Entertaining At Large Ch 13

Sorry for the delay in publishing this chapter - it's been a busy old time. For those of you who enjoy Susan's tale, good news. The next chapter will be out in minutes and she's pestering me to finish at least one more too.

Susan first appeared in Entertaining at Home. Other characters mentioned joined the story in subsequent episodes of Entertaining at Large. If you like the look of this chapter it might be worth checking them out to discover people's back stories. Comments, suggestions and support welcomed as always and thanks to those of you who already have.

*****

New bra and panties, that'll do it. I should make some kind of effort. I mean, the Pump House is the sort of place you dress up for. But I'm damned if I'm buying a new dress just to try and impress someone I've never even met.

It was, I admitted to myself, a last desperate attempt to drum up some kind of enthusiasm for Steve's big night. Work had been a struggle. After all the excitement about our promotion, Muhammad and I had been confronted with the enormity of the task we faced. It had been a debilitating day interviewing, and trying to enthuse, the resentful and uncooperative dispatch department lackeys.

Derek the hairdresser's outrage at the state of my hair - outrage and disgust to quote him accurately - came as no relief. Normally, I find, there's nothing like a gay hairdresser in full uber-camp mode to brighten you up. Today I just resented having to take time out of a packed schedule to be abused. Picking up the team's new kit from Red had just been another chore.

The chaos created by the adolescent banging into displays and running over customers' feet as he followed me sashaying to my car with a fully laden trolley was a bit of a fillip. I tipped him a fiver and told him to make sure Red brought him down to the Crown's reopening night.

'I'm one of the dancers. I'll make sure you're properly looked after.'

A little wink and that was him sorted for masturbatory fantasies for a month or so. You've got to do what you can to help people as you pass along this mortal path. Right? But somehow it just left me feeling cheap.

The Nightie Nook, as the name suggests, has been around a long time. At one time it did just sell nightdresses and the like. But things change, and it had carved out a niche for itself selling bras and knickers to people - women mostly - wanting something better than chain store standards without being stiffed for designer prices. My mum had taken me there the first time almost as soon as I got tits. Andrea and Marcie who run it have decades of experience of assessing boobs and bums. They barely need to use tape measures anymore.

Normally, I could lose myself in there for an hour at least. Gossiping, admiring lacy flimsies, giving and receiving confidences about exciting times ahead. Today I was just flat and asked them to pick me something that would cheer me up. I left with the pair of them shaking sad heads and enjoining me to "have a good time" with all the conviction of a nurse sending you off for an internal.

As I lay in a warm bath - there was no way I was subjecting Derek's creation to a shower after his tongue-lashing - I was seriously contemplating abandoning my no-booze-in-January pledge.

And to cap it all, Steve had been a nightmare since breakfast time.

"U've not 4goten have U?"

Was waiting for me on my phone when I got back from my ride at a quarter to six. I had put in extra miles because I was taking my car to work. By the time I had read and replied to three messages before lunch and five since, however, I was up for shaving my head, getting a tattoo, having a skinful and turning up at the restaurant in the nip.

I had been quizzed, and implicitly criticised, on every aspect of my exterior appearance in a way I had not submitted to since in thrall to the fashionista gestapo at school. Over lunch, my only chance to talk tactics with Muhammad, I had texted "F**k off. CU @ 8" hoping that would shut him up. But it only set off a flurry on appropriate language, etiquette, behaviour and suitable topics for conversation. He was very lucky he was not within punching distance.

My message before entering the Nook, "Buying lingerie. Considering crotchless. Any thoughts?", hadn't helped as much as I thought it would. His reply -"slut" - didn't arrive until after I exited my ablutions, and left me in a quandary, Was he in a more relaxed mood, or was he just continuing the earlier critique? I suspected the latter, but hoped for the former.

The Royal Hotel is an anomaly. An old Victorian building in Gothic style, it dominates the square in which it stands, overpowering the much more modest town hall opposite. There is no evidence whatsoever that any member of our august leading dynasty has ever laid head on a pillow here. Ours is the kind of town they pass through, not stop in. Usually by train, but helicopter or private jet for preference. The Royal had been following most similar buildings in other places; a gentle downward spiral of decay and dilapidation towards the unloving arms of a property developer. The kind who had, in other towns, converted once proud edifices into single-bedroom apartments for working singles without the wherewithal to afford a deposit somewhere nicer.

