Strange Woman

One of the consequences of becoming “single” at the advanced age of more than three score years and ten is that one becomes an available man and, as such, often receives more invitations than one perhaps deserves. There are far more women than men of this age who are single, either through divorce, widowhood or merely that they seem to lead separate lives from their husbands. These women often need company and, even after two nights of Bridge and one theatre or concert visit in a week, will still invite people for supper on Saturday night, so an extra single man is often required.

Thus it was that the other Saturday night I was invited to a Chinese takeaway evening by Andrea. Andrea is an impulsive lady who used to be married to an Italian. Divorced or widowed? I’m not sure, I suspect the former. I travelled with Jill, another single lady who lives near me with several cats and dogs. I was grateful for her offer to drive. On arrival at Andrea’s house we had to let ourselves in, key under the flower pot, welcome the other guests, serve them with drinks and await the arrival of Andrea with the takeaway.

There were seven of us in all, another couple I knew from Bridge and the most extraordinary woman called Sylvia and her husband Harry. Sylvia could have been anywhere between early sixties and eighty. She looked like a witch, with shoulder length blonde/white hair, black pencilled eyebrows and a slash of scarlet lipstick, high cheekbones and skin that appeared to be both wrinkled and taut. She had clearly had several G&T’s before arrival but soon got stuck into the Sauvignon Blanc with gusto. Harry gave the impression of being slightly gaga, but it soon became clear that this was the role he had chosen in order to compensate for his wife.

She was amazingly rude to him. “Would you like to sit next to Harry?”...... “Good God no! He’s the last person I want to sit next to!”

Naturally she dominated the conversation:
Sylvia: “Jeremy is going to Cambridge next week, I’ve asked him to take my husband’s shield to Trinity Hall.”
Harry: “Does this concern me, my dear?”
Sylvia: “Not in the least, my first husband was at Trinity Hall and I thought they might like the shield.”
Harry: “I was at Trinity Hall as well. I wonder if I ever came across him.”
Sylvia: “I shouldn’t think so for a moment. I didn’t know you were at Trinity Hall.”
Harry: “Well I was, which is why I thought it might concern me.”
Sylvia: "Well it doesn't concern you."

I wondered how I could break into her monologues with being too obviously offensive. My chance came when she was telling a story about how she had been stopped by the police.
“ I don’t know what name I gave them as I can’t remember which of three husbands I was married to at the time.”
As she paused while her glass was being refilled, I asked her why the police had stopped her. She turned and looked at me through narrowed eyes for a long moment, and finally snapped “Drink!”
On another occasion, I asked her what “career” she had enjoyed before her three husbands. Again, a long piercing look before she replied “Sales” and moved quickly on.

She was one of the most appalling women I have ever come across, interesting only as a curiosity to be avoided and I thought no more about her. Then, at Bridge about ten days later, Andrea told me that the previous week Sylvia had phoned asking for my telephone number as she wanted to invite me to lunch the following Sunday.
No invitation arrived but Sylvia had obviously liked me! I wonder if she'll ask me again? And, if she does, will I accept the invitation? I think I might, for I would quite like to see how Sylvia behaves when she is the hostess, and if Harry is any less subservient on his home territory.