by Anna Cheska
Now, Daisy was tugging at her arm. ‘Can I watch The Simpsons on cable?’
‘Sure you can.’ Jude bent to kiss the top of her daughter’s blonde head. It was reassuring at least to know that Daisy mixed an appreciation of The Simpsons with her missionary and animal tendencies. ‘And…’ she hesitated ‘… about tonight, Ma?’
Hazel sighed with the gusto of the true martyr. ‘I might as well. What else do I have to do?’ She wrapped her cardigan closer once more and shivered melodramatically. ‘You go off gallivanting, I’ll hold the fort.’
Jude swallowed her pride. ‘Thanks.’ Because that was the other thing about being a forty-something single parent. For some reason – despite everything she said and believed about nests running smoothly without men – she still felt compelled to spend half her spare time searching for a soulmate. And tonight was the turn of …
Jude grabbed her bag from the shelf, groped amongst the debris of tissues, mints, address book and lipsticks, and located a crumpled piece of paper: the ad cut from the Heart to Heart section of the local rag. ‘“Tall, slim, and solvent with OHAC”,’ she read aloud. ‘What more could any woman ask for?’
‘OHAC?’ But Daisy was distracted, already halfway out of the back door, a flash of orange and lime green.
‘Own house and car.’ Jude blew her a kiss goodbye. It was bound to be an interview. If she had answered his ad then so had thirty other hopefuls. As he worked his way through the list his ego would swell to the size of a house.
‘Name?’ Hazel swiftly blotted her usual candy floss lipstick with a tissue and smoothed the pleats of her skirt as she followed Daisy outside.
‘Rod.’ A bad sign, Jude had to admit, shutting the back door after her mother and daughter and returning to the salon. If Rodney was a touch wimpish, did Rod indicate disturbing macho tendencies? She selected an aerosol from the back shelf and sprayed air freshener in wild strokes towards ceiling and far walls. She really shouldn’t smoke in here.
Rod. What category would he end up being filed under? Just for a moment she slipped her black-stockinged feet out of her clogs and rested them on the cool tiled floor of the salon. Macho man, control freak or keep your goddamn’ hang-ups to yourself, thank you? But there was always the possibility … Jude rested her hands on the back of one of The Goddess Without’s black chairs … that tonight she might fall madly, passionately, deeply in love. She stayed motionless for a moment, considering this, bending to frown briefly at her reflection before easing the crease from her forehead with one fingertip. Lines. Laughter lines were OK though – a good sense of humour was always essential. Tonight, tonight … Maybe her soulmate was only two hours away.
The front door of the salon opened with a reassuring tinkle and Jude straightened, restored her feet to the black clogs, flicked back honey hair and turned to smile a welcome at her next client. A dour face looked back at her. So if a good sense of humour was so essential, how come there were so many miserable-looking people in the world? she wondered.
* * *
Alex noted the tense shoulders and downturned mouth and wondered if it was worth the effort. After a while, you kind of lost the point. It was one thing joining bodies in love or sex or both depending on mood and personal definition; quite another being merely the instrument of someone else’s pleasure. If that was it. And yet: ‘Why are you angry?’ he asked her. His painter’s eye observed her dispassionately. It couldn’t simply be because she was cold – if that were the case she would have walked out of the studio by now.
‘What makes you think I’m angry?’
Marisa, he had found, often countered one question with another. Was she curious about the world she lived in? Probably not. Was she trying to hide her feelings? Unlikely. Alex was beginning to doubt she had many. More plausibly, perhaps she was using him as a reflector, to examine her own self-image. He laughed. He’d like to draw her as Picasso might have. With two faces. With a sort of cubist hauteur. Perhaps next time, he’d do just that. Give her one hell of a jolt anyway.
‘Your mouth,’ he said, sketching its shape. ‘The sulk of it.’
‘Huh.’
He waited, but the said mouth moved not a millimetre. Whatever her reaction, she was keeping it firmly inside. This made it harder – Alex was pretty good at reading body language. ‘So?’
