Dirty Minds

‘Well, the 1920s were the time when things changed drastically in the battle of the sexes. I’m not talking about Votes for Women or the Wall Street Crash: I don’t mean politically. It was during the 1920s that women started dressing to show off again. In the century before it was the men who wore frilly shirts, velvet breeches, gaudy waistcoats and so on. Victorian women were imprisoned in corsets and pretty universally dressed in dark colours. During the World War I lots of women wore trousers and more utilitarian clothing. In the 1920s it all changed. Imagine a male bullfinch with his glorious red plumage swapping feathers with his drab little wife, or a cockerel swapping with a dowdy hen.’

Her use of the word ‘breeches’ reminded him for a moment of the ‘breachers’, ripped off in one of the erotic stories he had been reading but he managed to stay focused.

‘Men started wearing the sort of boring grey or black suits we still see today, while women blossomed.’

She gave up on her Dover sole and set down her knife and fork. He had already finished eating. He topped up her wineglass, filling his own with water from the jug.

‘And the real revolution,’ she was grinning mischievously, ‘was in underwear. All sorts of new slinky fabrics were coming out at that time. Nylon wasn’t invented till a bit later, but they had stuff called rayon: far cheaper than silk and mass produced. It allowed women to get rid of the bulky old corsets and slip into sexy little numbers. Does the word “camiknickers” mean anything to you?’

He saw the waitress lurking in the background, ready to pounce on the plates, but he avoided her eye.

‘A whole new world. A whole new language.’

‘A camisole joined to a pair of knickers.’ He didn’t know what a camisole was, but he could make an educated guess. She went on. ‘And of course the 1920s were when women all wanted to be slim, flat-chested and androgynous.’

‘And what about ladies with, what I believe you refer to as, a fuller figure?’

‘Ah, that was where the Symington Side Lacer came in. I bet you’ve never heard of that before. An apparatus laced with a vicious series of strings and straps designed to crush your boobs into your chest and make them disappear.’

‘What a terrible shame.’

She caught his eyes as they involuntarily flicked back up from her bust to her face. He looked so guilty, she laughed out loud. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have needed a Symingtom Side Lacer.’

‘Nobody could possibly accuse you of being androgynous.’

‘Well, that was all the rage back then.’ She ignored the compliment. ‘I could go on to tell you about the invention of bras that separated the breasts for the first time, directoire knickers and any number of other innovations, but I sense I am getting too technical. Is that enough?’

It certainly was. His head was reeling. The 1920s certainly sounded interesting. Maybe the book really should be set at that time.

The waitress pounced. ‘Would you like to see the dessert board?’

He looked across at Ros. ‘Dessert?’

‘I couldn’t eat a thing. But don’t let me stop you.’

‘Coffee, tea?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. I haven’t eaten so much, or so well, for months.’

‘Just the bill please.’ The waitress walked off. He sat back in his chair. ‘You know, it has been a really wonderful evening. Will you allow me a personal question?’

She smiled back across the table.

‘How is it that a gorgeous woman like you – beautiful, intelligent, funny – hasn’t been snapped up long ago?’

She didn’t reply immediately. He watched her formulate her answer. ‘I seem to have been asked that a lot over the years. I suppose people think that a reasonably attractive woman only has to click her fingers and men come running.’

‘Well, don’t they?’

‘Some do, of course. But they aren’t very often the right type. Don’t forget that I worked very hard all the way through my twenties. I’ve slowed up a bit now but I’m still engulfed by the fashion industry. You don’t need to be a genius to know that most of the men in that profession are not the right type.’

‘Batting for the other team?’

‘Batting, bowling and keeping wicket. I rarely meet straight men.’

‘I don’t play cricket.’ He thought he had better get that out there. ‘No objection to the game, just don’t play it.’

‘I have already worked that out, Tom. And what about you? How come you have taken a year off? Is that a regular sabbatical thing you professors get?’

He had been dreading this moment, but he had promised himself he would tell her the truth. He took a deep breath.

‘My wife died two years ago.’ He saw her look up. ‘I’m afraid I sort of went to pieces after that. Last summer we all agreed that it would be better if I had a bit of time off.’ His eyes were firmly locked on the table.

She reached across and laid her hand on his. He looked up into her eyes.

‘What was it?’

‘Cancer,’ he replied miserably. ‘Breast cancer that spread.’

‘Oh, Tom, I am so very sorry. It’s such a horrendous thing.’ She gave him a gentle squeeze, before removing her hand. She excused herself and, while she was away, he paid the bill and got the coats. When she reappeared, he helped her into hers in silence. They headed out to the car. The roof and windscreen were white, but it hadn’t hardened into ice yet. A few sweeps of the wipers and a blast of warm air, and he could see clearly enough to drive.

‘That was a lovely treat. Thank you, Tom.’

He managed little more than a grunt in reply. His head was spinning with thoughts of his wife, memories of times together and the misery of her final weeks. As they reached the humpbacked bridge he managed to put some of his thoughts into words.

‘I’m sorry about this, Ros. I don’t mean to be antisocial. I’ve just found myself thinking about Diane … my wife. Do you know, this is the first time I have been out to dinner since her death?’ He felt the wheels slip a fraction on the icy surface but he was going slowly enough to keep control of the vehicle. ‘Whoops, a bit slippery back there. Of course I’ve been out to dinner quite a few times over the last couple of years, but this is the first time I’ve been alone with someone–’ he hesitated, searching for the right words ‘– with someone who means something to me. Sorry if that sounds a bit lame.’

‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ He could hear the warmth in her voice. ‘It must have been awful for you. I can imagine some of what is going through your head. Anyway, I’ve enjoyed this evening a lot. If you feel like repeating the experience you know how to contact me.’ They pulled up outside her cottage. ‘Take as long as you need. I’ll still be here. And it’s my treat next time.’

While he was still trying to decide whether to turn the engine off, get out of the car, accompany her to the door, kiss her goodnight and any number of other imponderables, she opened her door and jumped out.

‘Can you wait here a moment? I have something for you.’ She left him in the car and made her way up the path to her door. He hesitated a bit longer before deciding. He switched off the engine and climbed out in his turn.

He had only reached her garden gate when the spaniel came rushing out in great excitement. He was shielding his genitals when Ros appeared at the door.

‘Here, Tom. This is for you. I would value your opinion.’ She handed him a bag. It was evident that there was a book inside. ‘And thank you again for a very pleasant evening. I’ve enjoyed myself . Very much.’ She reached out, caught him by the arm and gave it a friendly squeeze. ‘Like I said, take your time. Goodnight.’

She and the dog turned and made for the warmth of the house. He returned to the car, the feel of her still on his arm. His mind was miles away. She waved from the doorway. He put the book on the front seat and switched on the engine. He raised his hand in a vague salute and headed for home.

He parked outside his house and climbed out. Remembering her book, he reached back in for it. It had slid out of the plastic bag. It was a hardback book. The interior light showed the title clearly: The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown. His befuddled brain was suddenly catapulted back to reality. Surely it couldn’t be …

‘Oh, no. Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!’

Forgetting to lock the car, he walked up to his front door in a daze. He opened it. A cold wet nose was waiting for him. Absently, he reached down to scratch the dog’s ears.

‘Noah, old buddy, we are deep, deep, deep in the proverbial.’

The dog did not appear to realise the seriousness of the situation.