It had been rescued, if that's the right word, by a big hotel chain. Investment had been made and the fabric repaired. It seemed to specialise in attracting business custom during the week; expense-account guests able to stretch to a significant upgrade on the ring-road rabbit hutches most of them stayed in. Packages for middle class couples seeking a "romantic, weekend experience" ensured full, seven-day occupancy. It was they who filled the foyer as I entered searching the crowds for Steve.

'Sorry.'

I was grabbed from behind and kissed on the back of the head by someone who could only have been him. Weeks of smelling that tacky aftershave after football made him impossible to miss. I squirmed in his arms to face him.

'I should think so too. There have been more than a few times today when I've wanted to knee you in the groin. And now I've got you just where I want you.'

I kissed him on the cheek a second before he jumped back. He knows me well enough never to be sure whether I'm joking or not.

'What Ho, by the way.'

'Again apologies. I've been a nervous wreck all day. I was just taking it out on you. But Helmut and my boss just signed the biggest contract the firm has ever won, so I guess tonight is something of a celebration.'

He was beaming. Smiling almost as much as when we won our first match just before Xmas. I kissed him again and we stood for a moment smiling at each other. It was good to be friends again. Maybe I should have splashed out for that dress. Looking around at the dolled-up women giggling excitedly as they checked in for their nights away, I began to feel slightly shop-soiled in the little black dress which was, by now, the sole wardrobe survivor of my marriage. I became aware that one of the party girls seemed to be staring at the pair of us. Her angry cough confirmed her interest.

'Sorry, are we in your way? It's just that I haven't seen him for a few days.'

Steve looked startled and disengaged the arm I had casually snaked around his waist.

'Chloe, this is Susan. Susan, Chloe. I guess you could call her my girlfriend.'

'I certainly would call her that given the amount of time you spend talking about her. Pleasure to meet you.'

I put on my most disingenuous smile. It was true he spoke of her often, but mostly to complain about her clinginess and his certainty she was trying to manoeuvre him into marriage. I went to kiss her on the cheeks. Nothing like a bit of continental familiarity to maintain the hypocrisy. She was having none of it and dodged my move with an alacrity that Justin would have envied.

'Sorry, but I've just had my hair and make-up done.'

'Oh, me too. Well the hair anyway. Drag isn't it?'

That was clearly the wrong thing to say. She looked at me with a flat expression as if trying to work out which planet I had descended from. She did look beautiful so I told her so. The last thing I wanted was to create an atmosphere between us which might undermine Steve's big night. It seemed to mollify her; a state which was almost immediately destroyed by the arrival of Helmut.

'Steven you are here most promptly. And you must be Chloe. It is a pleasure to meet you.'

He took one of my hands in both of his and bent from the waist to kiss it. Awkward. He was an attractive man of about fifty. I guessed he was slightly overweight, but with enough money to employ tailors who would disguise the fact. His once blond hair had significantly dulled but framed his still-handsome face perfectly. I liked him immediately, but the rational part of my brain was trying to map a way out of the mess his innocent mistake had caused.

Chloe's expression had not changed which could only mean one thing: Botox. Steve was red and clearly at a loss for words. I smiled at Helmut whilst disentangling his hands from mine.

'I'm Susan. This is Chloe. Steve and I are just friends. We play on the same football team.'

I was impressed by the way the German made amends. He immediately repeated his formal greeting with Chloe, this time dwelling at some length on her beauty, exquisite clothes and taste in jewellery. I watched her body relax as he laid on the flattery. It was more conscious and measured than Charles Pemberton's easy grace, I thought, but bore many of the hallmarks of the same superior class consciousness. I tried to indicate with my eyes that Steve should join in. Miraculously he did, giving an entirely fictitious description of their meeting, her professional skills as an estate agent and their vibrant social life.

I knew from his own lips that they had met at a drunken party organised by a mutual friend and they had fucked on top of the washing machine in a cramped laundry room before they even knew each other's names. He had only sought her out again when he found an earring in his shirt pocket the next morning. Turned out it wasn't even hers. She was a receptionist at a letting agent, the sort of place which screwed as much money as possible out of vulnerable tenants and provided minimal services.

