One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [71]
And, as I say, Seffy liked him. I think he was also relieved I had an interest other than him – there’d been a few hints – so he was probably prepared to like anyone, within reason. One night when I’d coyly and, brick red with embarrassment, asked if he’d mind if Ivan stayed, Seffy had barely taken his eyes off his computer as he replied: ‘Well, I didn’t think you’d been playing Monopoly, Mum.’
True, when Ivan wasn’t there he called him my toy boy, and for my birthday had given me dumbbells for my bingo wings – marvellous, but you have to keep at it or the muscle reverts to flab – and had once also remarked that Ivan only seemed to come across after nine in the evening, but I’m being picky. On one occasion, when Ivan hadn’t shot out of the door after breakfast, we’d even all walked to Bishop’s Park together, where the two of them had kicked a ball around, and although there’d been an ironic look in Seffy’s eye which had said, gee, Mum, here I am kicking a ball around with your young man, I’d been pleased.
So, yes, Ivan was still with us: padding back right now from the kitchen, where he’d gone to get us each a glass of wine. He bent over and kissed me on the lips as he handed me mine, then sank down beside me.
‘So where did you go?’
‘I told you, my sister’s.’
‘No, swimming.’
Luckily it was quite dark, as an unattractive blush swept up my neck like a high-speed elevator.
‘Oh, um, Putney.’
‘Really?’ He turned from the gorillas, interested. ‘They’ve reopened it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s been shut for ages for refurbishment. I tried to go the other day.’
‘Oh, yes, right. You’re quite right. I did go to Putney, but it was… still shut. So I – went somewhere else.’
‘Oh, OK.’ He waited, interested now, because of course Ivan swam. Lengths and lengths. Powering up and down the pool in what seemed to me a fairly mindless manner. Surely once you’d been to both ends you’d pretty much covered it? Was there one in Fulham? Fulham Pool, Fulham Baths, Fulham Lido… no, didn’t ring a bell. He was still waiting. I licked my lips.
‘Yes, a chap was passing, saw me trying to get in, and told me about one in Roehampton. D’you want some crisps with that? I’ve got loads.’ I nipped off to the kitchen to rummage in a low cupboard, head down.
‘Roehampton,’ he was saying thoughtfully, following me out. ‘Quite near then. Whereabouts?’
‘Oh, miles away, nowhere near here really, right on the edge. More Brentford. Dodgy area too, and so crowded. Smoky bacon or plain?’
‘Yes, but still. While Putney’s shut… and Fulham’s so expensive.’ Damn. Fulham. Wouldn’t you know? ‘I’ll Google it.’ And he turned to sit at the computer in the corner of the kitchen.
‘No, you won’t find it,’ I said, darting across, as indeed he was failing to, ‘because actually, it’s not public. I remember now, this chap owns it. He just let me use it because I was – you know – desperate.’
‘Private?’
‘Yes. In his garden.’
Ivan blinked, as well he might. For what we had now was a man who hung around public pools mid-refurbishment in order to lure women back to his house in a dubious area of west London, which none the less boasted a pool in its back garden, and was crowded with similarly desperate souls. It’s worth mentioning I haven’t been to a pool for about thirty years, and the only time I trouble the water is in the Mediterranean, with temperatures nudging ninety, and even then only in sunglasses and a hat.
Ivan’s brow puckered. He looked confused. He also looked like a little boy who needed distracting. In a trice I’d slipped onto his lap at the computer and reverted to plan A. His plan A, admittedly, but needs must.
‘Anyway, since when