‘So what?’ Her face was partly in shadow now – the afternoons were drawing in and this place didn’t let in enough natural light at the best of times. Alex had scrubbed at the nicotine and oil stains on the grubby window panes for ages when he’d first moved in; now he just accepted the light for what it was – extremely limited.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ Some girls might complain that he hadn’t called, that he wasn’t an attentive lover, whatever. But Alex’s attentions were reserved for those he cared about – and that rarely included girls.
‘It’s my mother.’ Her lips returned to their original set. ‘She’s pissing me off, if you must know. Do you really want me to talk?’
‘Yes.’ No, if he wanted to carry on working, but he was done today. Alex flung down the charcoal. He was more interested in hearing about Marisa’s mother because she’d never volunteered any information about her family or friends before. She had merely left after sex and a cup of tea (or occasionally a glass of red wine, depending on the time and if Alex had a bottle already on the go) with a rapid check of her diary and a light kiss on the cheek. Marisa did not go in for pillow talk, or in this case put-me-up-talk, and after sex she did not linger like her perfume. It was quite refreshing, Alex found.
Now, she shifted her position in a graceful stretch accompanied by a yawn.
‘Your mother?’ Alex prompted, watching her.
‘She’s doing my head in. Playing dirgey music, crying all the time, mooning round the house all day…’
Alex considered making a quip about bare bums but thought better of it. Marisa clearly wasn’t in the mood and he could live without one of those looks of hers that made him feel like something the cat had brought in – or even up. Marisa was to venom what Marilyn Monroe had been to flirtation: a complete natural. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ he said instead.
Marisa threw her cream fleece jacket around her shoulders. ‘She’s depressed, I suppose.’
He watched her move closer. Any second now, she would sit on top of him, let that fleece slip off those white shoulders and he would still know bugger all about her family background. All right, he didn’t need to know, but neither did he need to feel quite so much like Marisa’s plaything, for God’s sake. A bit of communication and the exchange of the odd personal snippet might make these encounters less … well, perfunctory. Or was he kidding himself? He was a man, wasn’t he?
‘The change of life?’ he suggested crossing one ankle over the opposite thigh to deny access temporarily. ‘How old is she?’
Marisa neatly removed it, dropping it to the floor in much the same way that she had removed her clothes earlier on. She sank her perfect mound of a backside on to his lap. ‘Forty-nine.’
She turned slightly, bent towards him, and he felt her tongue exploring the groove of his collar bone under his open-necked denim shirt. The scent of her strawberry-blonde hair was already deep in his nostrils. She never wasted any time. ‘There you are then,’ he said.
‘What?’ There was a hint of irritation in the clear eyes as she lifted her head to look at him.
‘Could be the menopause.’ Alex became aware of his erection, and, placed as she was, Marisa couldn’t fail to soon become aware of it either. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Her name?’ Now Marisa stared at him in disbelief. ‘What the fuck do you want to know that for?’ She grabbed him, hard but not unpleasantly, with her right hand.
‘I’m interested.’ Yes, very interested, but she knew that too.
‘Naomi. Naomi Gibb. Satisfied?’ She took her time undoing the buttons of his shirt. She knew what he was thinking, he could tell.
‘Just the two of you then?’
‘What’s it to you?’ She completed the undressing of his upper half, slipped off his lap and began on his jeans. Alex wondered how long he could hold out.
‘I told you, I’m…’ All of a sudden it became difficult to speak. He looked down at her and realised she was enjoying herself.
Marisa broke off from her concentrated activity. ‘Do you want to meet her then?’ Her lips parted slightly. He could see the pink, moist tip of her tongue.
‘Uh?’ Alex was so shocked at this turn-around, so taken aback that she’d stopped what she was doing, that he said, ‘Why not?’ before he had the chance to think of all the reasons. But it didn’t matter too much. His mind – and the rest of him – was, at least for now, pretty well occupied elsewhere.