She clearly enjoyed being the centre of both men's attention. I was happy to stand back and let them get on with it. I guest-watched while I waited for them to finish. The weekend arrivals seemed to divide into two groups: those who looked like they couldn't wait to get into each other's pants made up the majority. They passed me on their way to the bar - "complimentary half-bottle of bubbly on arrival" - determined to get their money's worth out of the preliminaries, but clearly dying to get onto the main event. The minority, I guessed, we're giving their relationships one last chance to rekindle before calling it a day.

When

Girl from Ipanema

came over the Muzak system I took the executive decision to move Chloe-fest along. Dad and I always used the song as the cue to get mum out of whatever shop she had dragged us to on a Saturday morning. If you wait long enough in any lift, airport or other shopping centre it is bound to come on within thirty minutes. Guaranteed.

The three of them sat in the back of the taxi on the way to the restaurant while I enjoyed the relative comfort of the front seat next to the driver. Helmut began questioning Chloe gently about the state of the UK property market. His intentions were no doubt good but the line of enquiry soon petered out and Steve and he turned to the minutiae of their recently concluded deal. Chloe's responsibilities in the growth of the British economy clearly went no further than reading out lists of rents and tenancy conditions to potential customers.

I watched through the window as the town went through the Friday night ritual of transforming itself from place of work to party land. Tipsy office workers, slightly the worse for wear after raising their glasses to the end of the working week, fell gently out of pubs and bars into the early evening drizzle. The advanced guard of the coming legion of the under-dressed party crowd pushed in the other way. I picked up a palpable sense of the doomed excitement that would mark the night for most of them.

I was still wondering where I fitted in to that equation when we were ushered solicitously into the bar of the Pump House. This was a zone exempt from the border negotiations of the hoi polloi outside.

We were enveloped by an immediate sense of calm so tangible that it stopped dead Chloe's exposition on the latest in shoe fashion. A woman of indeterminate age took coats and showed us to deep sofas and a couple of arm chairs where a man in a long apron awaited our orders. I slid into the deep chair and took the cocktail menu from him. I took a moment to enjoy the comfort as Steve explained to Chloe in quiet tones that perhaps she should try a Manhattan and that, no, they would not make her a Slow-Screw-Against-the-Wall. Helmut smiled at me across the small table between us.

The design of the Pump House was remarkable. Although it was packed with diners and we had a number of fellow drinkers in the bar area we were all enjoying the ambience as if in our own private rooms. The combination of discrete lighting and the strategic positioning of the tables meant that whatever trysts or business discussions were going on around us no one imposed on anyone else. I found myself looking around as much to admire the planning as on the off chance that there may be someone there I knew.

Whenever I looked back at Helmut he was smiling encouragingly. It was only when I noticed that Chloe's dress was riding up to her buttocks as she squirmed about on the sofa that I understood what might be one reason for it. She was obviously wearing tights; I was not. A glance down confirmed that my own dress was now revealing not only the tops of my stockings and the catches of the suspenders holding them up, but a good inch or two of bare thigh beyond. I affected not to have noticed and smiled across at the attractive German.

'So Helmut, what town in Germany are you from? Steve has told me almost nothing about you.'

'I am from Frankfurt, the western one. Alas, I spend little time there these days.'

I was listening, but mostly enjoying the feeling of my lingerie. My trust in Andrea and Marcie had been rewarded. The suspender belt was one of those belly-huggers, but so lacy and delicate that I could barely feel it.

'I'm sorry, why is that?'

'Travel, my dear. I spend about forty weeks a year on the road. Well I should say in the air mostly.'

You know how it is. Once you start thinking about your underwear, it's difficult to shake it out of your mind. The bra I had slipped on at home without a thought was, I realised when I focussed on it, holding my breasts like a pair of gentle hands. I brushed an imaginary speck from the front of my dress and my nipples sprang to attention. There was none of the chaffing irritation most of my clothes gave me. I wondered whether Helmut noticed the change beneath my clothes, and indeed whether he was enjoying the display.

