Funky fly golf-gear

"Funky fly golf gear"

I knew the eighth time I laid eyes on Pat Greene that he wasn't a
golfer. Sure, he had the check trousers and the lemon socks and the
mud-brown loafers with tassels. And the knitwear, boy did he have the
whole knitwear thing sorted out.

Salmons, clays and creams, pale greens, subtle plaids, violent plaids.
Pringle, Slazenger, even some Nike. Knitwear-wise, his golfing
credentials were impeccable.

And he had clubs too, good ones. Expensive kind, in a proper bag and
everything. Putter; sand wedge, good selection of woods and irons.
Separate pocket in the golf-bag for tees and there was a good
assortment there.

The other thing that convinced most people was his ability to talk a
game of golf, he'd tell people how he'd doglegged over the ninth, or
sliced an easy chip to the green. He didn't boast too much Pat Greene,
he was very clear with people that in no way was he a good golfer, very
much a hack player who just happened to enjoy the game. Many of his
golf stories ended up with him slicing a shot into the lake and wading
in to try to play out, often the cuffs of his check trousers were damp
to confirm this and his feet made squidgy damp noises as he walked to
the bar.

"We should have a round together someday, " people would say.

Pat would give them a sheepish goofy look and say, "I'd just be wasting
your time I think. Maybe when I've sorted out my swing. If I ever
do."

I've been watching this man, with his pale sad eyes and brown hair with
soft tight curls. His hair and eyes would suit a six-year-old pageboy,
but his face doesn't seem to have grown with him. At the bar he orders
a whiskey-and-soda generally, but sometimes a pint and a bar meal. He's
quite sociable, but I always feel like he's watching, sizing everyone
up.

The reason I know he's not a golfer, despite spending every Saturday
and Thursday in the exclusive Inglewood Golf Club, is that he reminds
me of me.

I don't play golf either. My ex-husband Michael made me join, he said
it would be good for me to get out and meet new people, enrich my
social circle. Five affairs down the line; my social circle was
enriched and redrawn to exclude Michael. The membership fees are quite
expensive, but worth it. Anyway, he sort of pays.

I used to be high maintenance, now that's just what he pays me.

How was poor Michael to know just what a fetish I could develop for the
golf-casual look? It surprised me, it had never occurred to me before I
got to Inglewood. If anyone had asked about fantasies, I wouldn't
really have had an answer, the usual firemen or film stars never
floated my boat. But hey, golf slacks and Pringles - that was a whole
different story.

I was never looking for affairs, they just sort of occurred. Occurred
is a much better word for it than happened. I wasn't even just looking
for physical pleasure, I wanted love, the kind of intense passionate
love I never had with Michael, even in the early days.

I needed golf-love?

But okay, the physical side of things with a golfer can be good. For
one thing, it's generally extra-marital, so that means they make an
effort, the risk factor means they have to make it worthwhile. For
another, they're quite fit guys relatively; you have to cover a lot of
ground when you play eighteen holes.

The downside of golfers is that they can be very tedious people indeed.
They tend to want to talk about their wives or their business deals, or
worse yet golf. I've dated several now, most of the male golfers in the
club bar right now and it turns out the same way with all of them.
Great in the sack - dull as hell out of it.

The other problem is that not one of these men has passed the critical
test. None of them have been approved by Virgil and Horace, my rather
discerning cats.

Maybe I'm maligning the species and it's just the members of this club
rather than a global thing, but I can't afford to join another club.
I've got this seat broken in now. Everyone knows I sit here and
everyone says hello when they see me. The leather feels just right when
I sit in it, there's a mirror across the way that I can look in if I
choose, but avoid eye contact with if my hair is misbehaving. Even the
men I've broken up with, they're still friendly.

I love my leather armchair, the smell, the crackle of old leather, the
feel of the round studs that mark out the arms. I can sit in this chair
and feel like I control the world. I can see the pipe smokers over in
Condor Corner, puffing away and talking angrily of speed traps and
housebreakers.