Chapter 3
Tonight, tonight … ‘“Love is in the air”,’ Jude sang as she nipped up the back stairs to check on Florrie. She had paused only to pull on black leggings and tracksuit top over her work shift because evening had already drawn in and the December air was damp and chilly. Florrie, an elderly spinster, lived alone, with relatives and friends never much in evidence. Living directly below her, Jude felt an obligation – no matter how hectic things were, and no matter who she had to meet later that night, she thought with a smile – to pop up and say hello, to see if her neighbour needed any shopping or a light bulb changed. Whatever … Knowing Florrie, she’d probably be too proud to ask.
Her rap on the back door was answered by a faint, ‘Hello, my dear.’ Florrie’s face was white as a sheet.
‘Florrie? Are you OK?’ Jude tried to steer the bird-like figure towards the nearest chair. She seemed so fragile, as if the least pressure on an arm or shoulder would make her snap. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing that a bit of a sit down won’t cure.’ Impatiently, Florrie brushed away her attentions. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. I’ve had a visitor, and at my age they can be draining, my dear, even the helpful ones.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘Come through and we’ll sit somewhere comfy.’
A little unsteadily, Florrie led the way down the dark hall into her cluttered sitting-room. Jude had been here on countless occasions but each visit revealed new treasures: a twenties candlestick in the shape of a swan, a sepia print of Florrie as a young schoolgirl with soulful eyes, a Chinese tea service she had never noticed among the vases, pots, porcelain figures. You name it, it was in Florrie’s sitting-room, coated with a faint film of dust and the unmistakable scent and shimmer of the past.
‘His intentions might be good,’ Florrie muttered, ‘but too much concern can be stifling, you know.’ She sank on to a brown, fringed velveteen sofa. ‘Ah, that’s the ticket.’
‘Whose concern?’ Noting that some colour had returned to Florrie’s face, Jude crossed to the window. She spotted the familiar navy blue BMW immediately. Understated, classic; money but not vulgar money. ‘Oh, he’s been here. That explains it.’ The car belonged to their landlord, James Dean, also known – to Jude, who reckoned she had him sussed from their first meeting – as Scarface.
‘I’m not as young and strong as I was, you see.’ Florrie tweaked at her tweed skirt with arthritic fingers. ‘He’s quite right about that.’
Jude’s eyes narrowed. No, she’d never liked him. Property dealers were mostly sharks in her experience and this one probably owned half of Chichester. There was something unsettling about James Dean, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. ‘What’s he been saying? Has he upset you?’
‘Oh, no, dear, not really. I told you, I’m just tired.’ But Florrie’s voice rose and her fingers moved to the buttons on her fawn woollen jacket.
Jude dropped to her knees beside her. She liked Florrie. She knew from the stories she told and from the lines on her face – laughter lines curving from a generous mouth and fanning from her eyes – that her neighbour had seen life and enjoyed it to the full. Now she was old. And James Dean was just the sort of man likely to prey on the weak and vulnerable. Well, Jude was neither weak nor vulnerable, and she was not going to let him push Florrie around. ‘It’s all right,’ she soothed. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
Florrie shook her head. ‘I’ve just had a cup, thank you, dear.’ Her hair was pure white. The only colour, Jude thought, that couldn’t be improved on.
‘So what exactly did he say to you?’ Jude persisted. Perhaps there was a problem with paying the rent. Perhaps Florrie was in arrears and didn’t like to ask for help.
But the old lady’s faded blue eyes had grown vague. ‘I may not be as steady on my feet as I once was…’ she began, staring down at her soft fluffy carpet slippers.
‘Is that what he said?’ What a cheek. Jude would like to see Scarface manage so well when he got to eighty.
‘But I do so want to keep this place.’ All at once, Florrie’s voice was firm and her eyes focused. There was no doubting her determination on this score and no doubt in Jude’s mind either what James Dean had suggested to his elderly tenant.
‘He thinks you should move out,’ she muttered. Florrie had been here for so long that their landlord was probably receiving next to nothing in rent. If he got her out and did the place up, he could charge a tidy sum for a flat like Florrie’s; it was a good area to be in, close to the hub of Chichester. He’d be raking in the dosh then.