'That must be difficult for your wife.'

'It was. Unfortunately it became too much for her. Once the children were grown we divorced.'

'I'm sorry. That must be hard.'

If such a confession didn't deserve a flash of gusset then I don't know what does. I pushed myself back in the seat and deliberately crossed my legs widening just a little more than I would usually. I watched Helmut's face as I moved and saw a slight colouring around his collar. His hand went to his tie; it reminded me of Mr J. I enjoyed both the attention and the feel of the silky new stockings against my thighs.

'Not really. I think we both knew it had been over for some years. We managed to discuss things sensibly and divide our possessions equitably. I now have a small apartment in the city centre, but as I say, I hardly use it.'

The arrival of our drinks were met with a squeal from Chloe as she realised how much leg she was showing. She clutched at the hem of her dress and jerked it down. She spluttered apologies and alternated her hands from between her face and her lap. It was difficult to say who was more embarrassed, her or the waiter. I feigned a similar surprise but with less drama; I shared a secret smile with Helmut as I covered his view of my virtually see-through boy-shorts.

Trailing Chloe through the menu which arrived with our drinks was the next obstacle. The Pump House specialised in what they called modern British cuisine. In my mind that conjured up images of US fast food perhaps with a side of in-season root vegetables. I kept my own counsel. Not so Chloe. To Steve's embarrassment she expressed in turn amazement, ignorance and disgust as she read through the meat dishes. Had Jamie Oliver been there he would have given her a good slap; I would have been tempted to hold her down as he did so.

Helmut came to the rescue. It turned out he was a regular patron, Steve's predecessor having entertained him there on every visit. He went to some lengths to praise the chef's experience and underlined that with an appreciation of the dishes he had tried which concentrated on the flavours and textures rather than the ingredients.

'You should be a food writer. You make it all sound so good.'

'Thank you. One of the drawbacks of my job is that I eat most of my meals in hotels or expensive restaurants.'

He patted his rounded, but not excessive, belly.

'You look well on it.'

'That is most gracious. But you know, there are times when I crave a simple, home-cooked meal. It is about three weeks since I had one. And that I had to make myself.'

He made a sad face which invited us to laugh with him. I asked him to choose me something from the fish section; Steve said he would have whatever Helmut himself ordered and that left Chloe. She was eventually persuaded to have a less-than-charred steak and the waiter departed with the merest trace of relief passing across his features.

'Next time you come, I'd be happy to cook for you. I guarantee you'd never complain about restaurant food again.'

I fished a pen out of my bag and wrote my mobile number on the back of a business card and handed it to him to seal the invitation.

OK. So now I was definitely flirting. I glanced at him over the rim of my alcohol-free elderflower champagne. He knew it too. And he didn't seem put out, in fact, judging by the faint grin around his lips he was enjoying it. I felt the last of my work worries fall away and let out a little laugh as I remembered my cynicism about the night crowd we had passed on the way to the restaurant. All that pent up expectation. Looking for love for preference and not yet drunk enough to settle for a quick fuck. I looked at Helmut with fresh eyes. I'd definitely give him one, no doubt about it. Let's see how the evening panned out.

He and I chatted inconsequentially about his home and work, English weather, and the strains of international travel. Just your everyday topics of conversation. Steve meanwhile was trying to dissuade Chloe from a second cocktail, promising her plenty more booze with the meal. We were summonsed to take our table by yet a different waiter before the discussion could be resolved.

We marched obediently behind the stick-thin man past tables surrounded by the town's great and not-so-good. The lighting seemed to have been designed to enhance their winter tans and expensive jewellery. The quiet classical music emerging from hidden speakers gave the entire place an almost spiritual air.

If I was impressed, Chloe was almost beside herself. Once we had been settled, she bubbled over with enthusiasm for the clothes and body ornamentation of our fellow diners. If there was such a thing as the I-Spy Book of Couture she would have filled every page. I was left wondering how much she must have invested in high-end fashion magazines in order to acquire the lexicon. She listed impressive-sounding names of the makers of the dresses sported by the women we had passed. None of them, it seemed, were wearing anything which cost less than a grand. She looked around the table with a look of triumph as she ended her litany.