Also, the Inglewood isn't just a golf course, it's society darling. All
of the local great and good play here and the gossip is first-rate,
even if much of it is about me. There's also quite a natty little gymn
and sauna attached, and the view from the lounge bar is quite
inspiring, you can see trees and lakes and hills. When the frost dusts
everything over it almost makes me want to cry.

I did try the gymn-rats, just for variety, but they were worse than the
golfers, more boring and without the thrill of the Pringle.

So here I am, trapped in this dilemma. Aroused by golf-wear, but bored
and dissatisfied with the golfers within.

And that is why, when I sit here with my vodka tonic, that alongside
talking and flirting, I am always half-looking for something that
surely can't exist, a man who loves golf fashion, but doesn't actually
play.

Have I found one?

I haven't had a conversation with Pat yet. I'm saving him. Part of me
wants to snare him now even if he does just turn out like all the other
golfers, but a larger part wants to savour the chase, to delay things.
I want to be sure, a single conversation could blow things completely
by finding out that he's just as bland as the others. But the way he
wears his golf clothes, oh, it just does things for me. He wears them
with more verve, more aloof cool than any of the others.

Perhaps that's why I haven't made my move. While I sit here quietly
jiggling my ice against the side of the glass, I can imagine all sorts
of things, convince myself that Pat Greene is no more a golfer than I
am. I can run through imaginary conversations in my head, there are
infinite possibilities as to how the whole affair could run. But once I
make my move, I close down the possibilities, narrow it down to just
one thing - reality. Maybe I'll never end up asking him about his golf
habits.

As I'm leaving the club, I find him in the car park, loading his clubs
into his hatchback.

"Hello Pat, " I say, "Do you actually ever use those clubs, or do you
just like the look of them? "

That hadn't been the plan at all. My original idea had been to be a
great deal more subtle and work around to the whole thing gradually.
Never mind.

"I've heard about you, " he says, "People say you're a man-eater.
"

"That's a little unfair, " I say, in a hurt voice, "I've never actually
eaten one. I may have chewed some. "

"See you next week, " he says with a grin and he gets into his
car.

It turns into a very slow week. Horace has to go to the vets for his
flu jab and he howls all the way there in his carrying case. He loathes
going in the car, unlike Virgil, who purrs contentedly if I ever take
him anywhere. I think that Virgil was intended to be a dog but
something went askew, if he could he would sit with his head out of the
car window watching everything. He also comes when he's called, which
Horace would never deign to do. This trip to the vet turns out to be
the highlight of the week, which is why I'm skipping over it.

As I've said, my cats are well-confirmed man-haters by now, I don't
think I'll ever find someone that both they and I can approve of.

Pat Greene is already at the bar when I get to Inglewood and there's a
vodka and tonic alongside his drink. I have to suppress a little
shudder of lust when I see his coral-pink and grey argyle sweater and
oh, leather golf gloves. He has a seven iron in his hand and he swings
it casually as I approach.

"Just finished a round, " he says, "Shame you didn't get here sooner.
"

"You don't have to pretend with me, " I say as I pick up my
drink.

"I've never even seen you with any clubs, " he says, but I notice with
pleasure the small points on his cheeks where he's beginning to
colour.

"I'm not really here for the golf, " I say candidly, "Sometimes I'll go
to the driving range and hit a basket of balls, but that's as far as I
want to go. "

"That's not what I've heard, " he says and then shakes his head,
"Sorry, that was uncalled for. "

"You look nice today, " I tell him, never having been one to be
offended.

He smoothes a hand over the front of that gorgeous sweater, a gloved
hand, "Well, I thought I should make an effort today. "

Get your coat, I thought, you've pulled.

"Listen, " I said, "I'm very interested in you. Physically certainly.
But you know what would really seal the deal for me?"

By this stage, we were very close together and talking quietly so that
nobody else could hear. Not that there was anyone around but the pipe
smokers and they were busy discussing what to do with asylum
seekers.

"Name it, " he says and there's a distinct sparkle in his boyish
eyes.

"Let's get a cart, drive up to the ninth hole and tee off, " I
say.