‘I need my independence.’ Florrie’s eyes were misted with tears. ‘That’s what you young people don’t understand. I could no more go and live in a home—’
‘You won’t have to.’ Jude grasped hold of her hands. The brown, mottled skin was thin, papery to the touch, the joints knobbly but with a surprising strength. ‘I understand,’ she said. She had always known James Dean was a troublemaker – you’d expect it, wouldn’t you, with a name like that? But she could deal with troublemakers, no worries. In fact, she’d enjoy the challenge. ‘Leave it to me,’ she told Florrie. ‘I’ll sort it. I won’t let you be moved from this place until you’re good and ready.’
* * *
Jude was no expert but she knew that Florrie’s must be a protected tenancy. So what could Scarface do, if he wanted to get her out? Jude clattered down the outside staircase. He could go to Social Services – claim Florrie was incapable of looking after herself. But surely, so long as she didn’t present a danger to others, so long as she wasn’t damaging the flat, so long as she was paying the rent…?
Jude let herself into her own flat through the kitchen door and followed the soft murmur of voices towards her tiny sitting-room. Everyone had rights, didn’t they? She made a decision. She would visit the Citizens’ Advice Bureau the following morning and find out exactly what Florrie’s rights were.
She paused in the doorway to survey the scene in front of her. Her mother was sitting, knees together, navy skirt arranged to fall demurely over them, making deferential, of course and, naturally we will type noises. On the maroon and pine sofa opposite her lounged James Dean himself, late-forties, his dark hair brushed back from a rugged face that looked, she’d always felt, as if it had been around. Hardly a rebel without a cause. But still patronising her mother, drinking her tea, cashing in on old ladies’ vulnerability.
He got up when he saw her – lazily, his body language a kind of languid drawl. Jude waited. There was a lot of him. He was big and broad-shouldered but in good shape, she conceded reluctantly. And the suits he wore always looked just that little bit too small for him. ‘Mr Dean.’ She kept her voice frosty.
‘Miss Lomax.’
Hazel looked from one to the other of them, as if sensing the undercurrent of tension. ‘Mr Dean was just asking if we could keep an eye on Florrie,’ she said.
‘Was he indeed?’ Jude glared at him. So, not content with trying to chuck out his elderly tenant, he now wanted to enlist Hazel and Jude to help him in his dirty work. To tell him how hard Florrie was finding it to manage alone. That she’d left a tap dripping perhaps, or neglected to put her rubbish out. Well, if th
at was his game, he could find someone else to play it.
James Dean’s brown eyes clouded and became more distant. ‘If you have the time?’ he added. ‘I realise you lead a busy life.’
Was he sneering at The Goddess Without? He wouldn’t be the first. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve just been chatting to Florrie,’ Jude informed him tartly. ‘And I can assure you that she’s perfectly capable of managing for herself by herself.’
The other two stared at her in surprise.
‘So you don’t need to worry about a thing.’
James Dean opened his mouth to speak.
‘She is a protected tenant?’ Jude got there first.
‘Er…’
Did he really expect her to believe that as a landlord he knew nothing about tenancy laws? ‘She’s been here more than a year,’ Jude explained patiently.
He grinned. ‘More than a year? I should say so. More like a lifetime.’
Jude ignored the grin. ‘Precisely. And now…’ She retrieved her worn black bag from the floor beside Hazel and found her purse. ‘Can we get on? I presume you’ve come to collect the rent?’
‘Got it in one.’ Still looking amused, he moved away from his untouched cup of tea and followed her back into the hall.
But the grin had annoyed Jude. Clearly he found it funny – playing with people’s lives. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier for me to pay by standing order in future?’ she suggested, signing a cheque and handing it to him. ‘To save you making the journey over here so often? Since we all lead such busy lives.’
‘On the contrary.’ Without looking at it, he tucked the cheque into the breast pocket of his suit, frowned and eyed her speculatively. ‘I prefer to keep an eye on things myself,’ he said in even tones. ‘I like to have a chat with my tenants, see there are no problems, keep a finger on the pulse. That sort of thing.’