not slackened, but the ice had re-entered Hetty’s heart. ‘Is that why he presses you to come out?’
    ‘It’s his way of testing me, yes. He gets angry at what he regards my lack of support for the cause. But it would be natural for him to find men closer to his own age. He’s propositioned often enough. The theatre is a queers’ paradise.’
    ‘And he – does he go chasing men?’
    ‘I don’t think so. But he might.’
    Markus sounded so sad that Hetty pulled back and gazed at him. ‘What would you do if …?’
    ‘God knows. I might ask Annabel over there for some tips, then do the job properly.’
    Odd people. In Dorset the chat would have been about lobelias and the special offers at the garden centre. Hetty shook her head, a little too vigorously. ‘No, you can’t. Don’t. Come and talk to me instead. Cry on my shoulder. Life goes on. It must.’
    ‘Such wisdom, Hetty. Have you learned that already?’
    They danced without speaking for a few minutes. As the tune changed to a slower tempo Markus pulled her closer. She felt quite drunk but, as he had suggested, quite secure in his arms. He would not lie to her. With her, he was not playing a game.
    ‘Markus, can I ask you something?’
    ‘Go ahead.’
    ‘What’s a fag-hag?’
    He burst out laughing and stopped dancing. ‘Why? Where did that come from?’
    ‘My daughter. What does it mean? Come on, Markus, I’m a sea-green innocent. You taught Christian – you can teach me.’
    He started dancing again, and this time they moved easily together, though it was becoming extraordinarily difficult to control her feet. ‘Well, Hetty, it means a woman who likes to go round with homosexuals. Sometimes that suggests she is not interested in sex. But she likes to be seen