The dread in his face is exactly what I want to see. This is not the
look of a golfer who is embarrassingly bad and doesn't want to show
himself up. This is a look of a fraud. And how wonderful it is to see
it.

Nevertheless, he agrees and we take the cart up to the ninth. We talk
on the way there, trying to keep it light and airy. He tells me that
when he's not here he's a doctor. That he read Treasure Island nine
times as a boy, that he sometimes laughs out loud if something funny
occurs to him. That he broke his ankle once skiing, that he loves to
cook, that his favourite day of the week is Sunday, that his father is
a keen golfer and that he shares his medical practice with his
father.

"Is that why you pretend to play golf then? " I ask him, "To keep your
father happy?"

"I don't pretend to play golf, " Pat says, "You're quite an odd person,
did anyone ever tell you that?"

"If you really are a golfer, " I crack, "Why have you just driven past
the ninth hole?"

He panics and stops the cart. It is a moment before he realises that he
has done no such thing that the ninth is just a little further along;
but the damage has been done.

We reach the teeing-off point and park the cart. I shade my hand over
my eyes, checking out the conditions, giving the air of someone who is
highly confident. I pull one of his clubs smoothly out of the golf bag
and ask if it's okay to borrow it. It is. I take a tee and plant it
firmly into the ground, setting a ball down on top of it. Pat looks
queasy. I've never wanted anyone more.

I position my feet, shuffling them slightly back and forth, like a duck
walking across a road; look up and swing. Not one of my best, but I
connect and the ball sails off about fifty, sixty yards. Not too
shabby, for a complete amateur.

Pat Greene gives me a weak smile, "Nice shot."

"Your turn now, " I tell him.

He looks not in the slightest bit delighted about this. I can see his
mind whirring, trying to think of an excuse. In the end, he sets a ball
down on my tee and strides up to it manfully. He grips the club and
wiggles his bottom while working up into a shot. He swings and misses
the ball completely.

"Air shot, " I say, "Never mind. Have another go. "

Six air shots later, he is flinging the club into the air where it
spirals impressively and finally lands in some bushes. I sense that he
won't be retrieving it later.

"Ready to confess? " I ask.

We swap stories, his tale of a father who has been pushy all his life,
insistent on Pat joining a golf club, Pat's only experience of golf in
his entire life being a fraught tearful afternoon at Clacton
crazy-golf. Even there, he had been hopeless, taking an eternity to go
round, with grumbles from the people behind him. But his father was
insistent, that to get on in the world, Pat would have to be a
golfer.

"In this life Pat, those who do well, play golf. "

Pat finally gave in, the only caveat being that he would never play his
father or even belong to the same club. He had genuinely tried hard at
first, even booking lessons, but each one ended in bitter rows and
clubs being flung down. Once an instructor had even slapped him in
rage.

He just had no aptitude for the game and no interest in it. So there it
was, two days a week, Pat would come to the golf club to please his
father, drive off in the cart and spend three hours throwing balls into
the lake, trying unsuccessfully to skim them off the surface like
pebbles. Sometimes he would wade in and thrash about, something about
the lake appealing to him.

"So that's my shabby story, " he said, "Guess you don't think much of
me now. I'm just a fake. Maybe I should just own up to my father and
quit the club. "

"Don't you dare, " I say sharply, "Do you have any idea how long I've
waited to find you?"

"But I can't play golf at all, I'm just wasting my time coming out
here. "

I put a comforting arm around him, "There are better ways to kill time
on this golf course than throwing balls in a lake, " I tell him.

After I've shown him some, I get the distinct impression that Horace
and Virgil are going to have to learn to like this man. That or move
out.

But, as things turn out, when he comes to dinner the next night, not
only is he still in knitwear, but he brings a small pale jade
Tupperware box. The cats are interested despite themselves and sniff at
his trousers. He bends down and scratches Virgil lightly behind the
ears, just the way he likes it.

"Guess what we've got here guys, " he says, showing them the Tupperware
box and making them do odd little hopping jumps so that they can rub
the box with their cheeks to claim ownership, "Salmon. Fresh
salmon."