Chasing Men by Edwina Currie Page B

with men, as a kind of cover.’
    ‘What’s wrong with that?’
    ‘I’m not sure anything is wrong with it. It has the advantage, of course, that she doesn’t see the men she’s with as sex objects – provided she accepts that they are not pursuing her for sex, either. Some women, unfortunately, have a mission to convert men likeus. They argue that if a man can be persuaded to be gay, he can be unpersuaded. It can be a rotten business.’
    ‘It must be quite nice, not to be seen as a sex object,’ Hetty mused. The room was moving round, faster than their dancing could account for. ‘Golly, I do believe I’m pissed … Nice feeling. Not a sex object. Not to have sex on the brain. I’m supposed to be like that, apparently. To think naughty thoughts all the time. Everyone says so.’
    Markus was chuckling. ‘Sex does matter. Most people can’t imagine life without it.’
    ‘Um, most people in this room. That’s what couples are for. Had plenty of it, in my time. Husband was a big randy bloke. But what I want – what I’d really like …’
    ‘What’s that?’ Markus smiled. Hetty had the fuzzy impression he was holding her up.
    ‘I’d like,’ Hetty said with heartfelt emphasis, ‘to be seen as a person , first and foremost. A human being.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Markus. ‘ In vino veritas , perhaps, eh, Hetty?’
    ‘A person. Not a blob of flesh. Not sex-mad. Got a brain … A person …’
    But she was sliding gently from his arms and to the floor, a blissful smile on her face, her eyes closed.
    Markus and Christian conferred, lifted her on to the sofa and covered her with a duvet. Thomas the cat emerged and curled up by her knees. The company then carried on dancing, till the wine was gone: Rosa with Richard, Stuart with Flo, the Colonel with his lady and with Doris, alternately; Markus with Doris and with Hetty’s mother, with Annabel and, at last, as the candles burned low, with Christian. Then they stacked the empty bottles neatly, left the dirty glasses in rows in the kitchen, blew out the guttering wicks, turned out the lights, and shut the door behind them.

Chapter Seven
Morning After
    The racket resembled power-drills blasting inside her head. Her mouth was coated in rusty brown fur. Hetty coughed and rolled over. What was she doing on the sofa? And what in God’s name was that din? Why wouldn’t it stop?
    The phone – the bloody phone . Hetty staggered to the other side of the room, her eyes half shut, dragging the duvet with her.
    ‘Darling!’ It was Clarissa. ‘How did the house-warming go? Was it a great success?’
    ‘Erggh,’ said Hetty, and coughed. ‘Just a minute.’
    The tinkle of running water from the tap was like surf pounding a beach. She forced herself to drink two glasses, ignoring the squawking from the phone. ‘Yeah,’ she said, into the mouthpiece. ‘Clarissa, what’s your cure for a hangover?’
    ‘You have a hangover?’ The voice was astonished.
    ‘Either that, or a brain tumour.’
    ‘Hair of the dog, Robin always says.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Have another drink. A whisky. D’you want me to come over? Is the place a mess?’
    Hetty forced her eyes to open and peered slowly around. ‘No, tidy. Tidier than before.’
    ‘Sounds like it was some party.’ A grunt came from the phone. ‘Better than the boring function we went to last night. Coronation chicken! I ask you!’
    ‘My mother’s got a boyfriend.’
    ‘What did you say? How do you know?’
    ‘They were here. Smooching. My mother looked a million dollars. Not giving up her pension, though.’
    ‘Hetty, you’re not making sense. Stay there, I’ll be with you in an hour. Take two aspirin and go back to bed.’
    ‘Not been to bed …’ Hetty replied, but the phone had clicked. She sat down on the floor and pulled the duvet carefully over her shoulders. ‘Ooo-ooh …’
     
    Clarissa arrived, full of solicitude, curiosity like an aura. Her eyes goggled at the bottles, the empty glasses and plates. The